Summer Glory

by lurkisblurkis

Note: This is movie-verse, which doesn't actually affect the story very much, but the discerning reader may note the reference to the film at the end.

It has been said in Narnia that the worth of a hunter is proved by how he readies himself to kill his prey, not by what he brings home. By this token only one of the four rulers of Narnia was worth anything as a hunter at all, for he of all the others could bear to leave his horse tied up somewhere farther away, to get down on his royal belly and crawl through the underbrush, to find a suitable perch somewhere in a tree or behind a rock, to listen agonizingly for the faintest rustle in the nearby bush, then to focus entirely on that spot, to slip his knife from its case and run through the motions of throwing it over and over again in his mind, to wait until the branches parted and out from the brush came—

The king started—the knife fell forgotten from his hand. "Peter!" he exclaimed, sliding out of the tree and landing with a booted thump on the ground.

The High King dismounted from his chestnut horse with a grin.

"You're lucky I didn't feel a surge of impatience and decide to see what lay behind those leaves by what manner of howl it made when it met my knife," declared Edmund as the two kings closed the distance between one another to clasp arms in jovial greeting.

"Lucky indeed," replied the older King with a wry smile. "But impatience seems to have been a vice expunged from your self by the passage of time. Look sharp, brother!"

Edmund leapt to the side as a massive hart emerged from the bushes and pounded through the rest of the wood, its hoof beats audible even after it had disappeared from sight amongst the trees and foliage.

"By the Lady," swore Edmund under his breath, looking after it. "I would have…did you see it coming?" he asked, turning to Peter.

The other King folded his arms and looked disapprovingly at his brother. "It is a bitter and displeasing custom of the Narnians to attach the Lady Jadis's name to all things misfortunate."

"She was our cause of all things misfortunate," parried Edmund, "and by the Lady, indeed, I would have received naught but sugar and loneliness from impatience, had I listened to her. But only a master's throw of my knife could have slain a beast of that size. Come, brother, we did not expect you home until—"

"Until a fortnight from now," Peter finished, the golden twinkle back in his eye. "Yes, I know. But business finished early in the North—everything taken care of, gone exactly, might I add, as I said it would, your stratagems and predictions notwithstanding—and by the Mane, the Giants' country is no place to spend two weeks' holiday!"

"Well, we are glad to have you back," said Edmund airily. He clapped Peter on the back and then stifled a cry of indignation as the High King drew him into a firm embrace. "Hi now, none of that, none of that," he protested as Peter laughingly let him go. Edmund adjusted his hunting cloak with an affronted air. "You're only back from Giant country, not from a crusade in the South or anything like that."

King Peter blushed visibly. A particular crusade in the South had had disastrous results several years before, and his involvement in it had caused more court panic than the time the Dryads had started a ridiculously false rumor than Queen Susan was with child. He never liked to remember either of those times. His siblings were merciless about both.

"Let's retrieve our horses," Peter suggested overcalmly. He turned and began to lead his chestnut through the bushes to where he guessed Edmund had left his own horse, ignoring the wild laughter coming from his brother behind him.

They found Edmund's horse soon enough, and in a short time the Kings were going along at a smooth trot through the pleasant Narnian woodland. It was a glorious day for riding. High summer had left the earth and everything in it warm, but not too warm—for Narnian summers are never the unbearably hot things that our summers so often turn into—and there was a distinguishable vibrancy and lively tang in the forest growth and the sounds of the animals that flitted through it. Summer was Peter's favorite season in Narnia. Edmund glanced aside at him and saw that his face was deep in thought, a small smile lacing his expression as his horse moved languidly through the wood. The younger king thought privately that Peter had been away for far too long.

"Your errands take you farther and farther from home," was what he said aloud. "Soon Narnia will grow accustomed to a substitute high king."

"If they are not accustomed to you yet, they should be," replied the elder King blithely.

They rode in silence for a few more minutes. Then Peter twisted in his saddle and looked at Edmund.

"I am away too much, aren't I?" he said concernedly.

Edmund kept his gaze ahead. He knew what he would see if he looked at his brother's face: troubled eyes, a jaw resolute against churning emotions, a look of self-disappointment, dissatisfaction. He did not like seeing those things any more than Peter liked feeling them.

Peter was still waiting for his reply.

"You are a grand, perfect King," Edmund said carefully. "But Cair Paravel and its lord and ladies sometimes miss their brother." He turned his head and gave Peter a little smile. "Don't let Peter Pevensie get lost under that crown. It's only made of gold, and we're people."

"Trust you to say something like that, Ed," said Peter, sitting straight in his saddle again—but his small smile was back, and Edmund saw his hands grip the reins with renewed strength again.

Those exchanges, thought the younger king as they rode through the forest and began seeing it grow thinner in the first hint of the approaching clearing of Cair Paravel, those small conversations…they were what made him feel like they were a pair of boys again, boys apparently filled with chronic uncertainty and doubt, but with something else in their possession which made everything worth it. Edmund was not one to mourn after lost youth. He viewed life as an adventure: if they had tarried too long at the Lantern Waste, would they have ever made it to the Stone Table? But these wise words did not take away the pain of being grown up, they only dulled it. Wisdom, Edmund had discovered, was good at making you know things, but a thousand pearls of knowledge and wisdom couldn't truly change the way you felt about anything in the world.

The forest gave way to a tiny valley. Sunlight sparkled on waving grass like sunlight on a sea, and wind chased itself through the clearing, stirring up the contended heat and making flowers' heads bob and wave. The two Kings' horses paused on the lip of the little valley. Beyond, across the summer field, Cair Paravel rose in tiered splendor, all of white stone and gold gilt and hangings of blue, silver, and green. The sea sparkled all the way up to its base and left a slender, soft beach where it stopped.

"Home again," said King Peter softly.

They made short work of riding through the field and up to the palace, giving their horses to the groom (they were not Talking Horses, of course) and returning his merry greeting. They passed into the courtyard, which was filled with outdoor chairs and tables in preparation for an event which was to occur later that evening. Both Kings would have gone directly into the rest of the palace to find their sisters had not Edmund stopped on his heel in the middle of a brisk walk and exclaimed with a snap of his fingers, "By the Lady, the girls are gone!"

"Stop saying 'by the Lady'," rebuked Peter, coming up behind him, "and what do you mean the girls are gone?"

Edmund gave a low growl of frustration and tried to start pacing. But the courtyard was and had always been unpaceable, built perhaps with frustrated kings in mind and with careful regard for the good aging of its flagstones. When it became clear that he was going to end up spinning in circles, Edmund stopped abruptly and threw his hands up in the air.

"They're at a feast with some Naiads," he said hopelessly, sitting down without warning in the nearest chair. "I'd forgotten until just now. They won't be back until later this afternoon."

"And you did not merit an invitation…?"

"Because Naiads hate me," grunted the King.

King Peter laughed loudly. He took his riding cloak off, slung it across the back of the chair opposite Edmund, and sat down. "No, you just hate Naiads' company," teased the older brother. "Do you remember what you said the first night we saw them dancing here?"

"Shut up," muttered Edmund ruefully from where he'd dropped his head into his arms on the table.

"'Well I can't tell the difference, how are you supposed to know which are the Dryads and which are the Naiads?'" imitated Peter. "How that pond lady glowered!"

"I didn't grow up with Naiads under my skin."

"Even I knew the difference." The High King's face instantly turned patronizing and disappointed. "Edmund, everyone knows that Dryads dance like trees and Naiads—"

"—dance like water," the younger King finished, sitting up. "And I dance like I have two left feet, and that is why I was not invited to their party." It was Peter's turn to burst out laughing while his brother stood up and tried to save his dignity by walking away. It didn't work, but Peter followed him quickly, folding his cloak up in his arms.

"Let's go inside and get freshened up," suggested King Peter. "And then we must have a drink, girls or no. Have you any of that wonderful brew from the Badgers left over in your room?"

"I should very well say I have, dear brother: it has been my faithful companion many these heavy summer evenings." Edmund caught the cautious look that Peter was giving him and paused his strides long enough to turn and remark, "In moderation, of course. Peter, you are too stuffy."

"Well, that is the fault of my horse," retorted the King. "I am dirty and tired and I should like a bath above all things. Go, hie thee hence and find that wine. I'm off to my quarters for a bit."

Edmund felt a light shove between his shoulder blades, and when he glanced over his shoulder he caught a glimpse of Peter's back retreating up some stairs. His brother's shoves had stopped actually pushing him anywhere since they had both become stronger and heavier-built under their swords, but schoolboy habits are not easily broken.

The young King walked through the palace to his chambers, giving nods or smiles of greeting to those servants which gave him theirs. As soon as he had gone through and closed the doors, he felt refreshed. This room had been his own sanctuary for fifteen years. It no longer felt queer and alien to look at the elaborate wall hangings, to touch the bookcases of rare wood, to sit on the couches and chairs made of far more expensive stuff than anything he would have thought it respectable to sit on. Now the furnishings "fit for a King" felt as though they really did fit him. And childhood—that moment when he had first felt the dark-streaked carpet floor under his feet and experienced the horrible sensation that this room belonged to someone else old and grim—seemed very far away.

Edmund decided to take a bath himself, and washed away the sweat and dirt of hunting under cool, clean water in a marble pool. It felt glorious on such a summer day. When he had finished and dressed in new clothes, he went to the bookcase. Every leather-tooled tome behind the perfectly clear glass slider had been taken down from its shelf and read a hundred times before—books of history, battles, philosophy, and a few aged tales of adventure and magic from the legendary past, where heroes went through experiences far grander than those of four simple children blundering through a journey only by the help of others. But, Edmund thought with satisfaction, their adventure had been more real than anything in a book. He smiled to himself and took the last bottle of the Badgers' wine down from the top shelf.

At that moment there was a brief knock on the door, and Peter came in, changed from his rough riding gear into the light blue and gold satin that he usually wore around the Court.

Edmund held up the bottle of wine at him triumphantly.

"Good!" exclaimed the King, clapping his hands together. "Let's have it on the balcony—I haven't seen the Cair for weeks, and it's at its fairest this time of year, as always."

The balcony struck out from the side of the palace overlooking the Sea, where the wind could reach just enough to cool it and the sun could shine at just the angle to keep it comfortably warm. King Edmund had a few chairs out there, and a small table, and to these they made, Edmund grabbing a pair of goblets from a side cupboard on their way out.

"Tell me how the campaign fared," said the younger king as he set the goblets on the table and poured the wine.

Peter sat down, leant back and crossed his legs. "It fared well. Your pessimistic predictions during the Council about warfare and hostilities and the ancient unfriendliness of the Northern folk turned out to be absolute bilge. Yes, bilge."

Edmund scowled and took the first cup of wine as his.

"The Giants were most apologetic about the trees," Peter continued. "Giants are kind but not clever, so every treaty which we make with them will of course be forgotten by the time the next generation rolls round. But I don't think we shall have much trouble—that's enough, thanks—mmm, it's good, the Badgers' always has been—I don't think we shall have much trouble reforming pacts every so often, if our followers are taught to rule Narnia as we have. The Giants' leader was a great sturdy fellow called Thunderbottom who looked fierce enough to devour a thousandhead of cattle, but he was very courteous and understanding." Peter set his goblet down, and his eyes twinkled. "Kept forgetting my name, though. I was Your Royal Majesty King Pepper, Peeler, Paper, and five or six other things in as many minutes."

While Edmund was laughing the High King took another drink of his wine, and then wiped his mouth off inelegantly with the edge of his satin sleeve as he set the goblet down. "But tell me what adventures Cair Paravel has seen, brother," he said, "for I have, as a look at your face tells me, been gone overlong."

"I'm not that readable," muttered Edmund, idly fiddling with his goblet as he kept his eyes on his hands.

King Peter said nothing and sipped at his wine. He recognized his younger brother's mood and knew that patient silence was in order.

Finally Edmund spoke. "Cair Paravel has seen no adventures since your departure seven weeks ago, my King. Only the echo of adventures fill its walls now."

"Edmund, do not mourn overmuch for passing glory," said King Peter quietly. "There always remains more lying ahead—"

"I don't miss adventures." Edmund rose unexpectedly and went to the balcony railing. Peter remained behind. "Aslan knows a king of Narnia has plenty of escapades and mishaps, enough to satisfy anyone," he said gloomily, leaning on the rail.

"Then what is it?"

Narnia's youngest king glanced over the wide, lapping Sea that stretched out before him. He had often stood here at night with a glass of the Badgers' wine in his hand and the soft, soft song of the Sea in his ears. Narnia was the first time he had ever seen the Sea. Except…except it wasn't, he had seen it before, he had once known a boyish wonder at seeing it again after so long…so…long ago…

"Ed?"

Edmund started and looked over his shoulder. Peter was coming up next to him, and the older King leaned on the railing as well, but sideways, so that he could meet Edmund's eyes.

"I don't miss being a child, Peter," confessed Edmund with a low sigh. "I don't miss my youth. But there was something about being that age—there was some other part of life which I've forgotten, and I can't remember it, I can't. I can see a glimpse of it in your faces sometimes—Susan's expressions, Lucy's dancing eyes—"

"Mm-hmm, your smile…"

"What?"

Edmund looked bewilderedly at Peter, who was bending over to pick up a small stone from the floor. Peter straightened up, putting his elbows back on the rail and tossing the pebble in his hand a few times.

"I know exactly what you're talking about, Ed, and I see the very same thing in you and the girls. Your smile is exactly the same as it was when you were just a kid—minus a few freckles, of course." Peter gave him a grin. "There's a little bit of who we used to be hidden in every one of our faces. Fact is, Edmund, we all see that something, and we'd all go to the death to be able to learn what we know we had when we were young. I don't know what it was, but it was more than—more than just youth."

"And yet less, because it wasn't as important," said Edmund thoughtfully. "You're right, we all feel it—I knew we must, I'd hoped we did—but the agonizing thing is that I can't remember how much it really mattered. On the throne of Narnia it's dreadfully hard to imagine that anything over and done with matters anymore, and yet when I try to think back, that old…missing…thing seems to have been the whole world, in our eyes."

Peter gazed out at the water and shook his head as if to himself. "Nothing ever meant anything but you three," he said softly, fingering the stone.

Edmund thought a remark like that deserved a following silence, and one followed accordingly. It was broken only by the rustle of Peter's clothing as he stood and threw the stone. Edmund watched as it flew from his hand through the air and for a moment broke the surface of the Sea, shining golden as the sun hung low over it in the afternoon sky. Then, in a flash of silver, it was gone.

"And so passes another age," murmured Edmund, not really knowing what he was saying.

"Come." King Peter clapped his brother on the shoulder. "Enough of this talk. We'll go sharpen up our swords a bit—I haven't had a good practice in for seven weeks, you know that? Seven weeks!" He led Edmund back inside, and they crossed the room, leaving the bottle of wine re-corked on the bookshelf. "And you know what else," continued the elder King as the younger opened the door to the hallway outside, "There is rumor in Giant-land that the White Stag has been seen heading South, nigh on our very border, and the idea of the hunt has not been gone from my mind for one day since the good Thunderbottom spoke of it. We must recruit our fair sisters to come riding with us in the woods when next we see them!"

They went out into the hall and headed for the stairs. "Susan is marvelous shot with the bow," said Peter teasingly.

"The Lady Susan," replied the younger king loftily, "is not a real hunter, and real hunting is left to the ones who are the best at it. The girls may stay at the palace and let me hunt the Stag alone."

"Aye, and slay it, as you slew its cousin earlier this day," King Peter said, making a choking noise that sounded like he was trying not to chuckle.

"Well the worth of a hunter is not proven by what he brings home."

Peter stopped in the middle of the hallway, next to one of the inner windows. "No," he said with a queer expression on his face. "I've…I've the strangest feeling that it isn't."

At that moment the sound of laughing voices was suddenly heard from down outside in the courtyard, and the High King didn't say anything more, if he had been going to. King Edmund looked out the window and saw two dark-haired women walking and laughing in the courtyard.

"Our sisters!" he exclaimed joyfully. "Let us go and meet them!"

-end-