All right guys, never start two (or three) fics at once. It just...doesn't work.
Chapter 2
Philip was not as young as he once was. He wasn't certain when this had come to pass, as he remembered his "glory days" quite clearly, but it was a truth that he knew he would soon have to come to terms with, loathe as he was to do so. He was a war horse, and once the war was over, and Narnia lay at peace, he found that he had outlived his usefulness in more ways than one.
But he took comfort in the fact that he still had one use, and a friend, in his Boy, the younger King of Narnia. For Edmund was both those things, and Philip, though he had resented being told to carry the young traitor into battle at first, found that he could not find a truer companion in all of Narnia.
And Edmund, it seemed, was the only one in Narnia to not yet notice his impending age. Unlike the other Horses, who wondered when Edmund, as his brother had done after his stallion went grey, would find another Horse to take on the honor of carrying him. He had it on good authority that they were already competing for the position.
But Philip was not completely old, indeed, he was not yet even old, only moving in that terrifying direction from which there seemed to be no escape. And he had resolved last week, after the horrifying experience in which Nataoia, whom young Queen Lucy belonged to, a brood mare, had beaten him in a race, that he was not going to allow his age to be an impediment, ever again. He had once been a war horse, after all, and Nataoia was merely a mare from the North.
Edmund laughed off Philip's concerns about it then, just claiming that Philip had an off day, and he should not be so worried about it. As if Philip had ever lost a race against a mare before.
But he was. And the thought of Edmund's plans of impending escape from the feast to join him on a trek of the countryside and find a decent sparring partner amongst the guards, though not in that particular order, did nothing to assuage those fears.
He was to meet Edmund in the stables, as he always did, with his broadsword and chainmail. The guard would soon provide itself, Edmund assured him, and then they would ride to the River Rush, or in that general direction, until High King Peter found them. Or Queen Susan.
It usually did not take long for the High King to do so, and so Philip was not really worried about Edmund getting into much trouble. The older boy disliked the feasts almost as much as Edmund, and seemed to find it particularly amusing, since the incident with the ambassadors from Galma, to go rushing after him as soon as he noticed Ed gone as a chance to slip away himself.
No, what had Philip worried was his clearly showing age. What if the High King caught up so easily with them not because he dashed off at the earliest convenience, but because his Horse was simply younger and far more agile than Philip, now?
By the stars, he could remember when Peter's Horse was but a new foal, born in this very stable.
"Philip!" he heard Edmund hiss from somewhere behind him, and slowly turned in his stall to face him. To stay in the stables tonight so that this little ill-conceived plan could work, when the Horses were out preparing for tomorrow's friendly competition against the Calormenes, he'd had to pretend to be a dumb beast, simply another Calormene stable horse.
It was mortifying.
Needless to say, it had done nothing for his current state, pretending to be content with this meager stall and the dull oats a Calormene stable boy had brought him earlier.
He hated oats. They were not near as sweet as sugar, and his usual stable boys knew better than to bring oats to Philip.
Aslan, if that wasn't proof of his age, he did not know what was.
"Have you got the sword?" his Boy asked then, and he breathed a sigh of relief, determined to turn his mind from his sad musings and enjoy the rest of the night. For his Boy.
"Of course, Sire," he gestured to it, sitting in its scabbed in the straw, barely hidden beneath it in case the young stable boy had returned. And it had not been easy, fetching that sword right under the noses of the Rabbits cleaning it. It would have been much more difficult for Edmund, given all of Susan's warnings, but still.
Edmund gave him an amused look, but did not reach for the sword just yet. "Ed, Philip, just Ed."
Philip grunted. "Come on, then, or your brother will find you and drag you back before we can find a decent sparring partner. I hope you brought me something from that precious feast for my troubles," he grumbled goodnaturedly.
Edmund grinned, suddenly pulling a piece of surprisingly well kept cake from his pocket and gingerly ripping it in half, handing the larger end to Philip.
Now Philip did not normally enjoy Human food, finding it too coarse or slippery, but cake, he'd come to understand, was compiled almost completely of sugar. And this cake, white with frosting and a tint of lemon meringue, was one of the most delicious he had yet tried.
He licked at his lips, nuzzling Ed's shoulder in thanks, and was just about to suggest Edmund climb up when they both heard the unmistakable sounds of a struggle at the stable entrance. Exchanging glances, they both left the stall, Edmund's sword suddenly forgotten in lieu of the sounds they both heard.
"Damn you to Tash, you miserable beast!" the Calormene shouted, two stalls down from them, and Philip eyes widened in horror as the brute lifted a hand and struck the dumb beast again. By then, Edmund was moving, and Philip barely had the presence of mind to call out to him to stop before he was upon the Calormene, and Philip just managing to keep up behind him.
The little mare let out a cry of pain as the ridding crop struck her again, this time drawing splotches of blood across her back legs, the sound so hopeless and mellow that Philip wondered how many times she'd had to endure her master's beatings.
She was a tiny thing, much smaller than he, in fact, barely largely than an ass, her stomach clinging sadly to her ribs, though it was clear by her chestnut color, thin legs and flattened ears that she was, in fact, a horse, and Philip felt a pang of sympathy for her, dumb beast though she was, to have to endure such a thing so many times. The mare lowered her little head despondently as the Calormene raised his whip again, clearly expecting no rescue, and Philip attributed this to the reason she lifted her head moment's later, looking as surprised as a dumb beast could.
"What do you think you're doing?" His Boy demanded, in that voice that was somehow both naively innocent and disturbingly wise, and the Calormene glanced up in surprise and anger, eyes darkening as he took in the tattered jacket that Edmund was wearing over his royal robes ("borrowed" from one of the stable hands, no doubt), and the black riding boots he wore, by no means shiny, for Edmund cared very little about that sort of thing.
The Calormene glanced first at Edmund's appearance, Philip noticed with some disgust, and then at the hand gripping his arm, keeping him from delivering another stinging blow to the little mare.
Philip supposed he must have thought Edmund an Archenlander, a stable boy given his job here in Narnia for some feat or another, or he would never have done what he did next.
"You dare to question me, boy?" the Calormene demanded, wrenching his arm from Edmund's and advancing on Edmund so quickly that Philip wasn't able to move forward in time, sensing what was about to happen. Edmund, it seemed, was not.
"She'd ride better if you didn't beat her half to death before even getting on," Edmund continued on, unperturbed by the man's rather threatening demeanor, though Philip noticed that His Boy sounded angry, then, hiding it carefully behind an overly calm façade, but gritting his teeth rather tightly.
Two things happened at once, then.
The riding crop smacked loudly against Edmund's pale cheek, instantly drawing blood as an ugly spot of blood appeared beneath Edmund's eye, welling and dribbling down his face. There would be a bruise tomorrow, Philip was sure of it. Might even have been one forming now. Philip growled, infuriated that anyone would lay a hand on His Boy, on one of the Kings of Narnia, and lunged forward, perfectly content to attack this Calormene brute.
He could remember, well enough, the awful tales that Edmund had told him in the dead of night, during a ride through the countryside which had been cut short by snow, not wanting to bother his siblings with them and cause concern but needing to tell someone, of the Witch, and how she had whipped him and, once, beaten him for any transgressions.
He had vowed then, hearing the haunted tone in Edmund's voice and knowing it wasn't entirely from his own misfortune at the Witch's hand, that he would never allow another to lay a hand on his Edmund, and, without a thought, reacted.
He had never attacked a Man before, even one so unsavory as this Calormene, and some part of his mind felt vaguely disgusted with himself, for it was Dumb Beasts which lifted their hooves against Man, not Talking Horses, but that hardly mattered.
This was Edmund he was protecting, after all.
Edmund simply stood there, cheek smarting, one hand lifting to touch the wound and then flinching back, and Philip wondered if the boy was simply too shocked to react, or was willing to let Philip do his worst.
Somehow, he doubted the likelihood of the latter.
And, just as he'd reached the Calormene, front hooves lifting in the air, Edmund raised a hand, effectively stalling him.
Philip sighed, lowering his legs and waiting for Edmund to make a decision about what to do now.
Still, Philip was not pleased to do so.
"And who do you think you are, boy, to challenge me and lecture me on the care of my horse?" the Tarkaan demanded, yanking back the riding crop as if to strike again, and Edmund took an involuntary step back, nearly crashing into Philip.
It turned out to be unnecessary, for a cool voice, though none, not even this Tarkaan, could mistake the lethal anger behind it, spoke then. "That is my brother, King Edmund the Just. Lay another hand on him and you will find yourself at the mercy of the executioners, for I believe that is the punishment in Calormen for such a crime, and we here in Narnia like to maintain our alliance with Calormen in every possible respect."
The Tarkaan's face went white, and he stumbled backward, the riding crop slipping from his fingers and onto the stable floor. A moment later, he was on his knees, hands reaching placating towards the young kings, as Peter appeared suddenly behind his brother and Philip, two Narnian guards standing behind him, their swords at the ready.
Peter looked furious, and Philip wondered how much he had seen before bursting into the stable, wondered if he were angry with Philip as well, for failing to adequately protect his king. But surely, if Peter had seen the Tarkaan strike Edmund, he would have made his presence known far before now.
"Mercy, your Majesties...I did not know that it was you, O Just and Merciful One," these last words directed solely to King Edmund.
But Edmund was ignoring the Tarkaan completely now, apparently content to allow his brother to deal with him (he knew, as did Philip, that Peter would not really carry out with his threat, but would not be so noble as to turn down a chance to gain the upper hand in trading negotiations with Calormen).
Philip glanced at him as he moved forward into the stall, confused until Edmund was standing a mere pace away from the abused little mare. And then Edmund took another tiny step forward, hands held out in front of him as if to signify that he meant no harm before. The little mare let out a noise of distress, backing up against the far wall of the stall, her ears flattening in a way that might have been dangerous on any other horse, but merely looked pitiful on her.
"What's her name?" Edmund asked softly, and the Calormene seemed to take a moment before realizing the question was directed at him.
The Calormene snorted as he followed Edmund with his eyes, apparently not so afraid that he could curb the sound. "That one? She's a lost cause, Your Majesty. Hasn't done as she's been told in years. Be much better as meat pie-"
He cut off abruptly then, at the glare Peter levelled at him, evidently realizing he was still in some considerable trouble for striking the King of Narnia.
And then they were all watching, in varying degrees of astonishment, as Edmund reached out and touched the mare's mane, and the dumb little beast, beyond letting out another whimper of distress, did not move away from the gentle touch.
Edmund's eyes widened, apparently just as surprised as the rest of them, before he started moving his hand up and down her mane in gentle strokes, even as he assessed her injuries. She let out another little noise then, but this one seemed almost to be of pleasure, and Philip blinked in surprise.
Edmund whispered sweet, calming assurances to the little mare as he worked, stripping off a piece of his royal robes, rather than the stolen jacket, to wrap around her injured leg, face set in a grim line as he worked and the others watched him do so, as if watching a spell they were unwilling to break cast over the stall in which they were crowded.
Philip looked at the little mare then, for the first time really seeing her, and couldn't help the frown that lit his eyes.
She looked strangely like Nataoia, though he supposed he shouldn't be surprised. Lucy's Horse had once been a Calormene captive, after all.
Still, he wondered why that was his first thought, looking at the little mare whom Edmund was comforting. She was much smaller and thinner than Nataoia, after all.
And then Peter was snapping for the guards to take the Calormene away and stepping forward to assist Edmund, and the moment had passed.
"We should fetch a healer," Peter said finally, once Edmund was at least somewhat convinced that the little mare wasn't going to fall down from her injuries, and Edmund nodded, not even turning around from his vigil of the other horse as he asked, "Philip? Would you be so kind?"
Philip swallowed, about to suggest that they wait, as he didn't think it wise to leave the two kings alone and unguarded after what had just happened to Edmund, but then something shifted behind his eyes, and he shook out his mane, saying, "Of course, Your Majesty."
If he had stayed a moment longer, he might have heard the sigh which followed this use of the young King's title.
