A/N: Hmm…lots of foreboding hints in this chapter! Keep your eyes firmly peeled…blink and you might just miss it!
Disclaimer: Narnia belongs solely to CS Lewis, and I sincerely hope he will not mind me borrowing his characters for a slight variation (cough cough) on his story.
Warnings: Nothing really. As ever, a little blood spilt.
Rating: PG13 American, 12 English.
MEMORISE THESE:
This is Peter
This is Edmund
This is assorted others
Mistaken Perception
Part One: Late Arrivals
Chapter nine: What goes around…
Lucy fiddled with her toast, idly spreading the marmalade thinner and thinner across the butter. Normally, she would love the slightly bitter, but somehow sweet smell of citrus, but now it seemed almost sickening. She had no stomach for sweetness, when she felt so sour.
The Professor had been a darling, of course. He had religiously found her things to keep her occupied, played patiently with her, helped her with her studies. She even understood algebraic equations, to a certain level, now.
But still the burning tension lingered in the air; a dark shadow which enveloped the entire house, making even the cheerfully crackling hearth seem sinister. Lucy could hardly bear to even glance at the door to her mother's room whenever she passed, and only did so when she had to, in any case.
"Lucy, dear? A letter for you, from your sister."
Lucy's head snapped up, and she blinked, then snatched the creamy coloured envelope from the Professor with a hasty grateful exclamation. Mrs Macready tutted at such manners, at which Professor Kirke mildly frowned, but Lucy paid neither any heed as she feverishly began to read:
Dear Lucy,
Upon receiving your letter, I immediately hurried to the Head mistress to secure my abrupt departure. I am still waiting for the proper documents to be in order, but I shall be on my way as soon as I possibly can.
Do not worry about the money; I have a little savings hidden in my suitcase, which is more than enough. I am not sure how long I shall be able to stay, although I expect a few days would be the limit. Please, Lucy, don't blame yourself. Mother shall be fine. She is going through a rough patch; we all are.
I'll be seeing you soon, really soon, Lu. Please hold on. Send a telegram, first class, if anything of further note crops up. I'll be there as soon as I can, I promise.
Your loving sister,
Susan
Lucy set the thin slip of paper down on the table and closed her eyes, her fist curling around the soft linen napkin enclosed there. Soon? How soon? Today, tomorrow?
Lucy glanced up as the Professor cleared his throat politely.
"If I may, my dear. I have spoken with your sister over the telephone just last night, and also with the Headmistress of the school. She has assured me that your sister shall set off early tomorrow morning. I have also managed to wheedle a week out of the lady, and-"
He was abruptly cut off as Lucy surged to her feet and hurried around the table, throwing her arm around his neck and giving him a grateful, tremulous hug. He smiled and cleared his throat gruffly, giving her an awkward pat on the back.
"There, there, child. We'll get your mother better, don't you worry. I have agreed to pick up your sister from the station tomorrow at noon. Would you like to come to greet her?"
Lucy drew away, flushing slightly at her temporary loss of composure, and silently berated herself. She murmured a thanks as he handed her his napkin, and she dabbed at her stinging eyes before replying.
"Only if mother seems…well, not normal…better than usual, I suppose. But thank you. Thank you so much, Sir."
He smiled gently as she blew her nose.
"You are very welcome. Now. What do you say to a game of scrabble? I find taxing ones mind is always the best remedy for strenuous times, especially over a fresh pot of tea."
Lucy managed a small smile, and took his hand as he led her to the library, where, hidden in a large, deceptively ornate chest, were an assortment of games and toys. Apparently the Professor, much like Lucy herself, was reluctant to let go of his memories.
The times gone by had passed; fleeting, and far too short in reflection. But there was no use looking back. They had to find a new way, a new future, together.
But no matter how they went about it, things would never be the same again.
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Edmund could not even see straight; let alone think straight. The world seemed to spin on a steep axis as he lunged upwards towards Peers with surprising speed and agility.
Within moments his hands were fastened tightly around the other boy's neck, the beat of a racing pulse beneath his constricting fingers and the sticky slip of sweat and mud and blood making him feel sick.
But he pushed on, fuelled by his hatred, blinding by fear. He would not allow this to happen again; he had lost father. He would not lose Peter, too.
It was a simple line of logic, really. Kill or be killed, and avenge those who fall in the process. A code of war. No room for emotion, no time to think of the fact your enemy is human, too. Just another obstacle. Not real, not alive, not important.
Peers let out a strangled, animalistic cry as he threw Edmund's hands off him, and both boys fell to the ground, Peers panting and wheezing, Edmund trembling in stubborn silence.
The enormity of his decision washed over him, grating against him like a turbulent ocean against the coast.
I was…willing to kill him. I was going to…I'm…no better than he is…
No. This was all wrong, everything was wrong. He was not a killer. He…couldn't. He wouldn't. But hadn't he just…?
He suddenly felt violently nauseous, and rolled over onto his side, desperately curling in on himself. But it was no use. The powerful contortions pushed against him, and he vomited over the muddy, slightly blood spattered grass.
Through the convulsions, he vaguely saw Peers struggle to his feet, and simply watch as Edmund emptied the contents of his stomach. Edmund choked, and wiped his mouth, raising his eyes to meet the other's.
Although he trembled, he began to wonder whether it was from fear, panic, his ailment or his anger. Peers' lip, though bloodied and newly scabbed, curled unpleasantly and he managed to spit out one last proclamation:
"This isn't over, Edmund Pevensie. Just you wait. I'll be watching, and waiting for a single mistake. And when I find it, you better watch your back. And his."
He delivered a swift kick to Peter'slimp form, and Edmund lunged weakly, but only succeeded in smacking his shin against the grass and ending up sprawled beside his brother.
Peers eyes gleamed, and an almost delirious expression crossed his harsh features as he smiled with sadistic hunger down at them.
"Because I won't go down without a fight; even if it kills us all."
He ran, and Edmund knew with a leaden weight in his aching chest, that this now, truly, was war.
Kill or be killed.
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The groundskeeper of St Lewis boarding school was aptly named William Wallowbury, but the student's affectionately christened him 'Wally'. It was not meant in any type of spite. Unlike most stereotypical caretakers, Wally was really quite docile.
He was elderly and balding, his curly, dust brown hair greying and speckled with white, but he was a kind soul. He was the sort of person who threw his all into any job he was given, and quite contented to simply plod through life, taking everything as it came.
Wally found a small sense of joy in every little job he accomplished; painting a fence, re-potting the plants in the teacher's lounge. It was a simple life, for a simple person, but Wally was not bothered by such things. As long as he could smell the fresh, clean dew upon the neatly mowed grass every morning, and walk quietly with a garden spade upon his shoulder, he was quite at ease.
He truly cared for the grounds, and the students of the school. Never having done well academically, he chose to try to make life easier for the pupils attending the school. Giving directions to any lost looking first year, helping to pick up the mess of papers which the older students often dropped.
It was inevitable; therefore, that the moment Wally rounded the bend to find four students sprawled across the disturbed mud of the field in what appeared to be quite serious disorientation, that he was somewhat shocked.
His spade fell to the floor and the cheerful whistle died on his lips as he quickly assessed the situation. Two of the boys, large and stocky, had now clambered to their feet and looked ready to bolt.
Wally noted their guilty expressions and frowned darkly.
These two were troublemakers; he recalled that much, at least. Little brain, but a wicked right hook, on both of them.
"You stay right there."
He cautioned them, before turning to the two who were still on the ground. He squatted down in the mud, his boots making unpleasant squelching noises, and eyed the two boys with a keen gaze.
One was kneeling half up, and appeared to be quite beaten. Dark bruises peeked through the tear in his shirt, and his blazer was covered in muck and dust. Any grazes covered his knees and arms, but the boy paid them no heed as he leant over the other, who seemed to be out cold.
Wally gripped the boy's shoulder gently, and he turned dark, frenzied eyes to look at him. Wally smiled reassuringly.
"What's your name, lad?"
"Edmund."
Came the hasty, raspy reply, and Wally noted how tightly the boy's hand gripped the shoulder of the boy on the ground. Close friend, most likely. It was often the case that those close to you got dragged into your problems. It was part of what formed a relationship.
"Well then, Edmund. Are you feeling alright? Not sickly or nothing?"
Edmund shook his dark head, and gestured down to the boy on the ground.
"No, I'm fine. My brother, though, he-"
The boy broke off and turned back to his brother, who Wally now glanced at to regard as well. He squinted, sure he recognised the golden hair and gentle features from somewhere.
He shifted forwards, ignoring the protests of his tiring muscles and the creaking of old bones, and laid a gentle hand against the gash on the side of the boy's head. Edmund jerked as if to stop him, but Wallace held up a hand, frowning.
It was not deep, and certainly not bad enough to result in concussion. The boy had simply been knocked out, and obtained some nasty bruising around the gash in the process. Wally frowned, noting the half healed scab of another bruise quite close to the boy's temple.
What had these kids been doing? This looked about a week old…
"Your brother, you say?"
"Yes."
"What's his name?"
There was a short pause.
"Peter."
Wally nodded, recalling where he had seen the boy before now. Peter…Peter Pevensie. Lovely kid, always stopped in the corridor to help him when he dropped his broom or needed an extra pair of hands to carry his heavy tools. Imagining him in a fight was almost…ridiculous.
Yet here he lay, unconscious. What had become of children nowadays?
"Will…will he be alright?"
Wally glanced up, hearing the slight break in the other boy's voice, and felt a stab of pity mixed with anger. He shot a glare at the two loitering boy's a few yards away, before smiling kindly at Edmund.
"Your brother is going to be just fine, Edmund. He just got a nasty knock, no terrible harm done. Let's see if we can get him up, aye?"
The boy nodded mutely, and leant over to peer concernedly into his brother's face.
"Peter? Can you hear me?"
Peter winced and let out a groan, and Wally carefully supported his head as the boy's eyes fluttered open, flinching as the sunlight stung his eyes. He helped the boy sit up, seeing no sign of concussion in the boy's sky blue eyes.
"Ed…? Wha? Oh…"
Peter winced as he put a hand to his obviously pounding forehead, and Wally helped him to sit properly upright and lean over a little, supporting him.
"You got a hankerchie', lad?"
Edmund nodded, and reached over to pull a white slip of material from his brother's pocket and hand it to him, and the elder boy held it gratefully to the still oozing gash on his forehead.
"Come on, boy. Up you get, that's it."
Wally, with the aid of Edmund, managed to get Peter to his feet, an arm slung about each of their shoulders. Wally shifted the boy's weight more onto his own arm, noting the prominent bruises on Edmund's torso.
"There we are. Now, you…"
He glared pointedly at Jay and Charlie, who now stood looking sullenly apprehensive.
"…will follow on. I'm taking you all to the hospital, and you stay there, mind. Once you're all fixed up we've got to find the truth in all of this."
He turned a serious, somewhat pitying gaze onto Edmund, who winced visibly as they began a long, slow march up to the main school.
"I'm afraid I'll have to fetch someone to sort this out."
They continued the rest of the journey in stony silence, and Wally began to wonder what the world was coming to. He was reassured, however, as he watched the younger of the two brothers' carefully help the elder along, an anxious, concerned frown on his face. The elder, meanwhile, kept attempting to smile comfortingly through a grimace of pain.
In spite of all their injuries, they still looked only to each other.
Now that was really something.
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Mr Havisham, Head teacher of St Lewis boarding school, stared down at the small letter his secretary had passed him for verification. This was…a rather unorthodox situation to say the least.
Peter and Edmund Pevensie
St Lewis Boarding School
Harley Drive
West Hartfordshire
He shrugged, and sighed deeply as he slit the envelope idly open. It was a requirement that he read all mail which was delivered, if it was of significance. Quite what was so important about a little girl's letter to her brother's was beyond him.
He unfolded the letter, and his face contorted into a frown, which deepened as he read through the content of the letter;
Dear Peter (and Edmund),
I hope your both doing well at your school (and, I notice, too busy to write to me!) and are not getting too pompous while surrounded by the toffs. I don't want either of you coming back and asking to eat crumpets or something.
This is just a small note; I would write more, but there is only a few hours left before I must go to bed and I've already re-written this hundreds of times. I am fine, the Professor is lovely and the weather is generally bright and sunny.
But that's not why I'm writing; Mother is ill. Not literally sick, I don't think. She doesn't sleep or eat much, and is even thinner than when we left London. But the worst of it is, that…she has started asking me, every morning, whether word has come from father.
The doctor, Doctor Hardy, says that she is suffering from 'grief induced reclusive trauma'. Basically, she has convinced herself that father isn't – you know. She speaks at length of the past, sometimes laughing, sometimes crying.
I don't know what to do. According to the Professor, all I can do is wait and hope, and keep trying every morning to get through to her. But I'm not sure how much longer I can smile and say 'no, Mummy, not today'.
Please. As soon as you have a holiday, please come. I'll send a little money I saved from my piggy bank for tickets on the train.
Write back as soon as can.
Lots of love,
Lucy
xxx
Mr Havisham carefully re-folded the letter, slipped it back in the envelope and smartly rang the bell upon his desk for his secretary. She poked her head around the door, glasses slipping from the end of her nose.
"Miss Whitely! Would you kindly send for Peter and Edmund Pevensie to come and see me as soon as possible, please? It's quite urgent."
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WARNING: Intense angsty fluff in next chapter! You are forewarned…
I know, I know. Wally was random.
A/N: There is a reason why Peers is the way he is, of course. I'm not so shallow as to just not justify his disposition. Never fear, dear readers, we shall discover his motives in the near future…
My God…Skandar Keynes is almost officially as tall as William Moseley…be AFRAID, people. Be very afraid.
One reviewer did NOT KNOW what was happening on 4th April! (Cries) Oh, the pain, it burns!
(Sing song) Oh, you know you want to review! You know you really, really, really really do!
R E V I E W…or else! Nah, not really. Pretty please?