Here's the next chapter, only slightly over a week after the last one, so I guess that is an improvement :-)
Aslan's Daughter: That is a very interesting theory! I love hearing what people come up with, but of course I can neither confirm nor deny it's accuracy ;-). Thank you for reviewing!
So, this is a slightly stressful read-at least that's what the three people who have already read it have told me. Fair warning.
11th. of Greenroof, 1012-Sixthday
"There's a letter for you, your majesty."
Peter glowered at the stack of books and papers spread across the desk before him, barely registering Brickle's somewhat timid declaration. Three days of poring over his brother's papers had proved very informative, though not necessarily over the topics he wanted information about.
He had learned more than he ever wanted to know about the intricate network of spies Edmund had built in Calormen, the Islands, Telmar, and even the more distant parts of Narnia itself. Minor Calormene lords sent Edmund information concerning troop movements, current battle tactics, and baffling (at least to Peter) political maneuvers—in exchange for what seemed rather exorbitant amounts of gold. Telmarine servants listened behind doors, copied official documents, and drew blueprints of the fortresses along Telmar's borders in exchange for the protection Edmund offered their families should they ever flee to Narnia. Bats and Ravens flew above the more remote forests of Narnia's western borders and returned with the locations of any remnants from the Witch's forces and relayed talk of treason—whispers among the Black Dwarves mainly. And Edmund kept written accounts of it all—at least, that was what Brickle assured him the hundreds of pages that seemed to be written in a particularly complex code consisted of. To Peter it looked like utter nonsense.
Even with the aid of Brickle and Metelus he had yet to find much information concerning Obridesh Tarkaan in particular. To be sure, there was a seeming excess of information concerning the Tisroc's government in general—and once it had been deciphered by Brickle and Metelus, Peter had found most of it to be sufficient grounds for war. The documents detailing the ever-growing slave trade alone were enough to make him feel distinctly ill, and it did not escape his notice that a good percentage of the slaves were acquired from Narnian protectorates such as the Lone Islands.
"Your majesty?" Apparently ignoring Brickle had made his presence no less of a fact, and Peter sighed as he pushed away the latest mountain of parchment and raised bleary eyes to focus on Brickle's nervous face.
"My apologies, Brickle." He tried to sound civil, remembering with a feeling of shame how cross he had been with the poor fellow the past weeks. "I fear I was not attending your words as I should have been."
Brickle frowned, seeming vaguely puzzled by the apology, and Peter nearly growled in annoyance. First, it's problematic that I am not polite enough, and now that I am being polite everyone is looking at me like I've turned into a babbling fool.
Recovering from his surprised puzzlement Brickle resorted to his usual habits, tugging on his beard with one perpetually grubby hand as he reached into his pocket with his other hand and pulled out a crumpled envelope. "Letter for you, your majesty," the dwarf mumbled, offering no apology for the state of the envelope. Then again, Peter supposed that if Brickle wished to mistreat his mail he had every right to do so and owed him no apology after his own behaviour.
He accepted the missive absentmindedly, already planning to ignore it for the time being and return to his search of Edmund's papers when the seal caught his attention. It was plain, rather than being embossed with a house or personal seal as was usual for official correspondence, and the wax was the sickening shade of red he had come to associate with fresh blood.
The envelope itself was addressed in a beautiful, flowing script—directed merely to "Peter" with no plethora of accompanying titles. It was a combination that usually heralded one of the more ridiculous forms of correspondence he was accustomed to receiving, and Peter sighed in annoyance. "I will call, if there is to be a reply," he told Brickle with what he hoped was a friendly, but dismissive nod, and watched with some amusement as the dwarf backed away—still tugging on his beard and mumbling under his breath until he disappeared behind one of the disorderly stacks of books that still littered the floor of Edmund's room. Peter valued his continued survival enough not to risk Sundance's wrath by returning such a great number of books to the library at one time—the old badger was quite snappish enough when only one was delivered for him to re-shelve.
Peter returned his attention to the letter, scowling again at the perfect handwriting. I swear, if this is another dratted love letter from some simpering duchess, I'll—but his thoughts stuttered to a halt as he tore carelessly through the thick paper and a ring tumbled out into his palm. It was finely wrought, in the particular style of the finest dwarfish craftsmen—made so that it would never tarnish or bend. But it was not the style that made his hands shake as he held the circle of silver up to the light, it was the insignia engraved on the disk of metal set upon the band—a set of scales above a pair of crossed swords.
The ring was as familiar to him as his own—the gold band set with the design of a roaring lion's head that currently resided on his own right hand. Edmund. It was his signet ring, but the handwriting on the envelope was most decidedly did not belong to his brother. Edmund's handwriting could be described as many things, but perfect was not one of them.
It could be Peridan's—there's no reason to suspect that anything has gone wrong. But he did suspect, this was Edmund—Edmund who had somehow been abducted from a highly guarded palace and held captive for weeks, Edmund who systematically managed to find trouble even in what should have been the most innocuous of situations, and Edmund who provided Peter with a constant supply of reasons to worry, most of them well founded despite his protests to the contrary.
He stared at the envelope for another long moment, examining the seal, the handwriting, and the scrap of folded paper that had fluttered out with ring. There were a number of explanations, none of which he found particularly comforting. The handwriting could be Peridan's, meaning that Edmund was either injured or missing and the ring had been sent as proof that the missive originated with Peridan and Edmund. The handwriting could belong to an unknown individual who had captured them and was now demanding a ransom. Or, and Peter thought this both most likely and most troublesome, the letter could have been sent by Obridesh.
However terrible the words written on the scrap of paper might be he was nearly certain that not knowing would be worse, but that did not stop the slight tremor in his hands as he unfolded the letter. The words, which were written in the same beautiful handwriting, were concise and brutally straightforward. He stared at them, uncomprehending, reading and rereading the few sentences as if repetition would alter their meaning—it did not.
"BRICKLE!" The summons was louder than he intended, nearly deafening in the otherwise silent room, and he must have startled the dwarf badly. There was a crash of falling books as one of the precarious stacks was destabilised further and he vaguely heard a muffled curse as Brickle shuffled into view, hopping clumsily on one foot as he tried to rub the toes of his other foot.
The dwarf froze when he caught sight of Peter's face, and Peter realised his expression must have been terrifying and borderline manic, but he had little attention to devote to appearances. "Y-your majesty?" Brickle asked nervously, lowering his other foot to the ground and setting aside a heavy book which had been tucked under one arm.
Peter shook his head, trying to clear it and bring his burning eyes back into focus. The words before him swam dizzyingly, taunting him with their stubborn immutability. "Consider this a warning of what is to come."
"Susan," he managed to choke out at last, barely able to summon the breath required for the single word. His world had narrowed somehow, contracted until even breathing was of secondary importance to what was written in the tauntingly beautiful script.
"Your majesty? Are you well?" Brickle was likely tugging on his beard again and Peter could hear him shifting his weight uncertainly. It didn't matter.
Let him think what he will—let him think me mad. Perhaps I am. "Get Susan." Still the dwarf hovered, uncertain and frightened—his presence stifling and infuriating in its concerned quality. "NOW!" Peter did not care that his voice was sharp, did not care that its volume made Brickle flinch involuntarily, it was effective and that was all he was currently concerned with. The door opened and then slammed shut rather forcefully—he heard Brickle's boots thudding down the corridor at a pace which was nearly a run, and then there was silence. He was alone with his thoughts and the scrap of paper he was quickly coming to hate more than he had ever hated anything—including Jadis.
He caught up the ring which lay discarded on the desk and clenched it in his fist so tightly that the engraved disk of metal cut into his palm. The pain was strangely welcome, grounding him as he tried to collect his jumbled thoughts into some order.
Susan—she'll have to be told, I can't avoid it. They'll all have to be told. The letter in his hand was such a simple thing—so few sentences to bring a kingdom crashing down, to destroy his world, proclaim his failure, and strike him with the full force of his own culpability. I did this, all of this, and all without leaving my chair by the fire.
"What have I done? Oh Aslan, what have I done?" His hands were shaking, eyes burning with the fire of unshed tears, and he dropped his head forward until it rested on the cool surface of the desk. Be calm, he reminded himself out of habit. Breathe.
Breathe—that was what Edmund always told him after battles, when the day was won or lost, and the mountains of dead swam before his eyes and filled him with haunting guilt. Just breathe, brother.
"Peter?" He barely heard the door open, scarcely registered the flurry of skirts and rushing footsteps that heralded Susan's arrival until arms, warm and solid, wrapped around his shoulders. "Peter? Brickle, what in Aslan's name happened?"
The dwarf mumbled something inaudible to Peter and Susan's response was nearly drowned out by his own rasping attempts to breathe. He was aware that he was trembling, fighting to draw air into his spasming lungs. Susan shook his shoulder gently and tried to pry the letter in his hand from his clenched fingers. "Here, let me see that. Brickle, fetch Menwy for me, would you, I think he may be ill."
"I'm not ill," he managed to assure her at last, forcing the words past the burning lump in his throat. "Brickle, get out."
"Peter—" Susan began, her voice vaguely chiding in response to his harsh tone.
Peter raised his head from the desk to find her kneeling next to his chair, confusion and concern twisting her face into a frown. Concern, but not the conflicting and all-consuming guilt and rage he was certain must have been plain in his own expression—not yet. "I said, GET OUT!" The concern faded somewhat, replaced with a vaguely disapproving look, but Peter did not care—what must be said was better said in private. It was bad enough there had been a witness to his own loss of control, it would be unforgivable for him to allow anyone to see Susan's carefully constructed mask of control shatter.
Brickle bowed hurriedly, frowning and concerned, and shuffled out, pulling the door shut. Peter listened, hearing his footsteps retreat slowly as he forced himself to draw a single, deep and steadying breath. She has to be told.
Susan was still trying to pry the letter from his grip, frowning as he continued to resist her efforts. "Peter, Brickle said he gave you a letter and that seemed to start all this. I can't help if I don't know what's happened."
Susan, always reasonable and calm. "I did." He coughed as the words seemed to catch in his throat and managed another shaky breath. Just breathe. "I'll let you read it in a minute, but I need to tell you something first. I should have told you right away, I shouldn't have kept it secret—secrets are what caused this, all of this, in the first place."
"Peter, just tell me." She got to her feet with her usual grace and dropped into the other chair—ignoring the crackle of old parchment shifting beneath her weight. She was so calm, the model of a perfect queen, a caring and gentle sister, and Peter hated himself even more for what he must tell her. He knew what the news would do to her—could already see the calm expression fading from her face and hear the much deserved but still unwelcome accusation. "What have you done?!"
"Edmund knew—he knew it was Obridesh, and that's why he went to Tashbaan. He planned everything, he knew about the Lone Islands, manipulated the situation so that I would have no choice but to send him to Tashbaan and Lucy to The Lone Islands—he made it seem like it was my idea all along, but it was his from the start—all so he could get to Obridesh. I don't know what he was looking for, papers maybe—letters—but it was important. He knew what the Tarkaan was planning, I think he was trying to stop it." His voice was shaking, and he knew Susan heard it, but she only nodded, still calm though he could see the flash of frustration at Edmund's actions that flashed briefly through her eyes.
"Of course, he did." There was exasperation in her voice—the familiar note of fond annoyance at a brother who was frighteningly independent in nature and careless of his own safety as often as not. "And the letter? Something has upset you terribly, and it can't only be that."
He forced his hands to unclench, fingers cramping and tingling as blood rushed back into them, and held out the silver ring. Susan took it curiously, frowning at the blood that now flecked the bright surface from where it had cut Peter's hand.
"This is Edmund's." Her frown deepened. "Why would he send it back here? He will need it to prove who he is when he arrives in The Lone Islands—they won't recognise him otherwise."
Peter shook his head, voice deserting him entirely as he held out the now crumpled paper. She took it, eyes widening at the unfamiliar handwriting and face slowly draining of all colour.
"Peter, this isn't—this can't be true. Tell me it isn't—it can't be." The mask was cracking, the queen fading as the sister took her place, voice trembling and eyes misting with frightened tears. "It's a trick—there's no proof."
Still reasonable. "I wish it was. Susan, Obridesh couldn't have known this—he couldn't have guessed. It isn't a trick." It isn't a trick—it's real and there's no escaping it. "He's dead."
Susan shook her head, face indescribably bloodless, as she stared blindly at the crumpled paper. "No. Peter, it can't be." She threw the scrap of paper onto the desk, suddenly furious as tears forced their way from her eyes. Peter waited, knowing that she was breaking—knowing that her anger would break him. He already knew it was his fault, knew he deserved her blame, but felt ill prepared to face it nonetheless. But she did not shout, or fly at him in a fury, instead she dropped to her knees beside his chair and buried her face against his shoulder, gasping for breath between her sobs, tears soaking through his shirt and burning against his skin. He held her, staring again at the crumpled paper, unable to read the words through the haze of his own tears, but he did not need to—they were burned immutably into his memory.
You sent him here, unprotected and unprepared—what did you think I would do, High King? I have sent you his ring, but I have long since learned a Narnian's capacity for hope is nearly infinite. Perhaps words, more than objects will convince you to abandon such useless pursuits. Your brother is dead, High King. He called out to you—for his brother to save him. He begged for death—screamed till his breath was nearly gone, and with the last of his strength spoke these words. "I will rule over this land with justice and mercy, protect all who dwell here from those who mean them harm, strive to create peace and prosperity for all, and give my life if necessary; till Aslan commands me otherwise or death takes me. I pledge myself to You, Aslan, to rule the land You have given me in accordance with Your will. I will abide by Your laws, honour Your decrees, and strive to serve You in whatever capacity You may require. This I swear to do until You release me from my vow or death claims me." I trust you will know the significance of these words.
Consider this a warning of what is to come. Narnia will fall, and you are the fool who has destroyed it.
He might have believed the words, the claim of Edmund's death, to be Calormene embellishment and trickery—had it not been for the words of the oath. The oath of a sovereign, sworn to Aslan and to Narnia and upheld with every breath Edmund had drawn since then. An oath whose significance would not have been known to Obridesh—he could not have known how often those words had been repeated on battlefields, forced from bloodstained lips while Peter shouted frantically for Lucy and Edmund clung to life by the most fragile of threads. He could not have known that those were the words Edmund spoke when death hovered so near that it was an almost visible shadow hanging over him—could not have known unless he had witnessed it himself—and that was nearly irrefutable proof that his claims were true.
"It's no use crying, Su," Peter heard himself saying, he sounded cruel, even to his own ears, but could not muster the strength to care. "It won't change anything."
She pulled away, face bloodless, save for her red and swollen eyes, and stared at him wildly. "No use? No use crying, Peter?" The force of her hand striking his cheek spun his head to the side and his vision flashed red for the briefest of moments. "Have you no heart?!" A moment later she threw herself forward again, wrapping her arms more tightly around his neck and sobbing all the harder.
erHe wrapped one arm around her shoulders and tucked her head under his chin, patting her back mechanically. No use crying. No use. Useless. A failure. His own tears would not fall—they remained trapped, burning his eyes and blurring his vision, but he felt he was unworthy to shed them. Unworthy to show his grief over a tragedy that he had perpetrated with his own carelessness.
Someone, likely Brickle, knocked on the door, urgency plain by the very fact that he risked interrupting a conversation which had caused him to be banished so summarily. Peter ignored the sound, still staring at the paper on the desk—his whole world still shrunken and contracted, containing nothing outside of the room that had been Edmund's, the hateful words burned into his consciousness, and Susan's shuddering, sobbing breaths.
"Your majesties, please!" The knocking redoubled in volume and Peter glared blearily at the door. "I have an urgent message." The voice was unmistakably Brickle's and his agitation was clear, but Peter could not bring himself to care.
It was Susan who stirred, lifting her tear streaked face from his shoulder and drawing in a steadying breath. She was not calm, not by any stretch of the definition, but she was somehow still queenly—breaking, weakened, but not yet broken and Peter envied her strength.
"Come in Brickle." Her voice shook, but it was far more collected than Peter felt his would have been. She pulled free from his absentminded embrace and returned to her own chair—shoulders squared and back perfectly straight as she wiped the tears from her cheeks with an unsteady hand.
Brickle opened the door cautiously, frowning and immediately twisting both hands in his beard as if the action would somehow ease whatever terror he seemed to be feeling. A Swallow perched on his shoulder, wings disheveled and head dropping in exhaustion. "She's come from Queen Lucy, your majesties," he said, depositing the bird gently on the desk between Peter and Susan and backing away with a bow and a curious look at Susan's swollen eyes and tear dampened face. Peter waved him away absentmindedly.
The Swallow swayed on her feet, gasping breaths audible as she quivered with exhaustion.
"What is it?" Peter heard himself ask, the words sounding cold and distant—disconnected from pained guilt that swirled through his mind. Susan's face was a mask of carefully controlled grief—tears still fighting to escape and held back only by force of will.
The Swallow lowered her head miserably, wings spread slightly for balance as she shook. "Your majesties, I bring grave news from you sister queen." Her words were punctuated by gasps for air and Peter realised dully how far she must have flown, and how fast, to be in such a state. "Her ship was attacked, by pirates, your majesties. She sent me back with a plea for assistance." She raised bright eyes, fixing her gaze suddenly on Peter's face and he saw his own emotions reflected there—grief, guilt, and burning anger—and he knew.
"I saw her fall, your majesties," she continued in a trembling voice, words barely audible above Susan's pained gasp of realisation. "She fell into the sea, your majesties, and did not rise above the waves."
Peter stared, frozen in silence, barely seeing as Susan's hands flew to her mouth, pressing against her face in a vain attempt to stifle the scream that tore from her throat. He wished he could cry out as she did, but his voice seemed frozen somewhere deep inside his chest—trapped by the collapse of every hope.
Lucy, Edmund—both dead, and both because of me. I am the fool who has destroyed them.
Ummm...I'm going to go hide now, please don't throw explosives in my general direction! We all know Lucy isn't dead, well, Peter, Susan and the Swallow don't...but we do! And you'll just have to wait and see what happened with Edmund in Tashbaan. Hopefully this was a good chapter? Let me know in a review :-)
Cheers,
A