Guest: I'm sorry about the cliffie—but this one isn't, I promise! I'm so glad you like my story—thank you for reading and reviewing!
Happy two year anniversary to this story! I started writing it my senior year of high school, waiting til summer to publish, and now it's the summer before my junior year in college. Time flies
Disclaimer: I don't claim C.S. Lewis or Machiavelli. But I do claim Edmund. ^_^
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The Lion and the Fox
Chapter Thirty-Five: Lion's Love
Fields of Beruna, 100th Year of the Reign of Her Imperial Majesty Jadis, Queen of Narnia
"Since a prince must know how to make good use of the beast [in his own personality], he should choose then the fox and the lion [as his representations]; for the lion has no protection from traps, and the fox is defenseless against wolves. It is necessary, therefore, to be a fox in order to know the traps, and a lion to frighten the wolves. –Niccolo Machiavelli, The Prince chapter XVIII 'How a Prince Should Keep His Word'"
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There is a feeling one encounters when the world has stopped, when everything ceases to matter. It is grim and awful, absolutely bottomless. It is, one would think, like death.
Except the world has not, in fact, stopped. One is not, in actuality, dead.
Everything matters, and the pain is unending.
It is hell.
And Peter has entered it.
He thought this battle would be splendid, full of honor and glory and, yes, fatalities to be mourned when it was all over and victory was confirmed. Instead it has been horrifying, full of brutality and hatred, and the dead, the dead…
Jewel has given up the fight, lungs full of blood. Oreius has stilled, frozen in his warrior's strike. His brother's body lies crumpled on the grass.
Edmund. His brave, brilliant little brother. Redeemed.
He runs at her, a raging inferno. Each movement jars his tired muscles. His head swims. His throat aches from screaming, but the pain tells him he is still very much alive.
And Edmund.
She stalks towards him, having wrenched a second sword from a Narnian corpse. Her wand, useless, has been abandoned.
His brave, brilliant little brother.
Some Fell creature attempts to steal his attention, but falls back at the swing of his sword. He will not be deterred as he rushes towards her, towards the corrupter, the murderer.
The Witch.
Their blades collide and he shouts with the force of his strike. Her eyes are steel, tempered. One of her hands bleeds freely. He is wild; there is no finesse to his movements. That was Edmund's job, Oreius's, to hold him in check, and they are gone.
Only when her first blow lands and he is sent sprawling, the air knocked from his lungs, does he realize she is toying with him. As he rolls to his knees, panting, struggling to stand, she waits, a parody of a gentleman's duel.
He rises, blinks blood out of his eyes, and swings, uncontrolled, for her head. She dodges him with ease, then brings her crossed blades down towards his chest. He bends backward, crying out, and staggers back a few steps. She bears down on him, faster than he would have thought possible, gets behind him, makes him dizzy with it, and laughs.
Peter watches her, searches for a pattern of movements to follow, and finds none. They circle, reminiscent of his battle with Maugrim, looking for a moment of weakness.
Except that Peter is one giant weakness, and she has him. She has torn his heart from his chest and trampled it. She is not kind enough to turn it to stone.
The Witch lunges at him again and he is on the defensive, barely blocking her slashes. It is a matter of seconds before it is over. He is merely waiting.
Then there is a rumbling noise, growing louder, and Peter realizes it was not the end it was waiting for, but the beginning. For Him.
Aslan stands, wonderfully, mysteriously alive, at the top of the hill. Shaking out His mane, so much more beautiful than the shaggy fur the Witch wears around her neck, He roars.
As Narnian reinforcements fill the slopes, the Witch whispers, "Impossible."
Susan stands at the head of their new army, bow drawn tight. She scans the carnage of the field and Peter watches revulsion crease her features. At her side, Lucy stands, one hand clutching her dagger, the other holding onto a Faun. Her eyes are wide as she takes in the battle, then finds him in the crowd, lips parting in a shout too distant to be heard. She is so lovely up there that he can almost smile.
The briefest glint of metal is all the warning he gets, twisting aside as the Witch tries to catch him while he's distracted. He grunts as her blow numbs his shield arm, each parry requiring superhuman strength. His body feels like lead.
She shifts to one side to try a new angle of attack, and suddenly he can see the scarlet of Edmund's surcoat, the twist of his legs—
She trips him.
He falls, splayed, already shoving images of Edmund from his mind and tensing his body to rise. She drives the Narnian blade through the muscle and bone of his arm and into the ground, pinning him.
He screams, and the instant before his vision whites out, manages to block her next stab with his shield, which she then sends spinning off to the side.
Peter stares up in the direction he thinks might be the Witch, but he can't see anything, and all he hears is his own heart's last few beats, like the thundering of enormous paws.
When the killing blow doesn't come, he reaches blindly for the sword and pulls it free, the second rush of pain clearing his vision of clouds. He trips to his feet, refusing to consider how he's even holding Rhindon right now, and sees the Lion standing over the Witch. Both are still, and as Peter watches, the Witch's entire body goes slack. Then, with a snarl, the Lion's jaws snap around her throat.
The flood of Narnian reinforcements part around them like a stone in a stream, oddly muted and distant. The Lion turns, blood on His mouth, and Peter feels his sword arm fall. Aslan dips His great head and speaks for his ears alone.
"It is finished."
Something inside Peter collapses. The fire, quite suddenly, goes out. There is relief in there somewhere, but overwhelming it is a feeling of utter failure. Oreius, Aslan, Edmund, he has failed them all.
"Peter!"
He turns swifter than he ought, and sways as Lucy ducks past his sword and grabs him tightly around the middle. He clutches her to him. Even amidst this mess, with her little dagger dripping red, she smells clean.
Susan slows beside him, her eyes fixed on the Witch. Only with enormous effort does she turn to him, panic in every line of her face. "Where's Edmund?"
Lucy draws back as he lets go of her, eyes locked on Susan's. Her already pale face whitens. "Where?"
He takes off running, the girls at his heels. They cross the ground on which he and the Witch battled as though with wings on their feet. As they near the spot where Edmund lies, Peter slows. He can't, not yet. He can't. He reaches for Lucy to pull her back, and she turns questioningly towards him.
Consequently it is Susan who gets there first, who sees her brother's chest unevenly rising and falling, and who shoots an unfortunately-not-dead axe-wielding Ginarrbrik straight in the heart. As Peter follows her the last few steps to Edmund's side, he can hear her snarl (though she will later deny it, as snarling is unladylike), "That is for everything and everyone who thought they could touch him. Once and for all: you can't."
Susan sinks to her knees, cradling Edmund's head in her lap as she unbuckles the strap on his helmet and pries the cap from his head. Peter throws himself down at his brother's side, hands hovering over the stab wound, which has soaked a deep red patch into his armor and the grass beneath him. He settles for digging his nails into the soil rather than hurting Edmund further.
Stroking Edmund's cheek, Susan commands, "Quick, Lucy."
Small fingers trembling with eagerness, Lucy uncorks her cordial and leans over Edmund as he wheezes and gasps for air, and tips a single drop of Father Christmas's gift into his mouth.
Edmund stops breathing.
Peter stares. That can't be right. That can't be how this works. Father Christmas said the fireflower would restore anyone wounded.
Unless the person was so close to death that the cordial merely ended their agony, sped up their passing? Edmund looked so peaceful, lying pale and still.
Gone.
Susan sobs once, hands petting through Edmund's hair. She looks up at Peter in disbelief, but he cannot hold her gaze. Lucy hunches forward, tears dripping off her nose. She has seen too much, is too young for any of it. But he cannot protect her; he cannot protect any of them.
He bows his head as his eyes fill with tears, and chokes out, "Eddy. Eddy, I'm so sorry."
Edmund coughs, blinks once, twice, and breathes.
Susan, of all things, giggles.
Edmund looks around at them all, struggling to focus. He frowns slightly at all the attention.
Uncaring of his own injuries, Peter hauls Edmund into his arms, doesn't let go. As Edmund slowly reaches around to hug him back, Peter's shoulders slump, and he cries.
Pushing Edmund back only so he can see his face, Peter asks, strangled, "When are you going to learn to do as you're told?"
And Edmund looks him right in the eye and gives him that familiar, warm smirk. Never.
They collapse inward, all four of them, and Peter holds on tight. His family, safe.
His family…he pulls away and twists to look at Aslan as the Lion comes towards them. The Great Cat pauses at the statue of a furry being with ram's horns and breathes lightly on his face. The Narnian inhales and shakes himself once before bowing deeply to the Lion and hurrying away.
Aslan can turn creatures back from stone.
"Oreius?" Edmund's voice is hoarse. He coughs. Peter automatically hands him his canteen again.
"Is directing the movement of the injured and the dead. Your Majesty would be wise to attend to him." Aslan turns his solemn gaze on Lucy, who jumps. She glances down at her cordial, than back to the Lion.
"Oh!" Leaping upright, she drops a quick kiss on Edmund's forehead that leaves him flushed and pleased, and rushes back towards the battlefield, stopping to administer the cordial to each severely injured Narnian she passes.
"Lucy!" Susan hugs Edmund tightly before rushing after their little sister, cloak flapping with the speed of her passage.
Edmund leans against Peter's side and Peter turns his face into the dark hair, nose crinkling slightly. Edmund reeks of sweat and blood. But he's alive, so really he could smell like a pigsty and Peter couldn't care less.
"Edmund Pevensie," Aslan says, "rise."
Edmund stiffens, then wobbles his way upright, clutching at Peter's arms the whole way. He grits his teeth to keep himself from crying out as his arm shakes.
"Peter Pevensie, would you lend me your sword?"
Numbly, Peter passes his blade to the Lion, hands unsteady. Edmund's eyes narrow and he glares at the rust-colored stain on Peter's chainmail.
"I named it Rhindon," Peter says lowly, not looking at his brother. Aslan nods in approval, takes the weapon, and taps it on Edmund's shoulders. He wavers as though the force of the hits is enough to make him fall, but remains standing.
"Edmund Pevensie, soon to be King," the Lion says gravely, "for service to your country I knight thee Sir Edmund Berun of the Fields of Beruna."
Edmund gapes, then turns, grinning, to Peter, who beams back, chest swelling with pride. Edmund bows to Aslan.
"Thank you, Sir," he replies, taking Rhindon from the Lion's paws. He shifts. "Could we…?"
The Lion smiles. "Go find your friends, Edmund. There will be time to talk later, should you wish it."
"Thank you, Sir," he says again. Edmund steps in front of Peter and returns Rhindon to its sheath. Then, not too gently, he grabs Peter's uninjured arm and begins dragging him towards the bustle of the army below. "Why didn't you tell Lucy you were hurt?" he hisses.
Peter's jaw drops. "I wasn't the one on the verge of death! It slipped my mind!"
"Slipped your mind!" Edmund echoes, "You're getting it looked at right now. How did it happen?" He pauses to stare at the holes on either side of Peter's armor. "It went all the way through?"
"She speared me!" Peter protests, unsure why he's defending himself. "And it hurt, so I'd like a little sympathy…" he trails off at the look on Edmund's face.
"The Witch did this?" he asks quietly. "I don't remember that."
"You couldn't really see me at that point." Peter scuffs the grass with his toe. "I was trying to get to you. Eddy…" Edmund lets out an undignified squawk as Peter pulls him in again.
They both mumble something at the same time, then draw back, eyeing each other warily.
"What did you say?" Peter asks warningly. "It had better not have been…"
"It wasn't!" Edmund says hastily, "Really." He glowers. "And you had better not have been apologizing either."
"I wasn't, actually." Peter feels his cheeks heat.
Edmund raises an eyebrow. "Well, go on, then."
"You first."
"Same time?"
They each regard the other for a moment before blurting, "Thank you," then staring in astonishment.
"Are you two going to talk all day? King Peter, what has happened to your arm. I need a healer over here this instant! King Edmund, where are you going?" Mrs. Beaver waves a washcloth in his direction and Edmund stares at it in terror.
"Yes, King Edmund, where are you going?" Peter seconds, heart clenching in his chest.
Edmund shrugs bashfully. "There's someone I need to see," he tries.
"Your social calls can wait until you have tended to your subjects, Richard's Son—"
Edmund yells in delight and launches himself into a very startled Oreius's arms.
Peter allows Mrs. Beaver and Avium, who is much less flighty when she isn't tasked with telling her Kings that their Lord is dead, to remove his armor and inspect his wound. He surveys the land before him, makes out Susan and Lucy running to and fro amongst the injured, and Mr. Beaver rushing about in a far less helpful fashion, and closes his eyes.
Thank you.
The most delicious warmth fills him from the tips of his toes to the crown of his head. He tips his face to the sun and lets the tears fall.
"It's all right," he assures Mrs. Beaver, "I'm happy."
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Please review!
Whoaaa how did I get this close to the end? I can't believe it. Please remember to follow me if you're not already, as there are one-shots to follow. Basically everything's easy from here on out. Though I did promise to take Edmund back to England to confront Reggie… :D
Berun is pronounced BEH-run, accent on the first syllable like in "being".