Prompt: Infection
Warning: This is very violent. And bloody. And a little bit gruesome. I'm back to serious angst. And you know how those can be.
This is dedicated to Cherry2506! She wanted me to write this, with some major, major Peter whump. And so here it is! Hope you enjoy it! And Peter whump is coming up in the next chapter. Promise!
Edmund's armour felt heavier than ever today. It seemed to be almost burning his skin, restricting his breathing, the straps crushing him. Oh, he had dreaded this for three days and three nights, lying awake, thinking about what he would say. He took off his helmet and put it down on the ground. He handed Orieus his sword, smiling grimly at him. Walking past the General, he cracked his knuckles, releasing a long breath, swallowing a rapidly forming lump in his throat. But seeing his siblings waiting for him, solemn smiles on his sisters' faces, he felt himself relax. He dared not look at his brother. Not yet. He went to Lucy first. And before he even reached her, she launched herself at him, clinging to him. Edmund gathered her small figure in his arms. She was almost eleven, and yet she was so light. When she refused to let him go, Edmund kissed her cheek. And pulled away.
"You'll be strong, won't you? Valiant."
"Do you have to go?" she asked, sniffing, more tears glistening in her eyes. Edmund wiped her eyes, shushing her.
"I do. I promise I'll come back to you. Dead or alive, that is," he said, meaning it as a joke. But seeing how it made Lucy sob and tremble, he thought maybe not. "Lu? Oh, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I promise I'll come back. Alive." Lucy threw herself at him again, burying her face into his chest, tickling his neck with her silken hair. "Will you bake me cookies when I return?" he asked her, pleased to finally hear her pure and joyous laughter.
"Yes, of course, I will, Ed."
"Well, stop crying then," Edmund said, gently pushing her away from himself. "You have work to do, Lu. Go on. Susan and Peter will be with you in a minute." Lucy gave him a small smile and then scurried back to the castle. Edmund exhaled, now beginning to walk to his older sister.
"Susan, I—"
But she gave him no chance to say anything more. She was squeezing the life out of him! "Su, hey, hey! I can't breathe, you know."
"Shut up," she said, laughing. She kissed the top of his head, and Edmund knew she was giving him her blessing. "May Aslan bring you home."
Edmund gave her one last hug. "He will."
And then she was gone, too. Edmund glanced at his brother. Mighty and Magnificent, even today, even now. Hands behind his back, he stood straight, staring at the horizon, at the Sun rising above the Eastern Sea, seeing the orange melt into the blue. Edmund's gut clenched, seeing how shallow the depression on the sand was. And just how light his brother was. Oh, Aslan, what had happened to his brother? Peter kicked a pebble into the ocean. It jumped over the waves once, twice, and then sank, submerged completely. Peter never looked at him. With steps that were miserably small and hesitant, Edmund slowly made his way to his brother. He never moved a muscle, never turned his eyes to him, never showed any kind of emotion. He just stared. And as the Sun rose above the water, forming a complete circle, hinting them with a pink, enveloping the land with loving warmth, Edmund coughed. A petty excuse to avoid being the first one to say something. A cough! Edmund shook his head, feeling disappointed with himself.
"How old are you, Edmund?"
Edmund blinked, relieved to hear his brother's voice, but startled by the question. Peter's face was still blank, and as white as a sheet. But his eyes—his eyes were now watery, little diamonds shining pink in the sunlight. And Edmund's heart twisted in his chest. He cleared his throat, trying to bring back his voice. "I…I'm twelve, Peter. But you know that."
"And how old was I when we first came to Narnia?"
"Peter—"
"Answer me!" Peter thundered, startling Edmund. Edmund took a step forward, despite the warnings the glint in Peter's eyes gave him.
"Thirteen. Almost fourteen." Oh, why did he have to add that?
Edmund had anticipated that Peter would turn, the twitch in his neck muscles, the low exhale, the blink. But Edmund hadn't expected that expression, the absolutely terrifying eyes, almost menacing. Because they were weeping. And they looked scared. "Peter?" he asked, extending his hand towards him. But Peter flinched away from his touch as if he was afraid Edmund would break him. Peter swallowed, turning away again.
"Just go."
"Peter—"
"I will pray for you, Ed. Now leave."
"No."
Peter turned to him again, quirking his eyebrows. "I'm sorry?"
"I'm not leaving you like this. First, tell me you'll be alright. Tell me you won't drive yourself mad with worry and guilt. Because it's not your fault, Peter. We almost lost you! And we can't risk it again. Please. Please, you have to understand. And I have to know you understand. Tell me you understand."
And the almost ominous laugh Peter gave made Edmund skin crawl. "You want me to tell you I understand why my twelve-year-old brother has to go fight a war while I sit at home, sipping tea from a gold cup? You want to me tell you I understand why I have to spend days in uncertainty, wait for the news to come you died? Because you will die, Edmund. You will. You will die!" Peter roared, suddenly shoving him back.
Peter pushed him again. Edmund staggered back, determined not to fall in front of his brother. He would not be weak. But his sobs probably contradicted his resolution. Peter's head-shake was tacit, stating just how disappointed he was. In himself and his brother. Peter jabbed an accusing finger at Edmund's chest. And Edmund winced to see his chain mail cut Peter's finger, painting the silver in a bloody red.
"You. Will. Die." He said the words with so much conviction, Edmund almost believed him. "You will die, Ed. Because I won't be there to protect you."
"Then let it be so," Edmund said, standing up to his brother, even though he barely reached his neck. "I will gladly die, Peter." Peter turned away from his brother, his left eye was twitching in the tears. "How many times have you risked your life for us? For Narnia? How can you expect me to turn my back now that she needs us the most? I vowed my allegiance to you the day I disobeyed you at Beruna. And I vowed my fealty to you on the day of our coronation. I vowed to protect you with my life the day we fought our first battle. I will not break my vows, Peter. I don't care if it results in my death. We're Knights. Not just Kings. And if death is what awaits me, I will gladly accept it. You should accept it, too."
And then Edmund stomped away, leaving his brother to form a miserable heap on the sand and weep.
The first half of the journey went by without incident, and one could even say merrily. The atmosphere was grim, of course. Tension about the battle that awaited them hovered over. Graveness about the loss that was imminent. But the soldiers were still in high spirits, determined to stay like that as long as they could. For all of them. They crossed the Fords of Beruna and made a small camp at the Stone Table to rest. And then when the Sun rose in the mid-sky, gazing down at them, they set off westward once more. They crossed the Shuddering Wood, staying at the bank of River Rush for mere minutes to wash up and refresh themselves. And then were back to trekking to the Western Woods where the remnants of the Witch's army had been sighted. Edmund suppressed a shiver. Cold winds were blowing from the West to East, fighting against them as they went. It was the month of Kyrorush, Peter's sixteenth birthday was coming up and—
Edmund wiped his cheeks, focusing on the gallop of his horse. He shouldn't have left things with him like that. It was probably the last time he'd see his brother. And yet, he'd left on such bad terms, had left him crying in the middle of the beach. Edmund's heart throbbed just recalling the memory of his brother weeping. Weeping because of Edmund. He'd wanted to turn back, to console him, assure him, soothe him. But he was too mighty high for that! Bloody hell, it hurt. He wondered how long he'd stayed there, how long till Susan and Lucy had found him. Edmund closed his eyes to whisper a quiet prayer to the Lion. And then beg his brother for forgiveness.
"I'm sorry, Peter. But I promise I won't let you down. I'm so sorry," Edmund said, wiping another sliding tear away.
I forgive you, Edmund heard a faint mutter say. He shook his head. He was dizzy, and the cold was playing tricks on their mind. But it sounded so much like Peter. Perhaps it was the wind? That was the most logical explanation.
"The High King will forgive you in time, sire. If there is anything to forgive at all."
Edmund blinked, twisting to see Orieus galloping beside him. He swallowed. "I doubt it, Orieus. This he will not forgive. I could see it in his eyes. I could see he was seething. I broke him. I broke him."
"You weren't given a choice, King Edmund," said Orieus, extending a glinting blade towards him. Edmund gave the widest smile to see Vera. He took her, swung her once in his hand, and then sheathed her with a sharp, echoing chink. Then Orieus smiled. "We're almost there, King Edmund. You need to strategize. How do you wish to approach them? I've already sent the Griffins to scout the area." Edmund gulped, unsure what to do. Peter had always been the leader. The High King. How was Edmund to take over now?
He smirked. He wasn't Peter, no. He was Edmund. The High King's witty little brother. Maybe he could take advantage of that. "How about we split up?"
"Sire, I hardly think that is a wise decision—"
"No, listen, Orieus. Our numbers are much greater. As you said, the Dryads had spotted about sixty of them. And most of them are wolves and hags. The least threatening. Even if we split, we'd have seventy soldiers in each group, and I'm not counting the Griffins. You said you'd sent them to scout the area. Can you have one of the eagles carry a message?" Orieus nodded, looking impressed. "Tell them to attack at their sight. They'll have the advantage of flight. And then when they're weakened, we take them from both sides. They won't stand a chance." Edmund gave a satisfied smirk. Orieus gave another nod and then brought the party to a halt. And was then hollering orders, telling them what Edmund had told him only seconds ago.
Edmund breathed in the sweet scent of the Hyacinths, the Lilies. The rich, cutting smell of wet grass. And Edmund always found the smell of wet sand brilliant. His mood was finally beginning to lighten. Maybe he would survive this. Maybe he could go home, emerge back victorious, make Peter and his sisters proud. Just maybe—
"Majesty!"
Edmund didn't know what happened. He was knocked off his horse, wind rushing out of his lungs, as his chest was being crushed under the weight of—
He opened his eyes. Oh, Aslan, no.
They were under attack.
And they would surely lose.
Because Edmund had never seen so many Ogres at once.
Edmund was desperately trying to suck in air as the Ogre that had pinned him to the ground laughed in his face, revealing the decaying yellow teeth, and the horrible smelling saliva. He swung his hideous yet deadly warclub above his head, ready to strike him, squash him like an insect. Edmund squeezed his eyes shut and waited for the blow, for the sharp pikes to pierce him to the bone. This was not how he'd imagined his death. Maybe a wolf ripping his heart out, a hag's curse, a bat's claws scratching the life out him. But this would be brutal. Too painful. He hadn't expected to be the meal of an ogre. And then a horrible realisation dawned on him. Ogres didn't eat Carrion. They'd eat him alive. Cut him into tiny pieces and swallow his meat in front of him. Oh, Aslan. Edmund's head was suddenly swirling. Such grotesque reality was not made for the mind of a twelve-year-old. Vomit had risen almost to his throat when an awful screech came.
Edmund praised the Lion when the weight on his chest was gone and he could breathe again. He fluttered his eyes open. First, he saw the pink sky, then the colour dissolved into the whitest light of the sun, and then a shadow enveloped him. Muscles tense and expression grave, Orieus extended his hand towards him. Edmund took it, struggling to gain his feet. "You must go, King Edmund. Now." Edmund gazed around. He saw only death and blood. Heard only the screams of his dying soldiers and the menacing laughs of the Ogres. The monsters were dragging some of them out of the clearing, into the woods. To feed on them. Edmund rested his hand on Orieus' sturdy arm for support, feeling nauseated again. Aslan, please. Then he looked up at his General with determined eyes.
"I won't leave, Orieus. Don't ask me to. I will fight. And die before they can take me alive. Are you with me?"
Orieus swung his sword, staring in anticipation at the horde of Ogres running towards them. Then his lips twitched to give a smile. And he said what he'd said to them so many times before, in battle, in wars, and even in training sometimes, "To the death."
And they charged.
Edmund was to fight the smallest Ogre first. It was easy to dispatch him. Just a slash of Vera to his excessively fat and dangling stomach was enough to spill his guts on the ground and make him scream and crash down. And then another larger one leapt at him. Edmund, taking the advantage of his small size, ducked to avoid his swinging clubs and let the brute stumble forward. Then with a slash to the calf, Edmund kicked the Ogres leg, his leg almost went through the wound, so large was the size of the monster. Bellowing in pain, the Ogre fell, and Edmund took the opportunity to cut the brute's head off. Next, he turned, seeing another small Ogre run towards him. Another slash and he'd decapitated him. Such fury had filled him. So much despise for the monsters who'd eat his soldiers, his friends alive. Edmund let the anger fuel him. He charged again, slashing and cutting the Ogres one after the other, letting them fall in a heap.
He was small and scrawny and light. But that meant agility and speed. Another one came after him, attacking from behind. He turned and thrust Vera into the Ogre's eye. He struggled to get the sword out of his eye, screaming in sheer agony all the while. Edmund gulped; he had been rendered weaponless now. He glanced around for another option. For something to finish to Ogre off with.
"King Edmund!" Orieus cried from behind him. Edmund turned about. The Centaur looked terrified, his eyes fixed on something. Edmund's eyes followed his gaze. A warclub—smaller than most, but still capable of cutting him in half—was flying through the air.
It's target?
Edmund.
Edmund stiffened, curling his hands into fists, shutting his eyes, waiting. He could hear it cut the air as it flew.
Three.
There were more shouts from his left, urging him to move out of the way. But he was frozen.
Two.
The world was silent now. His mind numb. He would not cry.
One.
And Edmund allowed it to strike him. To death claim him. He waited for it. But the blow never came. Confused, he fluttered his eyes open.
And felt himself die.
Because there he was, the one who'd saved him, taken the blow for him, lying on the bloody ground, gasping, his flesh pierced by the four large pikes, digging into him, mouth bloody, guts splattered on the ground, the white of his ribs flashing through the immense blood.
Time froze. And Edmund's world spiralled down.
No.
No!
He wasn't supposed to be here!
"PETER!"
To be continued...
Author's note: It's Narnia's 70th anniversary! On October 16th, 1950, C.S. Lewis published The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe, the first book in the Narnia novel series. And the world is still grateful to him for this masterpiece. I bow to C.S. Lewis on this day. Thanks, and ever thanks!
And I would like to thank all the beautiful readers and authors on this site who've made this community something everyone should yearn to be a part of. Thank you for your support!
A very happy Narnia Day to all the Narnians!
Response to P: Oh, that's awesome to hear! I hope she didn't make you wait too long for the next book. :-)
With love,
~Pacifia