'Your Lordship? It is time.' A page hovered in the doorway of the Kings' chamber.

I broke off pacing and turned on my heel to face him. I grabbed my swords and buckled them at my hips. 'Well then—let us go.'

I strode down to the combatants' hall under the stadium. On the way I checked my gauntlets, pulled my swords from their scabbards to make sure they weren't sticking, adjusted the belt. I had done all this a hundred times that morning.

Taran, Gormal, Simar, and I. We were the four remaining combatants. They stood at the entrance to the arena, backlit by the sun. Even by their outlines I could make out the hulk of Gormal and the deceptive slouchiness of Simar, who could fight with the quickness of a cat. Taran had made the most effort to cut the finest picture, and he stood tall. As I approached I thought he was styling himself as an angel of justice with his blond hair and precise jaw and the light of presumed righteousness in his eyes.

We said nothing to each other. We had nothing left to say.

They announced us as the final fighters and we strode towards the Kings and Queens to receive our honours. I found myself in front of Edmund. I looked into his eyes as he laid his hands on my shoulders. Despite the fact that Taran stood right next to us, he flashed me a wink. I wanted to grab the back of his neck and pull him into a kiss. I wondered if there would ever be an hour when I would be free enough to do that.

I trotted to my place in the centre of the ring, ready to face Gormal. I glanced over my shoulder at Edmund, biting my lip. He was so daring—because he was unafraid. I didn't know how he had come to the conclusion that we were not wrong, but he was very sure of it. Could his certainty erode? How cruel would life have to be to him? I stretched and felt the scars on my back pull and tighten. I couldn't protect him forever.

I drew my swords slowly. The jewels on this hilt of the Lionshaim sword winked and glinted. Gormal eyed the sword with envy.

'Funny that you think you're such a big man, when you take it like a woman,' Gormal sneered.

'For someone who devotes so much time to hatred, I'd think you'd come with better insults. But maybe that's just proof of your intelligence: given all the time in the world and you're still a gormless idiot,' I said, getting into fighting stance.

The gong beginning the fight spoke for Gormal. He sprang on me, and I dodged out of the way while his slashed about wildly. I supposed I could keep this up and win the fight: provoke him to anger so that he went on a wild attack; dodge said attack until he tired himself out. Win by dint of endurance. And then turn around and fight again.

The sweat dripped off me in the thick heat. I hesitated a moment and Gormal quickly pressed his advantage, bearing down on me with all his considerable weight in his shield. My swords were not enough to withstand the force and I collapsed to my knees.

'If you yield now, I might make it easy for you,' Gormal said, flashing a cruel smile of triumph. 'Unless you like taking it rough.' I curled my lip. In a decisive movement I uncrossed my swords and rolled out of the way just as Gormal thrust at me. He overbalanced and fell on his face. I leapt to my feet and held my swords up.

When Gormal rose he had all the anger of a wild bull: snorting, stamping, rolling his eyes. I tensed, readying myself for the onslaught as we stared each other down. I saw all the opponents I had faced to get to here: Uncle, Taran, Simar. All the nobles. Rabadash. Years of battling when I barely had two score years to my name. Before me stretched opponents I still did not know, battlegrounds I had yet to trod. Fight after fight to tell the world who I was.

Beyond Gormal I saw Edmund, standing stiff and white faced in the royal box. I bit down on my lip. The freedom of Felimath washed over me. Not festooned in armour, grappling with my old school mates, but naked in the glittering sea with Edmund. I had a wild fantasy of breaking away from the fight and seizing him by the wrist, dragging him away to Felimath, to the Eastern Seas beyond. Just he and I, free in the peace of it all. I squinted in the bright sun, seeing a better world.

Gormal attacked from across the arena. I watched him run at me with all his speed and strength. Felimath was impossible. I could fight or I could surrender, but I could not escape. In that case, I could only make one choice. I met his charge head on.

We crashed into each other. No style or finesse, just brutality. Gormal wanted to leave me bloody. I wanted the same. We tumbled to the ground, dropping our weapons. We used our fists instead. He snarled, bearing his teeth in an expression which recalled Rabadash.

'You won't learn your place, will you?' He growled, landing a punch on the side of my face. The sharp blow of his ring made me see stars, but I kept fighting.

'I know my place. It is not for you to school me,' I answered with a grunt.

The referee bawled for us to stop, but we only ceased when he bodily pulled Gormal off me. I staggered to my feet and wiped at the sweat trickling down my cheek. Instead my fingertips were red when I drew them away. I examined the brightness of the blood.

'Respite!' The referee called.

'No,' I said, wiping the blood off my hand. 'No respite.'

Gormal tipped his head back and laughed. 'It's almost sweet how dauntless you think you are.'

I frowned, remembering when Peter had said 'We should have dubbed you dauntless.' I set my jaw and exhaled through my nose.

As we started fighting again, I found myself reciting drills in my head: 'Forward forward, parry, lunge, retreat two steps.' I had done these exercises a hundred times with Gormal in our lessons. He always had more strength.

But he was blowing and sweating under the sun. I was sweating too, of course—a summer's midday in Narrowhaven meant punishing heat and light. Yet I still had my breath. He had strength, but I had endurance.

I thought through the strategy as we went through the textbook moves. I could outlast him, but that might cost me too much for the final fight. I could not match his strength. I had to outsmart him. My mind ticked over and I started to put a plan into action.

Gormal saw through me at once. 'So we're playing the clever card now, are we?' He taunted. 'Because you know you're not strong enough to beat me. Half man that you are.'

Iinside me a great surge of rage started to build. I wanted to hurt him as he had been hurting me for years. I had let him, let all of them, every time. I had been the good boy, silent, obedient in the hopes that it would gain me acceptance. Nothing would gain me acceptance.

I lost my head. I yelled and lunged into an attack. Gormal parried with a laugh.

'Look at that—so you do get angry after all. I thought we whipped that out of you.'

I redoubled my efforts, my swords flashing in the sun. He defended against every stroke.

'Are you hoping to impress the Kings and Queens? Save your reputation? You know one day they will know, and be just as disgusted as we all are.'

I glanced over at them. Edmund had leaned forward to say something to Lucy; he was gesturing at the fight. Peter and Susan stood very still. Gormal used the advantage of my distraction and drove me back.

'Meanwhile someone really ought to tell your sister she has a pervert for a brother. Give her a chance to save herself,' Gormal sneered.

Fear stabbed at me. I didn't worry much about Aurie, but more that Edmund might be wrong, and that his family might hate him. His brother and his sisters that he would do anything for. A lifetime of battles for him. Whether we were right or wrong for our love, what did it matter in the face of so much hate?

In one movement, Gormal jumped on me, driving me to the ground. He pulled my swords from my hands and threw them aside as he commanded, 'Yield. Yield to me.' And I had to, though I spat out the words.

Gormal stalked away from me and turned to the crowd, lifting his arms in victory. Though my body ached and the dust stuck to my sweat soaked skin, I pushed myself to my hands and knees, then to my feet. I collected my swords and limped from the arena. As I passed Taran, he gave me a look of pity. I gripped his arm. 'This is not over yet. There is another bout.'

'There could be a hundred bouts and you still wouldn't redeem yourself,' he said, wrenching his arm free.

I went into the cool dark. Gormal taunted me for a few moments but subsided when I ignored him. I sat back and closed my eyes while the medics cleaned and bandaged the cut on my temple. Meanwhile, Taran beat Simar handily in the arena.

Gormal and I strode out again to take our places beside our partners. Taran welcomed Gormal with a nod. I stared at Simar. I had no choice but to trust him. I supposed Edmund would want me to give him a chance to redeem himself.

'You didn't have to do that to Orran,' I said, decisively but not unkindly. 'You can want better things—for others and yourself.'

'Perfect Peridan. You say that, but it's easy for you, far away in Narnia,' he muttered.

I scoffed. 'You think it's easy. I have been on my own since I was fifteen years old.' I turned to him. 'You were so scared of that possibility you sent an innocent man to a lifetime of imprisonment.'

The referee turned to the crowd to announce the rules for the final bout, trying to make his voice heard over the shouts and general hubbub. As he spoke though, silence stole through the stadium. Everyone had stopped what they were doing and stared. Even Taran gaped in surprise. The referee tailed off his speech with a strangled, 'Oh. We have not seen this in a generation.'

I turned. Simar stood with his sword held parallel to the ground. It shook slightly.

'Simar,' I breathed.

'I can't do this,' he said. 'I can't fight with you. Even if you are Kings' Champion. I can't bear it anymore.'

I knit my brows together and shook my head slowly. He met my eyes as he let go of the hilt.

Time seemed to slow down. The blade flashed in the sun, and I saw it turn in the air before the hilt collided with the ground, and then the blade, sending up two separate clouds of dust. I had to think, but I couldn't get my mind started. I could only think of how to draw the light reflecting off the blade as it turned in the air, and how I might create the effect of the dust with chalk pastels.

I looked down at the sword in my hand.

I was a boy of eleven, dwarfed by the carved mahogany chair on which I sat. The seat of Lionshaim, now my seat. We had buried Father, and only this last ceremony remained before we erased his life. Orran stood by me on one side and Uncle on the other. Aurie watched from the folds in our nurse's skirts, sucking her thumb.

Barran strode in. He carried the sword in its dragon scabbard. When he reached me he laid it across my knees. 'The sword of Lionshaim is yours now, Lord Peridan,' he said.

Everyone was waiting for me. I fretted my lips together. I didn't want to. I wanted this sword buckled at father's side. But there was nothing for it. I rose and drew the sword. The sharp ring of it echoed through the hall. I knelt over it and whispered my oath of fealty to a Narnia restored and the Lone Islands, the last bastion of hope. Nine years later I would kneel over this sword as Edmund knighted me.

Gormal guffawed, bringing me back to the moment. 'Even he doesn't trust a half caste pervert like you,' he said, stepping forward to loom over me. 'Even when he is one himself!'

'I can't anymore,' Simar repeated. 'I want to be clean. Help me. Absolve me, Taran. Help me know Aslan's mercy.' And he dropped to his knees before Taran, who lifted his hand in supercilious benediction.

'You can't just change!' I cried. 'What, do you think a prayer will magically change you?'

Taran cast me a baleful look and laid his hand on Simar's head, murmuring the words of repentance from the catechism.

'He has no power to absolve you!' I cried. 'That comes from the Lion alone.' They ignored me and carried on with the ridiculous ceremony.

I made a noise of disgust and broke away from them, striding forward to the centre of the ring. I curled my tongue around my teeth, pursing my lips. I drew in a sharp breath through my nose. Then I turned to the royal box, raised my sword, and pointed it at Edmund.

A/N: I remember once reading about a 'certain author' who said she had written herself into a corner when it came to writing so many Quidditch matches. I now know what she meant. This chapter was intensely difficult to write, especially as my sword fighting knowledge comes from playing Breath of the Wild, and that doesn't quite cut it. And there's still another match to write! This had gone through several permutations of who should drop their sword when forced to fight with Peridan. First it was Taran, but I realised Peridan needs to actually fight him. Then I thought Gormal should drop his sword, but Taran would never fight alongside Simar. So I finally settled on Peridan losing to Gormal and Simar showing the true extent of his cowardice. The fight was still hard to narrate though! But interestingly as I was looking for inspiration for how to write this I found a website that said one of the best written fight scenes they had read was the duel in Prince Caspian, and that helped me get started at least. Nevertheless, constructive criticism is very much encouraged as there is another pivotal fight scene in the next chapter.