This is sort of a bonus-y chapter, from the following story request: "I would really like to see a situation where Peter and Edmund remember that they're not in Narnia anymore in regards to maybe a fight?"
Here's the resultant ficlet! Enjoy!
Brothers in Arms
"Ha-art, where've you gone? We haven't finished our discussion."
Edmund glanced up from his favored table in the school library, near to the doors. The door opening had allowed the echoing, mocking call from the hallway to enter the normally silent, sacred confines of the librarium, and Edmund felt misgiving. While he didn't recognize the speaker's voice, he did know Bartholomew Hart, who was in the same dormitory as he.
Bart had returned to school a little late this year, officially due to a late-in-summer 'family gathering,' but unofficially due to his older brother's being installed in a sanatorium. The elder Hart son had gone to war diligently enough, but had returned with a wracking cough, permanently streaming eyes, and shattered nerves. No one had ever said anything about it openly. Even the teachers only discussed it in hushed tones, behind solidly closed doors Yet, as is the way with school gossip, everyone seemed to know just why Bart had not been at school for the start of the term.
Most of the boys had had brothers of their own, or fathers, or uncles involved in the War in some fashion, so the general tenor was muted sympathy, or at least, gratefulness it wasn't their loved one so afflicted.
And then there were the one or two bad sorts, who never could see any soft human element but that they needed to stick a figurative knife in it, and twist. Edmund feared the one looking for Hart was one of these; there was an edge to the call that made him think the 'discussion' was an unwilling one on the other boy's part.
Sighing, he closed the history text and started to gather his things. He'd likely end up involved somehow; that's just how things seemed to be falling out recently. But at least he'd be able to have a nice, drama-free dinner tonight. Peter was one of the prefects of the school this year, to their mother's joy, and Pete had arranged for Edmund to be allowed to dine with his brother on Sundays.
But before he went off to dinner, he'd probably have to sort out this whatever-it-was between Bart and his interlocutor.
Sure enough, when he exited the library, he saw Bart all but hiding in an alcove that had held a statue until earlier this year (a visiting teacher's pug had somehow gotten into the corridor, and the statue had been a fatality of the ensuing mayhem).
"Pevensie!" the other boy exclaimed gratefully. Bart seemed to realize that was a bit too keen and fell back on an overly casual tone. "Don't suppose you're heading back to the dormitory?"
Clearly, he didn't want to make the walk across the quadrangle alone. Which undoubtedly meant the one who'd been looking for him was, indeed, one of those not-so-good sorts.
"I could run my books back before dinner," Edmund replied, with sympathy. It would make him a few minutes late to meet Peter, but his brother would understand. Bart already got picked on because of his name, "Bart Hart," and he was one of the smaller boys in the year besides, which seemed to make him rather more of a target for casual shoves or snipes in the halls.
"All right. Walk with you?"
"Sure."
They'd made it about halfway along the path when they were intercepted. Tom Sherman, who was in the next form up from the two of them, stepped smirking out of the shrubbery.
That couldn't be a good sign. Edmund was on his guard: Sherman had to have seen that Bart wasn't alone, but the older boy still looked smug.
"Hart, you ran off before we could finish talking," he complained.
"We were done." Bart bit off shortly. "I've nothing further to say." He continued up the path, but Sherman sidestepped into his way.
"We're done when I say we're done," he said, giving Bart a light shove and still all but ignoring Edmund.
That was enough of that. "Come now, Sherman," Edmund said, stepping slightly between them. "Leave him be. He doesn't want to talk with you."
Beady eyes fixed on him. "Oho, it's Pevensie the Younger, sticking up for the Bleeding Hart, here," Sherman said. "You're not half as big as your brother. Are you really going to try and make me leave Hart alone?"
"If I have to."
"I'd like to see you try."
Edmund rolled his eyes. "Would you really like to see me try, or would you rather save yourself a lot of trouble, and just leave Hart alone? What good does bothering him do you, anyway?"
"It might get the Head to look at what sort of weaklings they're letting in here. Whingeing, spineless cowards don't deserve a top-rate education. The family's already snuck one through here; they shouldn't get another chance." He sounded strangely adamant.
"Ah, so you're being the brave one here?" Edmund couldn't resist gibing him, looking up at his greater height and weight pointedly. "I see. Well, in that case—"
"My brother is not a coward!" Hart shouted, fists tightening unconsciously. Apparently he knew a bit more about whatever was bothering Sherman.
"Isn't he?" Sherman advanced on the smaller boy ruthlessly. "My cousin was in the same unit, and he said your brother's whole squad just stopped fighting in the middle of battle! No gunfire, no shells, nothing. And then later he sees your brother in the infirmary, after the fight, acting like he and everyone with him hadn't turned the white feather! Despicable." He spat.
Edmund paused, not having considered Sherman's side in all this. With his cousin bringing back such a tale, his ire against the Harts was a little understandable. Not excusable, certainly, but understandable.
Then he saw Bart's face, which had gone stiff and white like it does when you're trying not to shout, or not to cry. He struggled to speak. "It was the gas," he finally got out.
"What?" Sherman's fists lowered a fraction.
Hart gulped a breath. "His group got hit by a gas canister. They weren't fighting because nearly everyone was going blind, or strangling, or dead already. My brother watched his best friend drown in his own blood when his lungs dissolved because of that damned gas. So don't you say he's a coward."
"Gas," Sherman repeated, but not like he believed it. "That's convenient. And how exactly did your brother survive, then?"
Hart had found his tongue, evidently. "Didn't your cousin tell you about the gas? It sticks to the ground, and crawls up your mouth and nose. It doesn't move with the wind; it stays thick. To survive it, you need to get out of it, quick. Geoff is really tall. I guess he was tall enough the gas didn't get him so much. But he tried to save the others, he did! Only," he choked, "only there's nowhere to run in a battle. Especially not when your damned neighboring units don't come help," he added venomously.
Sherman's face reddened. "Are you saying my cousin didn't go to a fellow Englishman's aid? He lost his foot to this war!"
Hart lifted his chin, and retorted, "I'm saying it's fellows like your cousin who damaged my brother's mind, and the guilt lies with them."
At that, Sherman's face darkened, and he swung on Hart. He socked Hart's shoulder, and had drawn back for another blow when Edmund forced his way between them.
"Gentlemen," he said. "Hart, would you shut up? Sherman, calm down. There's no reason to—" But he wasn't quick enough. The next punch got Edmund just over the eye, and he saw stars and staggered back, not having expected it.
That spurred Bart into action, who threw his small self at Sherman's bulk with a cry.
Edmund called out, "Bart, no—" but it was too late.
Shaking his head to clear it, Edmund grabbed at Sherman's arm, hoping to halt the fight that way, but apparently others had noticed the incipient melee and had gathered around. One of Sherman's cronies interpreted Edmund's grabbing at Sherman's arm as an attack on his friend, and he waded into the fight with relish, wrapping a big hand around Edmund's shoulder.
Edmund ducked just in time to avoid another knock to the head. "Come on, this is all a misund—oof," he huffed, as the wind was knocked clean out of him.
"Stop," he croaked out, when his lungs let him. But it was too late: from where he'd fallen, Edmund watched in dismay as about half a dozen other boys leapt in, on different sides, and were soon trading jabs and slaps and punches.
The next thing he knew, he was being hauled to his feet by a familiar hand. He spun to put the back of his left shoulder against Peter's, the two of them facing off against circled enemies, as so many times before. Bart had been knocked down and lay groaning at their feet. He struggled to his feet.
"What's going on, Ed?" Peter asked over his shoulder, keeping an eye on the others.
"Stupidity, mostly," Edmund replied.
"Well, besides that." Moving as one, they maneuvered so they were closer to the fighters and between them and Bart.
"I guess Sherman blames Bart's brother for some sort of incident in the War," Edmund said, "and Bart didn't want to discuss it. Sherman threw the first punch."
"How'd you get hit?"
"I was in the way of the second punch."
"Ed…"
"I thought he was going to stop! Honest!"
"Stick close by me."
"Of course."
They continued moving toward the fighters, trying to get between each dueling pair. Several boys stopped right away when a school prefect was suddenly in their way, or when they recognized Peter. Others needed the pair of brothers to physically press themselves between them, and throw some punches of their own until sense regained footing in the combatants' minds.
Edmund, despite the danger of the situation, found a grin tugging at his lips. Fighting, back to back with his brother, was just so natural. It was good to know his back was looked after, and he knew Peter felt the same.
When things had been sufficiently calmed, and both sides separated, Peter drew himself up to his imposing height, and fixed the boys with a severe expression. "Do any of you even know why you are fighting?"
"I've got my mate's back," one of Sherman's friends said staunchly. A couple of the other boys nodded emphatically.
Hart's friends sneered. "Well, so have we."
"Very well, do you know why they were fighting?" Long fingers flicked toward Sherman and Hart, who were looking a little ashamed now.
The defiant expressions lost a little of their edge.
Peter turned the gimlet stare to the two in question. "Can you explain to me why I shouldn't put marks on your records for this? Or take this to the Dean?"
"Er—" Sherman didn't have a ready answer.
"He won't leave me alone!" Hart burst out passionately. "My brother is not a coward. He was hurt. But Sherman won't leave me be!"
"My cousin almost died!" Sherman bellowed back. "And it was his brother's fault, I'm sure of it."
"Be that as it may," Edmund said, stepping to Peter's side, "Bothering Hart about it—fighting him about it—helps you… how, precisely?"
"I—well—" Sherman seemed flustered by the request to apply logic to his views. Then he seemed to think of something, and his chest swelled as he drew breath to speak.
"And if you're about to spout some nonsense about how beating up a member of his family will help your family 'get back' at his, stow it," Edmund continued ruthlessly. The other boy's chest deflated. "Let me remind you why that doesn't work. Did your English tutor have you read Shakespeare?"
"Well, of course he—"
"And did you ever notice anything about all those feuds and duels and things between families in his plays?" Edmund pressed.
Seeing where he was going, Peter smiled slightly and crossed his arms, waiting for his brother to finish.
"Notice what?" One of Sherman's friends asked, sounding cautiously interested.
"The overall outcome of all that idiocy, of perpetuating a feud, was not wealth or prestige or honor. The outcome was always dead men." Edmund said flatly. "None of the families got much more than another funeral to plan out of the whole mess… until they decided to stop fighting.
"You two seem set to start a whole new stupid interfamily feud all by yourselves, and over what? Two of your relatives who are still alive! Yes, they're both damaged, but they are still alive, which means they have the chance to heal."
Peter smiled as he noticed more of the combatants looking chagrined—including both Hart and Sherman. Edmund finished, "We've just come through the biggest war the world has ever been involved in. I think there's been quite enough broken and dead young men from that conflict already. Do we really need to continue it here?"
There was a little silence, and Peter said, a hint of steel in his voice, "I believe you were all asked a question. Does this need to continue?"
"No," Sherman admitted. "I suppose not. Sorry, Hart. I just really love my cousin, he's like a brother to me, and, well, it's tough seeing the trouble he has getting around now. Pax?" He offered a meaty hand.
"It's really hard for me, too," Hart said, sounding choked. "And when people say my brother is weak or a coward, when I know he's not, well… it gets deep, you know? All right, all right," he said, glancing at Edmund's pointed look. "I'll shake and make peace."
With the two chief fighters shaking hands, and the rest of the group looking less belligerent, Peter and Edmund waited a moment to be sure they were all dispersing, then turned as a unit toward Peter's rooms.
"I see you haven't lost your knack of talking people out of bad decisions," Peter said. "Well done."
"I'm glad you haven't lost the knack of turning up in the right place at the right time," Edmund replied ruefully, touching his swelling eye gently. "Your presence reminded everyone that fighting isn't the best decision, which allowed me to get through to them."
Peter chuckled softly. "Where'd you come up with Shakespeare, anyway?"
"I'd been reading a history on Elizabeth's Court in the library, and one of Sherman's friends had a copy of Hamlet under his arm. Shakespeare popped into my head. Seemed sensible to think Sherman and his friends would be studying the same things, right?"
"What would you have done if the friend had been carrying an algebra book?" Peter wondered.
"Still tried to talk them out of it, but depended on your air of high kingliness to dissuade them," Edmund replied flippantly. "Fortunately, Shakespeare worked."
"Fortunately." They walked on a few more paces, and Peter sighed. "Fights were a lot easier to break up when you could order the combatants apart, weren't they?"
"Or failing that, order a complement of Royal Guard to separate them," Edmund agreed mournfully.
"But we got the job done, as usual." Peter said brightly. "Together, as brothers, which is how Aslan likes it, I think. Come on, let's get a cold compress on your eye."
"Are you going to have to report all this to the Headmaster?"
"Mm… Probably that there was almost a fight, and why, but I don't think more detail is needed. No one needs to be in trouble over this. Why?"
"I was thinking of how the girls reacted in Narnia any time we got into a fight there. I'd rather avoid tears or demands for details over the break, if we can."
"That's an upside of being Here rather than in Narnia I hadn't thought of," Peter said.
"What's that?"
"No Court gossips to carry every little tale back to the Queens. Especially those we'd rather not get back to our dear sisters, like fights!"
"The gossips weren't all bad," Edmund objected mildly. "But yes, on the whole, that is an advantage here. Now, about dinner, and perhaps that compress…?"
"Come on, brother-mine," Peter said affectionately. "Let's tend to your battle wounds."
So, considerably less bleak/dire than the Susan/Lucy focused chapter, but I think it works. Comments? Other requests? Put 'em in a review or PM! I'll try not to take months about fulfilling requests next time : / Sorry for the delay, Guest reviewer! Hope you enjoyed it.
