Hoping to catch up a bit. I feel more like continuing with it at this point, hopefully that will stay...
Prompt #9: There is a spy ring comprised solely of small, mischievous Animals. Who is their leader, and what is their current mission?
Two days later, Edmund was entirely back to his old self. To his irritation, Lucy had found out about his shoulder, and he had to endure her heartfelt, but somewhat overenthusiastic, apologies. She also hovered around him to a degree he found aggravating, though he appreciated the sentiment behind it.
"Lu, please," he said at last, as he got up from the fine luncheon Mrs Beaver had prepared, and Lucy jumped up with her gaze trained on him. "I need to go out into the forest again." No need to mention he'd been hearing whispers, conversations cut off quickly as he entered the room. No need to alarm her with the vague fears that were hanging over him. "Alone," he clarified. "Royal sister, I am well and hearty thanks to thy cordial. Thou ought to know how healing it is, and I do not require thy constant presence. 'Tis distracting, for I love thee so well."
It was only after the words had come out of his mouth that he realised how he had spoken. As a true king, perhaps. Certainly more regally than he had before.
Slowly and surely, Aslan was changing him to become the king he ought to be. King Edmund the Just; he felt little enough of justice and strength clung to him, but Aslan was changing that. Again, he was doing everything with the help of Aslan. Else, he would have been the sly, cruel, sulky child he had been before Narnia, perhaps until somebody beat the sense into him.
(That somebody might have been Peter, if he had kept it up.)
Lucy choked on a giggle. "Thy wish is my command, royal brother."
Edmund suspected that someday, the more kingly speech would come naturally to both of them, and Lucy would not laugh, for that would be the way they talked. And yet... And Yet. That could only come when they left their old lives behind completely; when they forgot them.
As they were already doing.
Without another word, he left the room, catching up his cloak as he strode out of Cair Paravel. It had turned chilly overnight, and he was in no mood to shiver needlessly.
He fastened it with the great brooch in the shape of a Lion's head, that almost mimicked the seal that adorned his finger, despite the fact that he was not High King. Peter had bestowed it on him, as King Edmund the Just, and told him to bear it well.
So far, Edmund had.
It was a rich dark green and brown cloak, the colours mixed in a way that made him (when he put the deep hood up) able to blend in in the forest to a startling degree, if he remained still. And today, his faint fears steadily growing, he intended to do so: to find out why those whispers existed.
At the gate were two young Mice; he would not have put them as guards without backup, and there was an Eagle hanging high up in the breeze to make sure nothing went wrong, but the Mice didn't need to know that. Both were proud as punch to be standing there, in positions of such responsibility. They had been the first to gain their speech that Edmund knew of, following Aslan's death and resurrection. They were strong, extremely determined to have everything just so, and it pleased him to give them whatever responsibilities he could find for them.
(Peter was currently occupied with treaties of various kinds, most pertinently with Archenland, so Edmund had shouldered more of the day-to-day running of the castle, for now.)
They were standing very close to one another, paws on the hilts of their swords, and whispering. He caught a few words—"he always wakes at the same time", "Turkish Delight", "beginning to rust"—before they became aware of his presence and leaped back into formation, looking extremely guilty, but with a sort of secret delight on their faces.
"King Edmund," they squeaked in unison, then looked at each other in surprise. One took over. "King Edmund, you are going into the forest, sire?"
"I am, Peepiceek. Although it is truly none of thy business," he said, as gently as possible to relieve the hurt his words would cause. "Be not so bold and thou shalt find many are more pleased with thee."
"My—my deepest apologies, sire!" stammered the Mouse, trying to stand up even straighter and also bow at the same time.
"'Twas not a rebuke, only a reminder," Edmund said when Peepiceek had picked himself up again, and smiled. "I shall be back anon."
He strode rapidly into the forest, quickly getting lost among the trees, and going deeper and deeper. Whatever dark secret is happening in here—a dark secret that apparently involves me—ends today, no matter what it takes. The mention of Turkish Delight had shaken him, and based on the snippets of conversation he had heard, he was rapidly coming to the conclusion that it was a potential assassination plot.
Edmund did not fear death—he thought he never would, after the Witch, and maybe that was her poison that remained—but he feared what his loss would do to his siblings. As he entered the darkest part of the forest, his fingers brushed the dagger by his side, very softly.
Then he reined himself in, mentally. His thoughts had leaped far ahead of reality and anything provable. It could be innocent, but perhaps it was not. His steps slowed to a light, gentle walk that barely disturbed a leaf.
"—you must understand that he carries a dagger at all times!"
Edmund froze. The voice was that of a squirrel, a stranger, but with the same enthusiasm as all whose acquaintance he had made before.
"It's no use approaching him expecting him not to have one. He gets startled easily, especially if it's something that could be like the Witch." (Here the listener drew a sharp breath, and held very still. "Obviously he notices most of what goes around him, but if you can sneak up to him he'll be startled, and when he's startled I can't vouch for what he does, especially if you look like a threat."
"I wouldn't look like a threat!" protested a second voice, and Edmund let his breath release slowly. It was the squirrel who had offered him a nut the other day, who had always seemed friendly: perhaps too friendly. "You know King Edmund trusts me."
"But would you have the strength to carry a dagger all that way? And it'll have to be quick, remember, because otherwise there'll be all the Beasts and everybody else there for a celebration."
"How do you know there'll be a celebration?" countered the other.
"Use your head," retorted the first speaker, in accents of disgust. "Of course there'll be a celebration. Only four times a year we have a monarch celebrate their birthday, after all. Nobody would just ignore that."
"Why not give it to one of the Mice to take care of in the meantime, so we don't have to carry it all the way there on the day?"
"Because he'll find out about it, nut-burying idiot! This is a secret. Obviously."
"It's so exciting," breathed the other. "Being part of a spy ring, and getting daggers, and smuggling them into Cair Paravel, and—"
"Hist!" said the first hastily. "Somebody's there!"
Edmund breathed in, and breathed out again, very softly, then backed away, so gently that the pair did not see or hear him go.
Which was just as well: he rather suspected he might end up with a dagger underneath his ribs if he was to reveal his presence to them now. Their conversation had been all too clear, and his suspicions, unfortunately, confirmed.
They knew when he arose, they knew every detail of his life. That meant they had a spy ring, as the squirrel had said, and that meant he had to take care of his steps, always. Apparently he was not as well liked as he had believed.
To date, that walk back through the forest was the blackest hour of his life, knowing that those who had seemed to love him—were plotting to kill him.
I am a little obsessed with cloaks at present: I'm knitting myself something that is called a cloak, though it's only half length (when I get closer to the end, see how much wool I have, I may consider lengthening it, or I may not). If you're curious, it's on Ravelry, I'm morgsieknits, and it's my only current project. So far (though I'm not very far through it) it seems a good pattern.
Anyway, that's the reason for Edmund having a cloak!
I'm aware that Peepiceek is a named mouse in Prince Caspian. This was deliberate; the names have hereditary value. Oh no I'm being reminded of the semi-plotted-out Mouse-centric fic I plan to write someday.
I'd love to hear your thoughts on this! I like reviews especially ones that give good feedback.
I'm hoping to write another chapter today; I'm feeling pretty good about this story at the moment, actually, and plotlines are appearing in my head. (Famous last words, I know.)