Rating: PG for slashyness
Diclaimer: Narnia and all characters belong to CS Lewis. I'm just borrowing them. I've also
borrowed on or two lines of dialogue to tie this in to the frame of Prince Caspian.
No disrespect is meant by this. Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery.
A/N: This will become slashy. Very, very gently slashy, but it will focus on m/m romantic
relationships.
I wrote this in response to a request from my very dear friend AngelHair, and it's dedicated
to her.
Chapter Two from Edmund's point of view
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
I honestly thought that Peter was going to die, fighting Miraz. And I have to say, it was
jolly close to the worst moment of my entire life. Everything went sort of slow, and I
could see Peter awfully, horribly clearly – every hair out of place, every bead of sweat
on his forehead, every spot of blood on his armour, every muscle shaking with fatigue and
pain. Every desperate, almost apologetic glance towards myself and Caspian.
I couldn't hear him. The roar of the crowd was too loud. But it felt almost like I could
read his mind. He was praying, silently, to Aslan, even as his sword was searching for an
opening in Miraz' armour and his feet were desperately searching for a patch of ground not
yet slippery with blood, he was praying. But not for his own safety. For Caspian's. And
for Narnia's.
And for mine.
I knew this. I could see it in his eyes. Mixed in with the fear, and the pain, and the
anger, and the almost terrifying look of cold calculation that he sometimes gets when
fighting… mixed in with all that, there was a burning anxiety for our safety. My safety.
And beyond that, beyond all those petty things, there was courage, and honour, and nobleness
and compassion, and there was faith, still, faith in Aslan, in his power to save us if not
himself.
And somewhere beyond *that*, deeper still, almost hidden, was the certainty that he was
going to die.
He knew it. I knew it. We could both hope. But Miraz was taller, and stronger, and older,
and his sword was heavier, and what was more, he was prepared to fight dirty – to strike
when Peter was down and vulnerable, when his back was turned, when his honour should have
stayed his hand. I knew that. Peter knew it too. Perhaps a lesser man might have stooped
to his level, but not Peter. Peter fought the only way he knew how. Bravely. Calmly. Nobly.
To the death, if necessary.
He must have seemed so confident to the others. To Trumpkin, and Cornelius, and
Trufflehunter, and even to Caspian. In fact, *especially* to Caspian, it was Caspian's
confidence in him that was so important. But when I could speak to him alone, I asked
him – man to man, king to king, brother to brother – what he thought his real chances
were. I didn't quite know how to say it, though. I mean, I needed him to know that I had
absolute confidence in him, but… but that I didn't just *expect* him
to be able to win this fight hands down with no trouble. To everyone else, he was Peter
the High King, their saviour from times of old, and so of course they expected him to win.
But me – I'm his brother. I look up to him, and respect him – but I know he's fallible.
'I say,' I said eventually, awkwardly. 'I suppose it is all right. I mean, I suppose you
*can* beat him?'
'That's what I'm fighting him to find out,' Peter said, tensely, honestly. It was as close
as he would ever come to an admission of fear.
And it was enough to terrify me.
I felt sick watching him. There were moments when I could breath easy, and I dared hope…
but then there were longer moments when I could hardly bear to watch and yet did not dare
to tear my eyes away. When Miraz' shield came ramming down onto his arm I might almost
have… well, to tell the truth, I don't know what I'd have done if it hadn't been for
Caspian's sudden hand on my arm. I looked up at him. He looked as pale and shaken as I was
feeling. I suppose in a way it was worse for him. He'd never seen armed combat like this
before, and though Peter is my brother, it was Caspian's crown he was fighting for.
'You've seen more battles than I,' Caspian said softly. 'Is there any chance now?'
I shrugged, trying to keep numb. 'Precious little,' I said dully. 'I suppose he might *just*
do it. With luck.'
'Oh why did we let it happen at all?' Caspian said miserably.
I wanted to tell him that it wasn't his fault, that Peter would not want him to feel guilty,
that if he could set Narnia's rightful king on his throne, he wouldn't feel he'd died in
vain… but I didn't trust my voice to hold steady. Instead, I forced myself to smile
encouragingly at him – and a very pale, weak smile it must have been – and he forced
himself to smile back.
After some time – time had lost all meaning by then – the fight broke for a moment, and
Caspian gripped my shoulder briefly and then pushed me towards the lists where Peter was
just emerging. And I flung an arm around him and he leaned against my shoulder breathing
in great, sobbing gasps but trying to keep upright and smiling for the sake of neither
cheering Miraz' soldiers nor alarming our own. And I was playing at doctor for the second
time that day, tying his arm up tightly, all the while trying to keep the fear out of my
eyes for fear of distressing Peter further. The funny thing is, I'm sure he was doing the
same for me, so there we both stood with our false confidence and our false smiles, and
Peter's harsh breathing filling the entire world, and I gripped his arm, wanting to say
something, anything, but not knowing how.
'Give my love to – to everyone at home, Ed, if he gets me,' he said eventually, in a
hollow, brittle voice. 'So long, old chap.'
And that was it. He slipped back into the lists and out of my reach, and my throat closed
and I felt sick to my stomach, and it was all I could do to walk back to Caspian and the
others on weak and shaking knees.
As soon as I was standing beside him, Caspian gripped my arm again, subtly, unobtrusively,
so that none of the others noticed. It steadied me a little, and I was horribly grateful,
although I'd never have admitted it. I swallowed hard and looked up at him. He wasn't
looking at me, his eyes were on the fight, but he must have caught me glancing up at him,
because he squeezed my arm.
We were, in some way that I didn't even begin to understand, drawing courage off each
other. He was beginning to look a little less pale and afraid. I felt steadier and
calmer, although the dread was not dulled.
And then Peter went down.
I could not keep from crying out as he fell to his knees. Caspian gripped my hand so
tightly that both our knuckles were white, whether to reassure himself or me I could not
quite tell.
Miraz was on to Peter straight away, as I'd known he would be – an enemy without mercy and
without honour is a terrible enemy indeed. He raised his sword high, and Peter did not even
flinch, and I could not look away.
And then there was a moment's confusion, and suddenly everything was all right. Peter was
on his feet, and we were all yelling out in astonishment and relief, praising his skill
and agility and bravery, and thanking our lucky stars for his good fortune.
In the commotion, Caspian touched the side of my face. I'd bitten my lip until the blood ran
down my cheek – he wiped the blood away with gentle fingers, smiling slightly, though his
eyes shone with concern.
The shock of his touch was almost great enough to make me stagger. The concern in his eyes
deepened as I shook his hand away.
I didn't know what to say. He stared at me intently, and I had to look away. Thankfully,
the combat was heating up again, and I had an excuse not to meet his eyes.
His fingertips brushed against mine, and I almost jumped. For a moment, I thought about
shaking my hand free again. But then, without really knowing why, I touched the back of
his hand and laced my fingers through his. He shifted his grasp slightly until we were
holding hands once more.
And then – in a shock of relief and joy – Miraz was down. Peter stepped aside to let him
find his feet. For some reason, anger rose within me and I swore.
'Need he be as gentlemanly as all that?' I muttered, to myself, really. Caspian tightened
his grip on my hand, almost in warning, and I softened my tone. 'I suppose he must,' I
admitted. 'Comes of being a Knight *and* a High King. I suppose it is what Aslan would
like…'
I realised I was babbling. I risked a glance at Caspian, and he was staring down at me
intently. I think he might have tried to say something then – all attention was on Peter –
only at that moment, a shout of treachery went up from the lists, and everything was
chaos. Caspian's hand was ripped from mine, and we were both forced to draw our swords and
fight.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Diclaimer: Narnia and all characters belong to CS Lewis. I'm just borrowing them. I've also
borrowed on or two lines of dialogue to tie this in to the frame of Prince Caspian.
No disrespect is meant by this. Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery.
A/N: This will become slashy. Very, very gently slashy, but it will focus on m/m romantic
relationships.
I wrote this in response to a request from my very dear friend AngelHair, and it's dedicated
to her.
Chapter Two from Edmund's point of view
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
I honestly thought that Peter was going to die, fighting Miraz. And I have to say, it was
jolly close to the worst moment of my entire life. Everything went sort of slow, and I
could see Peter awfully, horribly clearly – every hair out of place, every bead of sweat
on his forehead, every spot of blood on his armour, every muscle shaking with fatigue and
pain. Every desperate, almost apologetic glance towards myself and Caspian.
I couldn't hear him. The roar of the crowd was too loud. But it felt almost like I could
read his mind. He was praying, silently, to Aslan, even as his sword was searching for an
opening in Miraz' armour and his feet were desperately searching for a patch of ground not
yet slippery with blood, he was praying. But not for his own safety. For Caspian's. And
for Narnia's.
And for mine.
I knew this. I could see it in his eyes. Mixed in with the fear, and the pain, and the
anger, and the almost terrifying look of cold calculation that he sometimes gets when
fighting… mixed in with all that, there was a burning anxiety for our safety. My safety.
And beyond that, beyond all those petty things, there was courage, and honour, and nobleness
and compassion, and there was faith, still, faith in Aslan, in his power to save us if not
himself.
And somewhere beyond *that*, deeper still, almost hidden, was the certainty that he was
going to die.
He knew it. I knew it. We could both hope. But Miraz was taller, and stronger, and older,
and his sword was heavier, and what was more, he was prepared to fight dirty – to strike
when Peter was down and vulnerable, when his back was turned, when his honour should have
stayed his hand. I knew that. Peter knew it too. Perhaps a lesser man might have stooped
to his level, but not Peter. Peter fought the only way he knew how. Bravely. Calmly. Nobly.
To the death, if necessary.
He must have seemed so confident to the others. To Trumpkin, and Cornelius, and
Trufflehunter, and even to Caspian. In fact, *especially* to Caspian, it was Caspian's
confidence in him that was so important. But when I could speak to him alone, I asked
him – man to man, king to king, brother to brother – what he thought his real chances
were. I didn't quite know how to say it, though. I mean, I needed him to know that I had
absolute confidence in him, but… but that I didn't just *expect* him
to be able to win this fight hands down with no trouble. To everyone else, he was Peter
the High King, their saviour from times of old, and so of course they expected him to win.
But me – I'm his brother. I look up to him, and respect him – but I know he's fallible.
'I say,' I said eventually, awkwardly. 'I suppose it is all right. I mean, I suppose you
*can* beat him?'
'That's what I'm fighting him to find out,' Peter said, tensely, honestly. It was as close
as he would ever come to an admission of fear.
And it was enough to terrify me.
I felt sick watching him. There were moments when I could breath easy, and I dared hope…
but then there were longer moments when I could hardly bear to watch and yet did not dare
to tear my eyes away. When Miraz' shield came ramming down onto his arm I might almost
have… well, to tell the truth, I don't know what I'd have done if it hadn't been for
Caspian's sudden hand on my arm. I looked up at him. He looked as pale and shaken as I was
feeling. I suppose in a way it was worse for him. He'd never seen armed combat like this
before, and though Peter is my brother, it was Caspian's crown he was fighting for.
'You've seen more battles than I,' Caspian said softly. 'Is there any chance now?'
I shrugged, trying to keep numb. 'Precious little,' I said dully. 'I suppose he might *just*
do it. With luck.'
'Oh why did we let it happen at all?' Caspian said miserably.
I wanted to tell him that it wasn't his fault, that Peter would not want him to feel guilty,
that if he could set Narnia's rightful king on his throne, he wouldn't feel he'd died in
vain… but I didn't trust my voice to hold steady. Instead, I forced myself to smile
encouragingly at him – and a very pale, weak smile it must have been – and he forced
himself to smile back.
After some time – time had lost all meaning by then – the fight broke for a moment, and
Caspian gripped my shoulder briefly and then pushed me towards the lists where Peter was
just emerging. And I flung an arm around him and he leaned against my shoulder breathing
in great, sobbing gasps but trying to keep upright and smiling for the sake of neither
cheering Miraz' soldiers nor alarming our own. And I was playing at doctor for the second
time that day, tying his arm up tightly, all the while trying to keep the fear out of my
eyes for fear of distressing Peter further. The funny thing is, I'm sure he was doing the
same for me, so there we both stood with our false confidence and our false smiles, and
Peter's harsh breathing filling the entire world, and I gripped his arm, wanting to say
something, anything, but not knowing how.
'Give my love to – to everyone at home, Ed, if he gets me,' he said eventually, in a
hollow, brittle voice. 'So long, old chap.'
And that was it. He slipped back into the lists and out of my reach, and my throat closed
and I felt sick to my stomach, and it was all I could do to walk back to Caspian and the
others on weak and shaking knees.
As soon as I was standing beside him, Caspian gripped my arm again, subtly, unobtrusively,
so that none of the others noticed. It steadied me a little, and I was horribly grateful,
although I'd never have admitted it. I swallowed hard and looked up at him. He wasn't
looking at me, his eyes were on the fight, but he must have caught me glancing up at him,
because he squeezed my arm.
We were, in some way that I didn't even begin to understand, drawing courage off each
other. He was beginning to look a little less pale and afraid. I felt steadier and
calmer, although the dread was not dulled.
And then Peter went down.
I could not keep from crying out as he fell to his knees. Caspian gripped my hand so
tightly that both our knuckles were white, whether to reassure himself or me I could not
quite tell.
Miraz was on to Peter straight away, as I'd known he would be – an enemy without mercy and
without honour is a terrible enemy indeed. He raised his sword high, and Peter did not even
flinch, and I could not look away.
And then there was a moment's confusion, and suddenly everything was all right. Peter was
on his feet, and we were all yelling out in astonishment and relief, praising his skill
and agility and bravery, and thanking our lucky stars for his good fortune.
In the commotion, Caspian touched the side of my face. I'd bitten my lip until the blood ran
down my cheek – he wiped the blood away with gentle fingers, smiling slightly, though his
eyes shone with concern.
The shock of his touch was almost great enough to make me stagger. The concern in his eyes
deepened as I shook his hand away.
I didn't know what to say. He stared at me intently, and I had to look away. Thankfully,
the combat was heating up again, and I had an excuse not to meet his eyes.
His fingertips brushed against mine, and I almost jumped. For a moment, I thought about
shaking my hand free again. But then, without really knowing why, I touched the back of
his hand and laced my fingers through his. He shifted his grasp slightly until we were
holding hands once more.
And then – in a shock of relief and joy – Miraz was down. Peter stepped aside to let him
find his feet. For some reason, anger rose within me and I swore.
'Need he be as gentlemanly as all that?' I muttered, to myself, really. Caspian tightened
his grip on my hand, almost in warning, and I softened my tone. 'I suppose he must,' I
admitted. 'Comes of being a Knight *and* a High King. I suppose it is what Aslan would
like…'
I realised I was babbling. I risked a glance at Caspian, and he was staring down at me
intently. I think he might have tried to say something then – all attention was on Peter –
only at that moment, a shout of treachery went up from the lists, and everything was
chaos. Caspian's hand was ripped from mine, and we were both forced to draw our swords and
fight.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*