The next morning Edmund was tossing his things around his room in an invested search for his rugby cleats. He was so intent on finding them he didn't realize how much noise he was making; he had to get to the game on time or he didn't know when he'd be able to talk to Simon about the uniforms.

A few seconds after he tossed a dictionary aside with a thud, Peter appeared in the doorway rubbing his hair as he did when he was drowsy. "Ed, why are you up so early?"

"I've got a game."

"A game?" Peter repeated, somewhat stupefied by sleep.

"Rugby. I'm going to play with some friends."

"Ed," he said in a low, urgent voice, "Is this for the uniforms?"

Edmund looked up at Peter and nodded once.

"Then I'm coming with you."

Peter met Edmund in the entryway, looking dashing even in a simple rugby shirt. Edmund restrained an eye roll. Can't he wear clothes like normal people? But he quickly reminded himself how miserable Peter had just been when he thought he was doomed to be like normal people and he forgave his brother the bravado.

They took the Tube into town, and the streets were still mostly empty with the pale grayness peculiar to cities in the early morning. The sky was an opal gray and the sidewalks a dull, thick gray, making the whole city seem tired.

"So after we get the uniforms, and the rings, what then?" Peter asked.

"Well, we'll just wire everyone and arrange to meet them. And then we'll hand the rings over to Jill and Eustace and make sure they disappear and then we…" here he trailed off, for he wasn't quite sure what would happen to him and Peter.

"Yes, that is the problem, isn't it? What do we do after this? Where do we go? I feel like the time has come to make some plans, but I don't know where to begin."

Edmund shook his head. "I don't know either, Peter."

Peter stopped dead in his tracks, and so suddenly that Edmund was a good four or five paces ahead before he wheeled around. Edmund queried his brother with a raise of eyebrows.

"Sorry," Peter answered, giving himself a shake. "It's just—well, I'm jiggered. I thought that you of all people would know, Ed. You've always got a plan."

Edmund shoved his hands in his pockets and looked at the ground. "No. No ideas, actually."

Peter let out a long breath and pushed his hand through his hair. "So what are we going to do then?"

"Good question," Edmund said. He squinted up at the sky then looked back at Peter. "We could start by going to the game."

They walked a couple more blocks before either spoke again. "I must say I'm surprised, Ed," Peter ventured. "I'd have pegged you for the law. Maybe a judge. That would be alright."

"Except for the wigs," Edmund grinned. "I thought about law, but it might just be frustrating. I won't be able to change all the stupid laws or really hand out punishments people deserve. I would just be a puppet of the government; it's not really a powerful job."

Peter nodded.

They arrived at the park where half the players were casually tossing and kicking the ball. They waved cheerfully to Edmund, and he called out an introduction to Peter, and both of them joined the practice.

Peter was certainly athletic, but he was not categorically good at sports. He was a fair football player at best, and he was actually rather poor at cricket. He fared much better with the sports that let him exercise all the prowess he had learned in battle: he was always coxswain for the crew team at school, and he had won several fencing tournaments at university. And of course, rugby was Peter's kind of game. As soon as he hit the pitch he impressed everyone, and they made much of him and declared he'd play as fly-half, calling all the offensive plays for the team. Edmund was at his usual position of scrum-half, starting the ball in play when it came out of the scrum. He was particularly good at this, being both agile and sharp eyed, but on that day Peter outshone him. He made lightning quick passes, sudden, vengeful tackles, and when he made a fabulous drop goal with the defenders closing in, he was the unquestioned hero of the team. The sweat dripped from his face and his hair shone in the sun and everyone was clapping him on the back. It was all Edmund could do from kicking up dirt sulkily or throttling Peter. The best course of action he could see would be to play as hard as he could. Maybe that would let him forget about Peter the Magnificent, who was running around as if it were the world cup.

Edmund's play grew erratic as he got more frustrated: he couldn't avoid the opposing scrum-half as well and got caught in a couple of stupid tackles just coming out of the scrum. He'd make a brilliant play only to be waylaid the next opportunity. Finally, he lost his head and decided to plow through everyone for a try, but instead of getting anywhere all it earned him was a good hack which sent him to the ground clutching his knee.

They called a foul and stopped play, of course, but he couldn't get up. He felt like a fool with everyone standing over him as if he were the ball in a scrum. Peter managed to push his way through the crowd. "Ed!" He exclaimed, kneeling beside his brother. Are you alright?"

"Fine," Edmund grunted. "It's just my blasted knee." He tried to straighten his leg and sit up, but even that was rather painful, and he found he couldn't do it.

"Stop. You'll only hurt yourself more," Peter said. "Step back!" he cried to everyone. "Let me help him up."

Instantly the dense, sweaty circle of bodies that had made Edmund feel like he was in a cave vanished, and he found himself looking into Peter's face, which was backlit by the sun shining dimly through the clouds. "Lean on me, and try not to move your leg."

The next thing Edmund knew he was upright, and Peter was trying to pick him up. "Peter!" he hissed. "For heavens sake, you don't need to carry me! Just help me over to that bench."

Peter did as requested and Edmund collapsed on the bench. He examined his knee, touching it gingerly.

"You need to go home," Peter pronounced, watching his brother wince. He leaned closer and added, "But what about the uniforms?"

"Nothing for it but this. Oy! Simon!"

Simon came trotting over. He had freckles and an overbite, but Edmund had been smart enough to see he was a decent fellow. "Edmund, are you alright? That looks pretty nasty."

"Well, it doesn't tickle."

"Do you have to leave?" Simon was technically asking Edmund, but he was looking at Peter.

"Yes. Ed's got to get home. Make our apologies, will you?"

Edmund sensed the conversation coming to an inconveniently fast close. Either that, or Peter would ask, so he plunged forward. "Simon, how about lending me a couple of your work shirts?"

"What for?"

"Oh, a bit of a lark. Something to amuse my sister." Edmund was quick to play his trump card. Still, he knew Simon was very taken with Susan and would in fact lay himself over hot coals if it would so much as make her smile.

"Susan?" he asked eagerly, though he tried to play it off right afterwards. "Sure. Sure you can borrow them. Ill come by tonight to drop them off, yeah?"

Edmund nodded, and Simon ran back to join play. Peter helped Edmund up with a grave look.

"You lied to him," he said.

"What was I supposed to do? Tell him the real reason we want the shirts?"

"No, but you didn't have to lie about Susan."

Edmund smiled with half his mouth. "Who said I was talking about Susan?"

Peter frowned. "That's an awfully gray moral area." He raised his free arm to hail a cab.

Edmund turned to stare at his brother a moment. Peter was noble and kingly looking, a look that came as much from the set of his jaw and the gleam in his eye than his natural features. "How convenient it is for you to be morally upright. I wish I could live in a world where all was black and white," Edmund muttered.

"What?"

He could have snapped at his brother like he really wanted to, but he decided to hold his tongue. Peter helped him into the cab.

There was some debate about whether he ought to go to the hospital, but in the end Edmund assured Peter he could manage with some aspirin and some ice. So they went home.

Forgive all the rugby talk, especially if it was poorly done. Rugby is a complicated game! But I had to (or wanted to) explain Edmund's sore knee that he talks about in the Last Battle.