A/N: Well, the fencing club is here and hopefully to your liking! The aim was to make it as realistic as possible, not with Edmund coming in "foil blazing" and winning the day like an expert. That's just not believable! If you like, or don't, let me know!
Part Twenty-Eight:
Quentin rounded the corner at the end of the dorm corridor and then abruptly halted, leaning against the wall behind him and running an angry hand through his hair. Growling deep in his throat, he pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes.
"Why would Peter do that?" he grumbled out loud. "Peter is not usually sarcastic like that when it's something so important. Why would he tell me something so barmy? He knew I was serious and to just…argh!"
Lowering his hands, though he did ball them into fists at his side, he took deep calming breaths to try and release his frustration. As it diminished slowly, he frowned and thought back to the number of times he had thought his friend and his brother were a little – different.
The way Peter sat at meals, back ramrod straight, eating with a set of manners no 16-year-old school boy would use on a regular basis. He remembered both his and Edmund's ability to weave words against even adults, without breaking the slightest sweat or seeming in the least unnerved.
Still, he thought, A magical land in the back of a wardrobe? Who did he think he was talking to, a five-year-old? Why on earth would I believe something like that? He paused. Unless it's true. But it just can't be true. I don't even believe in magic.
Sighing, he peered back around the corner he had rushed past and saw that no one was in the hallway and it looked like his and Peter's door was still open. Since Edmund hadn't passed by, he assumed both Pevensies were still in the room.
Brows furrowed, he moved back around the corner and edged quietly down the hall until he was standing beside the still ajar door where he could hear Peter and Edmund quietly speaking to one another.
"I want to tell him, Ed, but I just don't think he's going to believe me," Peter said, his voice full of sadness. The tone in his best mate's voice made Quentin frown deeper from where he was leaning beside the door.
There was a rustling of bed linens, then, "Peter, if he is truly your friend, he will hear you out," came Edmund's voice. "I know it's completely insane, what happened to us, but he wants the truth and you are going to give it to him. There's nothing more you can do but that."
Quentin heard Peter sigh. "I guess so," he said dejectedly. Quentin imagined he was fiddling with some part of his clothing, as was Peter's habit when he was upset. He had to hold in a small sigh and the urge to run in and apologize for not believing him.
"Peter?" came Edmund's voice again. "I'm really glad you're back and all right. All I could think when you were walking out that door was about you walking into the stone ruins to duel Miraz."
Quentin's eyes narrowed. Duel? Miraz? What was that boy on about?
He could hear more shifting and then Peter's voice. "Oh, Ed," the older boy said. "I'm sorry you were worried, but the Headmaster really was right in sending Quentin with me. You would have been too…well…overprotective and probably rather sarcastic. The MPs might actually have done something about it. But…" there was a pregnant pause. "Why did you think about the duel?"
Edmund had obviously gotten up and was pacing, if the light footfalls were anything to go by. Quentin was actually leaning to the side to make sure he caught Edmund's response.
"When you entered the combat area, I was left standing on the outside and I knew there wasn't a thing I could do to help you, Peter," he said. "When you were walking out of the dining hall, and there was this great big MP who looked even a bit like Miraz from the back, I just couldn't help but have that same feeling of helplessness."
Peter said something too quiet for Quentin to hear, but then increased the volume of his voice. "At least I was just going to get a medical check up, not about to fight a duel to the death, Ed," Peter said with an attempted chuckle.
It must not have worked because there was the sound of a smack and then Edmund's voice, "Peter Pevensie. This isn't funny. Yes, so you weren't about to duel a man twice your age after spending days paralyzed from the injury in the raid. But you were in danger of going to prison." He paused. "And in a way, that was worse. Because even you wouldn't have been able to help yourself then. At least I knew there was a good chance you were the better fighter in the duel and could come out on top. There wouldn't have been anything you could have done against the Army."
Quentin heard another sigh from Peter.
"I'm sorry, Ed, I just wanted to lighten the mood," the older boy said. "What do you say we go get some dinner? I'm really rather hungry." There was more rustling and Quentin jumped back and looked around.
Moving to the next dorm room, he twisted the handle and sighed in relief as it moved and the door opened. Without hesitation, he moved into the room and pulled the door almost closed just before Edmund and Peter came out of the next room and proceeded down the hall.
"Um, Connors? This isn't your room, mate…"
Quentin spun around to find another boy from his class sitting at the desk in the room, staring at him with a half-disguised smile of amusement on his face. "I do believe you want the next one down," he prompted, gesturing with his hand.
Recovering, Quentin nodded vigorously. "Oh, yeah, sorry bout that…I'll just be….going." And he flung open the door, stepped out, and closed it behind him. Leaning against the wall between his room and the one he'd borrowed to hide, he sighed. "If Peter was lying, why in the world would they continue talking about a magical world even after I'm gone?"
Shaking his head, he let out a puff of breath. "I need some food. I must be going batty."
Pushing off the wall, he headed in the direction Peter and Edmund had gone, thoughts of a strange world in a wardrobe, and a duel to the death as he went.
In the dining hall…
Peter looked up toward the doorway again, shifting his potatoes around on his plate. Across from him, Edmund watched the food-moving with a frown on his face. He watched Peter for another minute or so, then reached out and stilled the hand.
"Eat it, Peter, don't play with it," he said with a small smile.
The blonde boy looked up at his brother, then down at his plate with a grimace. "Right, sorry," he said, still obviously distracted as he cast another look toward the door. Suddenly, he sat up straighter and Edmund craned his head around to see why.
In the doorway stood Quentin, scanning the crowd of students.
His eyes glossed over Peter and Edmund, definitely noticing them, before he moved in their general direction. Edmund could hear a shaky breath from Peter as his brother's best friend moved toward them.
And he could hear the dejected sigh when Quentin veered off a little and seated himself beside another group of his age-mates and waved to another incoming friend, Terry, to sit with him.
Terry did so, not without a look in Peter's direction. After a few whispered words, he looked up at Peter and Edmund again and shrugged lightly before sitting with Quentin and breaking off eye contact.
Edmund turned back to Peter, whose eyes were fastened on Quentin.
"Pete…" he began, but his brother cut him off.
"It's fine, Ed," he said firmly, a mask Edmund hadn't seen since Narnia settling on his face. Peter was going to hide behind some sort of duty and until they were in private, there wasn't anything Edmund could do about it. "We have to call Susan, Lucy and Mum tomorrow. We should perhaps think on what we wish to say."
Wincing at the formal tone to Peter's voice, Edmund nodded. "I suppose we should," he said slowly. "We're going to have to tell them both about the MPs and the mix-up about your records."
Peter nodded. "As much as I hate to worry any of them, that will be necessary, yes," he said, pausing to take a bite of his food in an eerily familiar way. Edmund wasn't exactly sure why Peter was channeling his "King Peter" manners so strongly, but he wasn't going to argue. It was better than the moping.
Taking a quick drink, Edmund frowned. "How much should we tell them? That they dragged you off in the middle of the school day? That they just came, discussed things and left? I sort of think we need to tell them the whole truth."
His brother looked quickly to the side, probably eying Quentin, before responding. "The whole truth on that matter. I'll explain it, if you don't mind, as I was actually there," he said. "We should also tell them things, aside from that, are going fine. No problems. We don't want it to be all bad news."
Edmund nodded, then suddenly straightened. "Peter!" he exclaimed with wide eyes. "Mum has no idea about…" he proceeded, in a much lower voice. "Your leg…"
His brother's eyes widened too. "Oh, dear," Peter said quietly. He was silent for a few minutes, staring into nothing and obviously deep in thought. Finally, he looked up. "And she will continue to have no idea," he said.
Edmund immediately shook his head. "But you have to tell her, Peter," he said. "It wouldn't be right if you hide something like this from her. She's your mother, for goodness sakes."
But Peter was not going to budge. "I just think it's something I would like to tell her in person, Edmund," he said quietly, losing his King Peter façade for a moment as he thought about his mother's reaction. "I don't want her to come rushing to the school, which she would do if I told her."
Contemplating for a moment, Edmund finally nodded. "All right, we'll keep that quiet," he said. "I just hope you're doing the right thing, Peter."
His brother didn't answer and Edmund, realizing the brothers were both done eating, grabbed his and Peter's plates and utensils and stood to bring them to the kitchen window where they were collected.
Turning around, he took a step forward, only to turn back around to grab the cups he hadn't taken off the table. As he spun back toward the kitchen, he heard Peter call out, "Ed, look out!" and he focused on the body nearly upon him, carrying a full tray of food.
A collision looked to be imminent, but years of sword-play had honed Edmund's dodge reflexes to a sharp point and he pivoted on his front foot, swinging his back one around and turning his body just enough to avoid being run into.
And he didn't drop a single thing while he did so.
Peter shook his head at his brother with a small smile, but didn't comment on the near accident. He had known Edmund had enough warning after his shout to get out of the way, but it was amusing to see the shock on the face of the boy who'd nearly bowled into him.
It had also caught the attention of another boy, but instead of amusement or shock, it had Quentin Connors thinking of sword fighters and moves they might have ingrained in their minds and bodies.
Quentin had been observing his friend and his brother, and he had noted Peter's unusual eating habits come into play again as he went from dejected, push-his-food-around Peter to something entirely different.
It wasn't lost on the boy that Edmund was eating in a similar fashion.
He watched the interplay between the brothers, seeing something different about them from what he was seeing in everyone else in the room. It really showed when Edmund stood and was nearly flattened by a boy not paying attention to where he was walking.
Quentin was so sure that the dark-haired Pevensie was going to be knocked flat on the ground, but at a shout from Peter, the boy pivoted so fast and so sharply that Quentin couldn't believe he didn't topple over from the move.
But he hadn't dropped anything and didn't appear to be perturbed by what he had just done. He acted like it was second nature to be able to move so easily and with such confidence.
Maybe it is, he thought to himself, now pushing food around on his plate like Peter had been doing before. But it doesn't mean they were…Kings or something. Maybe they just, I don't know, learned a few sword-fighting moves at that country estate they were sent to, right?
But somehow, looking back at Edmund and Peter as they resumed their conversation – he wasn't too sure it was something so simple as that.
Peter and Quentin's room, after lights out…
Edmund was still sitting on the edge of Peter's bed, knowing any minute Quentin would be coming back in from the nearby bathroom. He was loathe to leave Peter after everything that had happened.
"Why can't I just stay here tonight?" he said, for the third time. "The Headmaster gave me permission to be out after hours."
Peter shook his head without turning. "That's not the same as giving you permission to sleep here, Edmund," he said. "And besides, it's not just my room, it's also Quentin's and with the tension between us now, I don't think he would agree."
Edmund grumbled something unintelligible at that, but did stand up and move toward Peter. Waiting for his brother to stop fiddling with his nightshirt, he sighed. "All right, I'll go to my room. But if you need me, for anything, you come down, all right?"
His brother nodded and pulled him into a short hug. He knew Edmund was exhausted and still stressed over the day's events. If he thought about it, he still had his own worries that things with the military were far from over.
Like the recruitment office, it had just seemed too easy. He had been away from the military for 5 months and it had only taken a doctor saying he had a bum leg to solve it all?
As Edmund moved out into the hallway and gently shut the door, he looked at himself in the small mirror over his dresser and thought about all the things that just didn't add up and could come back to haunt him.
There had been no inquiry into who had treated him and why they hadn't reported him alive. And being in a German hospital being treated by Germans could make things worse for him – they could think him a traitor, who helped the Germans win the battle.
Shuddering at that thought, Peter ran a quick hand through his hair and then hopped to his bed. He'd noticed already that he was steadier, and was able to do a little maneuvering without the crutch. But only over short distances and if there was something to hold onto, like a bedpost.
Sitting on the bed now, he also wondered not if, but when, the Army would realize there was more to his story that they didn't know and come calling again. For the time being, it seemed he had a discharge. And he knew they couldn't make him fight again. But there was still the danger of prison, if things didn't go his way.
The increasingly dark thoughts might have gone on, but the door opened with a creak and Quentin walked in, effectively derailing Peter's train of thought and drawing his attention outward again. "Quentin?" he said quickly. "I'm sorry about earlier, I shouldn't have thrown all that at you so fast like that. I don't know what I was … thinking."
He slowed to a stop when he saw the look on his best friend's face. Quentin didn't appear happy with him. "Peter, just leave it alone," the other boy said wearily. "I get it, honestly, you just don't want to tell me. Fine. Just…don't make up any more tall tales."
Peter shook his head. "But it's not…"
"Peter!" Quentin said, perhaps a little harshly. "A wardrobe? A magical land? Forgive me if that seems like even more than just a tall tale." He turned down the covers on his bed and climbed in, shifting so he could reach the light cord beside it. "Like I said, Peter, leave the fairy tales for English class."
With a dejected sigh, Peter laid down and reached for his own light cord. "Fine, Quentin," he said. "Don't believe me. Maybe someday you'll realize I have been telling the truth and maybe by then, I won't want to tell you the rest."
The light went out and the room fell into silence.
"No…let me go, Caspian!"
Peter tossed violently in his bed, as if trying to fend off this "Caspian" fellow and Quentin shifted onto his side, worry on his face, but also a healthy dose of interest that was stopping him from getting up. Who knows what he could learn if he listened for a bit? He'd wake Peter if it got really bad.
"I have to do something, please!"
Peter kept tossing about.
Caspian had a grip on his arm and was tugging hard. With his sword and mace wounds he couldn't struggle hard enough to get the other young man to let his arm go. The Prince pulled and tugged on him, forcing him along toward the gates of the Telmarine castle.
Around them, Narnians were dying at an alarming rate. And Peter felt like every eye that slowly faded in the glassy stare of the dead was locked on him as he was bodily dragged from the courtyard.
"No … let me go, Caspian! I have to do something, please!"
But before he could do a thing about it, he was outside the gates and the minotaur so valiantly holding them up was falling under a hailstorm of enemy arrows. Not a place on his front was not riddled with arrows and he was dead before he landed.
Peter finally pulled away from Caspian and clamped his hands on the gates. "No…" he whispered as he watched Narnians fall under more Telmarine arrows from the soldiers above.
Just beyond the gates, nearly within Peter's reach, was Glenstorm's eldest son, Silius. The centaur was locking blades and felling attackers with astonishing speed, but even he couldn't keep up the pace forever and finally, a well-placed sword thrust pierced his chest and his forelegs buckled under him.
Pained eyes met Peter's, but they quickly changed. Instead of showing the agony of a mortal wound, they shone with blame. With accusation. And with anger. Peter could see the words form on the centaur's blood-frothed lips. "Your … fault."
A scream built up in Peter's throat, but it was quashed down as he was yanked around by Caspian. "We must leave now before more die while they wait for their King, sire." There was thinly veiled disgust in the Prince's words.
He thrust reins into Peter's shaking hands and then mounted his own horse and kicked it into motion, vaulting the widening gap of the closing bridge. Peter looked from the reins in his hand, to the bridge, to the dead eyes of Silius and finally to the accusing ones of the centaur's father, with Susan perched on his back, an accusing look on her face too.
"I should have died with them," he whispered.
Quentin flung the covers off and jumped out of the bed, his feet hitting the cold floor. "That's it," he said. "Bloody hell, Peter, what are you dreaming about? 'I should have died with them?' This is too much."
Reaching out, the boy shook Peter's shoulder and Peter mumbled in his sleep. "Silius," he whispered. "My fault…"
Frowning, Quentin shook harder. "Peter, wake up!"
The blonde jerked and rolled onto his back, eyes trying to make out who was looming over his bed as his mind dallied in his dream. Recognition finally came to him and he let out a sigh.
"Quentin?" he said, rubbing his face. "It can't be time to wake up, yet."
The other boy shook his head. "No, but you were talking and thrashing in your sleep again," he said. "What in the world were you dreaming about? And what kind of name is Silius?"
Peter's eyes hardened. Now Quentin seemed to want to listen? No, it wasn't going to happen. "You wouldn't believe me if I told you, Quentin," he said. "Remember? Just go to sleep, it's late."
Rolling over so his back was to his best friend, Peter felt vaguely disappointed when Quentin didn't press, just sighed and went back to his bed. He hated this tension between them, but what was he supposed to say? Yeah, Quentin, I was dreaming about a night raid that I planned that we lost miserably in the magical land you don't believe me about, he thought with a grimace. That would have gone over well. Thank goodness it didn't actually happen that way, though.
And he drifted off into sleep thanking Aslan that the raid hadn't gone quite as badly as his dream had made it – even though Silius had died and he would always carry a certain measure of guilt for that.
The next morning, Saturday…
Peter straightened his button-down white shirt and adjusted the cuffs with a small frown. When he noticed that this shirt had more wrinkles than he was wont to wear, he blew out an exasperated breath and pulled it back off again.
Spying another shirt hanging in the closet, he pulled that one out and held it up. "That's better," he said, mumbling as he pulled the new shirt on over his undershirt. As he buttoned it up, Edmund appeared in the doorway, glancing briefly at a silent Quentin who appeared to be trying to ignore his roommate.
"You ready to go, Peter?" the dark-haired boy said, watching Peter fasten the final buttons of his shirt. Quentin sidestepped him and left the room as Edmund entered, both careful not to touch at all as they did so.
Peter watched the interplay and then pulled the brush through his hair a bit more viciously than necessary. Edmund chuckled from behind him a few minutes later. "Peter?" he said. "This isn't Narnia. You aren't going to court or a state function. Leave the hair alone."
Realizing what he'd been doing, Peter smiled and looked at the brush in his hands. "But Edmund," he said. "Just because I don't have a crown on my head, doesn't mean I can go about looking like I just rolled out of bed."
The two shared a laugh, unaware of the eavesdropper at the door.
There it was again. A reference to crowns, kingdoms and this strange world and Quentin couldn't help but feel a little more curiosity. The Pevensie brothers injected these little comments seamlessly into their everyday actions and words – how could that be if they were making it up as they went to fool him? Sighing, he shook his head and moved off to use the public telephones and call home.
Peter and Edmund emerged a few moments later, heading in the same direction. Both were anxious about the two phone calls they were about to make. Peter hated that they were going to have to worry both their mother and their sisters, but he knew they had to tell them about the MPs.
As they entered the foyer where the public phones were, Peter groaned loudly and slowed to a halt. "Look at the lines," he said with a sigh. "We're going to be here all morning. And then we'll be telling Mum about all that's happened with a zillion other kids standing around us."
They waited a few minutes in line, inching forward as each caller hung up and left, handing the phone to the next boy. Then, a shadow fell over Edmund's shoulder and the boy turned to find Headmaster Clark directly behind him. "Um, Pete," he said with a small jab to his brother's side. "We have company."
Peter turned swiftly and saw the Headmaster. "Good morning, sir," he said with a dip of his head.
Smiling, the Headmaster looked around the room. "I thought you two might appreciate a little privacy when I saw you come in here. You have important things to tell your family," the man said. "And you don't need an audience."
Both boys nodded gratefully and allowed the man to lead them to his office. Peter, who had never had cause to be in the Headmaster's office, looked around with interest, his eyes honing in on the small wooden case on the wall holding a medal.
"You were in the Army, sir?" he asked suddenly, pointing to the case.
While Edmund dialed the number for the girls' school, the Headmaster nodded. "Yes, Peter, I was," he said. "I received that in the same fight I received this – " he held up his mangled hand for the boy to see and watched as Peter's eyes widened in surprise. "I expect you got one of these yourself, didn't you?"
The boy frowned. "I did, but it was when they thought I was dead. I expect they'll be wanting it back," he said.
Edmund bristled behind him as he waited for the girls to come on the line. "What? Why?" he said. "It isn't your fault they thought you were dead."
Peter turned slightly to look at his brother. "It's all right, Ed," he said. "I don't mind really. I know what I did and I don't need anything to show for it. If they want it back, they can take it."
Headmaster Clark quirked a small smile. "Not many would take that so lightly, Peter," he said. "It leads me to believe you probably do deserve it and it will be a shame if they do take it away, but I agree that they probably will."
Edmund would have liked to continue, but he heard a feminine voice on the other line. "Edmund? Peter? Are you there?"
He waved a hand to get Peter to come over and the Headmaster nodded and moved off into a side room off his office, probably his personal chambers, leaving the Pevensie boys complete privacy.
"Susan!" Edmund called into the phone, holding it away from his ear so Peter could hear too. "Is Lucy with you?"
"Yes," came the higher-pitched voice of their youngest sister. "It's so good to hear from you! How are things at school?"
Trust Lucy to jump right into it.
Peter spoke next. "Some things have happened we need to tell you about," he said, deciding to take a leaf out of Lucy's book and get to the point. They were limited on time anyway.
"I don't think I like the sound of that, Peter," Susan chimed in warily.
Edmund grumbled. "You shouldn't, it wasn't pleasant."
Peter smacked him. "Ed!" Shaking his head, he spoke back into the phone. "I'm not going to mince words. During lunch yesterday, I was nearly arrested by the Military Police for failing to report I wasn't dead and for desertion."
There were twin gasps on the other line and Edmund almost thought he heard their usually eloquent Gentle Queen curse roundly. He and Peter exchanged glances at that, before Peter continued.
"I told them about going to the recruitment office, but they said they had no record of any visit," he said. "We exchanged words and then they took me to an army hospital in London and a doctor verified I had no feeling in my leg and ordered a discharge."
Glancing at Edmund, he hurried on. "I don't know if my troubles with the military are over," he said, ignoring his brother's sharp jerk of surprise. "They probably have a lot of unanswered questions. But for the moment, I'm fine."
Edmund had his "we're talking later" look on his face, and Peter nodded lightly. Then, he frowned and bit his lip. "There's something else I want to tell all three of you," he said quietly. "Something that happened in Narnia."
Edmund was looking at him now, no longer listening into the phone.
"What, Peter?" Lucy said, her interest peaked.
With a sigh, Peter went on. "I knew something was going to happen to me when we got back from Narnia, though I didn't know what, and I knew that it was going to happen to help prevent a worse fate," he said. Waiting until that was absorbed, he continued. "Aslan told me when he pulled me away the day of Caspian's coronation. I think he was referring to my leg and how it would help me avoid a worse fate – prison."
Edmund's eyes were narrowed and Peter knew wheels were churning in his head. "I think you're right," he said, more to himself than to the others. "If you had not had that bum leg, and been as healed as you were in Narnia, you would have been arrested, Peter!"
They heard a "praise Aslan" from Lucy on the phone and both boys nodded before realizing they couldn't be seen and threw in a "yeah" for good measure. For a moment, no one spoke, but then they delved into a run down of how school had been so far.
"Did you call Mum yet?" Susan asked. "I imagine if you did, she'll be on about Peter's leg for the entire conversation and we won't be able to get a word in edgewise."
"No!" Peter said loudly, startling both Edmund and his sisters. "We didn't talk to Mum yet, and we can't tell her!" He glanced at Edmund before continuing. "Mum would rush up here all worried and she could lose her job, because I doubt she'd let a little thing like her boss saying no stop her."
There came a calm voice from the phone. "All right, Peter, keep your crown on." She caught herself. "Er, I mean…" Susan faltered. "This is still so unreal. You know what I mean."
Peter nodded with a smile. "Yeah, sorry, I just don't want to worry her anymore. She's going to be upset enough about the Redcaps coming," he said.
Eying the clock, Edmund pushed closer. "I hate to cut this short but we have to go," he said. "We're using the Headmaster's office for a little privacy and we only have ten more minutes to talk to Mum."
The four siblings exchanged goodbyes and Susan and Lucy promised to write again soon before they disconnected and Edmund set about dialing their home phone number, where they knew their mother was likely to be sitting with the small phone in her sight.
"Hello? Peter? Edmund? Or Susan and Lucy?" came the voice of their mother. She had definitely been sitting there waiting for one of their calls.
Peter smiled fondly. "It's Edmund and I, Mum," he said, holding the phone himself this time with Edmund leaning close. "How are you? Not working too hard?"
She chuckled, greeting them both. "Nothing unusual, Peter," she continued. "But you don't want to hear about my job, I want to know how school is. Are you getting on well? Are you rooming with Quentin again this year?"
The boys exchanged glances at mention of Quentin, but decided not to comment. "School's fine, Mum," Peter said, "but there's something I need to tell you that happened yesterday. Are you sitting down?"
He could hear a wobble in her voice as she replied that she was. "Peter? Has something bad happened?"
Edmund chimed in, "No, Mum, just something bad that could have happened." He glanced at Peter, who appeared to be hedging, and decided to continue himself. "There was some sort of paperwork miscommunication and the Redcaps came to the school because they thought Peter had deserted."
Their mother gasped on the other side of the line. "Oh, Peter!" she exclaimed. "What happened?"
Peter swallowed thickly. "I told them about going to report in and filling out papers and all," he said. "In the end they took me to London for a check up and determined I wasn't fit for duty, so I would be discharged. I'm waiting on the papers now."
There was silence on the other end for a moment and Peter, unable to stand it, called into the phone, "Mum? Are you all right?"
Her voice quavered slightly as she spoke. "I…It's a lot to take in, Peter," she said quietly. "I'm just a little shocked. I thought you were through with the military and we could move on from all that. But…but at least they let you go. That's good."
He nodded, then rolled his eyes and said, "Yes, Mum. Try not to worry about it, I'm fine and Edmund and I are going to go to the new Fencing Club this afternoon. It should be a lot of fun." Using the High King in him, he managed to keep all traces of disappointment out of his voice when he mentioned fencing.
For the next few minutes, he and Edmund took turns telling her about their classes and then, when the ten minutes were up and the Headmaster returned to the room, Edmund got in the last word.
"We'll talk to you next weekend, Mum," he said. "And don't worry about Peter, I've got his back and I'll make sure he doesn't get into any trouble." He cringed with a small smile as Peter lightly smacked him and their mother chuckled.
"Take care of yourself, boys," she said. "I miss you and I love you."
"Love you too, Mum," they chimed together before hanging up the phone and turning to meet the Headmaster's gaze. Peter spoke up. "Thank you for letting us use your office, sir," he said. "I didn't want to have everyone listening in for that."
"Not a problem, Peter, Edmund," the man said. He followed them to the door and let them out. "Enjoy that fencing club. I expect it will be a big hit among the boys."
The two of them nodded, thanked him again and set off down the hallway.
Later that morning, Edmund's room…
Edmund was wearing a T-shirt and sweatpants and was glaring at an unmoving Peter on his bed. "You are going," he said, hands on his hips. "I'm not going to leave you to mope around while I go enjoy myself."
Peter shook his head, steadfastly hanging onto the bedpost with one arm. "But Edmund, all this will do is make me wish I could drop that crutch, grab a sword and join in," he said. "And you and I both know I can't do any such thing. I would just be taking up space and everyone would look at me like I'd grown another head for bothering to go."
But his brother wasn't about to back down. "Peter, don't tell me you've forgotten that time after Ettinsmoor when you could barely move and you still managed to teach me that move I'd been stuck on for weeks?"
Peter's eyes lifted as he processed that.
"Oh, well…I think I might remember that…"
Edmund sighed and shook his head. This sword technique was just not happening for him. It had been weeks since Oreius had shown it to him and Peter, and while his brother had picked it up in a few short days, Edmund was still struggling with it.
It might partly be due to battle fatigue today, he admitted to himself. After all, he and Peter had just returned from the disastrous campaign in Ettinsmoor where he had nearly lost his brother in an ambush.
Peter was still very weak and hardly left his rooms at the Cair. On occasion, he came to watch the training sessions, but today he had been no where in sight. When the session was ended, Edmund had decided to stay behind and keep practicing this move and now he was about ready to throw in the towel and give up for the day.
"You know, it might be easier to do that if you didn't start the strike so tensed up."
Edmund whirled around and saw the object of his thoughts leaning against the nearby fence to the training grounds. Peter had a few beads of sweat on his forehead, obviously from the walk down here, and Edmund wanted to berate him but instead, frowned and said, "What? I'm not tense."
Peter chuckled. "I can see it from here, Edmund," he said, taking a slow, inching step forward. "When you begin the strike, you're already so wound up to put your strength into it that you don't get it into the correct position to start with. So it won't work. You have to relax and then you'll feel it fall into place."
Edmund took stock of his last attempt at the technique and realized he did seem to be off right from the start. Could Peter be right? Was he really so tensed up ready to go into the movement of the strike that he never got to the right starting position? He did have a tendency to be impatient…
"All right," he said, "watch me do it again?"
Peter nodded and stood where he was, waiting.
Edmund let out a breath and tried to consciously relax his main muscle groups. Shaking his limbs a little, he moved into the position to begin the strike and then prepared to start it, his arms unconsciously tensing.
"Stop!"
Peter stepped forward when he knew he had Edmund's attention. "See," he said, pointing at Edmund's sword arm. "As soon as you tensed up, your arm moved up a bit. Relax it and see what happens."
Edmund did so and he felt his arm drop slightly.
Peter backed away. "Now try it."
And he did. And it worked and Edmund froze in the finishing position with wide eyes. "I did it!" he called out, breaking from his stance and thrusting a fist into the air happily. "To think, all this time, it was such a simple fix!"
Peter smiled. "Yeah," he said. "And to think, I never noticed it since I was usually fighting against you or doing the same technique at the same time as you."
Edmund grinned. "I'm going to do it again."
Peter laughed as Edmund executed the move over and over again until he could do it with relative ease.
"It did feel good to help you get it," Peter said as he slowly released his hold on the bed post. "I suppose I could come along. I might be able to give some pointers to some people. And I should probably come support my little brother…"
Edmund smiled. "Oh yes," he said. "I sat through all those tournament bouts in Narnia, so you are going to sit through this. At least I'm not about to ride in a joust…imagine how you'd be feeling now…"
His brother laughed. "Imagine how you'd be feeling!"
Together, they left the room and headed toward the gymnasium.
Gymnasium…
There were about 20 boys assembled in the gym when Peter and Edmund arrived and all of them looked up at the brothers as they breached the doorway. There were murmurs of "what's he doing here" and "surely he's not going to try this like that", but Peter ignored them and took up a seat with his brother, laying his crutch under the bleachers where the students were waiting for the instructor to arrive.
Laid out on the gym floor were an array of fencing foils, jackets and gloves, and masks. There was an area marked off on the ground that looked like a long walkway, but that Peter and Edmund assumed was the "ring" for combatants.
Exchanging glances, they wondered how anyone could fight in such a straight line? They were used to dodging, spinning, pivoting around opponents, sometimes even rolling away from blows they couldn't block.
This looked – decidedly different.
"Perhaps this wasn't such a good idea," Edmund muttered.
Peter patted him on the shoulder. "You're the one who wanted to come, mate," he said with a lopsided grin. "We can still leave…"
But Edmund fiercely shook his head. "No, I want to learn this." He paused, seeing Peter deflate just a little, but glad that his brother shook it off relatively quickly. This was going to be hard for Peter, but Edmund knew his brother would not leave him alone.
All conversation ceased when a man with dark hair and eyes entered, dressed already in fencing jacket, but without any other gear on. He reminded the Pevensies strongly of General Glozelle.
"Welcome, boys, to the fencing club," he said, eyes wandering over those assembled and pausing briefly on Peter before continuing on. He honed in on two boys behind Peter and Edmund. "You two," he said, "might want to go back and change those clothes. Fencing in slacks and dress shirts isn't going to be pretty."
The two boys blushed and hurried off.
Turning his attention back to the remaining 18 students, he raised up his arm. "Show of hands, who has fenced before?"
No hands went up.
"All right then. Show of hands, who has picked up a sword of any kind before?"
One hand went up.
Edmund glared at Peter. "We have, sir," he said, turning to look at the instructor. "I've experience with two short swords and my brother here was very good with one long sword."
The man eyed the brothers more closely at that.
"Broadsword?" he said to Peter, who nodded but said nothing.
Appearing to contemplate for a moment, the man spoke to the rest of the group. "On your feet," he said. "I was ten laps around the gym and no walking. Ten good ones or I'll start you off again. I need you nice and warm."
There were moans and groans from the boys, even a small one from Edmund, but no one argued and soon 17 boys were running around the large gymnasium and Peter was left sitting in the stands.
"So…you have fought broadsword before?" the instructor rested a foot on the bleacher bench beside Peter, and looked down at the young man. "Were you any good?"
Hesitating, Peter sighed and looked up at the man. "You might say that," he said. "Before, this – " he patted his leg "my brother and I were evacuated to the country. The man we stayed with was proficient in sword-fighting and to pass the time, taught us quite a lot." He sighed. "My brother is a good swordsman, but neither of us have any experience with such a lightweight weapon. And we did a lot of circular motion, your markings lead me to believe fencing is linear."
Obviously impressed by Peter's words, the instructor looked out and found Edmund in the group of runners. "Perhaps I'll borrow your brother for my demonstration bout," he said. "Would he agree?"
Peter nodded. "He would. Edmund isn't one to back down from a challenge, and he is a keen student," he looked at the man again. "I don't want to be in your way, or a distraction, sir. If you need me to leave, let me know. A lot of the other kids have a tendency to, well, stare and talk. I'm a bit well-known here now."
Chuckling, the man shook his head. "I doubt I'll need to send you off, young man," he said. "What's your name?"
"Oh, I'm sorry," Peter said, extending a hand. "Peter Pevensie. Of Finchley. Pleasure to meet you and I'm glad you starting this club. I think it's fantastic."
With a short nod, the man said, "I hope the boys are willing to learn. Fencing is not a game and I won't tolerate it being treated as such." Turning to Peter once more, he said, "I could use a good eye to help me during practice bouts." He reached down to a small bag beside the bleachers and pulled out a book. "Here, this will explain the scoring system to you, if you're interested."
Peter's eyes lit up a little and he nodded. "I would love to," he said, taking the book.
"That's settled then," the man said before extending his own hand. "Welcome to the club, Peter. Oh, and you can call me Mr. Hanson." That said, the man called out to the finishing runners and set them to the next warm up exercise.
Peter contented himself with reading up on what scored a point, what would lose points, and basics of fencing bouts.
"Now that we're all warmed up and protected," Mr. Hanson said, "it's time to choose a foil. I have here a few of each type of grip. There are Italian, French, Spanish and Pistol grips to pick from. Hold each kind to get a feel for it. Pick the most comfortable for you."
The boys, already wearing protective jackets, with a glove on their dominant hand, each began hefting various blades, some going so far as to actually swing them.
Edmund held each one, adjusting his hand as he went until settling on an Italian grip. It felt most like the swords he was used to, though with all the weight in the handle, he knew this was going to be a culture shock.
"Let's have everyone gather round over here," Mr. Hanson went on, gesturing to the taped off area. "And I'd like to ask Edmund to join me for a little light demonstration."
The boy in question halted abruptly and said, "Me?"
Mr. Hanson nodded. "No one else has any sort of experience, so yes, you," he said with a small smile. "Besides, your brother said you wouldn't mind." He watched as Edmund cast a withering glare on the blonde boy on the bleachers. Though the glare only elicited a smile from the older sibling.
Edmund turned back and nodded. "All right," stepping forward and gripping both the foil and the mask he had been given. "But I have no idea what I'm doing."
Choosing not to comment, the instructor walked Edmund through a basic show of respect, which he had no trouble emulating as it was similar to what he and Peter did hundreds and hundreds of times before their own bouts.
Then, the man indicated that Edmund put the mask on, which the boy did before letting his right leg slide back behind him, turning his chest off to the side and presenting his left shoulder to the man.
Mr. Hanson quickly shook his head. "No, Edmund. Standing like that only gives your opponent a free target." He stepped over to Edmund and gently repositioned him, guiding his left leg back, and his right arm forward. "Keep your right foot forward, it's the foot you're going to brace yourself on when you lunge. Your left shoulder goes back, since your left hand doesn't have a glove on it."
Edmund moved into the position, which was much different from his normal position. "Why not just put a glove on my other hand?" he asked.
"Fencing is a sport about balance, not acrobatics," Mr. Hanson explained. "You're not going to be switching your sword back and forth between your hands, and keeping your arm back, thus, helps you maintain your balance when you're on the attack."
Stepping back to his side of the line, Mr. Hanson positioned himself likewise.
"Fencing is not about swinging as hard as you can and clobbering your opponent," Mr. Hanson said. "It is precise. And very fast. Edmund, may I begin?"
The boy hesitated before nodding slowly, his voice muffled by the mask he was wearing. Mr. Hanson wasted no time and before any of them were really certain what happened, the man had moved forward and Edmund had attempted to move back, but between the awkward stance and his surprise at the teacher's speed, he wasn't fast enough and the foil hit his torso.
"Wow!" came cries from the assembled boys, along with a small wince from Peter. Edmund was going to kill him later.
There was another round of mumbling from Edmund, which sounded something like, "How in blazes do you see anything out this ruddy mask?"
Mr. Hanson pulled his own mask off to comment. "It takes practice, but the mask is most important. A foil could easily remove your eye, and you don't want that, do you?"
Edmund shook his head, and the instructor put the mask back on.
"Again," Mr. Hanson said. "This time, don't just try to move back, try to deflect. I expect you'd be better at that than trying to get away from me."
Edmund shook his head, muttered, "That's what you think," before raising his foil. This time, when the instructor lunged, Edmund deflected and then followed up with a strike of his own. He overdid it though, since he was used to a heavier blade, and he just barely managed to slide away before Mr. Hanson's blade tip hit him again.
"Very good!" the man said, drawing back. "You might not be as bad at this as you think, Edmund," he said. "Once more."
This time, Mr. Hanson didn't lunge and finally Edmund was forced to make the first move and he gave it a try. The lunge was a little awkward, since the foil was longer than his short swords, lighter, and he couldn't see a blasted thing.
Mr. Hanson easily stepped forward, twisting slightly to avoid the tip of Edmund's foil, and with a barely perceived motion scored another point on the boy's jacket. The two broke apart again and the instructor motioned for Ed to remove his mask.
"Now, I hope none of you honestly expected Edmund here to score on me," he said. "Even though I can tell he probably is quite proficient with a broadsword, fencing is another world. One which I have been involved with for 25 years."
He looked back toward Peter. "I'll expect all of you here next Saturday afternoon. Today was just a demonstration of what we are going to be learning. If you didn't like what you saw, leave your gear here. If you did, take it with you and I'll see you next week."
As the boys broke off and left the gym, none of them leaving their gear behind, Edmund returned to Peter's side where his brother was smirking. "What's so funny, Peter?" he said. "Enjoyed that, did you?"
His brother nodded. "Well, yes," he said. "And you didn't do badly, Ed," he added. "I've been skimming this book, fencing is nothing like what we did. You've got your work cut out for you!"
Edmund growled at him. "I'll get you later. Somehow."
Mr. Hanson drew up behind him. "Better not get him too well, Edmund, he's going to be helping me as a judge during our practice bouts," the man said. "Isn't that right, Peter?"
The blonde smiled and nodded. "Yes, sir," he said. "I've got a lot of reading up to do, though." He turned to Edmund. "And I'm glad you made me come, Ed. Because I think I'll learn a lot just by watching. Even if I can't get up and do it."
His brother's glare softened. "Well, that's good," he said. "Maybe I'll let you off the hook for volunteering me to fight today."
Mr. Hanson broke in again. "I expect you'll do fine, Peter. You strike me as pretty observant, and since you are already versed in sword-play, I imagine you will have an easier time picking up on the strikes than any of the other boys."
Peter and Edmund nodded their thanks to Mr. Hanson and then left the gym.
They never saw the young man standing in the door to the locker room. The frown on Quentin's face was deep. Edmund had been notably more comfortable with a blade than the other boys. And he assumed if Edmund knew as much as he did, Peter likely did as well.
But why had he never heard of it before?
Unless…it was something they had learned in their magical world.
"It all comes back to that," he said quietly to himself. "I think it's about time Peter, Edmund and I had a talk. And this time, I'm not going to immediately discount what they tell me. There's been too many little signs."
He stopped speaking, but didn't stop thinking. The little digs about crowns, and Kings and Queens. The impeccable manners and grooming, even the posture. There is something about the Pevensie brothers that screams royalty.
And Quentin vowed to get to the bottom of it. He wasn't about to lose his best mate.
A/N: In between chapter updates, we are still working through bringing our historical changes into the later chapters. We're not quite finished with that as there is a LOT of text to go through and pick out things that have to change. Like...150,000 words worth. So it might take a while for the changes in the beginning to get to the end. Thanks for reading!