AN: The middle name of Randall was given to Edmund by elecktrum - many thanks for the loan!
Also, if you are interested, the Narnian royal fanfare Edmund plays is the absolutely beautiful, haunting theme from the early 90s BBC versions of the Chronicles. To me, that music will always be Narnia.
And though I can't understand why this happened
I know that I will when I look back someday
And see how You've brought beauty from ashes
And made me as gold purified through these flames
+ Beauty from Pain, vs. 4, by Superchick
4. …Always a King or Queen
"Edmund?" A gentle knock sounded at the bathroom door. "You finished? We need to be on our way fairly soon."
With a disgusted growl, Edmund tore the black tie from his neck and threw it into the sink as hard as he could. The door opened part way with a shuddering creak, and Peter peered in, eyebrows raised. "I take it that's a 'no'," he said, "What's the trouble, Ed?"
"This bally tie, that's what!" the teenager snapped, indicating the mangled length of cloth lying forlornly against white porcelain, "I can't manage to knot it up properly – it's one of those 'starch included' rags Mum bought at…"
He stopped short, hearing his words, and ground the heel of his palm into his eye, feeling a sob threaten to crawl up his throat and out into public. "I can't do this, Pete," he managed.
Peter said nothing; he simply waited, and Edmund took a deep breath, steeling himself and then glancing back at his brother gratefully. The blue eyes that met his were bright with moisture, but full of the calm understanding and encouragement that had fortified Edmund in the worst situations. "Thanks," he said.
The young man nodded and reached in for the discarded tie. "Come on," he said, "Let me have a go."
"I can jolly well tie my own tie," Edmund groused as Peter made several deft adjustments to the former's collar before sliding the fabric 'round.
"That's not what you just said," came the dry response as long fingers swiftly looped and knotted cloth – and then paused. "Well, hmmm."
A dark eyebrow arched. "Well, hmmm."
Peter cleared his throat, unknotted the tie, completed a series of different loops, and knotted it again. "No, that's not right…"
After a series of tries and retries, a smirking Edmund finally started to snicker. "I think if you'd just let me do it in the first place, it would have been faster."
His older brother frowned, fierce concentration written on his features, as he considered the limp, bedraggled ends trailing down either side of the teenager's neck. "It's different when it's on oneself," he muttered, his hands going to his own tie as if to retrace the steps. Edmund laughed harder.
"Boys?" Aunt Harriet's voice called from downstairs, "Are you ready? Reverend Thomas is here."
The brothers' eyes met, the brittle, bittersweet humor draining from their faces and leaving grim severity behind. "We're coming!" Peter responded as his younger brother took matters into his own hands and knotted his tie with only a cursory check in the mirror.
"Ready?" the older boy asked, and Edmund smiled dourly.
"No," he said, "But I'll make do."
They descended the stairs to find their aunt and uncle, Susan, and the minister overseeing the funerals waiting for them in the sitting room. "Good morning, my sons," said Reverend Thomas, reaching out to shake hands with each of them. "I merely wanted to discuss the order of service with you and then take you over to the church. You'll be allowed a few moments together as a family before we begin."
At their acquiescing nods, he opened his prayer book and began to speak.
As the tiny procession of cars came to a stop inside the cemetery they'd chosen as a resting place, Peter considered that the service really hadn't gone as badly as he'd thought it might. From standing and receiving their relatives and various and assorted family friends, to the message itself, to the carrying out of the three walnut caskets – time had moved at its usual dizzying pace, and the young man was grateful for its blurred passage. He was so tired. He'd forgotten what it was like to attend to pressing details and formulate plans on very little sleep.
Sighing heavily, Peter stepped from the car and turned to give Susan his assistance. For a brief moment he thought she would refuse, but after a tense second or two, she slid her gloved hand into his and slipped out to stand beside him with murmured thanks.
He gave her a gentle squeeze in return, and with a small sigh, she tentatively rested her head on his shoulder. Unfortunately, the narrow brim of her fashionable black hat jabbed him hard in the neck, causing him to clear his throat uncomfortably and shuffle into a more tenable position. Susan stiffened and pulled away.
"Shove it, you two," came Edmund's voice from behind them, "You're holding up the show."
"Sorry," Peter apologized, moving to allow his younger brother exit. Edmund stretched a bit, and then turned to pull a small black case from the back seat where he'd been sitting.
A muted explosion came from Susan's direction, and the brothers turned to see her narrowed eyes fastened on the case before they moved to glare at each of them in turn. "I hope that's not what I think it is, Ed," she said finally, her wan cheeks flushing with heat, "You two had better not make a scene here."
Edmund held the case carefully beneath his arm and gazed back at her with that mild expression he wore whenever he was going to go right ahead and do whatever he had decided regardless of the opposition. Susan colored deeper; she knew exactly what that look meant.
She stepped closer and glared up at him with anger limning every line of her slim body. "I swear, Edmund Randall, if you do what I think you're going to do, here, right here in front of all our friends and relatives, I'll…I'll never speak to you again! I…Lion's mane, I swear it!"
The teenager's deep brown eyes darkened, just the tiniest bit, and Peter saw a muscle in his jaw twitch. "Threats do not become you, Susan," he replied intently, his voice hoarse with strain, the words clipped and menacing, "and they certainly will not stop me. Our sister was a queen of Narnia, and she will be given the respect that is her due."
Susan went dangerously still and quiet, and they stood rigid, locked in a fierce, silent battle of wills that was beginning to attract the attention of everyone nearby. A chill ran down Peter's spine, and the fine hairs on his neck and along his arms prickled with his sudden alarm. He'd not seen Edmund settle himself in a combat-ready stance for a very long time, and he didn't think his sister realized what she'd provoked. The older boy tensed, ready to put himself bodily between them if necessary.
"Susan, Edmund," he said, touching her arm carefully, "This does no good, please."
She roughly shrugged his hand away and remained focused on Edmund, who stared calmly back at her, immovable. "I mean it, Edmund," she whispered.
Her brother drew a deep breath in through his nose, as if preparing to endure great pain. "Then so be it," he said.
"Here now, is everything all right?" Aunt Harriet said as she came up to them, and the atmosphere suddenly collapsed in upon itself, leaving Peter breathless and afraid that irreparable harm had been done.
"Yes, Aunt," Susan said, turning round, her usually tasteful makeup appearing garish and over-bright against the paleness of her skin. "We were just coming along now."
Their mother's sister looked at each of them carefully, her blue eyes skeptical. "Very well, then," she said, "The rest of the pallbearers are ready, boys – they're waiting for you."
This was the worst part about funerals, Edmund thought as he braced his legs against the weight of the last casket and tried to avoid tripping on the uneven tuffs of earth, grimacing at the pain in his knee. The whole putting-them-in-the-ground bit always gave him the willies, and now he would have to watch it happen to his parents and to Lucy. The finality of it all brought a wellspring of deep sorrow and a paradoxical profound gratefulness that the whole dog-and-pony show would soon be ended.
They came to the gravesite and carefully maneuvered the casket onto its waiting stand, and the minister and the rest of the mourners stepped back, giving the three children a few moments of silence together before the service would resume.
Peter stood in the middle, his blue eyes already overflowing. He placed an arm around Susan's stiff shoulders, drawing her close to his side, and looking to Edmund, held out his other hand. Suddenly feeling as though he were ten years old again, with uncertainty and fear and sadness choking him, the teenager curled his fingers around his brother's and found them in a grip so tight it hurt.
"I'm an orphan now," he thought abruptly, hearing Susan's quiet sobs and the soft hiccups that overtook Peter whenever he truly wept, "We all are."
They finally took their seats, and Reverend Thomas stepped forward to finish the service with a few words. Edmund hardly heard him. He examined the caskets in front of them, the dark wood gleaming in the midday sun, and gulped back the hard knot of emotion clogging his throat.
His father would never again sit up with him over a late-night cup of tea – he would never be able to discuss his schooling, or vent criticism about his professors, or maybe even – perhaps – ask advice someday about finding a helpmate. His mother would never again bake him that coconut cake he liked so much for his birthday, or help him with math, or encourage his musical pursuits, or exasperate him with her fussing.
And Lucy… Cheerful, joyful, faithful, maddening, pestering, perceptive, valiant Lucy. What would he do without her?
Edmund turned his face into Peter's shoulder, his tears soaking the fabric of his brother's best dress jacket. It was as though a deep pit had opened up inside him – onlookers be damned, he was a king after all and allowed such release – and he couldn't seem to stop crying. He felt his hand clasped firmly once more, and a kiss was pressed to his head.
"It's going to be all right, Eddie," Peter whispered, his breath warm on Edmund's hair, "It will be all right. I've promised Mum I'll look after you all, and I mean to."
"And a ruddy good job of it you've done so far," Edmund returned to the soggy fabric, giving voice to the words but not the hatred that had colored them lifetimes past.
Peter chuckled. "Look sharp now; it's nearly your turn."
The youngest Pevensie sat up quickly and reached down to his side where the small black case had been placed in readiness. He remembered the fury and fear in Susan's eyes earlier and so hesitated for an instant before picking the case up and undoing the clasps as unobtrusively as possible.
"…and to close our service, the children would like to pay their last respects with a special tribute. Peter? Susan? Edmund?"
Peter heard a surprised inhalation come from his sister as they stood and went to the caskets once more.
"Peter?" she hissed, "Peter, please, how does this pay respects?"
"Hush, Su," he returned, "The wreaths are there just to your left. Surely you remember?"
He fancied a strangled growl came from his usually proper, ladylike sister, although it was too quiet to be heard by anyone else. She did as he'd requested, however, picking up the first wreath and moving to place it on their father's casket. After doing the same for their mother, she made as if to finish with Lucy, but Peter reached out and stopped her.
"Edmund," he said, and his younger brother stepped forward, holding in his hands the old cavalry bugle he'd saved from a decrepit antique shop several years back. Polished lovingly to a golden shine and kept in perfect working order, the bugle was as close as Edmund could come to the one he'd left behind in Narnia.
The teenager shot him a questioning glance, flicked his gaze briefly to Susan and back to Peter, who nodded encouragingly. The older boy then faced his youngest sister's casket and straightened his shoulders and lifted his chin. "Once a queen in Narnia, always a queen," he said softly, "Rest well, beloved sister, Lucy the Valiant. May Aslan himself greet you and take you to his country in peace."
The traditional words having been spoken, he heard Edmund take a deep breath and begin to play.
Clear, crisp, and true, the clarion call of the bugle blazed sweetly through the air. The royal fanfare of Narnia rang out like a fresh, fragrant breeze from some far off land, stirring hearts and bringing hope. Years of disuse had driven bits of the tune from memory, but Edmund filled in with notes of his own and forged ahead, his heart happy for the first time since the crash.
The small congregation of mourners stood a little straighter, held their heads a little higher, feeling as though they had woken from a dull, gray dream to a world full of glorious color and scent, fair faces and forms. It almost seemed the whole cemetery – trees, flowers, birds, squirrels, and perhaps even the dead themselves – held its breath to listen.
Susan stood as if turned to stone, her face white as rice paper, tears flowing down her cheeks. Finally stirring and moving as one asleep, she bent in a deep, graceful curtsey before placing the last wreath on her sister's coffin.
And as the last notes of the fanfare faded away into the warm spring air, through his heartbreak, Peter High King of Narnia smiled.