Moonlight

Chapter Two

"We really have to do something about these cursed suitors, Peter. They just don't seem to have gotten the message."

Peter was sitting on a bench in the Cair's training armoury, and looking, to Edmund's mind, far too alert for this early on a Seventhday morn. At the sound of his younger brother's musings, the blonde king stopped wrestling with his bootlaces for a moment and looked up, a faint smile playing across his lips. Edmund had never been a morning person, but today he had woken up with almost no argument, and had been practically buoyant on his way down to the training fields. One message from a squirrel courier later, and his mood had soured a little.

"If Oswyn could hear you," the older boy said lightly, watching as Edmund straightened his pauldrons over his mail shirt, "he'd have a fit."

"Or at least give me lines," Edmund replied, offering Peter a smirk of his own, while picturing the look of shock on their Speech and Grammar tutor's face. The elderly Snowy Owl was an excellent tutor, and a truly eloquent speaker, but he could be too much of a stickler for the rules of language for Ed's taste on occasion. "So what do you say?"

"About the suitors?" Peter returned, muffled partially by the tabard he was pulling over his armour, its traditional vibrant red bright against the dull stone walls of the armoury. When he re-emerged, he was looking thoughtful.

"I don't honestly know, Ed," he said, moving to start strapping on his leg greaves. "I truthfully thought you had cracked it with the Codex Consors. Once word spread, which it should have by now, that marrying into our family wouldn't lead anywhere on a political front... it should have done the job." The older king looked thoughtful for a moment. "Maybe we could put up signs on the border?" Peter finished with a grin, which raised a lopsided smile from his younger brother.

"Something like 'Prospective suitors will be shot on sight', you mean?" he said, eyes alight with good humour again.

"'And survivors will be shot again'," Peter finished with a chuckle, before standing and making his way to the door to fetch his weapons. "Don't worry about Rashmeed, Ed, Celer and his company will see him off without any trouble. Come on." Edmund's smile broke out into laughter at that point, as he followed his brother into the neighbouring chamber, where their wargear was held.

O o O o O

When the kings had run into Skitterleaf, an old friend of Edmund's, and one of the many smaller animals who ran messages around the Cair, the news the young squirrel had brought with him had been less than welcome. In the quick, breathless manner of his kind he had informed them both that he had received urgent news from his family that morning; Rashmeed Tarkaan, it seemed, had been less than honest about his plans to leave Narnia at once. Instead of crossing the border to Archenland (he had claimed he was on another trade mission there as well, which, when Edmund had interjected the information, had garnered a raised eyebrow from Peter), the odious Calormen had set up camp firmly on the Narnian side of the border. Peter had immediately asked Skitterleaf if he would be so kind as to find Celer for them, and with a cheerful farewell the small grey animal had scampered into the distance.

Celer had arrived just a short while later; even though Seventhday was meant to be a day of rest, and as such the training grounds were almost completely deserted, the faun had apparently been on his way down for a little light exercise in lieu of the extra sleep most afforded themselves. If, in turn, he was surprised to find Wolfsbane and How - as they were known in the confines of the training area – in the armoury, especially in light of Peter's recent return from a campaign, he showed no outward sign save a brief flicker of consternation. Instead, he saluted crisply, and asked his kings of the nature of the summons.

After Peter and Edmund had outlined the nature of the problem, and asked the captain to organise a detachment of the guard to escort the wayward ambassador over the border, the pair had been a little surprised when Celer had respectfully requested to lead the unit personally; it had been some time since he had seen anything like active service, and as a result he seemed eager to 'stretch his legs', as he had put it. The kings had seen no reason not to give their friend leave for a change, and so he had left with their blessings (along with three fauns, two large cats, a pair of satyrs and a powerfully built stag named Rainu). Thinking back on all of this, and the idea of the look on Rashmeed's face when Celer explained (in no uncertain terms) that he had outstayed his welcome, kept Edmund chuckling pretty much all of the way to the corner of the training ground Peter had chosen for them.

O o O o O

"No shield today, Ed?" Peter remarked, whilst checking that he had tied Rhindon's scabbard to his belt tightly enough, then hefting his shield speculatively. On the other side of the weapons chamber, Edmund had already looped the belt that held Shafelm around his waist, and was reaching for one of his small collection of training blades, Misericorde. The sword had been a birthday gift from the regent of Galmia when Edmund had turned twelve; while not made to quite the exacting standards of Shafelm III, the blade was well balanced, a hand shorter than Ed's favoured blade, and made for a decent off-hand weapon. Peter knew that Edmund had taken to using two swords almost as quickly as Peter had taken to using a sword and shield, and if what Edmund had told him of his training the night before was any indicator, then this spar should be interesting, to say the least.

"I thought I'd keep up my practice," Edmund replied with a knowing smile, and said no more on the matter.

Weapons and armour all accounted for, the brothers left the armoury for the training field. The air was cool and crisp, carrying a faint hint of the flowers that lined the castle walls nearby, and judging by the way the sun had crept up to the top of the wall that surrounded this part of the Cair, Edmund judged the time to be just before eight. Aside from the occasional bird dancing beneath the clear sky, not a soul stirred as the kings took up their positions. Edmund drew both of his swords, Shafelm in his right hand, Misericorde in his left, and simply held them for a few moments like his tutors had shown him, flexing his fingers and allowing his hands and arms to re-learn their respective weights. At the same time, he began to mentally run through the various cadences that he had learned in the last few weeks, preparing to put them to use. Celer and the others had taught him well... Edmund just hoped it had all stuck.

Out of the corner of his eye, Edmund watched as Peter warmed up, drawing Rhindon in a slow, fluid motion, and with barely a pause beginning to spin the sword through a series of lazy, circular patterns. The languid pace of the movements did not fool the younger king for a moment; he had seen those self-same movements repeated at much higher, deadlier speeds too many times before, the silvered edge of the High King's sword weaving an intricate web around its master. Edmund knew that Peter would be on top form this morning, having so recently been put through very real combat, against a foe that would not stop or yield as one would on the tilting grounds. And right there was the only fact that gave the Just King any pause... just how close to the surface would the memory of those experiences be?

As Peter finally slowed and stopped, taking up a posture that said he was ready to begin their sparring session, Edmund allowed himself a brief moment to loosen up his arms, spinning both swords in tight circles at his sides a few times, then continuing the motion by crossing and uncrossing his arms, allowing the paired blades to trace a loose figure-of-eight around his body. Turning to face his brother, Edmund returned his still-spinning swords to his sides. Abruptly, he stopped their forward motion, deftly changing direction to perform two reverse spins, ending with both weapons upright and parallel in front of him, hilts just below eye level in a knight's salute. Peter raised Rhindon in turn, before returning the sword to a ready position at his side, his shield raised in his other hand.

"Ready?" Peter asked, a playful smile crossing his features, which Edmund readily returned.

"Ready if you are," he replied, before taking up his own fighting stance, swords held down and slightly out to his sides, points toward the ground. With his right foot, Edmund took a half-step forward, bending his left knee a little, forming a kind of shallow, battle-ready crouch. The position was called carn saelle, 'the resting willow', a position designed for both strength of stance and flexibility of response.

Over the past few weeks, Celer and a handful of the more accomplished faun swordsmen had been teaching Edmund a series of bladeforms, or kata, designed for the use of paired blades. This stance was the first he had learned, one of those belonging to what Celer had called the Autumnal Cycle; being as close as fauns were to the natural cycles of the land, Edmund had only been mildly surprised to find that the four main fighting styles matched the seasons of Narnia in form. The Spring Cycle, normally taught first, matched its namesake in form, and revolved around evading the foe through a series of jumps and spins that would have left a grasshopper dizzy, wearing down the enemy for a clean, decisive strike. Summer, in turn, consisted of a complex sequence of fast, dance-like manoeuvres striking with both blades in a delicately woven, yet unrelenting, tide.

Due to the most obvious problem of converting these kata to the use of a human (namely, the fact that Edmund wasn't a faun, and couldn't jump or skip in anything like the same fashion), Celer had opted to teach his student the harder two styles first; Autumn taught a neat combination of immovability and flexibility, and Winter taught clean, precise bladework in a tight, localised area, neither of which really played to the natural strengths of a faun soldier, and were only ever used in conjunction with Spring and Summer to provide balance. Edmund, much to the fauns' delight, had proved ideally suited to a complete reversal of that doctrine, easily adapting to the 'colder' styles, and working in elements of the 'warmer' styles where he was physically able.

Still smiling, Peter moved in first, swinging in a quick downward arc with Rhindon, before bringing his shield arm around, ready to block any counter that Edmund would make. Knowing the opening move well, Edmund swept Misericorde up to deflect Rhindon, while swinging Shafelm around in a horizontal sweep toward Peter's shield. Edmund stepped into the motion, neatly spinning counter-clockwise as he did so, dancing out of the way until he was off to Peter's left, bringing Misericorde around in a wide arc and forcing Peter to bring his shield backward to stop the strike... a decent rendition, Edmund thought, of sa'an rysst, 'the river flows'.

The duel continued for a few minutes, with Edmund changing cadences every few seconds, fluidly moving from the sharp, sweeping strikes of the 'storm of leaves' sequence, through to the dancing, evasive techniques of 'the rising wind' and more, all the while adapting the techniques to his opponent as he had been taught. In turn, Peter adapted to the unfamiliar style his brother was using, trying not to let Edmund wear him down or find a chink in his defences. The easy smiles were gone, now, replaced by expressions of calm concentration as each brother tested the defences of the other, jockeying for any advantage over the other duellist. Neither truly held the upper hand; sometimes, Peter was able to beat Edmund back, other times Edmund was able to place multiple strikes against Peter's sword, shield and armour in quick succession, forcing him to fight defensively.

Edmund wasn't sure quite when the change happened, but before long Peter's technique began to alter. It was subtle, hard to notice if you didn't know what you were looking for; something in his body language and stance, a slight increase in the speed and ferocity of his movements and attacks. He was starting to fight as he would in an actual battle, losing himself a little to the instincts that took over in true combat. While Edmund trusted Peter not to cross that line, trusted him with his life, in fact, accidents did happen when people got careless. Manoeuvring himself away from his older brother, Edmund flourished his swords once in a clearing pattern, before settling into a stance he had used only once so far, shyr na rael – 'the jaws of winter'. Both blades came to rest on Edmund's right side, Misericorde parallel to the ground at waist height, pointing away from Peter, Shafelm placed just below head height at the same angle, though pointed toward the older boy.

Edmund caught a glimpse of his brother's eyes in the moment that followed, and knew then that Peter really wasn't thinking straight. His eyes were cold and focussed, a little too focussed in fact, and Edmund decided that he needed to stop the duel before it got any further along. Before he could do anything, though, Peter lunged forward again, back on the offensive. The only response that came to Edmund's mind was one that he had been itching to try, the one that lent itself most readily to the stance he was in already. Unfortunately for Edmund, it was also the one he had practised the least so far, as he had only just begun learning it.

Edmund began to drive Peter back with a series of fast, broad sweeps, alternating between blades and using a combination of high and low strikes. After a couple of steps, Edmund began to pirouette every other step, Shafelm spinning above his head and Misericorde striking out at waist height, using the added momentum to lay down a storm of blows that forced Peter first onto the defensive, then to start stepping backward. The sequence of complex steps and spins was one of the most difficult parts of the Winter Cycle, a pattern called bahr t'sa caen – according to Celer, the name translated loosely as 'frozen leaves that fall to cut'. Also known more simply as 'bladestorm', it was a graceful and poetic name for a graceful and deadly cadence. It also had the habit of leaving you more than a little dizzy, if you weren't used to it...

Which is precisely what happened, just a few seconds later. Edmund faltered after just a few turns, and staggered slightly, causing his attack to break stride. Off balance, Edmund only brought Shafelm up just in time to stop a blow to the head, and found himself staring into the ice-blue eyes of his brother. For a brief second, Edmund worried that he had let his brother go a bit too far, the gaze meeting his own being far harder than he was used to seeing. Almost immediately, Peter's expression softened, becoming a little shame-faced as he backed away from Edmund, sheathing Rhindon as he did so. As Edmund sheathed his own weapons, Peter removed his helmet and pulled back the mail coif beneath it.

"Are you okay?" he asked hesitantly... he had been unable to miss the look of shock on Edmund's face in that last moment, and he had a horrid feeling that he had gone too far, to put it mildly.

"'m fine," was the half-mumbled response, the dark-haired youth refusing to meet Peter's eyes. With a sigh, Peter stepped forward, reaching for Edmund as he did so. With a gentle hand on one elbow, the older boy gently turned his brother to face him.

"I'm sorry," he said, his remorse for scaring his brother clear in his voice. "I suppose I got a little carried away... alright, I did get carried away," he admitted, after earning himself a reproving eyebrow quirk from Edmund. "I never would have hit you, you know."

"I know you wouldn't," Edmund said, relaxing a little, before turning a little and starting to walk back to the armoury, Peter half a step behind. "I trust you Pete, you just caught me by surprise, is all."

"The next time I suggest something like this," Peter said softly, "would you do me a favour, Ed? Remind me of why Oreius said we shouldn't spar after one of us has been in a battle, okay?"

"Only if you remember," Edmund countered, some of his humour returning as the pair passed through the stone archway that led into the armoury chambers, "that the next time I let you talk me into it, I'm a much better conversationalist with my head still on my shoulders! Come on, Peter. I could have stopped you this morning, or talked you out of this, but didn't. Like I said, I trust you. If anything, it was partly my fault for showing off."

"Well, I'm impressed," Peter said proudly, earning him a pleased smile, and the sight of Edmund's face colouring slightly. "Celer would be too, if I'm any judge. Though, maybe not of that last part..."

Peter was abruptly cut off, having to duck as Edmund aimed a playful swipe at his head. Dancing out of the way, Peter ran for the changing room, laughing as his brother gave chase.

O o O o O

The boys had spent the rest of the morning simply enjoying each other's company, first over breakfast, then retiring to the library. They talked for a while about Peter's time on the northern border, but Edmund made sure not to press his brother for too much information, content instead to just listen, and let Peter talk out the stresses of the last few weeks in his own time. It came as no surprise to Ed that when Peter finally started to open up, instead of bottling up everything as he was prone to doing, it didn't take long for the last vestiges of tension to disappear. As Peter talked, Edmund found himself glad once more that his brother was home safely, and felt more than a few stirrings of anger once more at the Ettins, which he kept hidden with no small effort.

The giants in question had appeared to be acting independently of the normal hierarchy of the northlands, a rogue group of almost a dozen giants that were trying to gain a foothold in Narnia in an effort to claim a land for their own. They had harassed the local Narnians, mostly stealing non-Talking livestock to survive, but a handful of the local creatures and Animals had gone missing as well. When Peter had found that fact out from the residents of a local Marshwiggle family, he had been rightly angry, as had his troops. To Edmund's quiet satisfaction, though, Peter hadn't simply declared war and slaughtered the brutes. Instead, he had charged them with leaving the kingdom at once, despite being in a position where he could rightfully have decided not to give them the opportunity. In their arrogance, they had refused, and Peter had made sure that they paid dearly for the error.

The rest of the boy's time was spent bantering lightly over a few rounds of chess, using a gold and silver set that Peter had got for Edmund the previous Christmas, the ruby and sapphire eyes of the pieces sparkling in the light of the overhead candelabra as they played and laughed, and occasionally being 'hushed' by one of the library staff. The brothers had almost lost track of time, and were just starting to think about heading down to the kitchens to find some tea (and the possibility of a scone), when one of the guards entered the library by one of the side doors. Recognising Ciaphas, Edmund caught the satyr's attention and called him over.

"Good morn, my kings," he said in greeting as the pair stood, still intent on heading to the kitchen. Ciaphas inclined his impressively horned head, indicating the chess board now stowed under Edmund's arm, and asked in polite tones, "If I might enquire, who won the match?"

"Peter did," Edmund replied, nodding at his brother with a wry smile. "Three games to two. I'll get him next time," he finished, ignoring the muttering of 'you hope' from Peter's general direction. "Do you play at all?"

"It has been known," the satyr replied with a nod, "though I must confess to not being very good."

"Well, we'll have to arrange a game," Peter chimed in with almost indecent haste; Ciaphas and his brother were newly transferred to the palace guard, and there was some hope that the tyranny of Dame Utha's orders regarding anyone playing chess against the kings had not yet reached the quietly spoken soldier.

"It would be an honour," Ciaphas replied with a bow and a small smile. He brandished the leather-bound book he had been holding up to this point with a small wave. "If you will excuse me, majesties, this needs returning to its rightful place." With another bow, the satyr moved away towards one of the large sets of shelves, and the kings turned toward the door. A second later, they heard Ciaphas call them back.

"I almost forgot, your majesties," he said, a conspiratorial smile beginning to shoulder its way past his shaggy mane of black hair. "Your sisters asked me if I would pass on a message. They request your presence for tea on the eastern balcony, if you would be so kind. They said to say there would be scones." He was rewarded with two sets of wide eyes, and two pairs of eyebrows shooting skyward in near-perfect unison.

"They're here? How... when?" were just some of the questions asked, much to everyone within earshot's ill-disguised amusement. After a few seconds of babbling, though, the brothers looked at each other, the same thought being received and voiced in tandem.

"Lucy!"

Author's Notes: And here it is at last. I apologise to everyone who has been waiting for this update... life has been a little less than accommodating, I'm afraid.

But I'm back! Rejoice! (or panic, depending entirely upon your predilection...) After finishing my last Transformers ficlet at last, I've been splitting my time between rebooting my novel, the very worst kind of writer's block, and finishing off this little nugget. Hopefully, this means that more chapters will be forthcoming soon.

Again, this chapter is horribly meandering, for which I apologise, but that seems to be the way the story wants to be written; as with chapter one, I started out with a very different view of where this chapter was going. The duel scene has been playing around in my head for a while, since writing Regrets, in fact... the idea of Narnian martial arts, not to mention the idea of species related dialects, have been rather intriguing, and somehow the two had a litter. This was one of them. When it came to writing the piece, though, it kind of grew, well out of proportion from its original, rather svelte form... I just hope it doesn't make Edmund look like some kind of medieval ninja (though ninja!Ed is kinda cool as an idea). An e-cookie to anyone who can tell me where the name of the last move he uses comes from, incidentally :)

And a second imaginary treat item of dubious nutritional value to the first person to tell what 'Misericorde' means, too...

In closing, my thanks to Elecktrum once more for allowing me to play in her corner of the Narnia multiverse... I continue to hope and pray that this work can come anywhere close to doing your beautiful stories justice, good my friend.

All reviews welcome! (Less than subtle, I know...)