Chapter Three: Peter
Peter lugged his trunk into his old bedroom, tossing the award certificate he was still holding onto his bed and closing the door slowly behind him. The room was severely neat and a little grey, as it always was before he and Edmund arrived home to make a mess of the orderly twin beds and clean-swept floor. He usually hated seeing it like this, but right now it was perfect - he needed some quiet.
His hand went to the folded cloth napkin in his pocket and the cold little object inside it. His mind went back to the events of a few hours ago, his lunch with Mr. Graham...
"Do you know what this is?"
Peter stared at the black pawn in Graham's shaking hand.
"Have you ever seen something like this before?" the age-spotted face across the table asked him forcefully.
"...It's a chess piece."
Graham pressed it into Peter's palm. "But have you ever seen one like this?"
"No...I don't think so." The little stone chess piece was about half as tall as his pinky finger, and inky black like a piano key. It was unusually heavy, and there was a line of strange markings around its base, like an inscription, but otherwise it looked like any other pawn.
"This, of course, is no ordinary pawn," said the twin sitting at Peter's right. "Our - experts - tell us the inscription says something like 'Back' or 'Home.' Something about returning..."
Graham gave a mirthless, wheezing chortle. The other twin, the one on the left side of the table, continued. "Its exact properties are unknown, but we've noticed that it reacts rather strangely to certain conditions. Immersion in water, for instance," he said.
With a shaking hand, Graham gestured for Peter to return the pawn to him. Graham held the pawn over his wine glass for an instant before letting it drop - and as it hit the wine inside, a small puff of sparks rose from the surface of the liquid. Before the sparking noise drew the attention of the other patrons, the old man dipped two fingers in to pull it out. The pawn was unchanged, but the wine had turned milky white. Peter reached out a hand, amazed.
"No, don't touch-not yet."
"What happens if you drink it?"
The twin on the left smirked at his brother. "We've decided against testing that. I'll show you what it does to flowers though."
He plucked a flower from the short round bowl of violets that served as the table centerpiece, broke the flower in half, and squeezed some of the liquid from its stem into the wine glass. The wine - or whatever it was now - seemed to shiver slightly. Stirring it carefully, he raised the glass over centerpiece, then poured the contents directly onto the violets. Peter leaned forward with interest, half-expecting the violets to shrivel and whither or perhaps explode, but instead the flowers curled in around each other, forming a little ring, and then - one by one, they laid themselves down on the bed of soil in a perfect circle. They looked - there was no other way to say it - like they'd fallen asleep - and then they flickered and disappeared.
Peter shot the twin a questioning look, but he just raised his index finger in response, nodding his head at the bowl. There was silence at the table for about half a minute more, and then one by one the violets reappeared and stood themselves back up, looking taller and brighter and more alive than before.
"It's like that with almost everything we've tried it on - plants of all sorts, a few birds once. They lie down, blink out of time, then reappear a moment later."
Peter's breathing quickened as realisation sank in.
"Let me see it," he commanded, extending a hand for the pawn, which the twin handed back to him after a quick glance at Graham. Working fast, Peter dropped the pawn into his own glass, fished it out a moment later with his fork, and set it on his napkin to dry. He grabbed his steak knife and cut a little slit on his index finger - heart pounding, he applied pressure - and smiled tightly as a drop of his own blood fell into the glass, causing the now-white liquid inside to fairly tremble.
Graham and the others looked as though they might like to interrupt him, but weren't sure what to say. Peter concentrated closely - it was just an experiment, just an idea that had popped into his head watching all those violets lay down together - but who knew whether this might work? He focused his whole self on one place - he spoke its name in a whisper - Narnia. Wetting his lips, Peter picked up the glass, imitating Graham's movements of a few minutes earlier, complete with hand-trembling, though his was from excitement instead of age - and doused the violets with the liquid.
They collapsed onto the soil, then disappeared entirely. Please let it work...
A minute passed, and then another. There was a general intake of breath; everyone shuffled slightly in their seats. Finally, when it became clear that the flowers weren't going to reappear, Peter allowed a wide grin to spread across his face.
"Great Scott!" murmured the twin to his right. Peter looked up: the others were still staring back and forth between Peter and the now empty bowl, their faces a mixture of astonishment and delight. His own reflected the same, he was sure.
"But where are they?" asked the twin on the left.
"Narnia," Graham said in a low voice before Peter could say anything. "Isn't that right?"
Peter glanced around the restaurant, but no one was near enough to overhear them. "So you can use a pawn - one pawn - to take more than one person back?"
"Oh yes - so long as you dissolve the blood in liquid, it seems you can take any number of people back with you - as many as are touching either you or the blood mixture."
The twin on the left spoke again. "In fact this is the third proof we've had of that. The first time, two people used a white pawn - one from Earth - to go through to Narnia together. The second time, two came here together, using this pawn, which is Narnian..."
Peter's eyes lit up. "It's not one of Professor Kirke's, then?"
"Kirke?" Graham's brows contracted. "No - I've never heard of such a man. This pawn is most assuredly Narnian in origin..."
The twin on the right picked up the conversation as the old man trailed off. "You're curious, naturally, about who brought it through, who it was that told us so much about this fairytale land, this Narnia. They were the ones who led us to your family - who made it clear that you and your siblings have the kind of blood we're looking for. But I'm afraid we can't tell you their identities. Not yet, anyway. Not until it's safe."
"But they came through all right, the two of them, using just one pawn?"
The twin smiled slowly. "Yes."
His brother began again, his voice low and rushed. "This is the first we've seen of a King being able to send other things through without going himself though - !"
" - You've had this pawn a long time, then?" Peter interrupted.
"No," Graham cut in. "We only acquired it recently - but we've known about the existence of Kingsblood pawns for - well near fifty years now. The two who first discovered what they can do were the ones who went back together the first time. They never came back, you see." His face became doleful.
"But they could still be there, couldn't they? In Narnia?"
"We don't know - none of us have the blood to check."
"And you'd like me to find him for you."
"That's the idea, yes," said the twin on his left. "Use the pawn to go back. Find the man we lost. We will of course make it worth your trouble - you deserve a kingly reward..."
Peter returned to his dessert, pondering. When he said nothing, the two twins exchanged a glance, shrugging at each other. A moment passed where no one said anything.
Graham leaned forward then, his face sad and desperate, voice trembling.
"You don't know us. You have no reason to trust us, and that's wise of you not to until you do. But the man we're asking you to find was my brother. We parted badly... It's the most painful thing in the world, wishing I could see him one time more before I die, wondering where he is now and whether there isn't any way I can get him back, and knowing I'm too old and - wrong - to find him myself..."
The two twins shifted slightly in their chairs. Graham's gaze became intense.
"We all want the same thing here, as far as I can tell - a way in. And now we have it. You are welcome to keep that pawn as long as you like - it's of no use to us without your help anyway. All I ask is that you do your best to find him, my brother... and send him back, if you can."
Peter bit his lip, then took another bite of shortcake. The words echoed in his head - we all want the same thing - a way in... He chewed slowly, quietly, and when he had finished chewing he opened his mouth to reply.
That was when Edmund had interrupted them.
A clatter and a mumbled curse from outside the bedroom door stopped his musing. He raised his head to find that Edmund had tipped over his trunk on the step of the threshold while trying to open the door, spilling his belongings - clothes, shoes, pencils, books - across the hallway floor. Edmund looked sheepish; Peter grimaced at him but said nothing, leaning over to collect a few pencils and pop a dog-eared copy of Sherlock Holmes onto Edmund's bed.
"Sorry Pete - short arms..."
"It's been three years, Ed. I don't think it's fair to blame your lack of coordination on being small anymore." He had meant to make the remark a joke, but his voice was surprisingly, snappishly bitter. He tried to put some friendliness in his glance, but Edmund's eyes were on the floor as he bent over to collect his things.
It was only then that Peter realised Edmund had been attempting to smooth over the row they'd had in the kitchen earlier. Peter had almost forgotten about it, he'd been so pleasantly distracted first by the arrival of the girls, and then tea with their mother and her gossip...
After the twin - Creebourne, their neighbour - had found them in the cafe to return Edmund's award (to which Edmund returned cold, curt thanks), Edmund had agreed to discuss Graham and Durbin's offer at home while they unpacked their things. But they'd started shouting at each other in the kitchen almost as soon as Mrs. Pevensie had left for the market.
Edmund was adamant about refusing the proposal. He'd pointed out that it was a terrible risk, given that they knew next to nothing about these men, didn't even know for certain that they actually did work for the government or how they knew about Kingsblood or Narnia at all... Apparently Durbin hadn't explained things as thoroughly to Edmund as Graham and the two twins had explained them to Peter - though even Graham's explanation had large pieces of information missing, Peter had realised as he attempted to recount all that had been discussed at his lunch table. Before he had even mentioned the pawn, Edmund had flung the fact that they had offered money in his face, calling it despicable, a 'betrayal of Narnian principles,' even to consider accepting the deal.
Peter had to admit he sort of agreed with him, although he'd yelled at Edmund not to be so bloody-headed and righteous about it. He knew how it must feel, to Edmund in particular...
But Edmund also acted as though money grew on trees.
He sighed, returning the napkin to his pocket and settling himself onto his bed as Edmund finished gathering up his things. Folding the award certificate neatly, he ran his fingers over its edges as he returned to his thoughts.
It would be different if they didn't need the money. It would be different if their father were home earning a wage as a surgeon again, as he hadn't since before the war broke out. It would be different if Peter weren't going up to Oxford next year, utterly dependent on scholarship money just to attend... And it would be very different if he hadn't overheard his mother on the telephone with his grandparents over Christmas, asking them for a loan they could ill-afford to lend, explaining to them in a quivering whisper that she had no way to buy groceries until the next installment of the army stipend arrived, a stipend that was nearly always too small in any case...
Yes, it would be very different if they didn't need the money. He'd reminded his brother of this in the kitchen, rather too vehemently he supposed, since he'd accidentally knocked over his trunk in the process of emphasizing the point. His gesticulations did little to remove the icy scowl on Edmund's face, and Peter, knowing that there would be no talking to him at that point, had settled into the chair opposite to return silent fire. The girls had found them there moments later...
And now Edmund wanted to declare a truce. Well, Peter could live with that.
"Edmund - " he tried.
"Just save it, Pete. I don't want to hear it."
There it was again. Complete refusal. It seemed like that was all he could expect from Edmund, these days. These days - he caught himself, sighing again - he wished it had been a recent development, but truthfully Edmund hadn't opened up to him in ages. Sure, his brother would joke around with him if their sisters were with them; he'd still back Peter up in a fight more than half the time, if he was around, and usually waved him hello in the hallways, if they hadn't been having a row too recently, but Edmund never seemed to want to actually talk to Peter. He hardly ever wanted to talk to anyone, it seemed.
"Listen, Ed - "
"Why should I? You'll just do whatever you want anyway."
Edmund established himself on his own bed, opening his book to a random page. Peter watched his grip tighten against the cover, knuckles turning white.
Well, two could play that game. Silently Peter folded up the award again, placed it in his pocket next to the napkin with the pawn, and walked out of the room.
He waited until it was black out and the others were fast asleep. Peter slid out of bed and crept down the stairs, napkin from lunch bundled in his hand. Noiselessly he let himself into the kitchen, flicked on a light, and filled a glass of water from the sink. Grabbing a tin from the cupboard, he packed a plate with biscuits. Glass and plate in hand, he sat down at the table and set the little bundled napkin in his lap, taking a deep breath as he began pulling the corners slowly open -
"Midnight snack, is it?"
Peter jumped so hard he knocked his glass clean off the table; it shattered as it hit the floor. He stood immediately, glancing at the ceiling and listening for sounds that he'd woken anyone upstairs; the bundled napkin fell to the floor as he jerked up, and the pawn spilled out of it, rolling across the floor to rest next to Edmund's feet. As Edmund bent down to examine it, a curious look on his face, Peter lurched forward to retrieve it.
"Ah! - ruddy..." He'd forgotten the broken glass all over the floor. He hopped on one leg until his other foot landed on a few sharp shards. As blood from both feet began to spot the tile and blend with the spilled water, he winced and hobbled toward where the pawn lay, but he hadn't gone more than two feet before Edmund had tiptoed through the glass to push him back toward his seat at the table.
"Peter, sit down - sit down before you fall down, you bloody idiot."
Peter shot him a glare, but Edmund was pressing him down into the chair with both hands. "Feet up. Hold on while I clear this away, then we'll work this out."
Peter wasn't sure what 'this' Edmund was referring to - the pawn, the glass in his feet, or the argument between them - but no matter what it was, he couldn't exactly walk away from the situation this time. He pulled his bloodied feet up next to him on the chair and began pulling out bits of glass as Edmund set about sweeping up the floor. Neither of them spoke as Edmund emptied the shards into the bin and pulled a first aid kit from the shelf above the icebox. He settled into the chair next to Peter.
"There. That's done. Let me see your feet."
"I can do it."
"No you can't." Edmund grabbed one foot and pulled it onto his own lap. Peter frowned, but he was making rather a mess of it himself - he'd been digging at the same shard for the past two minutes, but he kept accidentally smashing it further in to his foot.
Edmund grabbed a tweezers and had the embedded shard out in about five seconds. He wiggled the token of his victory in Peter's direction. "Small fingers, see?"
A truce. Peter drew a long breath, relaxing. They shared tired but relieved smiles before Edmund returned his focus to Peter's feet.
"You need to stop stepping on glass."
"You need to stop jumping in front of cars."
"I didn't jump in front of it!"
"True enough - you barely managed to jump at all, did you, Short Legs?" Edmund scowled, which made Peter grin, lean back and shrug affectedly. "I worry about you and your suicidal tendencies, you know."
"I don't have suicidal tendencies," Edmund snapped.
"Oh really? What about the time when - "
"Can we just drop it please!"
Peter tried to smile good-naturedly, but he realized too late that he'd tapped one of Edmund's many sore spots... He'd been about to mention the incident from last winter, when Edmund's roommate had found him sitting on the ledge of his third-story dormitory window, holding his stomach and hyperventilating, mumbling something about how the inside of the room was too small. They'd spent the better part of a quarter hour trying to coax him back inside, but he hadn't seemed to have heard them at all. Peter had eventually climbed out the window himself and physically carried Edmund back inside, where Edmund had thrown up on his roommate and then passed out. Afterwards, Peter had never pressed him to explain himself, had in fact tried to make a joke of it, hoping that doing so would make the incident less embarrassing for his little brother - that tactic had worked often enough in Narnia - but it seemed Edmund was resolved to pretend it had never happened.
In truth it wasn't even the first time something of that nature had occurred since they'd come back to England; they both knew there was any number of ways Peter could have finished his sentence. Edmund had done his best to hide them, but Peter knew more about these little incidents than Edmund thought he did - he heard stories through the school grapevine, or from the school nurse as she queried him tiredly about whether there wasn't trouble at home...
It wasn't trouble at home, of course; it was Edmund's memories haunting him, memories of the nine weeks he'd spent in the care of the White Witch, nine weeks when Peter and Susan and Lucy had been sure he was dead... Those memories had ghosted through Peter's nightmares from time to time in the years since, but why they should still trouble Edmund so fully now, after so many years had passed...
Peter swallowed, wincing as Edmund dug at a particularly deep shard. He cast about for something to say, but Edmund laid the tweezers aside and gave him a quick, evaluating look before standing abruptly, crossing the kitchen, and reaching for the pawn.
"Well don't touch it!" Peter gasped. "Your hands..." They were stained with blood from Peter's feet.
Edmund glanced back at him, then crouched to look at the pawn, placing his hands on his thighs. "So that's a Kingsblood piece, is it?"
"...Graham gave it to me."
"-'Magic button' - huh..." Edmund snorted. He reached back to the table for the tweezers, using them to pick up the pawn, hold it in front of his face a moment, then set it next to Peter's plate. "And you were just going to take it for a spin without telling the rest of us about it?"
Peter rolled his eyes. "I did tell you about it, or I tried to earlier anyway - "
"How did Graham and all them even get a Kingsblood piece? I thought Professor Kirke had his eye on them -"
"This one isn't from Earth, Ed. It's from Narnia."
Edmund's head shot up. Peter continued, his voice low and excited: "They didn't say who, but they said two people used this pawn to come here from Narnia, not long ago. Two people, Edmund. With one pawn."
"And you believe them?"
"I saw it work. On some flowers, anyway, and it's supposed to be the same - "
"You mean you made it work. You used your blood. Didn't you? " Edmund said, sitting back into his chair and grabbing a handful of long white bandages from the kit, suspicion growing in his eyes. "And that's what they wanted..."
"It was just a few old men plus Mr. Creebourne from down the street, I think they were pretty harmless - "
"Peter, they know, they know all about us - they knew about the Witch, even -"
He raised his eyebrows. "You're sure you weren't just reading into it?"
" - It didn't sound like that."
Peter sighed and worked his jaw back and forth for a moment. Slowly he refolded the napkin around the pawn and placed his hand over it. "Well, if you won't let me use the pawn, perhaps we should give it back -"
"- No! No no no. I don't want them to have it -"
"Then do we tell the girls?"
They both paused, then said at the same time: "Let's tell Susan -"
Peter smiled. "After rugby tomorrow."
"Fine with me."
Peter wrapped a long bandage around his foot, trying to phrase what he wanted to say next. "Ed...if we could get back - get back to that golden age for just a while..."
Edmund's mouth thinned, but he kept his eyes on the bandage when he spoke. "I understand... No, I really do. But - you know we can't just cut corners like that. Don't you? There must be some reason we're stuck here waiting... Maybe we'll never get back, did you ever think of that? Do you want to spend your whole life waiting and wishing for something that might never happen?"
"But it can happen - we can make it happen - "
"But I think we're meant to be at a remove - for now -" Edmund's voice was low and guarded. Peter gave him a long look, then made his decision. "We have to wait for Aslan, then."
Edmund nodded. "We wait for Aslan. I think Susan will agree..." His face became thoughtful as he spoke again, more slowly. "Peter, I know for sure, for damn sure, that we'll get back eventually - I just have this tiny feeling that it won't be until...-"
"Until after we die."
"...yeah."
Peter paused a long moment, considering, before replying: "...which makes sense of your suicidal tendencies."
"Yeah," Edmund said vaguely, then glared at him. "No! I don't have suicidal tendencies."
Peter raised his eyebrows again, but at that moment they heard footsteps on the stairs. Edmund grabbed up the first aid kit as Peter put his feet back on the ground, attempting to hide his bandages in the folds of his pyjama bottoms.
Their mother entered the kitchen, squinting in the light. "Boys...?"
Edmund spoke first. "Peter was just saying he didn't really care for the supper you made, so he was helping himself to a snack..."
Peter groaned internally, knuckling his temple as his mother's expression became sadly pained. It was a good lie - defensible, reasonable - but like most of Edmund's lies, it came with a sting attached.
"I can make you something, dear - "
"No - Mum - it's fine, it was delicious - " he attempted to shoot Edmund a glare, but his brother had already left the room, heading for the stairs. Peter swallowed. He suddenly realised he felt very lonely - that a few minutes of civil conversation with his brother was more than he'd come to expect from their relationship. "I just - I should go back to bed too."
Mrs. Pevensie sighed and settled into the chair Edmund had vacated, smiling wanly at Peter and squeezing his shoulder. "Finish your snack. Let him fall asleep first."
Peter smiled back at her. "He's still a bit of a pill, isn't he?"
She rubbed his back, yawning. "You have to watch out for him, sweetheart, but let him come to you. It's only sibling jealousy - he's envious that you're off to Oxford next year, so soon! But you'll miss each other soon enough."
She really had no idea.