While there are a great many things that can be said about Edmund Philippe, that he only kept his promise to Lucy when it was easy to do so is not one of them. The closer she and the king became, the more he felt inclined to distance himself from her. But he would not; he remembered his promise-and his word that they were still friends-and he held on. He even continued meeting her in the apple orchard whenever she wanted to see him, though it must be admitted that he no longer passed the first note-always waiting for her to make the first attempt at contact before responding in as friendly a manner as ever.
Things went on quietly for a few weeks until the day Edmund informed Lucy that King Caspian's tutor had told him there was going to be a full lunar eclipse the night after the next.
They were walking amongst the apple trees on a late, sleepy sort of afternoon where everything is warm and the world just gets sort of quiet. Lucy, never having seen an eclipse, was naturally curious about it and eagerly listened while Edmund told her all he knew regarding the matter.
"Have you ever seen one, Ed?" asked Lucy, when he was finished explaining.
"No," Edmund admitted. "But my father did once, when he was two years older than I am now."
"Do you think Doctor Cornelius will arrange for the whole court to have a night-picnic outside so we can all see it?" wondered Lucy, speaking aloud.
"He didn't mention it, Lu." answered Edmund with a shrug of his shoulders. "I don't think everyone in the court would want to be out on a nippy night to watch the moon turn black. I mean, do you really think your ladies-in-waiting would put-up with having to sit out in a wood somewhere after hours?"
"Can't we all watch it from the courtyard?"
"I wouldn't think so," he replied. "The view would be a bit rummy-what with the way the towers are facing."
"And I suppose we can't fit everyone on the balcony?" sighed Lucy, looking rather disappointed.
"I should say not," Edmund had to agree.
They said nothing more for a few moments, but Edmund could tell Lucy really wanted to see the eclipse, even after the night-picnic was ruled out. It was at the tip of his tongue to suggest that she ask Caspian to take her to a hill somewhere nearby-a sort of royal husband and wife camping trip-to watch it, when, instead, he found himself suggesting that the two of them meet up in the apple orchard the night of the eclipse and then go to a hill together.
"All right," said Lucy, more than glad to get her own way and to spend more time with Edmund. "I can be here at-"
Suddenly he shook his head. "Maybe that's not such a great idea-it was foolish of me to suggest it."
"Why?" she asked, clearly not seeing the problem. "We haven't done anything just the two of us-besides talking in this orchard-for a long time."
There's a reason for that, Edmund thought to himself. Out loud, he said, "Think about it...what would the castle-folk say if they knew their queen was going out in the middle of the night to spend time with one of her knights?"
"It's not like that with us, Ed."
"How would they know that?"
"Peter knows-I'm sure Caspian would understand, too."
Edmund knew, long before their conversation was over, that he was going to give in, but he still felt it important to add, "Supposing we really were seen, though?"
"The tunnel, from the wardrobe." Lucy reminded him. "Only four people know about it, and we're two of them."
He saw what she was getting at. "Then, once you were out here, we could just walk out the little water-gate on the north-east wall?"
"And we shan't be away too long," added Lucy, completely innocent of any notion of complications that might arise-she was young still.
Because he was older, Edmund really ought to have known better, but he could be impulsive at times-in spite of his quiet and grave nature-and this was one of those times.
Besides, it was completely harmless, really, wasn't it? There was no real treason in escorting a queen on an outing when she so insisted upon it, was there? How could there be? Surely, if Peter were to do such a thing, who would have cared? Of course, Edmund was well-aware of the difference between his relationship with Lucy, and Peter's, but the argument still made some sense in his head at the time. In truth, he missed the freedom of unsupervised time he and Lucy had once had. How could it be wrong to enjoy the lost freedom, the sort of freedom that millions of friends throughout Narnia probably had by the bucket-load on a daily basis, for just one night? It was only one passing lunar eclipse and then it would be over-everything would just go back to the way it had seemingly always been at court. Part of him still felt guilty, though he couldn't fully explain-even to himself-why that was so, but he ignored it.
The night of the eclipse fell clear, starry, and comfortably cool. Lucy needed little more than a simple gown of red-and-orange brocade and an olive-green wool cape with a silver clasp to hold it in place. Once she was properly dressed, the young queen took a small oil-lantern, lit it, and-making sure all the doors to her chambers were closed up and latched-pushed back the rack, stepping into the tunnel.
When she reached the orchard, she nearly found her heart about to burst with joy. For there he was, Sir Edmund Philippe, holding an oil-lantern of his own by a slightly creaky handle, smiling when he caught sight of her.
Perhaps he couldn't help smiling, since she did look rather sweet. Her cheeks were flushed from excitement, both of the fun of sneaking out late at night-which even the most harmless of children have felt and enjoyed from time to time-and of knowing she would see her first eclipse; and the moonlight made the seed-pearls on her dagger-necklace glow prettily-twinkling like little beads of milk-cream from where the side of the cape didn't cover them.
There was something unexpected that made them both feel a little breathless and shy of each other as they met up and walked side-by-side towards the water-gate, stealing glances every few seconds.
The hill Edmund had chosen was only a little ways inward from the wood near the beach-close enough so that they didn't have to borrow any horses from the stable and ride out in order to get there in time. As they walked, very few words were exchanged between them. Lucy felt a little stunned, never having been particularly speechless around Edmund like this before, save maybe for the rare occasions when she was angry with him. But she wasn't at all angry with him right then; it was a completely different sort of frustration that ran up and down her spine and made her want to say both something and nothing at the same time, tying up her tongue so tightly.
How funny it is, Lucy couldn't help pondering, that before Edmund would be my friend-when we were younger and he wanted to avoid me-I couldn't will myself to stop talking to him, and now-now, I don't know how it is-but I can't seem to make myself start.
When they reached the hill and climbed to the top, Lucy found that Edmund had already spread out a blanket for them to sit on, and she noticed the vague shape of a food-hamper; it was behind the only tree. Actually, it was two separate trees; but their roots had been so close that as they'd grown up together, their trunks and branches had become hopelessly intertwined so that they looked like only one.
There was an old story about a wicked creature (some variations said it was a hideous-looking ape named Shift, while others claimed it was Tash, the bird-god of Calormen) trying to cut down, not those exact intertwined trees, but trees that looked-as imagined by Lucy when she heard the story as a toddler-rather like them. In the old nursery tale, the trees always healed and grew back together, their bond stronger than ever. She had never given that story much serious thought, yet right then, gazing at the trees before her, Lucy couldn't stop thinking about it.
I'm glad the trees were always together, Lucy mused inwardly, but supposing they weren't supposed to be? Not really. Supposing it wasn't a wicked, cruel, ugly monster that tore them apart? What if it was a kindly woodsman; and he needed firewood and didn't mean any real harm? Or what if it was a nobleman who promised someone-maybe the people who owned the land the trees grew up on-that he would take one of them away to live and grow greater still in his own garden, and then he really loved it-except, only, the tree couldn't keep away from its match?
The story took on new depths when there wasn't a villain, when there were only good people-good people who might get hurt-depths so vast and confusing that they sort of frightened her.
"Are you all right?" Edmund asked, noticing that Lucy's face had gone a little pale.
Rubbing lightly at a row of goosebumps on her shoulders and pulling the cloak tighter around herself, Lucy said, "I'm fine."
"You're sure?"
She nodded and took a seat on the blanket. He sat down next to her. For a little while longer, they remained dead-silent.
Then Edmund said, "The eclipse should start in about twenty minutes or so."
"Hmm," said Lucy, a little absent-minded; still, for reasons she couldn't comprehend, thinking a bit about those trees.
"Do you want anything to eat?" Edmund gestured at the hamper.
Snapping herself out of it, Lucy glanced over curiously. "What do we have?"
Grunting lightly, he lifted the hamper and dragged it over to their blanket. "Nothing too fancy. Just some ham sandwiches, a bottle of ginger-beer, and a bunch of cookies and biscuits I pilfered from the royal pantry a couple nights ago when I couldn't fall asleep."
"So you're the one who's been raiding the kitchen's leftovers." Lucy grinned at him.
"Hey, in my defense, Peter helped-a lot." Edmund chuckled, smirking mischievously. He reached into the hamper, pulled out a sandwich wrapped in tinfoil, and tossed it to her.
"Thanks," said Lucy, peeling back the foil and biting into the bread.
After they had finished eating, Edmund sighed and laid back down on the blanket, staring up at the sky. "Lucy, look, it's starting."
Lying beside him, Lucy gazed up at the full, glowing silvery-white moon as a dark purplish-black shadow of roughly the same size and shape passed by it, slowly snuffing out the light inch by inch. It looked almost like a half-moon for a few seconds, then a sliver, then a pearly-strip as thin and translucent as fishing-line, and-in a seemingly magical manner-the sky was all black save for, of course, the stars.
"It's so beautiful," whispered Lucy, rolling over half-way and resting her head on the side of his arm.
"So it was worth the trip up here?" Edmund made sure, only half-joking, sliding the arm she was resting against under her so that her head ended up more or less on his chest.
"Yes," she murmured, thinking that, even if there hadn't been an eclipse she would have still enjoyed herself. There was something about being with Edmund that made her feel safe and warm, like being in an old familiar dream that never dulled; not even in its darkest, most nightmarish moments. With her childhood companion there was always a light at the end of the tunnel, something enduring, endearing, and constantly reassuring.
They fell asleep like that, warm and close together, waking up just before dawn when it was still dark out and the world around them was covered in fresh dew.
Helping Lucy (the queen, the queen of Narnia, he struggled to bear in mind) up onto her feet, Edmund said, "We should be heading back-before you're missed."
It was over? Already? Lucy hadn't fully realized it until just then, but if she could have had one wish the night before, one wish as she had laid there resting against Edmund's chest (how hard it could be to think of him always as Sir Edmund when it came to courtly manners!), it would have been to stay there for ever. If the night could have extended upon its hours-if the eclipse could have been real magic for them, not just pretend, then she might have rested on and on peacefully; not having to wake up confused and lost.
Although she had come for the eclipse, largely her reason for being there was because she wanted to be with Edmund. She'd always wanted to be with him. It wasn't supposed to be romantic though; she wasn't supposed to feel what she felt, watching him pack up the hamper and fold the blanket; she wasn't supposed to half-want to reach down and lightly caress the back of his neck-so why did she? Why did she want that? What about everything at stake? King Caspian, Cair Paravel, Narnia, her subjects, Prince Rilian-wasn't thinking about Ed like she was at that moment wrong because of them?
What was this yearning she could feel-such a strange, strange emotion that, for some reason, made her think of the way Peter looked at Susan-and what was that apologetic, almost-tearful expression she could see in Edmund as he stood up straight and stared directly into her eyes?
"Lucy," breathed Edmund so softly she could barely hear him. There was no trace of 'Your Majesty' in his tone now, he wasn't addressing her as a queen.
"What is it?" whispered Lucy, feeling shaky.
One of his arms slipped around her waist, pulling her to him. She knew she should protest, lightly pull away. He wouldn't resist if she did, Ed would never hurt her, but she didn't force herself to leave his grasp. She didn't feel like Queen Lucy; she felt like Lucy Pevensie again-an older version of the little girl who would have followed Edmund Philippe to the end of the world and back all for the sake of her childish love and admiration for him.
His face came closer, and the next thing Lucy knew, his lips were pressed against her own.
This was her second kiss; and while she wasn't sure how it compared to her first-for she did love her husband, muddled as everything regarding that was becoming-but she knew, at least, that she liked it. She liked it a lot.
They broke apart-then kissed again, a little more lingeringly this time.
Edmund's free hand, the one not attached to the arm around Lucy's waist, reached for her hand and he started to intertwine his fingers with hers. It was her left hand-he felt the cold metal of her wedding ring against the sides of his fingers, and returned to his senses.
"Oh, by the Lion, what am I doing?" Edmund gasped, letting her go.
Lucy bit her lower lip, trying not to cry. "I'm sorry..."
"There's nothing for you to be sorry about, Your Majesty," he said, swallowing hard; "I was the idiot."
She was 'Your Majesty' once again. Reality hit her with a sickening thud.
"Edmund-" Lucy reached for his hand, but he wouldn't give it to her.
"Come," he spoke stiffly through clenched teeth, furious with himself. "I had better get you back to Cair Paravel at once."
When they came to the water-gate and, a few minutes later, the wardrobe-tunnel, Edmund bowed. "Forgive me, Your Majesty."
"Edmund-" Lucy's voice cracked-she barely even knew what she was trying to say.
All that day, Queen Lucy barely spoke. Caspian saw that she was upset, and tried everything he could think of to cheer her up, but his kindness only made her feel worse. She was grateful to him for all he did for her, wasn't she? She loved him, didn't she? Of course she did. But, then, if that were so, why did she still look at Edmund thinking the very same thing she said to him on the day she married the king? I wish it were you.
AN: Puh-lease remember to leave a review on your way out.