A/N: Here's the answer – What if Edmund did get into a fight with all those guys? Ten against one. . . Can a displaced king win such a fight, without his weapons and all the advantages to the other side?

I wrote this as mostly a challenge to myself - I've never done a direct action sequence before, so bear with me if it's boring. Thanks very much to Sanaryelle, who influenced my fight-writing style in her brilliant story, A Faun's Tale.

Robert caught the look in his eye. "Edmund, don't do anything foolish. There are ten of them and one of you."

Edmund ignored his friend, and hastened into the ring of spectators around Lucy. She was singing one of the autumn harvest songs, rather badly and quite off-key. The men around her sniggered at her performance: Lucy was moving her arms in a ridiculous parody of the sacred dance.

"Until the new year springs
The Lion's breath will blow
Flowered fruits will grow
And we will dance again,"

she finished. Broken applause, accompanied by scoffing laughter, followed. Lucy giggled and made a bow. "That's the song for the end of the Autumn Festival," she said. "There's a lovely dance, too, for the trees – " Her voice broke off, sounding saddened, and Lucy took another long swallow of her drink.

"Ed!" she exclaimed, spotting him. "Everyone! King Edmund the Just has made his arrival! All cheers to my royal brother – come to join us in song!"

The men eyed him wantonly, looking him up and down. Almost all of them were taller than he, but Edmund met their stares evenly, unafraid. Lucy was still blithering on, "– my new friends, Ed. This is Jack, and Willie, and Ralph, and – er – Jack, and –"

"Lu," he said firmly, "I'm taking you home."

"What? No! I'm telling them all about Narnia! I told them all about you too, and the way you fought at Beruna. They're very impressed."

Edmund was unyielding. "No, Lu. You've got to come home."

"I don't want to!"

A tense silence followed her words, broken by indistinct muttering from the group around them. Several dark looks were cast in his direction. Edmund's pulse shot up and a foreboding rose in the pit of his stomach – there was trouble here. He knew he needed to get Lucy away from these men quickly, before there was time for anything bad to happen.

Edmund seized her arm and made to forcibly take her off the stool. One of the men clapped a hand on his shoulder. "You heard the princess. She doesn't want to go with you." The unspoken threat couldn't be clearer.

Most unhelpfully, Lucy chose that moment to chime in, "Queen! I'm a queen!"

"Of course you are," said one the others smoothly.

Edmund tugged on her hand a little. He met her eyes and narrowed his own very slightly – as gesture that, in any lifetime, communicated importance and dire necessity. Had Lucy been in her normal state, she would have acted immediately. Right now, though, she did nothing but stick her tongue out at him.

Suddenly Edmund felt a mad desire to laugh. He couldn't believe he was here, at this ridiculous party, arguing with his drunken younger sister. Lucy! Who never did anything insensible, who didn't even like parties! (At least the sort of parties they had here in England.) Was this really happening, or had he fallen asleep in his armchair?

He shook himself and tried to concentrate on the present.

"Look, I'm not going for any trouble. I just want to take her home."

"Yeah? Well, we want her to stay," said the beefiest of the lot. "Isn't that right, chaps?"

A chorus of agreements answered back.

Edmund was still holding her outstretched arm. The bloke who'd just spoken ran his hand over the length of her white skin – right there, in front of him! His muscles tensed, and his breathing suddenly felt rather constricted. Had it been at all possible, he would have dearly loved to take a sword to this man's throat.

"Don't touch her like that. Please," he said, low and dangerous. His mouth had tightened of its own accord.

With nerve Edmund could hardly believe, the fellow gave him a bold smirk and repeated the gesture. The calloused hand moved slowly up and down Lucy's arm. Edmund felt his fingers curl into fists. He was caring less and less for propriety with every second that passed, and he was quite prepared to act on her behalf. . .

But then he noticed Lucy's face and it nearly made him gag up his supper. Her expression was one far too old and much too foreign on her young face. Her eyes were shut and her lips parted in some semblance of a smile, and as he watched her, she gave a pleasured tilt of the head. Her body language spoke quite clearly: she was enjoying his caresses. To Edmund, it was nauseating. She looked like – and he hated himself for thinking it – one of the slave dancers at the Calormene court; or at the very least, one of those pin-up models. It scared him. Lucy looked far more grown-up than even he had known her to be, than he had ever seen Susan act. His stomach turned, and he wanted to be sick. This wasn't the sister he knew.

Edmund had no idea why Lucy was behaving in such a manner, but whatever the reason, it wasn't good. He also knew that this would never have happened, had Susan let Lucy alone tonight: No other explanation was needed. Blood boiling, he wound up his arm and hit the man right in the face.

He reacted instantly and Edmund moved to evade him, but wasn't quick enough. The brute popped him one right in the jaw. Lucy screamed and Edmund rotated his mouth – it was a bit of a shock, as he hadn't had a real fight in a few years, but at the same time, somehow refreshing. He'd forgotten what it was like to indulge his aggressive side and assume the stance of the proven warrior he was. And so for the first few blows, Edmund enjoyed himself. He was hit pretty rough in the shoulder, but he got in a few good punches himself. The pair of them moved about the room, knocking chairs over, though Edmund was careful to steer them away from Lucy on the stool. And although this fellow was harder and older, Edmund had fifteen years' worth of experience and expert instruction. A punch or two, a few elbows, and a dodge-and-duck, and he'd overpowered his opponent: The beefy prat who tried to play up his sister was snoozing on the floor.

Edmund stood there, breathing heavily, in an eternal moment of silence. It had been wrong, yes, but also satisfying – now, he could fetch Lucy, and go home to figure this all out. . . Then his brain caught up with him.

As if on cue, all the rest of them started moving in, ready to finish what he'd just started. They all gathered in on him – and Edmund realised what exactly he had gotten himself into.

Arms hailed down on him, blow after blow all over – he was at the centre of an awful struggle. Someone got him just below his right eye, and it smarted something fierce as he threw punch after punch in whatever direction he could. From the muddle of bodies and flying fists, he glimpsed Lucy sitting frightened on her seat. "Lucy! Get out of here!" he yelled, hoping she'd gotten her senses together enough to listen. A blur the colour of her dress flew by in his distant vision, and he breathed a sigh of relief. But as there were four other men around – that he could manage to count – he couldn't really bother much about Lucy, as long as she was safe.

Edmund racked his brains and tried to improvise a strategy. Logically, it wouldn't make sense to keep lashing out blows in any which way – there were five or six fellows ganging up on him, and it wouldn't be any good to think them all as one entity. He tried to focus each strike on a particular person, and go for eliminating them one by one. It was more difficult in action that in thought, but he'd been in much worse scrapes – though perhaps not such close quarters. The mass of bodies, muddle of movement, and confusion of shouting and grunting made it hard to implement any sort of organisation.

He was somewhat aware of the stir he was causing – Edmund recognised the sound of shuffling feet and voices outside the thick of things. But that was quite separate from his consciousness: During a battle, or a fight like this one, his mind split into different layers of awareness. There was his iron core, his true self, aware of everything – the location, his injuries, and what was going on around him, that held the courage to go on and the beliefs and moralities on whose behalf he had acted. Then there was the layer of his mind which knew how to block out pain and force himself onward. Above that there was also his third eye, aware of what existed outside of the struggle and the ramifications of his actions. But most of him was totally directed on the here and now – the fist coming at him from the left, the swinging kick from the right. He ducked, hit back, and slid away – the movements were pure instinct, honed over years of practice.

Edmund hit the man nearest with an upward drive just below the chin, and in his immediate daze after, sent a second blow right to the temple. It was a move he'd picked up during the year of service he and Peter had spent on board the Ardent Majesty – one of several of a broad range of skills they'd learnt during the voyage. The rough-style fighting they were taught (which had been quite different from the sword-to-sword combat they were used to) was certainly coming in handy now. Someone banged a hard fist down on the crown of his head (apart from the action, his true self noted the bitter irony). Dizzied, Edmund dealt out another double-punch and knocked his second man down.

"Edmund!" he heard Robert call exasperatedly. He groaned inwardly - had Robert hopped into the action? He was shouting something, but Edmund couldn't really listen as he was fighting three different pairs of fists.

All were on him at once, but he did the best he could. Edmund sent a harrowing blow towards the man closest and elbowed the one behind him in retroaction. The first one tumbled down and the bloke behind him started coughing like mad; he went to turn and deliver another blow, but the man on his left gave him a hard knock right in the ribs that took wind out of him. Gasping, Edmund darted out from between them and gave him a good bang on his left. Then he shoved the coughing man forward: he fell over a footstool, and was still.

The last one was the second-largest, and a hard player – though the game was far from over. As they faced each other in the tiny pause of challenge, Edmund could see another man coming from behind. He made his fist right and purposely too wide; the bloke's head whipped round to follow it and Edmund hit him on the left cheek. He moved to finish him, but he suddenly received a solid jab to the back of his head and fell forward on his knees. Stars winked in front of his eyes, but he used the lower standing to the best advantage – and sent a blow right in the stomach of the one he'd meant to finish off. He crumpled forward and Edmund felt a brief heartening. . . until a forceful kick hit him square in the back, sending him flat on his chest. His chin slammed onto the wooden floor, and he had a close-up view of the shoes belonging to the bloke he'd seen approaching not half a minute earlier.

His head was pounding horribly, but Edmund forced himself to think clearly and try to keep on: he had two to deal with now. He'd always had a swift, agile fighting style and it didn't desert him now – Edmund rolled over and knocked the legs out from under one of them, and made sure he wouldn't be rising again with a nimble blow to his forehead. The other swore loudly and bent down to slap his mate awake; borrowing a trick of Peter's, Edmund grabbed his arm and used it to support himself up.

The combined effects of gravity and the man's attempt to shake him off were enough to send Edmund's head spinning again, but he managed to get his stance back and find his bearings. He took a moment to inhale deeply, a trick he'd learned in battle, and once he'd breathed out again, the blackness had shrunk away from the edge of his vision.

He spared one glance to the left, just in time to see Robert get conked out by a straight punch in the nose. He felt odd mix of guilt (it really was his own fault the fight was going on), amusement (at weedy, bookish Robert in a fight at all), and appreciation (at the good loyalty of his friend).

Edmund drew back his arm and hit the man in front of him with his best left hook. He got hit in the mouth for his pains, and tasted blood. Frustrated (and tired), he swung again and missed – but used the momentum to his advantage, spinning all the way round and whacking him one right near the liver. With his other arm, he swung his fist upwards and bloodied his nose, and the man stumbled backwards and lost his balance. He collapsed on his bum with his legs folded beneath him, and didn't get up.

Edmund's anger rose when he caught sight of his bespectacled friend sprawled out on the floor. Energy renewed, he turned to the remaining two that had put Robert out and unleashed his adrenaline. One of them was drunk off his mind; Edmund gave him a swift rabbit punch to the temple and he dropped to the floor. The other put up a good defence for a few minutes and Edmund was hit twice more on the sore spot on his shoulder, and received an additional bruise on his face. Keeping his own head clear, Edmund rammed his knee into the other man's thigh and delivered a well-aimed blow at his right cheek. Three more punches, and he was down.

Edmund abruptly became aware of the free space around him: he felt no more blows raining down on him from any direction. Had he defeated all his enemies? He looked, and saw only the crowd of people he'd barely noticed forming earlier. A second glance gave him the information he sought – there, across the room, was the only fellow left.

It had become deathly quiet. The last man stood some distance away, looking at his fallen comrades scattered around the room in varying states of consciousness. Some of them were nursing pretty nasty-looking wounds. His eyes darted back and forth – Edmund noticed that unlike himself, the presence of spectators was unnerving his opponent.

Edmund raised his arms wearily. This had been nowhere near his hardest fight, but all the same, he wanted to end the last round quickly. Lucy was still in need of care, and his own head was aching, his knuckles worn.

His opponent suddenly reached into his trouser leg and pulled out a pocket knife. The blade shone dull silver in the hazy light, the whole room grew even quieter. Quick as a flash, Edmund produced his own. But awakened at last were his upright values, and he knew that it would no longer be a fair grounding if they used the knives. As long as the blows were fists only, he could still be outmatched – it was unlikely, for he held a strong advantage, but still possible. However, if they were to face each other with weapons, the game was up. Edmund had been the second-most dangerous knight of his entire country. If he were to face this drunken coward, armed with a blade, he shouldn't deserve his title any longer. No Just king would consent to such a fight.

He sighed. "Listen, all right? I've taken you all with no help, and you can see you're done out. Do you really want to see what I can do with this?" Edmund twitched his pocket-knife in his left hand, and saw the man's eyes follow the movement.

Across the room, the grip on the other pocket-knife slackened. Shoulders slumped, and his would-be challenger turned and left the room. For a brief moment, Edmund felt the blaze of victory, the elation of combat championship – but the sensation passed quickly. The blade in his hand was no dagger, but a mere pocket-knife. With another sigh, he stowed it back in his trouser pocket.

The silence that followed was as thick as pudding. The entire room was staring at him; an awkward, uncomfortable tension filled the air. Edmund shuffled his feet and wiped his bloodied lip on his sleeve. He turned round the room, avoiding the eyes of others, looking for Lucy.

She was cowering behind an upturned table. Her eyes were wide, and she looked sick. "Ready?" he asked. Lucy nodded.

Edmund knelt and hefted Robert's limp form, slinging him across his back and ignoring the weak protests of his friend. His tired muscles objected – feats of strength always seemed to take more effort here than in Narnia – but they'd endured worse before, and there wasn't really a second option anyway. Edmund held his hand out to Lucy, staggering a little from the strain. The crowd parted mutely to allow them through to the doorway.

What with carrying Robert, and the pain in his right leg (he was limping a little), they couldn't move nearly fast enough as Edmund would have liked. He felt as though he were travelling on a conveyor belt, on display. Every pair of eyes were fixed on them. As they passed, soft murmurs broke the absolute silence; within moments the sound swelled into a buzz of ferocious whispering. Edmund heard the exclamations of awe, horror, and shock, and a terrific sense of stupidity came over him. He was furious with himself. How could he have done this?

They had always tried to avoid displays of their abilities in the past. Everyone agreed they certainly couldn't tell anyone the truth; it would be mad to even consider it. Were they to exhibit any of their unusual skills it would be the source of very awkward questions, for which there was no plausible explanation. As much as they hated to hide their true identities, it was the only thing for it. Far more important that their secrets were kept safe and out of the spotlight. But tonight, without thinking of consequence, he'd put on the performance of the season. Now a whole party had seen what he was capable of, and to them, it would be pretty unbelievable. He could practically hear tomorrow's gossip – "Susan Pevensie's brother, the quiet, brainy one? Faced off a whole gang at a party – and won."

Susan would have a fit at what he'd done in front of her friends, and Peter was sure to also disapprove – for not only had Edmund put his own reputation to shambles, he'd also endangered the whole family.

He sighed and shifted Robert on his shoulders, and the three of them made their way out of the house. The night air stung his injured face and he walked slowly, weighted down by the friend on his back and his heavy heart.

A/N: Whew! Definitely not my style at all. . . but I did my best. What do you think – could Edmund really have pulled it off? Too bad Peter wasn't around to help!

Reviews are always appreciated.