For Disclaimer and Information, see the first chapter.
Also, this chapter is longer than usual, by a thousand words. You're welcome. :)
Primplefeather reached the trees before any of the others, searching from the skies. Peter and Orieus moved as quickly as they could from the ground, looking for any signs of Edmund's troops. "Edmund!" Peter called.
"Oh, Majesty?" Jasil echoed, the concern in Peter's voice making him shiver.
"Edmund?" Orieus shouted. "Where are you?"
"Edmu—oomph!" Something heavy dropped from the treetops and into Peter's stomach, knocking him out of the saddle and onto the forest floor. Jasil screamed and reared. He would have trampled the figure now pinning the High King to the ground had a faun not popped out of a bush and caught his bridle, quieting him with a soft hand and a word in his ear. There was a monkey on Orieus' back, restraining his hands.
Peter struggled to free himself from his attacker, but every effort was blocked. "Stop it!" hissed a familiar voice above him, a spark entering those deep brown eyes. "Stop fighting me and be quiet! Do you want to become troll food?"
"Edmund!" Peter exclaimed quietly as his brother stood. Edmund rolled his eyes and held out his hand. While he pulled his brother to his feet, the Just King turned away and whistled twice. The faun whistled in response. Another whistle answered from further off. "Edmund, I'm so glad to see you. I was afraid you were—Edmund, you're bleeding!"
"What, this?" Edmund asked, bringing his knuckles up to the ugly gash on his forehead. "Pfft. My own fault."
"He fell out of a tree," Hen said with a chuckle, releasing the centaur and scampering up a branch. "Would've been quite hilarious if the troll behind him hadn't seen."
"Who do I need to thank?" Peter asked.
"One of yours…Cheetah named Ravi." Another whistle—three whining notes similar to a siren—before Edmund could say anymore. "Uh oh," he said, guesturing to the soldiers around him. They disappeared into their hiding places. "Uh…Orieus, clear out. Pete, with me. Jasil…what do you know about herding?"
"Why do I not like the sound of that?" the roan said, rolling his eyes.
"Sorry, it's just…an idea just came to me. If you could kind of drive the trolls towards us..."
A Badger suddenly stuck his head from a hole in the ground, making Peter jump. "We can have another thorn patch ready in fifteen minutes, Edmund, if that's what you're planning."
"Perfect," Edmund said, resting one hand briefly on the animal's head. He nodded and vanished again. "If we can just keep them running…Dryads?" he asked timidly. Three of them appeared in front of them. "Can you help Jasil out and show him what to do?"
The dryads nodded and moved the roan away just as the trees started shaking near the group. "Edmund, what exactly is going on?" Peter asked, exasperated and confused.
"Don't talk, Pete. Climb," he answered, dashing up the nearest tree. The High King shook his head and joined his brother as fast as he could. The top of the tree revealed an interesting sight—Hen was there with them, along with a squirrel, a chipmunk, a jaguar, and Primplefeather.
"Why hello, Prim," Edmund whispered. "What brings you here?"
"I came with Peter and Orieus," she answered. "Your little air squad stopped me and sent me here. Said something about driving another batch to the edge?"
"Yes, that would be them coming in just below," Edmund said, pointing through the branches.
Peter looked down to see five trolls moving warily through the trees. "I thought we got them all," he said, shocked.
"Well of course not," Hen said, tail twitching. "There were thousands of them. We killed about a thousand and scared a few hundred into deserting, but you didn't honestly expect all of the trolls to come out of the woods at the same time, did you?"
"We all move at different speeds," Edmund said. "We're only here for backup at the moment, Treetop Brigade. I've got a Horse and a few Dryads hopefully running them into another thorn patch, so you can relax for now."
"How many are left?" Peter asked frantically. The kind of warfare he was seeing now was not the kind he was used to, and it both unnerved and confused him. He felt blind.
"About three dozen, last time we could count," Edmund said, reaching out from his firm hold on the branch and touching his brother's shoulder reassuringly.
"And what are your stats?"
"Um…we've got about twenty men wounded. Seven are in critical condition and a handful or two more just banged up like me."
"And fatalities?"
"Can't talk now, Pete," Edmund said as the trolls separated. "Prim, fly south and tell the hounds to howl. Brigade, move west. This isn't supposed to happen."
The dryads blew like wind through the clearing, making the trolls visibly shake with fear. "The ghosts are back!" one shouted, turning and running the other way. There was the wild whinny of a horse in fury and Jasil came practically flying towards the straggler. The dim forest light made him look positively ghostly. The troll backed quickly toward the group.
"Haven't you learned anything?" another troll asked, shaking the scared one by the collar. "They want us to group up. Go the other way!"
"But the horse—"
"Just smash it and keep going!" They scattered warily, glancing about. All at once, a howl rose up from the north. Edmund grinned at Peter; Primplefeather had gotten the message across. The trolls' grips tightened on their clubs.
"Uh…Bones?" one of the trolls asked the one in charge, trying not to shake.
"Keep moving," he snapped.
Edmund nodded to Hen. The monkey and squirrel dropped from the tree branches onto the troll directly beneath them, slew it, and shot back up again. The others screamed and started pounding the branches above them. The Just King snatched the chipmunk out of the way just in time—but they were coming closer.
There was a rustling sound. "Hey—hey you! Uglies!" the faun yelled. "Over here! Fight me if you dare!"
The trolls roared and charged the soldier. The Treetop Brigade peeked out and watched as their enemies unthinkingly clustered again to chase the poor faun. He led them in circles for as long as he could, then headed straight for where the badgers had been. He saw the ditch in time and took a flying leap over it. The trolls, meanwhile, fell and were impaled on the stakes of another "thorn patch."
Edmund crowed in triumph, and the others joined him, jumping out of their trees. Another shout echoed in from the west, and Jasil came running up, out of breath but fine. "That was incredible," he gasped, shaking his mane and prancing playfully. "Did you hear those canines? Nearly gave me a heart attack!"
"Good work, Jasil," Edmund said, rubbing his nose. "If this had been at the beginning of the battle instead of the end, you probably could have driven them there all on your own."
"Thanks."
"Edmund," the faun said, leaping over the pit once again. "The Badgers are with Cotton's troops. They saw Blood-Drinker cutting through the center. We think he's headed for home."
"Blood-Drinker wasn't leading the troops at the castle?" Peter asked, surprised.
"That would have been difficult for him," said the Jaguar, "seeing that the first thing the western division did was cut him from the rest of the army and keep him running in circles."
"He broke out of the circle and moved south about the same time the rest of the trolls broke through the trees," Edmund explained. "We lost him for a while, but it seems we've found him again."
"Western division got another six," the faun added. "The Badgers went to tell Cotton about your five."
"Good, good," the king said, leaning against a tree. "Good all around. I'm proud of everyone. How's the ground unit holding up?"
"Don't know. Did you send that bird after them?"
"That bird has arrived!" Primplefeather sang from overhead, landing on Peter's shoulder. "Ground unit got three more and are currently tracking Blood-Drinker. They told me to tell you that the eastern and western divisions are mixing to the north to form another horseshoe under the control of Impera, who is still resting as you ordered."
"Resting?" Peter asked.
"He was rather badly trampled near the beginning," Edmund said. "Speaking of which, there's only one fatality. A poor soldier named Tantallon. He tripped on a pebble and a troll ripped him to pieces before he could get up again. We've already buried him. Didn't think his family would want what was left of his body—that sight is far too gruesome to serve as a final memory."
Peter blinked several times, then shook his head. "I'm sorry. Did you say you've only lost one soldier?"
"Yes."
"You started with eighty men and you've only lost one."
"No."
"No?"
"We started with sixty-five men. Fifteen of them went back to the castle before we actually started."
"Sixty…sixty-five."
"Yes. Are you having troubles hearing or something?"
An eagle flew out of a bush before the High King could answer. "Ground unit found Blood-Drinker's trail, Edmund. Requesting orders."
"Um…" He did some quick thinking. "Keep following him. If he leaves the woods, come back and we'll send the Ettinsmoor Guard to make sure he goes home without doing any more damage. If he circles 'round again, kill him."
"Yes, sir," the eagle said, springing into the sky again.
"…Ed?"
"Yeah, Pete?"
"I don't think you'll have to worry about the murmurings anymore."
"…Yeah? You really think so?"
Peter swallowed. "I really do."
"…I must thank…" Edmund scribbled down the words and went back to tapping on his knee, staring at the big stone wall in front of him. Peter watched, unnoticed from the doorway. After a few moments, his brother raised his quill. After just a few short lines, he put it down again and stared at the paper.
Peter walked forward. "Hey."
Edmund jumped and smothered a cry, standing and hiding the paper behind his back. "By the Lion, Pete, you scared me."
"You're just lucky I didn't jump you," he countered, grinning. "What's that you're working on?"
"Hmmm? I'm not working on anything."
"Then what's that you're hiding so cleverly."
"It's nothing."
"Nothing?"
"Nothing, Pete, nothing!"
"So you wouldn't mind if I—" He tackled the younger boy without saying another word, knocking him to the floor and running his fingers lightly along his ribs."
Edmund squawked foolishly for a few seconds, then broke down and giggled. "Pete—Peter—Stop, that tickles!"
"That's the point, brother mine. Let me see it."
"No, Peter, I—" He tried to keep a straight face and ended up curling around the paper, laughing hysterically, face turning red. "Stop, stop, stop!"
"Not until I can—aha!" he snatched the paper from Edmund's clenched fist, almost tearing it, and dashed away before his brother could recover. He had intended to read the words on the page as quickly as possible, but soon found himself drowning in the poetry.
It was a passing fancy
That called me to my pen.
It was a thoughtless motif
Of a dream of what had been.
I thought that I could fight it,
This siren-song of old.
I tried so to deny it
Though it had me in its hold
At last I gave in to the whim
and let it free my soul;
I have never happier been
Than lost in its control.
The poem was swiped from his hand before he could finish and a somber, red-faced Edmund was smoothing out the wrinkles and walking away. "Wait, Edmund!" Peter cried, running forward and catching his brother's arm. "Edmund, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to—"
"It's all right," Edmund said. "I'm not…I'm not angry. I think."
"It's…it's good."
"Thanks. It's just a doodle, really. It doesn't mean anything."
"No... I think it means quite a lot. Doesn't it?"
Edmund sighed and glanced back down at the poem in his hands. "It's..." he spun to face his brother. "I'm called a Warrior Poet, am I not?"
"…Yes…"
"And I wouldn't have if I hadn't…if I hadn't written that…thing…"
"What thing?"
"It was…nothing. I just…sat down one day and…started writing. I don't know why or how it happened, I just…did it. And it turned into a report—er…more of a story or a ballad—about the battle that made us kings. It was a passing fancy, but it changed my life." Edmund shrugged helplessly, not quite sure where the conversation was going.
"All right," the Magnificent King said, crossing his arms. "So you owe everything to this…passing fancy."
"Yes. But…After I became a 'Poet, I…I don't know. Most 'Poets don't really write poetry. Sometimes they do. And I wondered…what if I tried? Would that passing fancy come back?"
"Did it?"
"…Yes. But…stronger…" Edmund glanced down at the poem again. "It was just my way of saying thank you."
Peter stepped forward and pulled his brother into his arms, briefly, before releasing him again. "I know what you mean. Sometimes things just happen on a whim that we never really understand, right?"
"Right," Edmund said with a shaky nod. He hesitated a moment, then jerked away from Peter, grabbed his quill, refilled it, and scrawled something across the top of the page. Then he picked up the ink bottle and shoved the paper into Peter's hands. "Keep it, Pete. It's yours."
"What? But Edmund—"
"No buts. You saw it first. I want you to have it." He strode out of the room before Peter could say another word.
Peter glanced down at the paper and sighed before finishing off the last lines.
This passing fancy I must thank
For everything I am
It shaped me and it formed me
Slowly to a better man.
The last words on the page were his signature. At the top of the poem, ink still wet and shining, Edmund had written Ode to a Passing Fancy.
"What, aren't you going to take part in the festivities?"
Peter jumped as Edmund's teasing voice cut into his thoughts. He glanced up, smiling as Susan laughed aloud at his flightiness. "Hello Ed, Su," he said happily. "You surprised me."
Susan laughed again. "That much is clear. The question is: where are you?"
"What do you mean?"
Her arm was around Edmund's shoulders, his around her waist, and it was clear from their breathlessness and flushed faces that they had just finished a dance. "Well clearly you're a million miles away from the party, since you're sitting on the green and staring into the middle distance," she said with a gentle sigh, slipping out of Edmund's half-embrace and falling to her knees in front of him. "That could mean several things. It could mean you would not like to welcome in the spring with the rest of us. It could mean you're brooding over something. Or it could mean that you want to look grave and pensive as to put out that gaggle of giggling girls all throwing their eyes and hearts at you from across the bonfire?"
"What? Where?" He asked, throwing his head up and looking around fearfully. Edmund laughed that time.
"Well, if he wasn't trying to avoid them before, he definitely will be now, Su," he called, dropping onto the grass next to her.
It wasn't but thirty seconds before Lucy whirled her way to their sides, blowing a kiss to the faun who released her hand. "Is this a family conference or are you just trying to get Peter to join the dance?" she asked, eyes sparkling with mirth.
"That is just what we were discussing," Edmund told her conversationally, leaning an elbow on the soft, new grass.
"Actually, I…" Peter reached behind his back and pulled out three packages. "I was just wondering when the best moment was to give you these."
Lucy squealed as hers was pressed into her hands. Susan grinned. "But you didn't have to, Pete," she said. "It's not a gift giving holiday. We don't have anything for you."
"It's just a thank you," he said. "For standing by me these…what will this be, now, our fourth year? It's a quarterly gift…type of…thing. I just wanted to, okay? Open up."
Susan was, despite her protests, already digging into the paper. Lucy laughed at her sister as she fumbled with her own package. "Oh, Peter," the older girl breathed, taking the necklace from its box. "It's beautiful." And it was, in a simple way. It had a silver chain, and the simple pendant was a silver filigree of the Pevensie Crest, with Susan's own mark added.
"I love you, Peter," Lucy said, throwing her arms around his neck. Edmund grinned and leaned over them to see Lucy's gift—an exquisitely embroidered warm weather cloak made of the softest cloth in a bright blue that matched her eyes.
"What's yours, Ed?" Susan asked. "Really, Peter, this was so thoughtful."
"A book," Edmund said, holding it up. He rifled through the pages to show them. "It appears to be entirely blank, however."
"Not…entirely…" Peter said softly. "Try the first page."
He opened the leather cover. The first page was his poem—still crinkled from their play-fighting that day, the title slightly smeared from not being blotted. Edmund hissed and his hands shook a little. "Peter—you had it bound?"
"For whenever your next passing fancy takes you," he said. "I want you to have room for plenty more. It's a good idea, after all—to just sit down and sketch a poem whenever the fit takes you. Whenever you feel something, you know, that you can't express any other way. It's safer than doing it on the practice courts, that's for sure. Will you use it?"
Edmund closed the book, stroking the leather spine. Then he smiled. "I…have a better idea." He stood and marched back into the castle, his siblings chasing after him.
The plaque on the podium in the Cair Paravel library:
No one will ever really know why I started this book. The first Ode was just one of those things that just happens. Just like the rest of the book—all of these Odes were inspired by a simple whim, or an overwhelming feeling. Open it, reader, and if you are so inclined, we welcome you to lift your pen to its pages and leave your mark among so many others.
—Edmund Pevensie: Warrior, Judge, King, Servant, Leader, Brother, Poet.
"Ed? You've got to help me out, here."
Seventeen-year-old Edmund Pevensie, king-turned-schoolboy, looked up from his homework and across the table. Samuel Peterson didn't appear to need any help at first glance. He was clenching his pencil rather tightly, yes, and his eyes did appear rather glazed. Only Edmund could see the green and gold glow flying sporadically off the younger boy.
"What is it, Sam?" he asked, rising quickly and crossing the distance between them.
"These words," Sam said through clenched teeth. "They keep running through my head, over and over. I'm going crazy."
"Stay calm," he said, taking the pencil away before it snapped. "What is it you're thinking?"
Sam took a deep breath—it was very hard for the young Grace to stay calm when this happened—and turned toward the Just King. " 'It was a passing fancy that drove me to my pen,'" he recited. Edmund jumped; he had not heard those words since he'd left Narnia. " 'It was a thoughtless motif of a dream of what had been. I thought that I could fight it, this siren song of old; I tried so to deny it though it had me it its hold.'"
He went through the entire poem once, and Edmund let the words wash over him before grabbing a blank piece of notebook paper. "Say it again, slower this time. I can't believe I'd forgotten it."
Sam, much more under control now, repeated the words and relaxed. "There. The…feeling is gone. What did I say?"
Edmund showed him the paper, a frown creeping over his face. Sam raised his eyebrows. "I spouted poetry? Really?"
"Well, you didn't quite understand that it was poetry," he answered. "This was my first Ode, the one that started the whole book. And...Sam, I'd forgotten it. I still can't remember why I wrote it in the first place."
"You wrote this?" Sam asked, reading it over. "Not bad, really. Try reading it through again."
Edmund looked over the poem and jumped up halfway through it. "The Six-Minute Siege!" he cried, striking himself in the forehead. " 'Poet Lessons! I wrote this a week after the Six-Minute Siege, because I was a Warrior Poet."
"All right…What's the Six-Minute Siege?"
"I'll tell you some other time…I'd forgotten that, too…" He ran a hand through his hair. "I need to write to Peter and Lucy."
Phew. Thanks to last chapter's reviewers: jjjc, huffle-bibin, LucyofNarnia, Eavis, Flavio S. Weasley, BabyBeaver, Amakurikara, and GoldSilverLionFox. Thank you very much! Also, newbie kutlassgirl90, a gracious welcome!
Now you're sort of caught up to what the story will actually be about, namely, memories and how to preserve them. I hope no one minds that I'm using Sam even though you and he haven't been properly introduced... *pokes Graced muse angrily* but since that last bit takes place Edmund's final year, Peter and Roger have already graduated. Eep, age!
