Funny feeling, that.

When he went to the Christmas ball, the castle's walls were stationary and immovable, and the windows were all lit up and merry. Now, the walls were drifting away, and the windows were drifting away with them. Maybe he was driving. Yes, he was driving, that's what it was, in a cheery old cherry-red Austin Seven, cruising down the motorway between Beruna and Cair Paravel. No, he wasn't driving, daft little blighter he was. He didn't have a steering wheel, and you can't jolly well drive without a steering wheel. And if you think about it, you can't really drive without petrol, either. That's what Dad always said, anyway, and Dad always knew what was what.

It was a funny feeling, that. Everything whirling around you, everything all blurry. Someone must have slipped something into his cup, that's what; it couldn't have been the wine. He'd had some bevvies before, but never anything overly strong or in copious quantities. And they'd never really done anything to him. Well, maybe they'd always made him a little too merry and his tongue a little too loose, but not so lit up that he was glowing. And yeah, there was that one incident where he'd called Juma a cheetah (to which the leopard took exceptional offense and regaled him on the differences between cheetahs and leopards), and then there was another incident where he said "Hello, Philip" to a mop (and then a broom). But that was just a joke, that was all, the mere pretense of being drunk, and it was supposed to get a laugh out of everyone and put their minds at ease. It didn't, come to think of it. And this, tonight, it wasn't drunkenness; it couldn't be. You don't get all wobbly and have everything spin around you. That's in stories and in films, that's what, not in real life, when people can't hold their bevvies. No, he must have been poisoned, or maybe he was getting a stomach infection. He wasn't drunk, that's sure.

Still a funny feeling, that.

Maybe it was like those cyclones they get in America. Those things called...oh, blimey, what were they, he wondered?—oh, damn, what was the word—?..."Tor-may-does," that's what they were called. Spiraling winds sucking everything up, like a big vacuum hose. By golly, maybe that's what was going on; Narnia was being hit by tor-may-does, and Edmund had to sound the alarm. Well, he knew he had to do something. He just needed to get his feet working again, and tell his hands to stop fumbling with his crown, and then he could be the hero and not a silly unkempt layabout. But wait—it was December. Everyone knows you don't get tor-may-does in December. You get them in May. That's why they're spelled tor-may-does, he reckoned. Funny, that. Funny how it sounds like tomatoes, he thought. Tomato, to-mah-to, tor-may-do. Tor-may-do, tor-may-to, to-may-to, to-mah-to, a motto, mulatto, mutata, matata, matta-tat-tat, ratta-tat-tat, ratta-tiki-tiki, Rikki-Tikki-Tavi. What a funny thing, words were. Words all strung together. Words like tomato and Rikki-Tikki-Tavi, two completely different things, connecting. Oh, how clever he was, that's sure. He'd always been clever. And in that clever mind, he had a flash of brilliance. If words could be strung together, maybe that's how it worked with people, too. Maybe he and Oreius were distant cousins, and they both were horse's asses. Edmund laughed at that. First real laugh he'd had all night.

Funny feeling, this.

Better than that dismal old ball. A pompous and stuffy affair where diplomats and dignitaries and ambassadors were all snooty and prissy and dolled up like figurines in a little girl's a playhouse, and the etiquette toward him was just as forced and stiff as the figurines. Everyone traded pleasantries with him and never really meant them. Oh, but everyone traded pleasantries with everyone except Edmund, and they certainly meant those. But how did he end up here? Silly, his feet took him out here. But someone ordered him out there, right? He wouldn't just leave a Christmas ball, would he?

He didn't want to think about it. He hated to think about it. He had all that wine just so he didn't have to think about it. Wine was a great obliterator, a jolly anesthetic, a thing that made everyone glad without prejudice. It didn't judge him, it didn't complain, it didn't expect anything from him, and it didn't care what kind of a king he was. It just did its merry work, and sod anyone who said he had too much.

It was an odd thing, though. How did he get out there so fast? One minute yelling at someone, out in the courtyard the next. He had to have been hexed. Maybe the Witch was coming back to make him go all silly. Anyway, he didn't remember what he was yelling about—probably some stupid arse-faced chap telling him off, whoever it was...

He didn't want to think about that, either. His stomach was starting to roll now. Everything was feeling batty, as if all his bowels were trying to excavate something as quickly as possible. But it wasn't the liquor; it couldn't have been. He was too strong for that.

Now he remembered what he was yelling at. That arse-faced chap was Lucy. Silly, batty Lucy, always going on and on about how she had been dreaming of Aslan, hearing messages from Aslan, having private meetings with Aslan, being the belle of the ball as she regaled everyone with what Aslan was doing. She might as well have put on a wedding dress and walked down the aisle with the Lion, the silly batty girl. He loved her, that was sure. It was enough to make him want to throw up. And if his stomach wouldn't do a purge, he'd do a purge of his own.

So when Lucy went on about the thousandth dream (for the hundredth time all night), he stuffed some wine into his mouth, chewed his turkey a few times, then made a gagging noise and let it all fall out onto the table. He was laughing, he was guffawing, or rather he was trying to get everyone to laugh. No one was laughing, and then that stupid arse-faced sister of his said, "You little beast!" and then there was Peter, standing over him, whipping him out of his chair, and tossing him toward the door. It must have been Oreius who snatched him by the collar and led him down the halls.

But now, the sick was real. His face smashed into the flowers as bile and acid burst past his mouth. His stomach convulsed again, his belly pulsed again, and another pulse of it came up...

He blinked, and he was back on his feet...his face felt as green as it looked...and another pang pulsed up his throat and he heaved into the flowers again...

But he missed the flowers. This one was all on his robes, on his feet, on his hands. At least it was over, there was nothing left, and he could go back and—

It wasn't over. There was more. And that was all over him, too.

He blinked again, and the horizon was vertical. His belly felt ripped open and his throat was scorched, his eyes teary and his hands shaking, his body lying on the stone slab, shivering and convulsing, and his sobs filling the courtyard.

But then he blinked, and he saw two things lingering over his head. The first looked like a big mop. The second thing looked like the other one. He didn't know which one to talk to, but as long as they were in front of his face, he couldn't have gone wrong if he spoke to one of them. And anyway, he couldn't stand up on his feet; his ears were stuffed with cotton and his head was spinning; he'd have to lean against something.

No...no...no. Not him. Not tonight. Not like this. Not with sick all over him and his head all wobbly. Not after acting like a proper brat and throwing a tantrum. It would teach him to act that way again, and that would be even worse. No, no, not a chance. He couldn't lean on anyone. He wouldn't lean on anyone. The shame was too much, and he couldn't bear to feel any worse than he felt now. He could get home in the morning, if he could just sleep out there tonight.

He lifted himself onto his feet, knees quaking and hands shaking. He started to smile and put his hands to his hips, but then he felt all the sick going cold on his clothes, and his legs gave out from under him as he went all miserable and started to sob.

But he landed on something. It was strong, and golden, and muscular, and gentle, with a great shaggy crown of hair going down to his shoulders. The great thing looked over his shoulder, his mouth began to open. And wonder of wonders, horror of horrors, the mighty beast did the very thing that the King didn't want to see, the thing he couldn't bear not to see.

He just looked at him.

Oh, the King of Narnia knew that look that was coming. It was an awe-ful mix of strength, majesty, glory, regality, loftiness, the sheer magnificence of knowing he was greater than everyone around him, as if he meant to say, "I am all, you are nothing, and you had better admit it."

But it wasn't.

Oh, the King of Narnia knew the look that was halfway there. Disappointment, disgust, abhorrence, loathing, as if he meant to say, "You are nothing, and you know it."

But it wasn't.

The King of Narnia knew the look, and it had already arrived. It was the look he'd gotten when the two of them stood on the hill and spoke about what happened with her. But there was something else even more terrible than all that. Not majesty, not glory, not disappointment, not disgust.

It was a longing. An incessant craving. A wild and unfettered desire to just be there, to feel the sick, to smell the sick, to clean up the sick, to do nothing with no one but be there and with him. A desire that was not expressed in words, a desire that needed no words, but whose meaning was so clear that, even in the fog and whirling and cotton-packed ears and smell and taste of sick all around, even the King knew what it was.

Fall on Me, Son of Adam.

And he did. At long last, he did. He went limp against the Lion's side, trudging step for step down the courtyard, his body heaving as his sobs rang out into the frosty night.

THE END

A/n: I figure it's as obvious as the screen in front of your face, but I still want to dispel any doubt: I don't drink, I've never been drunk, and I'm not writing from experience. I just had a spark of inspiration, and it turned out to be a nice bit of angsty fluff (or fluffy angst, if you want to call it that).

This fanfic was originally called "Bring Me Home," the same name as an awesome tune by Oliver Koletzki. When summer comes around, put the tune on and drive with the windows down. It's that kind of song you don't think you'll want to drive to, but when you try it, you get home and say, "Wow, that was a fun drive." Or maybe that's just me. It's probably just me.

Oh, before I forget: Tor-may-does, y'all.