Chapter Text
“Right, that’s chapter five finished.”
“Well, what’s the next one? Surely we aren’t just going to leave it there?”
It would be funny, the ripple of anticipation falling a little with the turn of the page. It would be funny if not for the nervousness, the frazzled, trapped dread caught in his veins, faintly pulsing.
Leather rubbing against his skin, as Edmund glanced down at the watch on his wrist for something to do. An old thing he’d found underneath his bed, when they first returned home from evacuation. Abandoned quite dramatically in the dust, rolling between the floorboards, and now a small crack splintered into the glass. As skewered as the time was, he could still just about read the hand ticking round.
Four.
Earlier, and yet later than he thought.
Lucy pinched his thigh, but her eyes were curious, threading over his face as if he were a riddle, or the allusive ending to a narnian song that she could not get out of her head.
All in all, a look he disliked at the best of times. Not for her concern, that was warmth seeping into his chest whatever the case, but she would want to solve it. Him.
That was a mistake diplomats often made. They’d direct their attention to himself or Susan, tales of shrewd judgement and sharp, logical reason. But where they could talk their way out of a war, it was their siblings that would press and push and battle their way forwards, backing them into a corner and refusing their escape. If they wanted they would find it.
He knew when to back off, they knew when to keep pushing.
( ‘ there are four thrones for a reason ’ )
She pushed a little here, eyeing his watch, and raising her eyebrow as if to say what was that ?
Too quick, too jerkish to be calm when he moved his arm, and she’d definitely caught that. He rubbed his thumb beneath the strap of his watch, and shrugged.
Her eyes narrowed.
But Lucy had no reason to be worried, or at least, not like him, not when she had done nothing wrong, hurt nobody. There could only be so much forgiveness before it started to fall, before their hearts got too heavy and mercy was challenged by disgust.
His family may have forgiven him for his words, his cruelty, now, but it was only a matter of time.
And yet, that felt selfish, and strange, awkward in his head throat like it didn't quite fit. No - they didn’t fit that image, that revolving whisper of sardonic words, a lack of mercy did not match the gold of his sister's crown, his brother had worn a heavier heart than this.
So maybe it was not fair to treat them as if they couldn’t handle loving him even after his crimes?
Edmund rubbed a hand down his face, trying to ward away the oncoming headache.
“I think we can get a couple more chapters done before bed?” Peter probed, a new sparkle in his gaze that returned to his mothers crossed arms.
“I should hope so.” Helen remarked, a fresh, unyielding curiosity angled in her eyes. And a touch of amusement too, something fond as her eyes caressed Peter’s form, though she chose not to mention how entirely like a parent he had just sounded.
Or, almost a parent, she supposed, but with the added crux of knowing he could be just so easily humbled by his siblings. He would make a wonderful father one day, she was sure of it.
“Your mother hates cliffhangers,” George grinned, squeezing her wrist lightly as she rolled her eyes. But he had seen her devour those romance novels - the cheap, flash fiction, that was nothing like Dickens - in mere hours when given the chance.
“I’ll read next, if you like?” Susan offered, with a slight hesitance, but Peter just passed the book to her hands with soft eyes, still swirling in their tentative truce.
“I wish the Macready would hurry up and take all these people away,” said Susan presently, “I’m getting horribly cramped.”
“And what a filthy smell of camphor!” said Edmund.
“I expect the pockets of these coats are full of it,” said Susan, “to keep away the moths.”
Helen stared at them.
“How did you not realise there was a whole other world behind you?”
Peter and Susan flushed.
“You almost sound like you believe us.” Lucy retorted, and Edmund snickered.
“I think that’s irrelevant,” George rebuked, as unimpressed as his wife. “You didn’t notice a world behind you.”
“I was admiring the woodwork, what can I say?” Edmund jumps in, drawing away their gaze from Susan’s red cheeks.
“You knew it was there!”
“Fair point.” He backed down, letting their baffled stares steal away the nervousness still simmering below the surface, and relax into the absurdity a little.
“Camphor.” Lucy giggled into his shoulder, squeezing his arm. “Only you two would have a conversation about camphor whilst entering Narnia.”
“We weren’t wrong though.” Edmund grinned, gaining a chuckle from Peter for his effort.
“There’s something sticking into my back,” said Peter.
“And isn’t it cold?” said Susan.
George blinked incredulously.
“Come on now, did you not turn around?”
“We thought it was a small wardrobe, there wouldn't have been room.” Peter defended, cheeks red.
“Oh my lord.” George groaned, shaking his head.
“No in fairness, the only reason I went into Narnia was because I was trying to find Lucy in the wardrobe.” Edmund mused. “They weren’t actually looking for anything.”
“But we were.” Lucy added thoughtfully. “So maybe it is about intention? I wonder if we hadn’t of been there whether it would have opened up for them?”
“We probably wouldn’t have gotten in it, if you weren’t there.” Peter retorted. “Actually, if you weren’t there we wouldn’t have needed to because you wouldn’t have broken that window.”
“You bowled it!”
Peter’s face cracked into a grin, the blush slipping from his cheeks.
“Actually,” George straightened up. “We haven’t read about that, when did that happen?”
“A little before this.” Susan shot them an exasperated glance. “It’s why we were extra cautious about Mcready, we’d already broken a window.”
“Ed broke the window.”
“Well if you hadn’t called me a dolly daydream-“
“Alright, that’s enough.” George, half wishing he’d never brought up the subject, raised a hand. “You were both playing the game so you both broke the window.”
He didn’t sound nearly as irritated by this now than before, more weary, as if this were the least of his problems, and Edmund could agree with that.
“Thank you,” Susan groaned, in a style that was far younger than Edmund was expecting, even if the exasperation in her eyes was old. “They’ve been having this argument for years .”
Peter’s lips twitched.
“Let’s get out,” said Edmund, “they’ve gone.”
“O-o-oh!” said Susan suddenly, and everyone asked her what was the matter.
“I’m sitting against a tree,” said Susan, “and look! It’s getting light — over there.”
“By Jove, you’re right,” said Peter, “and look there — and there. It’s trees all round. And this wet stuff is snow. Why, I do believe we’ve got into Lucy’s wood after all.”
Led by Lucy, Edmund rose to his feet in a mock standing ovation, and Peter attempted to swat them.
Helen, not bothering to stifle her laughter, shook her head.
“It’s curious though that you wanted to get out of the wardrobe, darling.”
“Oh that’s true,” Lucy blinked as they crashed back down in the seat, wriggling to get comfortable. “I didn’t catch that before .”
“I just thought it was odd that’s all, if you were trying to get them to this Witch.”
It drew Peter and Susan’s attention, latched on to him like a flame, sprawling along his skin. He bit his tongue, eyes narrowed, trying to weed through the blurry haze of memories that crawled just out of reach, like trying to grasp at air, always falling through.
“That is odd.” Susan said slowly, and scratched it down on the paper.
Their eyes do nothing to help, split down the skin, as if to tug him apart and find it themselves, some truth he cannot answer. Cannot, so he doesn’t.
“I apologise for not believing you,” he said, “I’m sorry. Will you shake hands?”
“Of course,” said Lucy, and did.
“That was rather mature.” George commented, leant back in his chair with an arched eyebrow.
“It’s been known to happen.” Lucy replied dryly.
“Not from where I’m sitting.” He snorted.
“What is that supposed to mean?” Peter rebuked quietly, and Edmund’s muscles tightened, body half drawn upwards, defensive, instinctive.
George sighed, ignoring the sharp look Helen sent him, and appraised them silently for a moment.
“Look, putting whether I believe what is going on here aside, you do understand how this looks? Lucy and Edmund were approached in an unfamiliar place by adults that did not have their interests at heart - no, no he did not, Lucy - and accepted food from them. Hell, if the Witch wanted to have carried you away in her slay and no one would have been any the wiser. The Faun did attempt actual kidnapping , and when approached with the idea that Lucy could have been playing a game, your response with such an issue was to respond as if she were a liar.”
“Hold on,” Edmund sat forward sharply. “It’s not as if they knew what had happened, not really, and I was actively trying to sabotage them finding out. What were they supposed to do?”
“Play with her. If it truly had just been a game, why not indulge her? Why act as if it was a problem?”
Lucy flinched, the barest movement, caught with her side still pressed against his, and the defence fell away, back down his throat, with an icy shiver.
“You’re right.” Susan said softly, and their eyes jerk upward. Her lips trembled slightly, and she pressed them into a thin line, with a thready inhale, and Edmund despises the glitter of water, the vulnerability tangled in her eyes that fix on Lucy. “We had a responsibility to look after you and we didn’t.”
“No- no you didn’t, we made our own choices-”
“Ed.”
Peter’s voice brings the protest on his lips to a sharp, cold death. It’s steady, firm, and grave, before it softens, fading into a quiet “That’s enough.”
His eyes swung between them, a little wild, a grievance touched on the winds of desperation, how dare they, and the wrongness of it all latches like moss on to his skin, dampened with embarrassment under his parents' eyes, almost childish, to quell under Peter’s words.
“I don’t think I would have wanted to play with you, anyway.” Lucy spoke up quietly, and Susan looked away first.
“Darling,” their mother murmured, reaching across the space towards Peter, his skin pale, jaw clenched, hands curled into his lap trembling faintly. “Peter.”
Lucy’s hand finds his, an easy fit to interlock their fingers, and tugged on his arm enough to get his feet moving, eyes fixed plainly on his brother and every inch of his body burned, yearned, dared go towards him. He wanted to remove it, desperately, that haunted look, woven into every inch of Peter’s face, the gold dulling like a dreary dawn, god he wants to-
“Come on,” Lucy muttered, and he half stumbled around the table. “Let's give them a minute.”
The kitchen was cold. He hated the cold.
“Why?” Edmund frowned, half a grumble, scowling woodenly at the countertop, leant against the edge of the kitchen table. Both doors were shut, soft murmurs coming from the inside and he was half tempted to get out a glass and place it to the wall just to hear what they were saying.
“How did you ever manage when you couldn’t make it to council meetings?” Lucy rolled her eyes.
He knows what she’s doing, distracting him, and he doesn't feel hospitable enough to be glad of it yet. Instead, he scoffed, and glared at the floor.
“That was different. I knew what Peter would say, or at least I trusted what had to be done. We..” talked to each other went unsaid, trailing off from his lips and he’s suddenly aware of just how childish he sounded. Everything was so wrong, and it made his eyes sting. He was supposed to be better than this, more mature than this, and Peter - why couldn’t he help him.
Edmund swallowed thickly and closed his eyes.
“Hey,” Lucy breathed softly, her arms winding around his middle, palm rubbing his back as his breath trembled in his chest. “This is Pete, you know he’d tell you anything if you asked.”
“I just..we didn’t need to, not in Narnia.”
“Maybe you did, you just didn’t want to.” Lucy answered gently, and his eyes water, caught in the darkness, before he dragged them open against the weight of his head.
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be,” Lucy sighed, and didn't move away as he drew his arms up to reciprocate the hug, warmth flaring in his chest. “I get it. Everything’s changing again.”
“Maybe it never settled to begin with.” He muttered, and felt her head shift, her eyes looking up at him from his shoulder. “Do you think they’re okay?”
“No,” Lucy paused, “Maybe. Eventually, I think they will be.”
“Peter always felt responsible for us.”
“True, Susan too.”
He doesn’t say it, the words in his throat ( ‘ I never felt like they were’ ) edging along his tongue, daring to spill out. He’d only said it once before, to Tumnus, about three years into their reign. They had been beyond furious at him for riding without a guard, he hadn’t understood it then, not really, nor the reason behind the way he felt the way he did. But he was sure Tumnus had seen it, with a sense of sadness that never seemed to leave his eyes.
“They shouldn’t have had to be.”
He decided as they part, and Lucy smiled, sad, lonely, something that doesn’t quite fit on the youth of her face.
“No,” She agreed. “That’s rather the unfairness of it all. I think they feel that too.”
But it’s too late to change it. And the realisation, paired with the fact it had taken him this long to truly realise that, pressed firmly down on his chest like a wall, choking off the air.
“What they said about Tumnus - are you okay?” He asked instead, kneading his chest with his knuckle as Lucy leant on the opposite side, against the counter. She looked more thoughtful than upset which was something, he supposed.
“I understand how it looks, and . .what he did.” She admitted slowly. “But he had time to make it up to me, years of repentance, needless as it was for I'd long since forgiven him.”
If her eyes locked on his for a moment, in the pause of telling silence, he ignored it.
“Mum and Dad are never going to know everything he did for me, so I can accept they have their concerns but he was - is - family.”
There’s a brief second where her eyes glisten, the tense catching in her throat, before the kitchen door swung open. Lucy sniffed, and smiled sadly, as Peter slipped past, eyes red and swollen, hair tousled faintly like he’d been clutching it, over to the sink to splash water on his face.
As Susan stepped out into the hallway and to the stairs, Lucy followed silently, leaving Edmund alone with him.
Somehow, emotions seemed easier to deal with in Narnia. He wasn’t sure how, maybe there were less ways to hide, maybe because they were adults in body as well as mind. Yet sometimes it felt like they hadn’t left at all and other times as if they were on entirely unfamiliar ground, daring to challenge the other.
Peter raised his head, staring out of the window as droplets slipped down his face, hand braced on the edge of the sink. His shoulders more relaxed, even if his eyes were narrowed, cheeks stained in soft pink blotches that reckon with the shudder of his breath, a little less pale and a little more relieved.
“Pete,” He murmured, brushing the edge of his brother's shirt, and smoothening a palm between his shoulder blades. Peter shuddered, tensing and relaxing once more, like a half fixed motor, jerking between motions. But he doesn’t pull away ( he’d never pulled away, not since that night in the tent, not since his return ).
“Are you-” he swallowed the words back and changed them. “Do you want a hug?”
There’s a pause, as Peter shuddered again, eyes shut, before he sagged. The barest nod needed, as his body was already twisting, head falling down into Edmund’s shoulder, fingers curled into his shirt, melting into his body.
And he gripped back, an anchor entrenched in the sand, to hold for all his worth.
“I love you.” Peter’s voice, muffled into his neck, and Edmund’s lips grazed over his head, into soft, blonde locks.
“I love you too.” Edmund replied, instantly.
The stairs creaked as Peter sniffed and resurfaced slowly, eyes cast downwards, almost shy.
“Sorry I-”
“Don’t,” the words burn his lips, like a fire of frost, lurching from his lips, and he gripped the side of Peter’s face, their foreheads tilted together. Don’t you dare apologise. “My king.”
Bright blue eyes met his, and Peter cracked a small smile, something loosening in his gaze, like molten gold dripping through his hair.
“Hey,” Lucy appeared in the kitchen doorway. “Mum wants to know if you’re ready to continue?”
Edmund briefly wondered if their mother wanted to know or if Lucy did, but dropped the remark on the tip of his tongue as Peter grinned knowingly. Not quite as bright or warm, but steady, as their hands slipped from one another.
“Course Lu.”
“You don’t have to-”
“You did.” Peter replied easily, as Edmund caught hold of his wrist.
“Peter.”
“Edmund.” His brother retorted, a false mimicked whine as he headed for the door, and Edmund can only be glad that the haunted expression on his bathers face had vanished, drawn back below the surface he was sure. “Come along, dolly daydream.”
“You sod.” He retorted and ducked back into the living room to meet his mothers narrowed gaze.
“What was that young man?”
Young man was better than boy , at least.
She was distracted by Susan’s return however, pulling her into a warm hug that Susan accepted, leaning into it for a moment, and Edmund was glad.
“Are we sure this is a good idea?” His father hesitated, with a straying glance towards the book on the table as Susan leant down to retrieve it. “It seems to cause rather a stir.”
“Yes.” It’s Peter who answers, firm and fair, and lifting an arm for Susan to slip under, curled up against his side. “We’ve started now, why stop? You’d just be left with more questions.”
There’s a look on his father’s face that Edmund cannot place for a moment, as he apprised Peter silently. Pride. It rung after a second, they’d see it with Oreius, and each other, and Edmund sunk back into the chair belatedly.
( would he ever get that ? )
Susan clears her throat.
“They’re not ours,” said Peter doubtfully.
“I am sure nobody would mind,” said Susan; “it isn’t as if we wanted to take them out of the house; we shan’t take them even out of the wardrobe.”
“Loopholes.” George nodded approvingly and blinked when they all stared at him. “What? If it’s going to keep you safer - at the very least safe from hypothermia - it’s a good thing in my book.”
“This is why Susan plans everything.” Lucy grinned, as Susan’s cheeks colour a little, caught for a moment a little less graceful than her usual acceptance of compliments.
“It just seemed logical. Besides, we weren’t taking them out of the wardrobe, we were taking them further in.”
“ There were heavy darkish clouds overhead and it looked as if there might be more snow before night.”
“Just how much snow was there?” Helen asked, frowning faintly. “Could there have been a chance of hypothermia or such like?”
“I shouldn’t think so,” Edmund hesitated for a second. Everyone was far more relaxed, he didn’t want to change that. “At least, it wasn’t really the snow that was the problem. But there was definitely a lot of it.”
Peter blinked.
“I wonder how many species would have died off, if Narnia was in snow for a hundred years?”
“None of the tree’s had died though,” Lucy pointed out “they were just sleeping.”
“I’ll write it down.” Susan interjected, as Peter’s brow furrowed in thought.
“Was this actually in the wardrobe, or had you stepped out into another plane of land?” George asked, scrubbing a hand down his face.
“We think the wardrobe was just a doorway into Narnia, otherwise it wouldn’t make sense that we couldn’t get back through.” Edmund ran his fingers through his hair.
“I’m really not sure if that makes me feel better.” George sighed, and Helen rubbed his arm.
“I say,” began Edmund presently, “oughtn’t we to be bearing a bit more to the left, that is, if we are aiming for the lamp-post?” He had forgotten for the moment that he must pretend never to have been in the wood before. The moment the words were out of his mouth he realised that he had given himself away. Everyone stopped; everyone stared at him. Peter whistled.
“Why did you wish to go to the lamppost, Ed?” Lucy glanced up at him.
“I suppose I thought we were looking for the lamppost, that seemed to be the only landmark around.” Edmund resisted the urge to shrug.
“Better question, you’ve only been in there once and Lucy showed you the way out, how did you remember where the lamppost was?” His father added, mildly surprised.
“Good memory, I guess.”
“You don't seem sure?”
“I’m not.” He replied honestly, and Helen frowned.
It settled uncomfortably in her chest, these fleeting moments where he seemed to suggest that his memories are hazy, that he cannot remember. And she had a horrible feeling it was the Witches food that had caused such a thing, as if he had been .. ( drugged ) She did not want to think of it. On what might have happened.
“So you really were here,” he said, “that time Lu said she’d met you in here — and you made out she was telling lies.”
There was a dead silence. “Well, of all the poisonous little beasts -” said Peter, and shrugged his shoulders and said no more.
He remembered that silence, thick and twisting, an unyielding merchant of dread like ash in his throat and the snow was ever colder, seeping into his shoes.
“You know,” Edmund hesitated, swiping his clammy hands on his legs. “It’s a little funny now that I think about it, you chose poisonous.”
Peter’s jaw clenched.
“The Witch did poison you.”
“Hardly.” Aiming for dismissiveness and coming short, with a touch of a rasp to his voice, and cleared his throat “You can’t blame everything on her.”
“I damn well can.”
It’s rough, gritty, and Peter's eyes remain dark, throttled - or maybe he wished to throttle.
“Believe me,” Edmund breathed. “You really can’t.”
There seemed, indeed, no more to say, and presently the four resumed their journey; but Edmund was saying to himself, “I’ll pay you all out for this, you pack of stuck-up, self-satisfied pigs.”
There’s a pause, and then George opened his mouth and he felt his lungs constrict.
“I .. cannot think of how to word this correctly, so please excuse me but – considering the way the book described you earlier, eating the Turkish Delight, getting all messy, not looking like a prince – do you think that whatever it was she was gave you, was projecting negative feelings on to them.”
Susan frowned, an eerily similar look to their mother’s expression, he noted despondently, trying not to look in his father's direction.
“That is to say… could it be possible that is how you felt about yourself, and the enchantment, if that is what it was, forced you to think of them that way?”
“No.” He replied quietly. “I was just that horrible.”
Peter raised an eyebrow.
“In fairness, I suppose I had just called you a beast ..”
“Don’t,” Edmund murmured, “don’t defend me.”
“Ed-”
“Pete.” He retorted firmly, and glanced down, picking at a thread on his trousers. “It gets worse.”
“He’s the nice Faun I told you about.”
“Are we sure about that?” George muttered to his wife, eyes narrowed, unease crawling over his skin. She sighed, rubbing his hand gently, intertwining their fingers once more.
In truth, she wished to say the same, in fact everything about this was deeply disturbing, and yet her daughter's eyes light up in a way she hasn’t seen in so long, as she finds the words dying on her lips. Sending them away had been the hardest thing she’d ever had to do, Helen refused to let coming back, readjusting, to be any harder than that. She would keep her children, whatever the cost, whatever she had to sacrifice, even if they were no longer the babies she knew.
and at last to the very door of Mr Tumnus’s cave. But there a terrible surprise awaited them.
“You’ve only been there five minutes, what on earth has gone wrong now?” Helen frowned, intertwining her fingers. “It seems like something is bound to go wrong every time you enter.”
“Cause and effect,” Peter offered, “Lucy going in was the catalyst for everything else.”
“Oh good, blame it all on me.” Lucy shot back, teasing. Peter rolled his eyes.
The door had been wrenched off its hinges and broken to bits. Inside, the cave was dark and cold and had the damp feel and smell of a place that had not been lived in for several days. Snow had drifted in from the doorway and was heaped on the floor, mixed with some- thing black, which turned out to be the charred sticks and ashes from the fire. Someone had apparently flung it about the room and then stamped it out. The crockery lay smashed on the floor and the picture of the Faun’s father had been slashed into shreds with a knife.
“This is a pretty good wash-out,” said Edmund; “not much good coming here.”
“Edmund,” Helen sighed, as George snorted, barely disguising it as a cough, and her heel pressed warningly into his shoe. “Really?”
He bit the inside of his cheek to stop a smirk threatening to befall his lips, for in truth, he also found that comment funnier than he should have. But its humour is tempered by the spirit in which he knows it was said, that same resentful, narrow-minded tunnel of thought.
Which he still doesn't understand. Not beyond what had been said upstairs, not when the child in front of him was so seldom, entirely certain and yet equally so unsure of himself. A strange paradox he cannot make sense of. He missed his youngest son, the boy that would leap into his arms and babble about his day, the child that would yearn for his attention, his approval, at all hours of the day.
Something had gone sour, these harsh biting words he knew must have come from his son’s mouth because of the guilt bearing down upon his face. But he could still not fathom why, not really.
“They have secret police?” George sputtered around a mouthful of tea, as Susan read the delicate script of Maugrim’s declaration.
“Not that secret.” Lucy pointed out, sardonically.
“They used to be secret,” Susan jumped in, “right at the beginning of her reign, a ploy to gain more and more followers I would imagine. I once asked Mrs Beaver.”
“She isn’t a real queen at all,” answered Lucy; “she’s a horrible witch, the White Witch. Everyone, all the wood people — hate her. She has made an enchantment over the whole country so that it is always winter here and never Christmas.”
Peter paused.
“Ed, what were you thinking?” Not accusatory, but curious, and he shrugs stiffly, shifting in the seat.
“That they could be wrong, that they’d disrespected her, that maybe they didn’t even celebrate Christmas. Anything, that could make her right.”
He replied quietly, and shivered, a familiar cold curling in his bones. A frown tugged at Lucy’s lips, and she pulled her legs up over his lap, resting her head on his shoulder. He gave her a light squeeze in response, relaxing into the warmth of her body pressed against his.
“I wanted it to be true, I needed her to be the Queen that she told me she was, otherwise what was I there for?”
The question was more for himself, trailing off, eyes discarded to the carpet.
“A lot we could do! said Edmund, “when we haven’t even got anything to eat!”
“If only we knew where the poor chap was imprisoned!” said Peter.
Please, can you tell us where Tumnus the Faun has been taken to?” As she said this she took a step towards the bird. The Robin appeared to understand the matter thoroughly.
“How?”
“It’s a magical land, Mum, I rather stopped asking questions after a ten hour session on Narnian History.” Peter chuckled, met with three reminiscent groans.
“So not all of the animals can speak, right? But they can all understand you?”
“It depends,” Lucy responded thoughtfully, “I mean, I would have said yes, at least in Narnia the first time. But then, with the bear ..”
“That was different, Lu,” Susan interjected, “even the tree’s had gone to sleep by then, it had been hundreds of years. Maybe it requires a stable presence of magic?”
“The simple answer is yes, in Narnia at that time.” Edmund ignored the jab to the side he received, shooting their mother a slight, exasperated sigh.
“We’re following a guide we know nothing about. How do we know which side that bird is on? Why shouldn’t it be leading us into a trap?”
“That’s a nasty idea. Still — a robin, you know. They’re good birds in all the stories I’ve ever read. I’m sure a robin wouldn’t be on the wrong side.”
“I’m sorry,” George cuts in, voice sharp. “Did you just agree to follow a stranger - robin or not - because you read good stories about it?”
“That would be a yes.” He grinned, and Peter twitched in his seat, shooting him a glare.
“Of course you did.” George groaned, rubbing his eyes, but didn't make a further comment.
He didn’t seem any less frustrated by this, but he didn’t push it like before, and then set alight a dusting of relief under his skin, and yet something torn, awkward, not jealousy, but a similar temperament. Edmund frowned softly, glancing between his father and his eldest siblings, but neither spare him a glance more.
They must have talked about it, responsibility and stupid choices. He just wished he could have been there, and hates that he does. He could not hold them to that, to account for his restless feelings, but everything feels harder to release here, like it’s wound but like a knotted string and he can't find the end to unravel it.
“It if comes to that, which is the right side? How do we know that the Fauns are in the right and the Queen (yes, I know we’ve been told she’s a witch) is in the wrong? We don’t really know anything about either.”
“That interesting,” Helen sat forward. “You acknowledge that everyone else is calling her a witch, but you still call her the Queen.”
“In my defence, she could have killed me for not referring to her with her proper title once before. I wasn’t going to risk it.” Half a truth, at least.
“You still believed she was the Queen, didn’t you?”
Edmund sighed, running a hand through his hair, and nodded.
“You could have just about told me anything and I probably would have still called her the Queen .. she knows how to get into your head and stay there. I .. I really wanted it to be true.” He swallowed roughly, guilt awash under his skin, and he takes a deep, shuddering breath, curling his hand into his thigh bitterly.
“The Faun saved Lucy.”
“He said he did. But how do we know? And there’s another thing too. Has anyone the least idea of the way home from here?”
“These are actually very good questions that you should have been asking sooner.”
“Don’t gift a horse in the mouth, dear.” Helen remarked dryly, and Peter snickered.
“We didn’t know the way back though.” Susan paused, conflicted.
“I suppose it’s a good thing we didn’t turn back then.” Peter replied simply, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, and her face smoothes out with an eye roll, knocking his hand away.
“That’s the end of the chapter.”
“I need a drink.” His father winced, pushing himself to his feet, mug in one hand. “Anyone want one?”
Their mother followed, her hand brushing over George’s back, and he recognised it, a steadying gesture, from all the times they had been injured.
“Please.” Susan called after them as she placed the book on the table.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” Edmund asked quietly, gaze jumping between the two of them.
“That’s funny,” Peter hummed, lips twitching “I was about to ask you two the same.”
Lucy sighed, and shuffled forwards, out of the chair and flopped down on Peter’s lap with a distinct lack of grace from his resulting ‘oomph’ .
“We asked first.” she answered cheerily, legs stretched over Susan’s, smirking.
“We’re ..” Susan starts to answer, voice drawing into something more prim and proper, as if to answer the question of a diplomat and not her siblings, before she rubbed Lucy’s ankle, and her voice dropped away. “Okay.”
A yearning defence crawled thickly up his chest, lodging in his throat.
“They made some fair points,” Peter took over, his hand trailing down Susan’s back in a not-quite rub. “About - about everything.”
“They can’t blame you for-”
“They didn’t .”
That sharp blue gaze rested on his face, and he fought the urge to look away.
“They explained some things, and .. and then they apologised.”
“Apologised?” Lucy twisted, narrowly avoiding jabbing Peter in the side, to stare at Susan.
“For all the pressure, for sending us away, for .. for making it feel like we were alone.”
“You weren’t alone.” Lucy frowned, fully sitting up. “You had us.”
He gets it. He gets it more than he thought he would, watching the look crossing between their eyes, like shards of fractured glass.
“It’s not really that simple, Lu.”
“You didn’t fail.”
The words fell from his mouth before he had time to process them, yet blindingly, deafeningly true. And he’s met with the wide, surprised stares of his siblings that waver the confidence he didn’t quite feel.
“Sorry.” He muttered, rubbing the back of his neck.
Lucy, as sharp as ever, thumped Peter in the shoulder.
“What was that for?”
“Because everyone in this family is so thick sometimes.” She frowned, and appeared to be reaching to thump Susan too, as their older sister moved out of reach. “You didn’t fail anyone, either of you, and if you just talked about it, we could have told you that years ago. ”
Edmund nodded, and baulked as her eyes swung over to him.
“And how many times do we have to tell you that we love you before you start believing it?”
“I do.” He blinked, Peter’s stare burning into the side of his face.
Lucy sighed once more, and climbed off their laps, reaching for the book.
“I know things are different, and we aren’t- we aren't home anymore but,” Her voice caught in her throat, and Susan flinched, sitting up. “Not everything has changed. We are still Kings and Queens, we are still Magnificent, and Gentle, Valiant and Just. And as Kings and Queens we knew full well we couldn’t control everything, couldn’t take the blame for everything. I think we need to start remembering that.”
A soft, raw silence lingered, pressing against his cheeks. He didn’t want to break it, as if the clock was ticking, or turning, or falling, something shifting deliberately in the air. As if a crossroads were created and any sound would choose their path.
“Well said.”
Their mother agreed from the doorway.
“This war took many things out of our control, and we all had to learn to live with it. And as we said, my darlings, we never thought you failed.”
“As far as I’m concerned,” their father takes over as they sit back down, fresh drinks in hand, a third on the table for Susan. “You only failed at using common sense .”
Helen clicked her tongue disapprovingly, and his voice softened, clearing his throat.
“You might recognise that failing at one thing does not make you a failure at everything.” His eyes travel between Peter and Susan for a moment, and then fall to Edmund. “It just means you made a mistake. You can only try.”
Lucy smirked triumphantly and squirmed back into place next to Edmund.
“Now,” George cleared his throat once again, as the atmosphere in the room strained, and curled inwards, loosening up at his slightly embarrassed expression, much to their mother's exasperation. “Are we ready to continue?”
There’s a pause and then.
“I might as well,” Susan shrugged, a little hesitant, and Lucy almost beamed at the gesture; the slip, relaxed enough to not completely hold all posture. She thrust the book towards Susan, who managed a thin smile. “Chapter Seven.”
“The robin!” cried Lucy, “the robin. It’s flown away.” And so it had — right out of sight.
“Good.” George muttered under his breath. Lucy scrunched up a corner of paper and tossed it in his direction. It landed in his fresh cup of tea.
A moment later the stranger came out from behind the tree, glanced all round as if it were afraid someone was watching, said “Hush”, made signs to them to join it in the thicker bit of wood where it was standing, and then once more disappeared.
“I know what it is,” said Peter; “it’s a beaver. I saw the tail.”
“You’ve very good at naming animals.” Lucy grinned. “Maybe you should go into veterinary school.”
“I do not think they’ll accept that as qualifications, Lu.” Peter laughed, airy and warm, relaxing a tension within his muscles he couldn’t place, and Edmund snickered.
“I think it’s a nice beaver,” said Lucy.
“Right, from now on nobody is allowed to make judgement calls in this house.” Their father interrupted. But it was with a wry smile, that made Lucy blush and Helen chuckle.
“Yes, but how do we know?” said Edmund.
“Except Edmund.”
“That’s ironic.” He blinked. “You might want to find someone better.”
“Ah, yes..” George winced.
Something stung, sharp and wild, crushed against the walls of his chest.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Susan rebuked, and his head snapped round, her eyes narrowed. “You are literally The Just.”
“Not yet.” He reminded, “And that’s was.”
“No, is.” She responded firmly, with no room to debate, quickly moving on. And the sting that bared in his chest at his father’s words, fell to silence, without movement at her’s. He almost smiled.
“Shan’t we have to risk it?” said Susan. “I mean, it’s no good just standing here and I feel I want some dinner.”
“How long has it been since you last ate?”
“In the book or in reality?” Peter teased, though the grumble of his stomach didn’t go amiss.
“We’ll have dinner after this chapter.” Helen shot him a fond glance, but repeated her original question with an added in the book.
“Well, we’d had breakfast about nine that morning, and a sandwich at about twelve. I think it must have been about one when we entered the wardrobe, possibly a little bit later. It did take rather a while to walk everywhere, I’d say we spent a good half an hour at Tumnus’s cave, the book hardly does it justice.” Susan answered, thoughtfully.
“You were at the cave for thirty minutes?” George frowned.
“I’d say so, we did have a look around, Peter wasn’t sure the wolves had gone so we stayed a little while longer.”
“So, when did you managed to eat?” Helen’s face was pinched.
“Soon,” Lucy smiled. “Oh, the Beavers were wonderful hosts.”
“Not a sentence I’d ever thought I would hear you say.” George commented lightly.
“Are you the Sons of Adam and the Daughters of Eve?” it said.
“Is that all Humans are known as?”
“That’s .. a good question.” Edmund paused, head tipping curiously. “I’m not sure I ever asked. We definitely told them we were humans though, but after our coronation we were rarely referred to by species.”
“Why, who are you afraid of?” said Peter. “There’s no one here but ourselves.”
“There are the trees,” said the Beaver. “They’re always listening. Most of them are on our side, but there are trees that would betray us to her; you know who I mean,” and it nodded its head several times.
“The Beaver doesn’t seem particularly helpful.” Helen hedged tentatively, frowning at the book.
“He will be.” Peter chuckled.
For even they could admit, Mr Beaver’s attempts at mystery and subtlety often only ended in their bafflement.
“If it comes to talking about sides,” said Edmund, “how do we know you’re a friend?”
“Not meaning to be rude, Mr Beaver,” added Peter, “but you see, we’re strangers.”
“Also a good question.” George nodded approvingly, and Edmund’s chest flared with warmth.
“And very polite too,” Helen added. “You always did like to impress the adults, dear.”
Peter flushed and made a show of tidying his hair to hide his face.
“I must meet you here and take you on to -” Here the Beaver’s voice sank into silence and it gave one or two very mysterious nods.
“Cryptic.” Edmund murmured, deadpan, and Lucy snorted, resting her head on his shoulder once again.
“They say Aslan is on the move — perhaps has already landed.”
“Is he a flying lion?”
“Sort of?” Peter looked between them for help, shrugging. “It’s not really a question that ever came up. He’s just .. Aslan.”
“I wouldn’t call it flying like a plane.”
“Right.” George blinked, none the wiser.
At the name of Aslan each one of the children felt something jump in its inside. Edmund felt a sensation of mysterious horror. Peter felt suddenly brave and adventurous. Susan felt as if some delicious smell or some delightful strain of music had just floated by her. And Lucy got the feeling you have when you wake up in the morning and realise that it is the beginning of the holidays or the beginning of summer.
“I don’t remember that.” Edmund breathed softly.
“I do.” Susan said quietly, her eyes lost for a moment, something light on her face, like a stray glaze of sunlight they could not see. Their eyes meet briefly, a longing reflected in her’s, mirroring the unknowing sadness in his.
No one except Edmund felt any difficulty about trusting the beaver now, and everyone, including Edmund, was very glad to hear the word “dinner”.
George kneaded his forehead with an exasperated sigh and a huff that sounded like “Food”. In contrast, their mother relaxed, taking a large gulp of tea, mug clasped between her hands as if to warm her up.
They therefore all hurried along behind their new friend who led them at a surprisingly quick pace, and always in the thickest parts of the forest, for over an hour. Everyone was feeling very tired and very hungry when suddenly the trees began to get thinner in front of them and the ground to fall steeply downhill. A minute later they came out under the open sky (the sun was still shining) and found themselves looking down on a fine sight.
“See we had perfect reasoning to be hungry, it must have been at least three before we reached their home, I would think. It was definitely getting darker and colder.” Lucy yawned.
“Speak for yourself,” Peter replied with an easy grin “I was as warm as anything in that coat.”
“Good.” Helen interjected firmly.
Edmund noticed something else. A little lower down the river there was another small river which came down another small valley to join it. And looking up that valley, Edmund could see two small hills, and he was almost sure they were the two hills which the White Witch had pointed out to him when he parted from her at the lamp-post that other day. And then between them, he thought, must be her palace, only a mile off or less. And he thought about Turkish Delight and about being a King (“And I wonder how Peter will like that?” he asked himself) and horrible ideas came into his head.
Edmund frowned. It was a little more hazy here, the memories swirling through his head, a touch disjointed, between flickering warmth of the Beaver’s dam to the chilling snow damp on his skin - he hoped they would not ask what horrible ideas, for he wasn’t sure he could remember, but he could certainly guess, and that was nauseating in itself.
He sits back in his seat grimacing faintly, and Lucy nudged his side with her elbow.
“Love, remember.” She whispered, and he forced his shoulders to relax.
“I know.” He swallowed thickly. “It’s just hard.”
She squeezed his hand gently in reply.
“At last! To think that ever I should live to see this day! The potatoes are on boiling and the kettle’s singing and I daresay, Mr Beaver, you’ll get us some fish.”
“They have kettles?”
“You read about talking Beavers and your first thought is why do they have a kettle?” George stared at his wife, who waved her hand towards the book, baffled.
“Kettles, George.”
Peter grinned, hiding a snicker behind Susan’s head as her eyes flickered with amusement.
“Well there is a lamppost.” Lucy added. “Why not a kettle?”
“Well- well what type of kettle?”
“Please, let's move on.” Their father groaned.
Susan drained the potatoes and then put them all back in the empty pot to dry on the side of the range while Lucy was helping Mrs Beaver to dish up the trout, so that in a very few minutes everyone was drawing up their stools (it was all three-legged stools in the Beavers’ house except for Mrs Beaver’s own special rocking-chair beside the fire) and preparing to enjoy themselves. There was a jug of creamy milk for the children (Mr Beaver stuck to beer) and a great big lump of deep yellow butter in the middle of the table from which everyone took as much as he wanted to go with his potatoes, and all the children thought — and I agree with them — that there’s nothing to beat good freshwater fish if you eat it when it has been alive half an hour ago and has come out of the pan half a minute ago.
“Wait a moment Su,” Edmund sat up, “Did it just say ‘ and I agree with them ’?”
Susan reread the passage, lips twisting curiously as she nodded.
“That must be C.S.Lewis, right?” Peter frowned, nodding to the name on the cover of the book.
“Well we didn’t know anyone going by that name.”
“Yes, but Su it’s written in third person.”
“I had noted.” She retorted dryly, and Peter rolled his eyes.
“So it wouldn’t matter if we had known them, for they seem to know us, or at least out story.”
“Yes,” she sighed frustratedly, “but how could they possibly know our inner thoughts and feelings on the matter without us telling it to them.”
“Are we forgetting it’s supposedly published in 1950?” Edmund joined the fray, “for all we know its-”
“Do not say from the future, Ed.” Peter groaned, rubbing his eyes.
“Why not?”
“How about we write it down and return to this later?” Their mother interrupted, hand raised against their voices, and Edmund sighed, relenting back against the cushions as Peter nodded, their faces caught in mirrored frowns.
And when they had finished the fish Mrs Beaver brought unexpectedly out of the oven a great and gloriously sticky marmalade roll, steaming hot, and at the same time moved the kettle on to the fire, so that when they had finished the marmalade roll the tea was made and ready to be poured out.
“They had marmalade roll?” George’s blinked, stomach growling softly.
“And you complained about us wanting food.” Lucy teased.
“How did they even know how to make Marmalade Roll?”
“I expect the same way we do, dear.” Helen rubbed his arm with mock consolidation. “A recipe.”
“That’s all the better, because it means we shan’t have any visitors; and if anyone should have been trying to follow you, why he won’t find any tracks.”
“That’s the end of the chapter.” Susan finished, placing the book back down on the table.
“That’s - deeply concerning.” Their father murmured. “Is there anything safe in that world?”
There’s a pause, where none of them spoke, and for all the wonderful things about Narnia, it was true there was always some issue of safety. But then, that was no different than anywhere else.
“Is there anything safe in this world?” He answered finally, and a myriad of emotions cluster on his parent's faces.
“I suppose not, not anymore.” His father murmured, eyes cast downwards, forlorn, solemn, shadows dipping along his skin like shades of ghosts.