sometimes i think about how his father comes back from the war but he canβt keep the blood from his mouth or the nightmares in his head. his father comes back from a hellish landscape, but his chest is tight when it snows and he flinches at the glint of the butter knife passed his way. his father comes home in the echo of gunfire and limping with a wound but he takes the first bath every day rubbing at the puckered scar under his ribs, as if the old ache was more haunting than the new. his father comes back from the war with haunted eyes, but his are older, where neither can name their unspeakable horrors. his father comes back from the war glad to be home, but heβs too entrenched in ghosts to welcome him back.
nobody asked for this but i was rewatching the lion the witch and the wardrobe the other day and, whilst of course iβd seen jadis fighting a thousand times with two swords , it only just clicked in my head . because , as so beautifully demonstrated above , so does edmund . and although his face off with jadis in lww was between a blade and the jagged end of her wand , that would pierce his flesh and bleed deeper than ice ever had before , itβs still two weapons wielded against his one.
so now i think he chose to fight with two , to learn how to balance the blades his hands with his body, just in the way his tongue does words, and his mind does tactics , figuratively and literally scales . he could never beat peter when wielding just one , but balance him out and heβs faster , relying on himself and his hands to keep the parry at bay, to keep the flesh from opening , the wound from remaking its mark on his skin, rather than shield .
and if he dare admit it to himself, he wanted to fight better than her .
Edmund has trouble putting down his chess pieces that first time. In Narnia he could assume his opponent knew what he was doing, that chess was not just a game, that sacrificing pieces meant a unit, an officer, a collection of friends never seen again.
No one remembers that back in England, where chess is just a game, not a play preparing you for war.
He loses badly the first few times, too often distracted by thoughts of his dead friends. The ones alive, that he hopes to see soon.
Then he becomes unbeatable. When chess is about strategy again, no longer conjures images of men dying, sacrificed to gain a tactical advantage, Edmund becomes a master. Chess champion, of his region, of the country. Not a piece too many suffers.
It takes a few months. Those first ones, Peter has to guard him, in boarding school. When bullies gang up on him for his strange way of talking (as if generals listen to his advice), strange way of walking (as if there is a weight on his hip), strange way of behaving (as if there is servants for his every need), Peter protects him. They've seen protective brothers; they've never seen anything quite like Peter, who hits until bone breaks.
Edmund will often remark on how the punches thrown his way lack technique, don't really hurt.
Everyone wonders how a 110 lb 11 year old kid knows anything about punching technique. He's a scrawny white boy from the city, doesn't look even slightly dangerous. How many fights has he been in, everyone wonders, to know what type of blow breaks bone, how to collect fingers into a fist.
When he is not protected by his brother, he displays the tricks he learned in treacherous courts in fantasy lands where the men could snap him in half with half a finger, where monsters ruled. Where only his silver tongue kept him safe.
It keeps bullies far away from him. They're not just afraid of physical repercussions, but of being expelled, reputations ruined, careers unreachable before they begin.
Peter retaliates either way, additonal physical punishment along with the mental damage. Still, it's strange to hear that the sleepwalking teen, mostly interested in political science, knows anything about fighting, about blood.
By the third month in boarding school, Edmund has the staff wrapped around his finger.
His tongue is as silver as the lion ring he wears. Ed can talk any opponent into submisson. He can talk any girl into his bed, too. This earns him a few more fights than he had to be in, but that's okay.
The ones stupid enough to physically fight him learn fast Edmund isn't easy prey, that he knows how to fight, how to think, how to outmanouvre you. Peter is a tornado, all fury, but Ed fights like a chess master. No wasted movements, no unnecessary punches, not moving a single inch more than he has to.
Fighting Peter hurts. People soon find that fighting Ed discourages.
The only one still willing to try meet Peter's fists in a dark ally.
Still Edmund never needed Peter. Their bond is strange, sure, Peter copying his younger brothers' notes without remark, asking for his advice often and seriously.
But both know politics is Edmund's territory. At the start, no one messes with him due to his big brother, who always seems to hit harder than boys his age.
In time, Ed is feared more. Differently.
A fight with the oldest Pevensie brother ends in the infirmary, a fight with the youngest ends your career, ambition, prospects with the ladies.
Edmund knows what he can do. Knows his brother can do it too, but does not prefer it. He is known for his silver tongue, his brilliant mind. Peter, more so for his steel boots.
He plays chess, studies politics, does it right. Highest marks in his class, everyone a little scared, because of what he can do, because of what his sisters can do. Debate champion. Excellent chef, even though he only cooks for friends.
He's loyal to a fault, clever like the devil, and a perfect gentleman. In an archaic way. Ed is the kind of man to have a hankerchief in his pocket.
That's why no one unserious dates Susan or Lucy. They all know anything unserious ends badly.
Gradually, people start to like Edmund, even if they feared him at first. His smile is devilish, but also charming. Ed is free in his head, in his hands. There is a rumour in the halls, after a while. That Ed likes men too.
But no one talks.
Edmund goes into politics. He has a family that is in the top echolon of decison making, an analytical mind. Edmund has a talent for justice. In his presence, no one feels left out, everybody is heard. Many feel that with Ed as their PM they are finally represented. A noble man, even with his bloody knuckles, the unimpressive surname.
A statesman in everything. Fashion, vocabulary, manners.
But still he believes in Narnia, goes to see the spectre.
He is facing his brother in the train, happy, talking about Narnia when it crashes.
Iβm very lucky that Edmund is so beloved in this fandom, but there are still some antis out there and even the people who love him donβt understand him sometimes. The thing that gets me the most is people pointing out lww!Edmundβs selfishness like itβs a flaw, because itβs not. Selflessness isnβt always a virtue. Heβs literally a 10 year old boy whoβs never had anything of his own β he deserves to be selfish. That was never his crime. The problem was that his desire for something great of his own led to him ignoring red flagβs and putting blind trust in Jadis.
Ohhhhhj so the childhood self doesn't disappear forever they come back as a ghost when you are struggling to break into adulthood and sit with you during your lunch break so you're not alone. Alright
susan pevensie, two shades brighter than a falling star, she is that figure on the moon, waiting in the depths of vacant space, perfected in your roaming eyes and lost again, as the earth tilts on. she is shards of glass cracked, but not yet broken, held on by splinters of themselves, a mirror bearing steam and no reflection to be seen. she is more restless, more wild than smoke under your skin, because she hones it all in to the fire feasting in the depths of her chest - and lets it cool , in the soft spring waves of wind, as the moon makes its turn again, and there she is, back under your gaze.
people grieve differently, but it is a loss that is not just hers to bear so she let it prickle under her skin and dash away until sheβs folded beneath the sheets of the night, and it returns like bitter, stolen tears from the sea. she the gentle; that is not cruel, that is not cowardly, that is what in a world where gentle is not strong?
stuck on the moon, tucked between the stars that collect so glorious in your eyes, but she, seen only once or twice, not allowed the time to be understood.
it is winter: iβm infectious, cold and bittersweet. it's the misty reflection against the glass, a mirror of my bruised past, and the solitude that falls like shards into the silver crown melting in my hair. i am the last flumes of smoke from the fallen fires, drowned out coals, encroaching shadows.
rotten luck, i donβt weep any longer for the ruin in my chest, the carved up turrets of absence, i donβt weep dying colours of leaves like angel wings in a never ending spiral , no , i am a stripped, bare branch hanging in the twilight, waiting for the moon to smother me.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
i have finally managed to log back in here, and just in time for my edmund muse to go through the roof. so this is a rather specific au that's been rattling about my head , which i may or may not attempt to write a multi-chapter fic for if people like the concept.
introducing a slice of life , casmund one shot ( only 1.3k words ) , set in my edmund pevensie spiderverse , snow!spider au . a03 link above if you'd rather read it on there.
A soft, breathless βheyβΒ brushing against his ear, is a nice way to wake up, even when his eyes are too heavy, pressing down like concrete. And he might be worried, might have felt the sharp spark of panic wilting his way through his lungs at the thought, an echo of dust, and cracks, and the weight of half a building crushing against his bones. Might, if not for the thumb brushing over the edge of his jaw, smoothing along his cheek to rub the edge of his eyebrow.Β
The rich depth of warmth, like stars sinking into the dark, fizzles along his skin just enough to bring him to the surface. Not the sharp, jagged edges, clawing for the surface, (ice ice ice) tearing at the water hoping for air,Β no. Itβs the soft, dazzling surface of heat pressing against his back, and the faint scent of honey lingering in the peck against the corner of his mouth.Β
βHey,β he murmurs, mouth dry, throat scratchy, eyes fluttering into the blissfully low-lit room, deep embers of the lamplight shaded and soothing. βWhat time is it?β
βJust gone midnight,β Caspianβs voice is tender, apologetic as a noise reverberates from his throat - not aΒ whine, but discomfort creasing along the lines of his forehead, eyebrows knitting together hazily. βI know, but you should take another dose.β
βIβll live without it.β He breathes, as much as he can between the cotton stuffed in his head, which grows more apparent the longer heβs awake, fighting for his focus with the faint buzzing in his head.Β
βYou would, miserably.β Caspian sighs softly, air slipping over his neck, βTake it, for me?βΒ
His chest swells, like hot butter seeping into his skin, traces of cinnamon where his ribs should be, held up by a sponge rising in his chest.Β Sponge indeed, as a deep cough lurches up his throat, like moss clinging to his lungs, spelling out in a harsh, wet jag. A warm hand rubs over his back soothingly as his muscles tremble, and he sags backwards into the propped-up pillows with a reluctant groan.Β
βMmmh.β
βThank you.βΒ
Thereβs a teasing edge to Caspianβs voice that he wants to rebuke, but his chest aches, and he settles for pressing his palm into his breastbone. The thumb returns, lightly stroking the side of his face, as a shiver fumbles through his spine.Β
βOpen your eyes, love.β
When had he closed them?Β
Edmund drags his gaze up from the soft grey covers of the duvet bunched over his stomach, to Caspian, in matching loose sweatpants, propped up on one elbow with that gentle, all-knowing smile, an ember where the earth joins the roots of the treeβs, basking in a golden dawn.Β Β
βHey.β He repeats, half a smile, and Caspian rolls his eyes fondly.Β
Sometimes it was like everything he did wasΒ fond. Not like Peter, who watched him like the ground would fall away, and he was too far away to reach, those bright blazing blues drowning in themselves. But more like, even when they were fighting, Caspianβs face marred with deep, weary lines, knitted in frustration and lips pressed tightly together,Β even then, heβdΒ push a sweater towards him because somehow he always knows when Edmund has forgotten one.Β
βTake them.βΒ
Itβs firm, dipped in amusement, and Edmund searches for the glass of water on the bedside table, as Caspian leaves the little pastel red capsules on his lap and climbs up off the bed. He swallows with difficulty he doesnβt want to admit, ( and a silent prayer of thanks to Aslan , because lordΒ knowsΒ , his metabolism burnt anything mundane up like it was a melting spec of snow ) a choking cough into his wrist, a steady thumping rattling around his head and a frown that wasΒ definitely not a pout.Β
βHere,β Caspian returns, padding into the room in bright red socks that Edmund knows are pulled high up on his shins underneath his joggers, holding two mugs. βTea for you,Β sire.β
Edmund snorts, and groans, taking the mug between his hands with a grateful glance, a shiver rippling along his shoulders as the hot edges pulse through his skin, and Caspian finally climbs in properly, shifting under the sheets until their shoulders are pressed together.Β
βHow was work?β He sniffs, steam rolling up off the tea, watering his eyes, and he sniffs again, as it aggravates the buzzing in the back of his head.Β
βNot horrible,β Caspian hums, βI would have been back sooner -Β bless youΒ - but Jill almost blew up a lab.β
Dark eyes that seem to swallow him whole, down to the jewels of his soul, as he jerks forward with a second sneeze, smothered into the crook of his elbow, just managing not to spill his tea.Β
βBlew up a lab?β Edmund blinks, rubbing a hand down his face. βWhich lab?β
βAlmost,β Caspian corrects, passing him a tissue, palm smoothing over his thigh for a moment with a gentle squeeze. βShe was trying to replicate your webbing in the intern lab.β
He thinks that should probably be a bigger cause for concern, but itβsΒ Jill Pole,Β and his head was thumping too loudly to make room for any fleeting panic.Β Β
βRather Jill than-β He swallows hard, name pressing like shards into his throat and he breaks off with a shudder, coughing thickly into his elbow.Β
βDrink your tea.β Caspian says quietly, lips grazing the side of his head once more, hand coming up, pressing into his curls, and his skin tingles at the contact. For once, he does as asked, pressing the faded blue mug to his lips and barely holding back a moan of pleasure as honey soothes, caught in the tang of lemon that beats away any notion of it beingΒ tooΒ sickly. A soft chuckle muffled into his hair, and he suspects he hadnβt held that back as well as he thought.Β
It was easier than he thought it would be, draining the cup until his eyes flutter hazily with tiredness, and his throat isnβt as nearly as dry as before. But itβs not until his cheek is pressing into sturdy warmth and soft fingers brush against his hair that he realises heβs drifting off, head resting on Caspianβs shoulder.Β
Edmund shifts, guilt stirring in his stomach as a soft murmur rolls over his head, chatter he had not heard, like a listless bird in the wind, just as cold as winter roams outside.Β
TheΒ irony, a bitter aftertaste swirling through his stomach, that he should be in his element and yet, one night too many between falling snow drenching his suit and harsh cold winds, or rain dowsing his hair in early morning starts towards the History block if heΒ everΒ wanted to become a Professor, somehow it was snow that had taken him down.Β
Perpetually damp, thatβs how it felt, no matter how warm the suit was, and desperately cold. It was too reminiscent, too close, like painful shards of memories tugging at his hair until it stings his scalp and blurs into his head. He never wanted to be that cold again.Β
βEd,β a flush of warmth as Caspianβs chin rests on the crown of his head. βI can hear you thinking.β
βSorry.β He mumbles, closing his eyes, pressing closer until he was in the warmth of Caspianβs neck, and that musky cologne, faint glimmers of nutmeg and the rose petals of his hair. An arm wraps around his side, solid, stable, a faded kiss.
βGo to sleep, love.β A shiver of a different kind, chest warming, fingers curling into Caspianβs shirt. βIβve got you.β
He sniffs, pressing his feet against Caspianβs sock, clad ankles, and tries to push the chill from his skin.Β
thereβs a hand brushing through the dregs of its hair. itβs matted, thick, curling at the edges, pressed with the dampness of rain and a low settling grief woven between his ribs. like mist, the morning fog drowning in his lungs where the frosted grass soaked into his socks. his eyes drift along the ceiling, to the peeling wallpaper above his head, where their nails had scratched, their headsΒ bumped, jumping on the mattress.Β
if he looks far enough, shifts his head further back, tilting till his throat protested, he might catch a glimpse of pattering rain along the window, pushing the fog away.Β
but thereβs a hand brushing through his hair, and itβsΒ everythingΒ βΒ
βhey,βΒ a soft voice, buried under the silence of the room, ticking the edge of his ear. βwhyβd you run, eddy?β
low, warm, and he shifts, sheets curling around his feet, pressing his cheek into the scratchy maroon sweater. the birthday sweater. edmund swallows thickly.Β
βnow youβre all wet,β his father murmurs, playing with the curl of his lock. βthat was silly, donβt you think?β
silly, like the boys at school, or the fairy tale books, the ones lucy adores with the pages falling out. silly, like the small baby bird that fell out of the tree the other week, and peter almost stepped on it.Β
it didnβt feel the same. the drip of water down his back, legs scrambling over the wall, a faintΒ whipΒ of the door against the hinges in the wind. the gasp of the grass pressed to his face, tilting, falling, breaks his waves, and the replacement of warms circling around his waist.Β
no, it hadnβt felt silly at all.Β
( βdonβt stoop to their level ed, you have walk away from a fight.β peter, bright eyes, smarter than himΒ )
something rough grazes the top of his head, a second later, a kiss, and the fingers return to grazing his scalp. a soft, delicate scratch, a small shiver down his spin, itβs nice.Β
βstill, at least we can tell your mother youβve had that shower now, huh?β
a noise winds its way up his throat, as a low vibration trembles in his fatherβs chest, a breathless giggle and he pushes his head closer, fingers tangling in the wool,Β warmth warmth warmth.Β
βed,β thereβs an inhale, and edmund can feel the way his fatherβs chest moves, holds, as if unable to exhale, with his head tucked against the base of his chest. he pulls away slightly, thereβs a low sigh from above.Β
βyou know why i have to leave, donβt you? youβre a good boy, you understand.β
he doesnβt want to think about it, fiddling with the scratchy sweater, the unusual thread hanging from his fatherβs sleeve. it twists around his fingers.Β
βi..βΒ another sigh, as if expelling the fog from his chest, edmund thinks, something bitter and sweet and sour. everything feels heavy. βi have to go,Β to fight -Β β
blue eyes swallow him up, fingers gently tugging his shoulders back, and the space on the bed lurches like the cold, as his father tilts his chin up.Β
( β i think he was scaredβ, peter glances over, curiously, they watch the waves. β dad. β )
βso your mother and your sisters are going to need you to be brave. no more running away,Β eddy.βΒ a thumb strokes his cheek, itβs wet, a haze clinging to his eyes, glistening softly.Β
( β yeahβ, peterβs tongue runs along his bottom lip thoughtfully β itβs a different kind of war though, isnβt it. β )
mmh edmund thought of the day .. rewatched dawn treader the other day and the way everything just comes to an end so abruptly , as if they hadn't all just been fighting a sea monster , as they aren't utterly exhausted , emotionally , physically , maybe they're even a little numb and .. they just go home . he looks in the mirror are there are still bruises days later , there still the sting beneath his skin where cuts had healed before he'd ever crossed back through , his arms still ache with the strain of the sword , plunging upwards , upwards , up - and that face , her face , still haunts his dreams.
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