[fic] Give Me the Silent Sun 1/2
May. 13th, 2011 07:54 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
keire_keYou know you're in trouble when 11k is something you whip up in your spare time, without really thinking about it. o.O
Title: Give Me the Silent Sun
Rating: 18
Pairings: Caspian/Edmund
Genre: Romance, drama
Wordcount: 11k
Warnings: sexual situation involving minors in part ii (this warning is more scary than the actual situation).
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Summary: Five times Edmund danced at the Beltane fires and one time he didn’t.
Author's Note: this story will give you whiplash. XD Sorry.
Betaed byrroselavy. <3
Dedicated todownthemanhole for pretty much making my weekend, a few weeks back.
i.
Edmund teeters at the edge of the stone ring as the stacks of wood are arranged around a handful of dry hay.
“Do you want to light it, kid?” the man says, and Edmund nearly trips in his eagerness to get his chubby little hands on the lit ember he holds. It calls to him, the shimmering orange-brightness, barely even a flame.
“I don’t think it’s such a good idea,” Mother says, grasping his shoulder before he can cross the stone ring.
“Mum, please!”
“It’s perfectly fine, miss, I’ll make sure he don’t hurt himself none.”
“Well, alright,” Mother says, and Edmund steps to the pile, which is easily as tall as he is. The man puts the lit piece of wood in his hand and shows him how to angle it so he doesn’t burn his hand. Edmund kneels on the ground and reaches into the pyre to lay the brand on the hay.
For a moment nothing happens and Edmund feels the pang of disappointment. Then, as he watches, a flash of yellow flickers across the ember and jumps onto the straw. The first flames are thin and spindly, barely even enough to see by, but they are there and they spread, rushing along the straws. He watches, fascinated, as the fire grows and consumes the hay, sending specks of burning hay high up into the cluster of brushwood.
He would gladly watch it all night, but he is being pulled back right before the heat spreads its welcoming arms to him and the fire shoots up into the sky.
“Did you see that?” he calls to Mother over the roaring of the new fire. “Did you? Did you?”
“Of course, dear,” Mother says, but she is looking the other way. “Peter, where is Lucy?”
Peter shrugs and he and Mother rush away after the toddler, leaving Edmund staring at the fire. It crackles merrily, far happier than the fires in the oven or even the fireplace. Edmund reaches out his hands and watches the light colour them orange.
There are people coming from all over now and more fires are lit. Edmund remembers there will be dancing and hopes they will bring cakes. There are usually cakes when there’s dancing.
He is not disappointed. A nice lady wanders by with a basket full of sweet-smelling, warm fairy-cakes and gives him one. He says thank you, because it’s only polite and she ruffles his hair as she wanders off.
The sky overhead grows dark and even more people pour onto the field. Edmund wanders around the fires and nibbles on the cake. He’s quite full, they had a big supper just before coming out, so he’s content to tear small pieces of the treat and lick his fingers clean before taking another bite. The dancing starts around him, but he doesn’t really notice -- people pass him by in circles, leaping over stones and wood and grass, barely even touching the ground and the smoke raises over the fires, veiling the stars and the faces, both high above Edmund.
It never occurs to him that perhaps he should be afraid, that Mother is gone and he hasn’t seen Peter or Susan in a while. The cake is sweet and smells of honey and the air smells of dry birch and sap, and there is heat and cold, alternatively teasing at his face and he feels light, like he is floating.
He likes the feeling.
Edmund is halfway done with the cake when he spots another child, closer to his age than Susan or Lucy, squatting near one of the bonfires. He’s a little surprised -- he saw no other children so far. The adults pay no attention to either of them, turning and whirling, lost in the dance. Some women have flowers in their hair and some have fruit, which Edmund finds a little strange, but it looks pretty. They all laugh and whirl and some of them sing songs he doesn’t understand; it is very pretty and interesting, but Edmund is just a little boy and things that are pretty and loud are still a little bit scary.
“Hi,” Edmund says, squatting beside the other boy.
“Hi,” he replies and stares at Edmund oddly.
“Do you want some of this?” It’s a good cake and he is loath to part with it, but his tummy is so full he might burst, and Mother always says sharing is polite.
The boy looks at the cake and then at him and takes it. Edmund beams and, as the cake disappears, so does the other boy.
“Are you here with your mum, too?” Edmund asks.
“My nurse. I don’t have a mum.”
Edmund tilts his head, because the words have no meaning to him, despite the unnamed horror that lurks underneath. “How can you not have a mum? Everyone has a mum.”
“Not me,” he says and sticks his fingers into his mouth. “She died.”
Edmund still doesn’t understand, because mums don’t die, but nods. “Why do you sound so funny?”
“I don’t sound funny!”
“Yes, you do!”
“Well, you sound funny, too!”
“I do not!” Edmund glares at the strange boy, and he glares right back. The fire lights up half his face, while the other remains dark and maybe they would have fought, but a gust of wind sends the smoke their way and they start coughing. Edmund’s eyes are wet and his throat is burning and the strange boy is clutching his shirt as they stagger away from the fire.
They stand together, side by side, inhaling the cool night air. Edmund’s throat feels scratchy and he is, unexpectedly, quite cold, now that he is away from the fire. He shudders and feels the strange boy shudder, too.
A couple dances around them, raising their joined hands over the two of their heads. The lady has red-currants in her golden hair, smooth like glass, woven with dark green leaves, and she is laughing merrily, and so is the man, whose head is adorned with horns and a deer mask. They whirl around them, and Edmund is sure they are staring straight at him, but how could the man see anything when the eyes of the mask are placed on either side of his head, and maybe it’s no man but a deer, maybe it’s no lady, but a flame.
Edmund and the boy cling together, because these two are beautiful, but they are also terrible. They burn like the fire, they are cold and Edmund thinks he might cry, because he is confused and he is afraid and doesn’t want to be, because boys should be brave, but he cannot help it.
Fortunately, they circle around them once, twice and then the dance takes them elsewhere into the night and Edmund finds he can breathe easily again. The other boy looks at him and his dark eyes are wide and frightened.
“They were pretty,” he says. Edmund just nods.
“I’m cold.” Edmund lets go of the boy’s shirt and wraps his arms around himself. It’s a little warmer, but no less scarier, so he compromises by grabbing the boy’s hand. It’s safer, he remembers, to hold hands when you can’t see too far. That way, when you’re lost, you will not be lost alone.
It’s so dark, all of sudden. The great fires have gone out, leaving behind nothing but sparks and charcoal and smoke. The people have gone, too. Edmund can hear laughter dwindling in the distance, even as fog creeps towards them.
“Mum,” he whispers, because the world is reduced to shapes and glow, and the only thing that’s still there is the dark-haired boy, who clutches his hand and shivers by his side.
He sees something move in the mist and lets go, rushes a few steps because it must be mum, mustn’t it, come to fetch him. Too late he remembers the boy, and he stops and turns only to find that he is staring back as well, but the mist is thickening and he is no more than a shadow in the distance, too far to reach.
“Mum!” he yells. “Mum!”
“Edmund!”
The shape that might be his mum solidifies, rushes towards him, snatches him off the ground and just holds him, repeating his name. “Edmund! Don’t ever do this again! You could have gotten lost, you could have gotten hurt!”
He says nothing. He wraps his arms around Mother’s neck, nestles his head on her shoulder and doses. Tomorrow he will ask that they return to the village, so he can find the other boy and play with him some more.
Tomorrow.
ii.
A dryad bows before him. She is one of the birch people -- slender, pale, with a healthy, bright laugh, not unlike the tingling of the silver bells. There is a wreath of leaves and flowers in her hands, green and fresh.
Edmund inclines his head and she places the wreath atop it like it was a crown, and in a way it is, though he is barefoot and not that different from the others, who had gathered in the grove to celebrate Beltane night.
“My king,” she whispers, and it is like the whisper of the wind among the branches. The brief touch of her lips on his is sunshine, wine, and the song of the birds, high among the trees. She smells of the forest and the meadows, of fresh earth and sun-warmed stones.
Then she is gone, swept into the circling dancers by a faun. Edmund watches her slender figure weave in and out of the crowd and smiles, at least until he notices Lucy, who has clearly thrown all sense of propriety out the window. She wears nothing but a white chemise and a wreath of white lilac upon her brow. He should be outraged, really, because it is not proper for a queen to dance unclothed, but he cannot find the heart, not in the face of such merriment. She is not a queen tonight and he is not king; it is not Narnia that is their kingdom but Beltane, the festival, the night and the fires.
A faun presses a goblet into his hand and Edmund drinks it without hesitation. The wine is cool and sweet, sharp as icy water and soothing like sunlight. The light is brighter now, the shapes clearer. Edmund opens his eyes and the whole world is different, new.
Lucy laughs at him across the fire and holds her hands with a river god, and she is still a child, maybe only for this one summer, so Edmund smiles and, when the circle brings her towards him, grasps her hands and joins the dance.
The fire crackles before him, sending a myriad of sparks across the sky in a tidal wave and he laughs, drunk on the fresh air, on the smell of spring and the heady scent of smoke. The earth is light underneath his feet and, though the steps have never been taught, he feels the movement of the dancers like they were his own, and he is lost among them, he is one of them, they are he and he is them.
Eventually, the crowds thin as couples separate from the dance and disappear into the groves and Edmund feels -- a distant, misty thought -- that he should find Lucy and take her home safely, because he trusts the Narnians, and none of them would hurt her, but the night is old magic and it curls around him. He feels it in his body, pulsing, demanding, thrumming to the beat of the fauns’ pipes. It’s warm in his belly and he shouldn’t trust it, when it moves him through the dance precisely because it moves him, and one should never, ever trust thoughts that aren’t one’s own, but he does, he throws himself in its arms and trusts that he will be safe.
Out of the corner of his eye he sees Lucy, with the royal cloak wrapped around her shoulders and Mr Tumnus’ hand, guiding her back towards Cair Paravel. He catches the faun’s eye and -- as Lucy yawns -- nods. Tumnus offers a half-bow and turns his attention to the young queen, then they disappear among the trees, and Edmund returns to the whirlwind of the dance.
A lady grasps his hands then and smiles at him. There are berries in her hair and flowers and twigs, and her golden curls float around her face, like a cloud, framing the smile of her coral lips and the whiteness of her teeth. Her eyes are bright as the fires, and Edmund feels a stab of fear, because it is not right, it’s not his dance that she pulls him into. He stumbles and loses his grip on her hand, but someone catches him then, pulls him up and the dance continues. His legs are sure again and the night is dark and endless as he looks in the face of the youth that caught his hand.
The momentum pulls them into a circle with their hands still joined, but there is no one else to keep them from falling then; the meadow is empty but for the night, and them, and the remnants of fire, and Edmund sees fear and wonder in the boy’s face and somehow he knows that the lady has danced with him also, that she has brought them together.
They dance on among the shadows and smoke and flames. Closer and closer, they spin around the fire, around each other and then, when the music builds to a crescendo, they step forward, and their lips taste of smoke and wine.
The music thrums in him even now and the magic coils in his belly. The dance brought him here, he knows this, so he takes the boy’s hand and pulls him into the trees, where the others went. The grove is vacant and dark, and the music moves the leaves on the trees. Edmund falls into the high, springy grass, pulling the boy with him. Their hands entwine as they kiss, and it is still the same dance, the same music that moves them both.
The boy’s eyes are dark as the night when they separate. The music is quiet now and the fires are far, but there is a new kind of fire in Edmund’s veins. The boy’s lips are soft and moist, and they kiss again. They tumble in the soft grass, shedding clothes, not that there’s much to shed.
Edmund shivers at the touch of skin, and the boy is just as wide-eyed as he, but the dance urges them on and the music thrums, unheard, pulsing through their veins. They are both unsure, but that doesn’t matter, not when the music guides their hands, their lips, not when their bodies alight and burn in the night.
There is cold around them and heat between them, trapping them in a bubble no bigger than the two of them, and they are both so young and inexperienced that it was never going to be anything but a fumble. Their hands bump and twist when they should be stroking, and then they laugh, between kisses that are all enthusiasm and little skill. Somehow it works out, somehow all that Edmund knows -- thinks he knows -- doesn’t matter and this bumpy slippery contact is enough.
The world is spinning around them, or so it seems, but when it finally stops Edmund finds he’s lying curled in the high grass, and that someone is holding him close, that his own hands are wrapped around someone else. He’s breathing hard and his limbs shake, but the arms wrapped around him are warm and hold him tight and their mouths brush when they breathe.
High above, the sky begins to brighten. It will be many hours before the sun is up, but the first birds begin their tweeting, and soon the various creatures will emerge to start their days.
He needs to go. He is the king, after all, he shouldn’t let any of his subjects catch him naked in the woods. It wouldn’t be proper.
Still he remains. The grass is soft and the boy is warm and he smiles, looks at his face without reverence or fear. He just looks and smiles. Edmund brushes the hair out of his eyes and kisses him.
“I have to go,” he says regretfully. He doesn’t dare to raise his voice over a whisper, partly because the forest is still sleeping, and he has no desire to wake it, but mostly it is because the words are real enough; giving them volume would make them hurt.
“I know,” the boy says, just as quietly. He is sad as he does. “I must go, too.”
They say nothing else when they pull on their clothes. They kiss one last time before the birds start singing and the grove bustles with life, and it’s almost chaste, just lips against lips. It’s gratitude, hope and regret; it is sweet like the first love and bitter like the first good bye.
The mist rises from the ground as the sky grows ever brighter. It’s so thick that when Edmund takes a few steps towards the trees and turns back, he can only see the pale shadow of the other boy, and then nothing but the milky whiteness. He’s lucky he knows the grove well, so it is with minimal stumbling that he makes his way out into the meadow where the air is clearer.
Mr Tumnus is waiting for him there, with a heavy red cloak over his arm. “Your Majesty,” he says with a respectful bow.
“I’m terribly sorry, have you been waiting long?”
“I was worried your Majesty would catch a cold.” It’s not much of an answer. Edmund can see the faun is cold.
“Thank you,” Edmund says and gratefully wraps the cloak around himself. He wasn’t cold last night, far from it, but the cover is welcome now. “You’re terribly kind.”
“Not far from here there is the hut of the badgers, they should be up by now. I think they would be happy to offer you something hot to drink, Sire.”
“I would love that,” Edmund says and follows the faun. He casts one last look at the trees behind him and prays he never meets that boy again, unless it is by the Beltane fire.
iii.
Edmund rushes out of the How, biting his lip to stop himself from screaming. The fools! Can’t they be sane? Can’t they think for ten minutes?
The ice burns him even now. He feels her arms wrapping around him. Her fingers are cold in his hair, her mouth at his temple, whispering hateful things in his ear. He springs out of the How and runs down the hill, hiding among the trees. The branches smack his face as he rushes past, and that’s fine, they slap the witch’s touch away and he is free. Still he runs, for fear she might follow.
It’s just as well. He can’t stand to look at Peter, nor Caspian at the moment. Bloody, contemptuous fools, can’t think straight for ten minutes before summoning forces they cannot control.
He comes to a stop in a clearing, and leans against a tree. “Bloody fools,” he says to the night. He’s warmer now, thankfully. The icy touch is gone, the press of lips and fingers a memory, no stronger than that of battle, just as it will always be.
With a heavy heart he separates from the tree, wipes a hand across his face and looks around. There is a fire in the distance and a handful of slender creatures dance around it. Edmund sighs and starts walking towards it. Damn fauns; he appreciates their need to relax and dance -- it is Beltane, he realises with a start -- but they are at war. Fires are not a good idea.
He walks into the clearing, unnoticed for the roaring fire. Edmund smiles at it. It’s warm and welcoming and Aslan help him if he wasn’t dying for another peaceful Beltane in Narnia.
A faun grins at him across the circle, and Edmund opens his mouth to tell them to quit and put out the fire and hide, but he no sooner does he open his mouth when there is a sharp voice yelling “charge” and they are overrun by a squad of armoured Telmarines.
Edmund doesn’t let himself think. His sword is warm and comforting in his hand as he roars at the fauns and other creatures -- by the lion, some of them are cubs! -- to hide, before thrusting the blade into the nearest man’s throat. There’s not a fighter among them, he realises with dread as he leaps over the dying man to push another into the fire and yank a small rabbit from harm’s way.
“Fly, idiots!” he yells, and then there is no room in his head for thought, there is only the turn, slash, stab, leap, the deadly dance of blood and death.
He is alone in the dark forest, but for the armed knights. He is alone and he is quite likely doomed, but still he dances, whirling around the fire as the knights bleed and die and then all of sudden he is not alone; someone dances with him, matching his steps, turning when he does like they were shadows of one man.
Out of the corner of his eye Edmund sees a horned head and an animal pelt over a heaving chest. His skin is tanned and gleaming, there are coarse hairs streaming from below the mask, with berries and leaves woven throughout. In his hand there is a knife, or possibly a spearhead, made of stone.
Edmund sees a Telmarine to his right and, somehow, he knows to dive underneath the man’s arms. The music should have stopped a long time ago, but he feels its drumming and he knows the steps, so he knows that when his back is turned, the horned man will drive the stone spear into the Telmarine’s neck, spraying them both with his blood. Some of it lands in the fire, which greedily devours the drops, hissing as they burn.
The man-creature is spattered in blood and he whirls around Edmund, taking down the knights without a thought, like he was born to do it; he revels in the kills, and they all fall at his blade. Edmund barely has time to raise his sword and take a swing at a man’s head, before more pour into the narrow passage between the stones at the far-end of the clearing and the deer-headed man and he are back to back, their swords -- and they are swords now, not a sword and a stone spearhead -- whirl in unison, while the flames flicker.
They win. When the last of the Telmarine knight falls Edmund is breathing hard, but they have conquered and now he turns to thank his saviour and cannot help but stare.
“You- you’re a Telmarine,” he manages between wheezes. He stands before a man of about forty winters, a head taller than him, handsome and dark. He is clad similarly to Caspian, and, from Edmund has been able to see, Miraz.
The man stares at him, hard. His eyes are wide and misted with tears, his mouth parts and he tries to say something, but the sharp edge of the sword before his face makes him think better of it. “I’m a Narnian,” he says, and by his accent Edmund almost believes him.
The fires shimmer and the mist clings to the stone and tree. Edmund shakes his head and his gaze falls to the sword the man holds, a sword with a lion’s head and a bright, never-dimming blade--
“That is Peter’s,” he says calmly and his own sword automatically raises between the two of them again.
“It is mine. It was a gift.” Rhindon -- or rather its twin -- is sheathed and the man raises his hands in a placating gesture. “Please. I’m your friend.”
Edmund glares, but there is the insistent sincerity in the man’s expression. The light deceives him, because the face looks familiar; not the face of a soldier he killed in battle, but that of someone dear, someone he could trust, a long time ago. He sheathes his sword, but doesn’t come any closer.
“Right. I must go back.”
“Are you missed?”
“Not so much missed, perhaps, but I fear there is much fighting going on in the How at the moment.”
The man hesitates. “Are you fighting the Telmarine army?”
“At the moment Peter’s fighting Caspian and it would be best not to let them kill one another.”
The man grins and shakes his head. “I’m sure they will be fine.”
“One can only hope.”
The mist is thicker now. Smoke is woven into it, and Edmund can almost see it, a slightly more blue shade of white, moving through the air. The ground is soft beneath his feet, grassy. He must be far from the How, which spells out more danger than he can possibly imagine at the moment, certainly more than he can handle.
It was stupid of him, to wander this far alone. It’s lucky the forest is so quiet.
Which, come to think of it, is most queer. True, the beasts have been quiet under the Telmarine rule, but this utter silence is something different. Edmund shudders. Something is most strange, and the man who saved his life is still staring at him.
“What?” Edmund asks, not out of annoyance, but because there is entirely too much intensity in the attention, intensity that he feels he doesn’t merit.
“You’re so young.”
“It’s a complicated story.”
“You fight and kill like the most valiant knights I know, but you look like a child. It is a little strange to see.”
“Trust me, it’s no stranger than what I actually am.”
“I know what you are,” the man says. “You are a ghost.”
“No, I don’t think I am that. I’m real.” Edmund grins and looks at the fire. “Will you help me? I need to put it out, before more of them see the glow.”
Together they heap dirt onto the still roaring flames, until finally the fire dies and the mist pours into the clearing. Edmund shivers. The night is still young and, judging by the lack of search parties, the squad is not missed, which doesn’t bide well for the upcoming battle. So many beasts and creatures have already died, many more would die tomorrow and, by the end, when Miraz storms the How, Caspian will be executed and all of this will have been for naught.
Edmund startles when lips touch his forehead. It’s a prickly kiss, but what’s more surprising is that the man managed to come so close without him realising it, and that he felt no inclination to leap away. There is something almost familiar about him; he smells of leather, horse and sweat, but it’s a good kind of smell. Familiar. The smell of armour and exercise in the field, of wind and sand on the road between the mountains.
“You will win this war,” the man says, holding Edmund’s chin in place. He looks into his eyes and Edmund sees confidence and truth there; he sees breathtaking affection. “You will win and Caspian will be king. Trust me.”
“I,” Edmund starts to say, when a noise startles them both. Edmund whirls in its direction, sword drawn. Behind him he hears the man doing the same, but the mist is so thick they lose sight of one another the moment they step away. He hears the footsteps mirroring his on the grass for a little longer, but soon they too dissolve in the milky whiteness -- they must have split, the forest plays tricks on people. He will find his way back, Edmund thinks. They couldn’t have been far from the Telmarine encampment, if he saw the fires too.
“My king!” someone calls in a whisper and Edmund turns to find a faun, his eyes wide in fear. “My king, you should not wander alone, it is the night of Beltane!”
“I know. We must be swift, I was accosted by a party of Telmarines.” Edmund nudges a dead man with his sword, just to be sure.
The faun -- Edmund is relatively sure his name is Minnus -- pays it no heed. “Sire, they are the least of our worries on such a night.”
“I always liked Beltane,” Edmund says as they make their way back. He feels lighter now. Even if the strange man was Telmarine, even if he were to face him in battle tomorrow, he had been true, and Edmund knew without a shadow of a doubt that they would win.
“It is not safe. The Horned Hunter has long forsaken this land which rejected him and the lady, but the mists remain in their absence, to avenge the wrongs done to them. Many a man has gone into the woods on Beltane and not returned, and we rejoiced, because the land doesn’t favour the Telmarines, but for you, my king! It is not safe for the children of Adam and Eve, not tonight.”
Edmund blinks. “A horned man? Gone? But I’ve seen him tonight. He wore fruit and leaves in his hair, and a deer mask. He helped me against the knights.”
The faun nearly falls to the ground. “The Hunter has returned? Sire, are you sure?”
“Unless there is some other bloke who dances with a stone spearhead with horns on his forehead, I mean, it is just a mask.”
“Bless you, Your Majesty,” the faun says and, to Edmund’s surprise, bows before him so low his horns disappear in the grass. “That Herne himself came to your aid! With him returned we cannot fail! The trees shall wake, Aslan shall surely follow, come, Sire, we must spread the news at once, we have the land on our side once more!”
“Wait, wait. It wouldn’t do to go on being this enthusiastic, this hunter is just one man, we need to win this properly,” Edmund says. “And we will. Trust me.”
Of course, all the fauns and centaurs are already buzzing with excitement the moment they step back into the camp. Edmund rolls his eyes when none of them can see, but he proceeds into the heart of the How without hesitation, to find Caspian and Peter sulking on opposite ends of the chamber.
“Right,” he says to them. “No more of that. We are winning this.”
On to part two.
Title: Give Me the Silent Sun
Rating: 18
Pairings: Caspian/Edmund
Genre: Romance, drama
Wordcount: 11k
Warnings: sexual situation involving minors in part ii (this warning is more scary than the actual situation).
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Summary: Five times Edmund danced at the Beltane fires and one time he didn’t.
Author's Note: this story will give you whiplash. XD Sorry.
Betaed by
rroselavy. <3Dedicated to
downthemanhole for pretty much making my weekend, a few weeks back.i.
Edmund teeters at the edge of the stone ring as the stacks of wood are arranged around a handful of dry hay.
“Do you want to light it, kid?” the man says, and Edmund nearly trips in his eagerness to get his chubby little hands on the lit ember he holds. It calls to him, the shimmering orange-brightness, barely even a flame.
“I don’t think it’s such a good idea,” Mother says, grasping his shoulder before he can cross the stone ring.
“Mum, please!”
“It’s perfectly fine, miss, I’ll make sure he don’t hurt himself none.”
“Well, alright,” Mother says, and Edmund steps to the pile, which is easily as tall as he is. The man puts the lit piece of wood in his hand and shows him how to angle it so he doesn’t burn his hand. Edmund kneels on the ground and reaches into the pyre to lay the brand on the hay.
For a moment nothing happens and Edmund feels the pang of disappointment. Then, as he watches, a flash of yellow flickers across the ember and jumps onto the straw. The first flames are thin and spindly, barely even enough to see by, but they are there and they spread, rushing along the straws. He watches, fascinated, as the fire grows and consumes the hay, sending specks of burning hay high up into the cluster of brushwood.
He would gladly watch it all night, but he is being pulled back right before the heat spreads its welcoming arms to him and the fire shoots up into the sky.
“Did you see that?” he calls to Mother over the roaring of the new fire. “Did you? Did you?”
“Of course, dear,” Mother says, but she is looking the other way. “Peter, where is Lucy?”
Peter shrugs and he and Mother rush away after the toddler, leaving Edmund staring at the fire. It crackles merrily, far happier than the fires in the oven or even the fireplace. Edmund reaches out his hands and watches the light colour them orange.
There are people coming from all over now and more fires are lit. Edmund remembers there will be dancing and hopes they will bring cakes. There are usually cakes when there’s dancing.
He is not disappointed. A nice lady wanders by with a basket full of sweet-smelling, warm fairy-cakes and gives him one. He says thank you, because it’s only polite and she ruffles his hair as she wanders off.
The sky overhead grows dark and even more people pour onto the field. Edmund wanders around the fires and nibbles on the cake. He’s quite full, they had a big supper just before coming out, so he’s content to tear small pieces of the treat and lick his fingers clean before taking another bite. The dancing starts around him, but he doesn’t really notice -- people pass him by in circles, leaping over stones and wood and grass, barely even touching the ground and the smoke raises over the fires, veiling the stars and the faces, both high above Edmund.
It never occurs to him that perhaps he should be afraid, that Mother is gone and he hasn’t seen Peter or Susan in a while. The cake is sweet and smells of honey and the air smells of dry birch and sap, and there is heat and cold, alternatively teasing at his face and he feels light, like he is floating.
He likes the feeling.
Edmund is halfway done with the cake when he spots another child, closer to his age than Susan or Lucy, squatting near one of the bonfires. He’s a little surprised -- he saw no other children so far. The adults pay no attention to either of them, turning and whirling, lost in the dance. Some women have flowers in their hair and some have fruit, which Edmund finds a little strange, but it looks pretty. They all laugh and whirl and some of them sing songs he doesn’t understand; it is very pretty and interesting, but Edmund is just a little boy and things that are pretty and loud are still a little bit scary.
“Hi,” Edmund says, squatting beside the other boy.
“Hi,” he replies and stares at Edmund oddly.
“Do you want some of this?” It’s a good cake and he is loath to part with it, but his tummy is so full he might burst, and Mother always says sharing is polite.
The boy looks at the cake and then at him and takes it. Edmund beams and, as the cake disappears, so does the other boy.
“Are you here with your mum, too?” Edmund asks.
“My nurse. I don’t have a mum.”
Edmund tilts his head, because the words have no meaning to him, despite the unnamed horror that lurks underneath. “How can you not have a mum? Everyone has a mum.”
“Not me,” he says and sticks his fingers into his mouth. “She died.”
Edmund still doesn’t understand, because mums don’t die, but nods. “Why do you sound so funny?”
“I don’t sound funny!”
“Yes, you do!”
“Well, you sound funny, too!”
“I do not!” Edmund glares at the strange boy, and he glares right back. The fire lights up half his face, while the other remains dark and maybe they would have fought, but a gust of wind sends the smoke their way and they start coughing. Edmund’s eyes are wet and his throat is burning and the strange boy is clutching his shirt as they stagger away from the fire.
They stand together, side by side, inhaling the cool night air. Edmund’s throat feels scratchy and he is, unexpectedly, quite cold, now that he is away from the fire. He shudders and feels the strange boy shudder, too.
A couple dances around them, raising their joined hands over the two of their heads. The lady has red-currants in her golden hair, smooth like glass, woven with dark green leaves, and she is laughing merrily, and so is the man, whose head is adorned with horns and a deer mask. They whirl around them, and Edmund is sure they are staring straight at him, but how could the man see anything when the eyes of the mask are placed on either side of his head, and maybe it’s no man but a deer, maybe it’s no lady, but a flame.
Edmund and the boy cling together, because these two are beautiful, but they are also terrible. They burn like the fire, they are cold and Edmund thinks he might cry, because he is confused and he is afraid and doesn’t want to be, because boys should be brave, but he cannot help it.
Fortunately, they circle around them once, twice and then the dance takes them elsewhere into the night and Edmund finds he can breathe easily again. The other boy looks at him and his dark eyes are wide and frightened.
“They were pretty,” he says. Edmund just nods.
“I’m cold.” Edmund lets go of the boy’s shirt and wraps his arms around himself. It’s a little warmer, but no less scarier, so he compromises by grabbing the boy’s hand. It’s safer, he remembers, to hold hands when you can’t see too far. That way, when you’re lost, you will not be lost alone.
It’s so dark, all of sudden. The great fires have gone out, leaving behind nothing but sparks and charcoal and smoke. The people have gone, too. Edmund can hear laughter dwindling in the distance, even as fog creeps towards them.
“Mum,” he whispers, because the world is reduced to shapes and glow, and the only thing that’s still there is the dark-haired boy, who clutches his hand and shivers by his side.
He sees something move in the mist and lets go, rushes a few steps because it must be mum, mustn’t it, come to fetch him. Too late he remembers the boy, and he stops and turns only to find that he is staring back as well, but the mist is thickening and he is no more than a shadow in the distance, too far to reach.
“Mum!” he yells. “Mum!”
“Edmund!”
The shape that might be his mum solidifies, rushes towards him, snatches him off the ground and just holds him, repeating his name. “Edmund! Don’t ever do this again! You could have gotten lost, you could have gotten hurt!”
He says nothing. He wraps his arms around Mother’s neck, nestles his head on her shoulder and doses. Tomorrow he will ask that they return to the village, so he can find the other boy and play with him some more.
Tomorrow.
ii.
A dryad bows before him. She is one of the birch people -- slender, pale, with a healthy, bright laugh, not unlike the tingling of the silver bells. There is a wreath of leaves and flowers in her hands, green and fresh.
Edmund inclines his head and she places the wreath atop it like it was a crown, and in a way it is, though he is barefoot and not that different from the others, who had gathered in the grove to celebrate Beltane night.
“My king,” she whispers, and it is like the whisper of the wind among the branches. The brief touch of her lips on his is sunshine, wine, and the song of the birds, high among the trees. She smells of the forest and the meadows, of fresh earth and sun-warmed stones.
Then she is gone, swept into the circling dancers by a faun. Edmund watches her slender figure weave in and out of the crowd and smiles, at least until he notices Lucy, who has clearly thrown all sense of propriety out the window. She wears nothing but a white chemise and a wreath of white lilac upon her brow. He should be outraged, really, because it is not proper for a queen to dance unclothed, but he cannot find the heart, not in the face of such merriment. She is not a queen tonight and he is not king; it is not Narnia that is their kingdom but Beltane, the festival, the night and the fires.
A faun presses a goblet into his hand and Edmund drinks it without hesitation. The wine is cool and sweet, sharp as icy water and soothing like sunlight. The light is brighter now, the shapes clearer. Edmund opens his eyes and the whole world is different, new.
Lucy laughs at him across the fire and holds her hands with a river god, and she is still a child, maybe only for this one summer, so Edmund smiles and, when the circle brings her towards him, grasps her hands and joins the dance.
The fire crackles before him, sending a myriad of sparks across the sky in a tidal wave and he laughs, drunk on the fresh air, on the smell of spring and the heady scent of smoke. The earth is light underneath his feet and, though the steps have never been taught, he feels the movement of the dancers like they were his own, and he is lost among them, he is one of them, they are he and he is them.
Eventually, the crowds thin as couples separate from the dance and disappear into the groves and Edmund feels -- a distant, misty thought -- that he should find Lucy and take her home safely, because he trusts the Narnians, and none of them would hurt her, but the night is old magic and it curls around him. He feels it in his body, pulsing, demanding, thrumming to the beat of the fauns’ pipes. It’s warm in his belly and he shouldn’t trust it, when it moves him through the dance precisely because it moves him, and one should never, ever trust thoughts that aren’t one’s own, but he does, he throws himself in its arms and trusts that he will be safe.
Out of the corner of his eye he sees Lucy, with the royal cloak wrapped around her shoulders and Mr Tumnus’ hand, guiding her back towards Cair Paravel. He catches the faun’s eye and -- as Lucy yawns -- nods. Tumnus offers a half-bow and turns his attention to the young queen, then they disappear among the trees, and Edmund returns to the whirlwind of the dance.
A lady grasps his hands then and smiles at him. There are berries in her hair and flowers and twigs, and her golden curls float around her face, like a cloud, framing the smile of her coral lips and the whiteness of her teeth. Her eyes are bright as the fires, and Edmund feels a stab of fear, because it is not right, it’s not his dance that she pulls him into. He stumbles and loses his grip on her hand, but someone catches him then, pulls him up and the dance continues. His legs are sure again and the night is dark and endless as he looks in the face of the youth that caught his hand.
The momentum pulls them into a circle with their hands still joined, but there is no one else to keep them from falling then; the meadow is empty but for the night, and them, and the remnants of fire, and Edmund sees fear and wonder in the boy’s face and somehow he knows that the lady has danced with him also, that she has brought them together.
They dance on among the shadows and smoke and flames. Closer and closer, they spin around the fire, around each other and then, when the music builds to a crescendo, they step forward, and their lips taste of smoke and wine.
The music thrums in him even now and the magic coils in his belly. The dance brought him here, he knows this, so he takes the boy’s hand and pulls him into the trees, where the others went. The grove is vacant and dark, and the music moves the leaves on the trees. Edmund falls into the high, springy grass, pulling the boy with him. Their hands entwine as they kiss, and it is still the same dance, the same music that moves them both.
The boy’s eyes are dark as the night when they separate. The music is quiet now and the fires are far, but there is a new kind of fire in Edmund’s veins. The boy’s lips are soft and moist, and they kiss again. They tumble in the soft grass, shedding clothes, not that there’s much to shed.
Edmund shivers at the touch of skin, and the boy is just as wide-eyed as he, but the dance urges them on and the music thrums, unheard, pulsing through their veins. They are both unsure, but that doesn’t matter, not when the music guides their hands, their lips, not when their bodies alight and burn in the night.
There is cold around them and heat between them, trapping them in a bubble no bigger than the two of them, and they are both so young and inexperienced that it was never going to be anything but a fumble. Their hands bump and twist when they should be stroking, and then they laugh, between kisses that are all enthusiasm and little skill. Somehow it works out, somehow all that Edmund knows -- thinks he knows -- doesn’t matter and this bumpy slippery contact is enough.
The world is spinning around them, or so it seems, but when it finally stops Edmund finds he’s lying curled in the high grass, and that someone is holding him close, that his own hands are wrapped around someone else. He’s breathing hard and his limbs shake, but the arms wrapped around him are warm and hold him tight and their mouths brush when they breathe.
High above, the sky begins to brighten. It will be many hours before the sun is up, but the first birds begin their tweeting, and soon the various creatures will emerge to start their days.
He needs to go. He is the king, after all, he shouldn’t let any of his subjects catch him naked in the woods. It wouldn’t be proper.
Still he remains. The grass is soft and the boy is warm and he smiles, looks at his face without reverence or fear. He just looks and smiles. Edmund brushes the hair out of his eyes and kisses him.
“I have to go,” he says regretfully. He doesn’t dare to raise his voice over a whisper, partly because the forest is still sleeping, and he has no desire to wake it, but mostly it is because the words are real enough; giving them volume would make them hurt.
“I know,” the boy says, just as quietly. He is sad as he does. “I must go, too.”
They say nothing else when they pull on their clothes. They kiss one last time before the birds start singing and the grove bustles with life, and it’s almost chaste, just lips against lips. It’s gratitude, hope and regret; it is sweet like the first love and bitter like the first good bye.
The mist rises from the ground as the sky grows ever brighter. It’s so thick that when Edmund takes a few steps towards the trees and turns back, he can only see the pale shadow of the other boy, and then nothing but the milky whiteness. He’s lucky he knows the grove well, so it is with minimal stumbling that he makes his way out into the meadow where the air is clearer.
Mr Tumnus is waiting for him there, with a heavy red cloak over his arm. “Your Majesty,” he says with a respectful bow.
“I’m terribly sorry, have you been waiting long?”
“I was worried your Majesty would catch a cold.” It’s not much of an answer. Edmund can see the faun is cold.
“Thank you,” Edmund says and gratefully wraps the cloak around himself. He wasn’t cold last night, far from it, but the cover is welcome now. “You’re terribly kind.”
“Not far from here there is the hut of the badgers, they should be up by now. I think they would be happy to offer you something hot to drink, Sire.”
“I would love that,” Edmund says and follows the faun. He casts one last look at the trees behind him and prays he never meets that boy again, unless it is by the Beltane fire.
iii.
Edmund rushes out of the How, biting his lip to stop himself from screaming. The fools! Can’t they be sane? Can’t they think for ten minutes?
The ice burns him even now. He feels her arms wrapping around him. Her fingers are cold in his hair, her mouth at his temple, whispering hateful things in his ear. He springs out of the How and runs down the hill, hiding among the trees. The branches smack his face as he rushes past, and that’s fine, they slap the witch’s touch away and he is free. Still he runs, for fear she might follow.
It’s just as well. He can’t stand to look at Peter, nor Caspian at the moment. Bloody, contemptuous fools, can’t think straight for ten minutes before summoning forces they cannot control.
He comes to a stop in a clearing, and leans against a tree. “Bloody fools,” he says to the night. He’s warmer now, thankfully. The icy touch is gone, the press of lips and fingers a memory, no stronger than that of battle, just as it will always be.
With a heavy heart he separates from the tree, wipes a hand across his face and looks around. There is a fire in the distance and a handful of slender creatures dance around it. Edmund sighs and starts walking towards it. Damn fauns; he appreciates their need to relax and dance -- it is Beltane, he realises with a start -- but they are at war. Fires are not a good idea.
He walks into the clearing, unnoticed for the roaring fire. Edmund smiles at it. It’s warm and welcoming and Aslan help him if he wasn’t dying for another peaceful Beltane in Narnia.
A faun grins at him across the circle, and Edmund opens his mouth to tell them to quit and put out the fire and hide, but he no sooner does he open his mouth when there is a sharp voice yelling “charge” and they are overrun by a squad of armoured Telmarines.
Edmund doesn’t let himself think. His sword is warm and comforting in his hand as he roars at the fauns and other creatures -- by the lion, some of them are cubs! -- to hide, before thrusting the blade into the nearest man’s throat. There’s not a fighter among them, he realises with dread as he leaps over the dying man to push another into the fire and yank a small rabbit from harm’s way.
“Fly, idiots!” he yells, and then there is no room in his head for thought, there is only the turn, slash, stab, leap, the deadly dance of blood and death.
He is alone in the dark forest, but for the armed knights. He is alone and he is quite likely doomed, but still he dances, whirling around the fire as the knights bleed and die and then all of sudden he is not alone; someone dances with him, matching his steps, turning when he does like they were shadows of one man.
Out of the corner of his eye Edmund sees a horned head and an animal pelt over a heaving chest. His skin is tanned and gleaming, there are coarse hairs streaming from below the mask, with berries and leaves woven throughout. In his hand there is a knife, or possibly a spearhead, made of stone.
Edmund sees a Telmarine to his right and, somehow, he knows to dive underneath the man’s arms. The music should have stopped a long time ago, but he feels its drumming and he knows the steps, so he knows that when his back is turned, the horned man will drive the stone spear into the Telmarine’s neck, spraying them both with his blood. Some of it lands in the fire, which greedily devours the drops, hissing as they burn.
The man-creature is spattered in blood and he whirls around Edmund, taking down the knights without a thought, like he was born to do it; he revels in the kills, and they all fall at his blade. Edmund barely has time to raise his sword and take a swing at a man’s head, before more pour into the narrow passage between the stones at the far-end of the clearing and the deer-headed man and he are back to back, their swords -- and they are swords now, not a sword and a stone spearhead -- whirl in unison, while the flames flicker.
They win. When the last of the Telmarine knight falls Edmund is breathing hard, but they have conquered and now he turns to thank his saviour and cannot help but stare.
“You- you’re a Telmarine,” he manages between wheezes. He stands before a man of about forty winters, a head taller than him, handsome and dark. He is clad similarly to Caspian, and, from Edmund has been able to see, Miraz.
The man stares at him, hard. His eyes are wide and misted with tears, his mouth parts and he tries to say something, but the sharp edge of the sword before his face makes him think better of it. “I’m a Narnian,” he says, and by his accent Edmund almost believes him.
The fires shimmer and the mist clings to the stone and tree. Edmund shakes his head and his gaze falls to the sword the man holds, a sword with a lion’s head and a bright, never-dimming blade--
“That is Peter’s,” he says calmly and his own sword automatically raises between the two of them again.
“It is mine. It was a gift.” Rhindon -- or rather its twin -- is sheathed and the man raises his hands in a placating gesture. “Please. I’m your friend.”
Edmund glares, but there is the insistent sincerity in the man’s expression. The light deceives him, because the face looks familiar; not the face of a soldier he killed in battle, but that of someone dear, someone he could trust, a long time ago. He sheathes his sword, but doesn’t come any closer.
“Right. I must go back.”
“Are you missed?”
“Not so much missed, perhaps, but I fear there is much fighting going on in the How at the moment.”
The man hesitates. “Are you fighting the Telmarine army?”
“At the moment Peter’s fighting Caspian and it would be best not to let them kill one another.”
The man grins and shakes his head. “I’m sure they will be fine.”
“One can only hope.”
The mist is thicker now. Smoke is woven into it, and Edmund can almost see it, a slightly more blue shade of white, moving through the air. The ground is soft beneath his feet, grassy. He must be far from the How, which spells out more danger than he can possibly imagine at the moment, certainly more than he can handle.
It was stupid of him, to wander this far alone. It’s lucky the forest is so quiet.
Which, come to think of it, is most queer. True, the beasts have been quiet under the Telmarine rule, but this utter silence is something different. Edmund shudders. Something is most strange, and the man who saved his life is still staring at him.
“What?” Edmund asks, not out of annoyance, but because there is entirely too much intensity in the attention, intensity that he feels he doesn’t merit.
“You’re so young.”
“It’s a complicated story.”
“You fight and kill like the most valiant knights I know, but you look like a child. It is a little strange to see.”
“Trust me, it’s no stranger than what I actually am.”
“I know what you are,” the man says. “You are a ghost.”
“No, I don’t think I am that. I’m real.” Edmund grins and looks at the fire. “Will you help me? I need to put it out, before more of them see the glow.”
Together they heap dirt onto the still roaring flames, until finally the fire dies and the mist pours into the clearing. Edmund shivers. The night is still young and, judging by the lack of search parties, the squad is not missed, which doesn’t bide well for the upcoming battle. So many beasts and creatures have already died, many more would die tomorrow and, by the end, when Miraz storms the How, Caspian will be executed and all of this will have been for naught.
Edmund startles when lips touch his forehead. It’s a prickly kiss, but what’s more surprising is that the man managed to come so close without him realising it, and that he felt no inclination to leap away. There is something almost familiar about him; he smells of leather, horse and sweat, but it’s a good kind of smell. Familiar. The smell of armour and exercise in the field, of wind and sand on the road between the mountains.
“You will win this war,” the man says, holding Edmund’s chin in place. He looks into his eyes and Edmund sees confidence and truth there; he sees breathtaking affection. “You will win and Caspian will be king. Trust me.”
“I,” Edmund starts to say, when a noise startles them both. Edmund whirls in its direction, sword drawn. Behind him he hears the man doing the same, but the mist is so thick they lose sight of one another the moment they step away. He hears the footsteps mirroring his on the grass for a little longer, but soon they too dissolve in the milky whiteness -- they must have split, the forest plays tricks on people. He will find his way back, Edmund thinks. They couldn’t have been far from the Telmarine encampment, if he saw the fires too.
“My king!” someone calls in a whisper and Edmund turns to find a faun, his eyes wide in fear. “My king, you should not wander alone, it is the night of Beltane!”
“I know. We must be swift, I was accosted by a party of Telmarines.” Edmund nudges a dead man with his sword, just to be sure.
The faun -- Edmund is relatively sure his name is Minnus -- pays it no heed. “Sire, they are the least of our worries on such a night.”
“I always liked Beltane,” Edmund says as they make their way back. He feels lighter now. Even if the strange man was Telmarine, even if he were to face him in battle tomorrow, he had been true, and Edmund knew without a shadow of a doubt that they would win.
“It is not safe. The Horned Hunter has long forsaken this land which rejected him and the lady, but the mists remain in their absence, to avenge the wrongs done to them. Many a man has gone into the woods on Beltane and not returned, and we rejoiced, because the land doesn’t favour the Telmarines, but for you, my king! It is not safe for the children of Adam and Eve, not tonight.”
Edmund blinks. “A horned man? Gone? But I’ve seen him tonight. He wore fruit and leaves in his hair, and a deer mask. He helped me against the knights.”
The faun nearly falls to the ground. “The Hunter has returned? Sire, are you sure?”
“Unless there is some other bloke who dances with a stone spearhead with horns on his forehead, I mean, it is just a mask.”
“Bless you, Your Majesty,” the faun says and, to Edmund’s surprise, bows before him so low his horns disappear in the grass. “That Herne himself came to your aid! With him returned we cannot fail! The trees shall wake, Aslan shall surely follow, come, Sire, we must spread the news at once, we have the land on our side once more!”
“Wait, wait. It wouldn’t do to go on being this enthusiastic, this hunter is just one man, we need to win this properly,” Edmund says. “And we will. Trust me.”
Of course, all the fauns and centaurs are already buzzing with excitement the moment they step back into the camp. Edmund rolls his eyes when none of them can see, but he proceeds into the heart of the How without hesitation, to find Caspian and Peter sulking on opposite ends of the chamber.
“Right,” he says to them. “No more of that. We are winning this.”
On to part two.
