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“You’re bitten,” said Peter, pointing to King Caspian’s arm. His tunic had torn at the upper bicep, exposing broken skin.
Caspian twisted to get a good look at the wound. “Yes, I am,” he replied. He seemed remarkably unbothered to see the blood there. “It was that- that wolf thing.”
“Right,” said Peter, turning to examine what was on the stone table at the centre of the cavernous room. Along with a sword, some maps, paper, ink bottles, and a quill, there was a bottle of mead, which he grabbed. He sniffed it and, judging it to be of good quality, handed it to Edmund. “Will you…?”
“‘Course,” Edmund said, and took the mead. “Will this be sufficient, do you think?”
“You have bandages in your bag,” said Peter, which didn’t exactly answer Edmund’s question — how could he treat a werewolf bite with alcohol and bandages? — but he supposed that was the best they could offer Caspian right then, and made no arguments.
He joined Caspian at the far end of the table, where they stood closely together, as private as they could get while still making use of the dim light. Peter formed his own little bubble at the other end and talked quietly with Trumpkin, Trufflehunter, and Doctor Cornelius.
Edmund took Caspian’s forearm and guided him to the table’s edge, where he sat, his back to the others. The candles’ flames cast playful shadows, throwing them in and out of the light like sun on sea.
“How bad is the pain?” said Edmund.
“Not too,” said Caspian.
Edmund pulled out a spare rag — a pink, dingy, patchy old thing — and slung it over his shoulder. “There’s no need to be brave, your Majesty,” he said, half serious and half joking.
Caspian took it as the latter and smiled. “It only stings a little,” he said. “And please, call me ‘Caspian.’”
“You deserve your title,” said Edmund, taken aback. “Don’t you want to use it?”
“I do, but you need not use it.”
Edmund chuckled. “Are we to be friends, then?”
Caspian tilted his head. “I should like to be.”
“In that case, you may call me ‘Edmund,’” he said. He brought a candle closer so he could better examine Caspian’s wound. “Or ‘Ed,’ that’s fine too.”
“Okay…Edmund,” Caspian said quietly. And no wonder he was so calm, the blood on his ripped sleeve made things seem more dire than they really were. The bite wasn’t terribly deep.
“Or ‘Ed.’”
Caspian’s features were soft in the candlelight: his skin was golden, his cheeks were shadowed by his eyelashes, and his brown eyes were dark and warm. “I like ‘Edmund,’” he said. “Your brother calls you ‘Ed.’”
It struck Edmund, then, that he was standing between Caspian’s legs— far closer than he usually got to anyone, much less a stranger. “Right.” He cleared his throat and stepped back a bit. “Now that’s sorted…” Then he began ripping a strip of cloth from the bottom of his own tunic, following the line of the hem. The sound arced through the room like lightning.
“I thought your brother said you had bandages?” said Caspian.
“I do.” Edmund paused to take them from his bag. “They’re not the right thickness for cleaning a wound. Too thin,” he said, unrolling them a little to demonstrate. “Good for wrapping, though.”
“You would know better than I,” said Caspian. “I’ve…heard stories of you treating your men during battle. Not every king would do so.”
“Not everyone has the knowledge to do it,” said Edmund. “But I learned a lot of it by need. My sister, Queen Lucy— she has a cordial that can heal anything, but she isn’t always close by and she uses it sparingly. I’ve seen a lot of injuries, but nothing quite like this.”
“You mean to tell me no one was ever bitten on the battlefield?” Caspian said.
“Not by a werewolf,” said Edmund, setting the bandages down by Caspian’s knee. He began ripping the cloth from his tunic again. It gave him a good excuse to look away from the other boy and force down the blush that threatened to form whenever they locked eyes. For however diligent he was in this task, he found himself rather distracted by Caspian.
Susan would call him handsome, when she saw him. Edmund would call him beautiful, but never aloud.
“Who, then?” Caspian said, leaning forward.
Edmund hadn’t been expecting to come up with an example, so he reached instead for a jest: “I mustn’t say, but…the High King has very sharp teeth,” he said, earning him a disgruntled look from the other side of the table. He stuck his tongue out at Peter, and Caspian laughed like he wasn’t sure he was allowed to.
It was easily the best thing Edmund had heard all day.
“Isn’t that blasphemous?” Caspian said.
“We’re siblings, aren’t we?” Edmund countered. As he spoke, he could see Peter blatantly pretending not to hear him, so he raised his voice: “As the younger brother, it’s my job to keep Peter’s head from getting too big. Being High King is almost worthless if the crown doesn’t fit anymore.”
“I see,” said Caspian, smiling. Cautiously, he watched Peter go back to his conversation before saying: “A wise and noble endeavour.”
“It is.” The last bit of cloth tore from Edmund’s tunic with a crack. “Now to sterilise it,” he added, more to himself than anyone. He held it over the lip of the mead bottle and tipped. As thick as the fabric was, some of the mead escaped, running down his wrist in a thin trail.
Caspian’s eyes flicked down to track the movement, lingering just long enough for Edmund to notice. He decided not to draw attention to it, and instead told Caspian to brace himself.
“Okay,” said Caspian after he'd gotten into position, bending his head and clutching the table’s edge in both hands.
Edmund pressed the cloth to Caspian’s bicep, blotting gently at the bite there. At first contact, Caspian drew in a sharp breath and tensed, but didn’t pull away; as Edmund continued, he relaxed in small increments. Perhaps the sting of the alcohol dissolved into one steady pain after a while, or perhaps he was being stoic, Edmund couldn’t tell.
“There,” he said, when he finished. He took the rag from his shoulder and wiped his hands clean. “Not too bad, it’s already stopped bleeding.”
“Yes, although I could have been luckier. An inch to the right and the wolf would have gotten my armour instead,” Caspian said, using his chin to gesture toward the brigandine vest he was wearing. Then he straightened, realising something. “Should I…?” He touched the top buckle of his vest.
And logically, Edmund had known that it would come to this, that Caspian would have to undress. Thus far, he had successfully kept himself from thinking of it, but now that the time was upon them, he could feel the cogs of his brain catch.
He very nearly forgot the job he had to do.
“Yes,” he managed, and tried not to stare as Caspian undid all the buckles one-handed. It was only when Caspian struggled to get the first shoulder out of his vest that Edmund moved to help, sliding the green leather gently down his arms.
“Thanks,” Caspian said. He thumbed the collar of his tunic. “What of this?”
“Er, do you want to mend it, or do you have another?” said Edmund, scarcely daring to breathe. This moment seemed so fanciful that it might float away at the slightest gust. “I shall have to rip the sleeve if you don’t take it off entirely.”
Was it his imagination, or had Caspian’s eyes twinkled after that last phrase? “I’d like to mend it, this is the only one I had time to bring.”
“Off it comes, then,” said Edmund. He gave Caspian more space to disrobe, turning away to clean his hands again with his rag.
He did not have very long to do so; shortly after he’d soaked the rag in mead, Caspian laughed and called his name. Edmund looked over and was amused to find Caspian half in and half out of his tunic, the hem bunched awkwardly around his neck and his right arm tangled in the sleeve.
“Would you—?” Caspian asked.
Chuckling, Edmund moved to help, sliding the tunic off in much the same way he had Caspian’s vest. He folded the garment and set it aside, then turned back and—
There was Caspian: shirtless, broad-shouldered, and even more stunning than before. He was in the middle of sweeping back his shoulder-length hair, which had gotten mussed in the removal of his tunic, and he was looking down, unwittingly giving Edmund the chance to watch. But as Caspian moved, the golden light shifted— no longer playful, but possessive. It reached all across his smooth, bare chest, its bright fingers touching every spot Edmund was not allowed near.
By some cruel twist of fate, Caspian chose that precise moment to meet his eyes, and Edmund had the distinct, horrible feeling of being caught out. Shame gored into him, pinning him in place. He’d been staring, oh God, he’d been staring!
Heat rose to his cheeks, too hot and too quick to stamp out, and of course — curse his bad luck — Caspian saw this as well. His eyes widened and Edmund panicked, turning away to reach for the bandages, hoping to get control of himself in that brief moment. Caspian wanted to be friends, and friends didn’t stare.
“Edmund,” said Caspian, but Edmund refused to look at him. Instead, he began wrapping Caspian’s wound, keeping his brown eyes on the one thing he truly understood.
He could do this if he could just focus.
“Edmund,” Caspian repeated, a note of urgency in his voice. He lifted Edmund’s chin with a finger.
If Caspian said anything else to him then, Edmund didn’t hear it. Nothing could be louder than the blood beating in his chest, so sudden and powerful that his whole body seemed to vibrate with that chaos, that feeling of startled birds taking to the air.
They were closer in proximity than Edmund had thought; he’d known, distantly, that he was standing between Caspian’s knees again, but there was a new significance to that. Their faces were barely a foot apart, and Caspian still hadn’t removed his hand from under Edmund’s chin.
Caspian spoke, and to Edmund it sounded like he was calling from another room: “It’s all right.” His gaze was soft, but his skin was fire against Edmund’s.
Abnormally hot.
That kind of heat was a bad sign, if it meant what Edmund thought.
Instinctively, he raised the back of a hand to Caspian’s forehead, then brought it to his own, comparing their temperatures. “You’re warm,” he said.
“Quite,” Caspian agreed.
Edmund was growing worried. Fever was an indicator of infection or other ills, and for one to start so early, less than an hour after Caspian had been bitten by that werewolf…
Everything Edmund knew about werewolves — every terrible thing he’d heard — sounded in his head at once. “If this fever grows worse, I shall have to get Lucy,” he said. “No matter how far away she is.”
Caspian gave a breathy laugh. “I can assure you, it’s no fever.”
“Then what could—?” Edmund started, but cut himself off as he took in the significant look Caspian was giving him, and finally saw that the boy’s face had become a deeper colour. The shadows must have hidden it from him until that moment. That, or Edmund hadn’t allowed himself to think Caspian might—
Had Caspian been…flirting with him?
“Oh,” Edmund said, as he realised that must be it. His blush came back stronger than before.
For a long moment he and Caspian were silent, gazing at each other with matching grins.
Romance had never been an easy thing for Edmund. In both of his lives — in England and Narnia — something had always gotten in the way. The pressing claws of war, planning battle strategies, learning to manipulate their enemies, mastering statecraft, brokering peace, his school work, being an adult in a child’s body. England's social order. Susan. Aslan.
Aslan had never said how long the Pevensies would stay in Narnia, and it felt cruel to start something with someone if they only had a short while together. But thirty-two years, combined, was a long time to deny what you wanted. It could be different now. They were a thousand years in the future, starting over. No responsibilities, nothing to pull Edmund away.
Except, of course, Caspian’s wound. But held against the span of years, that was a small diversion. And a pleasant one.
“I really should get to it,” Edmund said, and Caspian nodded.
Progress was slow under Caspian’s watch. Each time Edmund’s fingertips or knuckles brushed over Caspian’s bicep, he felt tempted to slide his hands elsewhere and abandon the task altogether. Especially after what Caspian had confirmed. The only thing that kept Edmund wrapping was the fact that it needed to be done, no matter that it took longer than was strictly necessary.
He knew Peter could finish up quicker, but he didn’t dare call his brother over. Peter would put an end to this new, wonderful thing, and Edmund couldn’t stand to see it fall apart. Not so soon. Already, there was a small, bitter part of him that was convinced Caspian would lose interest the moment he saw Susan. It had happened before, all too often.
One more thing to make him feel inferior. The second choice.
“What will happen to you?” Edmund said, both because he wanted to know and because this silence had become dangerous.
“What do you mean?” said Caspian.
“You were bitten by a werewolf,” said Edmund. “How does that work here, in Narnia?”
“Oh, it’s merely a flesh wound,” Caspian said. He shifted on the table, widening the angle of his legs. “It’ll heal. I’ll be fine in a couple of days, maybe a week.”
Edmund lifted an eyebrow. “Really? Back in— Where I’m from, werewolves… Well, they make other werewolves by biting people.”
“Really?” Caspian said.
“Well, that’s how the story goes, anyway. They don’t really exist back home. Just myths.”
“But people become werewolves from just a bite?” said Caspian. “I don’t understand. Is it the saliva that does it? Could a person become a wolf if, say, a werewolf dribbled on them?”
Edmund laughed, and Caspian was soon to follow suit.
“I hadn’t thought of that before,” said Edmund. “You know, I really don’t know. It is quite silly, isn’t it? Is it the teeth, maybe, that does it? Breaking skin?”
“Oh, like a snake?” Caspian said. “With their venom?”
“Maybe,” said Edmund.
“What a wild world you come from,” Caspian said with a fond smile.
A whole new wave of affection swept through Edmund at the sight. “How does it work here?”
“One is simply born a wolf man. One doesn’t change with a simple bite. But this makes sense now, no wonder you looked so concerned when I said I’d been bitten by that thing. Unless,” said Caspian, “you make a habit of showing great care for people you’ve just met?”
Edmund blinked and returned his attention to Caspian’s bandages. “You’re royalty.”
“Is that it?”
“Should there be more?”
Caspian swept a thumb over Edmund’s wrist. “I thought there might be.”
It was so intimate that Edmund felt as if Caspian had bent him backward and kissed him instead of that simple touch. “Perhaps,” Edmund said, securing the bandages with a metal clip. He didn’t know how he did it; he’d have thought his hands were shaking too much.
“Just perhaps?” said Caspian.
“A strong possibility,” Edmund said cheekily. Even when his body betrayed him, he was never left wanting for words.
“Oh, so long as the odds are that good.” Caspian was leaning in now, slowly and haltingly, giving Edmund the chance to call him on his boldness and end things before they began, but Edmund allowed the motions and leaned in as well. There was not much distance between them to start, and quickly their lips were almost touching.
“We shouldn’t,” Edmund whispered against Caspian’s waiting mouth.
“No,” Caspian agreed.
Simultaneously, they moved: Edmund braced a hand on Caspian’s chest and they kissed once, sweetly, hidden in the darkness cast by Caspian’s shadow.
“Edmund!” came Peter’s voice, so harsh after the near silence that Edmund and Caspian froze, thinking they had been discovered. “I’m for breakfast, are you nearly finished?”
“Y-” Edmund said, and it sounded so garbled that he had to clear his throat and try again. “Yes, nearly.”
“Hurry it up, then, will you?” said Peter.
Caspian and Edmund gave each other longing looks, but parted, both feeling much colder without the other boy pressed to him. The dim light of the room seemed far less private now, too. They were exposed there, and it was a wonder no one had seen. Or maybe the others were too polite to say anything about it.
Still, they exchanged secret smiles all through breakfast, and sat close enough that their knees brushed every now and then. Edmund was happy, well and truly happy, for the first time in what seemed like ages.
It had been ages, depending on how one looked at it.
And it got better. Later, when Susan made eyes at Caspian, he did not turn to her as Edmund feared. No, it was Edmund’s eyes he sought, Edmund’s hand he reached for as they watched Peter fight Miraz, Edmund he fell asleep next to at Aslan’s feast, and Edmund he kissed goodbye, cupping his face like he was a precious thing.
Though scarcely three kisses passed between them, Edmund was sure there would be more. After all, Aslan had said he would return to Narnia again, sooner or later.
If Edmund had any say, he hoped it would be sooner.