Work Text:
Edmund grunted as the Telmarine pressed the tip of the knife into his stomach. The man smiled, wide and full of gleaming white teeth.
“Are you ready, little king? Because here’s my obeisance.”
He shoved in the knife—slowly. The air rushed from Edmund’s chest, and then he couldn’t find it again, lost in the searing pain worming its way deeper into his side. His knuckles were white when the man stepped back, leaving the knife buried in Edmund’s stomach. Edmund panted.
“You.” The man emphasized his words with taps on the knife’s hilt, each one a flash of agony. “Abandoned your kingdom. Thirteen hundred years ago. Who are you to come back now, and claim the kingdom we have been taking care of? Hm?”
Edmund had clenched his teeth so he wouldn’t cry out, but he unlocked them enough to snarl,
“You weren’t taking care of Narnia; you were killing her. And I’m Edmund the Just, Duke of Lantern Waste—”
The man ripped the knife from Edmund’s side, twisting as he yanked. Edmund screamed, then locked his eyes back on the Telmarine’s.
“Count of the Western March. Knight—”
The man punched Edmund. He tasted blood.
“Think about whose side you’re on, Edmund,” whispered the echo of another strike to his face, and he grinned, because she was dead and he knew exactly whose side he was on.
“Knight of the Order of the Table.”
The man punched him again, this time in his wounded side. Edmund’s vision went white, and he heard a distant noise that was probably him screaming again.
It took him longer to find his voice this time. Sweat dripped stinging into his eyes, and with his hands bound he couldn’t wipe it away. The Telmarine leaned close, grinning again.
“You’re a child.”
Edmund’s side demanded his breathing be fast and shallow. He sucked in a deep breath anyway so he had enough air to look the man in the eye—never mind he could barely see; the man didn’t need to know that—and finish it. Royals shouldn’t leave things half done, after all.
“And King of Narnia, by decree of prophecy, Aslan, and—”
The man raised the knife to Edmund’s throat, muscles in his face working and mouth opening furiously—
“By decree of prophecy, Aslan, and his brother, Peter, High King over all Kings in Narnia.”
Peter’s voice was cold as the peaks of the Western Mountains. The Telmarine froze, Rhindon pressed to the back of his neck. He turned slowly, and the figure he beheld did not look like a child. The knife thumped to the ground without Peter having to say anything.
Edmund let his head drop back against the tree he was tied to.
“’lo, Peter,” he croaked. He squinted at the person standing behind Peter, sword drawn but unneeded. “Caspian.”
“Edmund,” Peter said stiffly. His hands shook, because the High King did not run through unarmed men, whatever Edmund’s brother might be feeling. “Are you alright?”
“Stabbed a bit,” Edmund said, keeping his breathing shallow now. “Don’t think it hit anything important, but—” He paused to push down a wave of nausea-laced pain. “Hard to tell with these things.”
“Ed…” He grinned wearily at the exasperated amusement in Peter’s voice. Peter turned to Caspian. “Can you handle him?”
He jerked his chin at the Telmarine. Contempt sparked in Caspian’s eyes as he nodded, sword-tip moving to join Peter’s.
“Of course.”
A second later, Rhindon was sheathed and Peter was untying Edmund. Peter caught him as he swayed, so he only sank to his knees instead of crumpling to them.
“Traitor,” the Telmarine spat behind them.
“We Telmarines betrayed Narnia first,” Caspian said, voice tight with rage. “And you swore oaths to all of us when you chose to stay.”
“I stayed for my lands and my life here, not for any child kings out of storybooks.”
Peter’s hands gripped Edmund more tightly as he glared over his shoulder at the man.
“Your death would have been no story if you had managed to kill him.”
“Peter…” Edmund placed a hand over Peter’s. “I’m alright now.”
“You’re bleeding.” Edmund had kept his voice low—they couldn’t keep the Telmarine from overhearing, but they didn’t need to make a show of the kings’ emotions—but Peter didn’t bother. He tore a strip from his tunic, wadded it up, and pressed it to Edmund’s side. Edmund hissed at the pressure. “And who knows what kind of internal damage you have.”
“More if you keep bashing the wound like that,” Edmund said breathlessly. He moved his hand up to hold the cloth in place—his fingers traveled over rather more blood-soaked fabric than he was expecting; perhaps Peter had a point about the bleeding—so Peter could hook his arm under Edmund’s shoulders. With Peter supporting Edmund and Caspian escorting the Telmarine at sword-point beside them, they started back through the woods. Peter made sure he was between Edmund and the Telmarine.
Caspian glanced away from his prisoner long enough to run burning eyes over Edmund.
“You take being stabbed rather lightly.”
“He does it a lot,” Peter said darkly. “The Witch, of course, and several times during our first reign…”
“Says the one who was always riding off to war,” Edmund said.
“That’s my job. You’re supposed to be the diplomat.”
“I’ll remember that next time I’m covering your back on the battlefield.”
Peter huffed, an annoyed sound, but Edmund felt his fingers, digging into Edmund’s ribs more than was necessary to keep him upright, slowly relaxing.
By the time they were within sight of the castle, though, Edmund had run out of breath to banter. Each step jarred his side, and his head was starting to spin. He sighed in relief as Lucy came running out to meet them.
“Edmund! You’re hurt!”
Fury filled her face, and Peter lurched sideways to grab her arm at the same instant she lunged at the Telmarine. Edmund gasped as he was dragged along, side afire.
Susan ran up to them, drawn by Lucy’s shout. Peter let her take Edmund’s weight, and she helped him sit on the grass by the roadside.
“Lucy!” he panted. “Cordial first, killing the Telmarine later, maybe?”
“Sorry!”
Lucy flushed and hurriedly pulled the little diamond bottle from her belt. The Telmarine’s eyes widened as she used it, but he made a show of sneering.
“Easy to win when you have magic trickery.”
“She has a dagger, too,” Peter said, gesturing for the Telmarine to keep walking. “Next time I’ll let her use it.”
Caspian had not seen the healing cordial used as often the Pevensies, and his eyes lingered on Edmund a moment longer before he joined Peter in leading the man away. Edmund, trading hugs with his sisters and taking deep breaths now that he could, nodded at Caspian over Susan’s shoulder. Caspian nodded back with a very serious sort of half-smile that made Edmund’s stomach warm pleasantly.
Later, when the Telmarine was safely locked up awaiting trial, Peter and Caspian found Edmund, changed out of his bloody clothes and sprawled on a sitting room couch reading, with Lucy in his lap and Susan embroidering quietly nearby. Peter walked straight to Edmund.
“Budge up, Lu,” he said. “I haven’t had a chance to hug Edmund properly yet.”
“You’re all ridiculous, you know,” Edmund said as Lucy obligingly slid over. “I’m fine now.”
He still hugged Peter almost as tightly as Peter hugged him. He knew how Peter fussed.
When he let go, Peter settled into the couch next to Edmund. Lucy promptly climbed back into Edmund’s lap, propping her feet in Peter’s lap; Caspian had seated himself in a chair beside Susan.
“I’m glad you’re alright,” he told Edmund.
“…thanks.”
Edmund caught Lucy and Peter exchanging a look, clearly suppressing grins. He surreptitiously flicked Peter’s arm.
“Hey!”
Caspian looked over at Peter. Peter, Edmund, and Lucy all looked back innocently.
“Ignore them,” Susan said, though she was smiling.
Edmund leaned back, folding his arms behind his head.
“Here I am, having almost just died, and I’m being ignored.”
He sighed melodramatically.
“Tragic,” said Peter, from the pile that was his, Edmund’s, and Lucy’s limbs.
“I thought you were fine,” Susan said.
“Clearly he only got stabbed for attention,” Caspian teased.
“No respect, any of you.”
“If you wanted respect, you should not have made me king beside you.”
“Maybe we shouldn’t have.”
Edmund grinned at Caspian, but Caspian looked thoughtful.
“Do you regret it?” he asked quietly. “Being king, if it is always like this?”
His eyes lingered on Edmund’s side.
Edmund shrugged.
“It’s what we are. The prophecy wouldn’t let us give it up if we wanted to.” He remembered a long-ago winter, a petrified faun in a hall full of frozen bravery, a fox who had called him your majesty. Choices made, a thousand years ago now. “And I don’t want to.”
“It’s not always bad,” Lucy said. “Right now is good.”
She snuggled closer to Edmund, and he rested his chin on her head as he reached for his book again.
“Yes,” Caspian said, looking around at them all. “This is good.”