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It starts with the rattle in his chest every time he breathes.
Edmund thinks nothing of it at first, then figures it must be some sort of cold. Winter has just begun to set in, and he has been outside more often than he has been inside lately.
He wraps his scarf tighter the next morning, but the chill still seems to seep through. The rattle in his chest has deepened, a soft percussion that plays with every breath, like a warning he doesn’t yet know how to heed. The air bites at his fingers even through wool gloves, and his breath curls out in pale ghosts. It doesn’t hurt exactly, but it pulses beneath his ribs like something alive. It’s a sort of pressure now that doesn’t allow his lungs to expand enough to draw in a full breath.
No matter. Edmund has duties to complete before the snow starts to fall.
He's in charge of training the new knights today while the Captain is off for a family emergency. This isn't the first time Edmund has stepped in, and it certainly won't be the last. He doesn't mind all too much.
Sword fighting is one of the only things Edmund feels he’s good at lately.
The sheath attached to his sword belt sits on his hip as he approaches the grassy area they’ve designated for training today. A small group of men, about seven of them, are slightly visible through the wood. They’re wearing less armour than Edmund had halfway expected them to in this sort of weather, but they look warm enough, and it’s too late to put on any more anyway—the rest of their sets must be somewhere else.
No one notices him as he rounds the corner. Instead, all of the soldiers’ attention is on Caspian and Peter. Edmund scowls at the sight and blames the ringing in his ears from keeping him from hearing their voices. They stand in front of the soldiers and are going over something about their swords. Edmund inhales the annoyingly crisp air and cringes at the audible rasp. It draws Caspian’s attention.
“Edmund!” he calls, surprised. Peter’s head swivels next and now they’re both looking at him. “I did not think you would be joining us today.”
“I didn’t know you’d be here, either,” Edmund returns.
Peter gives him a funny sort of look. “Are you alright?”
“Perfect.” Edmund steps forward and tries to ignore the pounding behind his eyes. Caspian and Peter exchange a look as Edmund nears them, but he elects to ignore it. He doesn’t want to think about what that look means—it requires too much focus.
Peter very clearly doesn’t buy it. He looks Edmund up and down, inspecting him, then frowns. “Beat Caspian in a duel, and we’ll let you stay,” he says plainly. Edmund opens his mouth to protest a moment too late, and Peter cuts him off. “Everyone could learn a thing or two from your fighting anyway.”
Edmund knows immediately he isn’t getting out of this one.
Peter moves to stand to the side beneath the shade of a canvas awning, arms crossed, expression unreadable. Edmund can feel the weight of Peter's blue eyes settled on him.
Caspian rolls his shoulders across from him. He seems reluctant to do this, but it had been Peter's order, and Edmund knows Caspian well enough to know that Caspian doesn't argue with Peter much anymore—not for matters like this.
Edmund draws his sword with his usual fluid precision—but something about the motion is off. Too stiff. Too careful. His hand tightens around the leather grip. It's heavy in his hands, but he's gotten used to the weight.
“All right,” Caspian says, tone easy but loud enough for the soldiers to hear. “Watch our footwork and spacing. Precision first, speed after.”
Edmund nods once and takes his stance. His face is pale, jaw clenched too tightly. Sweat beads at his temple. He feels off-balance, and his chest still rattles. But he can do this.
Caspian’s brow furrows briefly, but he raises his blade all the same.
They begin.
At first, it’s smooth: the practiced rhythm of two men who have sparred hundreds of times. A swift clash of blades. A side-step. A mirrored retreat.
Then Edmund falters, barely, but Caspian sees it—the half-second delay, the way Edmund blinks too slowly, the catch in his breath.
Still, Edmund doesn’t yield. He presses forward, forcing Caspian into a brief defensive bout, teeth gritted with something between stubbornness and defiance. His swings are sharp but off-kilter, as if his body lags just behind his will.
Edmund misses the way Peter steps forward from the shade.
Caspian deflects Edmund's next blow easily, stepping aside rather than countering. “You’re slow today,” he says, voice pitched low enough not to carry to the soldiers. He's not taunting, just…observing. Edmund can pick up on that much. “You all right?”
“I’m fine,” Edmund grits out, lungs laboring. His stance resets sloppily.
“You’re not.” Caspian’s tone shifts, firm now. “We can stop.”
“No.”
Caspian hesitates, but the soldiers are watching. Peter is watching. So he moves again—but slower this time, more controlled. Testing.
Edmund tries to match it, but his sword dips a fraction too low. Caspian parries, turns, and twists the blade from Edmund’s grip with a disarm that should never have worked.
Edmund staggers a step, just one, but Caspian drops his sword instantly and catches him by the arm before the he can recover fully.
“Edmund,” he says quietly, “you’re burning up.”
Edmund pulls back, face tight with frustration. “I said I’m fine.”
“You’re not,” Peter’s voice cuts across the yard—sharp and low and absolute.
All heads turn.
He strides into the ring, looking first at Caspian, then at Edmund, who looks like he might drop from sheer willpower alone.
Peter’s hand goes to Edmund’s back, steadying. “You don’t have anything to prove,” he says, gentler now. “Not to us.” Edmund flinches—not at the touch, but at the softness.
The recruits shift uneasily. One of them opens his mouth like he might speak, then thinks better of it.
“I wasn’t trying to prove anything,” Edmund mutters, but he knows Peter can see right through him. He's always been able to, even before their first reign. It's something that must come along with being the eldest.
But it's Caspian who says, “You were.”
Silence falls. Edmund thinks, belatedly, that Caspian and Peter have been spending entirely too much time together.
After a beat, Peter turns to the soldiers. “That,” he says coolly, gesturing at Edmund, “is what we do not do in this army. Know your limits. Honor them. If you can’t wield your sword, you don’t belong on the field—yet.”
A few of the soldiers flush. One nods stiffly.
Caspian retrieves both swords. He offers Edmund’s back, but Edmund only gives him a look before sagging slightly against Peter’s shoulder. Peter clears his throat.
“Caspian will lead the rest of the lesson,” he says without bothering to consult Caspian. Dutifully, Caspian nods.
Peter bears more of their weight as he drags Edmund along the path back towards the castle. Edmund groans at the pull on his shoulder and decides it's better if he walks on his own.
The air feels thinner, somehow, or maybe Edmund is just lightheaded. Each step he takes is heavy and his body wants to collapse in on the weight.
Edmund was a sickly child. It wasn't his fault, mostly—he never went out of his way to play outside or with other children. He wasn't often exposed to germs out of his own free will. No, it was his immune system that decided to make him sick all the time. He supposes it's because he was a premature baby, and there were, as expected, complications.
It's been a few years since he's been sick, though—sicker than he usually is most of the time. Edmund is never healthy, despite his best efforts.
Peter doesn't seem to be bothered by the slow pace Edmund falls into. He's instead, if his face is anything to go by, comfortable to walk as slowly as Edmund needs him to. Edmund hates that, and he hates how thankful he is for it even more.
“I'll have someone fix you some stew,” Peter says idly. His hand remains on Edmund's arm, gently steering him and helping him stay upright. “You'll get some rest—”
“I have things to do, Peter, I can't just—”
“None of that,” Peter chastises, and Edmund sighs. “You’re of no use to anyone if you're sick.” Edmund knows that's true despite how much he'd rather ignore it. But maybe some rest won't kill him.
As Peter leads Edmund back inside the castle, the first snow of the season starts to fall on the grass.