Work Text:
1617; Gloucestershire, England. Two teenage boys – one soft and sweet, fair and seventeen, one dark and clever, eighteen and his father’s bastard – stand opposed in their father’s office. The younger holds a long, thin wooden rod; it is like a coat too big for him, that he wants to impress the grown-ups by wearing correctly. His bastard brother is trying to intimidate him, and nearly succeeding.
The stakes are higher, in Edmund’s heart, than Edgar realizes. This is because their father adores Edgar, and so Edgar cannot imagine his father being cruel. Edgar does not see the fractures, turned to cracks, threatening to become fissures and shatter his brother entirely. “Edgar. You do not have to do this. You do not have to do every miserable thing he wants, just because he wants it! If you do you are just his puppet! You are better than that.”
“He didn’t give me a choice!” A bit of a whine.” He didn’t ask me. He told me. He thinks you should be punished, and is he wrong?”
An unbroken, unruly horse, stolen from the stables and taken from a joyride, who spooks and slipped the teenage horse thief. Who had an assistant, of course. “Yes. If I should, so should you.” Edgar’s cheeks flush. “If he wants me punished, let him have one of the castle knights do it, as he always does.”
“Well, I - I am his son.”
“So,” Edmund growled dangerously, “am I.” He softens his tone. “You are better than he is, and we both know it. And you are not better than me, and you know that. You, at least, of all these wretched people, know that my...” he gnaws his knuckle and, in a rare show of uncertainty, looks at the floor. Finally, he spits out the hated word, “bastardy does not make me lesser. One day you shall have Gloucestershire, I accept that. You can make a better earl than he is. And I know you want me here beside you then.” Edmund does not know this; he has been told all his life he is unworthy of love, and now he never trusts that he has it.
“But I am his heir,” Edgar says with surprising force. Then, he squares his shoulders and pretends he is Earl of Gloucester. “His legitimate heir. And I am old enough now, and he wants me to – wield my authority. My authority, “ he repeats, as if trying to grow more confident with the phrase. His father would like him this way, he thinks, and preens a little.
“And my punishment falls under your authority,” Edmund sneers at him, bringing out the contemptuous big brother quickly to mask his shock and humiliation at this.
“Yes,” Edgar said, with a flatness that took away any humor. “Lean over Father’s desk, I am going to do this.”
“Don’t you dare,” Edmund snarls and takes a step forward; but Edgar takes two steps forward to meet him and Edmund is forced to retreat.
“I don’t have a choice!”
“God’s balls, what have I ever tried to teach you if not that you always have a choice?”
A very long, thick silence fall. Then, again, on the easiest argument, the one Edmund cannot fight. “’I am Father’s legitimate son. His heir. He wants you – “
“Humiliated.” Edmund is never quite out of fight, even when beaten and bloodied on the ground. He is going to try a desperate honesty, as his last remaining card. “He doesn’t just want me thrashed. He wants me humiliated. He wants me put in my place. And he wants you put in your place too, so you remember who you are and don’t love me too much and don’t remember who I really am to you. He is saying ‘make me proud and show me you know where Edmund belongs. Put him there yourself.’”
Edgar has swung the rod up to hold it with both hands. He clenches both fists tight around it. “It is not as bad as all that,” the young heir declares. “Not unless you make it.” He takes another two steps towards Edmund, who tries to slip away. “It will be easier if you just get into place yourself and stay there, and don’t make me call in Father’s men-at-arms to hold you there.” And then, in a small voice that wobbles at the end, “please don’t look at me like that….”
The look is pure hatred. “You child. You can’t even own a choice once you make it.”
“Please, just…Edmund, please…”
Edmund gives a roar of rage. Then he takes several deep breaths, gathering all his dignity and coldness and hatred like a cloak to cover himself, lifts his tunic, lowers his hose, and places his hands on his father’s desk.
Edgar has never had to wield a birch rod, and rarely endured one. He does poorly. His welts are uneven; they cross each other; some of them hit the bones of Edmund’s hips or back. Too much weight in his swing, or too little – the second would be fine, except it makes things last longer. Edgar does not even know when to stop. No; left to himself, Edgar would have stopped after three light touches. No doubt Father’s letter had contained instructions on that point.
He tells himself he would not make a sound. God damn him before he will cry out being whipped by his seventeen-year-old brother. When he hears a low yelp come from his throat he wants to die. He wants to kill.
“All right, it’s over” He hears the boy say. “I didn’t know it could make you bleed. I’m so sorry. It’s over, it’s all over now. I’m so sorry. Just wait, I’ll come help you. Edmund - Edmund, I’m so sorry, I really am. Edmund – Edmund, please, Edmund, wait! Edmund!”
But Edmund has is quick and practiced. He has gathered his clothes and slipped out the door. Distressed, Edgar looked out into the hall to see if he could catch his older brother, but Edmund was already out of sight, nursing his wounds without comfort. Edgar was already much too late.