Work Text:
Edmund couldn’t have said exactly what it was that first drew his attention beyond the way he always watched her - the tiniest waver in Susan’s voice, a minute flinch on her composed features, the carefully concealed favouring of her right arm - but he straightened abruptly, fixing his full attention on her. There was something not quite right in his sister’s manner, and weary as he was - as they all were; by the Lion it had been a rough campaign and this day one of the worst since they’d slogged out here - Edmund was not going to let it pass.
It only took a moment’s examination before-
‟What is that in your hand?” Edmund asked, frowning and tilting his head; there had been a flash of russet and brown in Susan’s palm, he was sure of it, and it was certainly not her guard - bright red and gold, and already discarded besides - but what it might be. . .
Susan blinked, raising her hand to look at it, then shook her head. ‟Nothing important.” she said, waving him off. With the other hand, still clasping her bow.
Edmund raised his eyebrows, moving closer as Susan set her bow aside, rolling her neck and stretching her shoulders gingerly. He knew they must be sore and stuff; he had helped work out knots and strain from overuse after many battles and even more days of long, hard practise.
He squeezed them firmly, rubbing up to the nape of her neck, and she whined softly, sinking down onto a camp stool, though she didn’t quite slump. Edmund rubbed more by habit than intention, leaning forwards to look at her hand, and-
He leaned further, wrapping his hand around her wrist and turning her palm up, fully revealing the injury he had glimpsed, and wincing at it. That must hurt terribly.
‟Nothing important?” Edmund repeated, lifting her hand before her face. The edges of the wound were ragged and swollen, the flesh already bruising beneath the blood that had dried across her palm and in a wavering streak down one of her fingers.
Edmund wished he could say he didn’t know how it had happened, but they had all pushed themselves and then pushed harder, many times over. Some injuries were familiar. ‟Bowstring snapped?” he asked, and Susan sighed, leaning back against him. The string on her bow was whole, but. . .
‟There wasn’t time for anything else.” Susan confirmed, flexing her fingers with a grimace. ‟I held up.”
And that was the matter, truly. Susan had - as they all would have, had, many times over - no doubt calculated the risk, knowing how she might worsen the injury, looked at the battle at hand, and ruthlessly chosen to spend her own blood.
Edmund kissed her temple, wrapping his arms around her. ‟Still,” he said softly, ‟we’ve time now.” He hugged her a little tighter. ‟Let me tend it for you?”
Susan brought her uninjured hand up to his cheek, drawing him down into an angled kiss. ‟Thank you.”