The Last Battle
This is really weird to me. Bear with me? Set during The Last Battle - Peter and Edmund waiting at the train station to deliver the magical rings to Eustace and Jill so that they can save Narnia. Y'know. Also known as right before everyone dies in an epic train accident.
Set immediately after Waiting for the Sun to Rise.
The Last Battle
A final conversation between two Finchley boys.
“Those will kill you one day, Ed,” Peter says to his younger brother with a frown, as the dark-haired man lights a cigarette and, putting it to his lips, inhales deeply.
Edmund laughs shortly from where he lounges against the wall, idly flicking his silver lighter shut. Peter can detect the fine tension that’s visible in every long, lean limb, the way Edmund eyes the box that he grips in white-knuckled hands with a shrewd, speculative light in his eyes. The smoke unfurls slowly and winds itself around the younger man, making his eyes sting slightly - not that he seems to mind very much. “Why don’t we just do it ourselves, Pete?” he asks, eyes dark and fathomless. Peter’s been anticipating the question ever since that apparition of the Narnian messenger. Edmund hadn’t said much that night, but Peter had recognized the glint in his brother’s eyes for what it was. Edmund had always, after all, favoured silent, solitary scheming over anything else.
“Aslan told us we can’t -”
“Come off it.” Edmund’s voice slices cleanly through the brisk morning air. “You’ve got those damned rings in your hands and you’re telling me you’re not even entertaining the notion?”
Peter flinches at the sharp bitterness he hears in his brother’s voice. He flinches because he is thinking about it, has thought about the very real possibilities since he came up with the damned plan in the first place. The thing is, he knows they could do it themselves, and do it well. It’s what they’ve grown up to become, isn’t it? Warrior kings, even confined as they are to the bodies of two civilians from Finchley.
But “It’s Eustace and Jill that have to do this” is what Peter says firmly, finally, even as Edmund curses violently and flicks the remains of his cigarette away with slim fingers. “Aslan told us it’s not our place to go back anymore, Ed,” Peter continues, quietly this time. “But it’s still our duty to help however we can. As Narnians.”
Edmund’s eyes are carefully shuttered as he stares off at a point somewhere in the distance, ignoring the crowd that’s slowly thickening around them. “Don’t you ever feel trapped, Pete?” he asks, voice flat.
And it pains the older boy, because his brother is usually stronger than this. They both are. They both need to be. God knows they’ve had more than enough time to practise, at any rate.
Edmund exhales slowly, shakes his head. He flashes a rueful grin at his brother. “Sorry,” he says, voice easy, “don’t know what came over me.”
But to Peter this is worse, this sudden, forced cheer. “Ed,” he says, voice low but urgent, “Listen, I do know how you feel. I feel it every day. But Narnia and Aslan-”
“Ten o’clock,” Edmund interrupts, a warning look flaring up briefly in his eyes before his entire face goes impassive. “That’ll be them.”
Both boys turn towards the piercing train whistle. Peter furrows his brow, an uneasy feeling beginning to seep into his bones, one that he hasn’t felt in a long time - not since that last battle alongside Caspian all those years ago, at least. He turns to his brother, glimpses the feeling mirrored in Edmund’s eyes, and -
Suddenly, it all implodes.
Set immediately after Waiting for the Sun to Rise.
The Last Battle
A final conversation between two Finchley boys.
“Those will kill you one day, Ed,” Peter says to his younger brother with a frown, as the dark-haired man lights a cigarette and, putting it to his lips, inhales deeply.
Edmund laughs shortly from where he lounges against the wall, idly flicking his silver lighter shut. Peter can detect the fine tension that’s visible in every long, lean limb, the way Edmund eyes the box that he grips in white-knuckled hands with a shrewd, speculative light in his eyes. The smoke unfurls slowly and winds itself around the younger man, making his eyes sting slightly - not that he seems to mind very much. “Why don’t we just do it ourselves, Pete?” he asks, eyes dark and fathomless. Peter’s been anticipating the question ever since that apparition of the Narnian messenger. Edmund hadn’t said much that night, but Peter had recognized the glint in his brother’s eyes for what it was. Edmund had always, after all, favoured silent, solitary scheming over anything else.
“Aslan told us we can’t -”
“Come off it.” Edmund’s voice slices cleanly through the brisk morning air. “You’ve got those damned rings in your hands and you’re telling me you’re not even entertaining the notion?”
Peter flinches at the sharp bitterness he hears in his brother’s voice. He flinches because he is thinking about it, has thought about the very real possibilities since he came up with the damned plan in the first place. The thing is, he knows they could do it themselves, and do it well. It’s what they’ve grown up to become, isn’t it? Warrior kings, even confined as they are to the bodies of two civilians from Finchley.
But “It’s Eustace and Jill that have to do this” is what Peter says firmly, finally, even as Edmund curses violently and flicks the remains of his cigarette away with slim fingers. “Aslan told us it’s not our place to go back anymore, Ed,” Peter continues, quietly this time. “But it’s still our duty to help however we can. As Narnians.”
Edmund’s eyes are carefully shuttered as he stares off at a point somewhere in the distance, ignoring the crowd that’s slowly thickening around them. “Don’t you ever feel trapped, Pete?” he asks, voice flat.
And it pains the older boy, because his brother is usually stronger than this. They both are. They both need to be. God knows they’ve had more than enough time to practise, at any rate.
Edmund exhales slowly, shakes his head. He flashes a rueful grin at his brother. “Sorry,” he says, voice easy, “don’t know what came over me.”
But to Peter this is worse, this sudden, forced cheer. “Ed,” he says, voice low but urgent, “Listen, I do know how you feel. I feel it every day. But Narnia and Aslan-”
“Ten o’clock,” Edmund interrupts, a warning look flaring up briefly in his eyes before his entire face goes impassive. “That’ll be them.”
Both boys turn towards the piercing train whistle. Peter furrows his brow, an uneasy feeling beginning to seep into his bones, one that he hasn’t felt in a long time - not since that last battle alongside Caspian all those years ago, at least. He turns to his brother, glimpses the feeling mirrored in Edmund’s eyes, and -
Suddenly, it all implodes.