Samson in the Temple
Summary: Every week he found Narnia in England.
Rated: Not Naughty
Characters: Edmund Pevensie
Era: Post-PC
Genres: Drama
Warnings: None
Chapters: 1
Completed: Yes
Word Count: 450
Response to Weekly Challenge #9 (War) atjustkingedmund
--------------------------------------------------
Samson in the Temple
He had been quiet ever since it had been deemed safe for the boys of England to return to their boarding schools, to their grey uniforms and tasteless mass meals.
And so it came as something of a surprise when the pupils of a particular school awoke one Monday morning to find Edmund Pevensie’s name scrawled at the very top of a new sheet of paper pinned to the notice board.
Fencing Lessons Begin Friday Afternoon.
Nobody quite understood how close he felt to his beloved Narnia every Friday afternoon, closer, certainly, than when he was seated in the stifling heat of a lecture hall or penning lengthy essays on a history that seemed terribly anti-climactic compared to what he held as his reality.
He had left behind his emerald robes, his golden crown, even the sinews of a grown man’s body. And although every once in a while he fancied that he could discern, amidst the usual drudgery, the scents of flowers that did not exist anywhere in England, or the sounds of creatures that most people thought could only be found in books, it was not enough.
Yet the tight curl of his slim fingers around a cool handle came mercifully close. To feel the heavy weight of a sharp blade pulling forward and upward made him inhale deeply, slowly, feeling more alive than he had ever thought was possible there.
He remembered better, then. Despite everything that he had been forced to push back into a hidden corner of his mind, he found that he still knew where to place his feet, how to twist his body, when to parry, when to thrust, when to feint.
And, better yet, nobody thought it was odd if he acted less like an Edmund Pevensie and more like a King Edmund the Just. The beauty of it all was that was the entire point of the sport.
Every Friday afternoon, he was precisely where he belonged.
He welcomed the feel of his own sweat tracing patterns down his face and underneath his collar. He loved the way his body’s joints and limbs protested. He sought the rapid beats of his heart as he strained further and further each sweet second that he held a sword in his hand.
It was bliss, and it was agony. To be, temporarily.
The victor every Friday afternoon was always the same person.
This is not a war, Pevensie, boys sometimes laughed after particularly intense matches.
No, he agreed.
It was Narnia in England, in the room, manifest in the fierceness of his eyes and the hard set of his jaw, the firm line of his mouth.
And it was all his.
It was sanctuary.
Rated: Not Naughty
Characters: Edmund Pevensie
Era: Post-PC
Genres: Drama
Warnings: None
Chapters: 1
Completed: Yes
Word Count: 450
Response to Weekly Challenge #9 (War) atjustkingedmund
--------------------------------------------------
Samson in the Temple
He had been quiet ever since it had been deemed safe for the boys of England to return to their boarding schools, to their grey uniforms and tasteless mass meals.
And so it came as something of a surprise when the pupils of a particular school awoke one Monday morning to find Edmund Pevensie’s name scrawled at the very top of a new sheet of paper pinned to the notice board.
Fencing Lessons Begin Friday Afternoon.
Nobody quite understood how close he felt to his beloved Narnia every Friday afternoon, closer, certainly, than when he was seated in the stifling heat of a lecture hall or penning lengthy essays on a history that seemed terribly anti-climactic compared to what he held as his reality.
He had left behind his emerald robes, his golden crown, even the sinews of a grown man’s body. And although every once in a while he fancied that he could discern, amidst the usual drudgery, the scents of flowers that did not exist anywhere in England, or the sounds of creatures that most people thought could only be found in books, it was not enough.
Yet the tight curl of his slim fingers around a cool handle came mercifully close. To feel the heavy weight of a sharp blade pulling forward and upward made him inhale deeply, slowly, feeling more alive than he had ever thought was possible there.
He remembered better, then. Despite everything that he had been forced to push back into a hidden corner of his mind, he found that he still knew where to place his feet, how to twist his body, when to parry, when to thrust, when to feint.
And, better yet, nobody thought it was odd if he acted less like an Edmund Pevensie and more like a King Edmund the Just. The beauty of it all was that was the entire point of the sport.
Every Friday afternoon, he was precisely where he belonged.
He welcomed the feel of his own sweat tracing patterns down his face and underneath his collar. He loved the way his body’s joints and limbs protested. He sought the rapid beats of his heart as he strained further and further each sweet second that he held a sword in his hand.
It was bliss, and it was agony. To be, temporarily.
The victor every Friday afternoon was always the same person.
This is not a war, Pevensie, boys sometimes laughed after particularly intense matches.
No, he agreed.
It was Narnia in England, in the room, manifest in the fierceness of his eyes and the hard set of his jaw, the firm line of his mouth.
And it was all his.
It was sanctuary.