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[...as if this were some kind of game...]
Much love for Edmund telling Peter to "Keep smiling," and that "This is no time for chivalry!" There's a boy who knows how to be an asset behind the scenes. This only further corroborates my belief that if ever Narnia had its own version of the CIA, our Ed would be its James Angleton. He would be the one least afraid to dirty up his hands.
A second viewing has also made me feel a little embarrassed of my first Narnia fic. And, a second viewing also lets me see that, Lucy aside, it is Peter who misses Narnia most. Not for the same reasons though, and that's really what spurred this fic.
The last time I wrote this much in a single night, it counted for academic credit and was due the next day. Save for this prologue (which takes place before Prince Caspian), the fics are missing scenes from the movie. The forthcoming numbered chapters are only there for the sake of chronology -- 'Hidden Pictures' can be read as an anthology of one-shots that stand alone.
This chapter borrows from the apparently much-beloved "Pevensie takes up fencing but it ISN'T THE SAME" trope. The chapter title is from the poem 'Do Not Accept' by the enormously talented Yehuda Amichai.
Hidden Pictures
Chronicles of Narnia. PG.
Set some time between returning and returning yet again.
00 // Make your pain/An image of the desert./Say it's said/And do not look to the west.
Peter’s fist connects with the boy’s face and the sound of it isn’t nearly as loud as he wants it to be. The other boy reels backwards, and Peter takes the opportunity to throw himself upon him.
The crowd cheers and grows in number.
There is blood on Peter’s fists, on his lips and from his nose. He sits on the other boy’s chest and pins his arms to the ground with his knees. There are more punches and more blows, and Peter’s knuckles ache but that’s never stopped him before. He screams as he delivers the blow that breaks the other boy’s jaw, just before Edmund lunges at him and tackles Peter to the ground.
“What’s wrong with you?” Edmund demands, shaking him. “What’s wrong with you?”
And that’s when another boy boxes Edmund in the ear, mistaking his intentions.
Peter’s blood sings. The fray begins anew with more boys joining in, as if this were some kind of game. In his heart Peter knows this is no honorable fight, but he figures that, at least for now, he doesn’t care.
+
“What do you mean he’s not to have visitors?” Susan demands.
When the Provost tells her what’s happened, her lips purse.
Beside her, holding her hand, Lucy asks, “Is he all right?”
The Provost sighs. “He’s quite all right. I reckon it’s mostly his pride that’s been wounded.”
“Yes,” Susan replies. “That sounds like him.”
“Perhaps next time, girls,” says the Provost, and smiles apologetically.
Susan and Lucy show themselves out of the building and turn left before they reach the gates. They go past the little garden with the primrose bushes of which Lucy are quite fond, past the statue of a stern-looking man dressed in the Victorian style.
“He’s got more pigeon droppings on him than the last time,” Lucy observes. Susan casts the statue a passing glance, and makes a vague noise of agreement.
They know their brothers’ school well by now, and some of the boys know them also. Susan smiles at them and coos at them and laughs at their jokes. On the occasions when she has to ask them not to tell anyone of her and Lucy being here, they oblige.
“That’s not fair, you know, how you treat them,” Lucy said once.
Susan had replied, “Oh, Lucy, it’s just like being at court back home.”
Turn right at the library, which is a great lumbering building, a clumsy amalgam of brick and plaster. Past rows of buildings and halls of serious countenance.
Lucy had raised her eyebrows. “Home?”
And Susan pretended not to hear her.
+
“Purple isn’t your color,” Susan remarks of his bruises.
“Sod off.”
“No.”
The two of them sit on a bench by the servants’ entrance, where students hardly ever go. They sit in a silence that is at the same time familiar and distressing. Susan can tell there are too many things on Peter’s mind for him to talk to her properly, and this frustrates her. She and Peter are the older siblings, and while Lucy is free to be naïve and Edmund to be elusive, Susan and Peter have always shared the bond and burden of being a Good Example. They may not see eye to eye on all things, but there is at least an understanding. Peter only vexes her nowadays, and his circuitous anger makes her feel terribly lonely.
“I’ve taken up fencing,” says Peter, changing the subject.
“Oh?” says Susan. “How do you like it?”
“The épée isn’t anything like a sword. I get scolded for wielding it too harshly.”
“You’re always so quick to deal out justice,” chuckles Susan.
“I’m not talking about justice.” Peter says, “I suppose I misjudge the weight of it. Sometimes I wonder, how is anyone supposed to hurt someone with this thing?”
“You’re not meant to hurt anyone.”
“You tell that to Wendell.”
“Is that the boy whose jaw you broke?”
“The same.”
Susan sighs. “These scrapes you get into…”
“I’d rather we not talk about it.”
“You’ve got to stop,” she insists. “You’re our oldest brother, Peter, and this behavior—”
Peter rises to his feet. Without thinking, Susan stands too. The light from the windows illuminates their faces now, and she can better appreciate the discoloration of injuries on Peter’s face. She wonders if he can even see out of his right eye.
“No one cares about that here, Su,” he says. “Not even Edmund cares. No one cares about anything here, except maybe rugby.”
“Let’s not exaggerate.” Susan opens her purse and draws out her handkerchief. She dabs at Peter’s mouth where a wound had reopened and murmurs, “Why are you so angry, Peter?”
“I don’t know,” he replies. “Why do you kiss Linus Sedgwick one visit and Charles Gough the next?”
She freezes.
“These aren’t the real questions,” says Peter, and starts walking away, “but I’ve been thinking, Su, and I think the answer to the real questions and the fake questions are the same.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Don’t pretend.”
“Don’t be a brute!”
“I know what I am.” His form slowly disappears into the oncoming night; he doesn’t glance back at her. “Come on, Su, let’s find Edmund and Lucy so you can leave.”
Susan stares after him, pale-faced, though one can’t see that in the dark. Her chest feels tight and her cheeks grow warm as if she might soon burst into tears. She hasn’t cried now in two weeks, though, and she intends to persist in this habit, at least for as long as she can.
She stares at the drops of blood on her handkerchief for a few moments before stuffing it back in her purse, and walks briskly to catch up with Peter.
next
A second viewing has also made me feel a little embarrassed of my first Narnia fic. And, a second viewing also lets me see that, Lucy aside, it is Peter who misses Narnia most. Not for the same reasons though, and that's really what spurred this fic.
The last time I wrote this much in a single night, it counted for academic credit and was due the next day. Save for this prologue (which takes place before Prince Caspian), the fics are missing scenes from the movie. The forthcoming numbered chapters are only there for the sake of chronology -- 'Hidden Pictures' can be read as an anthology of one-shots that stand alone.
This chapter borrows from the apparently much-beloved "Pevensie takes up fencing but it ISN'T THE SAME" trope. The chapter title is from the poem 'Do Not Accept' by the enormously talented Yehuda Amichai.
Hidden Pictures
Chronicles of Narnia. PG.
Set some time between returning and returning yet again.
00 // Make your pain/An image of the desert./Say it's said/And do not look to the west.
Peter’s fist connects with the boy’s face and the sound of it isn’t nearly as loud as he wants it to be. The other boy reels backwards, and Peter takes the opportunity to throw himself upon him.
The crowd cheers and grows in number.
There is blood on Peter’s fists, on his lips and from his nose. He sits on the other boy’s chest and pins his arms to the ground with his knees. There are more punches and more blows, and Peter’s knuckles ache but that’s never stopped him before. He screams as he delivers the blow that breaks the other boy’s jaw, just before Edmund lunges at him and tackles Peter to the ground.
“What’s wrong with you?” Edmund demands, shaking him. “What’s wrong with you?”
And that’s when another boy boxes Edmund in the ear, mistaking his intentions.
Peter’s blood sings. The fray begins anew with more boys joining in, as if this were some kind of game. In his heart Peter knows this is no honorable fight, but he figures that, at least for now, he doesn’t care.
+
“What do you mean he’s not to have visitors?” Susan demands.
When the Provost tells her what’s happened, her lips purse.
Beside her, holding her hand, Lucy asks, “Is he all right?”
The Provost sighs. “He’s quite all right. I reckon it’s mostly his pride that’s been wounded.”
“Yes,” Susan replies. “That sounds like him.”
“Perhaps next time, girls,” says the Provost, and smiles apologetically.
Susan and Lucy show themselves out of the building and turn left before they reach the gates. They go past the little garden with the primrose bushes of which Lucy are quite fond, past the statue of a stern-looking man dressed in the Victorian style.
“He’s got more pigeon droppings on him than the last time,” Lucy observes. Susan casts the statue a passing glance, and makes a vague noise of agreement.
They know their brothers’ school well by now, and some of the boys know them also. Susan smiles at them and coos at them and laughs at their jokes. On the occasions when she has to ask them not to tell anyone of her and Lucy being here, they oblige.
“That’s not fair, you know, how you treat them,” Lucy said once.
Susan had replied, “Oh, Lucy, it’s just like being at court back home.”
Turn right at the library, which is a great lumbering building, a clumsy amalgam of brick and plaster. Past rows of buildings and halls of serious countenance.
Lucy had raised her eyebrows. “Home?”
And Susan pretended not to hear her.
+
“Purple isn’t your color,” Susan remarks of his bruises.
“Sod off.”
“No.”
The two of them sit on a bench by the servants’ entrance, where students hardly ever go. They sit in a silence that is at the same time familiar and distressing. Susan can tell there are too many things on Peter’s mind for him to talk to her properly, and this frustrates her. She and Peter are the older siblings, and while Lucy is free to be naïve and Edmund to be elusive, Susan and Peter have always shared the bond and burden of being a Good Example. They may not see eye to eye on all things, but there is at least an understanding. Peter only vexes her nowadays, and his circuitous anger makes her feel terribly lonely.
“I’ve taken up fencing,” says Peter, changing the subject.
“Oh?” says Susan. “How do you like it?”
“The épée isn’t anything like a sword. I get scolded for wielding it too harshly.”
“You’re always so quick to deal out justice,” chuckles Susan.
“I’m not talking about justice.” Peter says, “I suppose I misjudge the weight of it. Sometimes I wonder, how is anyone supposed to hurt someone with this thing?”
“You’re not meant to hurt anyone.”
“You tell that to Wendell.”
“Is that the boy whose jaw you broke?”
“The same.”
Susan sighs. “These scrapes you get into…”
“I’d rather we not talk about it.”
“You’ve got to stop,” she insists. “You’re our oldest brother, Peter, and this behavior—”
Peter rises to his feet. Without thinking, Susan stands too. The light from the windows illuminates their faces now, and she can better appreciate the discoloration of injuries on Peter’s face. She wonders if he can even see out of his right eye.
“No one cares about that here, Su,” he says. “Not even Edmund cares. No one cares about anything here, except maybe rugby.”
“Let’s not exaggerate.” Susan opens her purse and draws out her handkerchief. She dabs at Peter’s mouth where a wound had reopened and murmurs, “Why are you so angry, Peter?”
“I don’t know,” he replies. “Why do you kiss Linus Sedgwick one visit and Charles Gough the next?”
She freezes.
“These aren’t the real questions,” says Peter, and starts walking away, “but I’ve been thinking, Su, and I think the answer to the real questions and the fake questions are the same.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Don’t pretend.”
“Don’t be a brute!”
“I know what I am.” His form slowly disappears into the oncoming night; he doesn’t glance back at her. “Come on, Su, let’s find Edmund and Lucy so you can leave.”
Susan stares after him, pale-faced, though one can’t see that in the dark. Her chest feels tight and her cheeks grow warm as if she might soon burst into tears. She hasn’t cried now in two weeks, though, and she intends to persist in this habit, at least for as long as she can.
She stares at the drops of blood on her handkerchief for a few moments before stuffing it back in her purse, and walks briskly to catch up with Peter.
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Also, I love the idea of Edmund: Spymaster. It delights me so.
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...oh dear, maybe I should just try and recomment to this tomorrow. :\ But I'm so happy at the idea of someone writing gen, real gen, with some sort of development and meaning.
and i still have a soft spot for st. john allerdyce
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Lots of love.
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