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Chapter Text

“Sire. Your Majesty. Edmund.”

Edmund awoke with a start and the worst sort of disorientation. His neck was at a painful angle and he was suddenly aware of the smell and sensation of wet ink against the side of his hand. Blinking the sleep away, he was also aware of Lord Peridan’s reproachful expression as he leaned over the back of his seat, one hand on the desk in front of him where he had just picked up the overturned ink bottle.

“I thought you slept last night, Sire,” came Peridan’s reproach.

Edmund reached up to rub his eyes instead, then realized with a curse just how close he had been to spreading black ink all over his face. “It wasn’t that late,” he replied, taking the handkerchief proffered to him. “I just haven’t recovered from all the other late nights.”

It was a grey day outside, which made it feel even more like the crack of dawn or the evening, even though Edmund knew, logically, that it was mid-morning—and he was late to the audience hall. He was reminded of this fact by Sallowpad’s sharp clack from the windowsill, where the Raven was keeping watch on the steady stream of Narnians. “Ten minutes, Sire,” he called out—rather unhelpfully, Edmund thought, as he had too much ink on his hand and sleeve to proceed directly to the hall.

“I will be there at once,” he said instead, rising and rolling his neck with a wince. He had awoken early that morning to try and get ahead of incoming correspondence, which he still did not feel he had caught up on since leaving for Tashbaan some months ago. Instead, his exhaustion had caught up with him precisely at his desk, which was made all the more embarrassing by the fact that Peridan had predicted this very outcome last night when Edmund had waved him off close to midnight.

Still, Peridan had enough sense to keep his mouth shut; a quality Edmund had never appreciated more than now, as he scrubbed his hands clean in a basin in the corner of his study and replaced his stained shirt with a clean one. He had no patience for being fussed over, whether to help or to gloat. Whoever would have to replace Peridan in this role soon, he hoped, would have to follow his example.

He willed that thought to stay behind in the warm study with the inky water and the stained shirt, and tried to avoid noticing how he and Peridan fell into perfect step with one another, leaving for the audience hall.

As summer left Narnia and the clouds grew greyer and rainier, the Four were finally all in Cair Paravel—but a heavy blanket of exhaustion fell upon each of them. Peter had returned from raids in Ettinsmoor with a broken shoulder that took far too long to heal. What he lacked in arm strength he now had to supplement with strategy in meetings with various military agents to ensure the northern border was secured ahead of the winter—which was naturally a greater nuisance to Narnians than to Giants. Susan, after a few weeks of relative seclusion in her rooms, now seemed to never be in her rooms; she was constantly occupied with reviewing the Cair’s coffers and meeting with various merchants. Although she did not say it, Edmund knew that this was her way of attempting to mitigate the damage done by Rabadash and predict fluctuations in trade with Calormen—a battle he would gladly let her fight, given her excellent maths acumen.

Out of the three of them, it was Lucy who Edmund saw the least, given that the two of them took opposite shifts hearing the various grievances or requests. And while he worked on their never-ending pile of correspondence, she was busy with palace arrangements for the coming winter: setting aside hibernation areas, making arrangements for ill or disabled young who would need warmer areas to heal, and ensuring that those affected by a recent blight could receive enough food to fill their winter stores.

Whatever Lucy was doing without him, Edmund was sure, was a lot more meaningful than listening to twenty straight minutes of people arguing over golden laced wyandotte and welsummer chickens’ feather patterns.

“The difference is around the eyes!” exclaimed a red-faced Faun, retaining just enough of his temper to remain before Edmund’s throne, a single dappled chick in the palm of his hand.

Beside him, a deeply annoyed Dwarf looked like she might bite the Faun’s head off. At their feet, two groups of dumb chicken offspring cheeped loudly in two crates. “The chicks did not mix. These are mine,” she gestured brusquely at one of the crates. “And those are yours.”

“They mixed,” the Faun snapped at her and turned to Edmund. “Your Majesty, I swear by the Tree who gave me life that the chick in my hand is not mine, as is obvious from her feather patterns; if she grows she will not give the eggs I am looking for. I am being robbed!”

For not the first time in the last two months, Edmund wondered, briefly, if he ought to have allowed himself to be kept captive in Tashbaan all those months ago in order to escape the sheer ridiculousness of the tasks before him. Narnia had narrowly escaped two wars, an injured High King, a Queen forced into marriage, wrangling an unruly Archen Prince in foreign territory… and here he was now, mediating between two warring chicken coops.

It would be funny if he was not so damn tired.

“Hold your peace, friends,” he said, gentle but firm. The Faun and the Dwarf did indeed fall silent, but the chicks only cheeped louder. “You are both to go home and reinforce the barriers around your property to prevent more mixing between your coops. You are also to trust in your chickens’ judgement—if a swap did indeed happen, perhaps there was some affinity between your chicken and her newly-adopted egg. However,” he raised a hand before the protest that was forming on the Faun’s lips. “To resolve this matter once and for all, I am allocating you each a chicken from Cair Paravel’s own coop. Each is of the species you profess your chicks to be, meaning that you will now have an even better yield than before. I expect this to put an end to this matter and restore peaceful relations between your household.”

Mercifully, the Faun and the Dwarf neighbors retreated with their respective cheeping families and no complaints, each with a hen under one arm. Behind them, the hall hummed with murmurs from other Narnians in the crowd. While autumn was beautiful in Narnia, its inhabitants were also profoundly aware of its risks. After the festive summer period, they often began to brace themselves for a painful winter—a frenzy and tension that more often than not resulted in ruffled feathers, hurt feelings, or painful memories from a time when winters lasted much longer than a few months.

Peridan’s tall and slender figure made its way through the crowd back towards the dais where Edmund sat. He seemed so Narnian himself that it was difficult to remember he had once been a young lord from Archenland, just past his teenage years and new to everything Narnian other than the stories he had been told. He moved with a command of the room that was truly remarkable, his eyes frequently meeting Edmunds’ over the various furred, horned, leafy or bearded heads of the spectators.

After a few quick words with one of the guards, he was again at Edmund’s side. “The next matter is a bit more delicate, Sire,” he said. “Something about property where the river is concerned.”

“Excellent,” Edmund replied—and he meant it. Anything other than chickens.

The Dwarf who approached had a braided autumn beard and wore the tall boots of someone who waded in water often. He bowed. “Your Majesty, I am most grateful for the opportunity to be before you. I am Rorakin of the Glasswater ridge forge.”

“Well met, Rorakin,” said Edmund. “Many of the precious pieces in this very building have been crafted by your kin.”

“We are honored, Your Majesty,” Rorakin said with another gruff bow. “As you well know, Sire, our forges lie south of here, on the southern side of the Great River. This is a crossing we must make multiple times a week to deliver our goods to the port of Cair Paravel—some of Narnia’s finest exports. Problem is, the Great River is much too rough and narrow; we have had to set up a rope system to get coracles across, but this is fraught with risks and much too cold when winter comes. As demand for our jewels increases, this crossing has become even more difficult.”

“Have you any alternatives to crossing at this point in the river?”

“The alternative is the fords of Beruna, which lie too far west, and the tides north of Glasswater make the passage too rocky by boat without taking a longer way around to the port. In the winter this too will become a much more challenging crossing.” He took a breath. “We seek permission to build a small bridge across the Great River, Your Majesty. We have the hands for it and family that can source the stone. If permission is granted, construction would be complete within a week—just in time ahead of the autumn storms.”

It was indeed a more complicated situation than that of the chickens. Edmund frowned. “The river-god has command of the Great River and its flow. A stone bridge would be considered a violation of his sovereignty over those waters.”

Rorakin grimaced. “It was our hope that Your Majesty could intercede on our behalf. We have already tried to negotiate with the naiads, but they do not care for our affairs.”

“The Talking Beasts might also take issue with disruption to the riverbank in that area and the flow of fish,” Edmund added. “But we understand that there are risks to operating in the way you currently are. We will give it some thought. Thank you for approaching us.”

As Rorakin bowed and made his way back to the crowd, Edmund turned to Peridan, who stood at his elbow. The man had parchment in hand and was taking quick notes.

Edmund suppressed a smile. “You do know there is no need for you to act as scribe for each of these inquiries.”

“You will need the notes later,” Peridan replied, hand flying across the page. “And the scribes never capture them in the way you like.”

“You paint me a very fastidious man.”

“Not at all, Sire,” came the reply—perhaps more wry than Edmund would have hoped.

He was about to wave for the next individual to step forward when there was a sudden commotion by the entrance to the hall. He spotted Sallowpad perched on a chandelier, and one of the Ravens in his command alighted just by the King’s feet.

“Sire, the delegation from Archenland is arriving. They made much better time than we anticipated.”

It was a rather sudden end to the King’s audience, but there was no way around it—Edmund was fairly sure he was the only monarch currently in the palace and the Prince of Archenland deserved no less than a royal welcome. And the recently-discovered Prince Cor of Archenland had not yet visited Narnia—unless one counted the time he got lost in the southern border and was rescued by a group of Dwarfs and Talking Beasts.

“Shall we ride out to meet them?”

***

It was, of course, his luck that he would receive the Prince himself—and most likely be the one to take the boy under his wing. King Lune had thought it suitable for Cor to spend a few weeks with the Narnian monarchs, so as to become familiar with the reality in the North. And although Edmund knew the workload would be a significant burden—and, to be honest, he was not yet quite recovered from a summer of playing glorified nursemaid to the former Crown Prince of Archenland—he had found it in himself to agree to the arrangement.

He knew, privately, that Lune was more ill than he let on. Managing two teenage Princes, one with so much energy that he required far more attention than he should—as Edmund still painfully recalled from their summer in Tashbaan—and another who had to catch up on fourteen years worth of missed schooling was no small challenge, and the demands on the King’s time were great. In some ways, Edmund knew, Lune trusted them more than many of the courtiers in Anvard. And while Cor could be trained in riding, swordsmanship, and books from tutors in Anvard, Lune no longer rode out to meet his people as he once did; nor did he necessarily wish to expose his son, so young and naive, to the machinations of others unaccompanied. Narnia, then, would be a more than effective training ground.

The Archen delegation was four men in Archenland’s colors and the golden-haired Prince, who already looked more comfortable on a horse than Edmund remembered. The closer they got, the more Edmund had to remind himself not to be surprised that twins were, in fact, identical. The boy looked unsettlingly like Corin.

“Welcome to Cair Paravel, Your Highness,” he called out with as much warmth as he could in the wind.

“Why thank you, Your Majesty,” the boy said, bowing his head and looking almost bashful. “It is an honor to visit Narnia for the first time.”

And so polite, too. Edmund felt his irritable mood fade a bit. “I’m sure it was quite the scenic ride, although hopefully less exciting than the last time you ventured into Narnia. Come, let us get you off that horse and before a good meal.”

“I would love a Narnian meal!” Cor exclaimed. “Father says I need to eat more so I can gain as much muscle as Corin.”

There was such unbridled enthusiasm in the Prince’s tone that it gave Edmund pause. And indeed, when he met the boy’s gaze…

“Oh by the Lion’s Mane—”

“Sorry, sorry!” Corin burst into laughter, eyes shining with glee. For it was, indeed, Prince Corin—not the new Prince Cor—who was before him. “For what it’s worth, I considered keeping up the farce for the entirety of my visit. But I could not have done that to you, Your Majesty.”

Edmund knew he could not exactly hit the Prince of Archenland over the head in front of so many people, but by the Lion, he did not care to prevent his leg from jostling Corin’s stirrups quite roughly as he turned his own steed. “It might have served you well to attempt more gracious behavior for longer; maybe some of it would have rubbed off on you. Where’s Prince Cor?”

“My father, King Lune, sends his most sincere apologies,” Corin says, almost sounding princely as he said it. “The Crown Prince has suddenly fallen ill—he is still adjusting to new food and new weather, you see—and it was not deemed wise for him to travel in his condition. However, in view that Your Majesties had arranged for a Prince’s arrival, they sought to send the next best thing.” His expression sobered somewhat. “I know you were expecting to show a newcomer around, and I’m no longer going to be a King, but I will be the sibling of a King and you seem to still be the best from whom to learn such a role.”

“Indeed,” Edmund said tersely. “Although perhaps if your Royal Father had been made aware of the extent of your exploits during our last time together, he may have considered a trip like this differently.”

Corin bowed as graciously as he could from his saddle, utterly shameless. “And I am ever thankful for your discretion. I have matured, I assure you.”

Edmund snorted. Beside him, Peridan looked equally unimpressed. “I think I’m still pulling straw out of my hair from digging through stables to find him.”

“You’re still here, Lord Peridan?” the question was rudely phrased—but clearly was not meant rudely, given Corin’s bright grin. “I thought you were leaving this autumn.”

Edmund willed his shoulders not to tense. Naturally, the boy would arrive and immediately stick his foot in every topic that did not concern him. He did not look at Peridan, so he did not know if Peridan looked at him.

“All in good time, Your Highness,” was Peridan’s only reply.

Turning to one of Corin’s bannermen, Edmund changed the subject. “Were you under instruction to conceal the Prince’s identity?”

“Not at all, Your Majesty,” the man replied immediately, staring directly ahead, as if afraid to meet Edmund’s eyes. “We answer to King Lune, whose orders would never include deception.”

“They say that,” Corin said smugly, “but they only would have named me if prompted. Really, though, you should have realized Cor could never get here so fast on a dumb horse.” He urged his horse forward to join the King’s. “Do not worry, Sire—after years of playing the role of Crown Prince, I am loath to take on that role again. I do believe Narnia will be much more enjoyable as a Prince.”

Enjoyable to whom? Edmund thought, but did not say.

It was precisely at that moment that Queen Susan’s banner appeared on the horizon. She was making her way back to the palace at a brisk pace. In a few short moments, she had reached them and dismounted, her long black hair flying behind her as she rushed to meet the Prince—Corin, not Cor, Edmund muttered to her as she passed, for good measure.

“Corin! What a delightful surprise!”

“Well, two months can be quite transformative at his age,” Peridan muttered as they watched Corin be swept up in Susan’s embrace, although he didn’t sound like he believed it. “Perhaps he has matured.”

Edmund shook his head slowly. His neck still hurt from the unfortunate morning nap. “This may kill me.”

Chapter Text

It was not that Corin was an unlikable child; quite the opposite, really. He had inherited all the charm of his father and was remarkably easy to talk to. At the same time, however, he had developed none of the shyness of adolescence and all of the uncontrollable energy and erratic attention span. He flitted from idea to idea like a butterfly—except with far less elegance.

“I say, will you let me try my hand at a longbow later, Queen Susan?” Corin chattered as he dug into a dish of potatoes. “I think it’s something I’d like to learn while in Narnia.”

Susan, who was normally short on time during meals, assured him that she would make arrangements. "Oh, it’s so lovely to have you around again!” she added. “We were certainly looking forward to getting to know Cor better, but you are always such a joy to be around.”

Edmund was tempted to remark that this was due to the fact that Susan was otherwise occupied in Tashbaan and had not had to stop Corin from stuffing his pockets with the spiciest peppers he could find—and then find a way to interrogate Corin about exactly whom those peppers were intended for—but knew that such a comment would cross a line. Still, when he looked at Peridan, he knew the man was thinking the same thing.

“I should take him riding,” Peridan said quietly, swallowing after a thoughtful bite of bread. “Longbow is most likely too risky, but perhaps sparring with the Centaurs?”

“He would like that. Maybe instead of riding, he can go running. Or climbing.” Edmund stopped himself and shook his head. “No, not climbing. He might fall—or, by Aslan, jump—and I already struggled to explain the missing teeth to his father last time.”

Susan did not seem similarly concerned. Edmund considered sending Corin off with her, but then thought of the gold and dignitaries she was likely to encounter during the day and changed his mind. But his sister seemed to read his mind as she stood up from the table and drew closer. “Brother,” she said, “Would you be much too heartbroken if I took the Prince off your hands? I am overdue for a walk on the beach and I yet have an hour before my next meeting. He may benefit from some friendly company.”

Edmund frowned. “Am I not friendly?”

“I was not speaking of you at all, dearest,” Susan said with a sweet yet pointed smile. “But how interesting that you ask.”

And with that, she floated away. Practically bouncing off the walls, Corin followed her out.

“Do you remember when he threw rocks at the bells outside of the Temple of Tash?” Peridan mused. He had risen to his feet. There were still Narnians to meet, letters to answer, and several other projects pending.

Edmund shook his head as if to dislodge the thoughts. “I was just thinking the same. I wondered if you’d broken his wrist with how tightly you held it for the rest of our visit.”

Peridan’s grin was uncharacteristically wicked. “I think it forced him to listen to me explain the architecture, which he might have enjoyed in spite of himself.”

“You are a good mentor to the young,” Edmund said.

“I do enjoy the task, even when it has me chasing boy-shaped storms. And it is equally helpful when rendering assistance to adults.”

“And we are all very much better off because of it,” Edmund said, and the words sounded more earnest than perhaps he had intended. He knew Peridan had had four much younger sisters; perhaps that was where the patience stemmed from. He would be a good father someday.

He could not quite articulate why the thought made his full stomach turn.

Peridan looked away, and Edmund wondered if he should have kept the thought to himself. But then Peridan rose to his feet, wiping his hands clean from the meal and setting a small stack of letters on the table before the King.

“These are the only ones that require your eyes; I can draft responses to all the others,” he told Edmund. “If you look at them quickly now, I can finish this work by the time you return from the audience hall.”

“Very well,” Edmund began to open the letters. “Send Corin to me when he returns—I expect he will find the audience hall rather amusing.”

He reviewed the letters quickly and soon Peridan was on his way back to the study. Edmund watched him leave with an odd sense of guilt. Perhaps he should not have been so openly appreciative of Peridan’s acumen with wrangling children; perhaps he should have assured Corin, earlier, that Peridan was only still with them for a bit longer—that he was overdue his reward after many years of service. Perhaps Peridan, with only a pen as his company, now simmered with resentment towards Edmund’s empty words and even emptier promises.

How many times had he promised to himself, especially during the difficult time in Tashbaan, that Peridan would end his term as Edmund’s assistant as soon as they returned to Narnia? He had come as a very young man, eager to serve the Crown in the country of his ancestors and re-earn his great-grandfather’s title—another casualty of the Long Winter. After more than five years of being at Edmund’s side daily, he should be retiring to new lands and beginning a life worthy of a man of his age—not answering Edmund’s courtesy letters on his behalf.

But ever since their escape from Tashbaan, the assault on Anvard, the weeks of rushed diplomacy and reorganization to recover from both, and the seemingly never-ending pile of work that paved the way towards the coming winter, Edmund had not been able to think about it for more than a few seconds at a time. To face the work without Peridan, to cut him loose and name another in his stead… it felt like too much at a time when he could barely keep his head over water.

He looked down at the palms of his hands. There were still faded lines of ink, there, from the bottle Peridan had picked up that morning as he called his King’s name. Sire. Your Majesty. Edmund.

Edmund stood up abruptly, startling the Birds that were busy clearing the table. With a murmured apology, he returned to the audience hall. Perhaps getting out of the palace tomorrow would help clear his mind.

Ignoring the sore weight of his tired body, he pushed through.

***

By the time Edmund caught up with Corin the next morning—mostly through the tracking skills of one of the palace Hounds—a window facing one of the courtyards was broken, a banner was torn, and the Prince was bleeding from a gash on his arm. Corin tried to hide it when Edmund emerged, shaking off the worried-looking Dryad at his side.

“Have you shot yourself with a longbow?” Edmund said, too perplexed to even be cross, glancing at the longbow on the floor.

“I’m all right,” Corin said, waving the Dryad off. “It’s not deep; I’ve just ruined the shirt.”

Edmund sighed. “Better than a missing tooth, I suppose.”

“I thought you’d forgotten,” Corin said brightly. “They fixed it up nicely at Anvard.” He bared his teeth to show a bone piece. “The black eye healed, too. So you need not worry anymore.”

“Happy not to,” Edmund said dryly. “Will you tell me where you found that longbow so that you will not be accused of robbery, next?”

“It was over there,” he pointed vaguely in the direction of the nearest tower. A guard immediately scrambled off to return the longbow. “Are we going somewhere, Your Majesty?”

“We are riding to the Great River,” Edmund said. “Do you think you can manage to not lose a limb on our way there?”

Peridan met them on the palace grounds along with two stablehands. Three horses had been prepared for their journey. They had seen each other only briefly the night before, and Edmund knew that Peridan’s eyes were searching his face for the same exhaustion that had been there the day before. He also knew that if he met those eyes, they would indeed find that exhaustion.

So instead, he pressed a hand to Peridan’s shoulder as he passed by on his way to his steed—an acknowledgement and, perhaps, a request that he restrain his concern. He caught the man’s smile out of the corner of his eye and could not help the relief that coursed through him after spending most of yesterday evening imagining Peridan stewing in resentment over the undefined end of his servitude. By the Lion, I worry too much, Edmund scolded himself.

It certainly helped that the gash on Corin’s arm gave Peridan something to wonder about, and that Peridan now took it upon himself to explain to Corin, as they began a swift trot away from Cair Paravel, exactly what this ride to the Red Dwarfs of the Great River and the river-god would entail.

Edmund also had to admit that there was some relief in watching Cair Paravel get smaller in the distance, and he tried not to think of any of the tasks he would have to return to. The alternative, though, was to listen to Corin ask Peridan questions about the potential bridge. So far, at least, he had not tried to escape his duties, Edmund thought, remembering how Corin would often get lost on his way to another room, suddenly emerging later with fingers covered in powdered sugar and having too much of an understanding of how the Tisroc’s kitchen worked.

“Can’t they just build it out of wood, then?” Corin was asking.

“Deals must be struck with the Trees for such a thing, which is usually more difficult than sourcing from other countries.”

“Are Trees expensive?”

“It’s a long and painful negotiation.”

“And a plank bridge wouldn’t be enough?”

“Not for the weight they are hoping to carry across.”

“Problems are much more exciting here, what with the Dwarfs and Naiads… all we have at Anvard are Humans, each duller than the last.”

“I think you’ll find Narnians surprisingly capable of displaying human-like dullness,” Edmund said with a grin.

“Well, I shan’t notice, because I’ll be too distracted looking at the naiads’ gills. Or, well, I don’t know if they have gills—or if it’s polite to look!”

Peridan was stifling a smile. “Very good, a sense of decorum will go a long way.”

Thick shrubs gave way to trees and the eastern line of the ocean became harder to spot in between the brush. The ground tapered down and as the trees grew larger and the road steeper, they left their horses tied to tree trunks in the largest clearing they could find and continued the path on foot. Corin strode ahead of them, as if he knew exactly where he was going. Peridan—who was actually more familiar with this area from previous work—occasionally called out to steer him in the right direction.

Still, the sound of water lapping on the riverbank would have guided Corin regardless. When they reached it, they stood at the edge and took a breath in silence.

Edmund had been to the Red Dwarfs’ forge near here, once—many years ago, when the Four had made an effort to visit every single place Narnians lived and root out any remaining suspicion. He was pretty sure Lucy fell into the river, here (Susan saved her) and that the Red Dwarfs were rather rude to him (Peter interceded). They had been so small, then. It was like a different person’s memory.

Even at one of its narrowest points before fanning out into the ocean, the Great River was wide. A plank bridge would certainly not do, and with the speed at which the current flowed, it was frankly impressive that the Dwarfs managed to ferry bundles across at all. There were no buildings, burrows, or nests nearby that they could see, although there were some clear signs of activity: a muddy trail leading into the trees on the otherwise grassy bank just across; a few long sticks protruding from the dirt in a way that suggested someone had left them there; and, most notably, two thick ropes tied between two tree trunks on either side of the river.

Corin wandered over immediately and pointed at the sunken ground of the bank near the rope. “This must be where they push the coracles in.”

“It does look rather risky,” Peridan mused. “I suppose we will see it for ourselves shortly.”

Before Edmund could respond, a voice called out from the trees behind them.

“What are you doing here?” it cried—sounding rather high-pitched but more curious than alarmed. “Who’re you looking for?”

They turned and peered into the shadowy trees. The branches moved oddly, out of synchronization with the wind. Then, a funny-looking face emerged: it was a Monkey, long furry limbs and tail hanging from one of the branches. He cocked his head at them.

“Good afternoon, friend,” Peridan replied. “We hope we are not disturbing you. We seek the river-god.”

The Monkey snapped its teeth and the appearance of sharp canines immediately made him seem less soft and more like a frightening opponent. “Gah! Why would you want to do that! You’ll just irritate him.”

Peridan cleared his throat. “Pray, what is your name? You are in the presence of King Edmund the Just and Prince Corin of Archenland.”

The Monkey’s eyes narrowed, and then he swung and dropped down onto the ground. He was larger up close than he had seemed while in the tree, and the nimble hands that nearly dragged upon the ground as he walked showed a strength and familiarity with the area that made it clear he lived there. Behind him, the tree continued to shudder; the rest of his troop must be hidden in between the leaves.

Corin, on his part, looked delighted.

“Nice to meet you, Your Majesty and Prince,” said the Monkey, although the tone was so casual it was hardly a salute. “My name is Creech. The river-god won’t want to talk to anyone, you know. The naiads might, but they don’t like us much.”

“And whyever would that be, Master Creech?” Edmund asked, although he already felt he knew the answer.

“Because they hate fun,” Creech replied with a shrug. “A bit like the Dwarfs, really. Stiff bunch.”

Corin shot Edmund a pointed look.

“Well, we are waiting for a Dwarf and then plan to call the river-god, master Creech, so you may wish to make yourself scarce.”

But rather than being deterred, Creech bounded over to the edge of the river with startling agility and looked down at the water and then back up at Edmund’s face. “Nah, I want to hear what you’ll tell him! Is it about the Dwarf boats capsizing?”

“Have you seen that happen?” Peridan raised an eyebrow.

The Monkey let out a giggle-like chirp in a way that did not quite rule out that he had been the reason the capsizing happened. “Well, it’s a joy to watch, really. But they tie good knots.” He reached up to one of the ropes above—he was just tall enough and had long enough arms to do so—and hung there for a moment, swinging as if from a branch.

It was at around this time that Rorakin appeared on the opposite bank, dragging a coracle behind him with a rope and followed by two other Dwarfs. They bowed respectfully from across the water and—perhaps it was only Edmund’s imagination, but he thought their expressions soured in front of Creech.

The crossing method employed by the Dwarfs was, indeed, clearly challenging and dangerous, no matter how strong the ropes were. The water was much too fast and it was easy to see how a coracle could capsize once there was more weight to account for. Even with their familiarity with the crossing, the Dwarfs took several minutes to make it across the water.

When Rorakin landed on the opposite side, Edmund found himself giving Creech a warning look, which the Monkey pretended not to notice, jumping backwards with barely contained energy. But Edmund knew Moneys; they were terribly clever and merciless pranksters, and they could find no better opponent than the notoriously uptight Dwarfs—especially when carrying jewels across.

Creech let out a shrieking laugh. “See?” he told Corin. “Dwarfs are like Monkeys except if they didn’t have arms or legs and their tails were stuck to their chins.”

“I see we have some additional company present,” Rorakin remarked along with his salute to the King and Prince, eyeing Creech. “Forgive me for not extending the invitation,” he added with clearly feigned politeness.

Creech waved a hand with a bright expression. “Doesn’t matter; happy to be here.”

The Dwarf clearly grit his teeth but he said nothing more. “We are most thankful for your presence, Your Majesty.”

Before diplomatic relations could further sour, Edmund set to summoning the river-god. It was a task he had never done himself; the only time it had been necessary had been nearly ten years ago, and Peter had been doing the summoning, then. But he was a King of Narnia, and he knew the river-god would listen.

He placed his palm lightly over the water and recited the summoning words under his breath—a phrase he had memorized many years before. Still, it was only when the water seemed to bubble over as if boiling that he knew the summons had worked. Behind him, Peridan, Corin, Rorakin and Creech fell silent as the river level rose—seeming at first like it might completely overflow, only to take the shape of a gigantic man who stared at them with whirlpool eyes, crossing his arms over his long beard.

“Your Majesty,” the river-god said with a voice as deep as his waters yet as smooth as his currents. “I have not been summoned in many, many years.”

“It is unusual, and for that I apologize,” Edmund said. “We do not wish to intrude.”

But the watery eyes had moved away for him and instead focused on Creech. “Ridiculous creatures, these Apes,” rumbled the river-god, and Edmund briefly wondered if he meant the entire company of them. “They pull the hair of my daughters and toss fruit at them. King Edmund, you could do with better company.”

Edmund suppressed a sigh. This diplomatic delegation was growing weaker by the second. “We have requested their company along with yours, Lord of the River,” he replied. “For you know the lands that border you and the many needs of those who live on it, even as you bring life to these banks.”

“Much screeching and yelling and stomping and creaking,” came the reply. “If they were to sit quietly on our banks much of their problems would be resolved.”

“The creaking is the Dwarf’s old knees,” Creech offered unhelpfully, then yelped as someone—presumably Rorakin, but Edmund wouldn’t put it past Corin—stepped on his tail.

“Many indeed come to the banks of this river for inspiration,” Edmund said. Behind the river-god, he saw the outlines of his naiads emerging from the waters, whispering among themselves. He prayed Corin wouldn’t say something off-color. “But many others rely on you for passage.”

The river-god raised a swirling arm and pressed fingers against the row of ropes. Water sprayed around them. “They have their machinations.”

“The Dwarfs need to get across,” Corin spoke before anyone could stop him. “They want to build a bridge.”

Peridan’s hands came down on Corin’s shoulders, squeezing them in a gesture Edmund suspected the boy wouldn’t understand. Rorakin and Creech looked nonplussed. But Edmund knew that any opportunity of agreement from the river-god was lost with the words build a bridge.

There was a rumble of profound dissatisfaction, and the naiads let out a sound similar to a hiss. “Cair Paravel has sworn to defend our interests from those who would seek to chain and reshape us,” boomed the river-god. “To block the passage of our waters is an injury unjustly given.”

“But the water would still pass through,” Corin said again. Peridan leaned down and whispered something in his ear.

“Our natural course would be altered, which we suffer for no Man, Beast or Being. With time, we will wear down their rock and their bones.” The river-god sighed. “Good day, King Edmund. I cannot agree to these conditions. It will rain now, for I am cross and the waters have soured.”

And with a churning sound and one last hiss, the figures disappeared once more into the smooth surface of the river. Creech, tail high, tossed a pebble into the river like a schoolboy trying to annoy a classmate. Rorakin sighed and squatted on the ground with a scowl.

“That went badly, Your Majesty.”

“Perhaps I should take Corin for a walk,” Peridan murmured, and drew the Prince away. From afar, Edmund could already hear Corin exclaiming, “What’s it to them if the course is altered?”

The sky had grown darker, and a chill wind shuddered through the trees. Creech, hopping up onto his feet, waved at the treeline and lolloped over. A furry arm lowered from a tree and hoisted him up into the darkness of the leaves, and he was gone.

“Worry not, friend,” Edmund told Rorakin, with all the confidence he did not feel. “The idea has been presented to him and, as cross as he may seem about it now, he is warm-hearted in his own way. On our part, we will think of further alternatives.”

Rorakin looked up at the sky, eyes narrowed. He was most likely wondering how much time he would have before the showers fell and made his passage across the river even more challenging.

“This storm may be from him, but there will be others. We have several large orders from Galma and Calormen coming—” Edmund hid his amusement at that particular piece of information; Rabadash did love jewelry more than his own pride, “—and they only get more difficult to transport.”

“In the worst case, perhaps Beavers and Otters can be of assistance towards the end of the season as a short-term solution. But let me think on this matter for now. We will return.” He glanced over towards Peridan and Corin—Corin still looking argumentative and Peridan’s hand secured to the boy’s shoulder, much as it had been in the Temple of Tash.

There was a loud rumble from above and it began to rain.

***

Dripping wet and muddied up to his knees, Edmund was in a foul mood by the time they reached the palace. The same concerned-looking Dryad bundled Corin off somewhere before they could say anything—which was for the best, as Edmund was not in the mood to do more than nod and grunt—and left Peridan and Edmund in the short corridor adjacent to the stables, boots squelching and cloaks wrapping around their bodies like an uncomfortable hug.

“Don’t,” Edmund snapped when Peridan made to take off his boots. He forced himself to adjust his tone; he was a King, for Aslan’s sake, not a cross child. “There’s no point. We’ll track water anyway and I think there’s more water inside our boots than outside of them.”

It was just past sunset, and the quiet palace betrayed the fact that Peter, Susan, and Lucy had either not all returned yet or had gone straight to bed. For their sake, Edmund hoped it was the second case: he knew they were just as tired as he was. His shoulders and legs felt sore as he and Peridan trudged towards Edmund’s quarters, doing their best to not leave pieces of mud and grass in their wake.

Peridan’s duties kept him close to the royal quarters; so close, in fact, that over the last few years there had been more than one instance when, at the sound of an alarm, Peridan arrived at Edmund’s room before most of the guards did. While the study was their main place of work, Edmund also had a fully equipped desk in his bedroom, and they had spent many a night seated on opposite sides of it strategizing, writing, and going off on tangents about policy. It was on one of these seats that Peridan, upon arriving, dropped the soaked-through cloak he had peeled off his body before moving to assist Edmund with his own.

“I cannot believe,” Edmund said, his feelings finally congealing into words rather than grunts. “That this is now the second diplomatic visit Prince Corin has somehow managed to disrupt, all on his own.”

Peridan hung Edmund’s cloak and helpfully stood on the tip of Edmund’s boot so that he could pull his foot out of the slippery leather. “You are letting him get under your skin, Sire.”

“He has surgical skill.”

“I’m not entirely sure he means to,” said Peridan. Edmund left his muddy boots next to the door, feeling a slight pang of guilt for the poor individual who would have to clean up that mess. He began to unbutton his soaked-through tunic. Peridan tossed him a towel. “Besides some well-intentioned yet unwise remarks just now, he has been considerably more well-behaved than in Tashbaan. You have dealt with much more irritating characters on the regular.”

Edmund rubbed his hair and face with the towel perhaps a bit longer than he had to. He wasn’t sure he wanted to look at Peridan. He was, after all, a grown man and a King and indeed should not be so affected by the behavior of a child. He did find Corin’s company entertaining and did enjoy their banter. But there was something about Corin’s exuberance, particularly given his own mood these days…

He sighed and lowered the towel from his face. “I do not begrudge him the enthusiasm of his youth. He is young and full of energy and that is as it should be. I am just—”

Peridan, who had taken off his own boots and unbuttoned his tunic, was looking at him oddly, which Edmund supposed was exactly how he would look if the conversation was going in the other direction. So he focused on the buttons of his own tunic, instead.

“Perhaps you feel he should take his position more seriously.”

“Yes,” Edmund replied. He tossed the wet tunic onto the floor. “I suppose I do.”

Peridan leaned back against the stone wall. Barefoot, he seemed less concerned with finding dry clothes than Edmund did. “I did not know you when you were Corin’s age, but I imagine that young King carried a much heavier burden than most royals his age.”

“Well, I was already crowned. And it was different, for me.”

“Perhaps it is that very contrast that you are sensing.” When Edmund finally looked at him, Peridan’s eyes were on him—open, honest, neither pitying nor judgemental. “Enjoyment rather than atonement.”

Edmund opened his mouth, then discovered that he found it difficult to speak. Many had pointed out to him, when he was Corin’s age, that he ought to find some time to rest and play. But it was Lucy only who had been able to roam the grounds like the child she really had been. And all four of them had known the truth: that unless Edmund worked tirelessly and sacrificially from the very beginning, he would never outlive the label of being a traitor.

“You have read me better than I could read myself,” he finally said, amusement coloring his voice—perhaps to blot out how raw he really felt under the pressure of Peridan’s gaze.

“It is a book I have been reading for many years,” Peridan smiled. “Do not begrudge me reciting a few of its lines by heart.”

Edmund felt the beating in his chest stutter, an emotion he could not name rising and blocking the passage of his voice. He could do nothing but stare at the man across from him. Who else could know him so, and know how to put into words such thoughts in a way that made him feel both seen yet unembarrassed? He felt oddly naked under Peridan’s gaze—regardless of his partial state of dress—yet he could not bring himself to be bothered by it.

“What will I do without your council?” The words escaped him before he could stop them.

Peridan held his gaze for another moment, then looked away. “You have never needed my council, Sire; you keep your own. The greater burden does not change. You—” He seemed to stop himself abruptly.

“I what?”

Pushing himself off of the wall, Peridan moved towards Edmund’s dresser to locate dry clothes. His tone held less weight to it now and, without the weight of his gaze on him, Edmund finally remembered that he was supposed to be undressing. “There are many decisions that make demands on your time. I have only endeavored to reduce them. Wrangling Prince Corin, stationing guards, arranging meetings, reminding you to rest, deciding between pies and cakes—”

“I hope you are joking about that last one. We could have been avoiding cakes all this time?”

“Of course not,” said Peridan, handing him clean clothes with a grin. “I actually love cakes.”

“There truly is a scoundrel hidden within you.”

“A scoundrel you would miss, I hope,” Peridan said, rather quietly, and quickly added: “Much as we might find that we miss Corin once he returns to Anvard. I imagine that if you were to take more time to rest the child within, you would not begrudge the boy his small amusements.”

It was all spoken in such quick succession that Edmund could not find a way to voice I would miss you. He could only pull the wet shirt off his arms and add it to the pile, even as Peridan held the dry shirt open for him to pull his arms through.

“I have been too brusque with him,” Edmund conceded, and in the cold evening air he could feel the warmth of Peridan’s body through the shirt that was pulled over his shoulders. “Perhaps a gentler touch is needed.”

“Perhaps,” Peridan said, and if his hands lingered briefly on the skin of Edmund’s neck as he adjusted his collar for him, neither of them said anything of it.

Chapter Text

It’s too much, Edmund found himself thinking. He had changed into dry clothes, Peridan had left for his own rooms, the sky outside was dark, and flames crackled in the fireplace. But instead of going to bed or even making his way down to his study to make good use of time, Edmund still stood stock-still in the middle of his rooms, the ghosts of the previous conversation whirling about him.

This reliance on Peridan—for company, for comfort, for the ease of logistics—was not sustainable. He really should have named an apprentice to be trained for Peridan’s position ahead of his exit. He had considered it; he had even begun to try to make a list in his mind of potential candidates. But the thought of having a stranger following them on long rides beyond the Cair, sitting beside them for endless hours of work in the study, even speaking late into the night in Edmund’s own quarters…

It felt like a terrible nuisance. It was miraculous, really, how much easier things were with Peridan.

But because of Edmund’s selfishness, Peridan had taken on additional responsibilities—in some ways going far beyond the scope of the service he had been called on to make. By the Lion, had Edmund really just had a grown man helping him undress simply because the weather and a child had made him sulk? And just the other day, Peridan had to come find him in his study to wake him up. What kind of monarch was he, to make his subjects wait on him hand and foot merely for his own comfort? It had been a difficult few weeks, yes, but nothing he had not faced before—and rain and routine duties and difficult people were far from an unusual burden to bear as King, or even as a regular man.

He found his hands tracing the same line of his collar and the cuffs of his shirt Peridan had helped him straighten. His own careless behavior was precisely what had disgusted him in Tashbaan: the Tisroc and his Tarkaans surrounded by fawning slaves who combed their hair, cleaned their nails, dyed their beards, carried them bodily around the city because they were too lazy to do their duties themselves. Grown men who spent more time feeling sorry for themselves than doing their duty for the realm. They even set their wives and children aside in favor of younger slaves—forgetting the weight of their power and claiming their attentions in crude and greedy ways.

No, this reliance was not only unsustainable but an injustice. Edmund strode to his desk, trying to banish the memory of how close Peridan had stood, or the sensation his familiar touch seemed to inspire. He could not allow Peridan to continue this undefined servitude for the sake of satisfying his own desire for comfort. Or any other desires, for that matter.

***

Edmund’s initial assessment that his siblings had already gone to bed was incorrect, after all. As he hunched over in a loveseat in the family sitting room (for it was the furthest he could be from Peridan and his own rooms without seeming ridiculous, or risking being found in his own study), Peter emerged and looked at him oddly.

“Hullo,” he said. “You’re here alone.”

Edmund wasn’t entirely sure what that meant, but he offered a wave, paired with a quick assessment of his brother’s state. Peter had not been the most cautious in his recovery, either putting on heavy armor before he ought to or riding out without armor entirely. It had been the subject of many sibling arguments—which thankfully, Edmund had not had to participate in much. Lucy and Susan were more persuasive, anyway. Mercifully, the High King appeared to have full range of motion.

“Just finishing something. How was it?”

Peter’s hair was still wet from either the rain or washing up, and he was drinking from a waterskin with an enthusiasm that meant he had either truly been on the verge of dehydration or there was an entirely different drink in there. He shrugged.

“It was alright. I’ll need to speak to you about arranging more scouts for a certain passage, but we can do that in the morning. What are you doing?” Instead of taking a seat across from Edmund, he walked over behind him and peered at the contract balanced on his younger brother’s knee. “Ah, I see.”

Edmund flushed inexplicably. “It’s just a formality. Peridan will get his choice of properties, really, and I’m sure he has some suitable replacements in mind already. It was just overdue to be put in writing.”

Peter raised an eyebrow. “So you are writing it late at night, while hiding from him?”

“I’m not hiding,” Edmund protested, although he knew it rang false to both of them. He studiously avoided looking at Peter as the High King finally sank into the armchair. “I plan to speak to him about it tomorrow. I just needed to get my thoughts in order, first, before broaching the subject.”

“You haven’t spoken about it yet? I thought it was decided that he was leaving this autumn.”

“That was the plan, but we never truly discussed it.”

Peter hummed with a kind of understanding that Edmund, despite himself, found rather annoying. “A good right-hand man is rare.”

“He’s right and left hand, at this point.” Not that he wanted to think about hands.

“Does he want to leave?”

Edmund frowned. “He’s a young man who has spent the last five years here. I fear he would stay, if I asked him to. He should leave—to be his own man without me directing his fate.”

“And yet, here you are, directing his fate.” Peter snorted. “You underestimate yourself, Ed; perhaps to your own detriment. Ask the man what he wants. You might just find that it’s your company.” He waved off Edmund’s skeptical expression. “And it would be wonderful if he stayed. He’s certainly helpful with Corin, I hear.”

Edmund rolled his eyes. “You don’t know the half of it. Corin could not have come at a worse time—for him. I haven’t been the warmest of hosts.”

Peter smiled. “I don’t envy your position. I would take him with me, if he were a bit older. But you’re wrong, you know. This might be the best time of all for him to come to Narnia. Anvard must be difficult at the moment.”

“Because of Lune being ill?”

“No,” Peter replied, looking at him like he was a fool. “Because his long-lost brother suddenly appeared and displaced him as Crown Prince?”

“Corin never wanted to be the Crown Prince.”

“That doesn’t mean it wouldn’t be strange to suddenly lose that much attention! I certainly would mind if I was suddenly no longer High King, regardless of how I truly felt about the position.” Peter laughed with a sort of disbelief. “I am actually shocked that I can see this and not you.”

“I was thinking of just how different Corin’s childhood was from mine,” Edmund admitted.

“Were you?” Peter stood up with a stretch, ready to make his way to bed. “I was actually thinking that there are some striking parallels.”

***

“I know that it’s early and you probably don’t want to see me right now,” were Corin’s first words to Edmund as the King emerged from his quarters. “But I had an idea.”

“You are most insightful,” Edmund groaned, rubbing his eyes.

He had slept as poorly as he had expected, but he had not thought to find the young Prince perched on a windowsill just outside his door. A gentler touch, he reminded himself, and tried to relax his expression and meet the boy’s gaze. He tried very hard not to wonder where Peridan was at this time; perhaps already gone to breakfast?

Undeterred by the King’s morning mood, Corin launched immediately into what he was thinking. “We can’t put stone into the river, but the Dwarfs can’t keep using rope. Wooden piers would probably upset the river-god, too. But we’ve been thinking about how Dwarfs build things.” He looked at Edmund pointedly. “We need to think like the Monkeys.”

“What about the Monkeys?”

“They get around just fine. Because they hang from the ropes.”

“I’m not following.”

“Have you ever seen the hanging bridges near Stormness? They’re made of wood and ropes. We need a bridge like that. That way it won’t alter the riverflow and you can still move things across—not a cart but maybe a small wheelbarrow or something like that.”

Corin had clearly spent a significant amount of time thinking this through, which was impressive and possibly signaled some contrition about his behavior the day before. As he looked down at the boy’s eager expression, for once completely bereft of mischief, Edmund felt some light cut through his cloudy mood. He wondered, suddenly, if Corin had ever been given the chance to deliberate over problems and actually implement solutions in Archenland.

So, he decided to adopt the same posture he would with any advisor. “The Glasswater Dwarfs won’t be familiar with that kind of structure; they tend to live closer to the foot of the mountains. But you are correct, the Monkeys can probably help. You may have to draw it for them, and speak to someone like Mr. Beaver or one of the other builders here. If you bring me a drawing and some estimates, we could present it to the relevant parties as an option.”

Corin jumped off the windowsill onto the floor. He looked genuinely surprised. “You mean for me to do that?”

“You wanted to experience Narnia. This sounds like an excellent project for you.”

The boy looked at him as if he didn’t quite believe it. Then, perhaps realizing that he had been given homework, he made a face. “I thought Narnian Princes did fun things, like sparring and archery.”

“Well, sadly for you, Narnia has not had a Prince in over a thousand years, so we never had to learn the concept of fun. You’ll have to get to work.” But he punctuated it with a pat on Corin’s shoulder. “Let’s get breakfast first, though, so that we can keep that clever brain of yours fueled.”

Perhaps he imagined it, but Corin seemed to hold himself a little more upright as they made their way down the stairs. Edmund remembered hating the feeling of tagging along at that age, even more so when Peter or Susan were tasked with “looking after him”. A project would do him good.

They found Peridan waiting at the bottom of the stairs. “Good morning, Your Highness. Your Majesty,” he nodded towards Edmund, and Edmund put great effort into ignoring the clench in his chest as Peridan leaned close to his ear, Corin rushing ahead of them towards the dining hall. It was clear that he had heard their entire exchange. “Clever work, Sire.”

A compliment from a subject really, really should not affect him like this.

***

In an attempt to turn a new leaf, Edmund took Corin to the Great River himself and instructed Peridan to stay behind. A bit of distance, he thought, would do them both good—and would give Edmund the space to think through how to approach their next conversation.

Still, without Peridan there on the muddy ride to the crossing, Edmund spent a not insignificant amount of time coaching Corin on how to have a diplomatic conversation and asking him to repeat certain phrases after him. The result was a perhaps awkwardly-phrased, but entirely coherent presentation on Corin’s behalf, bolstered by some initial estimates he had acquired through conversation with choice characters in Cair Paravel.

“A hanging bridge,” Rorakin said, sounding doubtful. “Sounds like something for squirrels, not Dwarfs. Balance isn’t our strong suit.”

“It’s less balance than what you’re already doing with the coracle and the rope,” Corin countered. “And you can control how much it swings when you’re building it.” Edmund suspected he was guessing that last part, but the confidence worked.

“Does Your Majesty have knowledgeable individuals at hand who could design such a bridge?” Rorakin turned to Edmund. “I have hands for labor—but like I said, balance will be difficult.”

“We can find someone to help with the design,” Edmund said. “But you already have neighbors who can balance on precarious structures.”

Rorakin understood his meaning immediately. He made a face. “Sire, those Monkeys never helped anyone other than themselves unless it meant having a good laugh.”

As if on cue, a furry head dropped—upside-down—from the tree beside them. Several sets of eyes watched from further above. Edmund thought he saw a mother with two tiny Monkeys hanging from her back.

“You would look funny trying to swing from a bridge, Rorakin,” Creech said. “I’ll happily watch.”

“Actually,” Corin said, with a quick glance at Edmund (was he asking for approval?). “We were thinking you would do the swinging, mister Creech.”

The Monkey cocked his head to one side, still swinging upside-down. “What do I have to do with any of this?”

“Well, you’ve been using their ropes to get across anyway, haven’t you?”

The Monkey paused, then let go of the branch until he was hanging upright from one hand, looking rather affronted. “Well, they don’t own the ropes.” Edmund rather suspected the Dwarfs did, given the expression on Rorakin’s face. “And their path to Cair Paravel cuts right through our copse. They never asked us if they could use it.”

Edmund smiled. “Well, then, this area is clearly in use by all of you, so a bridge would be in all your interests.”

Creech sniffed, then pulled himself back up onto the branch and began to climb up the tree at a fast pace. He disappeared into the leaves.

“Pardon me, Your Majesty, but it is as I said—they will never collaborate.” Rorakin crossed his arms over his beard. “And the river-god may not agree.”

“Leave him to me,” Edmund said. “But I suspect he will prefer this plan over your current arrangement.”

Corin was looking upwards. “Creech is coming back.”

Creech had indeed returned, with three others behind him. He hesitated, as if reluctant to express agreement. “I suppose a bridge would make it easier for our young ones to cross to the other side of the river without their mothers,” he said, demurely picking through the fur on his arm. “We can use tools and tie ropes, if the Dwarfs are nice about it.”

Rorakin snorted. “Does nice mean letting a whole line of Monkeys fling rot at us from above?”

Creech bared his teeth and waved his long arms in the air in a manner that was frankly so comical that Edmund had to look away. “That is a most unkind stereotype!”

“You yourself have flung things at me as I pass by!”

“Only because your beard looks so funny,” the Monkey cackled. “We try to get berries to land on it. I bet you never pick them out.”

“There are berries in these trees?” Corin asked, immediately getting distracted from the matter at hand. It had been a few hours since their last meal.

“Nah,” Creech replied, scratching his head with one hand and waving westward with the other. “There’s a nice Faun who grows some nearby. He and his neighbors have a nice chicken coop, too. Don’t worry, we always put the eggs back!”

***

Corin went to bed with little protest that night, probably due to his triumph that afternoon and the fact that Peter agreed to spar with him just before dinner (assuring everyone else that he would use only his good arm). The early end to the day gave Edmund just enough time to go to his study and stare at either Peridan’s contract or the door, awaiting the inevitable. He knew Peridan would come find him.

“You should go to bed, Sire,” Sallowpad cawed from the corner of his study, nearly making him jump out of his skin. The Raven looked alarmed at his surprise. “You look like you need rest. No offence.”

“None taken,” Edmund hastily replied. “I will retire soon, I assure you.”

It was at this point, of course, that Peridan nearly burst through the study door and found the two of them.

“Sorry,” he said quickly, perhaps sensing Edmund’s odd mood. “I did not realize you had a meeting at this hour.”

“It’s not a meeting,” Edmund said, even as Sallowpad grasped a scroll in one claw, black eyes gleaming, and said “I was just leaving.” With a flutter of wings, he flew off through the window.

The room he left behind suddenly felt far too quiet. Edmund had spent the day thinking of this conversation, but now that it had nearly started, it felt wrong. The fire was too warm, the document was too formal, and he was far too out of sorts.

“Forgive me, Sire,” Peridan began slowly. “I assumed you had need of me, as we have not seen each other since morning.”

And Edmund truly did, if he allowed himself to admit it. In fact, the only thing he did not feel the urgent need for was the topic at hand. Even with the achievements of the day and the knowledge that he was trying to put space between him and Peridan, he had constantly caught himself preparing what he would say to him about the day—a fact that pointed, once more, to his embarrassing dependance on the man.

“Nothing pressing,” Edmund said, before he lost his nerve. “But as you are here, perhaps you can review a document for me?”

Peridan stepped forward. It was only now, by the firelight, that Edmund fully saw the hesitance in his expression. Had Peridan felt the same way he had, today, awaiting to see him again? Had he felt cheated at being left out of their journey to the crossing—or grateful for a much-needed reprieve? Had their conversation the night before also left him feeling out of sorts—unsure, suddenly, of where he stood in relation to the King?

But Edmund was a Just King, and he had resolved to put his selfishness behind him. He took a breath and stood, offering Peridan the contract across the table. Peridan took it..

“Your five years end next week,” Edmund said, reciting the words he had been rehearsing in his mind all day. “As promised, you are entitled to your own land, and I have assembled a short list for your choosing. Alternatively, if you wish to return to Archenland, we can make those arrangements as well.”

Peridan was silent for what felt like a long time. When he spoke, his eyes remained on the page, and his voice was perfectly hollow. “I was not aware that the end of my time here drew so definitively near.”

“We are respectful of the terms to which our subjects commit,” Edmund said, ignoring the way his very bones seemed to strain against the words. “I will not hold you for longer than was agreed. But Peridan—” he swallowed. “You have been a most invaluable resource to me; I cannot express my gratitude enough.”

In the dim light, it was hard to read Peridan’s expression. It was only when he looked up, green eyes burning like hot coals, that Edmund saw the tightness in his jaw—the hard line of his lips. “Do you wish for me to leave, Sire?”

Edmund had waited too long to broach the subject. And yet, still, Peridan would offer him a way out, generous to the very last. Edmund pushed through the script he had prepared for himself.

“I cannot continue to singlehandedly drain you of your time and attention. Life in Cair Paravel is not a burden you should bear indefinitely. I am eager to see you enjoy your life without a King to worry about.”

“I have been with you for five years and these have been the most rewarding years of my life,” Peridan said—and the statement would have sounded heartfelt if it were not for the edge of his voice. “I did not do this out of some sense of pity. I know you would do just as well without me.”

Edmund let out a low laugh of amusement that did nothing to still the pounding in his heart. “I doubt that,” he replied. “But I would not let my need steer your path.”

Peridan’s grip on the contract was so tight that it was creasing. Why was the expression on his face so familiar? The same feeling Edmund had had the night before was bubbling to the surface—as if he was being cut open and exposed. But somehow felt that it was Peridan who wielded the knife.

And he desperately wanted him to strike.

“I have been waiting for you to say anything that might steer me,” Peridan said.

“Then go live your life,” Edmund said, hating himself as he said it. “I wish you to find joy. You are more than a member of this court; you are my friend—”

“Your friend?” And only then did Edmund realize where he had seen that expression before. It had been in battle—once during a particularly terrible Giants raid, and another during the battle of Anvard. It was an intensity that was normally accompanied by a sword. “How many other friends have you partaking from your company in this way—eating, working, traveling, sleeping with scarcely a wall between you? If I am not in your service I know well I would not be here. I would neither be in this study or in your life.”

Edmund did not know what to do in the face of such emotion. Peridan’s eyes were wide and bright, his jaw a firm line. Numbly, he stepped out from behind the desk and crossed the gap between them, reaching for the hand that held the contract as if to rescue the page from Peridan’s vicelike grip.

“Peridan, I cannot ask you to remain in my service.”

“Edmund,” and the name escaped through Peridan’s lips in such a practiced manner that Edmund wondered, briefly, how often it had been spoken before without his knowledge. “I would serve you in any capacity you allow. I have not troubled you with my desires—despite sometimes wondering if they are shared. But please do not do me the dishonor of seeing me as a servant working in exchange for a title. I do not wish to be removed from you. Whatever vision you have conceived for my life outside these walls—I do not want it.”

The contract fell to the ground. Edmund’s heart was pounding as he dared reach down trace the line of Peridan’s jaw—a touch he had never permitted himself before, not even in his dreams.

“Many a day I have dismissed my reliance on you as greed,” he whispered. “You speak correctly: it has been some time since we were merely friends. I do not wish to return to that.” He let out a shivering breath. “But I would be greedy, Peridan, if you stayed.”

“That is very well,” Peridan said, and his expression was luminous as he looked up at him. “For I would be most impertinent.”

“I cannot imagine it.”

“Then I will demonstrate,” Peridan replied, and, rising to his feet, pulled Edmund close to him in a searing kiss.

***

Beyond a brief conversation with the river-god, Edmund and Peridan purposefully avoided returning to Rorakin’s crossing. After all, there were still many matters to attend to at Cair Paravel—only one of which was to enjoy each other’s company in new, more private ways. The weather also grew more unpredictable every day, which made the ride increasingly unpleasant for anyone who had to go on the regular. Thankfully, Corin was not held back by such frivolous discomforts as wet clothes, painful climbs, or a generally muddy environment. He threw himself into his work at a pace that few could match; and indeed, as the days went on, Edmund began to assign flying or four-legged advisors to accompany him, rather than exhaust any poor bipedal individual.

It was important for Corin to feel that this triumph was his own. He had still inexplicably sprained his wrist and lost his voice at the end of day one from trying to make himself heard over the racket of arguing Dwarfs and Monkeys, but ultimately wood had arrived—thanks to several amused-looking Dryads (perhaps the only Narnians who would choose to spend an extended time in the company of Creech and his troop). Rorakin and his clan had quickly gotten to work on the stone foundation. There was a bit of concern with how rocks would be moved across until it was discovered that the Monkeys could grip stones with their feet just as well as with their hands, and then a few naiads appeared, found the whole thing amusing, and helped push the coracle across with loads of rocks (and in some cases, loads of Dwarfs).

One week after construction had begun, on a mercifully sunny day, Edmund and Peridan finally returned to the crossing. The lines of ropes and muddied patches of grass were gone; in their stead, two pillars of stone, firmly rooted into the earth, held each side of a wooden bridge, the floorboards of which were being dutifully hammered in by a handful of Dwarfs on their hands and knees. Five Monkeys worked at tightening ropes on either side with an enthusiasm that Edmund had to admit would have put him on edge, were he in the Dwarfs’ position.

“Wash your filthy paws before you tie that rope!” Rorakin called furiously from one side of the bridge. “You’ll have ants chewing through the bridge before we’re even done!”

“Don’t worry, master Rorakin,” Creech chattered from above. “The ants will be too busy with your unwashed beard to bother with the bridge. Ha!”

“Going smoothly as usual, I see,” Peridan remarked wryly. From where they stood, they could see Corin deep in conversation with another group of Dwarfs rolling small barrels of what must be wax. His hair was windswept and there were visible scrapes on his knuckles, but he had a hammer at his belt and there was no questioning the businesslike tone of the exchange. He looked every bit a Prince.

It was at that moment that Creech and Rorakin finally gave up any pretense of getting along and launched themselves at each other’s throats. But Corin, jumping forward, managed to put himself between them. Edmund was about to remark his admiration at the skillful move when he saw the Prince gesturing to the little crowd of Dwarfs and Monkeys to make a wide circle.

With slowly dawning horror, Edmund turned to Peridan. “Is he suggesting they box for resolution?”

“I am reluctant to say this, but I think that might actually be the best course of action here.”

Shaking his head with disbelief, Edmund took a steadying breath and allowed himself the luxury of drawing an arm around Peridan’s strong frame, brushing his fingers through his golden hair. From the rushing river, a familiar figure covered in river weeds looked up at the arcing structure taking shape.

“They are building me a crown, Your Majesty,” the river-god said with a great, booming laugh as he swam by. “A crown!”