rthstewart (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
rthstewart) wrote2015-04-26 03:12 pm
rthstewart) wrote2015-04-26 03:12 pm
Since it's been up in comments for a while..
After receiving two really sweet comments, one for AW and one for Rat and Sword, I decided to thank the readers with an AW blurb that I posted in comments on AO3. I'd wanted to get a new chapter up this month but that's not going to happen, I think, given how busy work and other things are keeping me. But I did start writing, and I'm counting that as a win, even though this is far in advance and won't actually appear for awhile. It also shows a big point/reveal that's been part of the story for a really long time. By the time I get there, this will undoubtedly change, but the afternmath of John Pevensie accompanying Edmund and Peter for a round of drinks at a pub after Peter's made a tough, rotten decision, has been part of the story from the very beginning.
approx 2000 words
from Apostolic Way to come (which will probably be under another name)
It's 1948, give or take
ooOOoo
“Do you need any… can I help?”
“We’re fine,” Edmund grunted. “Years of practice.” Edmund was bent under Peter’s weight and the arm his brother had thrown across his shoulders. With an elbow, Edmund shoved their bedroom door open.
John could see he was superfluous because it was obvious that Edmund had guided his reeling, drunken brother to bed before. It was, like everything else John now saw, familiar, in a way that bespoke those years of practice that rationally he knew his sons had not lived.
Peter fell like a tree into the bed. John saw something he could do but Edmund got there first and removed Peter’s shoes.
“You already put out water and willow bark?” Peter mumbled.
“It’s called aspirin here,” Edmund said – one more of the many mysteries that had piled up that evening. “And it’s on the nightstand so you won’t go stumbling around in the middle of the night looking for it and waking me up.”
“Why can’t I get what you had, Ed? What you and Morgan had?”
Morgan?
John saw Edmund’s face tighten; their eyes met and his son looked away with an angry set in his jaw.
“You miss her, don’t you? You must. But you never talk about her.”
Edmund kicked Peter’s boots under the bed.
“Of course I miss her. Just because I don’t talk about it doesn’t mean I don’t.”
Peter’s arm flailed out and he caught Edmund by the hand. Edmund scowled but Peter, for all that he was blind with drink, held fast.
“Do you think I’ll ever have that Ed? Someone who loves me as much as Morgan loved you?”
Peter was too drunk to see the obvious pain he was causing his brother. Edmund sighed and took Peter’s hands in own.
“My brother and High King, do you desire the truth or the lie?”
“Lie to me, Ed. I can't bear the truth. Not tonight.”
“You will meet the woman of your dreams before the year is out. She will have Dalia’s wisdom and humour, Dinan’s beauty and sex appeal, and Mary Russell’s legs. She will be fabulously wealthy; she will adore you for you alone, and not because of the country, the crown, or the chocolate and stockings in your pack. You’ll elope to Birmingham…”
“Birmingham,” Peter muttered, closing his eyes. “I thought you were lying to me.”
“You shall have ten children and forty grandchildren and a house in the country full of cats, hounds and horses and no tripe ever. You shall become an MP for Labour and be knighted, again, and…”
Again?
“Birmingham? Not Gretna Green? Funny how that was in Narnia too. You and Morgan did that, vows over the smith’s anvil. I presided… I still remember the speech…”
“I remember it too; it went on for hours,” Edmund replied. “Go to sleep, Peter.”
Peter nodded and rolled over. “Thanks, Ed.”
Edmund pulled a blanket over his unconscious brother and John switched off the bedroom light.
Helen came out into the hall as they left the room.
“Is he…”
“Asleep,” Edmund said curtly.
Do you want some company?” Helen was speaking only to Edmund and he himself felt the odd interloper.
“Just a stiff drink and cursing,” Edmund replied. He turned away, toward the stair.
Helen’s warmth and concern for Edmund turned to a cool stare at him.
“I…”
“Yes?”
“I don’t understand what’s going on.”
Helen smoothed her dressing gown and crossed her arms over her front. “There is nothing to understand, John.”
“None of this makes any sense!”
“I’ll repeat what you told me,” Helen bit out. “You are imagining things. You’re just being hysterical. It’s fear of your children growing up. It’s the War. Go have a glass of wine. Take laudanum.”
Why had he never heard how wounded his wife sounded? Had he really said those things?
“Helen, they are talking like they are lunatics. But they can’t be, not all of them. Not everyone.” My brother and High King, do you desire the truth or the lie? What he'd heard had all had the ring of truth. They couldn't all be lying, could they? A shared delusion?
She rolled her eyes, looking utterly disgusted, and turned her back on him. “You’re the bloody logician, John. Work it out.”
John stared at the closed bedroom door. Helen, though, had never needed locks to shut him out.
What did it all mean? High King? Edmund and someone named Morgan at Gretna Green? His little girl flinging knives and darts with such precision to become a London champion? He’d thought Peter had thrown his life away – a useless, wastrel existence. That wasn’t what he’d seen in the pub. How was it that every man at the Brick & Arms knew Peter better than his own father did? He’d lost count of the number of men who’d come up to shake his hand and offer him a light or a pint – a privilege, sir, to meet Peter Pevensie’s father.
His son had been the famous Richard Russell’s last student! Had the respect and sponsorship of Digory Kirke! Had thrown it all away to enlist as a common RO? And then hadn’t survived a year at Oxford?
It made no sense.
He wandered into Peter and Edmund’s room. Peter was curled up, sound asleep, facing the wall. Squinting in the dark, he noticed for the first time that the tin soldiers were gone from the shelves. Of course they were. But when? He’d gone to war to try to keep his family safe and come home to find he was surplusage, the old tent and boots no longer wanted, a faint malodour, and an unpleasant reminder.
He turned about in the boys’ room but there was nothing for him to add. Edmund had done everything, as, he’d come to see, Edmund always did. I’ll always be your logistics man, my King. Moving you is still easier than moving an army of herbivores.
John was perversely pleased that he could at least pull the blind down so the sun wouldn’t trouble Peter in the morning.
Just as he was reaching for the cord, he saw, through the window, a shadow under the lamppost across the way.
There was a cat, an enormous cat with bright yellow eyes, under the lamppost, staring right at him.
The cat blinked. He quickly drew the shade.
John followed the sounds of Edmund’s muffled swearing and clinking of glassware downstairs.
Edmund had broken out that bottle of Jamaican rum.
“I know you don’t want company…”
He hoped his son might say something to lessen the anxiety and discomfort – a, “Not at all, please join me.” Edmund did set out an extra glass on the trolley and indicated it with a jerk of his head. But he then settled on the divan, turned away, and was pointedly and stubbornly mute.
As he passed the picture window, John looked outside again. The cat was still there. “I hope that cat doesn’t get into the rubbish bins.” It was lame but at least it filled the silence with something other than the ticking clock and Edmund’s dour scowl.
Edmund looked up over the rim of his glass, finally making sharp eye contact.
“A cat? You saw a cat?”
“Yes, right outside, under the…”
“Lampost,” Edmund finished dully.
“Does it hang around here a lot?
His son nodded, closed his eyes and let out a heavy sigh.
Another oddity in an evening full of them. “So you know it? Him? Should I go out, or…”
At the sounds of Edmund muttering under his breath, John turned away from the window.
“Ed?”
“He knows I’m angry with him,” Edmund said.
“Who? The cat? What are you talking about?”
Edmund scrubbed his eyes. “God, I suppose, though the theology is muddled to be sure.”
How did they go from cats to God? “God knows you are angry with him?” Maybe there really were shared delusions.
“We’ve never quite worked that out,” Edmund said. “And don’t sound so shocked or disapproving, Father. I assure you, whatever divine power is skulking about this evening, I know Him and His will far better than you do.”
“Edmund! That’s quite enough!” John wasn’t even sure what he was angry about, except that he did not understand and Edmund’s flippancy was aggravating.
Edmund opened his eyes.
“Do not presume to lecture me on this, Father. Peter, for the first time in his long life of selfless duty, finally had the opportunity to do something he really wanted, with someone he truly cared for, and now, instead, it’s back to giving everything to everyone else, with nothing left for him. It’s just as it was before. He knows I’m angry, I have cause to be angry, and how we work that out is between us.”
John sagged onto the divan. “I don’t understand, Edmund. Any of this. You aren’t mad but it all seems mad.”
“We’re all mad here.”
That was a reference he did get and had read the story to Lucy when his little girl still sat on his lap at bedtime. “‘But I don’t want to go among mad people,’Alice remarked.”
Edmund pulled out of his slump and took a deep sip of his drink. Another mystery. When had Edmund developed a taste for rum of all things?
“When I said you could join us tonight, I did wonder if it would be your night down the rabbit hole and through the looking glass…” Edmund shook his head. “And now it seems it is and my wits are scattered to the winds. I am now not in the proper mind at all, which is, I admit, not fair to you.”
“I don’t…”
“You don’t understand. I know. Please, give me a moment to work out the best way forward here.” Edmund rose from the divan, carefully balancing his drink and crossed over to the window.
“Is that cat still there?” John asked.
“In a manner of speaking, he never leaves.”
“What…”
“A moment longer, please, Father.”
His son had not framed his response as a plea, but as a simple statement of fact. It was a sore trial, but John waited.
“Well, I am going to put this in his paws,” Edmund finally said.
“Paws? Are we back to that damned cat?”
“Of a sort. After tonight, I think he owes me a boon.”
Edmund came back to the divan and set a hand on his shoulder. “You say you wish to understand?”
John nodded. “Yes. I …” He found his voice uncomfortably tight. “I am a stranger in my own home.”
“Then, you must go upstairs, get on your knees or into bed, or however you do this, and ask.”
“Ask who? For what?”
“I suppose you might call it prayer to the divine. But there is nothing rote about this. You seek understanding, so you must ask. You must mean it, sincerely. Also, I earnestly entreat you to apologize first.”
“Apologize? For what?”
Edmund long, steady stare was so deeply uncomfortable, John had to look away, feeling an embarrassed flush rise.
He felt his son’s hands over his own. “When you are so close, do not let shame stop you from the understanding you seek and the forgiveness I believe you do want.”
John stared at their twined hands. There was so much… He felt tears forming and pulled his hands out to angrily brush them away
“Grace is there for us all, Father, but you must ask for it. And then you must humbly listen for the answer.”
John finally spoke his fear. "I think it's too late. It's too large..."
"No, Father, it is not." Edmund leaned forward and solemnly, like some monarch of old, kissed his brow. There was a scent of spicy rum and the sound of a cat's rumbling purr. "May your eyes and heart be open."
approx 2000 words
from Apostolic Way to come (which will probably be under another name)
It's 1948, give or take
ooOOoo
“Do you need any… can I help?”
“We’re fine,” Edmund grunted. “Years of practice.” Edmund was bent under Peter’s weight and the arm his brother had thrown across his shoulders. With an elbow, Edmund shoved their bedroom door open.
John could see he was superfluous because it was obvious that Edmund had guided his reeling, drunken brother to bed before. It was, like everything else John now saw, familiar, in a way that bespoke those years of practice that rationally he knew his sons had not lived.
Peter fell like a tree into the bed. John saw something he could do but Edmund got there first and removed Peter’s shoes.
“You already put out water and willow bark?” Peter mumbled.
“It’s called aspirin here,” Edmund said – one more of the many mysteries that had piled up that evening. “And it’s on the nightstand so you won’t go stumbling around in the middle of the night looking for it and waking me up.”
“Why can’t I get what you had, Ed? What you and Morgan had?”
Morgan?
John saw Edmund’s face tighten; their eyes met and his son looked away with an angry set in his jaw.
“You miss her, don’t you? You must. But you never talk about her.”
Edmund kicked Peter’s boots under the bed.
“Of course I miss her. Just because I don’t talk about it doesn’t mean I don’t.”
Peter’s arm flailed out and he caught Edmund by the hand. Edmund scowled but Peter, for all that he was blind with drink, held fast.
“Do you think I’ll ever have that Ed? Someone who loves me as much as Morgan loved you?”
Peter was too drunk to see the obvious pain he was causing his brother. Edmund sighed and took Peter’s hands in own.
“My brother and High King, do you desire the truth or the lie?”
“Lie to me, Ed. I can't bear the truth. Not tonight.”
“You will meet the woman of your dreams before the year is out. She will have Dalia’s wisdom and humour, Dinan’s beauty and sex appeal, and Mary Russell’s legs. She will be fabulously wealthy; she will adore you for you alone, and not because of the country, the crown, or the chocolate and stockings in your pack. You’ll elope to Birmingham…”
“Birmingham,” Peter muttered, closing his eyes. “I thought you were lying to me.”
“You shall have ten children and forty grandchildren and a house in the country full of cats, hounds and horses and no tripe ever. You shall become an MP for Labour and be knighted, again, and…”
Again?
“Birmingham? Not Gretna Green? Funny how that was in Narnia too. You and Morgan did that, vows over the smith’s anvil. I presided… I still remember the speech…”
“I remember it too; it went on for hours,” Edmund replied. “Go to sleep, Peter.”
Peter nodded and rolled over. “Thanks, Ed.”
Edmund pulled a blanket over his unconscious brother and John switched off the bedroom light.
Helen came out into the hall as they left the room.
“Is he…”
“Asleep,” Edmund said curtly.
Do you want some company?” Helen was speaking only to Edmund and he himself felt the odd interloper.
“Just a stiff drink and cursing,” Edmund replied. He turned away, toward the stair.
Helen’s warmth and concern for Edmund turned to a cool stare at him.
“I…”
“Yes?”
“I don’t understand what’s going on.”
Helen smoothed her dressing gown and crossed her arms over her front. “There is nothing to understand, John.”
“None of this makes any sense!”
“I’ll repeat what you told me,” Helen bit out. “You are imagining things. You’re just being hysterical. It’s fear of your children growing up. It’s the War. Go have a glass of wine. Take laudanum.”
Why had he never heard how wounded his wife sounded? Had he really said those things?
“Helen, they are talking like they are lunatics. But they can’t be, not all of them. Not everyone.” My brother and High King, do you desire the truth or the lie? What he'd heard had all had the ring of truth. They couldn't all be lying, could they? A shared delusion?
She rolled her eyes, looking utterly disgusted, and turned her back on him. “You’re the bloody logician, John. Work it out.”
John stared at the closed bedroom door. Helen, though, had never needed locks to shut him out.
What did it all mean? High King? Edmund and someone named Morgan at Gretna Green? His little girl flinging knives and darts with such precision to become a London champion? He’d thought Peter had thrown his life away – a useless, wastrel existence. That wasn’t what he’d seen in the pub. How was it that every man at the Brick & Arms knew Peter better than his own father did? He’d lost count of the number of men who’d come up to shake his hand and offer him a light or a pint – a privilege, sir, to meet Peter Pevensie’s father.
His son had been the famous Richard Russell’s last student! Had the respect and sponsorship of Digory Kirke! Had thrown it all away to enlist as a common RO? And then hadn’t survived a year at Oxford?
It made no sense.
He wandered into Peter and Edmund’s room. Peter was curled up, sound asleep, facing the wall. Squinting in the dark, he noticed for the first time that the tin soldiers were gone from the shelves. Of course they were. But when? He’d gone to war to try to keep his family safe and come home to find he was surplusage, the old tent and boots no longer wanted, a faint malodour, and an unpleasant reminder.
He turned about in the boys’ room but there was nothing for him to add. Edmund had done everything, as, he’d come to see, Edmund always did. I’ll always be your logistics man, my King. Moving you is still easier than moving an army of herbivores.
John was perversely pleased that he could at least pull the blind down so the sun wouldn’t trouble Peter in the morning.
Just as he was reaching for the cord, he saw, through the window, a shadow under the lamppost across the way.
There was a cat, an enormous cat with bright yellow eyes, under the lamppost, staring right at him.
The cat blinked. He quickly drew the shade.
John followed the sounds of Edmund’s muffled swearing and clinking of glassware downstairs.
Edmund had broken out that bottle of Jamaican rum.
“I know you don’t want company…”
He hoped his son might say something to lessen the anxiety and discomfort – a, “Not at all, please join me.” Edmund did set out an extra glass on the trolley and indicated it with a jerk of his head. But he then settled on the divan, turned away, and was pointedly and stubbornly mute.
As he passed the picture window, John looked outside again. The cat was still there. “I hope that cat doesn’t get into the rubbish bins.” It was lame but at least it filled the silence with something other than the ticking clock and Edmund’s dour scowl.
Edmund looked up over the rim of his glass, finally making sharp eye contact.
“A cat? You saw a cat?”
“Yes, right outside, under the…”
“Lampost,” Edmund finished dully.
“Does it hang around here a lot?
His son nodded, closed his eyes and let out a heavy sigh.
Another oddity in an evening full of them. “So you know it? Him? Should I go out, or…”
At the sounds of Edmund muttering under his breath, John turned away from the window.
“Ed?”
“He knows I’m angry with him,” Edmund said.
“Who? The cat? What are you talking about?”
Edmund scrubbed his eyes. “God, I suppose, though the theology is muddled to be sure.”
How did they go from cats to God? “God knows you are angry with him?” Maybe there really were shared delusions.
“We’ve never quite worked that out,” Edmund said. “And don’t sound so shocked or disapproving, Father. I assure you, whatever divine power is skulking about this evening, I know Him and His will far better than you do.”
“Edmund! That’s quite enough!” John wasn’t even sure what he was angry about, except that he did not understand and Edmund’s flippancy was aggravating.
Edmund opened his eyes.
“Do not presume to lecture me on this, Father. Peter, for the first time in his long life of selfless duty, finally had the opportunity to do something he really wanted, with someone he truly cared for, and now, instead, it’s back to giving everything to everyone else, with nothing left for him. It’s just as it was before. He knows I’m angry, I have cause to be angry, and how we work that out is between us.”
John sagged onto the divan. “I don’t understand, Edmund. Any of this. You aren’t mad but it all seems mad.”
“We’re all mad here.”
That was a reference he did get and had read the story to Lucy when his little girl still sat on his lap at bedtime. “‘But I don’t want to go among mad people,’Alice remarked.”
Edmund pulled out of his slump and took a deep sip of his drink. Another mystery. When had Edmund developed a taste for rum of all things?
“When I said you could join us tonight, I did wonder if it would be your night down the rabbit hole and through the looking glass…” Edmund shook his head. “And now it seems it is and my wits are scattered to the winds. I am now not in the proper mind at all, which is, I admit, not fair to you.”
“I don’t…”
“You don’t understand. I know. Please, give me a moment to work out the best way forward here.” Edmund rose from the divan, carefully balancing his drink and crossed over to the window.
“Is that cat still there?” John asked.
“In a manner of speaking, he never leaves.”
“What…”
“A moment longer, please, Father.”
His son had not framed his response as a plea, but as a simple statement of fact. It was a sore trial, but John waited.
“Well, I am going to put this in his paws,” Edmund finally said.
“Paws? Are we back to that damned cat?”
“Of a sort. After tonight, I think he owes me a boon.”
Edmund came back to the divan and set a hand on his shoulder. “You say you wish to understand?”
John nodded. “Yes. I …” He found his voice uncomfortably tight. “I am a stranger in my own home.”
“Then, you must go upstairs, get on your knees or into bed, or however you do this, and ask.”
“Ask who? For what?”
“I suppose you might call it prayer to the divine. But there is nothing rote about this. You seek understanding, so you must ask. You must mean it, sincerely. Also, I earnestly entreat you to apologize first.”
“Apologize? For what?”
Edmund long, steady stare was so deeply uncomfortable, John had to look away, feeling an embarrassed flush rise.
He felt his son’s hands over his own. “When you are so close, do not let shame stop you from the understanding you seek and the forgiveness I believe you do want.”
John stared at their twined hands. There was so much… He felt tears forming and pulled his hands out to angrily brush them away
“Grace is there for us all, Father, but you must ask for it. And then you must humbly listen for the answer.”
John finally spoke his fear. "I think it's too late. It's too large..."
"No, Father, it is not." Edmund leaned forward and solemnly, like some monarch of old, kissed his brow. There was a scent of spicy rum and the sound of a cat's rumbling purr. "May your eyes and heart be open."
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This snippet is like Edmund's kiss. I want to go wandering with the touch of it lingering.
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Most of all, thanks. I've been floundering for so long and I finally just had to start writing, even if it was in the middle, and that's a start, and now, onward.
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Wait what
Does he punch Aslan
I hope he doesn’t use a candlestick that’s Morgan’s thing
Also PETER MY LOVE AAAAAAAAAAAH
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My first thought is poor Edmund, having to once again be the one to explain Narnia to a parent. But his mother was far, far more receptive and willing to understand; how John will take it is a big mystery though I suspect he begins to truly realize now after all these years how much he doesn't understand his family. He just had a very broad summary of things thanks to Peter's mumblings.
I'm curious as to what exactly was the rotten decision Peter made that ended up with him so terribly drunk (how any beers does it take to equate to drinking vast amounts of Lightning?).
So the Cat is watching under the lamppost. How unsurprising but still, I'm a bit surprised to see Him paying very close attention to his Kings and Queens. And I suppose Edmund asked whether it was finally time to come clean with his father about their past. Aslan hasn't made it easy for them at all but perhaps now the family can begin to reconcile.
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But as I indicated above, this doesn't go as Edmund thinks it will and John, well, he'll have his moment of redemption. I'm a long way from this but I just had to start, somewhere, and so this is where I started. Thank you for reading and being supportive and I hope you feel better.
"Long string of Wait, What?"s
(Anonymous) 2015-12-09 04:10 am (UTC)(link)-Kathleen
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Also, backstory on the Pevensie marriage!
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Most of all, thank you for caring and reading and sticking with it. I had to start somewhere and so this is where I did. I've been stuck for so long it felt really good to get a few thousand words down.
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One does feel a bit sorry for John: it's all very very confusing.
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(Anonymous) 2015-05-24 04:42 am (UTC)(link)Standingonasoapbox
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I look forward to AW, all of it, when you get to it. ♥
hilo from Ao3! Yes, it's Wren Truesong.
Combing through comments has occasioned thoughts: I find Mary delightful, but then i was the prodigy girl too, who blinded myself with my focus, and it's all too easy to blind myself again and stop learning or trying. I really adore Helen Pevensie and her evolving relationship with her children, and wish i could have a mum like that. I'm so glad she has Beatrice. Alice is marvellous. I adore that you make Calormene nuanced and don't give in to Islamophobia. I love Spare Oom being as kind and beautiful and harsh and torn as Narnia and the Known Lands. Really, really, really love it, because yes there might be a lovely afterlife but this life should and must be enjoyed too. And to hell with the rest of the fandom if they're bigots. Your idiocy has made a glorious light and I LOVED the Darwin bits.
Morgan is marvellous, and I'm on the spectrum, damn it. ANd yes, not all of us are the math wizzes, but the struggle with 'why am i like this, why am I broken, why can't I do what everyone feels so easy, why do people LIE and take advantage of other people' echoes me and so many other people on the spectrum.
Richard and Aslan I love with the bittersweet regard of one who has been burned but doesn't want to give them up. And being a consistent person is hard enough when all you are responsible for is you, being a god must be worse.
John Pevensie I cannot forgive so easily, because as an abuse survivor I know all too well that a careless, precoccupied parent can be even worse than a deliberately cruel one, and I have had both twice over. George sees him for what he is, and in the commentfic he begins to see himself, but never mind him, he'll mend or further ruin himself on his own merits. I prefer to enjoy 'my brother and high king' returning, and how very, very many people love the Pevensies, and how Helen continues to be amazing. I love her throwing the laudanum line back at John. and ooh there's so much MORE on the dreamwidth link. So I'll just move this comment to there, because this is going to be huge. XD
I love Edmund just going 'yeah, god's hanging around, he knows I'm mad' and John being in the 'what the fuck is going on here how dare people exist and not accomodate me' place, which is also the 'why does everyone expect me to read their minds and then condemn me for not having done so' place but with more refusing to admit dereliction of duty. XD
Edmund came back to the divan and set a hand on his shoulder. “You say you wish to understand?”
John nodded. “Yes. I …” He found his voice uncomfortably tight. “I am a stranger in my own home.”
“Then, you must go upstairs, get on your knees or into bed, or however you do this, and ask.”
YES
He felt his son’s hands over his own. “When you are so close, do not let shame stop you from the understanding you seek and the forgiveness I believe you do want.”
see this is why I adore Edmund, because he can do that, as he has for so many. Forgiveness and redemption are so very, very hard.
Re: hilo from Ao3! Yes, it's Wren Truesong.
And speaking of, the story I just posted, Father Goose, has lots of Golden Age things and an AW part too.
Mary -- well I love Mary and always have. yes, she's a prodigy and has expected the world to reorder itself to suit her. She's young and has made some really terrible decisions.
And thank you for sharing a glimpse of your survivor story. I'm sorry. This has been a terrible, terrible few weeks.
John doesn't get a pass and I'm sorry if he was triggering. The thing about John is that to the extent Edmund was his greatest victim, Edmund is pretty much over it. The pain for Edmund now is that he can see what has happened between his parents and would want nothing more than to be with Morgan again and sees his father in particular, just throwing it away with both hands.
Peter is John's more contemporary victim. With Peter, in my head, anyway, he's going to flounder around and suffer terribly for a few years and knowing that he disappoints his father is awful.
The terrible thing for John to realize is that he believes he's sacrificed everything for his family, going to war to keep them safe. And he finds that some big cat god took his very young children and nearly killed them. He's PISSED.
And I saw that you discovered Jalur, the big grouchy, jealous, insecure deeply introverted Tiger. Lots of people really relate to Jalur.
Thank you so much for reading and being so generous with your time and attention.
Re: hilo from Ao3! Yes, it's Wren Truesong.
John, and the discontinuity of having the male-presenting parent be the
carelessly emotionally abusive one made separation easy. George's massive
'wtf' helped a lot.
And I love the whole thing in broad swathes, so thank you for all the hard
work and sharing it!
I cannot believe this has been simmering over here for 5 years
You are sooo generous to John, who seems to have finally come out of the haze of his worse coping behaviors. Too bad the earth has still been turning all this time! I love how Helen is Done with his shit. And suddenly he notices lmao. I died when she spit his own words back in his face. YASS QUEEN!!
It's made so abundantly clear not only that John's emotional maturity lags far behind his sons, but that his leadership qualities are sorely lacking and rely almost exclusively on the established roles of the nuclear family. We are so far outside that zone with our beloved Pevensies. I love the rhythm of Peter and Edmund, I love the part about willow bark, and I LOVE HOW SAD DRUNK BB PETER IS OMFG. Break my heart?! WILL THIS MAN NEVER GET LOVE??? WHERE DO I EVEN START I'M DROWNING IN THESE PETER FEELS. Coupled with the scenes from Winning His Spurs my heart is fucking torn asunder. These themes in Peter, which feel so natural, are ones I rarely encountered in fic AT ALL. You are incredible. Was this the plan way back when you decided to make Dahlia a Mary Sue? This is devastating.
All of this is SO. VISUAL too. The dark rooms, the lamppost light slanting through the windows, the dark brown of the rum, Edmund's shadowed face. The house feels big and small at the same time. John is lost and at home. Edmund is in command of himself and the situation. It is time for A Talk. This is like a noir film!
And Edmund has grace even after Peter said Morgan's name and provoked those Feelings! This was not the blowout I was expecting tbh (I sort of imagined a super aggressive "you're a failure" type lecture?) but it was so perfect. I can't believe Edmund!! The way he's so able to aptly handle his own feelings, to handle the conversation so skillfully and communicate SO WELL... this is a feat. Wow. Patience with drunk Peter. Patience with dumb John, who I cannot believe is receptive?! This is so uplifting?!?!! And even patience with Aslan. He hands it off to the Cat with some deft delegating... it's so MATURE. Edmund is light years ahead of John. This was beautiful.
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I have had multiple glasses of wine so I am not fully able to articulate exactly how much I love this and why but omg John and the way Edmund handles him (just as he logistically handles EVERYONE to some extent). Also such a sucker for the wya you write Pevensies being Royal in England. Aaaah I just love this and I need more Ruth, omg.
I have found a treat!