Minds of Many

a particularly deep push drives into his ribs, sending a sharp jolt of pain rippling up from his gut to his frazzled nervous system. narrow shoulders draw in tight, jaw locks, then grinds some, teeth scraping against each other.

and although edmund feels light-headed, he yields without resistance. the shirt is worked free, its marred fabric sliding loose and discarded onto the polished floor before he even fully registers its absence. only then does the air finds him – biting sharp and cold against the freckled expanse of his flank.

“ urgh-!. . . be quick, if you would. this is worse than i'd reckoned. . . does it look half so grave as it feels. . .? ”

He trails off, wincing apologetically at the pain he knows he is inflicting. Still, it is easier to work without the sodden material of Edmund's shirt in his way and as he assess the extent of the wound, his expression turns grim.

he turns back easily, letting that warmth draw him in again, and flashes the man a crooked grin. his touch is warm and familiar — something he had not realized he could miss until he felt it again.

“ that's all i can tell you. it all went by in a blur, i'm. . . not who i was when you last saw me. yeah, i think the paleness speaks for itself. ”

narnia is a peculiar place. while time is, possibly, a human construct, narnian time is not bound to earth — it moves as aslan wills it to. edmund has never been able to grasp its inconsistency.

three times he had fallen out of it.

once through professor kirke's wardrobe, once at the old strand london underground station, and once again at eustace's.

a whole life lived behind starry eyelids. he'd grown into a sense of self and into his own body, learnt when and how to make decisions like an adult would. all of it gone when he would return again and again to a body that felt (and still feels) wrong.

oh, aslan! let it be right this time. “ i hope not! i'm not really in the mood for another one, and. . . i would rather just enjoy being back. ” edmund deadpans, falling into step beside him. “ but, if it did come to it, i think we'd be alright. ”

a huff follows. “ you're lucky it's just me this time, cas. peter wouldn't have been too pleased with that information. ” then again, nothing ever stays the same for long. “ i will say, though — talking about renovations as if it's nothing. . . cair paravel was my home. try not to disappoint me. ”

His smile is quick to return as Edmund turns back to face him, and a wave of near giddy excitement courses through him. He can barely believe that Edmund is truly here with him, and with no imminent disaster to abate.

Perhaps they would have more chances for fun, like the moments of joy he had cherished on the Dawn Treader all those years ago.

"Well, I am glad indeed that you are here. Narnia shall do you good," he insists, squeezing his shoulder again before letting his hand drop to his side. He clicks his tongue as they start to walk, and the horse follows obediently behind them.

A chuckle rumbles through him at Edmund, and he glances towards him as the trees dance eagerly around the two kings.

he should be used to being flung around through space and time (it had happened a few times) but somehow it never fails to shock him. one second, he was shelving books in the uni library; the next, he was sprawled ass first on a soggy mess of wood and wet green grass. and for a heartbeat, he is no longer just edmund pevensie, but one of the four ancient sovereigns of narnia.

the trees hum a jubilant tune of ‘welcome back, your majesty!’ ,and for the first time in ages, he truly feels at home. he is home.

edmund stills.

@hearkenedsouls stands tall and broad-chested before him, like a living reminder that time is unforgiving and inevitably slipping through your fingers, and that it is beyond your control. threaded through those luscious brown locks (longer than he remembers) and the stubble on his jaw are the subtle touches of age.

“ . . .caspian—! ” he echoes, sporting a half-crooked smile on the quivering lines of his mouth. it has been a while. “ bloody hell, it really is you, isn't it? i must've nodded off back at the library or something [...] i didn't think i would ever walk through these forests again. ” and he wheezes — the kind of sound that settles deep in your belly, slithers up to your chest, tugging at it with incredulity.

a tiny twig perches on his head still, but he flicks it away with a lazy flourish. his freckled cheeks and big brown eyes are warm with satisfaction the moment he steps forward and gingerly caresses the horse's muzzle.

A bright grin unfolds on his lips, and as Edmund steps forward he claps his fellow king on the shoulder. "It's good to see you, my friend. It has been over ten years since the voyage. And you? How long has it been?"

He takes a step back to examine him more closely; the same freckled cheeks and warm brown eyes give him an air of almost perpetual youth, but it is no teenager that stands before him now. "You are looking well. A little pale, perhaps, but the Narnian sun will soon set that right."

His smile dips at his second question, his lips twisting thoughtfully. "Everything is well, Narnia is at peace. I hope your arrival isn't the precursor for an impending invasion." But his expression lightens quickly, excitement thrumming through him at the realisation that Edmund is truly back in Narnia, with him, regardless of what the future may hold.

Eagerly delving into the hearty breakfast that Icarus had prepared, Mal hummed his approval as he sampled a mouthful of the eggs and bacon together, stifling a soft huff of laughter behind his hand as he promptly tasted another mouthful, swallowing it down before speaking again. “Oh, you’re most definitely invited back.” He assured, flashing a playful grin the other man’s way. “You know, there might just be a florist in the village with some work for you — or who maybe just needs a personal chef, when this is already world’s better than anything he could make.” It was a jest of course, but only in part when Icarus seemed capable of turning his hand to most anything; he’d even be wasted lugging about buckets and helping him with his own work, when he seemed to have a mind capable of far greater and an eagerness to match, but Mal was soon distracted by the soft, ticklish brush of something against his freckled arm where his sleeve was rolled up to the elbow, his smile not fading for an instant as he realised it was the tips of his feathers, reaching out almost like a hand might.

He grinned as Mal assured him he was invited back, and a quiet chuckle escaped him at his suggestion. "I'm glad. I would be very happy to help," he assured, and his smile dipped into something more sincere, "but I could never take your coin. You saved me." Without Mal imparting his knowledge in Faerie - even though it had felt a little like a lecture from a disappointed tutor at the time - he would never have found his way back into the human realm. He noticed his creeping wings just as Mal did, and he would have pulled them back to his sides, a little abashed, if it hadn't been for the fingertips reaching towards them.

It was easy to forget about the brownie once his attention was focused on cooking, and he efficiently chopped up the garlic and herbs - throwing them into the pan with a lump of butter and several thick slices of bacon. "Oh, I certainly hope so," he chuckled. "I asked if he was thinking of hiring another cook - I'd be quite at home in the kitchen, - but he seemed to take offense to that suggestion," he admitted, with mild amusement. If there was one thing he missed about Faerie, it was the food; even though Rosehip was the opposite of generous, the hosts were often intent on showing off and throwing elaborate feasts for everyone. The innkeeper had no such desire. Once the bacon had nicely browned, he turned his attention to the eggs, happily humming a quiet tune to himself as he scrambled and seasoned them, careful to ensure they didn't burn.

Right when the florist had been convinced his guest couldn’t impress him any more he went on to insist that he could cook too, and though his brows shot upwards in mild surprise Mal certainly wasn’t about to turn him down. “If you insist.” He chuckled, happy to allow him the run of the kitchen, a cosy little space painted in emerald green, glass bottles filled with flowers cut from the garden adoring the wooden countertops. There were similar vignettes of garden blooms just about everywhere in the cottage, which was warm and eclectic and softened by layers of rugs and throws and embroidered cushions — though he didn’t have much in the way of guests, it was homely indeed.

Speaking of home, down a winding lane a quaint little cottage at last came into view, the path trailing along beyond it and then further still, into the woods that Icarus had seemed so wary of. Surrounded by an old stone wall, even at a distance the garden contained within looked vibrant with colour, the sweet musk of garden roses whisked along on the breeze as they approached. Mal braced himself for yet more of that infectious excitement on the part of his guest, shaking his head in fond, knowing amusement as he admitted to not having eaten amidst the distraction that was his impending visit.

"This is your house?" he came to a stop at the wall surrounding the cottage, his gaze full of wonder. Truly, it was like something from a fairy-tale; the vibrant, colourful flowers in such brilliant contrast to the darker stone, and he grinned - ignoring the stab of longing. How had Mal managed to find this incredible place, when he was stuck in a room that was barely large enough to spread his wings? "It is so beautiful. And your garden is wonderful, I am sure I will find enough pigment for my paints," he enthused.

“Good morning to you too.” He countered with a playful flash of a wink, his good natured laughter echoing out into the peaceful morning. It seemed they had no company but the birds at such an hour, their cheerful songs piercing the stillness of the air as they darted overhead and then dove into the hedgerows as Mal led the way back the way he’d come, falling into step beside Icarus with a smile. “Of course I do.” The florist insisted, almost matter-of-fact as blue eyes glittered with thinly-veiled mirth. He had been trying to imagine what it might be like to experience flight for himself, to be buoyed on the breeze by those extraordinary wings tucked away beneath Icarus’ cloak, and truth be told he was eager to see if the reality matched up with his expectations — he could only imagine the feeling of freedom.

Mal seemed to be happy to meander at a leisurely pace through the cobbled streets, and it took an effort for Icarus to breathe and notice the beautiful surroundings instead of already imagining himself flying in the sky with the florist strapped to his chest.