@paralianprince
Edward’s gift from Peter this Christmas is… for one thing, late. Whether this was due to the mediocre postage service on his fortress (surely not), or because he had procrastinated terribly (more likely), or because he had up to the last minute persisted in editing tiny, scarcely perceptible details (definitely this one). He’d wrapped it once in torn magazine pages, and again in the sort of wax paper normally used to preserve leftovers– but in this case, in the hopes of warding off the damp. It had all been tied up in an absurdly excessive length of turquoise ribbon, as if he weren’t precisely sure how much was necessary, or (still more likely in any case) he’d had a bit too much fun tying all the knots and bows and whatnot.
Beneath all this mess of wrapping and decoration is a book with thin wooden covers, into which he’d carved designs of curling waves and castles, to a backdrop of hills and magnificent clouds. He had rather timidly attempted to colour them in, but the staining to the wood is sparse. The edges have all been sanded smooth to protect from splinters; after innumerable adventures with a hot glue gun, he’d finally figured out how to string the bundles of pages into a flexible spine, with only moderate evidence that it had been an amateur’s work at all.
The pages are cramped in inelegant cursive that hesitates and stutters without eloquence, leaving the occasional evidence of indentation in the paper, or a collection of ink where he might’ve paused for too long. The first paragraph or so he remembers having practised on endless sheets of paper before penning them down, afraid beyond measure that he’d mess the whole thing up after having finally succeeded at putting the book together to an acceptable standard. By only the fifth word he’d pressed too hard coming down on an i. Once he was finished with all the distressed panic that he had messed up, and why could he not do this one important thing right, et cetera, he would eventually come back to the project two weeks later and continue. Now that he’d already messed up once, the imperfections to come wouldn’t upset him nearly as much, though he regretted that first mistake up until the sending date, and will likely continue to do so for many months afterwards.
The book is a collection of stories. A companion to the book Edward had written and gifted to him several months ago on his birthday, except that the stories Peter writes are fiction and whimsical fancy, tales of what he imagines would have been lovely, if only it had been in the cards, though of course it hadn’t been, else he wouldn’t be so enamoured with the idea. In his stories he ignores the fact that he never got a say in whether he loved Edward or not. That he still doesn’t have a say in it, not really. He ignores the discomfortable truth that he feels this way because he was made for a purpose, because he doesn’t care. In Peter’s stories he is still his brother’s protector, and better yet, always has been; they begin with the oath to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with Edward for all of history and beckon the world, daring it to even try. In a story, it could be true. It’s obvious he’s drawn plenty of inspiration from the tales in Edward’s book, but in fiction he’s allowed to change all the endings, and all too often they are rewritten into happier ones.
In his stories he becomes a knight, just as he’d said– then a member of his brother’s privateering crew, at once daring and playful and strict, when needed be– or an actor, heaven help him– a messenger, a confidant, a castle-on-a-cliff-by-the-sea (because being a fortress would be anachronistic), and anything else his brother ever needed him to be. And even though he would admit he was embellishing the importance he might’ve had, even in fantasy, his stand-in character still was rash, or rude, or not quite sensible, or said the wrong things, because even in fantasy it’s hard to write oneself under a positive light, isn’t it? But that’s okay in the end, because in fiction at least they (one forever lost to time, the other having never existed at all) have both always loved each other, and were never even once forced to face the world alone.
(In writing these stories, he comes to the silent revelation that even in fantasy, for all his company might have been appreciated, Edward still would never have needed him half as much. Knowing this, his character, at least, comes to peace with it. Heroes are selfless, and love without expectation; he can bring himself to do the same. He’d promised to stand by his brother, and be whatever he needed him to be, and if that’s all Castle-On-A-Cliff-By-The-Sea can do, then he will take it, and be grateful to have that much.)
The parcel was unexpected. Partly due to it’s lateness - Edward had thought that any and all Christmas parcels would have arrived prompt and prior to the date. He hadn’t ordered anything in the sales either. A quick glance over the front of the parcel brought the second surprise, though. He’d recognise that scrawl anywhere (not to mention the return address was a huge giveaway. Edward doubted much post came from the tiny fort off-shore).
A small smile tugged his lips, and he didn’t expect the rush of anticipation and elation that briefly filled his chest. In all honesty, he hadn’t expected to receive anything from his brother. Sure, he’d sent something out to Peter himself, but Edward felt like it was his responsibility to (not saying that he didn’t want to send a gift to Peter. He was just acutely aware that he should be the one still begging Peter for forgiveness, not vice-versa). Still, he had yet to tear off the wax paper! It could just be something simple or obligatory, after all.
Oh, but he was wrong.
The parcel was unwrapped as Edward walked to the living room, paper and ribbon scrunched up and discarded on the wooden dining table as he held the wooden book in his hands. He turned it over carefully, holding it up in the light and then close to his eyes to examine the detail that Peter had carved and stained into the front cover. He hadn’t seen a book with wooden covers in what felt like forever, and to know that Peter had spent time and effort working on this made his smile grow an inch wider.
That fleeting feeling of warmth and anticipation returned as he carefully opened the book and began skimming the first page, getting a feeling for the boy’s work. Almost immediately, Edward could hear Peter’s voice captured in the pages and ink, as if Peter was stood in the room excitedly reciting each story to him. Edward turned the pages with care, not wanting to even crease the corners of the page. Soon, two pages turned into ten, then twenty, then more, as Edward became sucked into this fantasy realm that Peter had created. No, Peter had created it for them both. Stories of knights and pirates, of adventure and excitement, yet danger and risk were around every corner. An escape from the harsh reality that was. Edward was only sucked out of his reading by the chime of a clock, reminding him that he wasn’t by a castle-on-a-cliff-by-the-sea, but instead was far from it, in the country in Cambridgeshire.
Gently, he closed the book, fingertips tracing the carvings of the waves. He must write to Peter and thank him for such a thoughtful gift. It was possibly one of the best and dearest that Edward had received, at least in a long, long while.
This past may all be fantasy, but at least Edward had a chance of mending things for the future.
