Fic Recommendation
Feb. 14th, 2009 07:50 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
gmtaslashTitle: The Better Part of Valour
Author: Bridget
Fandom: Narnia
Rating: NC-17
Notes: Originally posted to the edmund_caspian community on livejournal, which Trojie co-mods.
Trojie says:
The ever amazing Bridget, after many many years (I kid you not) of refusing to write damned near anything that I didn't have a hefty hand in, has finally knuckled under and displayed the talent I always knew she possessed. Please to all be going and reading it and leaving comments for her and this lovely piece of Edmund/Caspian fic: The Better Part of Valour, at![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
edmund_caspian, which, by the way, if you like That Sort of Thing, you ought to join *hint hint*.
Bridget adds:
I think Trojie was after something short and silly involving the party after Caspian's coronation. It, er, didn't quite turn out that way...
The pipes of the Fauns ring out over the drums. The ballroom is hot, sticky, and Edmund is just thankful that Narnian tailors make much more comfortable clothes than those worn in England for similar occasions. Not that he's ever been to an English ball, of course, but his Sunday best is bad enough.
He smooths a hand over his tunic, enjoying the feel of the silken material, and scans the room.
He can see Peter, goblet in hand, deep in conversation with the Badger, Trufflehunter. Probably, Edmund thinks, they are discussing matters of state, and how Caspian's kingdom is to be ordered. Though Edmund enjoyed such talk during the Golden Age, at the moment he has other things on his mind. His gaze moves on.
Susan is being whirled around the dancefloor, skirts trailing behind her, by a Telmarine lord. She looks happy, but he is not the Telmarine Edmund's thoughts are with tonight. He sips his wine, savouring the bouquet, and continues searching.
He spots Lucy next, doing a little jig with a handsome young Faun whose face, grinning cheekily, reminds Edmund a little of Mr Tumnus. He hopes his sister knows what she is doing. The Golden Age is passed, after all, and she is a child once more. Some thoughts, however, should not be dwelt upon at length, and so once again Edmund turns his attention elsewhere.
He weaves his way around the edge of the dancefloor, laughing and shaking his head when pressed to dance by many a pretty Dryad. There is still no sign of his quarry.
Aslan is there, however, smiling beatifically at the side of the room, flanked by a Leopard and listening to a pair of Centaurs. Edmund gives him a smile and a bow as he passes, determined not to be interrupted in his hunt.
Eventually, he gives it up as a bad job. Knowing Caspian, he is probably not even here yet. Probably, Edmund thinks gloomily, the young king has been waylaid by a pretty face somewhere, and is even now doffing his trousers in some secluded corner.
Or not. As he rounds the corner that will take him out into the courtyard, he espies a figure he has come to know well, if only through stolen glances, these past few days. Caspian is standing, leaning against a pillar, gazing up at the stars. Edmund joins him.
'Lovely night for it,' he comments, wishing he had pockets to jam his suddenly sweaty hands into.
'For stargazing?' Caspian inquires, not turning his head.
'If you like.' They are silent for a while, heads tilted back. Edmund is unable to stop himself from peeking sideways periodically, admiring the line of the king's throat. The bob of his Adam's apple as he swallows is surprisingly distracting.
'Walk with me,' Caspian says suddenly. He takes a few steps, then turns, looking inquisitively at Edmund.
They circle the courtyard once, slowly, not speaking, and then Caspian ducks through a low doorway into a dimly lit corridor. He takes a torch down from the wall, and leads the way.
'Where are we going?' Edmund asks. 'Aren't you supposed to be at the ball? It's for your coronation, after all.'
'I'm already crowned,' Caspian points out. 'Doesn't that mean I can do what I want?'
'Not exactly,' Edmund admits. 'Quite the opposite, in fact. It's all duty and responsibility from now on.'
'But with some fun, surely?' Caspian stops a moment, turning to face Edmund. He catches the gleam of the king's eyes in the torchlight, and swallows.
'So long as you're discreet,' he admits. Caspian looks puzzled.
'But how can balls be discreet?'
Edmund blushes, and coughs.
'And parties,' Caspian continues. 'And hunts and so forth. I plan to have lots.'
'Lots of balls?' Edmund asks. He curses himself internally, but the words just slipped out.
'Yes,' Caspian declares, beginning to walk once more. They come to a flight of stairs, and he ascends. Edmund follows, trying and failing not to notice Caspian's behind, which is pleasingly placed right at eye level. He prays the king will not turn again, or at least not until they are back on level ground.
'This country has been oppressed for too long,' Caspian says. 'It's time we had something to celebrate.'
'There's plenty of celebration downstairs,' Edmund says, wondering just why Caspian has brought him up this high tower so late in the evening. 'You don't seem to be joining in.'
'I find myself a little ... overwhelmed,' Caspian admits, reaching the top of the stairs at last. It is utterly dark, aside from his one flickering torch. Edmund can just make out the outline of a small wooden door. The king opens it, and ushers him through.
Edmund finds himself high above the castle, on the tallest tower. He steps forward to peer down at the courtyard far below. The strains of the pipes do not reach them here, and the chattering of the guests is silenced by the gentle wind. He shivers slightly.
'What troubles you?' he asks at last. Caspian comes to join him, though his gaze is up to the stars once more.
'Many things. The ordering of the kingdom, for one. How long will you stay, do you think?'
'I don't know,' Edmund admits unhappily. 'Probably not long. We're only getting in your way, really.'
Caspian inclines his head, not denying the fact. 'But perhaps I like you in my way.'
'Whether you do or not doesn't matter,' Edmund says, ignoring the little thrill that runs through him at the king's words. 'You can't rule properly with the High King about, you know that.'
'I know,' Caspian says. He sounds unhappy. Edmund gazes at him, trying to read the worries in his face. He reaches out, touches Caspian's arm gently.
'It'll be all right, you know. You're going to make a smashing king.'
Caspian raises an eyebrow and smiles at the colloquialism. 'Smashing? I haven't heard that before. One of your English words?'
'We have a lot of funny ones,' Edmund tells him, vaguely wondering what on earth he's rambling about. It isn't what he wants to say at all. He scuffs his feet, looking away, and a gust of wind makes him shiver.
'You're cold,' Caspian comments.
'My party clothes aren't really suited for this,' Edmund says, gesturing to the desolate tower around them. Caspian steps closer, and slides an arm around him. Edmund freezes.
'There are other things I would ask you of,' Caspian says, his breath tickling Edmund's ear. But he isn't looking at him, and his touch is chaste, and Edmund fervently wishes Caspian wasn't such a gentleman. 'Your sister ...'
Edmund frowns. Caspian has dragged him away from the party, to a high tower away from prying eyes, where, he might add, it is colder than Narnia in peacetime has any right to be, to talk about his sister?
'She asked me to dance,' Caspian continues, feeling Edmund shiver again and tightening his hold.
'She does that,' Edmund says faintly. 'Always was an outrageous flirt.'
'She fluttered her eyelashes.' The king pauses for a moment. Edmund shifts uncomfortably, although he's not willing to forego the heat and closeness of this innocent embrace just yet. Even if Caspian does insist on talking about Susan. 'I didn't realise people actually did that.'
'Normal people don't,' Edmund mutters, suddenly unspeakably angry at his sister.
'And she kissed me,' the king says softly. 'Here.' His fingers touch Edmund's jaw lightly, ghosting up towards his ear.
Edmund trembles again, involuntarily, though not from the cold. 'I expect she wanted you to kiss her back,' he forces himself to say. Caspian is silent for a moment, and Edmund is almost unbearably aware of the heat of him as they stand pressed together in the wind.
'Doctor Cornelius used to bring me up here, when I was a child,' Caspian says at last. 'He would tell me stories, of Old Narnia, and of the Golden Age so long ago.'
'I still can't get used to that,' Edmund admits. 'I hope it's not another thousand years before we get to come again,' he adds quietly. Caspian's arm tightens around him again at that.
'He told me stories of Queen Susan,' the king continues. His breath on Edmund's cheek is infuriatingly at odds with his choice of topic, and Edmund squirms a little, still not entirely comfortable. 'She had many dalliances, I am told. Every prince and king wanted her for his own.'
'Caused quite a bit of trouble more than once,' Edmund agrees.
'But there are no such tales of you, King Edmund,' Caspian breathes softly into his ear. 'Did no pretty maiden ever catch your eye?'
Edmund considers his answer carefully. Honesty is a fine thing, but he is not entirely sure what Caspian will make of the truth, especially not here, like this, holding him so close. 'I was ... more discreet,' he ventures at last. 'I ... had to be.'
Caspian's other arm slides around him then, and he holds Edmund tight against the cold. 'Must you always be discreet? Even here?'
Edmund turns at that, quickly, and searches Caspian's face, for that was a loaded question if ever he's heard one, and he wants, no, needs to be sure he's understood it correctly. The king looks unsure, hesitant, but a slight hopeful smile plays about his lips.
Edmund throws caution to the winds. Leaning forwards, he presses his cold lips to Caspian's, suddenly unaware of the freezing air surrounding them. Caspian's lips are warm, somehow, and Edmund closes his eyes, enjoying the moment while it lasts, sure that any moment now the king will come to his senses, turn on his heel and make his excuses.
But he doesn't. Instead he slides a hand up to cup Edmund's head and pull him in closer to deepen their kiss.
Memory's a funny thing, Edmund thinks as he caresses the soft material of Caspian's collar before letting his hand come to rest on the neck beneath. So much of the Golden Age slipped away when they returned to England, and even back here in Narnia there are weeks and months that elude him. But some memories are indelibly seared into his mind, and this - the slide of mouths together, tangling fingers in hair, a hand slipping down to grasp a buttock - this is one of them. He hasn't forgotten how to seduce a man.
He wonders, listening to the hitch in the king's breath as he pulls their bodies closer together, if this is what Caspian expected when he led Edmund up to this lofty and secluded tower. He wonders too just how far Caspian is expecting this to go. Possibly, he thinks, he ought to find out. One more kiss, and then he'll stop, and ask, as delicately as he can, what it is that Caspian wants from him. Just one more kiss first.
It is Caspian who pauses, eventually, pulling back a little to look Edmund in the eye. He's breathing heavily, his face flushed. Edmund wonders what that face would look like in better light, on silken sheets, with Edmund inside him. He shakes himself mentally. Caspian is whetting his lips, clearly gearing up to say something, and he really ought to be concentrating.
'We ought to go back inside,' Caspian murmurs eventually.
'Back to the ball?' Edmund asks, a sinking feeling in his gut. Perhaps he has misjudged Caspian after all. But the king chuckles, softly, and shakes his head.
'It's a little cold out here, though you seem to have forgotten. I was thinking somewhere a little more ... private.'
Edmund nods, and licks his lips. 'Lead the way.'
Caspian does so, whirling round to grab the torch and making for the door with indecent haste. Edmund is unable to keep from smiling at his enthusiasm. He follows the king, down the many winding stairs, through dusty and unused corridors, until they come to a more frequently used part of the castle. Caspian stops, listening.
They can hear the music from here. It is faster than before, wilder. It's to be expected with Fauns, Edmund remembers. They will probably dance all night. He wonders vaguely if Lucy is still with them. Then he quickly dispels the thought. There is a time and a place, and this is certainly not it.
'Why have we stopped?' he asks, as Caspian holds the torch high, head cocked to one side.
'I don't want to be seen,' Caspian admits.
'Quite right too,' Edmund says, suppressing a smile. 'Starting your reign with a scandal wouldn't exactly be in the best interests of -'
He is cut off by Caspian's hand clamping over his mouth. As he wonders why, he hears footsteps ringing on the stone floor, and the king pulls him back, into the lee of a statue. The torch he slips into an unused sconce. They huddle in silence, waiting, Caspian's hand no longer covering Edmund's mouth but resting gently on his cheek. He leans in to it, pressing back against Caspian and listening to the footsteps mingling with his own pulse, pounding in his ears.
The king's free arm slides around Edmund once more, and his lips, uncommonly warm now that they are inside, press against his ear. Edmund resists the urge to respond - a time and a place, he reminds himself - but he's aware of Caspian, behind him, eager and willing. He wriggles a little, pleased by the hardness pressing against him, and he grins when Caspian lets out an involuntary gasp.
The footsteps recede, and Caspian pushes past Edmund, his breath ragged. 'That was cruel,' he hisses. Edmund smirks, and reaches out, taking the king's hand and kissing him quickly.
'Come on,' he says, excitement such as he has never been able to find in England coursing through him. 'The sooner we get there ...' He trails off, leaving Caspian to imagine what will happen once they are in the privacy of his rooms. He's almost pulled off his feet as Caspian spins round and begins marching down the corridor, still clasping Edmund's hand.
It isn't far to Caspian's bedchamber, and they arrive without further mishap.
The door is heavy, imposing oak, but Edmund barely has chance to note its intricate carvings before Caspian pulls him in and closes it behind them.
'Lock,' Edmund reminds him. Caspian turns the key, and pockets it. 'And bolts. Just in case.' He admires the rippling of muscle under Caspian's shirt as the king stretches to shoot the bolt home, and reaches out to run a hand over the curve of his shoulder. Caspian turns, leaning against the door and regarding him a little awkwardly.
'Nervous?' Edmund asks, taking his hand and leading him over to the bed. They sit, although Caspian, he can't help noticing, looks a little worried.
'Still slightly overwhelmed,' he admits, twining his fingers through Edmund's. 'My lessons with Doctor Cornelius didn't exactly cover this.'
Edmund laughs at the mental image that conjures up, but stops abruptly as Caspian resumes kissing him. Well, Edmund thinks, if this is what he needs to put him at his ease, he's quite happy to go on kissing Caspian until the stars fall and the world ends. Unless, of course, Aslan decides to send them back before then, and that reminds him of the ball. Their absence will doubtless be noticed, sooner or later.
Caspian seems quite happy with an increase of pace, and shifts to allow Edmund to begin undressing him with careful, restrained movements. He doesn't want to frighten the young king, and this, he has to keep reminding himself, is new to Caspian. But it seems Caspian has other ideas, as he sets about Edmund's own attire with unseemly haste.
'You're not going to break me,' he chastises, reclining against the pillows.
Edmund raises an eyebrow, his eyes drinking in the sight of Caspian, naked and waiting, a delightfully sinful smile on his face. 'You're sure?' he asks, more than one meaning in his question.
'Positive,' Caspian says, and pulls him down.
No one, Edmund thinks as his hands explore, should be allowed to make such wanton noises as Caspian does. He writhes and moans, and the knowledge that it is him causing this thrills Edmund. He pushes against Caspian, sliding their bodies together, breathing heavily and losing himself in sensation.
He remembers other times, other boys and men, but none were quite like this. He was a king himself, before, and his partners his subjects. He'd often worried about their motives, but here now, with Caspian, the only inequality is in their relative experience. That knowledge is strangely arousing, and as he nips as Caspian's neck, savouring the taste of his skin, another thought occurs. He smiles at the realisation, and shifts, sliding down Caspian's body, planting kisses all the way.
'What are you - oh,' Caspian breathes, raising himself up on his elbow to peer at Edmund.
'I don't know how things are now,' Edmund says slowly, breathing in the heady scent of Caspian, 'but in my day, it wasn't considered entirely proper for a king to do this.'
'I can't think why not,' Caspian gasps, arching his back as Edmund ducks his head.
'It's a power thing,' he says when he pauses for air. 'So really,' he muses, stroking Caspian thoughtfully, 'it's a good thing we're both kings.'
Their eyes meet, and Caspian reaches down to brush the hair from Edmund's eyes. 'I promise to return the favour,' he vows, 'so long as you don't stop -' He is rendered incapable of further speech as Edmund, eyes gleaming wickedly but never looking away, resumes his ministrations.
It isn't long before Caspian's hand, tangled in Edmund's hair, tightens on the back of his head, and his hips thrust upward. Edmund steadies him with one hand, holding him down, marvelling in the intimacy of the act. Why was he never permitted to do this? Though he will admit, at least in the privacy of his own mind, to some apprehension about what is about to ensue, he is determined to see it through.
Caspian lets out a wordless cry, and collapses back on the bed, suddenly boneless. Edmund sits up, thoughtful, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. Caspian, still gasping for breath, looks up at him.
'You didn't have to -'
'I wanted to,' Edmund says firmly.
Caspian stares at him for a moment, then propels himself forward, crashing into Edmund and knocking him backwards, kissing him hungrily. After a moment he stops, pulling back and licking his own lips.
'Is that - me?' he asks. Edmund nods, and Caspian grins, amused by the thought. Then he ducks, suddenly, and Edmund is left staring at the top of his head, lost for words.
He's tentative, unsure, and Edmund is reminded that this is, after all, his first time. He remembers his own, a lifetime ago, when the Terebinthian ambassador had proved unsusceptible to Susan's many charms and he had been forced to take matters into his own hands. He's never forgotten that first seduction, his innocence and eagerness unfeigned, though he had always regretted its ultimate purpose. The ambassador had been gentle, kind enough in his own way, but it had still hurt, in more ways than one.
He won't do that, he decides, not today. Not now. He doesn't know whether Caspian's considered it, or whether he even knows such things are possible. Best to take things one step at a time, he thinks, even though Caspian seems eager enough, doing his best to recreate Edmund's movements. He's surprisingly good at it, considering, and Edmund does his best to breathe evenly, to still his hips, fighting to retain some vestige of control over his own body.
He can't stop the moans though, and if there's one thing his memory has misplaced, it's just how noisy he always found himself when lost in a warm and willing mouth. It's almost embarrassing, but Caspian doesn't seem to mind, and so he focuses instead on the feel of the king's mouth, the tongue sliding, the teeth scraping gently, the hand wrapped around him.
It's no use, he realises suddenly. He cannot hold back, and he reaches down to touch Caspian's face, to warn him. But Caspian is seemingly not to be deterred or outdone, and he simply takes the hand in his own, thumb stroking the palm as Edmund succumbs to the inevitable.
By the time he's mastered his breathing, and remembered how to string a coherent sentence together, Caspian has shifted, nestling himself beside Edmund and stroking his chest lazily. They are quiet for a while, warm and comfortable, pressing gentle kisses to one another. In the silence, the crackle of the fire mingles with the distant sound of music.
'The party,' Edmund murmurs sleepily.
'We should probably get back,' Caspian agrees, his eyes closed. Edmund is quite taken by how pretty the lashes look, resting on his cheek. Neither of them seems inclined to move.
'There'll be fireworks, I hear,' Edmund ventures, attempting to spark some interest in Caspian, and perhaps to get himself moving as well.
'I do like fireworks,' the king admits. He stretches elegantly. 'More to the point, I don't much fancy anyone coming to find out where we are.' He rolls off the bed abruptly, and Edmund, frowning at the sudden lack of contact, rises to join him in his hunt for clothes.
They dress quickly, in front of the fire, and all too soon there is nothing left but to return to the ball, to the guests, to Edmund's siblings. He blushes, straightening his tunic, hoping he doesn't look too thoroughly ravished. If the state of Caspian is anything to go by, he may be out of luck there. Perhaps he can say they went for a run. And fell in a ditch, and were attacked by goblins, and have only just managed to battle free, and they'll come back and tell everyone all about it just as soon as they've changed their clothes ...
Caspian sees his face, and laughs. 'What are you thinking of, to look so serious?' he asks.
'I was wondering how to explain the state of you,' Edmund admits frankly. 'You look utterly debauched, you know.'
Caspian quirks an eyebrow. 'We're about to return to a party, Edmund,' he points out. 'With Fauns, I might add. We shan't be the only ones.'
'Oh Lor', Lucy,' Edmund groans, burying his face in his hands. 'We'd better hurry.' He makes for the door, but Caspian catches him, pulling him close for one final, surprisingly tender, kiss.
'In case there isn't chance later,' he explains, with an oddly shy smile, and then he reaches up to unbolt the door and leads the way back down to his own coronation ball.
Lucy isn't immediately visible when they find themselves back in the hall. The music is certainly louder, and the tempo has increased. The dancing is wilder, and Susan, Edmund notes, is sitting this one out, standing to one side, sipping from a goblet of wine and flirting shamelessly. He can't make out who with, but it looks to be a Telmarine lord. Presumably she is having fun.
Caspian nudges him, and points. Edmund follows the finger, to see Peter, on the other side of the hall, glaring at the dancefloor. He follows his brother's gaze, easily guessing what irks him so much. There, in the midst of a circle of Fauns and Dryads, is Lucy. She is dancing with the gay abandon he remembers from long ago, whirling around, changing partners rapidly and with practised ease.
'Oh dear,' Edmund mutters.
'We may be too late,' Caspian announces, unable to keep the smirk from his lips. Edmund elbows him in the ribs.
'That's my sister you're talking about,' he chides, attempting a frown, but it's no use. Caspian's mock-serious tone, coupled with the rising colour he can see on Peter's face even from here, is too much, and he has to laugh.
'Come on,' Caspian says, taking his hand. 'Let's join them.' And he pulls Edmund out onto the dancefloor, his face as wild and carefree as the Fauns', his hair in disarray and, Edmund notices with a wince, the shadow of a bruise, in the shape of Edmund's own mouth, just visible under his collar.
The circle of dancers parts to allow them entry, and Edmund finds his hands caught by two Dryads. They spin him round, and he laughs, feeling the music take hold of him. Beside him, Lucy has taken hold of Caspian's hand, and she leans in close to whisper something in his ear, never breaking step.
Caspian blushes a rather appealling pink, and, over his shoulder, Lucy's eyes meet Edmund's. She quirks an eyebrow in an all too knowing fashion. He mirrors it, and flicks his gaze across to the Faun that is even now cutting in. Lucy does not even have the decency to blush.
Behind her, clutching his drink so tightly his knuckles have gone white, Peter's face is as red as the Lion on his shield.
Author: Bridget
Fandom: Narnia
Rating: NC-17
Notes: Originally posted to the edmund_caspian community on livejournal, which Trojie co-mods.
Trojie says:
The ever amazing Bridget, after many many years (I kid you not) of refusing to write damned near anything that I didn't have a hefty hand in, has finally knuckled under and displayed the talent I always knew she possessed. Please to all be going and reading it and leaving comments for her and this lovely piece of Edmund/Caspian fic: The Better Part of Valour, at
edmund_caspian, which, by the way, if you like That Sort of Thing, you ought to join *hint hint*.Bridget adds:
I think Trojie was after something short and silly involving the party after Caspian's coronation. It, er, didn't quite turn out that way...
The pipes of the Fauns ring out over the drums. The ballroom is hot, sticky, and Edmund is just thankful that Narnian tailors make much more comfortable clothes than those worn in England for similar occasions. Not that he's ever been to an English ball, of course, but his Sunday best is bad enough.
He smooths a hand over his tunic, enjoying the feel of the silken material, and scans the room.
He can see Peter, goblet in hand, deep in conversation with the Badger, Trufflehunter. Probably, Edmund thinks, they are discussing matters of state, and how Caspian's kingdom is to be ordered. Though Edmund enjoyed such talk during the Golden Age, at the moment he has other things on his mind. His gaze moves on.
Susan is being whirled around the dancefloor, skirts trailing behind her, by a Telmarine lord. She looks happy, but he is not the Telmarine Edmund's thoughts are with tonight. He sips his wine, savouring the bouquet, and continues searching.
He spots Lucy next, doing a little jig with a handsome young Faun whose face, grinning cheekily, reminds Edmund a little of Mr Tumnus. He hopes his sister knows what she is doing. The Golden Age is passed, after all, and she is a child once more. Some thoughts, however, should not be dwelt upon at length, and so once again Edmund turns his attention elsewhere.
He weaves his way around the edge of the dancefloor, laughing and shaking his head when pressed to dance by many a pretty Dryad. There is still no sign of his quarry.
Aslan is there, however, smiling beatifically at the side of the room, flanked by a Leopard and listening to a pair of Centaurs. Edmund gives him a smile and a bow as he passes, determined not to be interrupted in his hunt.
Eventually, he gives it up as a bad job. Knowing Caspian, he is probably not even here yet. Probably, Edmund thinks gloomily, the young king has been waylaid by a pretty face somewhere, and is even now doffing his trousers in some secluded corner.
Or not. As he rounds the corner that will take him out into the courtyard, he espies a figure he has come to know well, if only through stolen glances, these past few days. Caspian is standing, leaning against a pillar, gazing up at the stars. Edmund joins him.
'Lovely night for it,' he comments, wishing he had pockets to jam his suddenly sweaty hands into.
'For stargazing?' Caspian inquires, not turning his head.
'If you like.' They are silent for a while, heads tilted back. Edmund is unable to stop himself from peeking sideways periodically, admiring the line of the king's throat. The bob of his Adam's apple as he swallows is surprisingly distracting.
'Walk with me,' Caspian says suddenly. He takes a few steps, then turns, looking inquisitively at Edmund.
They circle the courtyard once, slowly, not speaking, and then Caspian ducks through a low doorway into a dimly lit corridor. He takes a torch down from the wall, and leads the way.
'Where are we going?' Edmund asks. 'Aren't you supposed to be at the ball? It's for your coronation, after all.'
'I'm already crowned,' Caspian points out. 'Doesn't that mean I can do what I want?'
'Not exactly,' Edmund admits. 'Quite the opposite, in fact. It's all duty and responsibility from now on.'
'But with some fun, surely?' Caspian stops a moment, turning to face Edmund. He catches the gleam of the king's eyes in the torchlight, and swallows.
'So long as you're discreet,' he admits. Caspian looks puzzled.
'But how can balls be discreet?'
Edmund blushes, and coughs.
'And parties,' Caspian continues. 'And hunts and so forth. I plan to have lots.'
'Lots of balls?' Edmund asks. He curses himself internally, but the words just slipped out.
'Yes,' Caspian declares, beginning to walk once more. They come to a flight of stairs, and he ascends. Edmund follows, trying and failing not to notice Caspian's behind, which is pleasingly placed right at eye level. He prays the king will not turn again, or at least not until they are back on level ground.
'This country has been oppressed for too long,' Caspian says. 'It's time we had something to celebrate.'
'There's plenty of celebration downstairs,' Edmund says, wondering just why Caspian has brought him up this high tower so late in the evening. 'You don't seem to be joining in.'
'I find myself a little ... overwhelmed,' Caspian admits, reaching the top of the stairs at last. It is utterly dark, aside from his one flickering torch. Edmund can just make out the outline of a small wooden door. The king opens it, and ushers him through.
Edmund finds himself high above the castle, on the tallest tower. He steps forward to peer down at the courtyard far below. The strains of the pipes do not reach them here, and the chattering of the guests is silenced by the gentle wind. He shivers slightly.
'What troubles you?' he asks at last. Caspian comes to join him, though his gaze is up to the stars once more.
'Many things. The ordering of the kingdom, for one. How long will you stay, do you think?'
'I don't know,' Edmund admits unhappily. 'Probably not long. We're only getting in your way, really.'
Caspian inclines his head, not denying the fact. 'But perhaps I like you in my way.'
'Whether you do or not doesn't matter,' Edmund says, ignoring the little thrill that runs through him at the king's words. 'You can't rule properly with the High King about, you know that.'
'I know,' Caspian says. He sounds unhappy. Edmund gazes at him, trying to read the worries in his face. He reaches out, touches Caspian's arm gently.
'It'll be all right, you know. You're going to make a smashing king.'
Caspian raises an eyebrow and smiles at the colloquialism. 'Smashing? I haven't heard that before. One of your English words?'
'We have a lot of funny ones,' Edmund tells him, vaguely wondering what on earth he's rambling about. It isn't what he wants to say at all. He scuffs his feet, looking away, and a gust of wind makes him shiver.
'You're cold,' Caspian comments.
'My party clothes aren't really suited for this,' Edmund says, gesturing to the desolate tower around them. Caspian steps closer, and slides an arm around him. Edmund freezes.
'There are other things I would ask you of,' Caspian says, his breath tickling Edmund's ear. But he isn't looking at him, and his touch is chaste, and Edmund fervently wishes Caspian wasn't such a gentleman. 'Your sister ...'
Edmund frowns. Caspian has dragged him away from the party, to a high tower away from prying eyes, where, he might add, it is colder than Narnia in peacetime has any right to be, to talk about his sister?
'She asked me to dance,' Caspian continues, feeling Edmund shiver again and tightening his hold.
'She does that,' Edmund says faintly. 'Always was an outrageous flirt.'
'She fluttered her eyelashes.' The king pauses for a moment. Edmund shifts uncomfortably, although he's not willing to forego the heat and closeness of this innocent embrace just yet. Even if Caspian does insist on talking about Susan. 'I didn't realise people actually did that.'
'Normal people don't,' Edmund mutters, suddenly unspeakably angry at his sister.
'And she kissed me,' the king says softly. 'Here.' His fingers touch Edmund's jaw lightly, ghosting up towards his ear.
Edmund trembles again, involuntarily, though not from the cold. 'I expect she wanted you to kiss her back,' he forces himself to say. Caspian is silent for a moment, and Edmund is almost unbearably aware of the heat of him as they stand pressed together in the wind.
'Doctor Cornelius used to bring me up here, when I was a child,' Caspian says at last. 'He would tell me stories, of Old Narnia, and of the Golden Age so long ago.'
'I still can't get used to that,' Edmund admits. 'I hope it's not another thousand years before we get to come again,' he adds quietly. Caspian's arm tightens around him again at that.
'He told me stories of Queen Susan,' the king continues. His breath on Edmund's cheek is infuriatingly at odds with his choice of topic, and Edmund squirms a little, still not entirely comfortable. 'She had many dalliances, I am told. Every prince and king wanted her for his own.'
'Caused quite a bit of trouble more than once,' Edmund agrees.
'But there are no such tales of you, King Edmund,' Caspian breathes softly into his ear. 'Did no pretty maiden ever catch your eye?'
Edmund considers his answer carefully. Honesty is a fine thing, but he is not entirely sure what Caspian will make of the truth, especially not here, like this, holding him so close. 'I was ... more discreet,' he ventures at last. 'I ... had to be.'
Caspian's other arm slides around him then, and he holds Edmund tight against the cold. 'Must you always be discreet? Even here?'
Edmund turns at that, quickly, and searches Caspian's face, for that was a loaded question if ever he's heard one, and he wants, no, needs to be sure he's understood it correctly. The king looks unsure, hesitant, but a slight hopeful smile plays about his lips.
Edmund throws caution to the winds. Leaning forwards, he presses his cold lips to Caspian's, suddenly unaware of the freezing air surrounding them. Caspian's lips are warm, somehow, and Edmund closes his eyes, enjoying the moment while it lasts, sure that any moment now the king will come to his senses, turn on his heel and make his excuses.
But he doesn't. Instead he slides a hand up to cup Edmund's head and pull him in closer to deepen their kiss.
Memory's a funny thing, Edmund thinks as he caresses the soft material of Caspian's collar before letting his hand come to rest on the neck beneath. So much of the Golden Age slipped away when they returned to England, and even back here in Narnia there are weeks and months that elude him. But some memories are indelibly seared into his mind, and this - the slide of mouths together, tangling fingers in hair, a hand slipping down to grasp a buttock - this is one of them. He hasn't forgotten how to seduce a man.
He wonders, listening to the hitch in the king's breath as he pulls their bodies closer together, if this is what Caspian expected when he led Edmund up to this lofty and secluded tower. He wonders too just how far Caspian is expecting this to go. Possibly, he thinks, he ought to find out. One more kiss, and then he'll stop, and ask, as delicately as he can, what it is that Caspian wants from him. Just one more kiss first.
It is Caspian who pauses, eventually, pulling back a little to look Edmund in the eye. He's breathing heavily, his face flushed. Edmund wonders what that face would look like in better light, on silken sheets, with Edmund inside him. He shakes himself mentally. Caspian is whetting his lips, clearly gearing up to say something, and he really ought to be concentrating.
'We ought to go back inside,' Caspian murmurs eventually.
'Back to the ball?' Edmund asks, a sinking feeling in his gut. Perhaps he has misjudged Caspian after all. But the king chuckles, softly, and shakes his head.
'It's a little cold out here, though you seem to have forgotten. I was thinking somewhere a little more ... private.'
Edmund nods, and licks his lips. 'Lead the way.'
Caspian does so, whirling round to grab the torch and making for the door with indecent haste. Edmund is unable to keep from smiling at his enthusiasm. He follows the king, down the many winding stairs, through dusty and unused corridors, until they come to a more frequently used part of the castle. Caspian stops, listening.
They can hear the music from here. It is faster than before, wilder. It's to be expected with Fauns, Edmund remembers. They will probably dance all night. He wonders vaguely if Lucy is still with them. Then he quickly dispels the thought. There is a time and a place, and this is certainly not it.
'Why have we stopped?' he asks, as Caspian holds the torch high, head cocked to one side.
'I don't want to be seen,' Caspian admits.
'Quite right too,' Edmund says, suppressing a smile. 'Starting your reign with a scandal wouldn't exactly be in the best interests of -'
He is cut off by Caspian's hand clamping over his mouth. As he wonders why, he hears footsteps ringing on the stone floor, and the king pulls him back, into the lee of a statue. The torch he slips into an unused sconce. They huddle in silence, waiting, Caspian's hand no longer covering Edmund's mouth but resting gently on his cheek. He leans in to it, pressing back against Caspian and listening to the footsteps mingling with his own pulse, pounding in his ears.
The king's free arm slides around Edmund once more, and his lips, uncommonly warm now that they are inside, press against his ear. Edmund resists the urge to respond - a time and a place, he reminds himself - but he's aware of Caspian, behind him, eager and willing. He wriggles a little, pleased by the hardness pressing against him, and he grins when Caspian lets out an involuntary gasp.
The footsteps recede, and Caspian pushes past Edmund, his breath ragged. 'That was cruel,' he hisses. Edmund smirks, and reaches out, taking the king's hand and kissing him quickly.
'Come on,' he says, excitement such as he has never been able to find in England coursing through him. 'The sooner we get there ...' He trails off, leaving Caspian to imagine what will happen once they are in the privacy of his rooms. He's almost pulled off his feet as Caspian spins round and begins marching down the corridor, still clasping Edmund's hand.
It isn't far to Caspian's bedchamber, and they arrive without further mishap.
The door is heavy, imposing oak, but Edmund barely has chance to note its intricate carvings before Caspian pulls him in and closes it behind them.
'Lock,' Edmund reminds him. Caspian turns the key, and pockets it. 'And bolts. Just in case.' He admires the rippling of muscle under Caspian's shirt as the king stretches to shoot the bolt home, and reaches out to run a hand over the curve of his shoulder. Caspian turns, leaning against the door and regarding him a little awkwardly.
'Nervous?' Edmund asks, taking his hand and leading him over to the bed. They sit, although Caspian, he can't help noticing, looks a little worried.
'Still slightly overwhelmed,' he admits, twining his fingers through Edmund's. 'My lessons with Doctor Cornelius didn't exactly cover this.'
Edmund laughs at the mental image that conjures up, but stops abruptly as Caspian resumes kissing him. Well, Edmund thinks, if this is what he needs to put him at his ease, he's quite happy to go on kissing Caspian until the stars fall and the world ends. Unless, of course, Aslan decides to send them back before then, and that reminds him of the ball. Their absence will doubtless be noticed, sooner or later.
Caspian seems quite happy with an increase of pace, and shifts to allow Edmund to begin undressing him with careful, restrained movements. He doesn't want to frighten the young king, and this, he has to keep reminding himself, is new to Caspian. But it seems Caspian has other ideas, as he sets about Edmund's own attire with unseemly haste.
'You're not going to break me,' he chastises, reclining against the pillows.
Edmund raises an eyebrow, his eyes drinking in the sight of Caspian, naked and waiting, a delightfully sinful smile on his face. 'You're sure?' he asks, more than one meaning in his question.
'Positive,' Caspian says, and pulls him down.
No one, Edmund thinks as his hands explore, should be allowed to make such wanton noises as Caspian does. He writhes and moans, and the knowledge that it is him causing this thrills Edmund. He pushes against Caspian, sliding their bodies together, breathing heavily and losing himself in sensation.
He remembers other times, other boys and men, but none were quite like this. He was a king himself, before, and his partners his subjects. He'd often worried about their motives, but here now, with Caspian, the only inequality is in their relative experience. That knowledge is strangely arousing, and as he nips as Caspian's neck, savouring the taste of his skin, another thought occurs. He smiles at the realisation, and shifts, sliding down Caspian's body, planting kisses all the way.
'What are you - oh,' Caspian breathes, raising himself up on his elbow to peer at Edmund.
'I don't know how things are now,' Edmund says slowly, breathing in the heady scent of Caspian, 'but in my day, it wasn't considered entirely proper for a king to do this.'
'I can't think why not,' Caspian gasps, arching his back as Edmund ducks his head.
'It's a power thing,' he says when he pauses for air. 'So really,' he muses, stroking Caspian thoughtfully, 'it's a good thing we're both kings.'
Their eyes meet, and Caspian reaches down to brush the hair from Edmund's eyes. 'I promise to return the favour,' he vows, 'so long as you don't stop -' He is rendered incapable of further speech as Edmund, eyes gleaming wickedly but never looking away, resumes his ministrations.
It isn't long before Caspian's hand, tangled in Edmund's hair, tightens on the back of his head, and his hips thrust upward. Edmund steadies him with one hand, holding him down, marvelling in the intimacy of the act. Why was he never permitted to do this? Though he will admit, at least in the privacy of his own mind, to some apprehension about what is about to ensue, he is determined to see it through.
Caspian lets out a wordless cry, and collapses back on the bed, suddenly boneless. Edmund sits up, thoughtful, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. Caspian, still gasping for breath, looks up at him.
'You didn't have to -'
'I wanted to,' Edmund says firmly.
Caspian stares at him for a moment, then propels himself forward, crashing into Edmund and knocking him backwards, kissing him hungrily. After a moment he stops, pulling back and licking his own lips.
'Is that - me?' he asks. Edmund nods, and Caspian grins, amused by the thought. Then he ducks, suddenly, and Edmund is left staring at the top of his head, lost for words.
He's tentative, unsure, and Edmund is reminded that this is, after all, his first time. He remembers his own, a lifetime ago, when the Terebinthian ambassador had proved unsusceptible to Susan's many charms and he had been forced to take matters into his own hands. He's never forgotten that first seduction, his innocence and eagerness unfeigned, though he had always regretted its ultimate purpose. The ambassador had been gentle, kind enough in his own way, but it had still hurt, in more ways than one.
He won't do that, he decides, not today. Not now. He doesn't know whether Caspian's considered it, or whether he even knows such things are possible. Best to take things one step at a time, he thinks, even though Caspian seems eager enough, doing his best to recreate Edmund's movements. He's surprisingly good at it, considering, and Edmund does his best to breathe evenly, to still his hips, fighting to retain some vestige of control over his own body.
He can't stop the moans though, and if there's one thing his memory has misplaced, it's just how noisy he always found himself when lost in a warm and willing mouth. It's almost embarrassing, but Caspian doesn't seem to mind, and so he focuses instead on the feel of the king's mouth, the tongue sliding, the teeth scraping gently, the hand wrapped around him.
It's no use, he realises suddenly. He cannot hold back, and he reaches down to touch Caspian's face, to warn him. But Caspian is seemingly not to be deterred or outdone, and he simply takes the hand in his own, thumb stroking the palm as Edmund succumbs to the inevitable.
By the time he's mastered his breathing, and remembered how to string a coherent sentence together, Caspian has shifted, nestling himself beside Edmund and stroking his chest lazily. They are quiet for a while, warm and comfortable, pressing gentle kisses to one another. In the silence, the crackle of the fire mingles with the distant sound of music.
'The party,' Edmund murmurs sleepily.
'We should probably get back,' Caspian agrees, his eyes closed. Edmund is quite taken by how pretty the lashes look, resting on his cheek. Neither of them seems inclined to move.
'There'll be fireworks, I hear,' Edmund ventures, attempting to spark some interest in Caspian, and perhaps to get himself moving as well.
'I do like fireworks,' the king admits. He stretches elegantly. 'More to the point, I don't much fancy anyone coming to find out where we are.' He rolls off the bed abruptly, and Edmund, frowning at the sudden lack of contact, rises to join him in his hunt for clothes.
They dress quickly, in front of the fire, and all too soon there is nothing left but to return to the ball, to the guests, to Edmund's siblings. He blushes, straightening his tunic, hoping he doesn't look too thoroughly ravished. If the state of Caspian is anything to go by, he may be out of luck there. Perhaps he can say they went for a run. And fell in a ditch, and were attacked by goblins, and have only just managed to battle free, and they'll come back and tell everyone all about it just as soon as they've changed their clothes ...
Caspian sees his face, and laughs. 'What are you thinking of, to look so serious?' he asks.
'I was wondering how to explain the state of you,' Edmund admits frankly. 'You look utterly debauched, you know.'
Caspian quirks an eyebrow. 'We're about to return to a party, Edmund,' he points out. 'With Fauns, I might add. We shan't be the only ones.'
'Oh Lor', Lucy,' Edmund groans, burying his face in his hands. 'We'd better hurry.' He makes for the door, but Caspian catches him, pulling him close for one final, surprisingly tender, kiss.
'In case there isn't chance later,' he explains, with an oddly shy smile, and then he reaches up to unbolt the door and leads the way back down to his own coronation ball.
Lucy isn't immediately visible when they find themselves back in the hall. The music is certainly louder, and the tempo has increased. The dancing is wilder, and Susan, Edmund notes, is sitting this one out, standing to one side, sipping from a goblet of wine and flirting shamelessly. He can't make out who with, but it looks to be a Telmarine lord. Presumably she is having fun.
Caspian nudges him, and points. Edmund follows the finger, to see Peter, on the other side of the hall, glaring at the dancefloor. He follows his brother's gaze, easily guessing what irks him so much. There, in the midst of a circle of Fauns and Dryads, is Lucy. She is dancing with the gay abandon he remembers from long ago, whirling around, changing partners rapidly and with practised ease.
'Oh dear,' Edmund mutters.
'We may be too late,' Caspian announces, unable to keep the smirk from his lips. Edmund elbows him in the ribs.
'That's my sister you're talking about,' he chides, attempting a frown, but it's no use. Caspian's mock-serious tone, coupled with the rising colour he can see on Peter's face even from here, is too much, and he has to laugh.
'Come on,' Caspian says, taking his hand. 'Let's join them.' And he pulls Edmund out onto the dancefloor, his face as wild and carefree as the Fauns', his hair in disarray and, Edmund notices with a wince, the shadow of a bruise, in the shape of Edmund's own mouth, just visible under his collar.
The circle of dancers parts to allow them entry, and Edmund finds his hands caught by two Dryads. They spin him round, and he laughs, feeling the music take hold of him. Beside him, Lucy has taken hold of Caspian's hand, and she leans in close to whisper something in his ear, never breaking step.
Caspian blushes a rather appealling pink, and, over his shoulder, Lucy's eyes meet Edmund's. She quirks an eyebrow in an all too knowing fashion. He mirrors it, and flicks his gaze across to the Faun that is even now cutting in. Lucy does not even have the decency to blush.
Behind her, clutching his drink so tightly his knuckles have gone white, Peter's face is as red as the Lion on his shield.
