bedlamsbard | Narnia ficbit: Peter and Edwina

Well, there was supposed to be sex, but NO. Although. I should note that due to the law of conservation of fannish energy, this would have also happened in the regular Warsverse (and the Petaverse). I'M JUST SAYIN' HERE.

"You stupid bastard," Edwina says fondly, blowing on her gloved fingers to keep them warm before she resumes her attack on Peter's armor. Cold comes off it in waves, and the combination of that and the gloves -- to keep her from getting fucking frostbite -- makes her fumble the buckles and straps, stopping frequently to blow on her hands or warm them over the brazier she's dragged over to try and warm Peter up.

Peter doesn't answer. Doesn't actually make any sign to show he's alive, doesn't even fucking blink, but she can hear the beat of his heart from beneath his surcoat, and that's all the sign she needs.

"Do you know how worried we were about you?" Edwina continues, wrestling his greaves off. "Let me just say I was not looking forward to tell Su we'd managed to lose the High King again. You really need to find a different hobby, like -- stamp-collecting, people don't go missing doing stamp-collecting --"

She chokes down on the edge of panic and tosses the greaves aside with more force than is really necessary, but at this point the metal's probably ruined anyway. Forty-eight hours immersion in icy water, or magic, or -- she doesn't know, no one knows. No one except for Peter, and he hasn't said a word since they found him.

Edwina strips his gloves off. Beneath, his fingernails are tinged blue that doesn't seem to fade at all with the heat, and she's confiscated every brazier from the store and all the ones from her tent and Peter's; they're all burning brightly and it's so hot in here that every time she goes more than an armlength from Peter she starts sweating.

"This leather's ruined," she says. "Good thing you brought an extra pair."

It's the most inane kind of one-sided conversation, but every time she falls silent all she can hear is the almost overwhelming thump of Peter's heartbeat and the hiss of the braziers competing with the muffled roar of the snowstorm outside. She stops to warm her hands again, the frost that's formed on her gloves melting and steaming in the heat, and then unbuckles Peter's swordbelt. Father Christmas' gift is still smooth and supple, seemingly untouched by the cold, and Edwina hesitates a moment before drawing an inch or so of blade, pressing a gloved thumb against the metal. The little rim of frost that's already formed there melts immediately. She sets Rhindon aside, warms her hands again, and gets his pauldrons off, leaving Peter in mail and tabard.

She looks up as she starts to drag his tabard up over his head, the fabric crackling and falling apart in her hands -- frozen solid. There are ice crystals on his eyebrows, in his hair, and blood has pooled and frozen in the hollows of his face and neck, dying his hair scarlet. She doesn't know where he's hurt, or if he's hurt at all.

Edwina lets the remains of his tunic fall to the floor and reaches for his mail. "There's --" she begins, and swallows before continuing, "there's word from Cair Paravel. Letters from Susan and Lucy. Lu's lovers found out about each other and she doesn't understand why they're bothered. Su's not taking sides. She says that it's Lucy's problem, and besides she has more important matters to deal with. A pair of traders from Alvarado and the Edanese ambassador's secretary almost came to blows in the Shifting Market."

The leather laces binding his mail shirt closed crack in her hands -- is everything getting colder? -- and Edwina pushes the shirt back off his shoulder. She kneels down to get his leggings off.

"Lion's mane, Pete," she says, leaning her head against his thigh. It's like having solid ice against her bare skin, even though Pete is left in hose and shirtsleeves. "Say something to let me know I'm not alone in here."

She straightens, rubbing her hand over her cheek, and takes the edge of his shirt in her hands to pull it off over his head, but it falls apart too, a shower of ice crystals that melt when they hit the tent floor. "Bloody fucking hell," she snarls, palm flat against Peter's chest, over the long shallow cut that traces from his left shoulder to his right hip. It's still bleeding sluggishly, little beads of blood welling up at random intervals. "Who -- how --"

They still don't know what happened to him, but he's hurt, he's been hurt. "You stupid bastard," Edwina snarls again, with more rancor this time. "You fucking tell someone if you're wounded, I can't see through your clothes, you --"

She stops, choking on the words and nearly on the edge of tears, and closes her eyes, breathing through her mouth. She can't tell if the tent's getting warmer or if she's just getting used to the cold.

"I --" Peter says, and she nearly knocks over the brazier.

Peter's frowning in concentration when Edwina throws her arms around his neck, forgetting his wound for a moment. It's like hugging a marble statue -- no, like hugging one of the White Witch's statues, God -- and then one hand comes up to touch her back, light and tentative. There's just a hint of warmth back in his skin now.

"I didn't -- know," Peter says, concentrating on each word like he's speaking for the first time. His voice is raw and soft, a bare rasp of breath and sound.

"Don't talk," Edwina orders, stepping back from him. "Let me get something hot into you, and something to wear since your clothes are...ruined." His hose is melting off his hips, and Peter has enough of his wits about him to blush, the rose in his cheeks a balm to her eyes after snow-pale skin tinted blue.

She fetches his warmest clothes from the chest at the foot of his bed, then, with a second look at Peter's current state of shock, lets those fall back on the top of the surprisingly neatly-folded wardrobe and takes the top few layers of blankets off the bed instead, coming back to drape those over his shoulders. He doesn't appear to notice, and Edwina curls one of his fists around the folds of fabric to hold them in place.

There's beef broth heating over a brazier in the corner; she ladles up a cup and brings it over to Peter, who's still standing, expression dazed.

"Sit down," Edwina says, manhandling him over to the nearest chair and pushing him down with both hands on his shoulders. He doesn't even put up a token protest, but then again, he's not stupid. He is, on the other hand, still Peter, and he should be asking questions, should be reassuring her, should be -- something. Not this. "Drink," she adds, dragging over a chair for herself and stripping her gloves off as an afterthought.

She's bursting with questions, foremost among which is, What the hell stole my brother out from under the noses of the entire Narnian army?, but she holds her tongue. Mostly. "Can you talk?" she asks.

Peter considers the question, sipping cautiously at the broth, then nods.

"Can you tell me what happened?" she presses.

He shakes his head.

"Can't or won't?" It's an important distinction.

"The first one," he croaks. "Ed..."

"Is it her?" she asks, one last question before she lets him rest. She wasn't expecting to have to deal with this when they'd left Cair Paravel in the dead of winter at the urgent request of the High Reaches Narnians. Giants, icedrakes, wolves -- not this. Not magic.

Peter shakes his head. "No."

She relaxes. Not much, but enough for the past two days to catch up with her. "God," she says, sinking down in her chair, and Peter puts the broth down and reaches for her with clumsy hands that only retain a little residual heat from the cup.

"Ed," he says. "Go to sleep. You can rest now."

She nods, exhaustion starting to blur her vision. "I'm staying here," she insists, and sees Peter's answering nod.

"Come on," he says, and Edwina's aware enough to know that she should be supporting him, but they're both hanging onto each other for dear life as they make it into the back half of the tent. She gets Peter under the heavy layers of blankets and then kicks off her boots before crawling in with him, still fully clothed. It's like crawling into bed with an icicle; he's still fucking freezing. He wraps an arm around her shoulders and kisses her hair.

"You're still an idiot," Edwina mutters against his collarbone, and then lets sleep take her.

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From:

ineptshieldmaid.livejournal.com

interesting. Very interesting, I say.

From:

laissez les bons temps rouler

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