The Chronicles of Narnia: The Lion, The Witch, and the Wardrobe Stories: Torn Between Two series: How Can One Decide

Characters: Characters Introduced: King Edmund; High King Peter; Oreius the Centaur; Queen Lucy; Greybeak the Eagle; Bethany of Archenland

Summary: When both of her brothers are mortally wounded, which one will Queen Lucy choose to save?

Spoiler: Yes, I've spoiled either all, or bits, of the following Narnia books: The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe, The Horse and His Boy, Prince Caspian, The Voyage of the Dawn Treader, and The Last Battle. (In other words: no fear of spoiling for The Magician's Nephew or The Silver Chair.)

Setting: The edge of the Western Wilds of Narnia, ten years after the coronation then various times until the Penvensies leave Narnia through the wardrobe once more.

Disclaimer: The Chronicles of Narnia, and all seven of the titles therein, are trademarks of C.S. Lewis and Disney. I am in no way connected with these people, and I do not claim ownership to these characters, lands, or names. I have borrowed them to share a story... and most likely not a story C.S. Lewis would have written, had he had the time or no. I am making no money from this, and it is just for my entertainment and that of free entertainment to a select group of friends. Thank You.

Note: In The Horse and His Boy, Lucy mentions that Peter has forbidden her from bringing her healing cordial to 'every common battle', thus that comes into play in this tale. In The Horse and His Boy, Prince Caspian, and The Voyage of the Dawn Treader, Lucy uses a bow in battle, thus, she uses a bow in this story as well. My descriptions and ages are based on the 2005 movie The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe, though I take into account many of the episodes in the novels.

Secondary Note: While chopping ice off my mother's SUV, I slipped and ripped open my thigh on the back windshield wiper. Thus, as I lay in agony one night, this story was born. Also, I must apologize for any spelling errors in names and locales, as I have only the audio books to go on at the moment and cannot look up the spellings at this time.

It had been a restless night for Edmund, King of Narnia, Duke of Lantern Waste, Count of the Western March, and Knight of the Noble Order of the Table.

It was high summer and it really was very hot... too hot to be bivouacking on the edge of the Western Wilds right before the dawn of a huge battle against marauding renegades, left over these ten years after the reign of the White Witch. As it was so very hot, Edmund was unable to get comfortable, even after stripping to his skivvies and pushing even the thinnest of thin lawn sheets from his cot. The man lay prone, black hair plastered wetly to his brow and sweat pooling between his shoulder blades, face-down on the hard military cot, trying to will his overtired brain to ignore the heat and rest a bit.

Edmund was so busy with this failing attempt at meditation in fact that he was unaware of the tiny form inching over the surface of his cot. Black as coal and shiny as a pool in moonlight, the small clawed creature stalked closer and closer to the unsuspecting man's body. Stinger poised high above its back, it paused as if to reflect on the best way to proceed. Yet any illusion of thought was erased instantly as the scorpion instinctively reacted to an unwittingly injudicious movement by the almost nude King: it stung him viciously before he flipped over and swept it to the floor.

Unable to see the dark shape in the equally inky confines of his pavilion, Edmund swore under his breath and rubbed at the burning wound on his left thigh. "Black flies! This place is full of them. If Peter," (this was his elder brother, the High King Peter of Narnia), "didn't need me so bloody much on the aerial front, I'd beg off and stay at Cair Paravel with Sue. Really I would!" Of course, King Edmund would have done no such thing, but that did not stop him from saying it, all the same.

Apparently, Edmund was not the only one who could not sleep. His brother, Peter, looked into the pavilion just then, calling out in a stage whisper, "I say, Ed, what are you doing up? You should be sleeping." This was followed by the older man slipping quietly as one of their great cats into the tent. The tall blond man was dressed in a loose tunic and light trousers, feet shoved into soft slippers. He might have been feeling the heat, but the attractive man showed no sign of this, providing another source of irritation to his restless younger brother.

Still rubbing the burning sting on his thigh, Edmund grumpily tossed a glare at Peter. "It's nothing, Peter, just these plaguey black flies, is all. And why are you up? You're so bloody worried about my being rested for the battle, why aren't you sleeping?" The sulkiness in his voice was noticed by the other man.

Sinking onto the edge of the hard cot, foregoing an attempt to see his brother in the almost nonexistent light, Peter was unaware that he'd stepped on the selfsame scorpion which had not a moment before attacked Edmund. "I couldn't sleep for the heat, Ed. The dawn isn't more than an hour away. What say we go inspect the field since we, neither of us, can sleep?" He smiled softly at his younger brother, even if the other man couldn't see it.

"Anything's better than playing feast for these flies!" Edmund slid off the bed, hissing softly at the fire suddenly coursing through his thigh. At Peter's worried, "I say, Ed, what's wrong?", Edmund merely negligently waved a hand. "Nothing... nothing. Just a bite that wants attention is all. I'll be fine once we're in action, no fear." He limped... Why am I limping?... over to the clothes press in his pavilion and pulled out the lightest tunic and trousers he could find. A wave of dizziness hit him as he pulled the soft cloth over his head, but the King shook it off, not wanting to appear silly and weak in his brother's concerned eyes. After hastily dressing, almost successfully ignoring the burning pain and the odd dizziness... I must be getting dehydrated. I'll need to drink something... the dark-haired man shoved his feet into a pair of soft, fur-lined shoes, wincing at the immediate feel of heat on his feet, and turned toward his blond brother. "Let's go then." And out they went, Edmund in the lead.

Peter frowned in concern as he watched his brother limping slightly and absently rubbing his left thigh. He said nothing, however. Edmund was a man full grown and could take care of himself. Hadn't he fought bravely and successfully at the Battle of Beruna not long past? With a stifled sigh, Peter shook off the feeling of inexplicable dread and determined to ignore Edmund's odd limp. Most likely a black fly bit directly over a nerve or some such and the kinks would work out with a bit of walking round. He followed his brother toward the tactical pavilion, turning his mind to the coming battle and greeting Oreius, the Centaur, as the valiant warrior approached in the predawn darkness.

The battle was very confusing, as battles often are: a mass of noise and heat and yelling and pain and all sorts of nasty things. One didn't need to know the tactical plans of the two Kings to see rather quickly that something had gone terribly wrong. The aerial assault went off very well. However, there had been a miss communication between the two good giants and the leopards on the left flank, and somehow their half of the sweeping pincer manoeuver they were to have performed did not happen. The giants had hesitated too long, leaving the great cats out in the open after their initial charge. This resulted in one of the leopards nearly being captured and two more having been so severely injured, they had to be replaced. High King Peter, on the right flank, leading the other half of the pincer attack, had succeeded in his assault. Without the left flank, though, his battalion was taking the brunt of the enemy's cruel blows. As King Edmund and his archers had been depending on the pincer attack to protect their unfortunately vulnerable front, this left that brigade exposed in the most dangerous of ways. The enemy was quick to take advantage of the opening.

Queen Lucy, youngest sister of both High King Peter and King Edmund, was also among the archers, her bow working as fast as she could nock arrow to string. She was trying desperately to protect the right flank, knowing the peril the exposed archers were in yet knowing also that the brave warriors out front would need all the assistance they could get if they were to survive the disastrous failed manoeuver. Her concentration was so great it took a second loud scream from nearby to alert her to danger, Lucy having ignored the first as screams were predominant in any battle. She turned her head to see who had been wounded and all colour drained from her face. "Edmund!"

Edmund was indeed injured and very dangerously so. He had been directing the great Eagles and Griffins in their continued aerial assault when another sudden wave of dizziness so overcame him as to cause the King to drop to one knee. He had just been struggling to his feet again when a Hag broke through the thinly defended lines and, letting out a banshee shriek, impaled his right thigh with a cruelly curved dagger of blackest metal. She screwed it further in as Edmund screamed. One of the Eagles noted his plight and swooped down, talons and beak ripping at the Hag; however she managed to twist the dagger and pull it back, the tip breaking off in the wound as Edmund screamed a second time, thus catching his sister's attention at last.

Lucy wasn't the only one to notice Edmund's injury. Somehow, despite being far in front and out of earshot of his siblings, Peter lifted his head as a wave of unease broke into full-blown dread. He turned towards the left, checking for he knew not what. Like a novice, rather than the experienced commander and soldier he'd become, Peter left his right side wide open, his shield all but useless blocked by his twisted torso as it was. An attacking Minotaur took advantage of the High King's distraction, impaling him with thick horns and ripping upwards, trying to gut the young King. Peter didn't even have time to scream. Rather, the intense pain and fire from hip to armpit, across shoulder, and over his cheek sent the man reeling. He collapsed without making a sound, blood gushing from gaping wounds. His collapse was noticed by two allies only: Oreius the Centaur, who dispatched the Minotaur with one blow of his mighty front hooves, and Greybeak the Eagle, who, without checking in, turned and flew towards the far off castle of Cair Paravel. Those who noticed his flight and named him coward would later rethink such slander, but for the moment, there were bitter feelings towards the apparently cowardly Eagle.

The same instinct which had inexplicably drawn Peter's searching gaze seemed to act on Lucy as well. At Peter's wounding, she swung round from Edmund's side, eyes searching frantically for any sign of her elder brother. She realized that the tall blond was on the ground amidst the fighting. Leaving Edmund on the slightly safer rise, though the amount of safety was indeed questionable, Queen Lucy raced down into the heaving battle, dodging friend and foe alike in her mad dash toward her fallen brother. Slipping in the bloody grass of the chosen field, Lucy skidded to her knees, ignoring the pain of skinned legs, tearing at her chain halberd to remove it. Unprotected but for the noble efforts of the Centaur close by, Lucy ripped her shirt from her body and tried to press it to Peter's gaping wounds, despairing at the blood flowing so very freely from the King over her hands and into the ground. The wounds were too numerous, too severe for her to even hope to cover completely with her small hands.

Thankfully, Oreius chose to save the High King rather than merely defend his dying body. Scooping the man up into muscular arms, he headed towards the pavilions beyond the archer battalion, Queen Lucy left to struggle to her feet and follow as quickly as she might. As the young woman dodged among fighters, she tried to find Edmund once more, but he was nowhere to be seen. Apparently, he, too, had been carried to the pavilions to be placed among the wounded. Lucy finally found her way to the relative safety of the tents. There, she was overcome with horror at the sight of the many fallen allies. Oh, if only Peter hadn't forbid me to bring my cordial! Lucy had to ignore the sounds of the wounded and dying, glancing quickly around, trying to locate her brothers.

It was Edmund she found first. He was lying once more on his hard military cot, the wound on his leg clumsily bandaged in a quick attempt to stem the bleeding. Apparently, no one had yet had the time to properly attend the valiant wounded. She headed quickly to her brother's side, reaching out to touch her brother's sweaty forehead only to pull back with a yelp of shock. He was raging with fever! "Edmund?" The low moans emanating from the young brunet did nothing to ease her fears. How could he have gotten infected so soon? Had that dagger been poisoned?

"Queen Lucy!" The voice rang through the camp, Oreius cantering over to the opening of the King's tent. "The High King needs attention. I go to battle." Without a backward glance, the mighty Centaur galloped off to the front lines once more, leaving Lucy with the remembered image of Peter's dreadful wounds.

She glanced once more at the restless Edmund then hurried to her elder brother's pavilion, knowing his loss of blood was the immediate worry. Edmund would hold on... he simply had to. There was no one to aid the High King in his hour of need, causing Lucy to be thankful that she had come to his aid after all. As she pulled fine linens from his clothes press, ignoring the fact that they were clothing not bandaging, she babbled near hysterically to Peter. "Oh, do hang on, Peter. I'll have you sewn up in a flash, really I will. Just keep still." She was very surprised to receive a response, though pain and exhaustion made her brother's voice a hoarse whisper.

A quick glance over the injured, bleeding man, let Lucy know he had no more strength to talk. He'd lost far too much blood. It would be a miracle if he survived. The woman hurried to the man's side, pulling a fine lawn tunic from her pile and pressing it to his flank. Her hands were surprisingly steady as she quickly began tying up pieces of linen to his wounds using sash, belts, and the occasional bit of neckerchief. Lucy had practically forgotten Edmund in her efforts to save Peter.

"Ed?" Peter's voice was still weak, still wracked with pain, but showed the High King was stronger than one might have thought possible. He was still alive, despite the massive wounds.

Lucy hated having to tell him the news, knowing the fever and wounding without attention could very well be the death of the other man. "He's in his tent. Took a dagger in the leg. Lay still, Peter." This last was unnecessary, as Peter hadn't the strength to move even if he had wanted to.

The soft voice was like a gentle breeze through the trees on a spring day. It certainly didn't belong to Peter. Lucy glanced up, startled, to find a woman standing at the pavilion opening. She had waist length curls of so red a colour as to remind one of a roaring bonfire. Unlike Lucy or the few other women who went into battle, the woman had her hair unbound, apparently unworried that it would be grasped or caught. Her eyes were of a milky brown colour Lucy had never seen before, and her slim figure was almost indistinguishable in a loosely fitted, nondescript brown robe. Again, the woman's soft voice penetrated through the haze of Lucy's worry.

Peter's wounds were still bleeding profusely and Lucy needed all the help she could get. Yet, Edmund needed help as well. His high fever and untreated wound could prove mortal without immediate attention. This woman was a stranger to the young Queen, though. She looked Human, and Humans were precious few in Narnia, so where had she come from? How could she trust her brother's life to this stranger? And yet... if she did not, she could easily lose both of her brothers. Finally, as if torn from the woman's slender body, Lucy sobbed, "Second on the left, and hurry. He has a fever."

As the woman left without a word, Lucy hoped she hadn't just delivered her brother into death.

Pain. That was the first conscious feeling Edmund had. His legs hurt abominably and his head ached. The world was black and he felt like vomiting. The next moment, he realized it was so dark because his eyes were shut. He opened them, then wished he hadn't. The world swam before him, hazy and bright, if both could happen simultaneously. The nausea became overwhelming and it was all the King could do to turn his head, and part of his torso, before vomiting all over himself and the cot. Misery wracked the feverish man as he lay in a pool of sick. Edmund found himself wishing to die and be over this miserable illness.

He lay there a full ten minutes, drifting in and out of consciousness, before he became hazily aware of something new. A soft footfall sounded nearby. Someone had entered his pavilion and was coming toward him. Edmund again opened his eyes, but only caught a brief glimpse of brown and fire before nausea once again overtook him and he vomited once more, this time on the stranger as well as himself. He would have been humiliated if he'd had more strength. As it was, King Edmund was so weak from the poison coursing through him that he fell once more into black oblivion.

Lucy was still trying to compress Peter's wounds when the woman drifted quietly back into the pavilion. She was no longer wearing the shapeless brown robe, having apparently discarded it. Now she was dressed in a simple white gown of very expensive material, embroidery of gold tracing the contours of her body. An apron of clean white linen covered the majority of the front of her gown. With a puzzled frown, Lucy called out, "Is he going to recover?"

The woman frowned softly. "I cannot say. I am brewing a potion for him, though it will take some minutes to be ready. In the while, I have come to help you with the sewing. I smell much blood here. This man needs immediate help."

What an odd remark, thought Lucy, but accepted the woman's help, questionable as it was. As she started moving the makeshift bandaging from Peter's right flank, the woman produced needle and long thread from the pocket of her apron and sank onto her knees by Peter's cot. Lucy watched in awe as the woman moved gentle hands over the bloody gap in Peter's side then began to confidently stitch the wound. It was as the woman moved her hands upward towards Peter's armpit that Lucy had a sudden realisation. Why, she's blind!

The young redhead had finished with the largest of Peter's wounds before suddenly turning toward Lucy. "I must see to the other. Will you finish here?" She was holding out more threaded needles, her apron apparently well stocked with medical necessities.

With a gentle smile that made Lucy know they would be instant friends when the immediate dangers were over, the redhead said "Bethany of Archenland." Then she left the pavilion, leaving Lucy with a handful of threaded needles and a conundrum to ponder, namely could a blind woman save Edmund's life?

Sounds and colours blurred with the throbbing, knifing pain that wracked Peter's body. He couldn't open his eyes, they seemed to be bound shut, but he couldn't escape into oblivion either. Rather, he felt each jabbing prick of the needle, each lancing tug of the thread, each maddening stitch put into his flesh. He was vaguely aware that someone was with Lucy, but could not have formed an image or even a ghost of a voice to go with the awareness. After what seemed like hours... or was it only minutes?... the other person left and Peter was once more alone with his youngest sibling. He again felt the aching, burning stitches in his side and shoulder, before Lucy agonizingly started on his face. Her hands seemed steady, but then Peter's entire world was heaving so badly with pain that a rolling sea might have seemed still as a pond in comparison. Finally, Lucy unbound the cloths over his eyes.

Blinking at the sudden freedom and ensuing light, Peter once more let his tired eyes slip closed. Seeing took too much energy at the moment. He tried to ignore the pain in his body, his face, and found relief in a long-forgotten memory: a rainy day in a strange old house, sitting by a heating grate and trying to define long words picked out of a dictionary by his sister Susan, long before they had come to Narnia and became Kings and Queens. The memory was more like a dream. Who would have thought that such a dull occupation as defining words would bring solace to a dying man, for Peter knew that he was dying. Despite the frantic attempts by Lucy to stitch closed his various wounds, Peter had lost far too much blood.

With a sudden dawning of realisation, Peter knew that his sister would have done better to try to heal Edmund than to spend her time trying to save him.

A cry from his sister brought the High King's eyes flying open, however. Lucy was standing by the cot all attempts at sewing forgotten. In her hands was a precious diamond flask and by her side stood the Eagle Greybeak, heaving for breath as if he'd flown a great distance at a great speed, as no doubt he had if he'd gone all the way to Cair Paravel to bring Lucy's cordial back.

Peter let his eyes close in relief as he felt the first healing drop of cordial touch the wound across his face. At last, peace came to him and he let himself sink into oblivion, his last thought of Edmund. Would Greybeak have been too late to save both brothers?

The heat was unbearable. Restless hands ineffectually pushed at imagined covers, trying to get cooler. He knew it was high summer, knew that he couldn't sleep for the heat and black flies. Water... cool, refreshing water was what was wanted. Edmund moved his head, side to side, weakly attempting to reach a shaking hand towards his simple wooden table. Cracking open his eyes, the dazzling light of mid-afternoon overcame all thought and he dropped his hand once more to his abdomen, having never gotten further than an inch or two in his reaching. His restless movements ceased as well, as he noticed a shadow of fire play across his vision. There was a gentle caress over his chest and Edmund blinked in wonder. Slowly, the King shifted his gaze downward, noting that two slender hands were untying his tunic. Somehow, he didn't think it at all strange that the hands were gently undressing him, didn't even fathom that hands without a body were a most unusual thing indeed.

Letting his eyes drift upward, they rested on a face framed by flames. Again, Edmund didn't wonder at the unusual sight of a face wreathed in fire. He merely accepted the oddity and continued staring at the milky brown eyes. The hands were lifting him, helping him to sit, and the delirious King found himself struggling to help his unknown rescuer. Soon the tunic was off and gentle hands ran over his feverish chest to his waist. Edmund sighed. Pain still coursed through his legs, fever ran through his veins, but relief washed over him all the same. Whomever the owner of the hands, it was soothing to feel the gentle caresses exploring his face and body.

He couldn't have known, as he drifted back into unconsciousness, that his fanciful thoughts and feelings were the sluggish reactions of a dying man.

As dawn broke over the tattered remnants of Peter's wounded army, the High King found himself once more going over the tactics of battle. Was it only the day before when he stood with Oreius and Edmund planning that failed pincer attack? Was it only the day before when Edmund was so mortally wounded? Shaking himself, Peter had to draw his thoughts forcibly back to Oreius' words. There was still a battle to fight, even as his younger brother lie in his sickbed, fighting against the fever and infection that wracked his body.

Even Lucy's magical cordial had only healed the wounds, something further was keeping Edmund from recovery and the young King might yet die before the sun completely rose. It was enough to drive one mad with worry, but madness was not a luxury High King Peter could afford. He had to trust the red-haired woman from Archenland, blind though the stranger was. Could her mysterious brews really draw the unknown poison from his brother's body?

He would give almost anything to be able to go back this time the previous day, discussing black flies and lost sleep due to heat.

Suddenly Peter straightened, his light eyes widening in wonder. "Oreius? Do the black flies here have poison?"

The Centaur shook his head solemnly, answering the question as if it had not come in the middle of a serious discussion of military tactics. "No, Your Majesty. The only poison here comes from the sting of the black scorpion." He turned his dark head to gaze at his King.

"Scorpion?" Peter blinked, then took off running towards the pavilions, ignoring the deep sigh Oreius loosed behind him.

He pushed aside the tent flap, grabbing for the lantern on the wooden table by Edmund's bed. Scanning the floor, a half-ignored feeling of something crunching under a slippered foot struggling to surface, Peter ignored the confused sounds from Lucy and Bethany. There, by the bedside, flattened by an unheeding foot, lay a dead scorpion. Peter reached for the carcass and passed it to his sister.

Her eyes widened and she turned towards Bethany. "Scorpion poison?" It was not a complete question, yet the other woman understood, her gentle face lighting in sudden inspiration.

"Yes, I should have thought of it sooner. The wound on his left thigh is that of an insect sting." She was moving towards a small mortar and pestle she had placed on the cloths press. Taking herbs from her apron, she started grounding them methodically. "I will need some medicines I do not have with me. Is a fleet messenger available to retrieve them? They are not far, growing wild on the moors, though it will be a dangerous gathering."

Peter nodded enthusiastically. "You shall have whatever you need, Lady Bethany. Lucy, I can spare you any two persons from the walking wounded. Take your pick." And with those happy words, the High King turned his steps towards the tactical pavilion, feeling that at last, after a long night of tribulation, there was finally hope to be seen.

It had been an oddly restless sleep King Edmund found himself waking from. He held images of floating hands and faces wreathed in gentle fire. With a confused sigh, the young brunet opened dark eyes to the sight of a pale-skinned woman asleep, seated on the floor with her head cradled on her arms, which in turn were resting on his cot. She was unknown to him and Edmund frowned softly, not wishing to disturb her. She looked exhausted.

Upon trying to sit up, however, the temporary strength the King had felt deserted him completely, and he found himself trembling against the damp sheets on his cot. Why are my sheets damp? Have I been ill? He could recall the battle and the dagger injury, but nothing else. He had no idea even how long it had been. Lifting his hand, finding himself as feeble as an ancient grandfather, the man pushed sweat-soaked hair back from his clammy brow. Have I had a fever then?

His musings were interrupted by the hesitant entrance of Queen Lucy. As her face lit in joy, Edmund couldn't resist smiling back, though his grin was weak in comparison with the shining light of her smile. It would be some time indeed before Edmund knew just how close he had come to death in the previous forty-eight hours. It would be even longer before he found out that Lucy had been forced to decide which brother to save and which to entrust into the hands of a blind stranger... and that she had chosen to tend Peter. It would be some great time before Edmund would have to deal with the choices forced on his little sister.

For the moment, the King was glad merely to be resting in his cot in the heat of high summer in Narnia with his smiling sister by his side.

FIN

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