.

~ Carol of the Bells ~

.

"When Christmas bells are swinging above the fields of snow,
we hear sweet voices ringing from lands of long ago,
and etched on vacant places are half-forgotten faces of
friends we used to cherish, and loves we used to know."

*Ella Wheeler Wilcox*

England — December 18th

He closed his eyes as the bells tolled mournfully.

In the west behind rubble, ruins, housetops, and bare trees reaching pitifully toward the fading sky, the sun set.

The rumble of the great bell vibrated through him again and he sighed.

Distant thunder echoed.

He stared down through the falling snow to the seemingly empty mountain pass. But he knew what it hid. His stallion tossed its head, and he shifted in the saddle, gloved fingers finding purchase against the leather of his heavy greatsword. The sword Peter had ordered him to fashion for war in the wild lands of the north.

"My king?" the question rose on his left, and he turned to look—

His eyes flashed open and his breath left him in a wild pant. He and Peter had spoken of it with Master – Lord, Sir, Professor, or just Digory? – Kirke vaguely; mentioned in passing the trauma of going to war as medieval kings. The elderly man had been so eager and interested (as he had been all of his adult life, for it was his profession to be interested in history) that it was difficult to refuse him. So for the sake of their terror they spoke in opaque terms and he took copious notes, though he had looked at them wistfully as they departed his study.

They hadn't the heart to tell him that he was better off not truly knowing.

A loud rattling and banging of machinery caused him to start with fear, but he forced himself to wait and watch as the military vehicles passed by him and on down the street. It had been so very worse back home, he recalled bitterly.

He forced his breathing into even inhales and exhales and focused on the bells tolling to sound the all-clear after the air raid.

The snow continued to fall.

Suddenly a mighty boulder crashed into the mountainside nearby, knocking two centaurs down with it. The soldiers thrashed valiantly where they had fallen, but they would not rise again. His charger screamed in anticipation of the battle to come and in fear at being taken by surprise. He brought his sword clear of its scabbard with a shriek of metal on metal. War cries echoed down the ravine before him, and his soldiers swarmed around him as he shouted commands. A gryphon cried out as it fell from the leaden skies, a massive spear pinning it to the snow.

He uttered a soft yelp of surprise at the battle sounds from the past. That was not here, that was not now, he forcefully reminded himself. His ire rising, he wrapped his arms around his body, trying to act as if he felt the cold and minded the fallen snow like the passersby who were slowly reemerging from the bomb shelters and continuing about their business.

But he didn't, not really. He just didn't feel as cold as they looked.

He had been so very much colder.

In the Northlands the snow fell eight feet deep, drifts piling up against the rock and mountainsides, high enough to consume a full-grown Centaur. That was true cold. He slept on frozen ground with naught but a worn woolen blanket and a thickly-woven scarlet surcoat between his body and the ground. He'd gone nights without fires while sleet fell to avoid being spotted by bloodthirsty, foolish Giants.

He had felt the icy north winds bite into his sleeves and run down his neck under his helm as he rode his war horse down icy slopes, the beast's breath heavy fog on the crisp, thin air. Its hooves shod with spiked shoes to better maintain the uncertain footing. He had inhaled and exhaled frozen air until he felt that he was once more in the palace of Jadis.

The tolling of the deep bell brought him back with a start. His eyes flew open and his heart pounded wildly in his chest. He was no longer in Narnia, no longer in the wintery Northlands waiting for Peter to join him with a larger army so as to defeat the rebellious Giants.

No, he was in England, waiting for Lucy to meet him so they could plan what to buy Peter and Susan for Christmas. They had saved up most of the year to purchase something simple for the older set; something to remind them of home yet not so unusual a gift as to make their parents wonder.

But that was not what it felt as if he was waiting for.

The bells clanged a sorrowful chorus, and suddenly he knew.

He was still waiting to return home, just as he had waited each morning in the Northlands after Peter sent him word that he was coming. He remembered rising each morning to stare east, childish hope overriding his fear that he could survive to go home. That he could see—if just once more—the spires of Cair Paravel and the glint of the sun on the ocean. Longing for one last time to embrace his sisters at Yuletide and laugh at one of Peter's poor jests while they sat beside a roaring fire, warm and happy and home.

He was waiting, for this world was no longer his home.

"Edmund? Ed!"

He turned at the merry cry, but could not muster a smile.

Tightly he curled his fingers into his coat, trying to cease the trembling that always began after reliving those dreadful memories of the Northland war. Lucy had tried to help back in those days, as had Susan. The queens had sought out anything and everything they could to ease the trauma, but nothing worked. It was an unfortunate, permanent scar on the mind. And now he wondered if the soldiers of this world would suffer after enduring such a long, horrific war.

Lucy at first ran to him, but she slowed. He did not fail to notice it. Instead, he turned back to gaze up at the great dark spires of the church. Pity the sun set so soon these days, for he would have enjoyed studying the architecture so as to take his mind from his memories.

"These bells . . . they are so very different from the ones," he caught himself, and his voice wavered, "back . . . home." He recognized the painful hitch in his voice, and closed his eyes. His lashes were damp, which was not especially good in weather like this.

"You mustn't think like that. Oh you mustn't!" Lucy's arms wrapped fiercely around his body, and he could sense her strength and her valiance and her resolve to make him feel brighter.

"It is nearly Yul– Christmas, Ed. Please don't do this," she pled, her voice slightly muffled because she had buried her face in his coat and sweater.

"I prefer calling it Yuletide," he whispered, loathing himself for being so dark. Battling back the melancholy he offered a smile and tilted his head to look down at her.

"Good man," she whispered back, adopting her Narnian accent and familiar phrases. His smile became genuine, though mixed with sadness. But Lucy understood, and he was grateful.

"Now, pray tell sister mine, didst we meeteth here to conspire between we two upon what we shouldst purchase for our mild sister and glorious brother?" She laughed, and it was high and clear. The sound reminded him always of the beautiful ringing of the bells at Cair Paravel.

"Forsooth, my brother, thou voiceth honestly what we hadst come to do!" she laughed again, and he chivalrously laced her arm through his, remembering as they departed that spot a far different time and a vastly different world. But until Aslan called them back, he believed he could be content.

"Beloved sister, wouldst thou walk with me this Yuletide's Eve? Truly a higher honor there is not." He offered his arm with a cheerful smile upon his face. The golden-haired queen laughed gaily and allowed him to take her.

"O I pray this night goes long and ends only when all are tired but merry," she declared. Her rose-colored skirts swept the marble flagstones and the golden trim flashed in the light of the tall tapers lining the hall.

"Such is how my heart turns," he answered honestly as they came to the head of a wide staircase. There they paused, and almost the same instant the High King appeared with the Gentle Queen gracefully on his arm. The monarchs smiled at one another, and Peter and Edmund laughed quietly.

"I admit 'tis brightened my spirits to see you safe home, brother. I feared I shouldst forget thy face if thee were long absent in the north!" They laughed merrily, though their eyes were sober.

"Well, dearest brother, thy must puteth away all misgivings and be fearful a little less. I dared not come away another year from Yuletide, our royal sisters wouldst petition my head off my shoulders, and rightly so— for too long hath I stayed afar; 'tis better to be home instead of abroad. In sooth, I returned hither when I heard whispers that Calormen meant to bring a host upon Narnia. But all is aright, and I troubled my head in vain. Yet I dare not speak with a lying tongue and say I'd rather be frozen up north than warm and in good company." The High King clasped his free hand over where his sister's lay on his arm, and smiled at them all with genuine fondness.

"By the great lion, it is right and good we shouldst all dwell one with another at this time of year, for 'tis brighter when we are gathered together," Lucy stated. A hearty laugh was the reply, and then they took to the stairs to join their subjects and friends celebrating below.

High above them the bells of Cair Paravel tolled their harmonious peals in celebration of Yuletide Eve.

A/N:

So here's one of my first attempts at the Narnian prompt contest! I'm slightly nervous, but rather pleased. Initially I didn't mean for this to come out so somber, but I've been dying to write about medieval soldiers and the PTSD they suffered! (Which, after rereading that, sounds slightly weird to want to write about. . .) I read recently about medieval knights and trauma sustained on the battlefield; apparently it was way worse than the PTSD suffered by the soldiers of today (I am not trying to demean the suffering of today's soldiers, please don't misinterpret that).

I was reading this one account that said men screamed like frightened children or were reduced to tears after hearing metal against metal or seeing a mere horse. A horse. They wouldn't have just nightmares, either. They had what I've been referring to as "daymares" too. I was really awed while reading about medieval PTSD, and seriously admiring the men who went back to war and fought for their king/queen over and over again in spite of the mental pain.

Needless to say, anyone who complains about fanfics with the Pevensies having nightmares from the First Battle of Beruna or dealings with Jadis and says "I don't like stories like that, it's unrealistic from how C.S. Lewis wrote" clearly doesn't understand that Lewis wrote for kids. We're all adults *mostly* and he was a man who loved this kind of history. I can bet he would've written details if he'd been writing for adults. Rant over.

So this is a homage to those ancients and also an entry into the prompt contest. (Perfect place to use my newly-gained knowledge, haha!) I want to mention that when Edmund refers to "home" he is referring to Narnia, not England. Also, though Edmund seems rather grim in this, this is not dark!Edmund, this is an attempt (after a long time away) at bookverse Ed. Sorry if I failed. But I tried, I really did!

I enjoyed hugely the thought of Edmund being the first one to go north to battle back the Giants, I don't know why. Maybe because he's more of a diplomat and would've tried peace before bloodshed? I don't exactly know, but I do know that Peter feels to me more of a "fight now, talk later" kind of man from Lewis's description of adult!him, while Edmund is more of the "plot, plan, and predetermine" type. I think Eddie would've gone first, but once it was clear peace could not be achieved any time in the near future, he sent for (or someone else informed) Peter that "things are looking ugly, get up here pronto!"

That's all for now! (but a warning before we part: my one-shots/vignettes tend to be set in the same universe. Aforementioned universe being something of a cross between total AU and total bookverse. What can I say? I like to shake things up XD) Happy reading and merry Christmas,

WH