ironysoul | Alphonse/Edmund: The one where they're furries

One hundred years in feline form, and now walking on two legs feels stilted. There was a knot between his shoulders that Al knew he could stretch out if he switched to fur. He could hunker down on his haunches and reach his front paws out far, sinking into a bow that would make every nodule of his spine pop. But while King Peter hadn't expressly banned fur, Al (and for that matter, the rest of the pride) still felt like it was something frowned upon now. Lesser, than their human form. At the very least that they should be grateful for it being restored.

He flexed paws (hands) and reminded himself again that his claws wouldn't unsheathe from the tips of his fingers. A hundred years in fur, and after almost a decade being able to change, he still felt wrong in this one.

At least, in the years since the age of winter, the pride had been restored to Cair Paravel. They'd served as stewards for generations, until Jadis had banished them. Not, Al was forced to admit, that he'd have been a particularly deft housekeeper with four paws. Maybe he could have dusted with his tail. The thought made him giggle.

Threaded | Flat

From:

just_edmund

The sound of a giggle made his ears prick. Not a Dryad's sylvan laughter or the titter of a Titmouse, but a surprisingly deep, masculine chortle. Edmund's sharp gaze turned to the source of it. A year of being King, and he still was on the lookout for anything strange in Cair Paravel. Like giggling housekeepers.

Peter had thought, no doubt, that all he had to do was defeat the witch and all would be well. Warring factions in the diverse packs that made up Narnia's powerful clans, however, had proven him wrong. They'd needed help from all of them to drive out the last of the Witch's army and unite the lands together: Susan, the sleek silver Wolf Queen; Lucy Lion-Hearted, the beloved lady of the pride; and Edmund, Prince of the Panthers and swift as he was just. They'd been promised an equal throne in return for their alliance, when it was all over. It had taken years, but finally, finally...

Edmund's heavy black brows lowered and he stalked over to the source of the sound. The man's mane of golden hair proclaimed him one of the pride, even if those golden eyes hadn't given him away, while his uniform proclaimed him of the Cair Paravel house. "Steward," he said in a clipped, accented tenor. "I am in need of a good laugh. Please share what has amused you so." His dark stare dared Al to say he'd been laughing at the Panther King. The Panthers, like the Wolves, were still not much liked by many of the other Narnians who considered themselves more, well, wholesome. Even though Edmund had forsaken the Witch's cause long, long ago.

From:

just_edmund

A tentative friendship after that fateful night on the beach between the ruler and steward had sprouted and blossomed, if not precisely flourished, but Edmund found himself no closer to actually breaking through Al's shell than he had been before that night. It seemed a truly impossible mission. He was just so...so impenetrable.

Not like the Terebinthian prince. Rythern had been pleasingly receptive to his attentions tonight, diplomatic in theory but highly negotiation-based in practice. If the exchange of heated glances and linked arms and brushing shoulders and hips could be called negotiation. It was nice to be desired, to not have to chase for naught.

The contrast was palpable as they strolled the deck of the Narnian ship on its slow course up the northern shore, arm in arm, the sun setting a riot of fiery colours behind them. Rythern's dark eyes kept straying to him. And ah, here was his sideways-glancing valet, assigned to him by Peter (the blighter!) who thought it quite fitting that Edmund be attended in proper form by one of his personal pride of stewards. It was the cruelest of jokes, really.

"Is all well, Al? Is my cabin set to rights?" He might be needing it soon...

From:

just_edmund

The melee dragged on, the Telmarines slowly pushed back from the Narnians' more defenseable position closer to the trees. The tide seemed to be turning in their favour, and Edmund was hopeful even after his horse had been brought down and he was forced to slash his way on foot.

He never even saw it coming, the succubus that set upon him from behind and latched onto his neck. All he felt was a sharp pain there and a sudden, powerful tug in his blood, before his vision blurred and swirled and he staggered back. His back hit the ground, breath all knocked from him. His instincts screamed at him - get up, get up! - but his body refused to cooperate.

Warmth swelled within him, almost blossoming from the wound at his neck, and he felt someone hovering over him, pressing down, and the rush of footsteps nearby. Panic began to rise with the strange feeling of unnatural heat. Not just temperature. Heat. He cried out, hoping there was someone nearby to hear him.

-

Even from a furlong away, Peter could see that Edmund was in trouble. Dark creatures were emerging from the forest, drawn by the scent of blood and whatever that treacherous prince had done. His voice carried in a yell in Al's direction. "Get him out of there!" He pointed at the heap that was his brother, trusting his fellow pack member to take care of him, and whirled in a wicked swing at the huge Telmarine in his path. His hand alone would slay the prince.