Alright! Alright! This is in The Golden Age, like AU. It's Edmund's death. Because, it's LAW that when you love a fictional character, you kill him many times in your stories :) hehe. Sorry for any grammar errors or typos (my keyboard is bad).
He was dying. In the cold battleground.
That was one of the perks of war.
You never knew if you would make it out alive.
Even if he was a king, even if he met Aslan, he had many chances to die.
And he was very lucky.
Most of the times, his brother High King Peter saved him.
But today wasn't one of those days.
He was dying. Like an old man laying on his deathbed.
But he was a king laying on grass.
Stained blood grass.
And he was calm.
He wasn't panicking.
For Goodness's sake, he was thinking calmly.
He wasn't afraid.
That was his perk.
He felt at ease with Death.
He already met Death.
He pushed his luck everytime.
For the heck of it.
For fun?
For pride?
He may never know.
But what he knew was that he was dying.
And Peter was crying.
He was crying.
Just like The First Battle of Beruna.
When an eleven-years-old kid broke The White Witch's wand.
But this time, Lucy's magical cordial was miles away.
And he was dying.
And it may be cruel destiny.
Or maybe life.
Or maybe Justice.
He should know.
He was named Just.
And he should know.
That he was dying.
For Justice.
For Freedom.
For Lives.
"Don't die". He heard a sob said.
He was laughing in the inside.
If he could not die, he would already done it.
But he knew it was impossible.
As Aslan made the world like that.
And Edmund was a part of it.
But he knew he lived.
He didn't regret a thing.
Maybe the first part of his adventure.
But it was just a memory.
A glimpse of the old past.
And winter was just a wonderful reminder of it.
And he was dying.
He had a luck for slow deaths.
Not like any other normal person.
Nope. He died slowly.
For some rare reason.
And he used to joke about it.
Because he was the first to realize:
Live today and think tomorrow.
And he had lived for today.
And he wasn't going to think tomorrow.
He would see.
How he was important.
When they laid him to rest.
But he was dying.
And he felt numb.
He felt calm.
Like he was forgetting the world.
It was a nice feeling.
For him, though.
Not for Peter.
As Edmund could still hear his sobs and words.
"Don't die".
But he was.
He was dying.
And he couldn't help it.
But he helped.
Didn't he?
He was living.
He was dying.
Irony, perhaps?
Who knows?
He was afraid.
He was angry.
He was safe.
He was happy.
He was at peace.
He knew the answer.
He was dying.
For Lives.
For Justice.
For Freedom.
For Love.
For Narnia.
And.
For Aslan.
And he was dying.
Till he was dead.