Disclaimer: The fact that I wrote this story means I'm not my own, nevermind the owner of the below narrative.
A huge thank-you to: ElvishKiwi's Venerated Ancestor for beta-ing (even if I didn't give her a chance to finish her analysis - sorry, Eva!) and for the members of TheLionsCall's writers' group for reading this over as well.
Darkness. The creeping dusk, the shadows of the woods, and the not-wholly-pleasant dim of unconsciousness. Rushing, rushing, in rhythm with the galloping Centaur that bore him in his arms, escaping from her, racing, racing eastward toward the unknown.
Everything about the journey was different from the one Edmund made five years before. His destination was the same, but today, he approached it from the east, in the mid-morning light, and of his own accord. He pulled short his horse just before leaving the shade of the trees. A lightly rolling plain lay before him, interrupted a distance away by a sudden bump in the landscape. He clicked his tongue to urge the horse into a gallop, allowing both of them to enjoy the openness of the plain and the freedom it afforded. Even though he knew that he would be easier to spot in the open than on the wooded route, he could truly be alone with his thoughts, away from the wood-dwelling subjects who would innocently give him away to any pursuers. Out on the plain, his only company would be the dumb horse that could tell no one of the outing. Not that it really mattered, Edmund supposed, but he did prefer to do this alone.
The grassy bump grew larger and larger till it loomed high above him. Edmund slowed the horse as he skirted around the hill to the other side, for it was important to climb the west face of the hill. Once there, Edmund dismounted and simply stood still for a moment: the sun was still low enough to appear to have crested the hill rather than to shine directly down from its zenith.
It was not the sun that stood there. Nor was it the moon. It was a Lion, unmistakably glorious, greater than sun or moon, a majestic silhouette at the top of the hill. That much Edmund could tell even though he was still some distance away, and it set him trembling. The Centaur who carried him let him down, leaving Edmund to face the Beast on his own. He kept his eyes on the Lion and tried to take a few steps forward, but fear seized him – fear of the Lion, of what He might do – when the magnificent Creature came bounding, sprinting, racing down the hill toward him. Larger than life, terrible in power, and wild in beauty, the Lion came to a graceful halt, such as no animal tearing at such a pace should be able to accomplish. Edmund could not bring himself to look at anything but the Lion's paws. And then… the Lion kissed him on his forehead and welcomed him.
Edmund adjusted the strap of his satchel and proceeded to ascend the hill. The turf was soft and springy, just as it had been then. It was quiet here, too, just the breeze and the faintest sound of the ocean and the occasional bit of birdsong.
Edmund did not really want to climb that hill, not after all the walking he'd done that day, but the Lion had said to walk beside him, so Edmund did. His rescuers followed at a discreet distance, leaving Edmund feeling very much alone with the Lion, Who didn't say much, but the silence was more companionable than it was condemning.
The breeze was stronger on top of the hill, though warmer than Edmund had reckoned it would be. Even if it had been biting cold, it would not have made a difference to him, for there, in the very center of the hill, was the reason he came back every year: the Stone Table, cracked down the middle, a symbol of what was, a monument to what came after. He knelt on one knee and remembered.
The Stone Table hadn't mattered much to him when he saw it the first time; it was shrouded in the semi-dark, a vague shape in the moonlight. In any case, Edmund had been more interested in the Lion, Who seemed to radiate a light of His own as He led Edmund to a tent and bade him enter and nourish himself. Edmund obeyed and found himself in a lamplit space, unfurnished but for a low table and a wide cushion. He settled himself on the cushion and simply stared at his reflection in the silver pitcher before him. He was especially thirsty and hungry too, but he was not worthy of the Lion's compassion or His provision. The Lion seemed unfazed by the situation, merely sitting back on His haunches and speaking to Edmund. So Edmund listened and ate.
Edmund sat down and reached into his satchel. It wasn't exactly like the fare he'd had then, but the memory was enough and he was here to remember. He broke the loaf and directed his gaze again at the Stone Table.
Beneath its golden crust, the bread was the whitest Edmund had ever seen. It was so light, it nearly melted in his mouth; and it had a hint of sweetness. The wine he poured shone like a blood-red ruby, sweet and satisfying. But neither the bread nor the wine were as nourishing as the Lion's words. Such beautiful, powerful words. Words of correction, of instruction, of forgiveness, of vindication. Though he could not pinpoint when it happened, Edmund forgot about the bread and wine, feeding instead on the Lion's words.
He hadn't realized how long he had talked with the Lion till he was led outside again into a fresh world of dew and dawn; and there they talked a good deal more. Edmund would never forget it. He never wanted to forget, and anyway, the Lion – Aslan – had said to always remember.
Standing up, Edmund drained his flask and laid his hand on the broken Stone Table. He hadn't understood everything Aslan had said then – things about redemption, justification, sanctification –, but he certainly did now. So remember he would, and especially on this day of every year for the rest of his life.
Luke 22:14-20
I have been wanting to write this story for a long time. A few years, actually, and then especially in the past few months. Though it's on the late side, it was finally ready to be revealed on 2016's Holy Thursday. So have a blessed Easter weekend!
Please review!