It was an eerie battlefield, so full of statues it looked like a graveyard. The blood pounded in Edmund's ears, pushing the sounds of conflict into the background. How many times as a child had he played at being a soldier with Peter? His grip on his sword was slippery. He adjusted it and ran a dwarf through.

In the first, terrible moments before battle, he had looked out and seen the Witch and her army and had been struck by terror. What was he, barely eleven years old, doing here? He had looked to Peter, hoping to find some reassurance, and had seen that his brother was just as terrified as he; perhaps more.

He had once read a book, he couldn't remember what it was called or what it was about. The only thing that he could recall was that a soldier had turned tail in the middle of a battle and had been so shamed and hated that he had taken his own life. Edmund didn't know himself well enough; what if he, too, was a coward? What if, despite being the prophesied king of Narnia, he didn't have it in him?

"Peter?" the words faltered on his lips. "I can't … I can't do it."

"Buck up, Ed," Peter replied through clenched teeth. "Aslan wouldn't abandon us."

"I know, I know." He wiped his hands on his clothing for the fifth time. Aslan, Aslan. What else was there to say? I don't want to die, Aslan. I'm just a kid! Where are you?

Seconds later, Peter raised his sword above his head and ordered the charge. It was strange, how as he pelted towards the enemy, Edmund felt nothing but exhilaration coursing through him. A wild cry came from his lips and was taken up by everyone around him and then, the two armies met. He and Peter were separated immediately. The sun was just coming up, shedding brilliance all around. Edmund lost himself in a fury new to him; his sword, so heavy and awkward only moments before, now felt natural in his hands. And in his mind there was a driving urge to find the Witch.

Everything was chaos. When he looked up ahead, there was a clear dividing line between the conflict with the living, and the dead area around the witch, filled with statues, his subjects, his people. He could vaguely glimpse Her, surrounded by her work, casually flicking her wand at this dwarf, that dog, and his blood rushed hot and wild in his veins.

Anything between him and the Witch was now merely an obstacle; he must reach her before all of his soldiers were turned to stone. He did not know if it took minutes or hours, but at last only the statue of a bear stood between them. His eyes narrowed and all he could see was her wand. Her wand. Her wand. She was hardly even trying, killing and destroying with laughter on her lips. What would she be able to do without that wand? So much of her power seemed to depend on it.

He stepped out from the shadow of the statue, and all noise was muted. There remained only him and the Witch. She turned to him with a snarl on her beautiful white face. Clearly she expected the same strategy from him that everyone else had been using and she came towards him with the terrible thing outstretched.

He side-stepped neatly, instinctively. He felt, more than heard, her frustration. He raised his sword, saw his blade smash down on the wand. Heard the splintering. Heard the Witch's scream of rage. Felt the glassy splinters peppering his legs as they fell earthward. Felt the keen pain of her knife as it entered his chest.

He choked, staggered, fell. She stood above him and could have killed him with another swift blow, but instead she kicked him aside, like a dog, as if he were beneath her thoughts.

Then he saw the true reason she had left him: Peter, covered with sweat and blood; Peter, with a fury in his eyes that Edmund had never seen before; Peter, with sword uplifted, challenging the Witch.

He closed his eyes and slipped into blissful oblivion. The blood seeped over the fingers that clutched the wound. The battle raged around him. The Lion roared.

Finis