A/N: This is the first part in a series of short stories documenting the story of Prince Caspian through the eyes of each of the Pevensie siblings. Each Pevensie will tell the story of two events, and each event will be split into two chapters. This is chapter one of the first event seen through King Edmund's eyes.

I really hope you all enjoy this! It's the first fan fic I've ever posted, so I'm eager to hear your thoughts. I'd like to know whether I should continue writing and posting these :)

Of course, I own nothing. This all belongs to Disney, Walden Media, and of course, the wonderful mind of CS Lewis. Thanks!

STORY ONE: THRESHOLD

CHAPTER ONE: TAKING THE SWORD

AS SEEN THROUGH THE EYES OF KING EDMUND THE JUST

The Narnian air sweeping in through the entrance of Aslan's How greeted us as we approached the ramp. I swear, with every breath of that air I took I became more and more of the person I used to be, the King that I'd become long ago. Right now, the wind was fresh and crisp, but I knew that before the sun had set, it would be stifling with the smell of blood. I know the Narnians felt good about this honorable duel, but I knew better. This would not end honorably—trust me. I understood treachery.

As we stepped out of the How's cool shadow, I was immediately blinded by the sunlight. I couldn't see the crowd, but I could hear it. Their echoing cheers followed us as we ascended the ramp; I tilted my head slightly to hear them better—my People. Their shouts, roars, barks, and whistles rang through the early-autumn air. I would've been grinning like an idiot if my heart wasn't hammering in fear for the person beside me.

The first thing to reach my eyes through the glare of the daylight was the glint of Pete's helmet. His stern blue eyes were staring out from beneath the helmet's silver brow, engraved with oak leaves and reflecting our troops that gathered just above us. I couldn't believe how different he looked from the brother I'd seen at Miraz's castle. They were worlds apart—I was now standing beside the High King.

When we crowned the hill of the How, I was finally able to bore my gaze straight ahead, at the armored figure seated beneath the ruins. Behind him waited an entire legion of masked, savage Telmarines, baying for our blood. But I only looked at their King. He was watching my brother approach the way a hawk watches a rabbit. God, I hated him. I really did. There was only one person I hated more… and I'd already dealt with her.

But this time, it wasn't my fight. It was Peter's.

We came to a stop at the opposite end of the ruins, and Pete asked me for Rhindon, his sword. Then the funniest thing happened—I looked down at the sheathed weapon in my hands and actually started to chuckle. I was thinking back to all our years in Narnia, and the running gag I'd always pull on my brother. I hadn't gotten a gift from Father Christmas all those years ago, but I hadn't really minded until I saw Peter raise Rhindon up high atop his unicorn in the Battle of Beruna. In all fairness, I didn't deserve a gift, but that didn't stop me from constantly swiping my brother's pride and joy every chance I got for the next fifteen years.

He probably should be thanking me though. If it weren't for me, he would've lost Rhindon along with the rest of his royal attire the day we went back through the wardrobe. But before the hunt I'd stashed his sword in my room, placing one of my own in his sheath. When we never returned, someone must've found Rhindon in my hiding place—stashed beneath the pile of sweaters Mrs. Beaver knitted for me every Christmas. I wish I knew who'd found it… but whoever it was put it in our Treasure Room, where it waited for our return 1,300 years later….

Anyway, this was what I was thinking as Pete reached for his sword. I was chuckling at the idea of just taking his gift and running. Wouldn't that throw everybody off…. Maybe the absurdity of it all would magically erase this inevitable bloodshed, and suddenly Pete and I would be two stupid boys again, tousling in our backyard in Finchley.

But no… this was where we belonged. Two Kings of Narnia, standing on the ruins of rebirth, and on the threshold of slaughter.

I let Peter have his sword.