Still Water Runs Deep
A Chronicles of Narnia Fanfiction
Summary: Edmund's sudden death leaves his siblings and Narnia reeling. As the investigation unravels, the truth comes to light: the Just King's death was not "sudden" after all.
Disclaimer: We own nothing!
/!\ Warnings: Mild language. Major character death.
A/N: Thanks to everyone who read/reviewed/favorited/followed! It means so much. Hope you enjoy this chapter.
Chapter One: Pick Your Poison
"Oomph!" The ground knocked the wind out of him. Edmund winced and opened his eyes, nearly crossing them at the sword an inch from his nose, poised to deliver the coup de grace.
Peter, looking very much the barbarian king his enemies purported him to be, uttered what many heard last before meeting their doom. "Prepare to taste cold steel." A grin cracked the facade. "C'mon, Ed! Is that the best you got?" Sheathing the blade with a metallic zing, Narnia's High King offered his hand - a mercy afforded only in the sparring circle.
Mercy? Edmund inwardly scoffed. Kill me. That's mercy.
"Did you hear that?"
The Just King froze, head cocked, ears strained. He frowned. "Sounds like a yearling."
Peter straightened, eyes widening. "Over there," he said, then headed eastward. "Damn!" Swinging off his mount, he knelt by a tawny heap, his mantle pooling around him.
Edmund hastened to join them. Damn, indeed. The poor creature had paid a steep price for its curiosity. It was drowning in its own blood, flailing and clinging to life with the same tenacity as the iron jaws around its neck. Crimson veiled its chest. Why persist? Why struggle fruitlessly, with I so near? Trying to extricate it from the snare was too cruel to consider. And more than a tad belated, he thought.
The brothers locked eyes. Peter's held the question; Edmund's the answer.
The eldest nodded. Just once. "Shh...shh." The High King stroked the deer's heaving flank with one hand as he fumbled for his dagger with the other. "There, there. Everything will be alright..." Steel flashed; Edmund flinched. Peter unleashed blood and misery with a thrust of the blade. The body jerked, its eyes sprung open, and out went the light of life.
Craving death when condemned to life; there is no fate worse than that. Knowing it was not one he must endure brought Edmund solace. He had long since decided to end life by his own hand, on his own terms, but never tried until a fortnight ago. Choosing when or how was no easier for him than culling clothes was for a girl; he brooked nothing short of perfection.
A broken body on crags or one swinging from a noose was not how he wanted to be remembered. I'll slit my wrists. Slow and surefire. But where? The bath. Yes; I'll do it there. Less of a mess.
He sat in the tub long after the water cooled, lambent torchlight glancing off each turn of the blade with its hilt of braided steel, forged by dwarves of the Far North. He pressed into the underside of his wrist, black veins stark against alabaster skin. Drag it across each and let blood spill. Simple.
But his resolve, then his hand, started to falter...
Do it, do it!
He couldn't, he couldn't.
Edmund begrudgingly accepted. "Sorry, Pete." Grass blades cascaded from his clothes as he hauled himself upright. Granted, he was the marginally better swordsman, but today had naught to show for it.
The High King scoffed. "Evidently. Unless you want an eye enucleated, you ought to focus when handling pointy objects." His smile waned, supplanted by a frown when the anticipated quip didn't come. "Are you alright?"
"Fine." Liar. "Can we take a break?"
"Break?" Another scoff. "We've only gone one round!"
Edmund dragged a tremulous hand across his brow. He was drenched; Peter had yet to break a sweat. "I know..."
"Fine." He squinted at the sun, well past its zenith. "Consider yourself lucky. We should be heading back for -"
"The birthday party I explicitly asked not to have?" Edmund was indignant - simply too tired to sound it. "I hope whatever you three have planned isn't overly extravagant." Fat chance. Those hopes were dashed once Peter and Lucy appointed Susan head of party preparations.
"Ed, it's your eighteenth. You're officially an adult!"
"So are you, Susan, and half of Narnia; I'm nothing special." Edmund shoved his blade into its scabbard. "Why must we celebrate our mortality?"
"Why must you be so morbid?"
"I call it realistic. Well, it's true!" he exclaimed when Peter didn't relent; his blue eyes bore into his soul. Did they see the darkness within, thick and black like sludge?
"What is the matter with you?"
"Nothing." Edmund shrugged. Does my heart read so plainly, like words on a page?
The High King clasped his shoulder. "Ed, you've...changed."
He brushed him off. "Haven't we all? Peter, I'm fine." He had entrusted all his secrets to him but one. One too great for even Atlas to bear. If Peter knew...Edmund shuddered. His primogentiure and high kingship foisted more carks and cares on Peter than a boy his age deserved. The stars could slip out of alignment and he'd still take the blame.
Contrary to popular belief, the High King wasn't infallible, but persistent to a fault. He'd fight to change the immutable, never stopping to admit defeat; hubris wouldn't allow it.
His best wasn't enough - not this time.
"There's something you're not telling me," Peter said. "I don't know what. But if you let it fester, it will kill you."
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