Susan is the first to see Edmund. She'd been lounging in a most unQueen-like fashion on the armchair in the Sitting Room when he'd burst in. She jumps up, startled, a reprimand on her lips until she catches his eye.
She hasn't seen him look like that since he returned from the White Witch. He's drenched, his dark hair sticking to his too pale forehead. His eyes are red, bloodshot, and almost weary were it not for a desperate plea buried deep inside. She finds herself stammering as she regards her little brother, unsure of what to do.
"Susan," he mutters as though he half dreads what he's about to ask. And part of Susan knows what this is about, just somehow knows what he's going to say, but hopes desperately that she's wrong.
"Susan. Did Aslan..."
"Ed, please!" Don't ask, don't wonder about it, you were never meant to know.
"He did, didn't he?" It's a quiet observation. Her brother drops her gaze and lowers his head.
"He took my place..." And just like that, all the work she, and Peter, and Lucy, and all of Narnia have been doing to get Edmund to forgive himself is destroyed. He's lost in guilt again and they're back at the beginning.
"You saw it!" he yells suddenly, an angry, desperate light kindling in his eyes, finally more quietly he says "How can you even look at me knowing what I did?" he's backing away as if afraid of Susan trying to harm him.
"Edmund, you're my brother..." She tries to close the distance but he just backs away.
He shakes his suddenly calm and quiet, effectively cutting her off, "I'm a traiter." And he leaves.
This is why she hadn't wanted him to ever find out. He's barely twelve, and he would feel like has to carry this burden all alone, he wouldn't think that he deserved their help.
But he won't bear it alone. She won't let him. Queen Susan lifts her chin.
"Peter!" she calls, "Lucy!"
XXXX
There's a giant mirror in his room, big enough to fit all the Pevensies' within it's intricate, golden frame. It shows him a small pale boy, with tear tracks and a silver crown atop drenched black locks. A traiter.
Without thinking, he smashes it. With a vase, with a stool, with his fists. He doesn't stop until he's standing in a pool of shards and blood from where he cut his fingers. His chest heaves with sobs and he sinks to his knees, heedless of the glass.
Sleep
A warm feeling spreads through his cold and tired limbs. A familiar comforting smell drifts through the air.
Sleep, Edmund
He's not sure if he really heard the deep voice or not, but with one last strangled sob, he obeys.
Sleep, my son.
AN: Sorry, for the wait. Also, if any To Save A Soul readers are reading this, no, I haven't forgotten about it at all. I shall update fairly soon and there really is only one chapter left. Anyway, I was pretty worried about this chapter considering the level of angst I had to put in. So if you'd be so kind: please leave some feedback!
