Slowly, as though bored, the monsters had begun plodding back into the trees. Their work was done, their entertainment finished, and now they had a battle to fight. Against us, thought Edmund dully, and without Peter. The alarm this would have caused him before now faded under the heavy cloud of misery that hung like a shroud Edmund's mind. Like a condemning judge, it weighed each of his thoughts against Peter's death and then discarded them, finding none that could match this numbing catastrophe.
At last, they all had gone, even the Witch herself, striding through the midst of her creatures with regal abandon. Edmund watched her disappear over the low hills, until she and they were out of sight in the darkness. A few feeble torches remained below them, stuck into the ground by those who had better things to do than hold them. It was only these that held off the shadows surrounding the clearing, for it was a moonless, cloudy night.
It was so inconceivable that Peter should be dead that Edmund could not help himself waiting to see his brother move. Wistful thoughts that Peter might suddenly expire had been perfectly all right in the past, because they both knew that it would never happen—yet somehow it had, and it still didn't seem real, didn't seem possible. But that stone knife, reflecting in the firelight, that was painfully real.
"We should go down there," said Edmund suddenly, his voice rough from lack of use, his eyes still on Peter.
Susan's only response was a quiet, muffled noise, but Edmund paid no attention to her or Lucy. Without waiting for their answers, he stood abruptly. His legs were dreadfully stiff—he hadn't moved them for hours—but he ran, regardless, back down the path, until he came to the fork in the path, and took the right-hand one. He stumbled quite a few times.
When at last he reached the clearing below, Edmund hesitated a moment, desperately trying to muster up the courage to walk over to where Peter's body lay. Somehow, the sight seemed more awful from down here. After a few short seconds of indecisiveness, however, he made himself walk forward, on the same path that Peter himself had perhaps an hour ago. There were, Edmund noticed, spots and streaks of dark vermillion on the stone; he skirted these gingerly, biting down on his lip with fists clenched at his sides, until he reached the Table. He clambered up onto it, and sank to his knees beside the body.
There was so much blood. It coated everything; it was smeared across Peter's skin like some macabre decoration. Edmund reached out a hesitant hand to touch Peter's dead face, but drew it back, afraid.
Behind him, he heard footsteps on the rock pathway. "Don't look, Lucy," Susan commanded, another sob catching in her throat as she spoke. Lucy, not caring for this protection, jerked her arm out of Susan's and ran forward to the Stone Table. But she, like Edmund, could not bear to touch him.
Susan came forward finally, fingers working nervously in the material of her dress. "Oh, somebody get rid of that horrid thing!" she burst out at last. Edmund assumed that she meant the dagger, but it was a task easier said than done. The three of them looked uselessly at one another for a moment—then, with a deep breath, as though preparing himself to go underwater, Edmund reached out and wrapped his hand around the knife guard.
That wasn't even the worst part; with a horrible sucking sound, Edmund wrenched the dagger from Peter's body. No sooner had he done so than he realized what he now held, and the thought caused him to shudder. He threw it hastily off the Stone Table, watched it slide to a halt amidst the dirt and fallen leaves, and wiped his hands worriedly on his pants.
Wordlessly, Lucy pulled the cloak from her shoulders and laid it over Peter's shoulders, effectively hiding the stab wound and the worst of the whip's blows. It was a relief to all of them, but it did not erase the fact that lay before them.
With this covering, the children gained a bit more courage. Emboldened, Susan touched his cheek with the corner of her cloak. "Could we—do you think we could wipe some of that off?" she asked, her voice still a bit shaky. It was utterly like Susan to be so pragmatic at a time like this, but for once Edmund and Lucy were glad of it.
Gingerly, they wiped the blood from Peter's face and neck as best they could. It was a silent, hurried task—only once did Susan speak, in a very low voice. "Did you see his face?" she asked Edmund hesitantly, not looking at him. "Just at the end?"
He nodded wordlessly; Susan bit her lip and, reaching out, brushed away a strand of hair that had fallen over Peter's eyes. It was such a hopeless gesture, akin to tossing a single pebble into a raging current and expecting the current to halt, that Edmund once again felt an ache in his throat. It was not easy to forget that, but for perhaps a single word, it would have been him lying there, battered and bloodied and dead.
He loved me. What Edmund had never really believed true before now was suddenly forced before his eyes. The fact had never before seemed so obvious, so boundlessly important, or so terrible.
At long last, only the faintest messy streaks of crimson remained on Peter's face. It was Lucy who took the initiative in the next step, inching her way on her knees over to the other side of Peter's body and bravely fumbling at the cords around his wrists. Edmund moved to help her, but she shook him off. Thinking he knew the reason for Lucy's anger, Edmund meekly went to aid Susan in freeing Peter's legs.
It was a slow, beastly business. Their fingers were stiff and clumsy, and more than once a surprised noise of pain could be heard as someone jammed a fingernail into their hand by mistake. But it gave the children a sort of peace of mind—and also, there was nothing else for them to do. They could not leave Peter here, and they could not take him back to camp, at least not now.
Just when they had almost finished—there was only one strand left around Peter's red and bruised wrists, Lucy struggling to untwist it—as one the children heard a rustling in the trees behind them. They looked up, startled, then at each other; they could not have been any more defenseless than they were now. Tentatively, Edmund stood, and walked down the steps of the Stone Table, motioning for the girls to stay where they were.
"Who's there?" he demanded, taking another step forward. The strength in his voice shocked him, and there was anger in it as well. There was nothing he could have done to defend Peter when there was any hope for his brother's life, but now, when it was too late, Edmund stood resolute. "Don't you dare come any closer!"
A voice emerged from the trees, shortly followed by a form. "Your actions are noble, Son of Adam," said the voice, "but there is no longer a need for heroism in this place."
All three of them recognized the voice at once, but it was Lucy who derived any real joy from it. With an odd cry, she ran off the Stone Table and hurried forward toward the great lion. Without thinking, she threw her arms around Aslan's neck, pressing her face to his cheek, and he did not seem to disapprove.
With quick footsteps, Susan followed Lucy down to Aslan, although she refrained from embracing him as Lucy did. Edmund, having come this far already, stayed where he was. He had some dim idea that, if he got too close to Aslan and the lion looked into his eyes, he might shrivel up and die of guilt and shame.
For a moment, none of them said anything. Lucy had drawn back, still on her knees, and she was crying again. Aslan bent his great head and gently touched her face with his, murmuring hidden words of comfort that the other two could not hear. At length, Lucy gave a vague nod and stood.
"Where is the High King?" asked Aslan firstly.
"He—he's over there," said Susan, pointing behind her. Her voice was very tight, sounding as if it would break, and on the very last syllable that she spoke, it did. "Sir, he's dead."
"I know," said Aslan softly. In those two words there was such a world of understanding and grief that one might have thought his own brother had died. Without another word, he walked forward on enormous paws toward the Stone Table. Susan, Edmund and Lucy followed, as they sensed they were supposed to do.
Silently, Aslan padded up the steps. He extended a paw, and without warning, five deadly sharp claws emerged from it. But these terrible weapons he used only to slice through the last cord at Peter's hands, and then they were gone again.
He turned to the children once more; Susan had one arm around Lucy's shoulders, as though to comfort her, but her face was working furiously, and Edmund knew she was on the verge of tears once again. Aslan, seeing this, moved toward her.
"Susan," he said, "There is no need to be afraid."
"I know," gulped Susan miserably. "But…" Her voice trailed off into silence.
"You must be brave," Aslan told her gently. "Peter's sacrifice was a king's choice. Grieve for him, but accept it."
Susan nodded half-heartedly, still looking weepy. Aslan touched her face with his. "Be brave, Susan," he repeated, and that touch seemed to reassure her. "Narnia's queens do not give in so easily to defeat."
He turned to face Edmund, but Edmund flinched away. "I know," he whispered into the silence. "I know what you're going to say." Never before in his life had he felt such crushing misery.
"Do you?" asked Aslan. His voice was so low that it was almost a growl, but it was not unkind. Before Edmund could answer, though, he heard another voice, and it was so different from anything she had ever said before that it was a moment before he realized it was, in fact, Lucy.
"Yes, he does," she said furiously, with that expression on her face that meant she was so outraged she was about to cry. Susan grabbed for her arm, but Lucy shoved her away with a shriek of anger. "How could you, Edmund, how could you? You killed him, you killed Peter—!"
"I didn't!" Edmund said hoarsely.
"Peace, Lucy," said Aslan sternly, looking at her. "You must not be so cruel." With an obvious effort, Lucy subsided.
"I didn't mean—I never wanted anyone to get hurt," Edmund choked out, his throat burning. "Not Peter, I never knew—not Peter—" Aslan's eyes upon him never wavered in their steady, penetrating stare, as though they could see straight into Edmund' s filthy soul, and he cringed at the thought. Blinking furiously, Edmund forced himself to meet Aslan's gaze. "Please, Aslan, it wasn't—it wasn't my fault…"
Aslan made no pretensions, but there was a sadness in his voice as he replied. "It was, dear heart."
At that, everything fell apart. Edmund felt the sobs bursting from his throat as he fell to his knees, tears running down his cheeks. His hands reached out blindly, touched a sea of warm, soft, golden fur, and he buried his face in it. Words failed him—the weight of everything he had done seemed to be grabbing at him, pulling him down into the depths of the earth, and over everything there hung the awful, undeniable truth that Peter was dead.
What Edmund would do without his elder brother, he had no idea. Before now, Peter had been as much an unchangeable part of his life as the color of his eyes or his pale, freckled skin. Now, though, the pillar of strength that Edmund had always taken for granted was gone, and without it he could feel himself teetering dangerously, with nothing to balance him.
"Have faith," Aslan said softly. Edmund could feel the vibrations rumbling in his throat as he spoke. "Peter's death was a good one. He died for you, and for Narnia."
From beyond Edmund's comforting blanket of lion fur, he heard Susan speak. "Then the Witch—she was telling the truth? About the Deep Magic, I mean."
"The Deep Magic," Aslan conceded, "does exist. She would not dare to lie about such a thing. If she had known of the rest of the Emperor's magic, however, she might never have demanded a sacrifice at all, and the Deep Magic need never have been awakened in the first place."
"What do you mean?"
Aslan paused, as though reluctant to speak. "The true meaning of sacrifice," he said finally, "is one that she does not comprehend. The Deep Magic demanded a sacrifice, but the Deeper Magic—written in this very Table, though she cannot read it—declares that when a willing victim who has committed no treachery is killed in a traitor's stead, death itself will turn backwards."
"Death?" Lucy said suddenly. "Then—"
"No, dear heart," said Aslan. He must have known the hope that would arise in her heart. "The Deeper Magic has no place here."
"But Peter never did anything against Narnia—and he was willing!" argued Susan desperately. "We saw him!"
His hands still deep within the mane, Edmund sat back, leaning his head against Aslan's side as he to make sense of it all. Slowly, a thought permeated his brain. "But…he did commit treachery…didn't he?"
"Of course he didn't," said Susan disparagingly.
"But he wasn't—" Edmund hesitated, trying very hard to explain. "Peter wasn't perfect."
"It doesn't mean he committed treachery!" Lucy put in sharply. "Not like you. He was only human."
"That's what I mean!" Edmund cried. "He was human, and that—that's treachery. That's why…" Sitting back on his heels, he looked up at Aslan with uncertainty in his gaze. "That's why it won't work."
A tiny, sad lion-smile played at the edges of Aslan's mouth, like a parent watching his children play. "You are right, dear one," he said softly. "The Deeper Magic has no hold on Peter."
"Oh…" Susan moaned again. Already Aslan's strength seemed to have deserted her.
There was nothing else any of them could say. There was Peter on the ground; there was Aslan with Edmund clinging to his mane like a child. There were Susan and Lucy holding each other, all with their eyes upon Peter's body. Any words beyond that would have been useless and empty.
At last, Aslan shifted, muscles rippling under his coat of fur. Edmund released his hold, and Aslan turned to the three of them.
"The sun will rise soon," he said. "It is time for you to return to camp."
"What?" said Lucy, bewildered. "All of us?"
"We can't just leave him like this!" Susan protested. Edmund said nothing.
"The Witch will attack soon," Aslan said firmly. "No sense of honor forces her to keep her word, and she will do her best to ascertain that all of you are destroyed. Susan, you must take your place with archers. Edmund, you will lead my army now in Peter's stead."
He should have been terrified at this thought, but the thought that revolted him was not leading an army, but what he would be leaving behind while he did it.
"We're not leaving Peter," he said, his voice strong for the first time all night. "We can't!"
"Edmund."
Edmund bowed his head. "I'm sorry," he apologized. "But we just can't leave him here!"
"Do you trust me, Edmund?" asked Aslan. He could not answer that.
"I'm sorry," he said again.
"It is time for you to go," Aslan repeated.
They could not argue any longer. Susan held out a hand. "Come on, Lucy," she said resignedly. But Lucy shook her head vehemently.
"Oh, please, Aslan," she begged, "You couldn't send me back! Peter wouldn't even let me fight."
Aslan hesitated—he seemed to be thinking. "Very well," he said at last. "Susan and Edmund, you will want to return as soon as possible. By now, you will have been missed."
Biting her lip, Susan nodded. Together with Edmund, she walked slowly back up the path into the forest. Edmund kept very silent—beside him, he could hear Susan crying again.
After a few minutes of walking, they came out at the camp again. Edmund could see centaur outlines moving swiftly around the tents against the starlight. One of them turned and saw him and Susan, and galloped toward them.
"Your Majesties!" he said breathlessly. It was Ryndel, and there was great relief in his voice. "We only just noticed that you were gone." It was then that he noticed there were only two of them. "Where are King Peter and Queen Lucy?"
Edmund took a breath, thankful it was dark and their tear-stained faces were, for the most part, hidden. "We left Lucy back there a bit," he said. Surprisingly enough, his voice remained steady. "She'll be back soon."
"And the High King?" asked Ryndel.
Edmund swallowed. "He's gone to be with Aslan."