9
The Black


Edmund couldn't understand the feeling. Weightlessness? Detachment? Suffocation?

And then with a sickening thought, he realized what it was: paralysis.

Blackness lifted him up, weighed him down, and cut him off from all of his senses. Nothing to see, nothing to hear, nothing to feel, nothing to smell, and nothing to taste. He was swimming in darkness with only his own thoughts as a means of sanity and some semblance of comfort.

He vaguely wondered if this was death—or at least the precursor to the afterlife. He was fairly sure if he was in hell, he'd be burning, and since he wasn't exactly walking on streets of gold that glimmered in the warm sunlight, he wasn't in heaven either. He decided that he would deem this place purgatory—the waiting area. Here was the place where a sinner would come to terms with his fate in the fires of hell and where the righteous and good were to pay for their mortal sins before entering the pearly gates.

Edmund counted himself in the former group. There was no way he would be in the latter—not after selling out his siblings for a worthless crown and evil magic.

In the nebulous amount of time it took him to finally resign himself to his afterlife, he didn't feel the tiny presence near him. It was just a speck at first—like a small particle of dust—but the longer Edmund remained in his purgatory, the larger it grew until it was like a wisp of smoke curling around his consciousness. It smelled of roses, tasted of mint, and whispered like the breeze.

He itched to reach out and grab it or diffuse it, and he wanted to roar in frustration when he felt he had no arm or hand to carry out his thought.

"Edmund," it whispered so quietly that he didn't even realize he was hearing anything at first. "Edmund..."

He longed to reply—to demand who was there—but he had no lips to open and no tongue to speak with.

"Edmund..." it just kept whispering relentlessly.

He couldn't discern if the voice was male or female, but it hardly mattered. The sound—even though soft and barely audible—made something in the recesses of his mind stir and bristle uncomfortably. He struggled to move away from the wisps of smoke but to no avail.

"...made a mistake..." hissed the smoke.

Mistake? he thought frantically. What mistake? Who made a mistake? Did I...?

"...remember the curse...you've brought on yourself..."

If a consciousness could vomit, Edmund was sure he would have.

WITCH! he roared furiously, flexing and thrashing against the blackness.

The smoke thickened until it was a cloud surrounding him and threatening to envelop and drown him. "Fool..." it hissed malevolently.

You're the fool! he thundered. You were the one who dared to face the Lion!

The smoke flared and grew, but it immediately shrank back once more. "...have all the power of Narnia, but...still have the foolishness of a human..."

You're dead, Witch, he thought venomously. You can't punish me for my foolishness from the grave.

"…where you're wrong," laughed the voice.


Velia sidled along the massive boulder and peeked out the side. The Prince Sorcerer was still unconscious and cradled in the arms of his older brother. The eldest Pevensie was still frantically trying to awaken Edmund, but his efforts were futile. Edmund remained stubbornly unresponsive. Aslan looked on from a few feet away, and even Velia could see the storm brewing in the Great Lion's eyes.

Something was wrong.

She ducked back into the crevice and ran her hands through her hair. Three werewolves were cleverly hidden between various other rocks while four wolves who had soaked themselves in the fallen's blood played dead nearby. The rest of the Witch's army had escaped into the forests in retreat, but a select few remained on the battlefields, waiting for the signal to take back their new leader.

Velia risked exposure once more to check the position of the incoming Lucy Pevensie before ducking back into her shelter and wrapping her hand around the hilt of the sheathed sword at her hip and swiftly pulling it out. She poised the flat of the blade at the very edge of the entrance of her hiding place and tilted it twice to reflect the sunlight.

She didn't have to look to know the werewolves and wolves were sliding into position. It was fortunate, really, that Lucy Pevensie took the obvious route from the Narnian camp to where Aslan, Edmund, and Peter were.

It was even more fortunate, actually, that the seven cretins stuck around and actually followed Velia's silent orders. It was a downright miracle.

One last flicker of sunlight reflected off her sword, and the minions dashed out of their hiding places to ambush Lucy. A second after that, Aslan sprung to action and bounded to the screaming girl's rescue. A split-second later, Velia darted out and sprinted to Edmund's side.

Peter reached for his sword, but Velia had already poised the tip of her blade against his throat.

"Your brother isn't safe with you," she said earnestly, trying to put as much truth into her words and expression as possible so he wouldn't fight or question her.

Peter locked eyes with her for a brief moment, but he took in everything—the black hair, the black eyes, the black leather, the black sword... If she was wearing a furious or even a cold expression, she could be the human embodiment of evil, but her face dispelled all that.

"Where are you going to take him?" he asked, glancing back down at his twitching brother.

"Back to the Witch's castle. Something is wrong, and neither your sister's cordial nor Aslan himself can do much to help him right now," she answered, sheathing her sword and bending down.

With the strength that Peter did not expect to see a girl of her stature having, she heaved Edmund over her shoulder. He stood up to help steady her, but she didn't seem to need his assistance at all. She turned to leave, but Peter grabbed her elbow.

"You'll protect him, won't you?" he asked quietly, knowing full well that he was going to regret letting this girl leave with his brother—and yet for some strange reason, he was still going to let her go.

Dark brown eyes met black for another second before she replied, "With my life."

The girl in black sprinted off and disappeared into the woods by the time Aslan and Lucy came up beside Peter.

"Are you all right?" asked Peter, gripping Lucy's shoulders and looking her over.

She nodded, but her brow was creased in worry. "They didn't even touch me. Peter, why did you let her leave with Edmund? Where are they going?"

"Something's happened to Edmund, Lu," murmured Peter, staring back off into the distance. "I'm sure we'd only make it worse, but she can help him."

"Are you sure you're not making a mistake?" asked Lucy.

Peter sighed wearily and walked back to where he'd dropped his sword. He picked it up before turning back to where Lucy waited for his answer. Meeting Aslan's warm gaze, Peter took a deep breath and sheathed his sword.

"I don't know."


"This would've been an absolutely brilliant idea," gasped Velia, "if I'd stolen a couple of horses before I came and got you."

She paused on the side of the hill and took a few deep breaths before continuing.

"When are you planning on waking up anyway? Because I will surely strangle you if you wake up as soon as we reach the castle, Edmund, I swear to you, I will do it."

She huffed and puffed across two more hills before she finally gave up. She let Edmund slide off her shoulder as she collapsed on the ground next to him.

"You need to cut back on that Turkish Delight," she groused, smacking him on the stomach. She waited for a reaction. When none came, she punched him in the stomach and growled, "Not even a twitch? A moan? Come on, Prince Sorcerer, wake up! I'm in no condition to be lugging you across Narnia! I haven't eaten in hours, slept in a day, and I can't even remember the last time I had a decent, intellectual conversation that didn't involve dismemberment, disembowelment, or decapitation!"

She crawled closer to Edmund and patted his face repeatedly. "Wake up. Wake up. Wake up. Wake up. It's not fair that you get rest while I can't. Wake up. Wake up. Wake up!"

Her pats turned into slaps.

"Do I have to drag you to the nearest body of water and throw you in, you lazy fool?!" she cried, gripping his collar and shaking him violently. "Wake!"

When it finally sank in that no attempt on her part would rouse him, she sat back and sighed up at the sky. She waited for a few more minutes before she sighed one more time, got back up to her feet, heaved Edmund over her shoulder again, and continued on her way.

"Bloody imbecile. Don't tell me you're unconscious because of something absurd like prolonged heat exposure."


The smoke laughed, lilting and sharp against Edmund's mental ears.

"Stupid, stupid, stupid boy," hissed the Witch. Her voice had gotten strong enough to form a complete sentence, but it was still barely above a whisper. "Not even death can separate us. Though you may loathe me, you know that I am a part of you."

Always with the dramatics, Witch, growled Edmund.

He could hear heavy breathing somewhere close—as if someone nearby was trying to struggle up a hill. He took that as a good sign. He'd regained at least one of his human senses; now he needed to rid himself of this smoky pest and regain the other four. But even as he struggled against his black ocean, he knew that no amount of effort on his part was going to bring him back to consciousness. Something else was holding him back here, and he strongly hoped and prayed that it was not the Witch's doing.

"You will not be able to leave your mind until you remember what it is you have to do, my young apprentice."

Remember what? To burn down your castle as soon as I get out of this? I promise, I won't forget.

"I know you've read my grimoires, boy." The smoke flared and surrounded his consciousness momentarily before pulling back. "Rack that puny little brain of yours and remember something interesting I know you stumbled upon."

If I could kill you right now, I would.

"Oh, stop with the threats, Edmund. It's neither becoming nor useful in your current situation."

Threats? All right. Let me just sit here and fantasize of various ways to kill you…again.

"It would behoove you, young man, to remember."

It would behoove me if you would just tell me what it is I'm supposed to remember, Witch, instead of urging me to do it myself!

"FOOLISH BOY, REMEMBER!"

Edmund suddenly stilled himself and remembered.


Edmund's eyes snapped open and he gasped for air, not even realizing his current position. Velia was knocked off balance by Edmund's sudden jump and lost her footing. They crashed onto the ground in a jumble of limbs, and because Velia had unfortunately been traipsing down the hill, they rolled the rest of the way down in a mess of dirt and curses until they landed in a heap at the bottom of the small hill.

"You moron!" shrieked Velia, clambering up to her feet. "You could've broken both of our necks!"

"How was I supposed to know you'd thrown me over your shoulder like that, you skinny monster!" Edmund spat back, rubbing his sore hip. He staggered to his feet and rubbed his forehead. "Come on. We need to get back the castle quickly."

Velia glared at him. "Well, then it's your turn to carry me," she snapped. "I've been carrying you over my shoulder for the last ten kilometers. These legs aren't taking another step."

They glared at each other for two seconds before Edmund bent and lifted her up into his arms. Believing that he wouldn't actually do it, Velia opened her mouth to protest, but Edmund cut her off by muttering a spell that caused them to fade into the air.

Their molecules slammed back together in the throne room of the Witch's castle.

He unceremoniously deposited her onto a nearby chair, and when she opened her mouth to protest, he held up his hand and reminded her in a low voice, "You refused to take another step. I merely obliged."

He turned on his heel and marched toward the staircase on the left side of the throne room. He paused as he passed the Witch's ice throne, and Velia wondered if he was about to sit in it. Instead, he walked back to her, unsheathed her sword, strode back toward the throne, heaved the sword above his head, and shattered it. Ice shards flew across the room and chips rained down like snow.

She said nothing as he tossed her sword back to her. She continued to maintain her silence as she followed Edmund up two flights of stairs until they reached the Witch's study. It became increasingly difficult to keep her mouth shut as she watched Edmund rip through the bookshelves and scrolls and chests.

"What are you looking for?" she asked, trying her hardest to keep the sarcastic, mocking tone out of her voice.

Her attempt at civility was met with silence, so she sighed and took a seat on the sofa. She leaned her back against one armrest and rested her feet on the other as she watched the tornado that was Edmund Pevensie tear through the rest of the room like a madman.

A big black wolf eventually padded into the room, summoned by the thunderous noise Edmund was making.

"Your Majesty, what are you looking for?" he asked obsequiously.

Edmund ignored him.

"Mason!" Velia greeted him cheerfully. "Come take a seat and watch the show. Have you heard the news? The Witch is dead."

The wolf's formal demeanor suddenly shifted as he came to Velia's side to sit back on his hind legs and wag his tail. "Well, that changes things!" He nodded his muzzle toward Edmund. "So what's the new king up to?"

"Don't call me the king!" barked Edmund, throwing a particularly large tone over his shoulder.

Velia smirked. "Then what should we call you, Prince Sorcerer? 'Your Royal Lunacy?' Does that better suit your tastes?"

Edmund finally turned to level a glare at the both of them. "I am not royalty in this world. You will not address me as such. But regardless of rank, I think the fact that I can encase you in a block of ice and bury you twenty leagues under the sea should warrant a certain amount of respect."

Mason's eyes widened and a small whine escaped from his jaws. Velia, on the other hand, looked completely unimpressed, but she didn't argue.

"Will 'sir' suffice?" she asked mildly.

He stared at her for a second longer before giving a noncommittal grunt and turning back to his madness.

"So what are you looking for, sir?" asked Mason, shooting Velia a reproving look. "Perhaps either of us could be of some assistance?"

The girl merely rolled her eyes. "Yes, do enlighten us to the motives of your frenzy."

Edmund suddenly cried out in triumph and straightened up. In his hand, he held a small, black book with runes etched in silver over the cover.

"What is that?" asked Velia, sighing deeply. "The Witch's old diary?"

"Better," he said, crossing the room to the massive desk.

Velia slid off the couch and leaned over Edmund's shoulder as he flipped open the small book.

"It's all in another language," she muttered. "You know how to read it?"

He didn't answer as he stopped on one particular page. His expression rapidly darkened until he ripped out three pages and held them against the candle's flame. Velia set her hand on his shoulder, but he didn't turn to look at her.

"Edmund, what was that?"

"That was my future," he said plainly, "going up in flames."

She blinked. "That wasn't nearly as melodramatic as I would expect to hear from you," she muttered sarcastically. "What are you talking about?"

He shrugged away from her hand to pull off his leather armor.

Velia cleared her throat and cocked an eyebrow. "Er, I believe your quarters are on the other side of the castle—"

Shooting her longsuffering look, he pulled up his sleeve to show her the black band on his arm. Tentatively, she reached out and ran two fingers along the circle.

"You're cursed," she muttered.

"I was human, Velia," he said. "My skin wasn't this pale before. My eyes were brown, not blue. And I doubt very much that any human could wield magic like I can."

"So you're saying she transformed you?" Mason clarified, finally padding up to the pair and joining the conversation. "That is a very old, very powerful, and very complex spell."

"I know," said Edmund bitterly. "I found this book two days after she began my magical training, and I eventually figured it out."

"By 'figure out' you mean 'translated,' right? Because this all looks like badger scratches," muttered Velia, taking the book and flipping through the pages.

"The Witch didn't cast that spell just to transform me into her perfect successor," explained Edmund. "According to those pages I just burned, she made me into her puppet."

There was a moment of silence as Velia and Mason took that in. Mason was the one who seemed genuinely surprised; Velia was contemplative.

"That was why you would move around like a stiff board when she'd order you to do something, wasn't it? She was controlling you?"

Edmund made a resolute decision to pay as much attention to Velia as she did to him.

"It's all a very complicated mess, but the only thing you need to know is that I cannot die." He snatched her upper arms, gripping them tightly, and stared at her with the most vulnerable expression she'd ever seen him make. "Under no circumstances can you let me die."

"Well, obviously! You're the—"

"Both of you!" snapped Edmund, glancing back and forth between the girl and the wolf.

Four years ago, Mason had just been a mere messenger wolf, and at that point in his life, he would've died a messenger wolf. But Edmund had been having a particularly nasty day, and he was in no mood to tolerate another one of the Witch's random statue-makings and stepped in to spare the wolf's life. Now that Mason had survived long enough, he was the only friend of the Prince Sorcerer and the head messenger wolf.

Velia, on the other hand… Edmund couldn't possibly try to categorize her or even determine their exact relationship. He wasn't even sure if they were friends. But for some strange reason, he was now trusting her with his life.

"I'm trusting the both of you to keep this a secret between the three of us. And I'm trusting you to keep me alive not because of self-preservation. My death is not something you want to deal with."

"What aren't you telling us?" asked Mason anxiously, stepping forward to nudge Edmund's hip with his nose—a small gesture of reassurance.

"Just…trust me on this," muttered Edmund. "Don't let me die."