CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR
JUDGEMENT

"Guilty." The single word echoed around the once silent hall merely seconds before the gasps broke the stillness and the murmurs began; as if the tension of the previous two months had not been enough, as if the announcement that morning had not been enough, now the people in the Court of Justice of Cair Paravel could do no more than whisper against the single verdict that robbed the young boy standing in the middle of the room from his freedom. His little hands—scarred over the fire that had killed his parents—clasped in a grip that made his knuckles go white, his eyes closed, and the tears that fell against his cheeks were silent; it seemed simply too much against everything that had happened even only that morning; and, in truth, Juliet, who so solemnly and silently sat upon the furthest bench of the observing audience, didn't understand it; not for the person who delivered the single word or the frown that rested in the middle of his forehead even as he wrote down the very verdict that had shaken the room in its entirety, to make the conviction final.

Edmund Pevensie, the young man with a hidden gentle heart and kindness who had so held her and kissed her, who she had comforted as needed during near every night of those two months in which he was not, yet again, in search of the lost Marchioness of the Great Delta, the one person in the entirety of that Justice Hall that could understand the crimes of a ten year old much better than anyone else; indeed, he was the only one Juliet could focus on as the beginning of the sentencing began, because the single word that had robbed a young child of ten from his freedom had fallen from Edmund's lips, and she didn't understand it. After the announcement that morning, and the counted things he had even told her of what it had been like to be pawn to the evil that had perturbed Narnia so long before, she simply couldn't understand it; and for it her eyes refused to fall even when his gaze lifted to look in her direction. It was not for more than a second, yet it was long enough for his own displeasure at her presence in the hall to be clear as much as her own at the verdict; and as the murmurs made the sentencing nearly impossible to hear, it also thankfully masked the screech of the wood against the floor when she stood from the onlooker benches and made her way towards the one open door within; one which led to the lower levels of the gardens, and thus allowed her the most scenic route to the Western wing.

How could he? It was almost the only thing she could think of as the sound of her steps on the familiar grass echoed around her, as the waves of the ocean below crashed against the rocks, as the birds sang their twilight songs, and the brightness of the sun shone dimly enough that she could look almost directly into it without having to squint. Until that moment, the only thing that had troubled her all day had been the one piece of news that had to be in the minds of every single noble and royal within the castle; the one that explained the gloom cast across the Pevensies' eyes upon that morning's breakfast and thus dimmed the colour of her surroundings for the sorrow it had brought: that after two months of it, the search for Athena Ashdown had wistfully come to an end, and, for anyone's inability to find her, the Marchioness was, as of that horrid morning's announcement, officially pronounced dead.

And now there Juliet was, nearing the familiarity of the Western wing and stepping within its confines with the cool breeze of the nearing summer playing with her hair as she went, with not only her newly-claimed-dead friend resting in her troubled mind, but the child whose future she had witnessed disappearing by a single word spoken through the lips of someone for whom she held with such high affections; it didn't seem fair as she made her way towards the library she and Edmund had agreed to call theirs, because she was at peace. She mourned Athena deeply for the friendship they had formed as much as for the many things she had taught her, and for it her heart was heavy; but still, Juliet was alive, she was loved, she had someone that could comfort her, hold her, and kiss her, she was even warm and comfortable by the time she managed to easily slip inside the familiar library regardless of the sorrow-filled bubble of misery that had been created that very morning; and yet somewhere in the world, Athena Ashdown lay dead, alone, not comforted and unable to be even buried by those that loved her; and, as if that were not enough, somewhere extremely near Juliet there was a little boy of ten who was being taken either to the dungeon or some cold corner of the castle instead of being taken to bed and sang to, instead of being hugged, loved and forgiven... and suddenly it felt as if he had died that day too.

On days in which the only thing in her mind had been the romance she shared with Edmund, everything inside that library had seem lighter—the wood of the chairs and bookshelves had seemed warm, the mess of books and artefacts on the floors had almost seemed welcoming, and even the painting of Aslan above the fireplace had seemed much more colourful—but that day everything seemed dark, tainted orange or blue by the slowly dimming sunlight or the shadows within; and perhaps it was the darkness of such a familiar room, the sorrow of the day, or both of those things put together, Juliet didn't know, but suddenly each step she took made her feel heavier, each breath became thicker, and each blink felt more necessary against the tears that had slowly begun to form upon her eyes; because the truth was that she had not allowed herself even a moment to sit down with her own thoughts and feelings since Athena Ashdown's death had been announced, and now, after that awful trial, suddenly she felt as if every speck of her loss had been doubled by the passing verdict against a child she had never before met. Indeed, she hadn't know him, nor the life he had had before, nor the family he had lost and had led to his inability to provide for the baby brother who had died suffocated by his hands and had thus led him to whatever sentence she had barely even heard be delivered within that hall; but it was the disappearance of the innocence he might have had before the fire that had claimed his family or the youth of his hands that had made Juliet feel the loss as if the child had been dear to her; because, just like Athena, the future and happiness of that child was all gone, and there was nothing she could do about it; she had been unable to help find her friend, and now she was unable to help even a child retain his freedom.

For the first time that day, she felt like it was all simply too much.

And thus, for it, she finally let go; without permitting herself any further thought, after her fingers had so softly passed in a mindless grace against the keys of the single piano that rested within the private corners of the library, Juliet Capulet allowed herself to cry. Sitting upon the bench set before the instrument, and finding her frame lowering against the keys regardless of the loud echo of mismatched tones that her weight allowed on the piano, she finally cried; and it wasn't the child from that trial that she cried for, not really, he was naught but the face that had finally pulled all her losses from her heart; instead, she cried for Athena Ashdown, she cried for her Nurse, she cried for her family, and the life she should have been allowed to live, she even cried for Romeo Montague's tainted soul and the very peace he had robbed both of them from, because up until that moment, many, many centuries after her death in Verona, she had been entirely too busy being drowned in nothingness, being responsible for the wellbeing of soul mates, or being too insecure of the place she had in Narnia to allow herself to cry for everything she had lost, and it seemed as if, finally, the sentencing of an unknown child come the same day of Athena's pronounced death made her heart unable to hold everything in anymore.

She mourned not being able to know when the last time she had spoken to her Nurse had been before a Protector of Love had possessed her in his duty; she mourned her cousin, Tybalt, for the jealousy that had led him into an early grave and had begun the tragedy that would become the end of her life; she mourned the person she had believed Romeo Montague to be, with his poetry, his song, and those eyes that had ever promised her happiness; but above all, she mourned herself, the innocence she had lost long before Romeo Montague had come into her life, and the agony she had accepted as her fate whenever she returned into the Nothingness that had existed before Narnia. She simply sat there and cried for the every single unfairness that she hadn't allowed herself to cry for before; from her time with her mother and father, Madonna Isabella and Messer Franco Capuletti—one who had never truly appreciated Juliet as she should have, and the other who had ever wished her to be a boy—to the loss of Athena Ashdown, who had understood her and supported her in ways she had only witnessed other friends do for centuries on end, and the very immortality that would surely mean she would see the deaths of every single person she cared for within that world.

Once upon a time it hadn't mattered; she had seen the years go by within the magical world once and again, and again, until it didn't make sense for her to be alive anymore; she had lived through the beginning of that hundred year old winter that the Pevensies had ended; she had even died frozen within a cave sometime in the middle of that winter only to wake up as if nothing had happened after some time. And though it had been at that moment that she truly began to understand she was immortal, it still had not seemed to matter at all; because she hadn't had any friends, nor had she had any lovers; she hadn't been anything but a legend to all creatures of Narnia until the rage against the White Witch had pulled her away from her isolation for the sake of the world she called a home. But everything had changed since then; she had joined Aslan's army, she had met the Pevensies, and because of it she now had friends, she had a family, she had Edmund, and now... oh, now, she could and eventually would lose them all. One by one, whether by sickness, injury, or simply time, every single person she loved would leave her behind, and there was nothing she could do about it now or later but curse the immortality that held her heart and simply feel their loss; a loss that regardless would one day as the centuries passed feel as distant as the memory of their names; and how could that ever be fair?

It was that very question that echoed in the depths of her mind by the time the sound of steps came, and for it she had to force herself to regain her composure; because the Pevensies had comforted her enough, and even the single echo of her name spoken through the familiar voice of Edmund Pevensie was not enough to allow her the continuance of her tears; not when, in truth, Athena Ashdown had been a better and closer friend to him than her. But, of course, her movements made the keys of the piano awfully sound again, and because of it, it didn't take long for her to be found; still, her hands wiped at the tears fallen, and by the time the young King came in through the bookshelves she was rising from the small bench with red eyes and long wet lashes hidden by the shadows of the room. "I thought we had agreed that you were not coming to today's trial." Edmund greeted, ridding himself of his sword belt and cloak as the smallest of smiles lifted the corners of his lips in her direction.

"Aye; I do believe we did." Juliet said with a replying smile after clearing her throat; it was then that she walked in his direction, willing to place a single kiss upon his lips simply because she could; because after everything she had lost, she had clearly also gained so, so much.

It was a kiss evidently as welcome by him as needed by both of them, because Edmund lingered upon it with a sort of urgency so familiar to both that Juliet didn't even think to fight it; it spoke of Juliet's losses and Edmund's fears, it spoke of all the sorrow of that day and the injustices she believed, until finally the King pulled away and simply rested his forehead against hers in a moment so heavy in its silence that even when he did decide to speak it felt as if it wasn't enough. "And yet, you did." He said, softly gracing her cheeks before he fully pulled away and looked into her eyes.

"And yet, I did." Juliet agreed with a soft nod of her head as both her hands moved to rest on the familiar fabric against his chest.

But it was the way her eyes refused to look into his that even made Edmund lightly frown, "You're angry." He told her; more a fact than a question as his eyes studied the familiarity of her features whilst leading her by a hand towards the couch in front of the piano. Her silence felt heavier by the moment the two sat down, "You don't agree with my verdict."

At last, Juliet forced her tear-stained eyes to lift to look into his as her head shook, "Nay, I agree," She tested, "for the truth is thus, he did kill his brother."

"But..." Edmund prompted, because he could hear the unspoken word echoing in the loaded silence that remained.

It was then that Juliet looked away; because suddenly she felt slightly ashamed for the ease with which Edmund could read her, even against the darkness of a night she hadn't noticed had fully fallen until then, "But..." She allowed with a nod and a squeeze of his hands before she let go of them and got up from the couch; walking directly in the direction of the candle holder near the window with one purpose only. "I fail to see the reason for which thou shouldst so deeply punish a child when 'tis so very clear that mercy was to fault against such an awful act."

A single match lit echoed from Juliet's hands at the same time that Edmund scoffed, "How can you say such a thing when he seemed sorrier to have gotten caught than to have done it?" He wondered, following her with his gaze as she began lighting candles left and right with every single speck of expertise that her title had given her. "Kids can be worse than adults, Juliet; I know that better than anyone."

"I know it, and I do not discredit thee thus; on the contrary" She lightly countered without looking away from her task, "Yet even then I do wonder: how canst thou think the deed be done for anything other than mercy?" Once again, Edmund scoffed, and only then did Juliet turn to look at him, almost pleading, "Come, mine heart, I believe I know thee enough, and 'tis because of it that I am sure that by thy much admired need to be thorough, thou hast seen the little corpse; therefore, if I know of it there be no possibility that thou doth not: the infant was a cripple, one who wouldst ever have had need of aid, and more so, one who couldst scarcely be fed by his brother at such young age. Thus I pray, tell me then what he could have done? Without a mother to feed the babe, or a youth that couldst ne'er have allowed him the possibility of working to try to save himself and much less his brother... I do not see the act as anything but mercy."

Edmund's head easily shook as his hands finally lifted to remove the silver crown that had so comfortably been resting on his head so it could instead be useless upon his lap, "You don't understand," he told her as he watched her light the last candle, "I could see it in his eyes, Juliet, plain as day; he was glad to be rid of the burden, he was glad he could live only for himself now; I saw it: he was glad of it all."

Juliet sighed, "Edmund, he is just a child."

"AND SO WAS I!" Edmund exclaimed in a note that echoed within the room for a couple of seconds longer as his eyes gazed heavily into Juliet's; it didn't even matter that she had frozen in shock for a moment as the smoke of the match she had blown out before his outburst floated silently towards the ceiling. "I was a child too when I betrayed my family and nearly led them to their deaths," He continued with a frown, "And you think I wasn't glad of it at first? You think I didn't welcome the idea of having my siblings serve me as King, or that I didn't believe that anything that happened until then was worth it? Because if you think that, truly, then you're even more naive than you have ever thought to be."

Regardless of her own sorrow and exhaustion, Juliet frowned and stood her ground; and only after pause in which she allowed herself to breathe deeply for the sake of the peace in the room, she spoke, "I will pretend thou hast not lain such utterance upon me, because I know well that it has been a specifically dreadful day, and thus thou might not mean it," she vowed, finally placing the burnt out match on top of the piano before she began to walk back towards the couch. "But I will say this:" she continued, "Just because you were glad at first of your crimes, it does not mean it is the same for all children who find themselves before thy judgement."

Edmund scoffed again with a roll of his eyes, "What would you know of it?"

"Indeed, naught as much as thee, I am sure." And perhaps she should have left it at that and vacated the room; simply done as any other day in which she had to face his stubbornness and leave him to his rage until he was able to breathe and see things clearly; but for once she did not.

Maybe it was all the tears she had shed, maybe it was the death of her good friend, or maybe it was simply her exhaustion, but she gulped down the knot his discontent had brought, took a breath, sat down beside him on that couch again, and reached for his hand instead, "Thou needst not be cruel with thy words 'less thou wisheth me gone in such a moment, Edmund," She continued in a note as strong as she felt tired, "For thou might be, but I am not ashamed to admit I need thy company more than any other day; 'tis the only thing that still makes sense tonight, and for it I ask of thee, search not to fight with me, for I am on your side." She paused, clasping his hand in both of hers before he could pull away, "I believe I know well what ails you, mine heart, and if I am right 'tis not the child; thus I must admit: thou art right, I know naught of what it is like to be the reason behind evil; but I also do believe that in this rage began long before that trial, thou hast completely forgotten of the most important detail against the treacheries thou did commit," It was then that Edmund finally looked at her; and though he continued to frown, Juliet was unable to think him still completely angry for the pain hidden in his gaze. "Forgiveness..." she told him with a hopeful gaze as she moved slightly closer to him; enough so that her hand could move within its tired disposition to rest upon the softness of his cheek. "Thou hast been forgiven thy evils by far longer than thou canst see, for all deeds of thy reign have proven thy heart's truth, and all which you have learnt of thy past; I know it, thy royal siblings know it; and ne'er wouldst I dare I speak for him, but I am sure Aslan knows it, too," A heavy breath left through Edmund's lips as his head shook; and even though he tried to look away from her, Juliet simply stopped him with a soft nudge from the hand on his cheek "Thus, I beg, mine dearest King, discern thy forgiveness, and judge not a child by the actions that speak no longer of who thou art; for, aye, I believe it shaped thee, as much as mine own death hast made of me who I am, but I pray thee understand the difference in such a thing: what thou hast done within thy past formed thee, but it be not who thou art now.

Thou art a King, a respected, beloved King, long forgiven by his people, who for his treachery can understand so much more than most of us ever could; so be that King; be like thy title," Her fingers gently graced the softness of his cheek before they moved gently to rest against his chest, mindless of the crown on his lap as she moved even closer for as much her comfort as his. "Be Just, and see the truth thy grudge against thy past has tainted within this truth: that as I have seen thee suffer for what thou hast done, so will this child who shall see no more behind his eyelids than the deaths of his family, or the crippled brother he had to kill for the sake of mercy instead of seeing him suffer the very hunger he hast suffered himself. Pray what else couldst he have done when the babe's young age begged for his mother's milk and would accept no other sustenance?" She paused, looking into his eyes with a sort of expectancy that begged as much as the tone of her voice did after, "Please, Edmund... please; there has been enough loss this day."

Juliet didn't know which element of the day finally got to him—either her words, her understanding, or the simple giant loss and anger that had cursed through his veins from the moment Peter had announced Athena's death—but suddenly, without even a warning or even his most usual request for her to leave for his ever clear intention that she not see him in such a state, Edmund Pevensie began to truly cry. First it was only a couple of silent tears falling against his cheeks in a way that made Juliet's heart break completely in two, but then the space between them disappeared almost entirely as he wrapped his arms around her waist and his head rested against her chest; finally he sobbed, welcoming the press of Juliet's chin on his hair as her own tears began to fall and the comfort of her arms became the first truly allowed in company of his tears. "She was my best friend." Edmund sobbed against the silk of her dress, finally voicing the very troubles that the Protector had known had been behind the unjust verdict that afternoon, "She was the first person outside my family that I'd felt truly close to before you came along, and I failed her, Juliet; how can I accept anyone's forgiveness, or think I am capable of it when I failed my best friend in this one very important thing?"

"No; no, mine heart, you have not." She comforted as she brushed his hair; because she understood; she was angry, too, "'Twas not only on thy shoulders to find her."

"Then it was Peter," Edmund said, "he was the one who called off all search when we should have never given up."

"No,"

"Or Peridan," He continued as if Juliet hadn't spoken, "He was the one who sat silent in that meeting, accepting it all as if she were not his sister, as if it were okay for all of us to just... stop."

"No... no."

"Yes!"

"No!" Juliet repeated as she gently squeezed him in reassurance, "No, no, Edmund; please..." Indeed, she understood; because it hadn't been the announcement itself, but what it meant: the admittance of giving up the search. It didn't mean the discovery of a body, but the lack of a discovery at all, it meant the abandonment, the injustice of turning their back on someone whose very actions had saved the lives of many; "If anything, we all have failed her; all of us," she told him even as he cried in her arms, even as her own tears fell against her cheeks, even as he held onto her as if she were his lifeline, "But I beg of thee, fault not thyself or anyone that ever loved her, for our part on this is not finished; we will make the Ettins pay for her life, for hers and all those their rebellion took, and thus we shall not fail her." She held tighter onto him, the fabrics of his clothes balled within one of her hands, the top of the crown that had been resting on his lap partly digging onto her stomach and surely digging entirely into his, but neither of them cared. "Thou shalt see," She assured the crying King as her own tears fell silent against her cheeks. "Athena will not go without revenge; for I know my Queen, thus I know Lucy will do well on thy brother's intents: the alliance with Archenland shall bring forth the numbers needed for the strike we shall lay upon Ettinsmoor's door, thou will see, mine heart, I know it, thou will see."

And thus they remained for a long while; crying, holding each other, and accepting each other's comfort in ways they had not done until then. Though, indeed, even as they did Juliet knew she would offer her daggers and her skill with them to take on anyone who wished to take someone from her ever again; after all, yes, immortality was unfair for the truth that the losses were granted to come, but on the other side of the coin also rested her freedom to fight, to give her life once or twice if needed but fight the way she never would have even dreamt of doing before the High Protectors had given her strength on Earth; she would offer to do all she could, and if her Queen went to war, so would she.

But at least for that one night she simply accepted the comfort of Edmund against her, the openness of his tears onto her dress, the courage carried on his shoulders as she became witness to the vulnerability of the Just King, and the very affections she held for him and his family.

Her family.

She just wished, with all of her heart, that she had not had to lose someone to realise that fact; but indeed, too much loss had come that day, and now she would never be unaware again.