Title: Forsaken Glory

Rating: PG

Disclaimer: I do not own The Chronicles of Narnia or any related material.

Character: Edmund Pevensie

Author's Note: Inspired by the movie but follows the book. Because I'm lame like that.

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It hurt, a spiraling pain that dully ached through his entire frame, in and out, in and out, and all he really wanted anymore was for it to stop. The soft thud, thud, thud tapping within his chest, ticking out his seconds, his minutes, his days and years and it would go on forever. He'd just lie there, on the recently grown grass as he stained it, the sun would never set and the echoes of cries from the battlefield would play over and over again as he wondered, was that Peter, was that Mr. Beaver, was that…was that… If he could only plug up his ears or be done with it. He dreaded the silence too. Then it would be over, all over and…and… who would come and find him then?

I'm sorry.

Perhaps he had had this coming to him all along. Destiny and whatnot. Wouldn't they be better off without him after all? For his lack of judgement, for his differences, he was the only one who couldn't manage to be constantly good, to be sweet and lovely, obedient, kind and maybe all the hate and malice had been poured into him so that the others could be what they were. Peter is brave. Susan is smart. Lucy is kind. Edmund is….even his name didn't fit in with the others. There was a ring of truth, of hope and brilliance to their titles. None of them would have been fooled or so much as tempted by promises of sweets and kingdoms..

He has thought she loved him. When she wrapped herself about him with affectionate whispers and had cared, whether he was thirsty or cold, hadn't minded when he whined and acted sullen and understood that he hadn't wanted to share her, to share this. Because, what if…what if she liked the rest better than him. Everyone else did. It wasn't as if he had never tried to be like them.

I would if I could.

But…it was always about him and he should learn to quit that, there were more important things…people out there. And he had, he'd done this and Peter would howl at him for being so unbearable stupid and Susan would sigh and play the disappointed mother while Lucy was quietly ashamed, clinging to her elder siblings sides as she watched with wide, dark eyes.

Everyone needs someone to blame.

And he wouldn't tell them about school. The jeers and the taunts and how he never wanted to go back. Instead he built himself a shield and wore away his tenderness so he'd be ready, prepared and maybe it wouldn't hurt so much next time.

The boy winced, choked softly as he breathed in. The grass was warm on the skin it could touch; the chainmail was heavy and cool, bitter. Fingers curled into the dampness. That is my life, seeping away from a gape in my chest that's always been there though no one could tell. Can't even bring my hand to my face to see it. But I've done my best and instead…instead of becoming statues, which mightn't hurt at all, they'll be torn limb by limb, cast aside, draining into the sweet ground as broken eyes watch the pawns tip and fall.

He didn't like to let the air go out, for fear it wouldn't come back it, that he would have the strength to force it to return to himself. The cut on his lip stung. Probably torn it open once again.

Dying is easy; it's the time that it takes that's the bother. The waiting as your pulse slows, resilient and compelling…stay, go, warm hands.

Fin