The whole world was cold and dead. The snow that could not be warded off, the already-biting wind all the fiercer as the sledge tore into it. His arms and legs aching for his forgotten fur coat – or even a corner of the witch's mantle! –, his fingers and toes freezing even as they clenched tight together. And deep down, where he would have expected to find warmth, Edmund's heart lay as cold and dead as those of the figures back in the witch's castle.

He was cold and wet and miserable, he reminded himself for the hundredth time. His belly pinched and his mouth watered for a taste of Turkish Delight – or it would have, had that awful bread not dried him out completely. His visions of princely wealth and power shriveled like an autumn leaf, replaced by the chilling realization of the kind of woman the witch turned out to be. The Beavers' house at least had been warm and dry, even though he'd had no taste for the food and even less for the jostling against Peter's elbow every so often. That really wouldn't be so bad, Edmund supposed, if only he could get out of this awful dream.

The sunlight, when it came, was cold and dead too: it gave light, but did not dissipate the chill of night. But, oh joy! there was a little warmth and life at last: a bit of holly against the snow, the sound of merriment in the silence, and the wonderful scents of hot food in a wintery wasteland! But cold and dead was all the world was destined to be. Edmund mourned the pitiful figures as they drove away and wished they could have been left to their cheer in peace.

He was still miserable and wetter than before, but to his surprise, not so very cold. Perhaps the sun had finally pierced through to give a respite from the bitter weather. Edmund looked up in its direction and found it veiled in wet fog. He wondered at this, but soon had to steady himself as the sledge jostled him about over curiously rough terrain. The way grew steadily more difficult till they were well and truly stuck. The air grew warmer and wetter till Edmund could hear it in the sound of running water. The trees thawed off their thick coats. Before he realized it, Edmund's heart too had begun to thaw.

Even marching at a brisk pace without his hands for balance and with a whip at his legs, Edmund felt, strangely, less miserable. Perhaps that was because it was harder to be miserable when all the heavy, oppressive white of winter gave way to the green of the grass and leaves, the blue of the sky, and the array of colourful blossoms. Perhaps there was something in the bubbling laughter of streams and the cheerful warbling of birds that lifted one's spirits. Perhaps there was a kind of satisfaction to be had in knowing that the witch was somehow losing, unable to pave her way with snow or to freeze flowers at their roots or even to silence the chorus that winged overhead.

Edmund's arms stretched taut behind him and he nearly slipped to his rump in the slick mud. "This is no thaw," he heard from behind him. "This is Spring."

Spring. What a wonderfully delicious word! Edmund soaked it in, filled his lungs with perfumed air, strained to catch every individual sound within earshot, drank in the sight of anything that caught his eye.

"Your winter has been destroyed! This is Aslan's doing."

Edmund's heart leapt. Aslan. What an even more wonderful name! Strange, he thought, how differently it fell on his ears now – like the whisper of leaves in a breeze or like a glittering blanket of dew on emerald grass.

They marched on in a world of warmth and life. Spring had come to Narnia, and deep down, where it could not be taken away, spring had come to Edmund's heart.


Prompt: Captain Obvious. Who is stating the obvious today?

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