It was all too easy. But then again, he doubted that these fools, swaddled in their ignorance and endless streams of baseless positivity, could ever truly contemplate a predator of his calibre in their midst. After all, in these few short years, he had become a weapon that few could possibly comprehend, and even fewer could contend with. He supposes that this was the reason she had chosen him, knowing that with the right motivation the young brattish boy that she had encountered could be moulded into someone who would cast a shadow of fear wherever he travelled, a worthy champion for her. His mistress had taught him much and continued to do so; as all those well versed in the deep magic of Narnia would tell you, you can never truly kill a witch. Even if you succeeded in destroying their mortal body, an impressive feat, their vengeful spirit almost always lingers.
It was her that had commanded him here tonight, to eradicate the pretender that claimed the right to his mistresses' throne. She was confident that he would not fail her as many before had.
Although, quite frankly he wasn't sure how so many of his predecessors had botched the task; so far, he had experienced a rather embarrassing lack of confrontation, it was almost boring and rather anti-climactic. The eight, or was it nine, guards that he had encountered had all fell to the ground after a singular well-placed blow to the head, like life-sized puppets whose strings had been slashed, offering no further resistance.
Admittedly, he had to swallow his chuckle at the notion of how much commotion the handful of minotaurs she had originally elected to send no doubt caused, the blundering fools they were. A stark contrast to the elegant young man that was now following in their footsteps; his aborted snigger the only noise to be heard amongst the eerie stillness that flooded the grand courtyard. Even his purposeful strides failed to puncture the silence, perhaps due to his great poise and wise choice of gait; his instinctive knowledge of when to march, leap and bound. Or perhaps it was more to do with his great insistence on bathing his already soft feet in only the richest oils and travelling for the most part barefoot, in a bid to smother even the gentlest of footsteps.
He liked to pride himself on being a strategist first and foremost, and an assassin second; smugly crediting this to be the reason for his notoriety. His mind always was sharper than even his favourite blade, which currently was veiled under his tailored jacket, awaiting the fresh blood of a king. He wondered darkly to himself would Aslan's oh so favourite pet haemorrhage a spill of blue or red. Red, he eventually decides, no different from the rest of us; a mutt pretending to be a pedigree.
He is grateful for the apparent lack of doors in the palace, always finding their shrieks upon opening so ghastly; a small part of him momentarily wonders if it's their desperate screams to their woodland sisters, whilst the rest of him pays it no concern, scolding him for both the irrelevance of these thoughts and for caring about the answer. This is one of the many times he finds himself soothed by the knowledge that, for all his mistresses eyes seemed to pierce one's soul until they were left stripped bare, compelling them to beg and confess, she had never possessed telepathy amongst her collection of terrifying abilities.
Even in her half-dead state, he is perfectly capable of discerning what her reaction would be to these pathetic, illogical notions. He knows that she would screech and roar, so unlike Aslan, tensing her arms as if to strike him as she so frequently made the habit of doing when he was only a little quivering boy. However, these days, she would inevitably compose herself forced to remember the constraints imposed by her ethereal current form; instead aggravated, she would demand that one of her last surviving monstrosities fulfil her wishes.
The vile creatures lacked even the slightest inclination of sympathy for the broken, weeping child; often adding additional lashes, cackling as the whip carved through his exposed flesh, taking joy as the boy released increasingly more inhuman howls as his back was shredded raw and the ground where he begged became sodden from blood and sweet. More often than not, they would beat him until he welcomed unconsciousness as a friend; knowing that when he woke, his back would appear blemish-free and she would act almost maternally, offering him food and kind words, causing him to keenly await her next command with the hope that she would grant him further charity.
Yet, he was no longer that snivelling boy, Edmund weakly forced himself to remember. Everything would be better after completing this mission he thought, attempting to appease the rebellious voice of doubt in his head. She would fulfil all her promises after Narnia's High King met his demise at his hand, he would have succeeded where all the others had failed, forevermore proving his worth.
The High King's chambers appear as extravagant as would be expected, adorned with opulent fabrics, expensive jewels and riches from afar. Sitting proudly amongst it all, Edmund acknowledges a gold serving plate; it had been years since he last had the privilege of glimpsing his reflection, his mistress believing that vanity amongst her servants veered a little too close to distraction for her liking. Thus, the temptation to spare a few insignificant seconds on this trivial indulgence to satisfy his growing curiosity was overwhelming. Upon inspection, where he had previously observed an awkward child, he now catches sight of a striking young man with large, intelligent eyes and smooth ashen skin; oddly he had expected to look older, for his weariness or cynicism to have leaked to the surface.
Again, he pushes the immaterial thought aside, thoroughly scanning the chambers and finally finding the kings lavish bed. He is uncharacteristically apprehensive as he leaves the protection of the shadows and approaches the figure sprawled asleep upon the mountain of wealth; it all seems rather too ideal for his liking. Regardless, he slithers onto the bed pulling out his dagger, poised above the sleeping man's heart, preparing to supply the fatal strike that would sever Narnia from her beloved king; when the man turns in the throes of a dream.
"Peter…" The name trembles on his lips.
This man is older, harder, ravished by puberty and the stress of governing; but Edmond would unquestionably know his brothers face anywhere. So, it seemed that the witch had sent Edmond to murder his own brother.
It makes him ponder whether she had actually sent others before him, or if she had simply desired to witness him slay his own flesh and blood for her wicked entertainment; no doubt expecting that he would only discover the identity of the man he had slaughtered after he had done so, permitting her the opportunity to relish in his distress and her ultimate authority over both his body and mind alike. Or maybe she simply didn't care whether he recognised Peter or not, perhaps she would draw enough gratification from what would be her little "inside joke"; understanding with an almost certainty that one way or another a son of Adam would perish that night. The mere thought has Edmond nauseous, struggling to steady his posture as cold beads of sweat pool on his furrowed brow. His lips remain parted, releasing an inaudible scream.
He is no stranger to her immense cruelty but this… She had long ago divulged to him that his siblings had returned home having disregarded him like a broken toy, that she was all he had left. Well clearly, she had lied. Admittedly, the revelation startles him more than it really should.
He has no idea what he should do; struggling to now envisage finishing his assignment, burdened with his newfound knowledge. Yet as he examines his resting brother, a skirmish erupts in his mind; his compulsion to follow the witch's orders as he has always done, to continue to be a faithful servant, grabbles with his impulse to protect his kin from harm, even if it is from him.
Absorbed in his internal conflict he neglects to immediately realise that Peters steady breathing has quickened; by the time he does his older brother is already stirring awake. It takes a few moments for Peter to blink the remnants of sleep out his eyes but when he does, they are alert and battle-ready. It is only then Edmund realises that petrified in his state of shock and alarm, he is still rather perilously grasping a dagger above the beating heart of Narnia's High King.
Their eyes lock, unblinking; for how long neither could guess, the world is seemingly frozen amid their entangled gaze, only the fierce pounding of blood in their ears suggesting that any time has passed at all.
Peter exposes his neck tauntingly, forcing the tell-tale tension out of his veins, hoping the movement doesn't materialise as erratic. He frantically schools his mutinous body into not retreating into itself, yet he refrains from making any attempt to tackle his assailant, instead electing to stare defiantly at the pale youth positioned above him, his would-be assassin. Studying what is visible of his attacker, from his taut eyelids to his parted lips, he resolves for this to be a private affair.
If he is to die, he has every intension of doing so with his dignity still very much intact. He vows to starve this executioner of the thrill of watching him plead amnesty, intending to pass on to Aslan's country with the regal composure of a king.
Yet, there is something peculiar in those dark orbs, regret maybe? Or is that reluctance? Surely not, no one would simply invade a fortified palace with the sole intension of simply clutching a knife to the breast of their High King, without boasting the staunch hunger to plunge that knife into his flesh. Although, as odd as that combination seems Peter is sure that there is something else shrouded in those eyes, a rather elusive quality, that he struggles to identify. It is not the animalistic rage, nor the look of duty that he would expect to be present in the eyes of the last living being he will likely encounter; for both seem, rather mystifyingly, to be entirely absent.
Unknown to Peter the power shifts between the two sons of Adam in that very moment; Edmund's resolve crumbling under the combined weight of his conscience and his brother's scrutiny.
He abruptly reclines somewhat, preparing to flee, granting himself but a few brief seconds to commit his brothers every feature to memory. As he does so he is oblivious that the moonlight greets his aristocratic features for the first time during their short encounter.
Gradually, Peter's face twists itself into the very expression he had just been so perplexed by; recognition.