Disclaimer: Edmund and Peter Pevensie and all the characters and situations in the Chronicles of Narnia belong to C. S. Lewis and not to me. Oreius also does not belong to me. I do, however, wish I could play in Narnia.

Chapter Six

"Thank you, Oreius."

I bowed slightly, holding the door to the silent chamber as the High King led his brother and younger sister past. Then I, too, entered the room and closed that door behind me.

This afternoon we would have a public ceremony, a ceremony at which all Narnia could grieve. This morning was private. Not royalty grieving for royalty, but family for family. Brothers and sister grieving the too-soon, too-brutal ending of their beloved sister's life.

The body of the Gentle Queen lay in the middle of her high bed, in the middle of the room that was a reflection of her grace and loveliness. In reverence for her memory and to spare us a painful reminder of what she had suffered, she was wrapped in fine white silk. From head to foot, she was wrapped, all clean innocence and peace now, and beneath her were lilies, lilies that covered the bed and, almost, the familiar smell of death.

I bowed my head as the three Sovereigns went, hand in hand, to the bedside and there knelt. This should not be. It should not be. They were too young. She was too young. She was too much needed and too well loved to leave us now. We had all failed her, our Gentle Queen, perhaps I the most. I had chosen her escort. I had thought them sufficient for a journey to Archenland to visit the court of King Lune. I had been too busy with matters more important than escorting my Sovereigns to a friendly nation in time of peace.

My head drooped lower. Who was I to pitch and welter in remorse when others had so much more to bear?

I moved as silently as I could to where the dark colt knelt and laid one hand on his bowed head. I could feel the all-consuming grief and guilt that enveloped him. He had assured his brother that he and the Gentle Queen would be well protected. He had given Peter that smug little grin of his and convinced him that the guard, especially led by himself, would be more than sufficient. And he had been wrong. We had all been disastrously, horrifically wrong.

He did not acknowledge my touch except with the tremor that ran through him, and then with a soundless cry he broke away from it. He pulled away from his startled brother and sister and stood up, fumbling for the hand that lay still and cold under the white silk.

Queen Lucy looked up from her oldest brother's other side, eyes wide and tear filled, but Peter stood, wary but putting a comforting arm around Edmund's shoulders, trying to draw him back.

"Don't, Ed. Please, don't. She's–"

Face contorted with fury and grief, Edmund shrugged him off and still tugged at the silk, trying to free that hand. He did not need to see it. He did not need to remember it bruised and broken and white with death. He did not–

"Please, Majesty."

I took hold of his shoulders, gentle and yet firm, to pull him back, and he whirled towards me, beating his fists against my chest because he was not tall enough to reach my face, silent but for the rasp of air in his sobs but forming venomous words that I knew I did not wish to hear.

"Ed!"

Peter pulled him back, taking him into a tight embrace that was meant all at once to calm and restrain him. Edmund struggled for only another moment and then clung to him, eyes tear filled and pleading as he looked towards the swaddled figure on the bed and then back at the High King. Peter's eyes also brimmed with tears and, with a faint sob, he released his hold.

Lucy at once went to him, huddling against his side, weeping, too, as Edmund turned again to the Gentle Queen. Tears were streaming down his cheeks now as he looked upon her, crushing guilt in those fathomless dark eyes. He touched two fingers to his trembling lips and then brought them to the silk that covered what was left of hers. Then, as he had before, he pressed his fist against his heart, his face contorted with pain and wordless regret.

Sorry. I'm sorry.

Once more he fumbled with the silk that covered her hand. Peter turned Lucy's face aside, holding her head against him as their brother pulled and tugged until that hand was finally free of its wrappings. Then Edmund stared down at it. It was not white now but bluish with decay, the slim white fingers he had known now bloated and distorted.

Peter looked pleadingly at me, and I clasped his shoulder, steadying him. For whatever reason, Edmund needed this. He needed to see, to touch, to know. He needed–

The High King and I both turned at the wordless cry the younger colt made. He had found what he had searched for and never wanted to see. There on that hand was a little gold ring fashioned like a wreath of daffodils and mountain ash leaves, a tiny replica of her royal crown. He sank to his knees beside the bed once more, holding that mangled hand in both of his own, trembling as he pressed his lips to the ring in wordless penance and farewell.

After a moment, Peter took that hand from him and gently covered it once again. Then he drew his brother close, holding him and their little sister against his heart, the three of them again grieving.

And I grieved with them.

Author's Note: I'd love to know what you think.