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.
TREACHERY
Edmund stood looking up at the night sky and thought how much Lucy loved the stars. He couldn't remember now if she had loved those other stars, the English ones from so long ago, but they were brighter here in Narnia. He was certain of it. It was hard to see much through the little barred window, but he could see the stars, even two of the three that made up the tail of the Leopard. Lucy loved the Leopard.
How was she now? All this time she had been ill had been torture for him, just as he knew it had been for his brother and older sister, but none of the guards was permitted to tell him anything about Lucy. No doubt those who were wise in such matters had advised it, fearing he would cast another spell on her if he knew her current condition.
He paced the ten feet from one wall of his cell to the other and then back again, his fists clenched at his sides. It was beyond belief that anyone could think he would do anything to hurt her. To hurt Susan or Peter. To betray sweet Narnia. To go against the Lion. He didn't know how he could love any of them more deeply, more fiercely than he did or give them any more of himself than he already had.
Had all he had done these past ten years meant nothing? When he had lived as best he was able to please Aslan? When he had used every bit of wit and intelligence he possessed to bring justice to his people? When he had risked his own life time and again to protect his sisters' lives and honor? When he had stood with his brother on the battlefield or held the life blood in his body with shaking hands until healers or Lucy's cordial could make him whole again?
He looked at his scarred wrists, scarred like Peter's, remembering the many times they had been imprisoned together, beaten and bound and yet unbowed, each strengthened with the presence of the other and the peace of Aslan. There was an old Narnian litany they had often repeated when things looked particularly grim. Usually Peter would begin it and Edmund would answer him, back an forth, one to the other, their voices soft and strong and unwavering until their harsh surroundings faded in the light of the Lion.
His cell here at Cair Paravel wasn't dank or even dark. It was secure, it was small, but it was certainly not durance vile. Yet he found himself somehow longing for those times when he had been in more desperate confinement and yet not alone. When his brother had stood with him and not against him. When he had known beyond doubt that he was trusted. When he had known he was loved.
Oh, Aslan, how has it come to this?
He fingered the faded marks around his wrist. "And bonds could not hold Him . . ."
He whispered the words, instinctively waiting for the response, but Peter was not here to give it. Finally, eyes closed, he forced himself to carry on alone.
". . . for He is freedom. And fear could not hold Him, for He is peace. And sorrow could not hold Him . . . "
He drew a shuddering breath and bowed his head. Then he looked again through the window, clutching the bars. The stars were blurred now, each a haloed supernova in the night sky.
"Aslan, where are You? Am I not still Yours? Or have You disowned me, too?"
His grip tightened, and he pressed his face against the bars, feeling a fresh trickle of warmth on his cold face.
"The Lion roars, we do not fear, for the Kings belong to Him."
He whispered the words, the words of the song that had often brought peace and comfort in trying times. He remembered Peter's clear voice taking the melody and his own weaving the litany's words in countermelody below that. They were words of strength, words of faith and courage, but without a melody, what was the good of a countermelody?
With another hard breath, he tried again. "Between His paws– we boldly stand– for the Kings belong– Oh, Aslan, do I still belong to you?"
He squeezed his eyes shut and again his grip on the cold bars tightened. Tomorrow. Tomorrow he would stand before his brother, his High King, and be condemned to death.
And Aslan was silent.
OOOOO
The walk to the audience chamber at Cair Paravel had never seemed so long before now. Dressed in his kingly best even to the gleaming sword at his hip, Edmund was flanked by a Satyr and a Stag, both of them stern and silent. Before he left his cell, he had asked one last time to speak privately to Peter and was denied. He had sent word to Susan, begging her to come to him, and that, too, was denied. He didn't bother to ask again about Lucy. It was very likely he would never see her again.
There was nothing to do now but take the adventure that fell to him. That Aslan sent? He didn't know now. Had the Lion denied him as well? The Kings belong to Him. Even now, he was still a King.
They turned the last corner, he and the Satyr and the Stag, and he caught a glimpse of Burrowbank in his bright purple vest. The little jet eyes flashed recognition and then the Vole ducked his head and darted away. Edmund bit his lip. Despite all the turmoil that day he had first been put under guard, he had still remembered his promise and sent the Vole his bag of walnuts. Once the guilty verdict had been announced, the walnuts had been returned without comment. Edmund needed no explanation. Accepting gifts from sorcerers, murderers and traitors was always unwise.
Between the Satyr and the Stag, he walked until finally they were before the tall doors that led to the court. The court of the High King. The court of judgement. The doors swung open, but Edmund hesitated to walk through. The last, he thought. The last time I will walk here before I am condemned.
Death was the penalty, the just due for sorcery, murder and treason. He was a king, yes, a king yet. He would no doubt be spared the rope. A sharp sword to slice the head from his shoulders, that would likely be the way. He supposed one of Oreius's most trusted soldiers would wield it. Not Peter. But Peter was the High King. He would speak the sentence, and he would be required to witness it being carried out.
Edmund felt the blood beat hard in his ears. Everything in him wanted to sink down under the weight of his despair, but instead he strode into the crowded court, shoulders straight, head held high. If this was the last, he would face it head on. Silent or no, Aslan was his good Lord, and he would put himself into the Lion's great paws.
Still guarded on either side, he stopped and bowed to the Raven, the Lynx and the Naiad who had found him guilty. Then he made a low bow to the High King. Peter's eyes were ringed with black, and Edmund couldn't help wondering if he had slept at all the night before. The sound of his cries hadn't reached the castle prison, but Edmund knew that empty, haunted look on his face. It was almost certain Peter had once again been plagued by nightmares. Or perhaps he knew the real nightmare was yet to come.
The Raven made a brief opening statement, reviewing the charges and the verdict from the day before. Then he turned to the High King. "It is only left, Sire, for you to pronounce sentence upon the prisoner."
Peter glanced for a moment at the empty chair where Susan had sat when she had been able to leave Lucy's side long enough to attend court, and Edmund wondered if Lucy had taken a turn for the worse or if Susan had merely been unable to face him this one last time. The High King looked out over the court, grave and regal, and then turned to Edmund.
"As you well know," he said, his voice clear and without emotion, "every traitor's life is forfeit to the crown."
Every traitor belongs to me. The frigid, cruel voice wafted through Edmund's memory, Her voice, the voice that had haunted and hunted him in nightmares for half a lifetime, and something tore at him from the inside now to hear almost the same words from his brother's cold lips. Peter, I beg you, no.
"It is our right as High King to require that forfeit. But yet–" He raised one hand to silence the low murmurs that rose from the court. "But yet, for that you have been our brother and a King–"
Have been? Oh, Peter, no.
"–we leave you your life. This, rather, is our sentence. That you, Edmund, sometime King under us in Narnia, Duke of Lantern Waste, Knight of the Noble Order of the Table, shall bear those honors no more but be merely Edmund Pevensie, Betrayer of Narnia and Traitor to her High King and to her Queens and to her beloved people, and most abominable of all, to the Great Aslan Himself, and that you shall be forever banished from the Kingdom of Narnia, both you and your heirs for so long as ourself and our noble Queens shall reign."
Not death but banishment. Was that kindness or cruelty?
There were tears standing in Peter's eyes now, tears that gave the lie to the pale stillness of his face and the clear emptiness of his voice, and he nodded to his general. Edmund trembled.
Peter, no.
Oreius came forward, still looking past Edmund rather than at him, and held out one massive hand. Forcing himself to keep his head high and his shoulders unbowed, Edmund drew his sword, the exquisite dwarf-forged blade Peter had blessed him with on his sixteenth birthday, the sword that had saved both their lives more times than either of them could possibly recall, and offered it hilt first to the centaur. Oreius held the weapon high above his head for all the world to see, and Peter gave him another curt nod.
The centaur took the sword in both hands, holding it now flat across his palms at chest height, just at the level of Edmund's burning eyes, letting him drink in its gleaming, balanced beauty one last time. Then, as if it were no more than a slender tree limb, Oreius snapped the blade in half and tossed the pieces with a dull clang at Edmund's feet. Edmund swallowed down a sob and then turned desperate eyes back to his brother.
Peter's chin quivered , but his voice when he spoke again was as cold and pure as ice.
"Now be gone from this place, Edmund Pevensie, and from this kingdom. We shall not ourself see you again."
Just as a single tear slipped down his cheek, the High King turned his back.
Peter.
But aloud Edmund could not speak a word.
OOOOO
We shall not ourself see you again.
The sentence echoed with every plodding step of Edmund's horse. Never again. Never again would he ride the length of fair Narnia hailed as her Just King. Never again would he stand in honor's field, her champion and Aslan's. Never again would he come home to the welcome of his Gentle and Valiant Queens or stand fast in their defense at the side of his Magnificent King.
But it was more, so much more than that he was leaving behind him. It was Lucy's joy and Susan's tenderness and Peter's companionship. It was belonging to and with them, needing and being needed, loving and being loved. It was having a purpose and a home and an identity. And now, with only a few words, all that was gone. He was no one and nothing. He was alone.
His sentence was banishment and not death? How was this not death?
That sentence had been carried out swiftly. The moment Peter had turned his back, the Stag and the Satyr had escorted Edmund out of his presence and into the courtyard. There a dozen armed soldiers awaited him with a horse saddled to carry him away somewhere. He wasn't to have a moment of farewell, a moment to consider, a moment to breathe. He was given his heaviest cloak against the cold, but allowed to take with him nothing else of his own. It didn't matter. All he wanted from here was everything that was nowhere else: his home, his family, his life.
His escort offered him no explanations. He asked none. They rode from Cair Paravel down along icy Glasswater Creek, silent but for the clop of hooves, the jingle of bridles, the padding of paws, silent until, just at dusk, they reached the pass into Archenland.
The Centaur who led the troop ordered a halt. "Edmund Pevensie, you will dismount."
Edmund did as he was told, climbing down to stand ankle-deep in snow, and one of the Fauns took his horse's reins.
"Edmund Pevensie, I am commanded to give you this reminder." The Centaur's voice boomed in the silence of the pass. "You have been granted mercy rather than justice, though your crimes have warranted death. That death will be waiting to greet you the moment you are bold enough to again set foot across our border. This by order of Peter, High King of Narnia."
We shall not ourself see you again.
Edmund made only a curt bow in response and accepted in silence the dagger offered to him. At least he would have some small means of protecting himself.
The Centaur said not another word. He merely stood with his troops, silent guard over the narrow pass leading back home until, with one longing look north, Edmund turned and started on his way. At the first switchback, he stopped and stood looking back again, remembering his first sight of Narnia all those years ago, a snow-covered reflection of his last glimpse now, and he had been called traitor then, too. The Centaur stood with brawny arms crossed, blocking the road back into Paradise like an angel with a flaming sword. Finally, Edmund turned and walked down the path towards Anvard. There was nowhere else to go, and there was no going back.
With the night, the cold grew more fierce, and Edmund took shelter in a cave. It was little more than a nook in the mountainside, but he managed to build a bit of a fire and huddled in his cloak beside it, too weary and too numb to cry. Eventually, exhaustion took him. He woke once, vaguely aware of something warm and heavy against him and around him, something with an indefinably delightful fragrance, but he was too tired to try to figure out what it was. He only nestled into it and slept again, praying that, at least for tonight, Peter, too, would find peaceful sleep.
OOOOO
The place was lit only with the bluish glow that seemed to radiate from the walls themselves. Walls of ice. Walls of painful, numbing cold. There was no wind. There could be none, for ice enclosed him on all sides as well as above and below, but the cold still seemed to blow through him, shriveling the warmth inside him to near nonexistence.
Peter wasn't sure where he was going, but he kept moving forward. He could hear the voice, and he knew he must go where it was.
It was a soft voice. A sweet voice. A voice that cooed and coaxed and soothed. A voice he knew at once, though he'd heard it only twice before, years and years ago. A voice that stabbed another jolt of icy pain through his belly.
"You, Edmund," it said, and he began to tremble.
He knew the sickening cold sweetness of that voice, and he forced his sluggish legs to move faster down the endless corridor.
"Sometime King under us in Narnia," the voice continued, tender, caressing, somehow pleased. "Duke of Lantern Waste, Knight of the Noble Order of the Table . . ."
The words came slowly, syllable by syllable, as if–
Again he forced himself to walk faster. He had to get there. It was urgent.
". . . shall bear those honors no more but be merely . . ."
He was running now, turning corner after corner, at last running through the door into the cell.
Edmund!
". . . Edmund Pevensie, Betrayer of Narnia . . ."
He froze there just inside the doorway, past the bars but somehow unable to go any farther. Edmund. Edmund was there, chained to that wall of blue ice, hanging by torn wrists, ankles shackled, feet dangling helplessly off the floor, face twisted in a grimace of agony. And She loomed over him, as icy blue-white as her dungeon.
". . . and Traitor to her High King and to her Queens and to her beloved people . . ."
She was writing.
" . . . and most abominable of all, to the Great Aslan Himself . . . "
She had a quill of some kind, a black feather, a vulture's perhaps, made razor sharp, and she was writing. With exquisite care, especially when she wrote the name of the Lion, she was writing the words Peter had spoken that day. She was cutting them into Edmund's flesh.
Edmund!
Peter couldn't make a sound. He hadn't been able to all this time, though he could feel his throat contract, feel the word try to claw its way free. He could only stand there. Frozen voice. Frozen legs. Frozen heart.
The Witch glanced back at him with a smug little grin and then turned back to her work. She had to tear Edmund's shirt open a little more to have room to etch the rest into his lean, pale abdomen. But he was silent as Peter was silent. In this place, only the Witch had a voice.
" . . . and that you shall be forever banished from the Kingdom of Narnia . . ."
No.
She laughed softly and, with her eyes fixed on Peter's, she stroked Edmund's hair, possessive and mocking, before completing the sentence.
" . . . both you and your heirs for so long as ourself and our noble Queens shall reign."
Peter tried to move, to speak, but he was helpless. All he could feel was the tears on his cheeks. Why were they colder than even this ice that surrounded him?
No!
She turned now, her thin, too-red lips smiling still, and made an airy gesture towards Edmund's ravaged chest with one elegant hand.
"Like it?"
Peter fought to scream, to breathe. No! No!
She nodded. "I thought you might.
She beckoned, and Peter was suddenly standing only inches from his brother. He could feel Edmund's ragged gasps.
"They're your very own words, you know." The Witch took Peter's unresisting hand and stroked it lightly across the crimson letters engraved over Edmund's heart. Betrayer. Traitor. Forever banished. "Aren't they pretty?"
Peter was suddenly able to struggle against her and pulled his hand away. It was warm now. Warm with his brother's blood.
No! No! No!
"No?" she asked, though he had not been able to voice the word. "But you chose them, didn't you . . . Little King?"
NO!
His own screams woke him.
He lay in sweat-sodden sheets, his throat raw, his chest aching from convulsed, shaking breaths. And then, as it always had before, the door to his chamber creaked open just enough to admit a tall, slender figure with dark hair.
Peter sat up, eyes eager, sobbing with relief. He didn't know how it could be. He didn't care. "Ed?"
"It is I, Majesty."
"Oh." Peter sank back down on his pillows. "Gil."
"You were . . . having trouble sleeping."
Peter could see only the faint outline of his friend in the black night, but he could read his expression in his voice: concern, pity, desire to help.
"A little," Peter admitted, forcing his voice down into its usual register.
"Shall I sit with you?"
Peter was glad of the darkness that covered the raw emotion on his face. He wouldn't have had to hide it from Edmund. With Edmund he need not always be the High King. But Edmund–
"N-no." Peter took a calming breath. "No, I thank you. Forgive me that I have disturbed your rest."
"It is no trouble. Perhaps some wine might be of help, My King?"
Wine. Wine to dull the pain in his head and take the edge off his nightmare. Edmund– Edmund was a traitor. He wasn't coming back. As always, Gil was right. Some wine would help.
Peter nodded his acceptance, and the Knight smiled.
Author's Note: OldFashionedGirl95 and Laura Andrews have once again been instrumental in making this story possible. I'm blessed to have their help.
–WD