Crumpled at the foot of a tree, he was hopeless.
Taking in short, shallow breaths so as not to aggravate the freshly opened marks upon his back, he hung his head, dark tears of fatigue dripping from shadowy eyes, sliding down his long nose and staining the ground. He brought his forehead to his knees, trying with all his remaining strength to stop his tears, but he frankly no longer possessed the strength to. He was helpless to hold them back, so he just shook quietly against his bonds, every part of him aching and crying out for relief. He shuddered violently against the chill breeze, freezing his soaked clothes to his skin and stinging his open wounds. Opening bruised eyes, he stared down at his torn feet, wishing for his own death.
That's when he noticed it.
His eyebrows pressed together for a moment in confusion, his tired mind working to solve the puzzle before him. There, at his bruised and aching feet, was a lone flower, a white Morning Glory in full bloom, just peeking from the shadows.
It seemed to wave kindly to him in the chill, icy breeze of Her camp - though Spring had sprung all across Narnia, she maintained a hold on this glade, a gathering place of Dryads and spirits loyal to Her. His heart made a funny sort of jolt at the sight of it; this flower was a true miracle to him, bits of frost clinging to its petals, snow thinly layering the ground around it as it defiantly swayed in the horrible wind. It was completely unwelcome in this evil part of the forest, but it chose to be there, a beautiful little creation. He searched his mind for distant and faded memories of his much younger self gardening with his mother; many of these flowers had bloomed in the sunny mornings in his back yard. He had really enjoyed those mornings, he thought as bile rose in his throat, blood leaking from his lip as he was overcome with sudden floods of emotion.
What he would give to be with his mother again!
More tears leaked from shocked eyes as he struggled to steady himself, shifting against the impossibly tight ropes that bound him to that unforgiving tree. Still, he could not take his eyes from that flower, that one impossible miracle. A gentle whisper in his mind, his mother's voice; "Morning Glories only bloom once, and close up by noon. See how they roll themselves into tight little umbrellas? Aren't they beautiful, Ed?"
These had been her most favorite flowers. He brokenly remembered picking her a large bouquet of them each time they gardened together. She would always tuck the prettiest one behind her ear, the wrinkles of her tired face creasing with a soft smile, and seeing this, he would become incredibly bashful and so very pleased with himself.
Heavy, burning tears fell upon this remarkable flower now, in the cold shadow of the night, and he simply refused to look away from it. How had it bloomed in the absence of sunlight? These only bloomed once in their lifetime before they closed forever. Why now, in the middle of the night? Why had it chosen to grow here, alone? He knew this was a miracle, and it sparked a small warmth in his splintered heart, comforting him.
Why bloom for him?
The memory of that silly little rebellious flower remained in his mind in times of severe self-doubt, and would comfort him in a way that he would never be fully able to explain. He kept it close to his heart always.
It made him believe in miracles again.
The poetic beauty was suddenly crushed and dead before its time beneath the foot of a certain wicked dwarf, and, having no time to fully register his shock, Edmund was assaulted with many cracks of a whip, striking his face and tearing his clothing and causing him to cry out around the gag. His cries were lost on the frost of the breeze - the flower, silent and trampled and broken nearby, would soon be buried in the dissipating snow. Blood leaked from new, ugly welts as he sobbed, crushed beneath the raucous, disgusting laughter of the Witch's following. Cracking open one swollen eye, he looked for that flower.
The petals fell away, swirling gently in the icy breeze around him before disappearing into the darkness, leaving him even now with an inexplicable sense of hope in his desolate state.
Edmund awoke with a start, eyes flying open only to be greeted with the brightest sunshine he could imagine pouring into his retinas and stinging him to his very core. His cheekbones burned where scars indicated the harsh blows of a whip, and he shuddered, feeling suddenly so cold, despite being buried beneath at least four thick, soft quilts. The blankets were draped haphazardly about him, indicating that he had been thrashing around only moments prior. He closed his eyes, sucking in his breath.
He felt alone, trapped in his semi-conscious thoughts.
Blinking owlishly in the brightness, dissipating the fog of his nightmarish sleep, he stirred, wincing at the dull ache of his back as it spread deep into his muscles, fire in his bones each time he moved. Ignoring the pain, he tried to sit up, only to find himself caught in the warm, solid arms of his careful brother, who was sleeping quite soundly. Edmund twisted his head about, examining his predicament with deep surprise, a very soft, albeit unsure smile playing upon his lips as he quietly assessed the situation with a calculating glance.
He had no recollection of being moved into one of the hammocks, but there he was, tightly held captive against his brother's chest, which rose and fell softly in exhausted slumber. Snores filled his left ear, and he struggled in vain, incarcerated completely. Turning his head, he examined Peter's face critically, noting dully the dark circles beneath his eyes, the worry lines etched into such a young face, and his stomach lurched in surprise. He had never seen Peter as vulnerable as he saw him now, and it frightened him, somehow. But even so, there was still a very visible presence of nobility upon his face, even as he slept, and Edmund felt something like pride fill his chest at the thought of his brother, a King.
He himself had attempted everything within his own wicked ends to make sure Peter did not become a King, Edmund mused, lips forming a straight, etched line, his face falling. His scars were on fire, and he was glad of it. He had gotten his reward for his betrayal tenfold, and it still would never be enough.
It would never be what he truly deserved.
Dark thoughts plagued his mind and he sighed softly, closing his eyes and wondering at the miracle of the brother he lay beside. Considering his predicament one more time, he very cautiously shifted around a bit, trying his best to sit up without disturbing Peter. But quickly, to his dismay and slight bemusement, his forward motion was retracting very quickly and he was pulled tightly into a strong cuddle against the blond's oblivious chest, who was still deeply asleep and unaware of this.
Edmund balked.
Peter was snuggling with him.
He lay very still, feeling warmth encircling him and seeping into his bones and his lungs and drowning him in its encompassing, smothering heat - he gasped dramatically, squeezing his eyes shut and lying rigid next to his brother, unsure of what to do to reverse this new dilemma. He was a prisoner to his own bed.
After what seemed like several hundred years, Peter finally stirred, squeezing Edmund even tighter against him in his subconscious state as he came round; Edmund suffered greatly in silence, feeling oddly ashamed to be found this way. Blinking his eyes open, Peter seemed a tad startled to find his brother beside him, but as memories of the previous day returned, his face softened to a gentle, tentative smile, hugging him even closer. Edmund was clearly appalled and completely baffled.
"Good morning," Peter grinned sleepily, amused at his brother's typical revulsion at their situation. Wide, hesitant umber eyes stared back up at him, and Peter smiled lightly, his heart bittersweet. Peter loosened his grasp after a quick squeeze, and Edmund slid from his brother's arms, stretching in what Peter thought to be a very cat-like fashion.
As his brother quietly examined one of the Narnian tunics that was prepared for him, Peter's smile began to fall, his eyes narrowing as he scrutinized Edmund's wounds. He winced at their depth, though they did seem to be benefiting from the nightmarish treatments that had been administered the night before. His heart began to sink at the thought of the damages that certainly still lay below the skin, damages that would continue to surface throughout Edmund's whole life. Peter felt the weight of reality fall upon his shoulders again, nearly crushing him. But there was still hope.
But those bright onyx eyes could see right through him as they turned to look back at him, brow etched with sudden worry. "Peter?"
He shook himself, offering an entirely unconvincing smile. "Sorry, daydream. Hungry?"
His heart felt faint as he examined the way Edmund's skin clung to his bones. Edmund nodded somewhat bashfully, but in earnest. Attempting to feign cheerfulness, Peter busied himself with strapping his boots, swallowing his complete revulsion of that Woman and looking back up at his brother.
"I heard there was going to be toast today."
His worries began to fade slightly as he felt genuine chuckles rising out of him at the sight of the pure, childlike excitement cross Edmund's face for the briefest of moments before composure was retained. With a small grin he picked up his sword from its place against the canvas, and strapped it to his belt. He opened up the pavilion flap to a rush of sweet breeze and warm sunshine, looking to his brother.
Without a further word, the two brothers walked together across the camp , the oldest with his arm draped protectively about the other's small shoulders, breathing sunshine.
Morning glories were scattered thickly underfoot. Edmund felt hopeful.