The first time was at midnight. It was bitterly cold: if not in reality, certainly in his bones. Lucy's cordial had warmed him, but not enough—not enough. Never enough. Nothing he could do would be enough.

And not two minutes later he received a message that Aslan wanted to speak to him. So, blood running down his thigh, Edmund put away the dagger with shaking hands and ducked out of the tent to meet him, shamefaced.

"Son of Adam," said Aslan, and there were tears shining in his eyes.


That was the first time. Through all the stresses and strains of being put on the throne, along with his siblings, it was hardly a surprise that he occasionally resorted to that means of managing his emotions. Edmund grew to hate it very quickly: the pain that seemed satisfying at the time, the blood, the mess, the scarring that developed. It all whispered of weakness, and a self-betrayal like he had betrayed Aslan, and thereby all of Narnia.

But time passed, and slowly it became less, became manageable: and at last he never thought of it at all, during the long and wonderful Golden Age. Only when he saw the scars did he remember it had happened at all.

There came a day that was ordinary like any other. Three days earlier he had come home from the battle, with a great slash across his body, so that bruises bloomed: it had not broken the skin, but it did hurt worse than if it had, almost. The blow had been so hard it drove the wind out of him, and Peter had begged him to return to his royal sisters at Cair Paravel, so he did.

Now, apart from lingering tenderness, he was eager to be on the move again. He had sat in judgement for the last two days, wincing when he moved unwisely, and refusing Lucy's cordial (though the Dryads, great in healing, had sped his recovery exceedingly).

So it was perfect timing when Tumnus hurried in to tell a tale of the White Stag, and Edmund was glad to be on the chase, joyful when he almost caught it once, delighted when exploring. Life in Narnia was just as they had all hoped, and he wanted for nothing.

Sometimes he didn't even remember what the scars on his body were caused by.

But then came the tumble through the wardrobe again: and that night, though he stared in disbelief at his unmarred skin once more, he knew in his heart it would not stay so.