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This fic in its final form is dedicated to Fiordineve - I'm finishing it. At last.

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~ PROLOGUE ~

A Dark King…

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The world watches him for what he did—for his betrayal. His siblings watch because, though they do not speak it, they fear. He knows it as he knows his own scars intimately. Though his brother and sisters laugh, sing, dance, and rule with him, they worry for him. Or perhaps they worry of him—trembling with guilt of what they fear he could become. Even golden, glorious Peter admits he does not know Edmund as he thought.

If these fractious revelations of his elder brother's soul trouble him, Edmund doesn't speak of it. He is an austere man, not given to the heady, tempestuous passions of the imperious High King—though Edmund is commanding in his own right.

He sees the world in shades of darker hue than that of his siblings. Their natures are generous, with hearts bleeding for good and kindliness. They wish the best for everything, and dream only of Light. But Edmund's existence balances on an edge of Shadow. He sees what is—the blackness for the night; the wretched for the cruelty they espouse. There are those who recognize this perception, and seek him out. It is their single atonement to serve him with all they are. Edmund learned in youth to accept their service, knowing it is the highest reverence that could be asked for any sovereign. But from the first, he warned that at the last, his life lay mired in a debt irredeemable. To the Lion. His soul's darkness illuminated by the unflagging light of Aslan's redemption.

This alone keeps the wolves of nightmare from consuming him: Aslan's sacrifice.

They call him the Just King—but Edmund knows it is more than that. He has seen the chaos that is the corruption of evil; he knows it better than his unsullied siblings. He is just not because he is right, but because he has witnessed the path of the unrighteous. Has walked that path, himself. He is just because he knows what should be, yet is not—because of a salvation he cannot truly understand. But it's this very redemption that struggles in him for balance. He is not of evil, but he is not of goodness—and his soul, for all that it yearns after the Light, is torn.

Edmund can playact at banter and merry affection—only to plunge into despair, and shadows. His companions and siblings struggle to bear up beneath the weight of his conflict. Not knowing what they may do to lend him aid, let him slip away until he returns, sound of mind and grave once more. But for all his veiled inner workings, Edmund is relied upon, beloved, and adored; though perhaps with trepidation.

His council, unparalleled—Peter cannot do without in times of campaign or war.

His wisdom, invaluable—Susan seeks it in matters of state or of the heart.

His composure, imposing—Lucy summons him when she seeks a convincing voice in court.

His judgment swift, yet certain—Narnia bears up well beneath it; his rule gives her renown.

But for all his knowledge, for all his dedication, Narnia does not understand. Her hesitation to bestow so willingly what his brother and sisters obtain in easy grace wears like a millstone on Edmund's heart, and leaves him desolate.

They wish not to attach themselves to a man they fear they do not know the half of. He has heard the whispers from the quiet corners, on the fringes of the ballrooms and edges of breakfast tables. He has seen the looks and quizzical expressions. He knows what they think of him. Surely, his darkness is the equal – or, perhaps, the greater of – what light lives on in him. The unknowing drives them all to stand apart. Even his siblings. But none of them beheld what he's born witness to. It is this he must tell himself in solace—How can they know? They, who are infallible, and unbroken? Better – best – it is for them, to remain in ignorance of the brutal realism he shares knowledge of.

They do not know, and though it is an incurable wound that bleeds unending, he's grateful they shall never understand. Greater than his hunger to become accepted, is the desire to conceal all that he suffers. How good they are, for their perfection; how he loves them. He could not watch them face the agony he endures. He thinks he could not bear it.

And when the pain of isolation cuts deep, a knife twisting torn flesh, Edmund casts his thoughts back—back, to days of childhood. A time when the taste of ruling a young, trembling country was a fresh, unsullied flavor to his tongue—when the world was not so shaded in by horror and distress. When his demons were belayed, somehow. He was, after all, young once. Edmund thinks fondly to the inexperience, and beauty, of youth. How strange and solemn it is to hold memories in hand, while never feeling their softness resonate in one's soul. A divide lies between his youth and the man he became. He cannot cross back. There is no bargain to be struck, no incantation to be sung; but Edmund made his peace with it. He is forever altered—unable to return to what once was, even when he longs for it. To be the boy again; carefree and joyous. If only so he might ease what fear he sees illuminated in flickers behind the eyes of his siblings.

In Peter's eyes.

It is speculation and rumor that he can care for no one. A battlefield legacy told from fireplace to hearth-side. It is all a lie. For Edmund loves with his whole soul his country, his people, his siblings. He looks with silent benevolence upon his servants – those outcasts that sought to follow him as acolytes must have their teacher. Those spared death live in thrall of and to him; he takes their loyalty as his peace—whatever small fragment it is. His Narnian subjects could not possibly look to him with such consuming adoration. They can only but honor him as the throne on which he sits. Reverence is bestowed with word of mouth. They are… kind to him. Indulgent to a measure. But they do not love him; they cannot. He knows it, he understands it.

They are unsure of this boy that became king, who is now a man—who once betrayed his siblings to their greatest enemy … for sugar.

If it sorrows him still, Edmund does not reveal his grief.

It's been said the Just King is a complex man to comprehend. He's heard it said – once, directly to his face – that he is an enigma unknowable even to the wisest Calormene prophet. He never thought to refute the claim; continues to allow it credence. For he thinks he must know himself better than the rest; if not also in opaque fragmentation. His demons are constant; there is no ebb and fade. His nightmares creep to him on quiet winds he never catches before they touch his side—both in the stillness of the night and the clamor of the day. Only the Great Lion ever provides ease to his agony. Only when Aslan takes leave of his father's country to visit the palace by the sea does the burden on Edmund's soul alight, leaving him once more free.

But even in Narnia, unkindness lurks like a predator in the long grass. Life in Cair Paravel's court is vivid and merry, lacking the constraint and social rigour in other countries and surrounding lands—but even Narnians gossip, and rumor flows like rivers swollen with winter snow. Ambassadors and dignitaries wait for an idle whisper to confirm what is mere conjecture: that four monarchs cannot rule one kingdom. Noble guests do not care for sentiment when they clutch, like grasping children, at any suggestion Narnia is not the faultless paradise they've been told it to be. When one has not met the Great Lion, one is eager to disprove any notion that a single god can satisfy a young, thriving empire.

Edmund dismisses the rumormongers out of hand—he is a king. Kings must live above such talk. Falsehoods, petty grievances, have no business among his thoughts when matters of state must weigh the heavier balance in his mind.

But when he sees her, Edmund finds he's vulnerable after all. Though he's the Black King, the Just King, the Traitor, even his heart may still bleed in the end. It's said he's incapable of love beyond ardor for his country. Yet, when faced with her … he discovers himself capable of a passion he thought long beyond his reach.

But to want what he should not touch is … dangerous.

To desire after a woman is allowed in Narnia—a pursuit fondly bestowed. But to yearn for the daughter of a Telmarine – his enemy – a woman raised by the brother of Telmar's own king. A woman brought up outside the boundaries of Narnia, is foolishness not to be born. Edmund knows all this, and yet … he is craven. To long after a woman below his rank, beneath him in social circles as to be but a face in a parade-side multitude, is an impossibility for any king, even a Narnian one. He shouldn't seek this. The society of Telmar could not think of acknowledging it. Can he deny who his heart loves?

In this dangerous world of crowns, barbed tongues, and words capable of power over life and death, can he keep this secret—or will it unmake him?