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CHAPTER ONE
In the Halls of Cair Paravel
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The vast room of vaulted ceilings, marble columns, and harlequin floors reverberated with the thunderous peal of one voice.
"I do not care if it is said to be undesirable! I ordered it done, did I not?" Edmund snarled. His siblings stood behind him, their own expressions dark in displeasure. Before them, the Telmarine ambassador quaked where he knelt—cowering at the bottom of two dozen steps leading to the dais of the four thrones.
"B-but your—your most Regal Highnesses... w-who am I to tell the Telmarine king he is to withdraw his legions from the borderlands of Narnia? I, who am as dust beneath his boots—too lowly to be regarded as even a foot-soldier. No! Better would it be for you and your noble siblings to ride out together in glory, at the head of a vast battalion, and push him back into his own lands."
The man's groveling sickened Edmund. He scowled, eyeing the ambassador while the man prostrated further on the marble. As if he could make himself any lower than he had become.
The court fell strangely silent following his petition. More a pitiful beggary than a petition, the ambassador knew. A low whine of metal-on-metal hissed through the silence. Swallowing a nervous gasp, Ambassador Glondal lifted his eyes from their study of the marble front of his nose. Before he brought his head above an inch, finely-crafted leather boots stepped into his line of sight. Hands shaking where they clenched at the cold marble, Glondal ducked his head down. Despite himself, tears blurred his vision. A torrent of excuses poured from his mouth in violent desperation to preserve his life. He'd been a fool to return after Issiah laughed in his face—he'd been a fool to dare think he could defy the Narnian monarchs when they'd already told him what they desired. His wild ramblings were cut off with the sharp point of a sword pressed beneath his chin. Glondal's mouth opened in a wordless cry. The sword-tip forced the ambassador to look up or risk his throat slit open. His eyes peered into the dark, frightening gaze of the Just King. Such an intimacy he'd hoped never to have. It made his jaw ache, so clenched it was in terror.
Edmund bent from the waist, an arm laid across his torso, as if calmly discussing the weather or a trade route with the Lone Islands. Not holding a long-sword at a man's pulse. A smile transformed the Narnian king's features. Glondal withered before the frigid expression.
"A kingdom that breeds such foolish individuals may not have been built in a day, but..." Edmund feigned consideration, concentrating on his sword. He moved it from beneath the ambassador's chin to rest against his neck. His focus returned to Glondal's eyes. He pressed the blade into the Telmarine's skin with unrelenting pressure. "... I can crush it in one." The edge of the sword drew blood. Glondal dared not move to wipe it away. Instead, a crimson bead slid to bloom into a stain on his collar. He breathed heavily, trembling as he continued to make eye contact with the Just King, and live. "Narnia does not deal lightly with threats to her sovereignty. We are no strangers to war, and Telmar is no friend of desolation. Tell that to your king – if you tell him anything at all." Edmund cocked his head to the side, raven curls sliding over his shoulder.
"Y-yes, m-my l-or—my k-king," Glondal stuttered in answer.
With a violent flourish, Edmund removed his blade from the man's neck, returning it to the sheath. Turning, the Just King ascended a single step before he paused, black velvet mantle striking the heels of his boots. Canting his head to glance over his shoulder, Edmund spoke softly, but his words rang with the weight of threat. "Tell Issiah, also… that we of Narnia have long memories. Hatred grows in the dark, and is not soon choked out."
"O-of c-course, my l-lord. C-cert-tanly, my l-lord!" The ambassador gasped, scrambling backward on the marble like a dog kicked. He managed to scrape himself into a semblance of an upright position after crawling backward several feet from the dais.
"Then … why is it – you are still here?" Edmund's shoulders straightened, head tilting as if in consideration of the stained glass behind the four thrones. "Go!" The command resounded through the vaulted hall, crashing down on Glondal. He cringed in supplication. With a low cry, the man turned out of the room as if he were a stag before hounds.
As the Telmarine's footsteps faded, Edmund's steely composure dissolved. His shoulders rounded until he hunched over the arm across his torso, his hand pressing into the pain at his side. Bowing his head, Edmund sighed. Bless the Lion, he thought, it is a private audience. No one but his siblings, a few of their most trusted generals, and Master Tumnus were present. He didn't think he'd the stamina to endure an open court.
Shifting with a small sound of hurt, Edmund passed a pale hand across his face wearily, stumbling as he ascended the final flight of steps to the dais. His sisters eyed him in concern. Susan clutched the arms of her marble seat, but didn't stir. His former energy gone, Edmund collapsed into his throne, dropping his sword down beside it. At the clatter, Susan and Lucy jumped to their feet, their hesitation departed. Susan grasped the back of her brother's throne while Lucy knelt beside Edmund, near his legs. Over him, Peter's shadow fell.
Eyes closing, Edmund swallowed before offering a wane smile. "Yes?" His voice came softly; weak, despite his attempt to infuse it with mirth. He wanted to show gratitude for their concern of him, however misplaced. But nearly all of his strength had been spent dealing with that gormless Telmarine for the past half-hour.
"Edmund, dear, are you sure you're all right?" Lucy voiced her concern from earlier that morning, when he insisted this audience with Glondal proceed.
Edmund looked at her, searching her tanned features. Lucy's concern was almost palpable, and it amused him how easily it showed on her face. Dearest Lucy, with her bleeding, valiant heart on her sleeve—torn and torn again for her hope. Truly, she was the best of them.
A flash of pain staggered him, and Edmund knew if he tried to speak it would come out in a mewling keen of agony. Instead, he smiled. Reaching out, he brushed his fingers against her sun-kissed dark hair curling over her ears. He said nothing.
"He is still too weak to have done this—I knew we should have put it off," Susan murmured in a tense, low voice. She spoke to Peter, but her blue eyes, filled with chagrin, strayed again and again to Edmund.
"No." Edmund shook his head; more a weak tilt from left to right. With effort, he spoke in an even tone. "We, could not have delayed. Narnia does not cease to, have her struggles merely—because I am… ill." His face twisted at the last word, the taste of it foul on his tongue.
It was Peter who leveled at him before Susan could open her mouth in any sort of half-mustered protest. "Ed, narrowly avoiding an assassin's blade finding its mark is – not – an – illness." The High King enunciated his words precisely, tone heavy with undefined sentiment. Perhaps guilt.
Edmund tipped his head, crown hitting the back of his throne with a dull clang. He regarded his blond brother with curious eyes. Another thin smile knifed over his lips as the two men stared at each other. Peter had been in a furious, brooding rage ever since the night Edmund fought off his would-be murderer. He knew it chaffed his brother to be helpless, and he knew that despite all logic the older man would feel somehow responsible; as if the whole ordeal were his fault. But it couldn't be altered. Peter must learn acceptance—his hot temper and rash retaliation did not make for a good king, noble as he was. "Please, have care for quiet, brother—your shouting makes my head spin," Edmund admonished instead, waving him off.
In response, Peter paled under his tan—the whiteness almost to rival Edmund's pallor, but barely. "I do not not speak in any raised tone, Edmund," he managed in a hoarse whisper.
Edmund's brow furrowed, surprised. "Truth? I could have sworn you shouted for all Cair to hear. Little matter..." Looking down, Edmund stared at his hand caught up in Lucy's. His fingers felt… odd. He struggled to extricate them from his sister's small hand, but they only trembled. "Si … ssster—" the word slurred from him and sounded as if it came from a great distance off. He blinked, the world darkening at the edges.
Susan bent, her hand hot against Edmund's forehead. She slid her fingers down inside his collar, pressed firmly to his pulse. It shuddered under her touch. Alarmed, Susan straightened, turning away. She took a moment to compose herself before she looked at her siblings with urgency. She gripped Edmund's shoulder with a tight hand, as if her will alone could hold him to this world. "Dear Tumnus, send at once for Kloudhunter—King Edmund worsens!"
"Oh—oh, dear. Dear me! Yes, yes, at once—of course!" Tumnus pattered off in search of the centaur physician, his hooves clattering across the marble as he ran.
Lucy stood, clenching her fingers tightly around Edmund's hand before letting go in reluctance. "Peter," she turned to the High King, "I shall use my cordial—it is imperative, I do believe. He cannot continue on like this—not now, with war and… and all of it… so close at hand." Her warning went unspoken: you cannot stop me.
Peter dropped his gaze, hands clenched at his sides, and looked down at Edmund. Susan had stooped beside their brother, rubbing his arm in small circles, murmuring meaningless conversation to him as he grew still more pale, his eyes dark and listless in his face. "Yes," Peter nodded, reaching up to tug on his beard. He averted his gaze, hugging himself in distress. "Yes, use your cordial. I... I shall... pray."
Lucy clapped his arm in comradely air and ran from the room. On the dais, Susan cried out in concern. Edmund's head lolled against his left shoulder as he fell unconscious. Peter spun, dropping to his knees at Edmund's side. He took his brother's head in both his hands, sapphire eyes bright.
"He lives," he consoled his sister. Then, in a smooth motion, he stood, drawing his brother into his arms and lifting him out of the throne. "He will be more comfortable, I think, in his bedchamber."
"Yes," Susan nodded, her eyes wide and mirroring Peter's own pain. "Yes, take him—in haste. Lu can meet us there."
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The wind was a gentle buffer against his back, and he smiled. Blowing from behind him, it brought with it the smell of the ocean; a familiar, calming scent. But gleaming emerald meadow-grass rose up before him in endless undulating waves. Above him the sky shone an azure blue so brilliant it might have stung to behold, but he could bear it. His heart soared at the sight of the thick bank of white clouds piled atop the purple mountains in the greater distance. Dear Narnia, glorious Narnia. How he loved her.
"Edmund! Edmund, come; frolic with me!" The voice, rich and solemn and merry all at once, seemed to come from everywhere.
He turned.
"Aslan," Edmund breathed, the single word full of longing. With a low cry he ran toward the large, golden lion. "Oh, Aslan, it is dark – so dark – back there without you. Please, return to us; stay away no more!" he begged, burying his face in the heavy red-gold mane. His fingers sank into warm fur, clutching it as to a lifeline. Edmund inhaled a breath. The air smelled sweetly and of summer; his heartache eased.
The great lion laughed; a deep, weighted sound that warmed without, rumbling from within his ribs. It belonged only to Aslan, yet seemed to be all of Narnia laughing as well. It was a good sound, and Edmund wished fervently to hear it all his days.
"Know peace, Wise One. I am with you through all your perils; you must only look for me, and there I am. For you I have died, for you I love, son of Adam. Do not let grief burden your heart," Aslan answered, leaning forward to touch Edmund's face with his warm nose.
"Well I know, yet the pain and despair drag me down even so when you are not near," Edmund moaned in anguish. "I do not want it, but it presses on before me, hemming me in—I know you are with me, yet I feel nothing but alone." He uttered a choked sob, and fell into the lion. Aslan dropped to the ground and wrapped a heavy paw around the monarch's shoulders.
"I understand, dear one, how it aches. I know each of your griefs, and number all your sorrows. Do not let your despair give over to death. I am with you, always. In time, I shall call you—and we will dwell together here for eternity, where pain and shadows will no more be known. Until such a time, I bid you go—your family and your country call you back." With a gentle smile, Aslan breathed on Edmund and nudged him to his feet, standing also.
"I will go, Aslan—but these worlds are nothing without you. Nothing at all." Edmund bowed his head, walking away though it tore at him to put his back to the Great Lion; the pain in his heart felt so great he thought it could destroy him.
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Salt air stung his nose; distantly he could hear the roar of the surf. Edmund sighed in relief as a cool breeze blew over his face, soothing his hot skin. Pressing his lashes together, he tried to lift his hand, but discovered it held fast in another, tight grip. Slowly, Edmund opened his eyes, taking stock of where he was. He lay on his back, a light linen sheet draped over the lower half of his body. Blinking, he recognized his bedchamber. He found himself peering up into the canopy of his bed—the constellations embroidered in silver thread winked down at him. Turning his head to the right revealed the source of the sunlight and fresh air. The drapes across his balcony, and over the four windows in the large room, had been tied back, window-casings thrown wide. Edmund winced against the light bouncing off the leaded glass before closing his eyes with a grunt of discomfort. Hesitating, he looked again at the canopy. He wanted to sit, but remembered the pain that came with such movement. Locking his jaw, Edmund braced himself up with his free hand.
No twinges or jabs of agony licked along his left side. He felt – to his shock – nothing. Cautiously, Edmund's free hand fumbled across the mattress, over the linen sheet. His fingers stumbled through the wrinkles of his loose shirt as he felt for his side through the material. No bandages. No wound. Only a fresh, tender scar quailed under his touch. Edmund glanced down at his trapped hand.
Lucy lay asleep, perched on a low stool at the bedside. She held Edmund's hand tightly in both of hers, her head resting on the mattress. Edmund frowned, noticing the unkemptness of her bronze hair and the dark circles under her lashes. He turned his head, a sigh catching his attention. In a corner of the room, Peter slept, his head tipped back against the tall frame of the desk chair he sat slouched in, his clothes the same from the audience with the ambassador. At the foot of Edmund's bed lay Susan, curled at the very end of the mattress like a loyal hound. Her dark hair cascaded around her shoulders in messy tangles, the grey streak shining through like a fairy-kiss. She had been crying, Edmund noticed in disconnected dismay, studying her red-rimmed eyes and blotched complexion.
As sleep continued to ebb from his senses, Edmund glanced around at his siblings, studying them, trying to gauge how he should react when they stirred—or when he decided to disturb them. The moment Edmund reached out with his loose hand to touch Lucy's head, Tumnus crept through the bedroom door.
The Faun peered about cautiously, but upon seeing Edmund sitting upright let out a wordless little shout of delight, stirring the room. "King Edmund!" Tumnus exclaimed again, trotting further inside. Heavily, he set down the silver tray full of tea and something steaming that smelled suspiciously to Edmund like oatmeal—which he despised.
"Eddie!" Lucy cried out. She woke from her sleep with more swiftness than Edmund anticipated, and threw herself at him, clinging to his arms, draping her body across his. Edmund embraced her awkwardly with his now-freed hand, encircling her trembling shoulders as she uttered a dry sob into his collar.
Susan and Peter both woke with starts, Susan sitting up slowly. Peter bolted out of the high-backed chair. For a minute, Edmund thought the other man would fall flat on his face as he stumbled over his own feet, but Peter regained himself. He bounded across the space and slid to his knees at the bedside, reaching out both hands to grasp Edmund's arm. Susan took her younger brother's free right hand, clutching it in both of hers as Lucy had been doing to his left moments before. Peter choked out a laughing sob, his eyes bright with tears spilling over.
"I feared you gone from us; forever to lie apart," the blond man murmured, his voice low with feeling.
"You were so ill—" Lucy stuttered out, pressing her face close against his collarbone, her hand warm against the back of his neck beneath his tangled black hair.
"We thought you should die," Susan moaned, kissing Edmund's hand with a delirious sort of relief.
Edmund struggled not to remain stiff and aloof beneath them, not wishing to seem callous to their obvious relief after a sordid amount of stress, but it took an effort. He resided in a hollow sort of stupor where one is numb to the immediate danger, having been present in it, yet absent from it. He lifted his eyes to Tumnus, who stood clutching a handkerchief, twisting and untwisting it in his nimble fingers. The Faun nodded, more rational than the emotional siblings. "Poison, Edmund," he said in a calm voice, relief bright in his brown eyes. "It became apparent that the wound inflicted upon you had been done with a poisoned blade." Tumnus nodded again, but his eyes flashed dangerously. He'd always felt an attachment to the youngest two of his monarchs, and this discovery upset him deeply.
"But Lu… she saved you—she insisted, with her cordial," Peter ground out hoarsely. His grip round Edmund's arm tightened, and he lay his forehead against Edmund's sleeve.
Edmund nodded, grateful, to Tumnus, and looked at his siblings. Absently, he rubbed Lucy's back in consolation, turning his hand over for Susan to continue to administer feverish kisses to his palm, and leaning into Peter's almost reverent clutch. He swallowed, digesting the information. Someone truly meant to end him—not just send a message. His fingers twitched in Susan's grip, anger surging from a dark place in his soul. How dare they. He should make them pay—
But first to consolation, and care. Edmund managed a breathless laugh, finding Lucy all but crushing him back into his pillows. He patted her back, more companionably.
"I am grateful, for this concern—and I know, surely, it was long-suffering from each of you, for me. But please—I fear if you do not disentangle yourselves from my body, I shall faint dead away!" He forced laughter that rang hollow in him, the mirth not truly felt.
Embarrassed, but laughing in joy, his siblings sheepishly withdrew from the bed.
"Of course, yes," Peter murmured, reaching up to smooth his blond hair back from his face.
Susan nodded, eyeing Lucy, who flashed a brilliant, though tired, grin in return.
"Yes, yes, he needs his rest, after all," Tumnus bustled about, turning to the tray, "I shall go back to the kitchens and tell Tristan at once to send up something better suited to your tastes, Edmund. Come now, the rest of us should give him a little peace," the Faun coaxed, lifting the tray and nodding at the rest of the monarchs.
Everyone nodded in agreement, awkwardly beginning their exodus toward the bedchamber door. Peter was the first to exit in Tumnus's wake, relief in his composure; Edmund felt a momentary flash of shame, knowing his lack of enthusiastic response stung the older man. But... he had tried to be kindly to them. Lucy followed after Peter, giving a small finger-wave in farewell, her face bright as her hair was tangled and frizzy. At the doorway, Susan paused. Looking back, she played her fingertips over a dark tapestry on the wall depicting a battle from the Northlands.
"It's so bleak in here, dear brother—surely, such dismal colors should be made over into something more suitable for a king."
Edmund reclined back on the pillows Lucy had rearranged behind him for a more comfortable position. He shook his head. "I... disagree, sister. I rather like it."
Bowing her head, Susan smiled again, and walked out, closing the door softly as she went.
His room once more his own, Edmund let his eyes rove it. How good it felt, to be among familiar things in the comfort of home. He smiled at his swords mounted to the wall, at the spears above his desk, and the dark-wood of his furnishings. No, his colors were not dismal, and they would not be made over. With a sigh, Edmund let his eyes drift closed.
A/N:
Well... here we go! Fair warning, this is definitely a drama in the sense of a historical drama; it's not just about the romance, but the politics and the familial relationships, governing a nation, spirituality, and lust vs love, need vs want, etc etc ad infinitum. There will absolutely be overt religious themes/connotations and theology, so if that's not for you, well then... I'm just giving you forewarning, so you're forearmed. I originally wrote this fanfic as a young teenager, but now I'm, haha, a LOT older... so the mental/emotional makeup of the characters has absolutely changed (to say nothing of the narrative voice). I have a lot of original characters included in this story because I deeply appreciate the world of Narnia, and spent an entire decade developing my own theories and headcanons for her, so those will feature heavily (again, if such things aren't for you... Turn Back Now.)
Tell me what you think.
