XLII
GRACE
the grudge – Olivia Rodrigo
It was a commotion of shifting and shuffling beside her which woke Grace the next morning. Her eyes opened slowly, still encrusted with the last remnants of her sleep. She took one bleary look around her tent… but there was nothing or no one out of place. Wherever the sound was coming from, it was not her tent.
As if on cue, a whispered cuss came from the same direction. The voice still raspy with lingering traces of sleep.
Grace sat up slowly and silently, a wary hand sliding beneath her makeshift pillow. She was minimally relieved to find the leather-bound handle of the dagger King Edmund had lent her. Minimally being the operative word – it was not as if she could actually do anything with the weapon other than stab blindly and hope for the best.
Is that what she was prepared to do now? To stab through the walls of both tents and attack whatever was on the other side?
Even through her sleep drowned mind, Grace thought that idea was stupid. Besides, the noise coming from his tent was not that of a tussle, rather an attempt at stealth. A feat which the King may have successfully achieved if Grace was not as wary of her surroundings.
The last remaining dregs of sleep were washed away by adrenaline as she quietly dislodged herself from the sleeping bag. It was times like these when she was glad to not be in her own world, where sleeping bags were made of a noisy material that kept the heat in. The quilted material proved far quieter and more suited to the purpose of sneaking about.
There was the sound of a velvet ripple in the tent beside hers, followed by the soft drag of shoes on dirt through the entryway.
Grace started, one hand gripping her dagger as she peered through the crack of her own tent. She was right, it was King Edmund. He stood not 5 steps from her, his hunched shoulders the only silhouette she could make out as he appeared to fuss with his sleeves.
He was already dressed for the day, despite the complete absence of the sun in the sky.
Grace didn't know when she'd decided to follow him; perhaps it was after her cloak was safely clasped over her throat or even when she'd grabbed a small satchel of necessities from inside her travelling sack. The soft brown materials were a comforting weight she hadn't known she needed. They grounded her to the dirt floor and made her wary of her movements; offering a level of stealth that Grace had not reached before.
Once again, Grace peeked between the two sheets of dusky purple velvet, eyes bugging as she clocked the distance the King had moved. She hurried between them, grateful that the sound of the heavy material hitting the dirt was soft and unnoticeable.
Her bare feet trod carefully on the soft grass as she followed behind the distant shadow of King Edmund. It occurred to Grace that forgetting her shoes was both a blessing and a curse, the latter outweighing as she manoeuvred noiselessly across the campsite.
It wasn't until the soles of her feet reached the edge of stones and sticks that she began to feel the consequences. Each step was accompanied with a sharp stone or needling twig which dug into her foot with a ferocity.
Grace found herself stifling curses of varying vulgarity as she meandered from tree shadow to tree shadow. Thankfully, the King never wandered further than ten metres or she might have lost him.
Her curiosity burned as she trudged over the rain sodden forest floor. What on earth was the King doing up at this hour? Was it to do with the important matter he'd unwillingly mentioned the afternoon before? The last thought was met with the stinging memories of his earlier disdain.
It only served to push her forwards at a faster rate, the stones and sticks of the forest floor nothing against her peaked interest. Grace again found herself wondering what could cause such mixed emotions in the King. What could be so personal and terrible enough to set back the progress they'd made in their acquaintance.
Surely it couldn't be anything to do with her… could it? The mirrored images of the King presented themselves into her mind, burning as clearly into her retinas as if she were experiencing them all over again. One was expression he'd watched her with that fateful first day in Narnia and the other was the abhorrence he'd displayed when she'd questioned him mere hours ago.
They were too particular to her, too similar to each other to be mistaken. Whatever King Edmund was hiding, it had to do with Grace.
Was it the portal? Was she now following him unknowingly back to Spare Oom? Would he even let her cross the entry once he'd found out she'd done so?
Questions upon questions piled atop each other, cementing like bricks in a wall. A wall which now angled against the King. A taste of something unforgiving lingering on her tongue.
At last, a break in the trees made itself known – the golden hue was a gentle ripple amongst the darkness. The first beams of the morning sun making themselves known.
King Edmund paused just outside the forest edge, his shoulders rising and falling with the effort of the journey… and perhaps something else.
Grace stayed at the tree line, refusing to cross onto the open grass and into sight.
Minutes passed as the light of the morning began to creep more openly across the dewy grass.
The King paid it no heed. Instead, his head stiffly stared ahead at the slow-warming grey rocks of the hillside.
Stairs. They were stone stairs! The cracks were littered with tufts of sprouting grass which gave the effect of singular stones spattered like dashes of grey on a green canvas. In reality they were one solid being, stoic and strong like they'd been planted in the hillside and grown roots.
Grace craned her neck, eyes following the cracked stone past the shade of the trees that sheltered her. She could not see where they lead, the foreboding height of the monument surpassing that of the tallest branch.
Frustratedly, she leaned forward, head peeking dangerously past the line of trees.
Grace still could not see the top of the mound. She allowed a foot past the tree line – steadily holding the nearest trunk for support.
Her efforts to silence were upended when her sole landed most conspicuously on a stick. It cracked upon impact – resounding loudly against the heavy silence.
Immediately and without thought, Grace cursed. The stick had not only made a loud noise but a particularly jagged section of it had lodged itself painfully in her foot. The limb in question was immediately removed from the ground and cradled in her hand. There was no blood, but that didn't mean it hurt any less.
"You can come out now," King Edmund called, sparing no effort to look back at her as he did.
He didn't sound surprised at the presence. The thought rankled Grace as she limped forwards, the gentle grass soothing after the stone and root covered forest floor. The fear of his disappointed gaze stopped her just before his side, just slightly out of his view and ire.
"Did you know that the first rule of a stealth operation is to move in silence, Grace?" King Edmund murmured absentmindedly.
Grace jumped and whispered, "How did you know it was me?"
The Just King twisted to look at her and Grace braced herself against the impact of his full-fledged glare. When his gaze settled on hers, however, she found it did not have the strength of disdain she'd feared. He certainly looked tired and annoyed, but mostly.. he just looked sad.
"Because no other Narnian would dare follow me so blatantly," The King replied in kind.
Something in his dark eyes tugged at her, they were red rimmed and raw as if he'd been wiping at them all morning. It was an odd pale crimson which set off a whole new colour in his black gaze.
As if on instinct, Grace reached for him, "Are you alright?"
He stepped out of her grasp, eyes guarded against their own vulnerability as he muttered, "I'm fine."
The easy dismissal was expected, Grace had seen it before. The bark cracked wall of his irises was one she'd seen many times now and she knew it couldn't be breached. It was as sturdy as the trees she'd touched in the woods bordering Cair Paravel.
"Why are you here, Grace?" The King asked in hushed tones. His hands balling into thick fists as he glared.
Grace did her best to soothe the irritation building in his voice, "I heard you in your tent. I-"
She didn't know how to say 'I decided to follow you' in a manner that wasn't creepy.
It didn't matter, the King read between the lines, "So instead of leaving me to my own business, you decided to trespass on a personal matter and follow me?"
Any reply was hard to form around the straight-laced accusation. Instead, Grace reverted to soft spoken defensiveness, "You've walked at least 20 minutes from the campsite to god knows where or for what reason and whilst I understand that you can defend yourself that doesn't mean you should have to."
His eyes narrowed, "You honestly expect me to believe you followed me – barefoot mind you – through the forest because you were worried for me?"
Grace shrugged, "That or I decided that your blatant refusal to tell me what you were doing meant you were hiding something important."
King Edmund sighed, his eyes drawing closed with a heavy tiredness, "The Wardrobe isn't here, Grace."
"And how am I supposed to know that if you don't tell me, your Majesty?" Grace rebuffed him.
His eyebrows raised, "I just did."
Grace spluttered, the weighted realisation of her misdeed only pushing her further into denial, "Well if you'd said so earlier-"
"Enough," The Just King interrupted.
He looked away from her as he breathed the crisp morning air. It was clear from the way his shoulders hunched and the tired set of his features - whatever he'd come out here for wasn't something as trivial as a portal.
Immediately, Grace felt the familiar swell of guilt beginning in her abdomen. She tried to ignore it in favour of the curiosity and adrenaline she'd previously relied on.
"Enough," King Edmund repeated softly, "If you're so insistent upon it, then fine."
Swiftly, he knelt down, his fingers unlacing his left boot with practiced speed before he tugged it off.
"What are you doing?" Grace whispered, her eyes blown wide with incredulousness.
He paused briefly to throw her an irritated glance, "We're both going up there."
Grace's expression crumpled in confusion as she watched him continue to unboot himself. She looked to her own feet, bare as the day she'd been born. Was he humouring her?
A curious glance was thrown towards the summit of the stone stairs. Grace could see the top now, though there was little to be seen on it. The steps finished seemingly to open air.
"Do you have to take your shoes off?" Grace wondered, thoughts half submerged in curiosity of what could be so important up there.
"I don't know," The King replied evenly, "But in this case, I think it might be the most respectful action. He eyed the jewel encrusted dagger which had been sheathed in the leather of her belt, "You should leave any weapons here as well."
"Here?" Grace squeaked, her hand reflexively drawn to the cool comforting metal, "What if we're attacked?"
King Edmund rolled his eyes as he tugged the other boot off, "We won't be. Not here."
Grace watched warily as the King replanted his bare feet upon the ground, "How can you be so sure?"
He stood before her, his shoulders now squared and confident against whatever lied at the top of the hill. It was a stark contrast to the hunched look he'd held in the moments before she'd caught up with him.
Apparently, Grace had irritated the King enough to make him run on spite.
King Edmund put a hand on the grip of his sword and unsheathed it in a swift and deadly movement. Much to Grace's relief, he did not choose to vent his frustration by sticking her with the pointy end, he simply placed the weapon upon the grass next to his boots.
Grace followed suit, taking care not to cut her dress when she freed the sparkling steel from the confines of her leather belt. She placed it gingerly next to the sword.
When she stood, the King was looking at her expectantly with one open hand gestured to the stone stairs.
Grace's brows raised in question, "I'm going first?"
"Please," The Just King urged. His expression was open and honest; if it was his plan to stab her as soon as she turned her back, it was not obvious.
There was also something in those eyes that couldn't be declined easily, and so, Grace found herself trudging up the steps before him. Her movements were slow at first – the spattered steps and grass looked wet and she did not want to fall.
Atop the dewy wetness, Grace's skirts had proven to be too long to be let alone. They were grasped tightly in her fingers as she tried desperately to stay upright and not trip on them. The bag over her shoulder did not help much, it's weight proving unbalanced and often tugging her sideways.
Why there were no railings on such a tall and ambiguous staircase, Grace could not understand.
It felt like an age had passed by the time Grace could even see the final step but once she did, a renewed energy spread through her muscles, fuelled by the curiosity burning in every fibre of her being.
She was rewarded at the summit, the sight of the radiant sun peeking over the easternmost corner of Narnia was breathtaking. The light flooded all directions in streaks of incandescent gold that coated everything in a warm and generous glow.
Grace shielded her eyes against the brightness, her sight immediately zeroing in on the stark contrasting grey stone on the hilltop.
Had she walked into Stonehenge somehow? Grace could not tell as she'd never personally visited the monument before. The stones sat similarly to how she would have imagined it, great pillar-like statues made of square that either stood singularly or leant against another.
There were six altogether – not including the alter shaped trio which sat at the foremost centre. They were aligned in a semi-circle, each sparkling with specks of ore that Grace did not dare get close enough to name for fear of the ominous and foreboding air hung about the place. It clung to the stones and reverberated from them simultaneously, too great in power to be ignored or disrespected.
On the coarse bricked floor at the centre of the semi-circle sat two slabs of the same stone, each leaning inwards on a one-sided support. The crack between them might have proven they were originally one and the same if Grace could lift such objects to match them. As it was, however, she couldn't and so there the stones stayed, each longingly pointed towards it's other half.
A short gasp halted her hand mid-air – Grace didn't know when she had reached for the crack in the stone. She turned back to look at the expression of the King as it shifted between numerous negative emotions.
"Don't touch that."
The reach of Grace's hand retracted by a hairs breadth, "Why not?"
The King reached her side, one of his own large hands wrapping easily around her wrist and tugging it away from the stone, "Just don't."
"Alright," Grace assented unsurely. As soon as her hand was clear she tugged her wrist from his grasp.
She didn't know how to interpret the expression on the King's face as his eyes remained fixated upon the slabs. There were too many to name, each layered with a myriad of contradictions atop the other.
Curiosity made her inspect the stone once again. It didn't seem as entrancing as his obsessive stare made it out to be, regardless of the air that settled around it and the mesmerising glimmer it bore. Grace did, however, see the etchings and carvings upon the stone. Words in a language she did not understand – something more primal and otherworldly than she wanted to know.
The sun rising over the east was growing taller by the second, it's light hitting the pillared stones at just the right angle to cause long languid shadows across the stone bricked floor of the space. As the light moved, the stones continued to twinkle with an innocence that was juxtaposed by the shadows they cast.
Grace couldn't help but compare them.
Unwanted images spurred; the grey was too similar, the sparkle of ore too mesmerizing in the most haunting way. If Grace squinted, she could imagine the carvings of names and dates upon the tall-standing stones. The etchings a perfect mirror of that which lay on the slabs the King stared at. It made her shut her eyes and shudder.
King Edmund remained stock still, he had not moved a centimetre since he'd tugged her from the stone. It was as if he'd been painted, a still life, a shell. The only sign of life being his expressions, which continued to shift as he processed his thoughts.
He looked at the space like a lost child; dreading the moment he would set eyes on it, yet all the same welcoming the finality of the encounter.
His dark eyes crinkled at the corners as if he'd expected more from himself; like he'd expected to cry. Whatever he felt, it clearly was something he had suppressed, something of great importance to his soul.
"This place has emotional significance to you."
It was a statement, not a question. Grace was past asking at this point, the shadows of her questions the day before emboldening her in a way she should have vetted.
The stillness broke with a short nod. King Edmund's dark, overgrown hair swept with the movement. He didn't say more as he continued to stare at the monument and judging by the seize of his throat, he wasn't even breathing.
Any practiced set of his face faltered and it seemed the Just King could no longer keep his emotions hidden, no matter how he strained.
His thick brow furrowed and wrinkled with sadness, his deep coloured lips pressed together into a wobbling thin line, his cheeks bloomed red with the effort of holding his breath… and at last, a singular tear managed to forge a path from the tips of his eyelashes to the root of his chin.
This expression, Grace knew. She'd seen it many times; on the faces of strangers, of children, of herself.
It was the face of mourning.
Her mind returned to the images of towering tombstones she'd seen. Had it been an intermittent blink of foretelling? The air of death didn't seem to hang over this place the way it should, but there was no denying this space had seen something.
"I've walked this way many times," King Edmund's soft voice broke her from her reverie, his eyes fixated stubbornly on the cracked slabs of grey stone, "But never have I managed to climb those steps."
Grace nodded, she'd perceived as much from the surprise in his reaction, "Then it looks like you've made progress today."
The Just King looked at her like that was not the response he'd been expecting, or even that he'd thought he deserved. There was an open honestly about his eyes which Grace had never seen before. The wall of bark burning away to something else entirely; vulnerable and bare in the dim light.
Grace was no stranger to comfort, both received and offered. She'd spent many nights staring into eyes just like his, offering what she could to the bare emptiness.
"I make an attempt every time I go West," The words tumbled from his lips, any questions or concerns he held with sharing such information clearly an afterthought he brushed away, "I tried to ignore it at first, to watch it pass by as we followed the planned path. But somehow, we'd always teeter further south than originally planned and I would feel this… pull."
Grace waited patiently for the King's shuddering breath to pass and for him to continue.
"It stopped being a conscious choice after the fourth trip to the West. We would make camp in the same spot and the next morning I'd leave before sunrise. I'd journey through those woods until I reached the edge of the tree line…"
"And then?" Grace prompted after a lengthy pause.
"And then I'd lose my nerve and turn back around," King Edmund looked at her, disappointment clear in the downward turn of his lips.
Something in Grace wanted to fight that emotion, to argue that avoidance of a situation is not weakness. She held the words down with the bare strength of her mind, "How do you feel now that you're here?"
At the mention of 'here', King Edmund returned to ruminating on the stones. The sun had risen enough to bathe everything with its golden light which reflected and spattered his cheeks like freckled starlight.
"I wonder what I ever thought coming here would achieve," He murmured sullenly, "I wonder how I am supposed to move on."
Grace felt her chest ache, a dull and familiar feeling settling into her soul as she watched King Edmund battle with her old enemy.
One of her hands itched in his direction, yearning to comfort how she usually would… but this was King Edmund, and Grace had no idea how that would be received.
Her eyes were once again drawn to the standing stones; glimmering, ominous and bathed in gold. They did not remind her wholly of a tombstone now, rather the glow and glimmer evocative of something else.
"There is something I do when I look upon stones such as this," Grace reminisced thoughtfully, "It is not much, but it offers some consolation."
She waited for any small sign of recognition before she continued, "I can show you, if you like?"
His brief nod was all that was needed before Grace delved into the leather bag strung over her shoulder. Her fingers flicked through its contents furious speed, silently cursing her past self who'd packed such a thing in a rush without taking care to organise anything.
Her throat sang when she at last clasped a hand around them. From the corner of her eye, she gleaned King Edmund's interested expression.
The warm wax of the candle was smooth in her hands as she offered it, the fingers underneath balancing a small and pointed matchstick betwixt them.
The King's features shifted into an expression reminiscent of his usual sarcasm, "A candle?"
Grace wanted to smile, to argue that it was simple but effective but she found the emotion required had been lost in the nervousness of her offering. The weight of the candle and her own memories laid too heavily in her open splayed palm.
When the item was inched once more in the King's direction, he accepted it.
"You light one end to melt the wax," Grace explained, "Then you angle it so that the wax drips where you wish to place it. When enough of it's melted, it should be enough to support the candle on its own."
The King nodded, his calloused hands wrapped carefully around the soft off-white stick.
Grace held the matchstick forth; partly because she thought he should do such a thing himself, mostly because she didn't know how to use it without a lighting strip.
King Edmund did. With a practiced ease, he knelt down and swept the red tipped end on the stone floor. The effect was instant, a sizzling and popping which produced an orange flame.
The wick was lit slowly, the transfer of flame stubborn against its wax coating.
"Where do I put it?" The King rasped as he stared at the orange flicker with uncertainty.
Grace shrugged, "Wherever feels right to you."
The sun reflected a warm caramel in his irises as he searched, it touched the angles of his worn face with a warm and forgiving glow.
King Edmund stepped towards the two slabs of slanted, cracked stone and kneeled. With a shaking grip, he offered the melting wax to the edge of the left, only to be disappointed when the wax did not flow evenly.
Grace's hand itched again, edging in the direction of the King. This time, she didn't think twice as she too knelt to steady his grip with her own.
His hand was warm, the skin stretched across the back of his knuckles smooth compared to the callouses of his palm. As they both held the candle aloft – watching the antagonizingly slow drips of wax which descended from the wick – it occurred to Grace that his hand didn't burn her like usually did.
When enough wax had dripped, Grace released his hand – a signal to proceed. King Edmund followed it, white knuckled as he held the candle in place and waited for it to harden. The air was chilled with the season and it did not take long.
His grip released, a triumphant flex once he realised that he'd done it. The candle made no reply but a short and encouraging flicker, it's colour and position a perfect match to the rising sun behind it.
The Just King admired it as he settled his other leg upon the floor. It was as if some weight had been removed from his shoulders, still burdened but less so than they were before.
Grace let him have the moment, choosing to sit in solidarity and silence beside him. She did not watch him now, not in this moment that was personal and private. Instead, she watched the flickering flame dance and wondered if fire also lived sentiently in this world.
"I'm sure this might all seem silly to you," King Edmund began, his voice cracked from the silence he'd held.
Grace's head was shaking before he'd even finished the sentence, "Absolutely not. Even I can see that the stones mean something to you. It would be cruel to laugh at such a connection."
"It was a table, once," the King commented, "It still holds the name even now, the Stone Table."
It made sense. Had Grace not wondered at the puzzle like split between the two glimmering slabs just moments ago?
"How did it get like this?" She asked.
King Edmund's eyes shut tightly, his corners crinkled with the effort they bore, "From the mistakes of a very foolish child."
A child? Grace's tried to keep the interest she held from her expression, "What did he do?"
At first, the King seemed reluctant to speak. He stared unseeingly at the glittering ores, one hand smoothing against his pantleg in a comforting manner.
Whether it was the interest in her voice that persuaded him, she did not know, but eventually he told her, "He betrayed everything he knew for a handful of promises. For that trespass, the ultimate price was paid."
The ultimate price. An image of blood, crimson and final pooling over the edges of the stone. Dripping towards the level ground with thick viscosity. A child's blood. The thought made her sick to her stomach.
"Such a world, where children are made to pay for misdeeds in blood," Grace whispered mournfully.
The King shook his head dismissively, "Only he did not pay it."
Surprise tore the gruesome image from her mind's eye, "What?"
The response was so quiet that Grace had to strain her ears to hear it, "Aslan took the pain in the child's place."
Her gaze returned to the Stone Table, it was still dripping with blood, but now it was blood of a different kind; more noble in sacrifice than the previously misguided crimson she'd envisioned.
"Poor child," Grace voiced.
King Edmund looked to her sceptically, "Poor child?"
"Yes," Grace resolved, her eyes determined as they met with his, "To live with someone else's life on their shoulders over a decision they made when they couldn't know any better."
The King stared at her, his dark eyes fogged over, "You'd have pity for someone you don't understand?"
Grace shook her head, "Not pity, empathy. It couldn't have been easy to navigate such a journey at a young age."
Disbelief, that was the emotion. Grace saw a trace of it on King Edmunds features before he hid them in the shade of his deep, sunlit hair, "I wonder if you would say the same to the child."
"I would," Grace confirmed reflexively, "There's no point in talking behind someone's back if you can't say it to their face."
There was a pause where the King seemed to weigh her words. Grace could not tell what emotions fuelled the argument he battled internally, for she still could not see his face. When he broke the thickened silence, his voice was small and vulnerable, "Even if it were me?"
The inaudible ring of truth to the words was hard to comprehend, yet there it was. Resilient against any objections Grace held because it simply made sense. It was as if there had been a piece long missing from the puzzle, one she'd long since given up looking for. And of all places, she'd stumbled into it on the floor, cutting underfoot when she'd least expected it.
Grace faltered briefly whilst the information settled in her understanding, "I-"
King Edmund seemed resigned before she could finish, "You don't need to explain your abhorrence to me. I have no wish to hear of it."
She tried again, "Your Majesty-"
"Don't call me that here," The King cut her off, "Not in this place, where I deserve it the least."
"Please-"
But he would not let her speak, "If you think I don't regret it, you're sorely mistaken. Every day I wish I could return to the moment I stumbled into Narnia and by extension, into her embrace. Jadis offered me things I could not fathom in my wildest dreams. Things I yearned for in a way no boy should."
His anger gave way as reason and vulnerability wormed into the edges of his features, "At the time, I was so upset with my family – with our circumstances – that I followed her. I said things that I am ashamed of. I allowed and revealed things that were worth the price of blood."
"You were a child," Grace insisted, her voice cutting against his spout of self-hatred, "Your actions do not diminish that point. If anything it is the crux of the issue."
The King denied her objections with vehemence, "It didn't matter. I knew what she was on some subconscious level. I refused to acknowledge it. I was entrapped; lured with promises of station, power and sweets," At the last word, his voice twisted with disgust, "Things that should have meant less than the lives of my family."
Grace's vision was blocked when her eyes closed in swift realisation. The puzzle piece was plucked from the floor, the cut it had left on the sole of her foot as deep as a papercut, yet it stung more.
What was it Margrove had said? There was nothing the Terebinthian's upheld more than family.
Her hand reached forth in her mind, pictures she'd imagined of King Ventotene's mistreatment and her questions as to why buzzing at her fingertips as she attempted to slot it into piece, but it wouldn't fit, yet. One side still lay disturbingly flat and emotionless.
The King's haunted gaze settled on her, the fathomless black piercing her soul in a way that made her hair stand on end. He had not noticed her internal turmoil in favour of his own, "She was beautiful too, you know. Otherworldly and terrifying but beautiful none the less."
The grasp of her mind could feel the growing edge of the puzzle piece before she could fully acknowledge it, the beginnings of an understanding she'd always known deep down.
"That is why you didn't trust me," Grace breathed.
King Edmund nodded, "You were unknown. Not of Narnia nor anything I'd ever known and Lucy's vehemence of her friendship with you only pushed me further. The look in her eyes reminded me too much of my own."
It all came to a head then; Her worries, her suspicions, any misconception Grace had stumbled over whilst trying to understand the Just King. The shaking grip of her mind held the piece over the incomplete picture haphazardly, one final test before its release.
It was a perfect fit.
Grace's eyes bugged at the implications, "You have to know I would never-"
"I know," The King flashed her a measly apologetic smile, "I do not fear you any longer, Grace."
The knowledge was comforting to say the least. Grace would have grinned in triumph were it not for the melancholy which still clung to his features.
His shoulders moved with deep, steadying breaths and once again, Grace felt the itch in her fingertips. She wanted to reach for him, to offer any comfort she could. Just as soon as the thought was acknowledged, those hands were fisted into her dress.
Instead, she again chose to delve deeper into her curiosity, "What I don't understand is how the table is cracked. Does sacrifice cause such a thing?"
"Yes," The Just King's voice was stronger now, "I do not know the specifics of it but my understanding is that He was revived by the Deep Magic. My sisters were there… though, they have never spoken of it to me."
Grace's brow furrowed, "Then how did you find out?"
The King shrugged, "Whispers at court. The advantage of a spy network is that you hear of everything. Even events of which you do not wish to hear."
There was an edge to his voice that she did not want to touch, it gleamed like the sharpened edge of a blade.
"They called me traitor, at first. Whispered it in the shadows like it was a slur," A maddening hand dragged through his hair, "Where was the lie?"
"Regardless of what I had done; All it took was the forgiveness of Aslan for them to make me a King," The King sniffed disbelievingly, "Another title placed beside the first. The honour of one just as heavy as the implications of the other."
A beam of sunlight reached pale white skin and Grace's gaze flickered to it, entranced by the way the King's capable hands wrung wretchedly under the shadow of the Stone Table.
"I feel so far from yet so bonded to both," He murmured mournfully, "The mix of identities drive me mad because it's not simply a title, not a name that is bestowed upon me in hate or kindness. It's who I am, who I was, who I will be. It's the demons I wrestle with and the voices I listen to," He paused for the breath that caught in his throat, "It's the weight I will carry for the rest of my life."
The burden of the last sentence caught her off guard. Surely, he didn't continue to blame himself?
"You seem to view yourself quite harshly," Grace voiced with concern.
The King shrugged helplessly, "What have I done that is undeserving of that."
"I can think of a few things," Grace countered, "And those are only in the month I have known you."
The statement was dismissed with a short shake of King Edmund's head.
"No, seriously," Grace pressed, "Margrove has told me of the respect the Westerners hold for you. I see it myself, day in and day out."
"It is true I have managed to make some amends," King Edmund allowed, "I've been working towards that goal my whole life."
"Some amends?" Grace's brows raised, "Casys rips me a new one every time I speak ill of you and don't even get me started on Shese; she's damn near ready to scratch my eyes out if I so much as breathe in your direction without curtseying first."
The King turned to her, surprise clad in his raw rimmed eyes, "You speak ill of me?"
Grace waved him off dismissively, "Very rarely when I'm upset at you and that is not the point. Your people are ready to fall on their swords in your defence and yet you will write that off as 'some' amends."
Once again, The King's dark hair shook with denial, "You weren't here Grace. My actions are still unbalanced to the consequences of my destruction."
"Perhaps in your mind," Grace replied, however, something in his face made her pause her protests.
The King sighed, his freckled hands wrestling an endless battle in his lap, "At times I fear that this feeling will never go way. At others, I hope it doesn't. If I were to forget the whole matter in its entirety, I fear a repeat of my actions."
Grace nodded with a semblance of understanding, "I can see your point… and you're right, it shouldn't be forgotten."
As if she'd reinforced the point, King Edmunds shoulders shifted forwards in shame.
"But that does not mean you should continue punishing yourself for it."
The statement was pondered for a moment before he breathed, "It's hard not to. It has gotten to the point where I wonder if I prefer the pain. That the crack in the perfect façade I've created is justifiably noticeable."
"So what if it is?" Grace asked.
The Just King looked at her dubiously, "It's hardly seemly for a King to wallow. We are supposed to be beacons for the future, a pillar of Justice and Magnificence to be honoured and obeyed."
Before she could think better of it, Grace scoffed, "That might be true, but that makes you no less human."
King Edmund spared her an annoyed glance.
Grace stared back with a vehemence she might regret later, "You are allowed to feel emotion, your Majesty-"
"Don't call me that."
Grace ignored him, "You are allowed to mourn. Whether it be Aslan, your decisions or even yourself."
He looked to her incredulously, "Myself?"
"Yes," Grace answered, "It's alright to mourn the person you were before you made the decisions you did."
The King's lips twisted with distaste, "I can't envision myself mourning that beast."
Grace's own lips spread thinly, "Surely you had some redeeming qualities?"
King Edmund paused, his face scrunching in thought, "I used to be able to climb. Quite well actually."
Grace leaned towards him in interest, "What did you climb on?"
"Trees mostly," He remembered fondly, "I think I got stuck in one once? I can't quite remember."
Her smile ghosted his own, "I think I have, too."
King Edmund's brows raised in spite of himself, "You were a climber?"
"Absolutely not," Grace exclaimed, frightening memories of clinging to a branch in her mind's eye, "That's why I got stuck in the tree!"
They laughed. It was light at first, a light melody of tones amongst the silent air of the morning, then, it grew more robust like a much-needed release.
When the moment passed and the pressure of silence weighed upon them again, the King spoke up, "I know what you're doing, and while I appreciate the sentiment I cannot in good conscious let you take this upon yourself. You cannot heal me, Grace."
Grace considered the statement, it's truth weighing heavily upon her heart, "You're right. Only you can do that."
The King mumbled something that Grace did not catch, though she could have sworn she heard the words 'fat chance' in there somewhere.
She breathed deeply, the feeling a release of tension she'd been holding in her chest. There was a lot of information running through her mind, the brief distraction from her own internal struggles had proven quite diverting. Almost enough for her to forget them entirely.
The words he'd spoken turned over in her mind excessively as she stared at the flame. The candle had begun to melt in earnest, the heat at the wick liquefying the white substance down by an inch since they'd lit it.
It was funny, how the world often mirrored us. The crack in the Stone Table sat glimmering in the fast-rising light of the sun. Two perfect halves of a whole, an image she could see mirrored in the statements King Edmund had made. The white of the wax had begun to drip into the crack, gluing it together by a sheer force of will.
"You know," Grace began slowly, her mind racing to catch up with her mouth, "There's a practice in Spare Oom which might offer some perspective."
The King leaned towards her, the interest sparkled in the black glass reflection of his eyes, "Another one? The people of Spare Oom do seem to have a preference for rituals."
"It's the art of mending pottery," Grace ignored his tone, her eyes transfixed on the way the white wax melted on the Stone Table, "With gold, silver or platinum."
At first King Edmund eyed her like she'd gone mad, his gaze following her own to the melted wax, "I think this table might be beyond repair."
Grace rolled her eyes, unsurprised at his literal translation, "This table might be, but you're not."
The King sighed at her dissent, "I thought we'd agreed that you can't heal me, Grace."
Grace's hands were in the air, a peace-making motion before the fight truly began, "The actions would be entirely your own. Besides, it's less about healing than it is acknowledgement."
There was no quick light of understanding as Grace had hoped, but then again, how could there be? As Lucy had reminded her multiple times, she and her siblings had left Earth when they were children and held no solid memory of the place. The only sibling in the Tetrarchy who seemed to have a clue about Spare Oom was Queen Susan, and even then her recollections were few and far between.
Grace breathed deeply in preparation, her mind already spinning webs of resistance which King Edmund might take and planning how best she could route them, "Let's say, you buy one of your sisters a nice teapot."
"Alright," The King followed.
"But when you go to wrap it, it's dropped and breaks in half."
The expression on King Edmund's face pronounced his words before he did, "A teapot would shatter."
Grace fixed him with a stony glare, "Well, thank Aslan this one didn't. It's only one crack – easily mendable – but of course, this is a gift and you wouldn't feel right just gluing it back together-"
"I would just buy a new teapot," The King replied simply.
At this point, Grace wanted to throw the whole analogy – and the King – into the bin, "Please just let me finish."
King Edmund stopped, thankfully, though there was an ever so slight mischievousness to the turn of his lips.
Grace sighed, knowing this would be as close as she'd get, "The point I'm trying to make is that instead of simply gluing it together and pretending it never happened, you might chose to glue to together with something noticeable. Something decorative."
"What is the point in that?" The King asked, "If you were to make the mistake, would you not wish to hide it?"
"I think the point is to see the beauty in the cracks," Grace explained, "To celebrate the flaws and missteps of life."
Understanding warmed King Edmund's features, which then settled as the meaning did, "You do understand that the crack remains, regardless of the amount of gold thrown on it?"
"The gold cements the crack together to make it whole again," Grace corrected, "But you're right the crack is still there – it will always be there – it just becomes easier to live with."
The King looked at her oddly, "So… You want me to celebrate my actions towards my family, Aslan and all of Narnia?"
Grace looked at him, the fervour of her speech warming her cheeks against the chill in the air, "I want you to acknowledge it in a way that doesn't reduce who you are now. I want you to understand that you are a far better person for your mistakes, not despite them."
When he still looked unconvinced, Grace's voice raised in volume, "Don't you see? If you continue to see yourself with such contempt then you are betraying everything you've worked for. There is so much more to you than the choices you made as a child."
"Like what?" The King threw back.
Grace's brows rose involuntarily, "An attitude that won't quit, for one."
The King's dark eyes widened a fraction at the unexpected response. For a second before he spoke, he seemed as remorseful as the apology offered, "Sorry. I used to be like that before. Argumentative and vindicated. It's not a preferred personality trait of mine."
A familiar smile curled Grace's cheek, "It's alright, I was too. I still am, most days," An unwilling sigh parted her lips and soothed her mind, "Some wounds are too hard to let go."
The Just King seized the opportunity to retaliate with a small, wry smile, "And to think, you're lecturing me about mine."
"I never said I perfected the art," Grace muttered defensively, glancing sideways to meet his look with her own.
The still life had returned, but it was calmer. King Edmund's shoulders seemed lighter than they had before, they held his deep blue overshirt straight across their broad width with a practiced ease.
His face seemed more pensive and less debilitating, a feat which Grace would take a little credit for – though she would never claim such a thing out loud. Most noticeably, his hands had stilled, a steady breath on the rise and fall of his chest as the sun warmed his irises to a warm golden hue.
There was little more Grace could do. She'd already encroached heavily on his privacy today – an action which she was sure to remunerate over for a very long time.
The argument felt incomplete, however, and there was another sentence that beaded itself upon the string of her mind. One last spoken attempt to convince the King to try.
In the still air, Grace decided to take the chance, "Look, do you plan on repeating your actions?"
He looked at her, eyes ringed with a steady rim of honor and honesty, "Never."
Grace smiled softly at his intensity, "Then I'd say the error has done its job. Is there a reason you should still hold on to it so tightly?"
"I hold on to it so tightly so that I never repeat it again," King Edmund argued, his voice a stern reminder of his previous words.
"But you just told me you never would," Grace rebutted, pleased with the way his dark eyes fractioned wider, "So perhaps, it might be useful to give yourself credit where it is due and perhaps a little bit of lenience?"
The silence that followed was telling, it emboldened Grace with a hope she didn't know she held.
"I've never much liked gold," King Edmund muttered as he picked at the skin of his fingers.
Grace felt her cheeks stretch with a small smile, an image of the King's intricate leaf broach floating across her memory, "Perhaps you can paint yourself in silver."
His lips pursed but the slight and unmistakeable distaste was overridden by something stronger. Something kinder than what had alighted his features previously.
If nothing else came from this conversation, Grace would take the win in pushing a thought past the stoic bark of King Edmund's mental walls.
"I'm sorry I followed you," Grace murmured through the unobserved silence.
"I'm not," King Edmund returned, "If you hadn't been here, I might never have climbed those stairs."
Grace looked to him, her hair grazing softly against her chin as she did. She was only slightly disappointed when he did not reciprocate the look.
Instead, King Edmund held a resolute stare at the fast-melting stick of wax and the etched stone beneath it. His expression mirrored the likeness, a perfect picture of hardened beliefs against the softer more malleable ones.
It gave her more than hope and for the first time since they trekked those stone steps, Grace believed in his ability to overcome his demons on his own.
There was no better time for her exit – or escape.
"I've infringed on your privacy for far too long," Grace murmured as she prepared her satchel and skirts for departure, "I'll head back to the camp."
"No," The Just King interjected, his expression shifting to beseeching, "Stay."
Grace's brow furrowed in question, "And do what? This is your time for reflection, not mine."
His answering smile was small, yet charming, "Perhaps you might practice sitting in silence? It might do you some good."
With her eyes raised to the sky, Grace silently called on Aslan for strength. That was what one did right? She'd heard some other phrases with the Great Lion's name used though didn't quite grasp the rules of their practice as yet.
"Good bye, your Majesty," Grace replied as she stood wobblingly from the coarse brick floor, "I'll see you back at camp."
The King regarded her stoically before returning his gaze to the Stone Table, "Fine. Take my boots at the foot of the stairs. The last thing we need is another open wound to mend."
Grace smiled lightly as she alighted from the shadows of the towering stones. The boots at the foot of them would be a warm reprieve from the worn soles of her bare feet.
"What about you?" She realised, grateful for the gesture but unwilling to leave her friend bereft the way she had been.
"I'll manage. Go."
Before she dipped past the level ground of the Stone Table, she threw one last glance to the fast-rising sun; the blinding light caressing her face with a warmth she had not felt since winter had begun.
In the direct path of that beam sat the King himself; broad shoulders as assured as they should be, despite everything he had been through. The soft smile on her lips straightened as the weight of his life dawned upon her.
King Edmund was right, Grace could not heal him.
It was a wretched thing, to stand aside someone you cared for, only to watch them suffer. She supposed it was all one could do in a case like this. To stand in support of those who needed it and offer what you could to assist them.
If all Grace could offer were hope and anecdotes, they would be given without a second thought. If he needed more, then there was little else that wouldn't be given to wipe that mournful expression from his face.
When the sight of the King's shadow had all but burned into her retinas, it was traded with the vertigo inducing height of the grass cracked steps.
Grace sighed; one hand on her skirt, and the other in the air for balance as she began her long decent down them.