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He’s crumbling, breath gasping up his throat in short, rattling waves, heaving through his lungs, pressing against his heart in sharp contrast to the cool of the snow against his skin, the Witch’s sweltering gaze on him.
Her smile is sickly sweet, her eyes cool gold and her hair rusting iron.
Edmund yearns. He yearns for his brother at his side, and Susan on the other. He yearns for Lucy clutching at his palm.
Edmund is lost, lost in a sea of white.
Edmund is made of trains rattling along tracks and mocking sneers and his brother’s disappointed gaze. Edmund cannot breathe.
With a warm breath and a golden gaze, the Lion pulls him free. He offers him salvation, sacrifices Himself for the little traitor boy and his siblings’ desperation and with a heave Edmund’s lungs are clear.
His brother’s arm is warm around his shoulders, Peter’s voice heavy with something more, something else , something completely otherworldly, his tongue heavy with gilded gold and a cold, reassuring love that cools Edmund’s burns and presses around him like a hug and a sword shaking in a new teenager’s quivering hands.
Lucy’s eyes shine with tears and a heady sort of grief that’s too much, that’s so much more than any of them should be experiencing, especially little Lu. Little Lu who Edmund bullies and sneers at and when it comes down to it, has come down to, would give his heart still dripping blood, still beating, ripped ripe from his chest for.
Susan smiles at him, warm as every, bright and burning and oh so damning. She will forsake the world for her siblings and she will cling to this nation that has been shoved into their trembling hands and given to their tear-stained cheeks and dedicated to Peter’s cracking voice and Lucy’s pitched child-joy and Edmund’s youthful anger with her soul and her mind.
Edmund is left gasping at the feeling of the Lion’s gaze and Peter’s love and Lucy’s faith and Susan’s strength.
Edmund Pevensie is thrust into kingship and brotherhood and nightmares of ice and palaces and piercing gold eyes that are diluted by a snow so cold it burns.
England is dreary, it curls like smog around his lungs, taints his every breath with smoke, tears his airways apart until they’re bloody and iced up.
Tracing his palms with gentle hands, Susan offers him a stone-hewn smile and a tapestry of eyes, blinking, open, staring into his soul, piercing past his heart.
Peter is better. But, his smiles are like tarnished gold and glinting steel and his hugs keep him from falling, the gentle brush of fingers through hair like fresh air. He’s the man who taught him to govern a country. He’s the boy who taught him how to lace his boots.
Lucy’s hands are smeared in blood and anger and rage and Peter is the station her radio is tuned to. She follows her brother like a child does their parent and Edmund faintly recognizes that it’s a fair comparison. Lucy was eight. Lucy is eight. Lucy is a grown queen whose subjects revere her in every sense of the word. Lucy is a war-torn little girl who was sent to the country under her siblings’ care and came back dependent on no one but them and herself.
The suitcase is heavy in his hands, the train platform is overwhelming, Peter's grip is slick with blood and sweat, Susan’s frigid and Lucy’s gaze is blank.
The waves washes him clean of sin and regret and Lucy’s gaze is alive with their reflection, Susan’s hands are warm with the feel of the sun’s rays and Peter’s grasp on his shoulders is covered in sand and dirt and his eyes are glowing with the molten gold reflection of the sun over the distant mountains peaks.
Caspian’s gaze reminds him far too much of the queen’s and Edmund raises his chin in defiance. Enter battle justly and righteously, curls through his mind like smoke, like snow on a blustery evening, like Peter’s hands clutching his own.
Peter is eighteen and Edmund is fifteen and his hands are shaking like a leaf in the breeze and blood has soaked through Peter’s uniform and they’ve been here five years and they still remember fog and mothers and fathers gone to battle and Peter is raising his siblings and Edmund is not yet raised and his older brother is whispering, “Enter battle justly, Dear Lord, enter battle justly and with glory and righteousness. Justly and righteously, my brother. And may Aslan be with you.”
Edmund raises his chin and lets a snarl cross his features and he is defiant in all the ways that truly matter. Edmund raises his chin and blood is on teeth, it wells in his mouth.
“Majesty,” he murmurs quietly as he passes Peter his glass. “Sister,” presses through his lips when he grips Susan’s elbow tightly. “Your Highness,” when he hands Lucy her dagger still dripping with blood.
Peter nods at him gently, mutters, “Grace.” Susan smiles quietly, whispers, “Brother.” Lucy grins sharply, mournfully, and offers, “Your Honour.”
Caspian’s eyes are sad and pitying and Edmund fights the old urge to sneer.
Peter and Susan come back with something grief-stricken and a new resolve. Peter to remember. Susan to forget.
For a moment, Edmund is tranquil. For a moment, Edmund cannot live, but he can breathe.
Like it always has, it does not last. Because, Edmund has always brought trouble and mischief and his faith in the Lion is sometimes the only thing keeping him afloat.
Edmund and Lucy crash through that painting with none of the regality of their past and all of the awkwardness of their child-bodies.
Eustace is an unkind, cruel boy and he reminds Edmund of himself in a sick twisted manner. Eustace is better than Edmund ever was and the dragon in the boy’s bones is all the proof he needs.
But, Eustace is made of a child gasping for air and succeeding and harsh airs and a kind heart and Edmund is none of those things.
Eustace comes to life with a roar and a burst of flame and Edmund is an incendiary. Edmund has burnt to the end of the wick and he’s imploded upon himself. Lucy’s hand is clutched in his and he curls into Peter’s arms tightly, shakes, shivers, sobs.
Susan’s smile is painted and pleasant and it’s all kinds of grim but he pries her arms open and pulls himself to her cool embrace.
Lucy’s grins grow sharper, her features like they’re made of stone and her hair hangs to her waist now.
Edmund can’t bring himself to look Jill or Eustace in the eyes when they come knocking, searching for a quartet of Monarchs that died centuries ago.
The table is stiff and cold and the laughter is warm, gentle, and the phantom glows gold in the reflections of the High King’s eyes.
The phantom is pleading, begging for help and Peter will give it and Edmund will always follow.
Peter’s gaze is steady and kind and full of pride and the rings glimmer in the sunlight, covered in a thin layer of grime. Peter wipes them off on his shirt and they’re near blinding now.
The professor is rambling on about how he and Polly came to know Narnia for what must be the ninetieth time and suddenly Edmund is stricken with the realization that he will never set foot off this train.
Peter’s hand on his shoulder is firm and grounding and the Lion’s breath is hot on his cheek.
Edmund has rarely felt guilt and here he doesn’t either instead he regrets, he regrets his sister left behind, he regrets a world’s death, but he smiles in the new sunlight.
Edmund’s life is crumbling to pieces in his hands, blood is dripping down his chin and his teeth are stained bright red and Susan is years and worlds away from them and there’s a silver crown settled on his head and a sword clutched in his grasp.
But, Edmund laughs with wild abandon, he laughs with a joy that he hasn’t felt since his skin was made of gold and Peter’s hands were scarred and battle-weary and Susan’s lips were painted in blood and Lucy’s nails were stained permanent red.
Edmund Pevensie tilts his chin back and grins ferociously up at the sky and the witch cannot reach him and the Lion’s tail is wrapped around his calf.
The skies grin back.
They wrap around him in a gentle embrace and Peter's pride is glorious and Lucy’s joy is infectious and Edmund has truly, wonderfully gone utterly and completely mad.
And it feels just.