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England no longer fits him anymore, Edmund decides. It pulls tight across his chest like an ill-fitting suit jacket that is far too small for him now. A man in a boy’s skin, bursting at the seems. A king removed from his kingdom, reduced to boyhood again.
It doesn’t fit any of them anymore really, but he can see how Peter tries to contain it, slouching forward, body arching in a way that he would have never done in Narnia. His hair lacks its luster, the golden hue fading into a ragged blond. He wields his fists like he used to wield his sword, fighting till his knuckles are split and bloodied all the time. By an unfortunate by product, Edmund’s own knuckles are also split and bloodied all of the time. He is too used to charging into battle beside his brother to stop now when those glorious battles have been reduced to childish brawls.
Susan parades around as if she never left Narnia, and it make her more enemies than friends. She is a queen, or was a queen in another life, and now, she is a girl. Other girls do not take kindly to the way she holds her head high, looking down the slope other nose at them. For all Susan was titled the Gentle in Narnia, she becomes cruel in England. Her soft rounded edges sharpen with each insult, and Edmund almost wishes she would take it out with her fists as well. At least then, he could pretend he was helping.
He worries about Lucy the most. She cries when their mother insists she wear shoes, forcing them onto her feet. Her smile is larger than it used to be, but it means it shatters more quickly, falling apart. Freckles appear across the bridge of her nose, and she cherishes them, the dryad kisses imprinted on her skin once again. Girls her age are frightened of her and make fun of her in equal measures. Sometimes, he holds her when the comments start to get to her, the ones calling her weird and awkward. “I am a queen, Edmund,” she tells him in-between bouts of tears. “I am a queen. Why can’t we go home?” Edmund just holds her and prays to Aslan that he will take them back to Narnia soon. He may deserve the exile from the only place he has ever belonged, but Lucy didn’t. Lucy deserves Narnia.
Edmund himself is simply fulfilling the same role he had served in Narnia, the brother, the supporter, the mediator, the negotiator. His tongue remains as silver as his crown used to be, and he longs for the weight of it on his head. In absence of his crown, he does everything he can to feel like he’s back in Narnia even if it means his knuckles stay bloodied, his shirts stay damp with Lucy’s tears, and his ears stay full of Susan’s gossip. He tries not to lean on any of them the first few months. They are all so fragile, he fears that his weight will shatter them completely. He is alone, but he is okay. For now.
He thinks he is holding himself together. His hair finally grows long enough to tickle the edge of his jawline, and he doesn’t flinch from his reflection in mirrors anymore. Lucy starts to braid it back out of his eyes like she used to do, but his mother is horrified when they come home at last, flowers tucked in the braids. He is not king here, not in Narnia, and in England, boys do not wear their hair long, do not tuck flowers into it. English boys do not cry when their mother cuts their hair either, but he has not been an English boy for a long time. He is Narnian down to his core, and as his dark locks fall to the ground under his mother’s hand, tears drip down his face. She cuts it back short, and he thrashes as she does, unable to take it. His hair no longer brushes against his ears, and he is cold again, so cold. He wishes he could have stayed with Professor Kirke, safe in the knowledge that it wasn’t all a dream, that Kirke had seen the creation of his beautiful nation. More than that, he wishes he could have stayed in Narnia.
Lucy holds his head in her hands later that night, brushing his tears away with his thumbs. “I forgive you, Edmund,” she mutters under her breath, and for all her appearance is that of a child, her eyes are those of the wild young queen who danced with satyrs and kissed dryads. “We all forgive you. I’m right here with you.” She crawls into his bed with him, and the siblings curl tightly together, keeping the coldness of winter away.
The next morning he shatters a mirror when he catches sight of his reflection. Susan buys him a hat while she’s out, and he wears it everyday even when the summer sun starts to make his head swelter. Lucy just kisses the tip of his nose when she sees it. His mother doesn’t make him cut it again.
His father stoops now that he’s returned from war. His knees ache, so he uses a cane. Sometimes he wakes up screaming from nightmares. He stares off into the distance for full minutes before he jerks back to reality. When Edmund dares to ask, he avoids the question, just telling him that war is not a topic fit for children. Anger bubbles up inside of his chest. He is twelve with a scar the size of his fist from where the White Witch stabbed him on his stomach, and he is eighteen, following Peter into battle and when the battle is won, his arms are coated in blood, and he is twenty-five, watching the light fade from his friend’s eyes, hand on his sword. He has won wars, pulled battles from the fingertips of old generals, has manipulated kings until they gave him what he wanted. Edmund Pevensie has not been a child in a long time.
His father doesn’t stop saying it. “I lost friends. I lost brothers.” Edmund barely resists the urge to yell that so had he. His father gripped his hand. “I don’t want that for you, Edmund.”
Too bad, he wants to say. It already has. He has nearly died more times than he can count. Peter has almost died more time than he can count. Susan had watched in horror with Lucy tucked behind her, cordial in hand for when the fighting stopped. Later on, Susan had watched alone as Lucy joined her brothers on the battlefield, back pressed against Edmund’s as they bled for their people and for Aslan. He wants to pounce, to challenge his father to a sword fight, to yell until he understands that they are suffering too, that he flinches from the snow, that he needs his hair long, that his scars are not from tumbling on the cliffside at Professor Kirk’s. He understood warfare, probably better than his father ever could. At least, his father fought a faceless enemy, a haunting creature. He nearly delivered his family into the hands of a witch, of an evil so vile that his insides ache to think about it. He had met war, and he had met pride, and he had faced death right in the eyes. How dare his father act was if Edmund could never understand?
Peter walks on the one-sided conversation and can practically see the smoke billowing from Edmund’s ears. He grasps his brother’s shoulder and steers him out back into the yard, making a plethora of excuses up as Edmund buries his face in his hands. How could his father know? Even if they attempted to tell him, he would never believe them. Edmund takes a deep breath. It’s the cold, he thinks. It’s making him paranoid.
His brother steers him into the sun without asking, and Edmund warms, slouching slightly. Peter lets go of his shoulders and leaves him standing in the sun before returning with two swords. He shoves one into Edmund’s hand.
“Where did you find these?” Edmund asks even as his fingers curl around the hilt. It is muscle memory to test the weight of it in his hands, to twirl his wrist. He has fallen into a battle stance without realizing, pulling the sword to the right of his head. Peter just gives him a dazzling grin, and if it wasn’t for the house behind him, Edmund could almost pretend they were back in Narnia. Back home. He blinks the tears from his eyes.
“Oh, what is it you always said, Ed? Ask me no questions, I’ll tell you no lies.”
Edmund grins back at him, a little bit of the load lifts off of his chest. He bends his knees, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “Alright then, High King. I hope your skill hasn’t worn off.” And then they were on each other, metal clashing like old times. They fight until Lucy comes to retrieve them both, her own eyes lighting up at the swords.
Peter presses a finger to his lips. “Our secret, Lu, okay? Su would absolutely lose her mind if she knew we were doing this here.” He slips off to return the swords from wherever he was stashing them. Edmund should probably pay attention. Peter is not as good at subtlety as he would like to believe, and it is Edmund’s job to make sure things like this stay hidden. But, Lucy is smiling at him, her freckles dancing across her nose, and she slips her pinky finger into his and tugs him inside of the house. He follows, of course he does, as he has followed her since the beginning, following her right into Narnia. For a moment, he feels the weight lift off the his shoulders, and he thinks that maybe this will get easier.
It doesn’t get any easier.
Susan keeps saying that it will, that next thing you know, they’ll all barely remember Narnia like they almost forgot England. Edmund doesn’t think this is a fair comparison, but he just purses his lips when she says so. England isn’t anything special. Narnia was everything. His eyes still water when he thinks of the smell of it. When he imagines sinking his hands into Narnian soil, splashing Narnian water on his face. It’s hard to forget when the kisses the dryads gave him finally appear across the bridge of his nose and Lucy’s too. It’s hard to forget the overwhelming power that whirls through Narnia when Aslan is near. There is nothing to compare the feelings of Narnia to in England. But Susan insists that this will become easier. Edmunds tucks his head and keeps his eyes open for Aslan anyway.
It doesn’t get easier. If anything, it gets worse.
When winter finally reaches England and the snow falls, Edmund wilts like the summer wildflowers. He refuses to leave the house unless he has to, stays tucked under Susan’s arm, hidden behind Peter’s frame, Lucy pressing into his side. His fingertips grow cold and blue. Susan forces him into gloves, makes him more hats than he can ever hope to wear, and makes more excuses for his sullen and meek nature to their mother. Their mother is unsettled by his behavior, sensing the change in her children, but especially, her youngest son. Edmund knows she is concerned. He can see it in the way she hovers around him, stops insisting on the short hair cut, letting it grow to curl around his jaw. If it gets any longer, she will cut it back, and he will let her. He watches how his favorite meals appear on the table, the way he always seems to get an extra helping on is plate. Of course, he notices. He is the diplomat king, the spy master, the one who turns war into negotiations. He observes her worried eyes at the split knuckles on Peter’s hands, the twitch of her eye when Susan contradicted her with the logic and ease of someone use to knowing best and having her way. He hears her crying at night when Lucy brings home teacher’s notes about her playing with animals rather than other girls. He does what he can to lessen her worry. He patches Peter up and shoves gloves onto his hand. He uses his silver tongue to soothe disputes between Susan and their mother. He holds Lucy’s hand and takes her to the park where she can be as free as she would like. It is not enough, and he knows it, can hear it in the rattling inhales of his own chest. As much as he can fix the rest of them, he is unsure of how to take care of himself.
He spends days laying under blankets, acing his school work out of the driving desire to disappear somewhere else rather than any desire to learn. His teachers mummer about a promising political career after his first historical presentation, but they worry about his social life. While he excels academically, he refuses to associate with anyone other than his own siblings. “Trauma from the war evacuations,” he hears one of the teachers mutter as he passes. “Such a disappointment too. If not for his dismal social abilities, this Edmund has far surpassed the arrogant boy from before.” Edmund ducks his head and keeps moving. When teachers ask about his ambitions, he tells them he wants to be a diplomat, to prevent wars like the one that scarred his father. Everyone seems to approve of that answer, even his siblings. Lucy is the only one who knows that Edmund does not intend to live that long.
It is the first morning of the holidays, and for the first time, Edmund does not have to force a coat on and drag himself outside into the snow. He sits at his bedroom window and stares at the glittering snow along the ground, feels the cold, and he makes up his mind. Aslan had not died for Edmund to hide behind his siblings, for him to continue in his old ways, or for him to consider not existing at all. His lips press into a firm line as he recalls Aslan’s words as they talked that day, so long ago. Tears slip down his face, and he brushes them aside. “Aslan,” he whispers into the silence, “I want to go home.” His eyes slip shut. He did this. He suggested looking for the White Stag. He sentenced them to this hell. He sucks in a deep breath. “I surrender,” he whispers into the quiet, wiping his face. There is no response, but he understands the answer anyway.
Edmund rises early the next morning. He digs until he finds a new notebook, and he starts to write, anything and everything he can think of. He observes war tactics and strategies, and he maps them out in his notebook like he is preparing a siege himself. He draws maps of Narnia, prepares for a return he hasn’t been promised. But wasn’t Aslan all about faith? And Edmund has nothing to lose anymore. He dances with Lucy, humming Narnian tunes under his breath. At the end of the holidays, he still feels the tugging across his chest as he answers questions, checks out too many library books, and styles his hair for the first time since that summer. He is not alive, not like he was in Narnia, but he is closer. Isn’t that what counts?
He buries himself in his studies, fights with Peter till his body aches like it would after hard battles, climbs into Lucy’s bed more nights than not, and talks politics and social studies with Susan until his head is spinning. He takes every extra credit opportunity, relishes every bruise and scraped knuckle, and he tries not to miss Narnia with every inhale and exhale. He buries the ache in his stomach deep and tries not to hate the streets of endless houses. He longs for the woods, for the countryside, for home. He can’t go home again.
The spring semester speeds by as Edmund musters up the courage to climb out of bed each day. Susan starts to blossom agin, loosening around the edges once again. Her friends return to her sides. Each day, she seems to remember Narnia a little less. Edmund envies her and hates her at the same time. How could she possibly move on? Why couldn’t he let it go too?
Lucy sits beside him as they wait for the tram, tucked up under his arm on the last week of school. Susan is entertaining a large group of boys, twisting her hair around her fingers. Edmund feels empty just watching her. “I am not sure I like Susan very much anymore,” she confesses into his ear. He just swallows and tugs her a little closer.
"I am not sure of much these days,” he whispers back too her, on the verge of a confession. He thinks of the notebook in his jacket pocket, of the dozens of prayers written in it, tear stained and smudged. He opens his mouth, only to hear Peter shouting, and he is moving before he understands it.
His hands are curled into fists, and his body reacts. It knows what to do even when his brain hasn’t quite caught up. His arms ache, and blood trickles down his face as a hand curls around his wrist, wrenching him back. Susan looks at him with utter disdain. He opens his mouth again, to say something, anything, to shake off her hold, to beg her to speak of Narnia again.
He does none of these things, because before he can convince himself to speak, their world tilts upside down.
The Pevensies are not in England anymore.