#edmund is a darling and i will bathe in the blood of anyone who says otherwise

[siriusblack-the-third]

Matching Misfortunes: Edmund Pevensie

He's arguably my favourite character right alongside Caspian the Tenth. Let's hope I did his character justice. The other parts for the pevensies are up on my blog.

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Edmund stalks into the debate hall with his notes in his hands, and the room falls into a hush.

The students cease their muttering, their eyes tracking the lanky, too-thin boy as he walks with far too much grace for someone who is fifteen-almost-sixteen years old and has yet to get his final growth spurt.

His limbs are too long for his blazer-adorned torso and he is not yet old enough to put on muscle, and still he moves with thrice as much control and precision as the royalty of the country.

Edmund remembers the months After.

He remembers stumbling and falling and breaking bone because he was a twenty-nine year old man in the body of a ten year old child, falling till he got sick of it and asked Susan to help him learn how to walk again, remembers tear-soaked cheeks and trembling callous-less hands and bitten-off screams after being woken up by a nightmare in the middle of the night, feeling too thin, too short, too young, too weak, too cold Peter, please, it’s too cold, help me—

Never again, he had told himself.

He feels their stares settle over his strange unscarred skin like a layer of cold gel, and he ignores them in favour of holding his head high and walking towards the desk with his name tag on it. He relaxes into the seat as much as he can, back straight and shoulders pulled back and breathing even, and then moves his gaze to meet the eyes of everyone that is looking at him.

Most students hurriedly look away, flushes staining their cheeks bright red out of the embarrassment of getting caught staring so blatantly. A select few stare back, holding his gaze for a couple of seconds before they, too, lower their eyes and turn back to their conversation.

It both does and does not feel like the Royal Court that he once presided over.

There too, conversations used to stop when he entered the Throne Room. There, too, people used to follow him with their eyes as he moved towards his throne beside Peter’s. There, too, he used to keep his back straight and roll his shoulders back and breathe evenly to prepare himself for the approaching war of words that he was certain he would win.

He lounges in his seat like he’s lounging in his throne, and watches the faculty walk into the room and take their seats. He does not bother to stand up like the rest of the students do, and ignores the disapproving looks Professor Jasmine throws at him for his supposed insolence.

What do they know of debates, he thinks with a hidden sneer.

He was the one that sat with bloodthirsty Kings and Warlords, manipulative Queens and Bandit Chiefs, and aided his older sister in hammering out treaties and ceasefires and surrenders from their enemies’ lips without having to lift a sword. He wrote the laws for his world and presided over the Supreme Court of Justice of his kingdom, solved internal disputes and planned war strategies and invented new tactics for external conflicts. He was renowned for his excellence with double swords and double-edged words alike, in Narnia.

In Narnia, he was King Edmund the Just, the Serpent Tongued Diplomat King, Third of the Beloved Four, Representative of the People.

Here in post War England, he is just Edmund Pevensie, with sharp glares and sharper words, as dangerous with his tongue as his older brother was with his fists and his older sister with her smiles.

Unlike Peter who swings between two worlds without control over his thoughts and memories, and Susan who tries (and fails miserably) to not think about their world at all, it is comparatively easy for Edmund to maintain the two different worlds as different experiences. For him, Narnia exists in one part of his mind and England in the other— separated from each other by a solid stone wall that Edmund has built up and strengthened over the five and a half years that have passed since he and the others fell out of that thrice-damned wardrobe, in bodies that were no longer theirs.

And yet, his nail beds itch.

He remembers the feel of digging his nails into flesh, remembers the feel of blood welling up under his fingers as he dug deeper, remembers the feel of being older, taller, stronger, wiser. He remembers being powerful.

Around him, the debate competition begins. He dimly registers the names of the students from the seventeen participating schools as they are introduced, and recognises more than half of them.

He treats debate competitions in schools just as he did political meets back when he used to be King. There are always three things one must know— the topic that you are to speak on, the questions that you may be asked, and the people who will be attending. About the people, you must know their agendas, their strengths and their weaknesses, and how to use that to gain what you desire. As simple, and as difficult, as that.

Here, he recognises twelve out of the seventeen opponents, and feels his lips curve into a small smirk. The participants seated on either side of him lean away from him, and it only makes his smirk grow wider with vindication.

He misses attending and holding Court. He misses the gratification in verbally ripping apart nobles and bloodthirsty warlords alike, he misses the satisfaction he felt while sinking his two swords into flesh on the battlefield in case the peace talks went wrong.

He misses being covered in blood after a victory, misses the annual Royal debate competitions, the mock arguments he had with Susan and the members of the Royal Court of Narnia, the vindictive smugness he felt when he put the fear of the Narnian Royalty in the hearts of warlords seeking to destroy his kingdom with nothing but his words and occasionally his swords.

Here, Edmund has to remind himself that he is arguing with children.

He has to remind himself that the people he is debating with are not warlords and power-hungry rulers out to conquer his kingdom.

He has to remind himself to not turn into the Serpent Tongued Diplomat King, to keep that vicious and twisted part of him safely locked up in the Narnian part of his memories. He has to keep the whole of his true self at bay, because he knows that they will not understand his metaphorical bloodlust when it comes to the art of wordplay.

He knows that they will not understand what it is like, to be an adult in a child’s body forced to play pretend politics where he has no real influence on the country’s government.

However, he thinks as the debate competition commences and a girl in a smart navy blue suit walks onto stage and starts giving her speech, he can allow certain attributes from his Kingly self through into his teenage self. In controlled amounts, he can allow himself a little ruthlessness, a little edge to his words, a little confidence, a little dignity and grace.

He can allow himself to indulge a little, to employ a few of his Kingly attributes into his teenage identity so he can get through secondary school without being given as hard a time as normal teenagers are.

That is one benefit of having been King— he might not have grown up in this world, but he had grown up before. As uncomfortable it was to grow up again, he knows what to expect this time.

He is better prepared than he was last time.

He leans forward and notes down a question for a statement the girl makes, and he feels the stares of the students on his back again. The vindication rises in his body; he is a force to be reckoned with and his opponents know it, and Edmund revels in the effect he has on them, revels in the way they cannot meet his eyes properly without having to look down. It almost feels like he is King again and they are his enemies— forced to bow to him after being defeated time and again, forced to grudgingly admit that he is superior to them.

The debate progresses, he gives his speech, gets asked questions and answers them as best as he can. He scratches his itching nails over his palms as he listens to the rest of their speeches and asks them questions, and sits back with his dissatisfaction very visible on his face when he does not receive the answers he was hoping for.

In the end, he lifts the trophy up with fingers that despair for the feel of his swords gripped in them, a satisfied gleam in his piercing blue eyes and a badge that proclaims him as the first ranker pinned to the front of his school blazer.

Dozens of eyes follow him as he steps off the stage and strides out of the room, and he lets them settle on his proud shoulders. Lets them turn into the weight he once carried in the form of a silver crown.

Let them see, he thinks viciously. His nails itch, and he wishes to sink them into flesh and rip it apart. He wishes to drench himself in the blood of his enemies.

Let them be witness to merely a fraction of the power I used to possess. Let them understand that I am dangerous, and not to be underestimated. Let them see that I am not a mere child.

He is a boy, arguing politics, modern and ancient war tactics and ethics with professors in his free time, having rumours of being a genius follow him around like obedient dogs at their master’s heels.

He is a King, shackled and hidden in the corner of a mind that belongs to a too-lanky teenage boy halfway through puberty.

He refuses to reach too deep into the memories. He refuses to forget the memories. He refuses to let himself sink into his own mind. He refuses to forget himself, and he refuses to be his entire self.

He cannot. He will not.