[fic] Along the Midnight Edge 8/14
Dec. 31st, 2010 01:56 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
keire_keTitle: Along the Midnight Edge
Rating: 18
Genre: drama, romance
Pairings: Edmund/Caspian
Wordcount: 80k
Warnings: it is rated 18 for potentially disturbing themes
Summary: Narnia ended a mere two hundred years after Caspian’s reign, as though he was the climax of her 2,500 years’ history. He was. There were stories unfolding in Narnia of which none of her rulers were aware, and stories must run their natural course, even though their heroes are dead.
[CHAPTER EIGHT -- Are you the New Person, drawn toward Me?]
A strong hand gripped his shoulder then and someone clung to him in the darkness, and perhaps there was just the smallest amount of warmth in him after all, for where they touched there was a spark and Edmund felt he could just barely move his head.
“You fool,” Caspian was whispering, frantic and furious, into his lips. “You utter fool.”
“By all accounts,” Edmund managed. He resisted when Caspian tried to pull him out of the niche. “No, please. Just leave me be.”
“There’s more written. We need to know, Ed -- Peter says it gets too complex in Latin, he doesn’t understand the subtleties.”
“I do not wish to know more.”
“Surely this shouldn’t have shaken you so hard,” Caspian said.
Edmund felt silence was enough of a reply.
“Why? This we already knew, did we not?”
“Knew? Caspian -- it is written, upon the Stone Table that I brought Narnia to her end! That I had it in my power to choose and I chose to doom her!”
“That was not your choice.”
“Wasn’t it? I said yes. I swore myself to you. Had I not, the matter would have been settled and Narnia would have been spared, would have thousands of years to grow and live!” Edmund sank against the hill in despair. “I destroyed her. The White Witch had failed, Miraz had failed, with the armies and the magic, ice and fire, yet I managed to succeed with nothing but a word, all because you have a pretty face.”
“You didn’t know,” Caspian said in the darkness, and though his expression was hidden his voice betrayed fear and apprehension, but not contempt. He would have stood by Edmund’s side, regardless; he would follow without question, and he would never speak a word, even if it meant his doom. Which one of them was the fool, Edmund wondered, when Caspian couldn’t bring himself to regret the choices made, even when their dire consequences were staring him in the face?
Worse still, said a part of him, the little voice he despised and sought to quiet more often than not, he would have never made a different choice, because what wrong could there have been in swearing fidelity out of love, and if he’d been advised of Caspian’s fate, all the more reason to say yes. If it was a contest of letting people -- however many people -- die and be taken into heaven, and the end of Caspian’s being, surely there could have been no other choice.
Edmund looked to the empty skies and continued speaking in a broken whisper. “I thought it harmless. I thought-- I thought it was what you needed. I thought it my duty to give to you the comfort I could, so that you not wallow in misery, but would be the king she deserved.”
Caspian’s grip upon his arms was painful then. It was as though the man was trying to dig his fingers into the bone, and crush it. Edmund thought distantly that would have been splendid -- the reality of pain could take away this confusion and chaos.
“I thought… Our time was so limited.” With shaking hands Edmund found Caspian’s face, finding in it anger and pain. He smoothed it with his fingertips, felt the lines disappear even as something burst in him and words came pouring out, senseless words. “I saw, in a dream, something of a future, or perhaps my imaginings only. I saw you, and I saw what I would be without you. I saw fear and madness. I was lonely -- by the lion, I was so lonely. I had my family by my side, I had them all, and I suffered alone because none of them was you, no one could ever be you and I feared for you, I saw you die a hundred ways and you died without knowing I hurt without you, I died without you, every day. So I thought that if we had to part, surely it would be best if we parted as lovers, waiting anxiously to reunite. I thought surely hope would sustain us, even in separation.”
He laughed, then, loud and bitter, and with that laugh the tiniest piece of sanity returned to him. “I honestly thought it would be fine,” he said. “I thought that my kingship was long done, that my duty was over, that if I could convince you our only hope is to wait until the lives we had begun ended, then there would be no harm and there would be peace. In the end, when Eustace told me you had died and then had been restored in Aslan’s country, I knew that I was right and our hope was true.”
Caspian’s forehead was against his, the puffs of his breath against Edmund’s lips the only warmth he could feel.
“Why?” Edmund asked, knowing that Caspian had no answers for him. “I tried so hard. Must I never have peace? Must I always be a traitor?”
“You never betrayed me.”
The wry smirk Edmund awarded him then was unfortunately lost in the darkness. “Haven’t I just confessed to humouring your infatuation onboard the Dawn Treader? Most people would consider that a betrayal.”
“That is not what you said.”
“I suppose it wasn’t.” Edmund felt the cold then, truly allowed himself to feel the bite of frost on his skin. The wound on his chest was likely bleeding; he would be lucky if it weren’t wide open.
“Why is this such a pain to you,” Caspian said, “to even admit that you want things that aren’t for the good of Narnia?”
“I find that things work for the best if I want things that benefit the country.”
“But you are no longer king. You no longer have obligations, least of all to Narnia, which is dead. Would it be so horrible to take what you want, instead?”
Edmund pressed his mouth against Caspian’s, briefly. “You don’t know what you’re asking of me and if you knew, you wouldn’t ask.”
“I’m asking,” Caspian said confidently, the stupid, ignorant, marvellous fool.
“Go to hell.”
Edmund shoved Caspian away and started to feel his way back to the cave. There was more to be read, perhaps a loophole that he’d missed, something he had failed to take into account. Perhaps there was still a way to reverse this, to have Narnia reborn. Perhaps he could see his mistakes undone; perhaps if he wished, if he prayed enough, then his treachery would be forgiven.
He went no further than three paces when a pain gripped his side and he clutched at the icy stone for support.
“Edmund!”
“I’m fine,” he said, but did not push Caspian away. There was such comfort in his arms; he was at home there. He was safe and whole. He turned his head into the crook of Caspian’s shoulder, just so he barely touched the skin of his neck and inhaled. The smell of the stale air was strong, but the freshness of heaven and the water still permeated the clothes and leather, but above all, there was just Caspian, the heady, infuriating scent of him, which drove all else away. Edmund would gladly crawl into him then, just remain where he knew he was forgiven all offences and crimes, and never return to the world.
Then, as though called by his careless wish, lights begun to appear. Not the orange glow of flames, or the bright light of the magic vial. Instead the air became thick with the sparks of the fireworks and Edmund saw in wonder and dread that stars had begun to shine anew, high above the dead world. He found Caspian’s face inches from his, also staring into the abyss that was becoming populated again.
“How?” he whispered reverently, for even though there was fear, it was a spectacle of such beauty he could but hope it would never end. These were not the stars he knew so well, but new constellations and new stories written upon the sky. The stars travelled from the utmost east, climbing the black dome and spreading across it, as though commanded to shine across the dead land by some unknown leader.
With the new the light they saw on the plain shadows and among them, curiously sharp in the pale, diffused illumination, stood the figure of a man.
It was Rilian.
Behind him was Lilliandil, but had she not come closer, Edmund would have never recognised her. She had been bright, even in heaven, but now her pale face was sallow and her glow was all but extinct. He recalled Coriakin’s words and understood, not just knew, that she was dying; somehow he knew that her light would not see her through to the end of this, that the task that she came to see done would have to be finished without her.
“We must hide,” Caspian whispered soundlessly, yet Edmund heard his voice as loud and clear as though it had been a shout in a cathedral.
“It’s too late,” Edmund said.
Rilian was coming towards them, preceded by a pale shadow. Lilliandil’s light flickered around him, like a halo.
Far in the distance Edmund saw shadows moving across the ice. The dragons were coming out to fight for their land, he thought. There was no time to observe that, however.
“Are we unwelcome?” Rilian asked quietly, but Edmund was staring at Lilliandil.
“Madam,” he said. “Why have you come?”
“Why have you?” she asked. “I told you, did I not, that it would bring you nothing but pain.”
“You have. I am thankful for the advice, even though I chose not to heed it.”
Lilliandil smiled lightly at that. “Then you understand why must I be here. It is my destiny.”
Edmund saw then, what was it that she planned, and, though she couldn’t have wanted him to, he saw that she had shared the plan with no one.
“I must say, I do not,” he replied. “My lady, you have achieved eternal rest for yourself and your son, regardless of my involvement.” He had to pause then, because a hateful voice came to him across the ages. What had the witch said on this very hill? Was it not that Narnia would perish in fire and water, if she didn’t spill the traitor’s blood upon the Stone Table? How right she was, in retrospect, about the traitor and about the fire and ice, even if she was wrong about the specific betrayal.
With great effort he continued. “Narnia is dead,” he said. “There’s no hope anymore.”
“No,” she said. “There is always hope.”
“My lady, I think the time for riddles is long past,” Caspian said then. He stood straight, gazing without fear into the faces of the two who were once his family. “If there is something you can achieve, or hope to achieve here, you must speak up. I will apologise a thousand times, if I must; I will suffer whatever penance you assign me, but I will not suffer to be lied to, or deceived. You have not been honest with me.”
“No.” Lilliandil stroked Rilian’s cheek and he turned into the touch, though his eyes looked frightened. Edmund thought he recognised the expression. He had seen it more than once on Peter’s face, when he was raised to the high throne as a thirteen-year-old boy; he had seen it in the face of Caspian all those years in the past, on the high tower, when he confessed to his inability to govern. It was the look of a boy who had been give a mighty task that he feels is beyond his strength.
“I had been happy enough, and I bore you no grudge for your distance,” she told Caspian. “How could I? You were kind to me, but you must know, then, that I would have married you regardless of your kindness, or bravery, or any of the reasons a woman might choose a man. I was waiting on the isle of my father for the king of Narnia to make me his queen, and I cared not who he was.”
“That does settle my conscience,” Caspian said. “I never wished to hurt you, though I acknowledge now that there was a time, early on, when I wouldn’t have cared if I did.”
“You never did.” Lilliandil looked down, and her white face was solemn and beautiful, like that of a saint of a cathedral window. “I understand precious little of what you feel, but I imagine what I feel for you must not be unlike love, for you have given me that which I wanted.” She drew a breath and her light shimmered. “Rilian is the reason I said yes to you. Rilian alone.”
“I don’t understand.”
“We envy you,” she said after a moment. “We envied Adam and Eve since the first steps they took. You looked to us for light and guidance, and we envied you all the while. We are prisoners of the world we are born in, when you may walk across the bridges between worlds at will. Our lives are limited, yours are not. I said good-bye to many of my kin, and may you never understand the pain that a star feels when saying farewell, for unlike your separation ours, when it comes, is forever. We are dissolved into nothing. We become nothing.” Rilian took her hand in his and she smiled at him. “My son is going to change that.”
“Like in the story about a mermaid,” Edmund said absently. The other three looked at him, and he blushed, but elaborated. “Mer people had no souls, but she was allowed to try and earn one after she died, because she loved a prince and sacrificed herself to be with him.”
Lilliandil smiled. “Stories travel, then. I, too, had married a king for the chance to earn a soul, though it was not just for myself, but for all of my kind.”
“Your predicament is indeed dire, Lilliandil,” Caspian said, “But I am sorry to say I am not moved enough to lay down my life. I am certainly not going to lay down Edmund’s.”
“Have you not read the inscriptions?” she asked, turning to Edmund. “You know what befell this land, because of you. Surely you wouldn’t wish to live with the guilt on your conscience.”
Edmund frowned and then laughed. “No, madam, you are most right -- you understand little of how we feel. Had you but asked this of me earlier -- when there was still hope to save this world -- things might have been different. Now Narnia is dead. I may have been responsible for her destruction, and I will bear the guilt for as long as I live, but it is done, and I cannot turn back time. I feel for you and your people. I understand what you wish for, but I have no obligation to honour the promises made to you, especially now that I know what it entails. I’m sorry.”
“Then, Edmund, you do not understand. You think your obligation to Narnia died with her? No. It is still your obligation, as her king, to fulfil the promise made in her name,” Lilliandil said. “The rightful king of Narnia had promised me his soul in marriage, and so you will oblige. You will submit.”
“My lady,” Caspian started, but she spoke faster, mindless of the interruption.
“Do you know how many of us died for this? Do you realise how many I watched dissolve into the abyss, for the chance to have others earn that which you are given freely?” There was anger in her voice and Edmund stood impassive, watching her still radiant face. “We deserve the chance which you have robbed us of.”
“Mother, please. Enough,” Rilian said. He turned to Caspian then. “You are angry with me, I know. You are right to be.”
“I’m not angry with you,” Caspian said softly. Edmund thought wryly that this was not unlike the conversation he had had with his father on the subject of church service, though of course his chosen path did not include murder. “You are my son, I should forgive you all offences.”
“Then, perhaps, you will forgive me this.” Rilian schooled his face into the mask of a king, unfeeling and regal. Edmund saw again in his face the kind of glow that surrounded Lilliandil and knew that what Coriakin had said was true -- Rilian was more star than he was man.
“King Edmund,” Rilian said then. “We have come to deliver to you these words: much wrong was done because of you; millions have died because of your selfish choice, countless more will never be born. You may yet redeem yourself, if you submit now and return to me what is mine by the laws of Narnia, by the word of her king. If not,” here he paused and continued in a grave voice, “I shall take it by force.”
“I will not let you,” Caspian said evenly, and any other time Edmund would have watched with interest, for this would have been a spectacle worthy of any admission fee -- two kings, father and son, glaring at one another in a silent battle.
“You don’t have the strength to stop me.”
“I have enough. You may be a star, but you are still my son, you are my blood. I watched you learn to walk, I watched you fall and I watched you win. Believe me when I say that I can and I will fight you.”
“I am not alone, however,” Rilian said, and suddenly Edmund discovered their surroundings were lighter than the stars in the sky should allow, even if the land was covered by ice and snow. This was because there were people on the icy plain, shining, splendid people. Narnia was full of stars.
It was an army.
“I am to be their saviour.” Rilian looked down as he forced the words out. “They will heed my every word. If I tell them to destroy you, so shall it be, even at the cost of their lives.
“I shall give you three days to make your farewells,” he continued when neither Caspian nor Edmund made a move to answer. “After that time we will meet here again.”
They turned and walked away, mother and son, leaving Caspian and Edmund staring at the vast, empty landscape, lit with silvery light. Without a word they made their way back into the dark corridors.
Edmund hissed when they were far enough from the entrance, grasping at his chest. He had been right -- the wound was bleeding and, judging by the state of his shirt, it had been bleeding for a while now. “This cannot possibly be healthy,” he said.
“I hardly think there are grounds for a contest. I seem to have found myself in a competition against my own son, who intends to be the saviour of his mother's people; who incidentally has murderous designs on you, whom I have known for barely any time at all, yet as it happens, our acquaintance led directly to the destruction of my home world. Have you any insight, any wisdom to impart?”
“His designs on me seem to be of cannibalistic nature, and his ultimate means of becoming the messiah requires that he absorb your soul; leaving this out seems to cheapen the tale.”
“Thank you, truly. Leaving that part out of mind could in no way be beneficial.” Caspian nonetheless gripped Edmund’s arm and pulled him close. “What do you mean by cannibalistic?”
“Oh, have I not shared? This glorious wound I received when Rilian tried to eat the heart out of my chest.”
“This tale becomes more convoluted with every passing second.”
“Caspian,” Edmund started, but he was not allowed to finish. Caspian’s mouth was upon his and his back hit the wall.
“No,” Caspian said some minutes later, when they were both breathing so hard it was almost as though they were sobbing. “Never. Even if I have to watch the world be destroyed all over again, if I am to kill all the stars in existence with my own hands. No. Do you hear me?”
“I hear you,” Edmund said. His right arm trembled. The visions of bleak defeat, of Peter in Lilliandil’s grasp, were stark in his mind, but so too was the picture of Caspian soulless and empty, used to further some ambition he couldn’t possibly understand.
“Good.”
Hand in hand they returned to the heart of the How, where the rest of the party waited anxiously. Lucy rushed to greet them as soon as they appeared, wrapping her arms around Edmund. Her shoulders were shaking.
“I’m so sorry, Lu,” he said, burrowing his face in her sweet-smelling hair.
“It’s all right. I forgive you.”
Edmund smiled, just a little, and some of the cold in his heart ebbed away.
“Well, now that the emotional storming out is behind us,” Peter said brusquely, though from the fact that his back was turned Edmund knew he was holding back tears, “we must consider what to do next.”
“But you have yet to hear the best part!” Edmund said.
“When you sound this cheerful, it is never a good sign.”
“Rilian and Lilliandil are in this world now,” Caspian said. “We spoke with them.”
“So you have good news? Did they abandon their quest?”
“Yes, the news is good. Lilliandil doesn’t care that I didn’t care. She was happy and content with the arrangement. There is also however the bad news, and it is so much worse.”
“Well, out with it!”
“Rillian and Lilliandil are here with an army of stars,” Edmund said. “It turns out that I have inadvertently robbed them of their messiah, and therefore every star in Narnia will be here in three days’ time, to punish me for this misdeed.”
Peter gaped at him. “Surely it is a joke.”
“If only it were,” Caspian said. “We were told Rilian was born to become the one to give the stars souls. I infer he needed one of his own to fulfil this, and consequently he must have mine, which he cannot receive otherwise than through destroying Edmund’s.”
“That sounds ridiculous,” Eustace said. “And complicated.”
“I agree.”
“Are you serious?” Peter looked at them both in turn and then, unexpectedly, he laughed. “Isn’t this the finest joke you have ever heard?”
“It did strike me as funny, yes,” Edmund said with a grin. Unfortunately, their mirth was not shared.
“Why are you laughing, you imbeciles?” Jill cried. “It’s not funny at all!”
“It is a little funny,” Lucy said, though she was torn between laughing and crying. Caspian walked over and embraced her, and into his shirt she mumbled on, between hiccups, “Edmund was going to be a priest, and now because of him the saviour cannot fulfil his duty.”
“I still don’t understand,” Emeth said.
“I shall explain it to you,” Lucy promised. “Soon as we have a plan.”
“To be quite honest, I don’t think we have much of a choice,” Edmund said.
Peter whirled to deliver his most potent glare. “You say one more word, and I will kill you myself.”
“It would speed up the affair, I’m sure. Do let’s be realistic, however. There is an army of stars out there; I saw thousands walking the earth and hundreds of thousands in the sky. We had trouble getting past Lilliandil alone.”
“What do you want us to do, then? Tie you up as a token of our good will? I’m terribly sorry, but I have no ribbons.”
“Don’t be a brat. I was about to say we have little choice, but to hope for Aslan to come,” Edmund said. It was a poor chance, but what else was there? “I would of course be happiest if you returned to heaven, preferably straight to England. It’s quite light out. Jill will take you to the door without fail.” He held up a hand, to quiet the onslaught of protests. “I am well aware that you won’t go. I just have to ask that you consider this. Really, the most we can do now is stall for time, and if that fails, I would rather see you safe than pointlessly heroic.”
There was a moment of silence. “Oh, are we done with heroism now? Excellent, it was uncomfortable.” Edmund stepped around Lucy and sat in the groove of the broken table. “I’m going to do some reading.”
“We only have three days,” Peter said.
“Yes, but we also have no sun to measure them. In fact, the argument can be made that we have all the time in the world.”
“Somehow I doubt Rilian is going to see it this way.”
The discussion went on for some time, but Edmund was already engrossed in the text. It wasn’t easy. The letters were far from still and though the words remained, the sentiment behind them was changing from moment to moment. It was as though the words were written many times over, by different people, and their inflection had carried into the text. Had the stars written it? It would explain a lot, he thought. Both the inflection and the dual records, the world as it should have been and the world as it was.
At first, there was nothing to further his understanding. There had been his and Caspian’s encounter in the shadowy cabin of the Dawn Treader (whose detail made him vaguely uncomfortable), and the rash promise of fidelity. It was upon this promise that the trouble seemed to hinge, as it was that paragraph which bore the most shadowy marks underneath. The few others which bore similar notes were the ones depicting his earlier betrayal of Narnia and Aslan’s death (old and older magic, Aslan had said) and Caspian’s wedding.
The first was of no particular importance, Edmund decided, though it was difficult to read. There was some disagreement on whether the sacrifice was just, but overall the victory had prevailed and won over the non-believers. The second…
The shadowy letters were hard to decipher and they were in Greek. Edmund strained to make out the words and still wasn’t certain whether his translation was sufficient. “Narnia is the heart of her world, and the heart of Narnia is with the heart of her sovereign,” it read, in fine calligraphy. Caspian had promised his to Edmund, he half-thought, half-read. This was blazing like fire from the stone. He was king and he had chosen to give his heart away to someone who did not belong in his world; in a land fuelled and sustained by magic this couldn’t have ended well.
Then came the wedding, and if the historical part of the account was accurate (which it likely was) it had been the night of the summer solstice. There had been many kings in attendance, as well as the Narnians. The wedding was held beyond the castle, in the grassy fields, and there had not been one creature present that didn’t cheer. It must have been grand. Edmund was glad he’d been spared the ordeal of watching Caspian wed to such applause. In fact, the separation had almost been a blessing, as he’d been spared the sight of Caspian’s wedding altogether.
The vows were etched into stone with greater than usual zeal, or at least it seemed to be so -- there was a tone to the words that indicated the author of the account had strong feelings on the subject. Edmund thought himself mad, for drawing such conclusions from etchings, but at the same time he couldn’t help but accept them as true, though something nagged at his mind as he read. It was as though an idea were forming there, a strange, insane idea, one he dared not examine, for fear it would dissolve before his very eyes. Best to let it ripen in the back of his mind, then; when it was ready, it would be drawn forward. Such was often the case.
The chronology of the events brought some interesting questions to consider. Rilian had been born shortly after Caspian’s thirty-sixth birthday, more than seven years after his wedding, which was in itself fairly delayed -- Edmund didn’t even try to imagine the rumours spreading through the uncouth ranks of lesser nobility. Courts were merciless in that regard, and Lilliandil’s life couldn’t have been easy, nor Caspian’s, for that matter.
But then Rilian had been born, to the delight of many and the disappointment of a few, and Lilliandil had bequeathed upon him the vows made to her. She’d woven spells around the babe, which would mature as he did, and so Caspian would have unwittingly given up his soul when Rilian was knighted, when he was fit to rule, though the process would have begun long before -- Edmund read about the matter with interest. A soul could not be halved, or exchanged, or left; but for every attachment there was the thread that bound it to people and the threads that bound a parent to their child were many and they were strong.
Therein was the agony of their parting, he concluded, brushing a hand across his own breast in wonder. For a soul to be stretched between worlds had to be a terrible strain. Of course, he thought dimly, chancing upon yet another piece of an old spell, Caspian was in the much less enviable position of having promised his heart to one, then formally made the very same promise to another, while being the king of a world which considered such promises the cornerstone of its existence and therefore saw to it that they were fulfilled. It was a wonder he had lived as long as he had.
Edmund wondered at the nature of the commitment, too; he would have lied if he claimed the attachments he formed were easy or natural. He had loved, or had come as close to it as he felt he could in the absence of Caspian, but England was cold and the land cared naught for whether his wife held the foremost place in his heart.
Narnia, on the other hand, was a selfless mistress and desired her king to be equally passionate and true about his love.
The picture was slow to form, but he was starting to understand. One piece missing was how to solve the conundrum without forfeiting either of their souls, for Edmund was quite attached to them both. This begged further the question of whether a soul that was so intimately connected to another could be of any use. Edmund hoped not, but alas, there was no evidence to back his hopes. Souls couldn’t be split and so destroying his would not necessarily harm Caspian’s, at least not in the capacity in which it was needed.
Deep underneath the text was only the enigmatic and not terribly promising remark that the one way to render such a contract void was to kill the superfluous participant. What, then? Edmund wondered. Were they right, Lilliandil and Rilian? He had cheated death once previously; expecting for such a miracle to rescue him a second time would be sheer idiocy. Even if Aslan came to their aid, how would he solve this? The last time he had died in Edmund’s stead. Doing so again would be laughable. He would not go against the ancient magic, he couldn’t, but there was the chance -- there was always the chance -- that he knew loopholes of which Edmund could not conceive.
What if he didn’t arrive in time? What if this was the betrayal for which he was to pay as the old magic demanded?
Death, then, followed by oblivion?
Edmund’s hand was shaking by the time he finished the paragraph. The pain in his chest wouldn’t relent this time, radiating to the whole body. He was cold; probably for the first time he noticed how cold it truly was.
“Edmund?” someone asked, but his vision was swimming, he could hardly tell who it was. “Edmund, are you feeling all right?”
There was a touch on his shoulder and Edmund blinked to find Caspian’s face staring into his, and it too was blurred. “Ed?”
“I don’t want to die,” he said.
A crippling pain gripped his side sending ripples of shock throughout him, taking away his ability to draw a breath, which he shouldn’t need, but the lack of which eclipsed all else. He was drowning; his lungs burned, his head was on fire and there was no air to relieve him, no lifeline to grasp. His right hand jerked as though hit by a tremendous force and Edmund threw his head back and screamed.
Rating: 18
Genre: drama, romance
Pairings: Edmund/Caspian
Wordcount: 80k
Warnings: it is rated 18 for potentially disturbing themes
Summary: Narnia ended a mere two hundred years after Caspian’s reign, as though he was the climax of her 2,500 years’ history. He was. There were stories unfolding in Narnia of which none of her rulers were aware, and stories must run their natural course, even though their heroes are dead.
[CHAPTER EIGHT -- Are you the New Person, drawn toward Me?]
A strong hand gripped his shoulder then and someone clung to him in the darkness, and perhaps there was just the smallest amount of warmth in him after all, for where they touched there was a spark and Edmund felt he could just barely move his head.
“You fool,” Caspian was whispering, frantic and furious, into his lips. “You utter fool.”
“By all accounts,” Edmund managed. He resisted when Caspian tried to pull him out of the niche. “No, please. Just leave me be.”
“There’s more written. We need to know, Ed -- Peter says it gets too complex in Latin, he doesn’t understand the subtleties.”
“I do not wish to know more.”
“Surely this shouldn’t have shaken you so hard,” Caspian said.
Edmund felt silence was enough of a reply.
“Why? This we already knew, did we not?”
“Knew? Caspian -- it is written, upon the Stone Table that I brought Narnia to her end! That I had it in my power to choose and I chose to doom her!”
“That was not your choice.”
“Wasn’t it? I said yes. I swore myself to you. Had I not, the matter would have been settled and Narnia would have been spared, would have thousands of years to grow and live!” Edmund sank against the hill in despair. “I destroyed her. The White Witch had failed, Miraz had failed, with the armies and the magic, ice and fire, yet I managed to succeed with nothing but a word, all because you have a pretty face.”
“You didn’t know,” Caspian said in the darkness, and though his expression was hidden his voice betrayed fear and apprehension, but not contempt. He would have stood by Edmund’s side, regardless; he would follow without question, and he would never speak a word, even if it meant his doom. Which one of them was the fool, Edmund wondered, when Caspian couldn’t bring himself to regret the choices made, even when their dire consequences were staring him in the face?
Worse still, said a part of him, the little voice he despised and sought to quiet more often than not, he would have never made a different choice, because what wrong could there have been in swearing fidelity out of love, and if he’d been advised of Caspian’s fate, all the more reason to say yes. If it was a contest of letting people -- however many people -- die and be taken into heaven, and the end of Caspian’s being, surely there could have been no other choice.
Edmund looked to the empty skies and continued speaking in a broken whisper. “I thought it harmless. I thought-- I thought it was what you needed. I thought it my duty to give to you the comfort I could, so that you not wallow in misery, but would be the king she deserved.”
Caspian’s grip upon his arms was painful then. It was as though the man was trying to dig his fingers into the bone, and crush it. Edmund thought distantly that would have been splendid -- the reality of pain could take away this confusion and chaos.
“I thought… Our time was so limited.” With shaking hands Edmund found Caspian’s face, finding in it anger and pain. He smoothed it with his fingertips, felt the lines disappear even as something burst in him and words came pouring out, senseless words. “I saw, in a dream, something of a future, or perhaps my imaginings only. I saw you, and I saw what I would be without you. I saw fear and madness. I was lonely -- by the lion, I was so lonely. I had my family by my side, I had them all, and I suffered alone because none of them was you, no one could ever be you and I feared for you, I saw you die a hundred ways and you died without knowing I hurt without you, I died without you, every day. So I thought that if we had to part, surely it would be best if we parted as lovers, waiting anxiously to reunite. I thought surely hope would sustain us, even in separation.”
He laughed, then, loud and bitter, and with that laugh the tiniest piece of sanity returned to him. “I honestly thought it would be fine,” he said. “I thought that my kingship was long done, that my duty was over, that if I could convince you our only hope is to wait until the lives we had begun ended, then there would be no harm and there would be peace. In the end, when Eustace told me you had died and then had been restored in Aslan’s country, I knew that I was right and our hope was true.”
Caspian’s forehead was against his, the puffs of his breath against Edmund’s lips the only warmth he could feel.
“Why?” Edmund asked, knowing that Caspian had no answers for him. “I tried so hard. Must I never have peace? Must I always be a traitor?”
“You never betrayed me.”
The wry smirk Edmund awarded him then was unfortunately lost in the darkness. “Haven’t I just confessed to humouring your infatuation onboard the Dawn Treader? Most people would consider that a betrayal.”
“That is not what you said.”
“I suppose it wasn’t.” Edmund felt the cold then, truly allowed himself to feel the bite of frost on his skin. The wound on his chest was likely bleeding; he would be lucky if it weren’t wide open.
“Why is this such a pain to you,” Caspian said, “to even admit that you want things that aren’t for the good of Narnia?”
“I find that things work for the best if I want things that benefit the country.”
“But you are no longer king. You no longer have obligations, least of all to Narnia, which is dead. Would it be so horrible to take what you want, instead?”
Edmund pressed his mouth against Caspian’s, briefly. “You don’t know what you’re asking of me and if you knew, you wouldn’t ask.”
“I’m asking,” Caspian said confidently, the stupid, ignorant, marvellous fool.
“Go to hell.”
Edmund shoved Caspian away and started to feel his way back to the cave. There was more to be read, perhaps a loophole that he’d missed, something he had failed to take into account. Perhaps there was still a way to reverse this, to have Narnia reborn. Perhaps he could see his mistakes undone; perhaps if he wished, if he prayed enough, then his treachery would be forgiven.
He went no further than three paces when a pain gripped his side and he clutched at the icy stone for support.
“Edmund!”
“I’m fine,” he said, but did not push Caspian away. There was such comfort in his arms; he was at home there. He was safe and whole. He turned his head into the crook of Caspian’s shoulder, just so he barely touched the skin of his neck and inhaled. The smell of the stale air was strong, but the freshness of heaven and the water still permeated the clothes and leather, but above all, there was just Caspian, the heady, infuriating scent of him, which drove all else away. Edmund would gladly crawl into him then, just remain where he knew he was forgiven all offences and crimes, and never return to the world.
Then, as though called by his careless wish, lights begun to appear. Not the orange glow of flames, or the bright light of the magic vial. Instead the air became thick with the sparks of the fireworks and Edmund saw in wonder and dread that stars had begun to shine anew, high above the dead world. He found Caspian’s face inches from his, also staring into the abyss that was becoming populated again.
“How?” he whispered reverently, for even though there was fear, it was a spectacle of such beauty he could but hope it would never end. These were not the stars he knew so well, but new constellations and new stories written upon the sky. The stars travelled from the utmost east, climbing the black dome and spreading across it, as though commanded to shine across the dead land by some unknown leader.
With the new the light they saw on the plain shadows and among them, curiously sharp in the pale, diffused illumination, stood the figure of a man.
It was Rilian.
Behind him was Lilliandil, but had she not come closer, Edmund would have never recognised her. She had been bright, even in heaven, but now her pale face was sallow and her glow was all but extinct. He recalled Coriakin’s words and understood, not just knew, that she was dying; somehow he knew that her light would not see her through to the end of this, that the task that she came to see done would have to be finished without her.
“We must hide,” Caspian whispered soundlessly, yet Edmund heard his voice as loud and clear as though it had been a shout in a cathedral.
“It’s too late,” Edmund said.
Rilian was coming towards them, preceded by a pale shadow. Lilliandil’s light flickered around him, like a halo.
Far in the distance Edmund saw shadows moving across the ice. The dragons were coming out to fight for their land, he thought. There was no time to observe that, however.
“Are we unwelcome?” Rilian asked quietly, but Edmund was staring at Lilliandil.
“Madam,” he said. “Why have you come?”
“Why have you?” she asked. “I told you, did I not, that it would bring you nothing but pain.”
“You have. I am thankful for the advice, even though I chose not to heed it.”
Lilliandil smiled lightly at that. “Then you understand why must I be here. It is my destiny.”
Edmund saw then, what was it that she planned, and, though she couldn’t have wanted him to, he saw that she had shared the plan with no one.
“I must say, I do not,” he replied. “My lady, you have achieved eternal rest for yourself and your son, regardless of my involvement.” He had to pause then, because a hateful voice came to him across the ages. What had the witch said on this very hill? Was it not that Narnia would perish in fire and water, if she didn’t spill the traitor’s blood upon the Stone Table? How right she was, in retrospect, about the traitor and about the fire and ice, even if she was wrong about the specific betrayal.
With great effort he continued. “Narnia is dead,” he said. “There’s no hope anymore.”
“No,” she said. “There is always hope.”
“My lady, I think the time for riddles is long past,” Caspian said then. He stood straight, gazing without fear into the faces of the two who were once his family. “If there is something you can achieve, or hope to achieve here, you must speak up. I will apologise a thousand times, if I must; I will suffer whatever penance you assign me, but I will not suffer to be lied to, or deceived. You have not been honest with me.”
“No.” Lilliandil stroked Rilian’s cheek and he turned into the touch, though his eyes looked frightened. Edmund thought he recognised the expression. He had seen it more than once on Peter’s face, when he was raised to the high throne as a thirteen-year-old boy; he had seen it in the face of Caspian all those years in the past, on the high tower, when he confessed to his inability to govern. It was the look of a boy who had been give a mighty task that he feels is beyond his strength.
“I had been happy enough, and I bore you no grudge for your distance,” she told Caspian. “How could I? You were kind to me, but you must know, then, that I would have married you regardless of your kindness, or bravery, or any of the reasons a woman might choose a man. I was waiting on the isle of my father for the king of Narnia to make me his queen, and I cared not who he was.”
“That does settle my conscience,” Caspian said. “I never wished to hurt you, though I acknowledge now that there was a time, early on, when I wouldn’t have cared if I did.”
“You never did.” Lilliandil looked down, and her white face was solemn and beautiful, like that of a saint of a cathedral window. “I understand precious little of what you feel, but I imagine what I feel for you must not be unlike love, for you have given me that which I wanted.” She drew a breath and her light shimmered. “Rilian is the reason I said yes to you. Rilian alone.”
“I don’t understand.”
“We envy you,” she said after a moment. “We envied Adam and Eve since the first steps they took. You looked to us for light and guidance, and we envied you all the while. We are prisoners of the world we are born in, when you may walk across the bridges between worlds at will. Our lives are limited, yours are not. I said good-bye to many of my kin, and may you never understand the pain that a star feels when saying farewell, for unlike your separation ours, when it comes, is forever. We are dissolved into nothing. We become nothing.” Rilian took her hand in his and she smiled at him. “My son is going to change that.”
“Like in the story about a mermaid,” Edmund said absently. The other three looked at him, and he blushed, but elaborated. “Mer people had no souls, but she was allowed to try and earn one after she died, because she loved a prince and sacrificed herself to be with him.”
Lilliandil smiled. “Stories travel, then. I, too, had married a king for the chance to earn a soul, though it was not just for myself, but for all of my kind.”
“Your predicament is indeed dire, Lilliandil,” Caspian said, “But I am sorry to say I am not moved enough to lay down my life. I am certainly not going to lay down Edmund’s.”
“Have you not read the inscriptions?” she asked, turning to Edmund. “You know what befell this land, because of you. Surely you wouldn’t wish to live with the guilt on your conscience.”
Edmund frowned and then laughed. “No, madam, you are most right -- you understand little of how we feel. Had you but asked this of me earlier -- when there was still hope to save this world -- things might have been different. Now Narnia is dead. I may have been responsible for her destruction, and I will bear the guilt for as long as I live, but it is done, and I cannot turn back time. I feel for you and your people. I understand what you wish for, but I have no obligation to honour the promises made to you, especially now that I know what it entails. I’m sorry.”
“Then, Edmund, you do not understand. You think your obligation to Narnia died with her? No. It is still your obligation, as her king, to fulfil the promise made in her name,” Lilliandil said. “The rightful king of Narnia had promised me his soul in marriage, and so you will oblige. You will submit.”
“My lady,” Caspian started, but she spoke faster, mindless of the interruption.
“Do you know how many of us died for this? Do you realise how many I watched dissolve into the abyss, for the chance to have others earn that which you are given freely?” There was anger in her voice and Edmund stood impassive, watching her still radiant face. “We deserve the chance which you have robbed us of.”
“Mother, please. Enough,” Rilian said. He turned to Caspian then. “You are angry with me, I know. You are right to be.”
“I’m not angry with you,” Caspian said softly. Edmund thought wryly that this was not unlike the conversation he had had with his father on the subject of church service, though of course his chosen path did not include murder. “You are my son, I should forgive you all offences.”
“Then, perhaps, you will forgive me this.” Rilian schooled his face into the mask of a king, unfeeling and regal. Edmund saw again in his face the kind of glow that surrounded Lilliandil and knew that what Coriakin had said was true -- Rilian was more star than he was man.
“King Edmund,” Rilian said then. “We have come to deliver to you these words: much wrong was done because of you; millions have died because of your selfish choice, countless more will never be born. You may yet redeem yourself, if you submit now and return to me what is mine by the laws of Narnia, by the word of her king. If not,” here he paused and continued in a grave voice, “I shall take it by force.”
“I will not let you,” Caspian said evenly, and any other time Edmund would have watched with interest, for this would have been a spectacle worthy of any admission fee -- two kings, father and son, glaring at one another in a silent battle.
“You don’t have the strength to stop me.”
“I have enough. You may be a star, but you are still my son, you are my blood. I watched you learn to walk, I watched you fall and I watched you win. Believe me when I say that I can and I will fight you.”
“I am not alone, however,” Rilian said, and suddenly Edmund discovered their surroundings were lighter than the stars in the sky should allow, even if the land was covered by ice and snow. This was because there were people on the icy plain, shining, splendid people. Narnia was full of stars.
It was an army.
“I am to be their saviour.” Rilian looked down as he forced the words out. “They will heed my every word. If I tell them to destroy you, so shall it be, even at the cost of their lives.
“I shall give you three days to make your farewells,” he continued when neither Caspian nor Edmund made a move to answer. “After that time we will meet here again.”
They turned and walked away, mother and son, leaving Caspian and Edmund staring at the vast, empty landscape, lit with silvery light. Without a word they made their way back into the dark corridors.
Edmund hissed when they were far enough from the entrance, grasping at his chest. He had been right -- the wound was bleeding and, judging by the state of his shirt, it had been bleeding for a while now. “This cannot possibly be healthy,” he said.
“I hardly think there are grounds for a contest. I seem to have found myself in a competition against my own son, who intends to be the saviour of his mother's people; who incidentally has murderous designs on you, whom I have known for barely any time at all, yet as it happens, our acquaintance led directly to the destruction of my home world. Have you any insight, any wisdom to impart?”
“His designs on me seem to be of cannibalistic nature, and his ultimate means of becoming the messiah requires that he absorb your soul; leaving this out seems to cheapen the tale.”
“Thank you, truly. Leaving that part out of mind could in no way be beneficial.” Caspian nonetheless gripped Edmund’s arm and pulled him close. “What do you mean by cannibalistic?”
“Oh, have I not shared? This glorious wound I received when Rilian tried to eat the heart out of my chest.”
“This tale becomes more convoluted with every passing second.”
“Caspian,” Edmund started, but he was not allowed to finish. Caspian’s mouth was upon his and his back hit the wall.
“No,” Caspian said some minutes later, when they were both breathing so hard it was almost as though they were sobbing. “Never. Even if I have to watch the world be destroyed all over again, if I am to kill all the stars in existence with my own hands. No. Do you hear me?”
“I hear you,” Edmund said. His right arm trembled. The visions of bleak defeat, of Peter in Lilliandil’s grasp, were stark in his mind, but so too was the picture of Caspian soulless and empty, used to further some ambition he couldn’t possibly understand.
“Good.”
Hand in hand they returned to the heart of the How, where the rest of the party waited anxiously. Lucy rushed to greet them as soon as they appeared, wrapping her arms around Edmund. Her shoulders were shaking.
“I’m so sorry, Lu,” he said, burrowing his face in her sweet-smelling hair.
“It’s all right. I forgive you.”
Edmund smiled, just a little, and some of the cold in his heart ebbed away.
“Well, now that the emotional storming out is behind us,” Peter said brusquely, though from the fact that his back was turned Edmund knew he was holding back tears, “we must consider what to do next.”
“But you have yet to hear the best part!” Edmund said.
“When you sound this cheerful, it is never a good sign.”
“Rilian and Lilliandil are in this world now,” Caspian said. “We spoke with them.”
“So you have good news? Did they abandon their quest?”
“Yes, the news is good. Lilliandil doesn’t care that I didn’t care. She was happy and content with the arrangement. There is also however the bad news, and it is so much worse.”
“Well, out with it!”
“Rillian and Lilliandil are here with an army of stars,” Edmund said. “It turns out that I have inadvertently robbed them of their messiah, and therefore every star in Narnia will be here in three days’ time, to punish me for this misdeed.”
Peter gaped at him. “Surely it is a joke.”
“If only it were,” Caspian said. “We were told Rilian was born to become the one to give the stars souls. I infer he needed one of his own to fulfil this, and consequently he must have mine, which he cannot receive otherwise than through destroying Edmund’s.”
“That sounds ridiculous,” Eustace said. “And complicated.”
“I agree.”
“Are you serious?” Peter looked at them both in turn and then, unexpectedly, he laughed. “Isn’t this the finest joke you have ever heard?”
“It did strike me as funny, yes,” Edmund said with a grin. Unfortunately, their mirth was not shared.
“Why are you laughing, you imbeciles?” Jill cried. “It’s not funny at all!”
“It is a little funny,” Lucy said, though she was torn between laughing and crying. Caspian walked over and embraced her, and into his shirt she mumbled on, between hiccups, “Edmund was going to be a priest, and now because of him the saviour cannot fulfil his duty.”
“I still don’t understand,” Emeth said.
“I shall explain it to you,” Lucy promised. “Soon as we have a plan.”
“To be quite honest, I don’t think we have much of a choice,” Edmund said.
Peter whirled to deliver his most potent glare. “You say one more word, and I will kill you myself.”
“It would speed up the affair, I’m sure. Do let’s be realistic, however. There is an army of stars out there; I saw thousands walking the earth and hundreds of thousands in the sky. We had trouble getting past Lilliandil alone.”
“What do you want us to do, then? Tie you up as a token of our good will? I’m terribly sorry, but I have no ribbons.”
“Don’t be a brat. I was about to say we have little choice, but to hope for Aslan to come,” Edmund said. It was a poor chance, but what else was there? “I would of course be happiest if you returned to heaven, preferably straight to England. It’s quite light out. Jill will take you to the door without fail.” He held up a hand, to quiet the onslaught of protests. “I am well aware that you won’t go. I just have to ask that you consider this. Really, the most we can do now is stall for time, and if that fails, I would rather see you safe than pointlessly heroic.”
There was a moment of silence. “Oh, are we done with heroism now? Excellent, it was uncomfortable.” Edmund stepped around Lucy and sat in the groove of the broken table. “I’m going to do some reading.”
“We only have three days,” Peter said.
“Yes, but we also have no sun to measure them. In fact, the argument can be made that we have all the time in the world.”
“Somehow I doubt Rilian is going to see it this way.”
The discussion went on for some time, but Edmund was already engrossed in the text. It wasn’t easy. The letters were far from still and though the words remained, the sentiment behind them was changing from moment to moment. It was as though the words were written many times over, by different people, and their inflection had carried into the text. Had the stars written it? It would explain a lot, he thought. Both the inflection and the dual records, the world as it should have been and the world as it was.
At first, there was nothing to further his understanding. There had been his and Caspian’s encounter in the shadowy cabin of the Dawn Treader (whose detail made him vaguely uncomfortable), and the rash promise of fidelity. It was upon this promise that the trouble seemed to hinge, as it was that paragraph which bore the most shadowy marks underneath. The few others which bore similar notes were the ones depicting his earlier betrayal of Narnia and Aslan’s death (old and older magic, Aslan had said) and Caspian’s wedding.
The first was of no particular importance, Edmund decided, though it was difficult to read. There was some disagreement on whether the sacrifice was just, but overall the victory had prevailed and won over the non-believers. The second…
The shadowy letters were hard to decipher and they were in Greek. Edmund strained to make out the words and still wasn’t certain whether his translation was sufficient. “Narnia is the heart of her world, and the heart of Narnia is with the heart of her sovereign,” it read, in fine calligraphy. Caspian had promised his to Edmund, he half-thought, half-read. This was blazing like fire from the stone. He was king and he had chosen to give his heart away to someone who did not belong in his world; in a land fuelled and sustained by magic this couldn’t have ended well.
Then came the wedding, and if the historical part of the account was accurate (which it likely was) it had been the night of the summer solstice. There had been many kings in attendance, as well as the Narnians. The wedding was held beyond the castle, in the grassy fields, and there had not been one creature present that didn’t cheer. It must have been grand. Edmund was glad he’d been spared the ordeal of watching Caspian wed to such applause. In fact, the separation had almost been a blessing, as he’d been spared the sight of Caspian’s wedding altogether.
The vows were etched into stone with greater than usual zeal, or at least it seemed to be so -- there was a tone to the words that indicated the author of the account had strong feelings on the subject. Edmund thought himself mad, for drawing such conclusions from etchings, but at the same time he couldn’t help but accept them as true, though something nagged at his mind as he read. It was as though an idea were forming there, a strange, insane idea, one he dared not examine, for fear it would dissolve before his very eyes. Best to let it ripen in the back of his mind, then; when it was ready, it would be drawn forward. Such was often the case.
The chronology of the events brought some interesting questions to consider. Rilian had been born shortly after Caspian’s thirty-sixth birthday, more than seven years after his wedding, which was in itself fairly delayed -- Edmund didn’t even try to imagine the rumours spreading through the uncouth ranks of lesser nobility. Courts were merciless in that regard, and Lilliandil’s life couldn’t have been easy, nor Caspian’s, for that matter.
But then Rilian had been born, to the delight of many and the disappointment of a few, and Lilliandil had bequeathed upon him the vows made to her. She’d woven spells around the babe, which would mature as he did, and so Caspian would have unwittingly given up his soul when Rilian was knighted, when he was fit to rule, though the process would have begun long before -- Edmund read about the matter with interest. A soul could not be halved, or exchanged, or left; but for every attachment there was the thread that bound it to people and the threads that bound a parent to their child were many and they were strong.
Therein was the agony of their parting, he concluded, brushing a hand across his own breast in wonder. For a soul to be stretched between worlds had to be a terrible strain. Of course, he thought dimly, chancing upon yet another piece of an old spell, Caspian was in the much less enviable position of having promised his heart to one, then formally made the very same promise to another, while being the king of a world which considered such promises the cornerstone of its existence and therefore saw to it that they were fulfilled. It was a wonder he had lived as long as he had.
Edmund wondered at the nature of the commitment, too; he would have lied if he claimed the attachments he formed were easy or natural. He had loved, or had come as close to it as he felt he could in the absence of Caspian, but England was cold and the land cared naught for whether his wife held the foremost place in his heart.
Narnia, on the other hand, was a selfless mistress and desired her king to be equally passionate and true about his love.
The picture was slow to form, but he was starting to understand. One piece missing was how to solve the conundrum without forfeiting either of their souls, for Edmund was quite attached to them both. This begged further the question of whether a soul that was so intimately connected to another could be of any use. Edmund hoped not, but alas, there was no evidence to back his hopes. Souls couldn’t be split and so destroying his would not necessarily harm Caspian’s, at least not in the capacity in which it was needed.
Deep underneath the text was only the enigmatic and not terribly promising remark that the one way to render such a contract void was to kill the superfluous participant. What, then? Edmund wondered. Were they right, Lilliandil and Rilian? He had cheated death once previously; expecting for such a miracle to rescue him a second time would be sheer idiocy. Even if Aslan came to their aid, how would he solve this? The last time he had died in Edmund’s stead. Doing so again would be laughable. He would not go against the ancient magic, he couldn’t, but there was the chance -- there was always the chance -- that he knew loopholes of which Edmund could not conceive.
What if he didn’t arrive in time? What if this was the betrayal for which he was to pay as the old magic demanded?
Death, then, followed by oblivion?
Edmund’s hand was shaking by the time he finished the paragraph. The pain in his chest wouldn’t relent this time, radiating to the whole body. He was cold; probably for the first time he noticed how cold it truly was.
“Edmund?” someone asked, but his vision was swimming, he could hardly tell who it was. “Edmund, are you feeling all right?”
There was a touch on his shoulder and Edmund blinked to find Caspian’s face staring into his, and it too was blurred. “Ed?”
“I don’t want to die,” he said.
A crippling pain gripped his side sending ripples of shock throughout him, taking away his ability to draw a breath, which he shouldn’t need, but the lack of which eclipsed all else. He was drowning; his lungs burned, his head was on fire and there was no air to relieve him, no lifeline to grasp. His right hand jerked as though hit by a tremendous force and Edmund threw his head back and screamed.
