Chapter Text
He had seen a living Atlas before, when his days were soaked in a golden light through stained glass windows. An Atlas who would dictate to him, allow him to transcribe though barely allow him to amend. An Atlas who bore the terrible title of Magnificence, an Atlas that now sat in a grey-coloured world pouring over medical books.
Edmund had seen a living Atlas, and now has found himself living long enough to carry the very burden he knew his elder brother would never recover from.
There is a difference, here. He sits beneath the moon in her pale glory, freckled skin illuminated nothing less than porcelain-- he hadn’t slept much as of late. His toes caressed by the ocean’s waves, the same ocean he’d been lodger to for over a year. The same ocean that brought him from the end of the world to the one true home he could ever truly know. His mind had declined England as soon as his feet had set upon the Dawn Treader. His heart had declined it as soon as Caspian had slung an arm around his shoulders and fussed his damp curls with a soft towel.
It had been a year, and he sits eighteen once again. The four thrones are filled-- himself, as High King, despite his objections. Lucy, as High Queen-- and she had taken to it as well as a chicken took to flight. Caspian sits besides him, and Lilliandil sits besides her. Edmund has grown used to watching them exchange whispers, the gentle pink to Lucy’s cheeks, the subtle glow through Lilliandil’s freckles.
The waves dare press against his calves, and Edmund wonders when the two will tell him the never-secret of their so-called discreet courting.
He shan’t push them. He’d be a hypocrite to do so.
Eustace had taken to Narnian life as well as one could expect. He’d taken his mornings to the libraries, bothering the historians and scholars alike. Caspian would often lean to his ear at lunch and divulge some story on just how he was fuelling Cornelius’ adamant love for Old Narnian history-- and he’d quickly follow it with the complaints of quizzes on his own knowledge. Quizzes he’d steadily begun to lose to the young blond.
Edmund had laughed at that, quiet and gentle, offering the last of his cherry wine and good grapes as a substitute for the lost quiet days of dozing while pretending to read.
They’d called this the Silver Age in whispers-- the Golden Age’s silver-crowned monarchs ascending true. A blessed time of love and great bounty, of peace and prosperity. Edmund had gone to great lengths to congratulate Caspian’s achievements. Namely, forging him an Old Narnian sword-- the start of true courting, though far more quiet than that of his sister’s.
The Just King’s fingers dip into sodden sand, dragging it into patterns as he contemplates under the gaze of hoisted stars. From stolen whispers on board a ship, to stolen touches within Cair’s walls. Secret rides before dawn-- he’d taken Caspian to cauldron pool to dip their toes and harvest the special berries that grew there. They’d make good wine, Caspian had observed.
They’re better raw, he’d countered.
Soft days and nights of adventure had been gradually taken over by papers and laws, overseeing citizens and appeasing foreign lords and ladies who would come to court. All usual tasks for he, when he sat as mere king. But now, Edmund’s shoulders ache-- half from burden, half from the supple leather satchel slung across them.
The soft glow of lantern light from Cair Paravel sits high behind him. The moon sits higher still, the night inky black, his horse quiet among the shrubbery at the end of the beach. He knows his companion, his phoenix, is aware of his presence. She had been from her birth in the first battle of Beruna. When they’d emerged in the dense forests their second visit. She’d known when they emerged in the water and she’d had handsome perch on his beau’s shoulder. Immortal creature, he’d often wonder, will you still live when I no longer do? Or will your cinders burn to ashes one final time?
He’ll push it from his mind. There were new, fresh things there. And while the globe of the world sits upon his shoulders now, the true weight came from the newly forged ring within its leather cage.
Edmund had been gone two months. Cair in the hands of three capable monarchs, he had ventured to the Western Wilds, the mountainous region of dwarvern homes and, the true gem in the tallest mountain, the great Forge.
The Forge was fueled by dragon’s breath, overseen by a new wyvern now-- Gavriel passed, petrified and impaled by the very swords Edmund had forged in his dragon’s flame. A comrade. A friend. A brother, by marriage and bond. It was always bittersweet now, to pass the lamppost. But still, he digresses. Edmund had seen to Dwarf country, to the fae and sprites at the base of the mountains, the Narnians deep within. And he had stayed within the forge, creating a ring from the scavenged pieces of his first true crown and a Phoenix eye for a gem.
Susan had taught him a thing or two in romantic language, though he’d never had a care for it in her days of reign. The silver crown, a bond as eternal as the mythos that binds me. The Phoenix eye, my immortal soul in crystal form, for you. Edmund had his poems, his silver tongue, though he knew words could not convey the depths of gesture.
He also knew one simply could not propose without visible courting. The mere thought of a heart on display had his stomach in knots and his throat smothered-- he’d woken in the night from disrupted dreams of spies or mercenaries taking those he loved. Not unheard of. Danger was ever present. Lucy was always there, half-awake and studying maps in wonder in a library to distract him with enchanted tales and wide-eyed belief in further worlds despite the extent of their exploration.
The waves had taken his knees, now, and Edmund’s gaze shifted to the threat of orange upon the horizon. Sand between his toes, he stands and clicks his tongue twice to beckon his horse-- he does not speak like Phillip once did. But he understands. He speaks to him at length, treats him equal in vain hope-- that if one turns feral from mistreatment, one might return to senses from the correct sort. The king hoists himself in-saddle and asks once, to be taken home.
The horse pauses, his ears flick. Did his voice sound so thick from lack of sleep? Or lack of care? The steed gives little mind, as he notes his king’s yawning and gives quick trot towards the path of greenery ( foliage that had already begun to angle itself towards the monarch in longing ) that led to a full stomach and three days rest.