The Second Choice (Part XII)
Fandom: The Chronicles of Narnia
Summary: Edmund Pevensie: son, brother, friend, traitor. The prospect of more Turkish Delight was not enough to sway the young boy enough to deliver his siblings to the White Witch. So she offered him a position—her prince, her apprentice, and her contingency plan.
Word Count: 3,008
Rating: G
Chapters: 12 of 18 (12: The Talk)
12: The Talk
Velia slowly walked into the study, unhooking her sword from her belt before dramatically collapsing onto the settee. She sprawled out so her head rested on the cushion propped up against the arm of the sofa while her legs hooked over the arm.
“You may be the alleged king of a legion of idiots,” she drawled, her voice a gravelly mixture of tiredness and dry humor, “but I don’t think we can keep this little charade up for much longer. I can only sabotage my own assassination attempts so many times before one of your Minions starts getting suspicious.”
Edmund sighed from behind his desk and dropped his head into his hands. He knew she was right. He’d actually expected her to bring this up a while ago.
“And I don’t know how much more my dignity can take,” she continued when Edmund didn’t seem to be inclined to respond. “The Minions are giving me these disappointed looks as if I’ve severely regressed from the girl who’d ripped through half a battalion when I first arrived here. You should’ve seen some of their faces when your wolf knocked me aside.”
She unlaced her leather armor so she could breathe a little easier as she continued her tirade. Edmund was content to just sit and let her rant.
“An army is only as good as its general, Edmund,” she reminded him as she tossed the chest armor to the side and began to work on unlacing her boots. “If they stop believing that I’m still the vicious psychopath who will gleefully rip off limbs for no good reason, then they’ll start straying from orders.”
She tossed one boot next to the chest armor and turned to the other one.
“Unfortunately, you have three siblings. If a party of Minions decides to break off and try their hands—or claws, whatever their appendages may be—in their own assassination attempt, I might not be there to save whomever their mark is if I’m too preoccupied trying to keep another Pevensie from coming to harm. And, frankly, as fun as it is to essentially be fighting a war against yourself, we can only do this so many times.”
After finally managed to pull off her other boot, she dropped it onto the floor and wiggled her toes in relief.
“I’m actually quite surprised we managed to keep this up for three years. You should be very thankful that we’ve only had to participate in four formal battles—not counting border squabbles and small skirmishes; they don’t count as a pivotal aspect of war unless the outcome is particularly important. But four times is enough. If we try and do any repeats, you’re going to have a mutiny on your hands. Wait, I think mutiny is a nautical term, isn’t it? A coup then? Whatever the term may be, that is what you would be facing.”
Edmund finally lifted his head off his hands and whispered an incantation to conjure up two full plates of food. He levitated one of the platters and sent it Velia’s way, and she accepted it with a nod of thanks before he lobbed some cutlery at her.
“What do you suggest then?” he asked.
“Would you be willing to surrender?” she asked, smirking at him as she speared a potato with her fork.
He narrowed his eyes at her and didn’t deign to respond.
“I’ve been hearing rumors,” she said through a mouthful of food. “Many are saying that Aslan is returning. They say he’s managed to find a way to finally defeat you.”
Edmund paused with a spoonful of food halfway to his mouth. He turned to frown at her worriedly. “What?”
“This war may be drawing to a close sooner than you anticipated,” she said unaffectedly.
“So what are you saying? That we should actually try to assassinate someone this time so that any hope of fulfilling that prophecy will be killed with whatever sibling is the mark?”
Velia rolled her eyes and popped a scallop into her mouth. “If you’re really set on carrying out the Witch’s wishes and make yourself an only child, then by all means, give the order. I was simply going to say that perhaps Aslan’s way of ‘defeating’ you is some sort of euphemism for helping you deal with whatever little problem you’re having.”
He stared at her in utter confusion. “What?”
She sighed and set her plate on her lap as she explained, “That Lion may have killed the Witch, but it’s obvious that He’s not intending on making you follow the same path. Your siblings would make sure of that as well. Obviously they noticed your drastic change in appearance during the Witch’s last battle, so if they haven’t figured out that you’re under a curse, then stupidity really does run in the Pevensie blood. But since I’m going to continue to give you all the benefit of the doubt, I would say that they’ve spent the last few years trying to find some way to lift the Witch’s curse on you. And if you correctly interpret the rumors, it seems that Aslan may have finally found a way to do so.”
He narrowed his eyes at her, and she shot him a longsuffering look.
“Assuming that Aslan went off to find you a magical counter-curse really isn’t such a random, inconceivable idea, you idiot. Really, Edmund, I don’t understand you sometimes. For such a good strategist, you really are quite dense.”
He scowled at her before turning back to his food. “Where exactly did you hear these rumors from?”
“A couple of ghouls and incubi heard from the trees near the River Rush, who heard it from a couple of fauns who were on border patrol.
Edmund found himself smirking as he recalled exactly what he’d told Lucy all those years ago: “Fauns will say anything to hold the attentions of an audience, you know—notorious for embellishment and lies.” A direct quote from the Lady who’d dragged him into this mess.
His paranoia rose to the occasion and caused him to seriously contemplate whether or not the fauns had been lying to mislead his army.
“Whatever the curse may be,” he finally said, rubbing his hands down his face, “how can He find a counter-curse to a curse he doesn’t even know about.”
Velia frowned at him in disbelief. “Since you seem to have forgotten, let me remind you of one small yet crucial detail: He’s Aslan.”
“For someone who hates that Lion so much, you seem to hold much stock in His abilities,” Edmund pointed out critically.
If Velia rolled her eyes one more time, Edmund swore he’d throw something at her. “It’s never wise to underestimate your enemies. No one thought the Witch could be defeated, but look at how swiftly He dispatched her.”
“I shattered her wand,” Edmund reminded her.
“Regardless. The Witch didn’t need the wand to have power,” Velia pointed out. “You should know better than anyone the extent of her powers.”
Edmund’s temper flared. “And why would you say that?” he demanded defensively.
She gave him a strange look. “Because you trained with her…?”
Edmund sagged and leaned back against his chair, setting his fork down.
“What’s the matter with you?” Velia asked cautiously. “Did you try one of the Witch’s old potions again?”
“No, no, I learned my lesson the first three times it happened,” Edmund muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’m just…tired of this war.”
“Well, considering you’ve been at it for the last eight years, I can imagine why,” she mumbled through a mouthful of baked salmon. “What are you going to do about it?”
“What can I do about it?” he shot back incredulously.
“Honestly? Leave.”
He turned to look at her and was completely taken aback when he saw she was serious.
She shrugged. “You keep insisting that Mason and I should prevent your death at all costs, and what better way to do that than by running? The longer you fight this war, the higher the chance your death will occur. The prophecy is essentially thwarted since you’re not with your siblings anyway, so why do you still bother?”
“I can’t run. I’m…magically bound to command the army. I can’t leave the war.”
Velia shook her head slowly, chewing on an another scallop. “I’m not going to bother asking.”
“It’s part of the Witch’s curse—”
She cut him off. “Then why won’t you let Aslan lift it for you?”
Edmund shook his head in dismissal. “No. Whatever He’s going to try and do will only result in my death—”
“Which is a very, very bad thing that you still refuse to tell me about,” she interrupted him again. “Your death itself would already be a very bad and sad ordeal; why else would it be so horrible?”
“You don’t need to—”
She actually threw her boot at him. He ducked at the last moment, and it soared over his head. He turned back and glared at her, ready to launch into a shouting match, but she beat him to the punch.
“Yes, actually, I do need to know because just in case I fail at my job and you manage to end up dead, I need to know what to expect!” she shouted furiously, eyes blazing with black fire. “And don’t tell me that I need to just trust you because it’s high time you trust me back. I’ve proven that I can be trusted because I’ve had four opportunities to kill your brother and sisters, and I haven’t.”
“You wouldn’t be able to do anything to stop it anyway!” Edmund shot back.
“You can’t say or know that for certain because you haven’t told me!”
“I know Aslan can’t help me so how can you be able to do that?!”
“Why do you keep insisting that your future is hopeless! As far as you know, you can’t be saved, but if you don’t share your burden, you’ve essentially signed your own death warrant!”
“There are no loopholes to this, Velia! Once the curse has been cast, it cannot be lifted! There can only be one outcome; the Witch made sure of that! All the knowledge you need is this: you cannot let me die!”
She growled in frustration and set her plate on the table next to the settee. “Why?!”
“Because it would be very bad,” he growled unrelentingly.
Her other boot actually made contact. It clipped the side of his head.
“That is entirely unhelpful!” she cried.
“But entirely truthful!” he shot back.
She leaned against the back of the settee and reclined her head so she stared up at the ceiling. “I don’t understand why you refuse to tell me. Does it involve using words that would make my brain melt if I’m not meant to hear it?”
Edmund scrubbed his hands up and down his face before fixing his eyes on a crack in the frosty wall in front of him.
“Where are you from?” he asked suddenly.
She slowly lifted her head from its resting place to stare at him incredulously. “What?”
“Every time I try and bring up your past, you somehow derail the entire conversation, and I never get any answers,” he answered.
“I know that that feels,” she grumbled pointedly, crossing her arms over her chest.
“So I’m going to ask for a straight answer this time—no more deflecting. Where are you from?”
She gave him a blank look before saying, “I’m from Narnia.”
He glared at her. “I command you to tell me. The Witch was not as discriminating of your background, but I won’t keep wondering about your origins or your exact species even.”
Her eyebrows rose. “You command me? Is that a royal command, Your Majesty? You should really make up your mind, Edmund. You can’t refuse the crown one minute and then dole out royal commands the next.”
“I can do whatever I want.”
“Then I’ll follow suit and do whatever I want. I’ll start off by not following any more of your orders. Would you like Lucy’s head on a gold or silver platter?”
Edmund was severely tempted to jump to his feet and throw a legitimate tantrum, he was so frustrated. But he knew that he was only three days from his eighteenth birthday. On his first three days in the Witch’s castle, he was introduced to the convoluted calendar that marked the passing of the Narnian days, but he refused to conform and instead made his own calendar—an Earth calendar—and he’d kept track of the days that passed ever since. So he was sure that in three days time, he would be of age, and that was the only thing that kept him from throwing something at the infuriating female creature in front of him.
So he opted for the more manly version of expressing his aggravation:
Edmund roared furiously, finally managing to make Velia jump. “STOP DEFLECTING! ANSWER THE QUESTION!”
They both glared at each other for a good twelve seconds before something snapped in her eyes. The glare faltered, and was replaced by an infinitesimal glint that vanished as quickly as it appeared. He couldn’t put his finger on what that glint was.
She gracefully stood up and crossed the room. She paused in front of the farthest bookcase before skimming her fingertips over the spines of the books as she moved to the right. Her long, slender index finger stopped on a thin, red volume. She hesitated before sliding it out—such a miniscule hesitation that Edmund almost didn’t notice it—and tossing it onto the desk before dropping back down onto the settee and resuming her former, horizontal position.
He watched her stare up at the ceiling, almost telepathically urging her to talk instead of forcing him to read. But it turns out that he didn’t even have to open the book.
“Fire spirits?”
He gave her a confused look, but she made no indication that she heard him or even noticed that he’d looked at the book.
“But they’ve vanished,” Edmund muttered, as if trying to rationalize. “The air and water spirits are shy themselves, but there hasn’t been a fire spirit sighting in years—not since the Vasceris Forest was razed, effectively making the entire Vasceran race…”
He looked up to see her clenched jaw and the sadness in her eyes that was so tangible he was afraid that her eyes might shatter from the force of it all.
“…extinct.”
“Apparently not as extinct as everyone thought,” she said bitterly. “My brother and I managed to escape, but…”
He came to lean against the arm of the settee and look down at her.
The Vascerans were forest dwellers—humanlike in appearance, like the Telmarines—who lived in the wide, hollowed-out trunks of the strong Vasceris trees. The firestorm that reduced the once-magnificent woodland was shrouded in speculation and rumors. Many say that the fire spirits were unbelieving of the strength and durability of the wood of the Vasceris trees and simply set the forest ablaze out of spite. Others say that it had simply been an accident on the fire spirits’ parts.
Whatever the reason had been, it had been the complete and utter annihilation of the Vascerans.
“Velia, you don’t have to keep—”
She glared at him furiously. “No, apparently I do since you so violently insisted. My brother died of smoke inhalation, leaving me—a witless two year-old—to wander Narnia.”
“Where did you go?” he asked, trying to keep his voice soft.
She glared at him again before throwing his own words back at him: “You don’t need to know.”
He narrowed his eyes but didn’t open his mouth in fear of evoking her anger once more.
“I’ve been training ever since,” she finished.
He raised an eyebrow at her. “You’re going to exact revenge on fire spirits who essentially went into hiding because of the heavy burden of guilt that they killed off an entire race? That’s virtually impossible.”
She shrugged dismissively.
That’s why she’s insane, he thought to himself, finally putting the puzzle pieces together to explain her mental crisis.
“If your fight is with the fire spirits, why were you so eager to join the Witch’s army? Why didn’t you just go off in search of the spirits?”
She rolled her eyes. “Whose side did they fight on?”
He sighed. Aslan.
“Fought,” he corrected her. “They haven’t meddled in Narnian affairs since the forest burned down.”
“Regardless.”
He shook his head and went back to his desk. It was a well-known kind of story: vengeance fueled by loneliness, but there was still something about this girl that Edmund couldn’t figure out—something she wasn’t saying. Not that she’d said much in the first place. She had technically answered his questions, but her responses were too…broad, too vague, too general, and not good enough for him.
But he knew better than to push her. He’d already tested her limits for the night, he wouldn’t risk possible dismemberment just to glean more answers from her. He would try again another time.
He was barely seated in his chair before Velia’s lips were suddenly inches from his ear, her breath warming the side of his face.
“Tell me…what will happen…if you die.”
He stared at a fixed spot on the wall in front of him, refusing to turn to her. He could feel her eyes burning holes in the side of his head, but he refused to flinch away. He was almost eighteen, for goodness sake. A man wouldn’t shy away from a slender girl…
Who’d hacked off her own finger out of desperation, but chopped off her own hand simply to prove a meaningless point…
Edmund sighed, letting out his breath slowly before finally answering her.
“The Witch didn’t put a curse on me. She put part of her own spirit in me. As soon as I die, she’ll take over my body, more powerful than ever before.”
