(no subject)
Everyone knows that sleeping in can be the greatest feeling in the world. But less may know that waking up early can be a great feeling as well. We cannot blame people for not knowing, as dreams can be wonderful things and beds are soft and warm, but Edmund rather thought they were missing out sometimes. That morning he had gotten out of bed earlier than Charlie, so early that the sky still held a dark hue, the sun so low on the horizon it had not warmed the world yet with light and heat. He crept quietly through their bedroom, putting on his clothes -- a tunic and boots and things like he would have worn in Narnia. He rather felt like sparring today and this was much easier to do in comfortable clothes. Edmund always felt the slightest bit of an idiot wearing regular clothes and sword strapped to his belt.
Honour was sat at the doorstep as Edmund left the hut, his ears perking at the sound of his boy on the other side. Edmund smiled faintly as he ruffled the direwolf's fur in greeting, but the anxious look in those golden eyes made Ed pause. "What's wrong?" he asked, too far gone from Narnia to expect a true answer, but long enough in the company of Stark direwolves to know something might come of asking. Honour whined and shuffled back, and something clenched in Edmund's stomach.
Edmund looked up at the sky, still pink and purple to one side, bright and glowing on the other, and went over things in his head. He felt alright, unchanged. Charlie had been sound asleep but physically unchanged. Nothing looked amiss in the world. So whatever Honour detected had to be something deeper than the standard island trickery.
"We'll just have to find out then," Edmund said as he started on the path to Susan's. He stopped by every morning if he could, to see what needed doing, to offer to watch the kids, but mostly just to visit with his family. After living together for so many years, in their house in Finchley and the Professor's rambling estate and their castle in Narnia, Edmund felt odd if he couldn't see her at least once a day. Even when he and Lucy had been in Narnia and Peter and Susan not, or when Susan had been in America, he thought of his siblings every day. He wouldn't have admitted to this at the time, being a boy and very protective of his feelings, but that didn't make things any less true.
"Suuuu," he called as he approached the house, expecting Helen to have gotten her up already at the very least. Mothers were always early risers, in Edmund's experience. Still wondering over Honour's fretful behavior, he didn't notice at first how quiet things were.
"Su, you notice anything odd this morning?" he asked as he opened the front door and cleared the threshold. And that's when it hit him: the emptiness.
We've said before, as Edmund was a boy who had lost things dear to his heart many times before this, how there can be different kinds of emptiness. A bed can be empty, or a house or a chair, but even so it can hold a sense that it will be filled soon. The very air around it seems different, as though something is holding its breath, waiting, anticipating a change. But an empty bed or house or chair that won't be filled again, or at least not for a very, very long time is different. All the air has been let out and what's left is cold, dry, dead. There is no happiness. There is no hope. It's icy and sharp and slaps you in the face, affronted by the presence of life.
Edmund stood frozen in the doorway of his sister's house and felt this, felt all of it and how it wanted to choke him, press down on him and squeeze tears from his eyes and cries from his throat, steal the hope from his heart.
So he ran.
He didn't look where he was going because he didn't know where he was going other than away. At first the path was clear and then there were trees, but no vines tripped him or branches hit him. Or if they did, Edmund did not feel them. He felt nothing but cold as he ran from the panic.
Deep in the jungle, or maybe only a few yards in, he stopped, half-collapsing against a tree. He panted for breath but it wasn't enough, it wasn't enough to get the this feeling of sick fear out from under his skin. Edmund did cry out then, but in anger, bringing his fist into the tree trunk. It had to have hurt. He did it twice more and left a faint smear of blood from his knuckles on the bark, but he couldn't have rightly said if it really hurt or not. It just wasn't enough. He drew the sword from his belt and hacked at the wood, wild, uncontrolled, stupid attacks that would surely only damage the blade. But he could see the gashes in the trunk, feel the blade sink in and pulled hard to get it out again and that felt good. That was better. Every dull thud brought with it a dim sense of achievement, of petty vengeance when he could get no true satisfaction.
Eventually, he tired. The blade sunk deep into the wood and he hadn't the strength to tug it out again. So, finally, he gave up and let the tears come. They had already been there, in truth, blurring his vision and shortening his breath to wet sobs, but he fell to his knees and let them consume him.
A long time ago now, Edmund had known trees that sang and danced. He let the great roots of this tree cradle and protect him now as he cried, without the strength even to hope that no one found him like this. He didn't care.
All he knew was that he was alone now.
But he wasn't, not truly. Honour padded forward from nowhere, silent witness to the entire event, and sat down in front of his boy, shielding him. Edmund clung to him like a child and sobbed into his thick fur until his eyes were red and his throat was raw and he could not physically cry any more.
He wasn't alone completely, but somehow this was worse. All of his blood was gone, his true family. The story had started with the four of them and very quickly, very stupidly, Edmund had lost them. This time, very slowly, completely against his will, Edmund had lost them again. There was no going back this time. There was no escape just over the next hill, no hope in the new spring bud. No one was coming to save him. He was on his own. Their story would end with Edmund, alone, again.
After some time, all the emotions rung out of him, Edmund released his grip on Honour. The direwolf shook out his fur and waited for his boy to stand and retrieve his sword. The blade was nicked, dirtied, a mess, but probably still salvageable. Edmund replaced it in his scabbard uncleaned, not wanting to waste any more time. He had to find Robb and Arya and Jack. He had to inform the council and the kitchen staff. And finally he had to go home to Charlie and rest. The day had only just started and he felt so very, very tired. But he had a long road ahead of him.