A/N: Thank you so much for your feedback. It is so much appreciated, and I can only hope the story continues to be worth reading.

Great men are not always wise.

-Job 32:9

Night.

Wholly irrelevant, inevitably long…And yet still Edmund tried to sleep. He was not, of course, successful, and this did not surprise him as he gave up the idea of rest and put on his robe. If sleep was impossible, then he would get work done. Anything was better than lying awake, staring at the ceiling, while memories flashed through his mind, painful and ceaseless.

No rain. No stars, but no rain and the palace was quiet. He had always liked the night; he had always liked the solitude and the quiet. He liked being the only one awake, the only one walking around—the only one looking up at the sky. There was something to that.

He went to a library and sat down at a desk, and pulled out a history book and then his mind did not wander because now it had something there, something present, to think about. Memories, Edmund believed, were the result of idle, undirected thoughts. Byproducts of languor.

The book spoke of dictators. Wars caused by intolerance and indulgence; deaths that led to riots, riots that lead to deaths. A God-less existence in a world of voracity and egocentricity. Edmund took a certain degree of pleasure from reading about the injustices of governments passed, because he was not part of them, nor was he much like them. To be incomparable to a derisive tyrant, to a merciless maniac, surely that was worth something?

Surely that was a sort of atonement.

The library was dark, and Edmund's candle flickered a little. Wind. Still no rain. Silence.

The letter had called for elections. No war, just diplomacy. They wanted democracy, and immediate elections, and they wanted to be represented by those they deemed fit. They wanted America, Edmund thought dryly, thinking back to before they had journeyed into the wardrobe.

Of course they could not be allowed to vote! Edmund laughed at the thought. Not only was that a preposterous idea (for himself, Peter, and the girls were as good of leaders as any, he felt), but it was against the wishes of Aslan. Aslan had appointed the leaders of Narnia, and to question his judgment was heresy!

Elections! Preposterous.

Edmund tried (he really did) to focus on the history, but his brain had a mind of its own and did not easily heed his halfhearted commands. A heavy thought rested upon his heart and he did not want to think about it, but he could not ignore it. He could not ignore the fact that he did not agree with his brother's interrogation strategies.

The look on the poor child's face…

Edmund knew that look. He knew that feeling. He knew what it was like to face the accuser, give information that did not want to be given, betray those who would not in turn betray simply because the alternative did not seem acceptable.

It was a very long night.

"I don't suppose I have time for breakfast."

Peter made the announcement grandly as he entered the hall, dressed and looking as king-like as possible. Susan clicked her tongue. "Surely you do," she said. "Be reasonable, Peter."

"There's plenty of it," Lucy added cheerfully, putting jam on her buttered toast. Edmund sat sandwiched between his sisters, his tea half-drank and his food untouched. He was not hungry, but unlike Peter he saw no need to pretend his lack of starvation was a result of duty.

"No, no," said Peter, shaking his head gravely. "I am conducting a meeting with Oreius and the council to determine what is to be done regarding that letter."

Edmund frowned. "If you can wait a moment," he said, raising his tea to his lips and standing, making his way over to Peter. "I will only be a minute-,"

"-Ah-," said Peter, looking suddenly uncomfortable. He scratched the back of his head. "That will not be necessary, actually—see—the meeting—it is rather a private affair-,"

Edmund blinked. "Private," he echoed. "But surely, as king, I am to be included-," Peter was shaking his head, looking apologetic, but firm. Edmund's jaw tightened. "May I ask why my presence is not allowed at this 'meeting'?"

Peter sighed. "The messenger-boy would only tell us that he was instructed not to give the letter to you. Oreius and I have both concluded that it would be wisest not to involve you in the proceedings, both for your own safety and for—well, for diplomacy."

Edmund could have laughed at the irony. Here he was, King Edmund the Just, and he was being shunned from a political strategy because of diplomacy!

"I see," he said heavily. "Then what is it I am supposed to do, Peter?"

Peter smiled and placed a hand on Edmund's shoulder. Squeezing it gently, he said, "I am sure you have plenty of paperwork."

As if he were his father! Edmund felt white-hot anger curse through him. First he mercilessly interrogates an innocent child, then he bans his own brother from a crucial political meeting, and now he was going to be patronizing?

"Where is the boy?" Edmund snapped. Peter frowned at his tone. Edmund grew impatient. "The boy," he repeated sharply. "The messenger from last night? Where is he? Where are you keeping him?"

Peter spoke carefully. "He is being given all that he requires-,"

"-Where are you keeping him, Peter?" It was not a question. It was a demand.

Peter took a moment before answering. "Perhaps it would be best if kept private," he said slowly. Edmund scowled and, cussing under his breath, set down his tea and strode angrily out of the hall.

"Edmund!" Lucy called after him, but he ignored her (as hard as it was to do).

He rounded the corner and took the corridors down until he reached the front of the Cair, and once there he spoke to a centaur guard. "Excuse me," he said urgently. "I need someone to tell me where the messenger-boy from last night is being held. It is important."

The centaur had no idea of the controversy. "Certainly," he said pleasantly. "One moment, and I will have someone take you."

The boy was not being kept in a dungeon, and Edmund found himself relieved. He ought not to have been so surprised (Peter, for all his interrogative similarities to the White Witch, was certainly not cruel) but he was, and then he noticed something.

"Why is there a lock on the door?" he asked quickly, fingering it.

"The High King requested it," said the faun who had led Edmund to the guest room cheerfully. "It is not a problem, your majesty. I have a key, see?" He held it up and Edmund nodded.

Why the jump to paranoia? he wondered. Was the letter so unsettling that it warranted this?

The faun unlocked the door and then handed Edmund a spare key after expressing surprise and regret that he had not already received one. "Thank you," Edmund said stiffly. He stepped inside, closing the door behind him and pocketing the key.

"Hello?" The room was dark and Edmund lit a few lamps as he stepped through the short hallway. "Hello? This is Edmund. I just want to talk to you."

He heard a small sniffle, and stepped forward. After a moment his eyes had adjusted and he saw a small figure curled up against a wall. The boy.

"Hey," said Edmund softly, gently, as he crouched down. The boy looked terrified, and he tried to back away. Edmund felt a pang of sharp sympathy. "It's okay," he promised. "I won't hurt you. I just want to talk." A beat. "My name is Edmund."

The boy closed his eyes and a tear escaped. "I know," he whispered. "I have something for you."

Edmund froze, his brows furrowing. "Something for me?"

The boy nodded, wiped a few tears off his face, and then pulled something out of his vest pocket. "It wasn't supposed to happen this way," he said, voice shaking terribly. "I-I was supposed to give this t-to you tomorrow b-b-but then they locked me up." Fresh tears fell. "I didn't do anything wrong," he cried. "I didn't do anything wrong."

"Shh," said Edmund gently. "Don't cry. I know you didn't." But his eyes saw only one thing.

In the boy's hand was a letter.

To Be Continued