Lay Down Your Sword Before Me

When the night raid upon Miraz' castle does not go to plan, it is King Edmund the Just who pays the terrible price.

Disclaimer: I do not, nor will I ever, own the marvouslness that is C.S Lewis' universe, The Chronicles Of Narnia. I will never obtain such a thing and any plots or characters that one may recognise from the original author is not my own.

Chapter One: Bow As Others Have Bowed Before A Fake King.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

The sound of water falling endlessly to the cold stone-flagged floor, marking it as dark - almost as if blood had once stained its revenue - rather than perhaps its previous lightened countenance seemed to torment him. Despite this, what was worse still was the steady but slow drip that came upon his head, his raven hair being soaken slightly as water marred his face is thin rivulets as they travelled downwards, burning cuts and stinging burns. As his seemed to loose all conscience feeling in his right leg, he shifted just slightly, biting back a moan as pain flared and flashed, zinging his nerves in a way he hadn't felt since he had first travelled through 'Spare Oom' and met that dastardly Witch upon the grounds of the Ford Of Beruna. His rope burned wrists twinged with agony, as if agreeing with his leg.

His ears perked, twitching almost like a dogs towards his cell door - or, what he assumed was his cell door - as he heard the heavy metallic clank of two men appear ever closer to his stone prison. They paused only briefly, one of the men rattling the cage like door in a taunting manner, trying to get a rise out of the prisoner. He grunted, chest heaving in protest, when the prisoner remained silent and cold, skin pale and his eyes bound with ragged black material. The prisoner heard the cling of a keychain, the sound of a key being inserted into the reinforced lock upon his prison door rung a dark lullaby as the harsh crash of metal echoed dimly throughout the hollow corridoor, making the raven-haired boy wince as it grated against his pounding head, the water falling upon it having induced a slow building headache as it fell constantly, almost like a waterfall, frozen and delayed by lies and betrayal and dishonor.

"Prince Edmund," Came the sly tone of Lord Protector and False King Miraz, previously of Telmar. Despite the fact that a moudly rag bound his eyes, King Edmund the Just, a King Of Olde, could tell that a trecherous smirk craved Miraz' face in half, making the usurper that much more darker and twisted as the sound of repetative feet neared Edmunds dark prison. More men - soldiers of Miraz' - were entering his cell, making the air musty and limited, making Edmunds stomach flip as he felt a cautious metal encased foot poke at his left leg. Giving thanks to Alsan that it had been his immediately intact left leg rather than his right, Edmund could only suck in his stomach and clench his eyes to not give way to the suddenly overwhelming urge to grasp the foot of the owner and twist it, spraining it badly enough that the metal would give way, piercing the fragile skin of the Achilles Heal and render him almost incapable of walking.

Alas, the Just King, fair and merciful as he was to those who hurt him declared in his mind that such an action could and perhaps, would, draw the usurpers ire to a more worthy of target, someone like his brother, Peter. Maiming one of Miraz' men might have both detrimental effects of both Peter and him. Hands clenching, his head turned to the side, silently grateful for the blind for it masked the tears that welled up in his dark eyes. It would not do well to show Miraz any weakness. Any weakness to the enemy could mean certain torment. Especially to a cruel tyrant such as Miraz of Telmar.

"You will tell us where the Narnian's lie, or your head will be placed on a spike, right next to that of the Beasts that we killed," The tone, as slow and confident as it was, carried a certain threat to it, making it clear to Edmund that Miraz would do well on his threat. But Edmund knew he wouldn't be killed immediately. Rest assured, Edmund held no illusion to the fact that he would not be killed, it was just the matter of when Miraz would be the one to strike the sword of death upon a King Of Olde.

Lips chapped, from both coldness and dehydration, parted slowly. Miraz and the soldiers in the cell lent forward, perhaps in excitement, in quite relief that the once silent prisoner would break his silent oath to himself. Edmunds pale face curved slightly, cheeks just as pale as the rest of his skin, as his lips carved a cruel smile across his handsome face. He spat at the floor in front of Miraz.

With disgust written acidicily across his face, Miraz drew his sword with the sound of ringing metal. Others accompanied the sound, Edmund observing the fact that the others had drawn their swords too. He smiled, coldly triumphant. Spitting on the ground was an ultimate insult that had been the result of wars before in the Golden Age of Narnia, his beloved country, and his skin tingled with something he could not identify as he realised he had used the insult a Telmarine Diplomat had used upon Edmund after he had refused to sign the treaty which would have wed him to a cruel man of great wealth and even greater arrogance.

A gasp burst forth from his lips when he felt the tip of a sword pierce his left cheek. Having no way to know when an attack was coming made it that much more difficult. White teeth pulled his bottom lip into his mouth as the sword of Miraz slowly and non-at-all-carefully traced his weapon upon the fragile skin of Edmunds cheek. Blood, red and thick against his pale, fair skin, slid slowly down his jutting cheekbone, over his jaw line to pool under his tunic upon the deep dip within his collarbone.

Once sure that the sword was far away from his face to maim him once again, despite the pain coming from just a few inches under the corner of his eye to the edge of his lip, Edmund let out a startle of laughter, loud and ringing in it's intensity. It would more than that to down a Narnian King Of Olde.

Miraz' face twisted into an ugly scowl, the lines of his fleshy skin deepening in sharp relief within the dimly lit prison chamber. With the sound of dull steel, his sword was withdrawn. He turned on his metal heel, brow set into a harsh glare that made a more greener and newer recruited soldier step away, his knees shaking. Before leaving however, he caught the arm of a random soldier. "Do what you will," Miraz snarled before releasing his harsh grip.

Smiling darkly at the now ashen prisoner who had heard every terrifiyingly snarled words, the soldier nodded to his fellow militant mates as they all converged upon the slightly shivering Edmund, coldness permeating his bones and weariness shaking his marrow as he felt a large and calloused hand grip his right hand and tug it towards the soldier. As large fingers clutched his thumb and a horrifying crack echoed through the large prison room, the thumb having been slid out of place forcefully and painfully, Edmund made only one oath to himself.

He would not scream.