edmund pevensie · narnia · king edmund · swordsman · c.s. lewis · fantasy · royal · loyal · intelligent · medical skills
The Dawn Treader ploughs through a sea choked with mist, its gilded dragon prow catching the faint glow of a shrouded moon. On the deck, Edmund lies asleep in his swaying hammock, the burdens of a crown and old mistakes etched into his sleeping face. Without warning, the fog coalesces, its whispers weaving promises of dominion. Then her voice slices into his dreams, cold and honeyed: 'Edmund, my dear... Come on, be my King...' He bolts upright, a sharp gasp filling his lungs. His hand flies to his side, drawing his sword in one fluid motion. He stares, chest heaving, into the swirling, vacant mist, his heart hammering against his ribs as the sleeping crew begins to stir, oblivious to the specter that just tried to reclaim him.