Further Up & Further In

Scars

The most obvious remnant of Edmund's fight with the White Witch was a scar. Lucy's cordial had saved him from dying, and it had even healed the pain, but perhaps the wound was too ghastly for the liquid to fully erase. Instead it remained, pink and ugly.

As time wore on, Edmund collected more scars. Glancing battle wounds made up the majority, though a couple clumsy accidents (on his part and on others') resulted in a few more. For example, Edmund liked training the young warriors, and he forgave freely, (for he knew very well how much forgiveness meant, especially when you didn't deserve it.) It wasn't their fault when he stood too close to the archery target and was grazed by a stray arrow. He didn't mind when their foolish attacks resulted in cuts, nor when an overenthusiastic Narnian would ignore his command to stop. Edmund always insisted that he was fine, (but Lucy began hanging around with him more often, her cordial at her side, just in case.)

Not all his scars bothered him. Some he recounted with fond memory, and others he didn't even remember getting in the heat of battle. The only one he really noticed was the one on his stomach, and though it was painless, a part of him always wished it would heal completely and disappear. It wasn't embarrassment; he didn't mind others seeing it at all. They were more understanding than he was. But when he was alone it reminded him of his first battle, and of the witch, and of how he almost ruined everything by choosing power over his family. That choice had ended with Aslan dying on the Stone Table. It didn't matter that He rose again. It was one thing Edmund could not forgive himself for.

When he saw his scar, he was reminded of the fear he felt when he believed they were alone. When he believed he was dying, and that Peter would follow soon after. When he thought of his poor sisters and what would become of them. Though the scar should have been a mark of victory over the Witch -the turning point before the killing blow - it only caused him pain. No, Edmund never found it as easy to forgive himself as it was to forgive others. The scar was an insult.

So when, after years of being a king, he found himself on the floor of a little room that was empty, save a single wardrobe, he was surprised by how unblemished his child body was. The first time he looked in the mirror after returning home, he was shocked not to see the thin cuts on his face he had hardly noticed when he was still in Narnia. All those years never lived, all those battled never fought raced through his mind like a raging river. And so nervously Edmund pulled up the bottom of his shirt, and was relieved to see, for the first time, no scar. He was free.

The weight of all those scars left him, and he was, at long last, a boy again. But he never thought, never expected, that some day he would miss the scarred flesh and the tired eyes. He never thought he'd miss the growing aches in his joints or how long it took to fall asleep most nights. He never thought he'd miss his worn-out, grown-up body until the day he almost stopped believing he had ever had one.

He didn't miss his scars until he realized he was all out of proof.

His wounds were gone. But so was his kingdom.