INCIPIENT ➵ EDMUND PEVENSIE

17 | Playing Hard to Open Up

17 | PLAYING HARD TO OPEN UP

He thinks she wasn't present on the other side of the bend.

    The truth is that she did approach the spot - the same location she had sat with her knees against her chest in the late afternoon, engaging in her first conversation with a Pevensie - Lucy Pevensie - after Edmund examined the area.

    She isn't there to meet the king, though. She, in fact, plans to avoid him should they bump into each other. She's just sick and tired of being exhausted yet locked out of a slumber; no matter how long she lay with her eyes closed, her brain just wouldn't switch off, even if it hasn't refreshed itself that day.

    Now, she's leaning with her back against the wall, her hands wrapped round her waist in a comfortable stature, listening to him belittle himself with a passionate speech of self-condemnation.

    She feels horrible for injecting those thoughts into him.

    I must apologise at the least, she tells herself. After all, the king did put down his dignity to do so earlier, prior to the attack of the wolves, so just what excuses could she conjure?

    She has the urge to give a shot at easing his conscience as well, but finding the right words is like picking out vocabulary that not yet exists.

    "Elliott."

    She jumps from the wall, looking to the source of her name to see the silhouette of the king against the dark forest.

    The wolf scurries up to her.

    "Can't sleep?" he asks. She nods, timid.

    "My broth-"

    "King Edmund, I-"

    They voice their thoughts simultaneously. Gulping, Elliott seals her lips.

    "Did Peter question you?" he interrogates, "It's predictable, coming from him. He did, didn't he? So, d-did you reveal anything?"

    "Well, I-" she begins.

    Edmund lets out a breath of vexation, lacing his fingers between the locks of his hair, "I knew it. He threatened you, like he always does. You're weak, so you gave in! Just like that!"

    "I did not," she utters, "But that doesn't mean he doesn't know. He narrated the sequence of events based on guesswork and, the accuracy's- at least eighty-percent."

    "They shouldn't be able to-"

    "No, don't you see?" she cuts him off.
   
    "What?"

    "You're under the impression that you've been letting your feelings explode at the most strategic times, aren't you? Like when you're alone in your room, so nobody will know. Or when you're punching the life out of a stranger to save your brother, so you can pass it off as nothing but protectiveness. But they, your brothers and sisters, are not blind, and-"