INCIPIENT ➵ EDMUND PEVENSIE

18 | Groomed out of Pity

18 | GROOMED OUT OF PITY

She gasps, shambling into the armoury, a cavern of a magnitude of weapons and suits of armour.

    Intrigued, she inspects the metallic crafts. Her reflection stares back at her on the silvery blades of swords and convex hulls of shields in the dim firelight. The virtual 'she' trapped on the surfaces of the weaponry gape back at her in exhaustion, yet, her mind tells her physical self otherwise.

    Her vision soon shifts to the image of Edmund, who stands behind her. She senses that he is observing her, and as soon as their eyes meet through the 'mirror', Elliott flinches and sweeps her gaze away.

    "Don't worry, I'm not staring at you without reason. I'm not a creep, you know," he assures, not too persuasively. She spins about to look at him, mostly out of basic respect. He speaks, "Your physique is exceedingly frail - sorry, I'm not one to go around complimenting people either - and I'm not too positive there is any battle-wear that'll fit you. There is a slim chance, though."

    "And if we can't find something suitable?" she questions.

    He seizes the task of rummaging through a chest of chain-mail, breastplates, helmets and more and shoots her a look, embellished with smug, "Then I could kill you with just- a pointy stick, probably," he informs coolly, winking.

    "Sounds exhilarating," she laughs, tinkering with iron scraps that lay strewn in an unkempt pile.

    "Here," his voice echos within the little chamber, his gravelly footsteps following, "Catch."

    She reacts in time to cinch the armour from the air, yapping faintly when the edge of a metal plate grazes her skin.

    Anxious, Edmund strides towards her, and, with rare concern, asks, "You all right?"

    "Quite," she replies, clamping her palm shut as a nipping pain surfaces on her skin.

    "Right. One would define bleeding as all right."

    She decides against wiping the pooling blood on her clothes, even if it is already dyed with it - wolf's blood, to be exact. Because the fabric was damp before, the red pigment of the vital fluid has diffused over a wide area, painting nasty tie-dye lines of crimson onto her blouse. Red liquid drips from the crannies on the skin of her hand.

    "Come with me," he instructs, taking the suit of armour from her arm before picking up a sword by its sheath and a pair of boots. She sees that he drapes another something over his forearm, clipped beneath the weight of the petite battle suit - a dress of medieval fashion. Quickening his pace, he leaves the armoury and advances into the murky tunnels of the How.

    The echos of snores emanate from the sleeping chambers as they shamble by, taking in the sight of tens of haggard Narnians sprawled across the concrete floor, unpeacefully asleep.