INCIPIENT ➵ EDMUND PEVENSIE

21 | Concealing Hurts From Within

21 | CONCEALING HURTS
FROM WITHIN

There is so much out there other than sword-fighting," declares Edmund, "Who knows, your forte may have been something else all along."

    Here they are in the armoury yet again. His back hunched over, Edmund fishes item after item from the chest of gadgets he dove his hands into, whereas Elliott, reserved and awaiting directions from the king, sits indulging in a tough loaf of bread acquired from the miserable supply of food on the 'dinner table'.

    And back while she was sulking at how the dinner hall reeked of sweat, grass and fatigue, the king approached her, saying something along the lines of 'why don't we embark on something different tonight?', his portion of carbohydrate in his hand. He also added a 'it's all right if  you wouldn't want to, lest you overwork yourself'.

    But she was glad to comply to flee the congested chamber, even though her pegged muscles - if she even has any - told her otherwise.

    Edmund wolfed down his share of bread in the few minutes it took for them make their way from the hall to the armoury. It didn't appear to be an adequate meal for a sixteen year old boy who'd been training vigorously for the day.

    He lugs at something, and a battle axe emerges from behind the sides of the chest, but it soon leaves his hand. "I don't think you can even lift this thing," he speculates.

    A similar situation occurs with each instrument he yanks from the collection, along with mutters of 'it would take weeks to learn how to even operate this', 'this wouldn't make a scratch on armoured men' or 'this'll throw yourself off balance', etcetera.

    His head disappears into the deep chest. With some delay, he pulls out a satchel of something, dust specks that blotch the velvety fabric billowing into the air. Edmund coughs and turns his head away from it, then wrings it a few times. The items within rattle with the motion.

  "I suppose these are knives?" he speaks to himself, nodding as he confirmed his guess with his eyes.

    He flings the bag in Elliott's direction, who - though misses it nearly - hooks the leather strap that laced it up between her fingers.

    "I see your reflex is not too bad," he commends, "Speaking of knives, my knife-"

    "Your knife!" she gasps, averting her eyes in a fluster, "I think - uh - I kind of misplaced it. I'm really sorry. I couldn't find it last night and I didn't know how to come clean with you. But I'll find it! It has to be here somewhere-"

    "Like my back pocket?" he interrupts, fishing the weapon out from the said pocket, a smirk playing on his lips, "The wolf brought it back to me last night, before you arrived to establish a chat with me during which he - or she - slipped away without a word. You wouldn't have found it. It's a mistake to keep empty promises, child."