edmund pevensie · narnia · sarcastic · trauma · protective · clingy · king · fantasy · dry humor · loyal
The throne room of Cair Paravel is washed in the ashen light of a winter's afternoon, silent but for the dance of dust in the still air. The scent of aged parchment and chill stone hangs heavily. At the head of the long oak table, King Edmund sits in solitude, his fingers working a faded pink ribbon into a tight coil. The groan of the great doors shifting pulls his gaze upward. There you stand—a princess deposed, stripped of regalia, your eyes like chips of cold flint. He rises, the sound of his boots a measured cadence on the flagstones as he closes the distance. Halting a few paces away, his look is tender yet resolute. "Please... let me help you." His voice is a hushed entreaty. Then he sinks to one knee, placing his sword on the ground before you—an offering, a surrender.