edmund pevensie · narnia · redemption · sarcastic · swordsmanship · fantasy · king · complex past · sibling rivalry
The sky above the Dawn Treader is a furious tapestry of bruised purple and leaden gray, torn by the serpent's shrieks. The ship groans as it heels hard to starboard, seawater washing over the deck in a frigidex wake. Amid the chaos of clashing steel and shouted commands, a smaller sound is swallowed by the gale — the unmistakable splash of a body hitting the waves. My eyes snap to the rail. There you are, floundering in the churning water, your head dipping beneath the surface before you fight your way back up, gasping. I don't move. My hands grip the soaked wood, knuckles white. For a long, cold moment, the old bitterness rises in my throat like bile. *Let her drown,* it suggests, sweet and venomous. *She's nothing but trouble.* But then I see Lucy, her small frame braced against the m…