LOWBORN : Edmund Pevensie

11

After a few steps, King Edmund turns around. Even though the lighting is dim, he stands directly in the candlelight. I can see his blue tunic, with a darker shade of blue running intricate patterns of swirls. He wears black pants, nearly the colour of his perfectly styled hair.

"Who's there?" he asks, his voice loud but slow. He has clearly had too much to drink. It's dimly lit in the passageway, only candles every few metres to light the way. I step into the light.

"Oh," he says, looking me up and down. "It's you."

"Yes," I say, staring him down. The poison weighs heavy in my pocket, though not nearly as heavy as the dress I am wearing.

He smiles and steps closer to me. He eventually settles on standing under the same candlelight as me, only about a metre away.

"Can you keep a secret?" he asks.

I can smell the mead reeking off of him. It collides with the floral perfume I am wearing and mixes in the air. It's quite disgusting.

"Of course, your highness," I tell him.

He leans against the wall, with his back, and then slowly sits on the ground. "Don't call me that."

I nod, but I don't agree. I shall call him King Edmund. It makes this regicide easier. That is, I'd rather think of him as a King that I am taking down than a young man.

"Forgive me," I say, anyway. I do not curtsy.

These are the last moments of his life. He seems none the wiser. Actually, worse, he seems like he trusts me. A monarch should know better than to go anywhere, drunk, and alone. What is he thinking? Perhaps he is thinking of Princess Evangeline, dancing with him.

"Anyways, my secret," he says. "It's long and complicated."

"I have time," I tell him because I do. I shall let him confess his sins, get out his last words before I do him in. He didn't let Prince Augustus have that right, but I will be gracious enough to allow it for him.

I can picture it now. He's really too drunk to fight back. I would pour the poison down his throat. He might choke, but I will hold his mouth shut until he swallows. Then he will fall dead. I will pretend like I happened by him, instead of leaving. I would surely be caught if I left. Instead, I will scream, as if the poison was not immediate. Surely a physician would not be able to tell when he was poisoned, nor by what.

"Theodosia," he says. He is standing up, staring at me.

My eyes dart over to him. "Yes?"

"I asked you to dance with me," he says.

I blink at him. That is not what I had expected. Okay.

He takes one of my hands in his and slowly moves to me. Though it is far away, the music still hums through the tunnel. It does have an echo, and it is clearly distorted, but we still dance to it in the narrow tunnel. Our bodies are pressed together. Our hands grasp each other. We move slowly but surely. Any wrong step and I am sure he is to vomit.

I'm not sure that I want to dance with him. It is a grace that I allow him in his last moments. For now, he thinks he has the upper hand. He believes, drunkenly, stupidly, that he can sweep me off my feet. He is mistaken.

"I heard you didn't like velvet," he says. "Most of my nice clothing is velvet, but I didn't want to irritate you."

"It only bothers me to the touch," I tell him. "Not to look at."