He hadn't thought the pain would be cold.Author's notes:
Response to Weekly Challenge #17: Cold at justkingedmund
."It was all Edmund's doing, Aslan," Peter was saying. "We'd have been beaten if it hadn't been for him."
The pain isn’t what Edmund is expecting.
The sharp bite
of steel smoothly slicking past skin; the magnified thrumming of a heart suddenly tugging at its leashes; the taste of iron and torment and blood on his tongue; sudden explosions of red agony curling across his clutched sides—when, for a heartbeat, the world vanished in ice and blue blazed across his eyelids, Edmund had seen the Witch’s pitiless, inscrutable expression through the flared whiteness and known it couldn’t end in any other way.
But he hadn’t thought the pain would be cold
It was ridiculous that he had braced himself for a fire, merrily, mercilessly burning, like the pain he had felt when he had broken his leg falling off a tree one distant summer. But no—the pain he feels now is laced with trailing vines of ice, silent and cruel and tortuously taunting, and he almost wishes it was fire instead.
Her eyes are cold, too, as they lock with his and she drags her knife away with a snick
. And as the last of her failed Winter slowly subdues him, he falls to the ground and his breath comes slowly and his side burns
with the cold—
He lies and, as life faintly seeps out onto the grass beneath him, he stares at an impossibly wide, impossibly blue sky. Blue like Susan’s eyes, calm like Peter’s gaze. As blessedly alive
and unchanging as Lucy was when she smiled. They had stumblingly danced through the grazes with danger they had encountered in this beautiful, perilous land, and now—oh, if they lived, the terrible chill stealing through his body would be worth it.
The blue of the sky slowly faded into ash, and Edmund welcomed the bitter cold.