jas

it’s not that he doubts his existence, nor that he doubts his name. he knows he’s the true king of narnia, and that spring shakes off his mane.

(he also remembers that underneath his golden fur and thundering paws, there’s pearly white fangs crushing her bloodied skull, and shining claws tearing up her fragile bones.)

it’s the great lion he doesn’t believe in.

the one that wakes up the sun, and lulls the moon to sleep. the one that draws mountain lines and sings life into trees. the one that disappears when winter comes, and reappears when summer calls.

(or when the narnian soil got tainted red enough by countless corpses and his brother’s blood.)

the great lion that was there before time, and will remain in the great beyond. the one that never died, until he did, and fell silent to a stone knife.

because how is edmund supposed to believe in the great lion, who lives, grows and loves, but never falters, who sheds blood and tears but never dies, when he knows, knows, aslan gave up his life for him ?

aslan is the lion, is great, is never ending, but he is. he was. on a cold hill. on a spring morning.

(edmund knows, he knows, and he can’t forget. he will never forget.)

so he tries to be a king, tries to be spring, but he’s neither peter nor lucy. he tries to be the sun, but he’s not susan either, and he tries to be claws and fangs, but his sword never shines bright enough. even when he tries to make up for the life and memories of a child, and trade his blood with one that dried on dirty granit long before, he’s not the lion. because the lion is dead.

and he’s not great, nor never ending.

edmund doesn’t believe in aslan. he’s not sure he’s capable of it anymore. if he even was capable of it before.

so when he sees his siblings long for the lion, yearn for his presence, for his warmth, for his strength, as they cross a narrow ravine, looking for a mysterious prince, he simply looks at lucy, and prays, silently.

he gives his faith to spring, to a never ending ocean, to the utter east. he gives his faith to his sister, lives it through her, with her.

and the lion knows. but he doesn’t say anything.

this is a result of 'what if portrayals of the Odyssey set it in bronze age greece rather than classical' christopher nolan when i catch you and my months long obsession with Epic the Musical

i have degrees in archaeology and public history so here are the sources i used and also a little explanation:

“To the glistening eastern sea, I give you Queen Lucy the Valiant. To the great western woods, King Edmund the Just. To the radiant southern sun, Queen Susan the Gentle. And to the clear northern skies, I give you King Peter the Magnificent. Once a king or queen of Narnia, always a king or queen of Narnia. May your wisdom grace us until the stars rain down from the heavens.”

"Honey and lavender cream. Sweet, intriguing..." This started off as a leyendecker style study, ended up as lucanis drinking his coffee and me rendering that cloud of smoke for wayy too long rip -☕🪻🍯🐝-