Disclaimer: There is nothing in this universe that I own.

Note: I had at first considered writing this as a one-shot, but found that it might work better as a multi-chapter piece. If anyone has ever read the children's picture book Mufaro's Beautiful Daughters (by John Steptoe) some aspects of the plot may seem familiar to you.

"Speech"

/Thoughts/

To the Great Western Wood

By Serenity Song

Chapter One: Of Dying

Six years to the day have passed since he first visited the Great Western Wood, to which Aslan has proclaimed him king. Then it had been about three months after their coronation, and with most of the Witch's creatures routed, he and his three siblings had thought it best to survey their realms, and take stock of the damage they would find there.

They went together on that first visit, and every year since, he has returned on the same date. Susan had gone with him that second visit, Lucy the third, and Peter the fourth and fifth.

He had rather hoped they would come with him on this, the sixth trip, but Peter's away fighting Giants on the Northern Frontier, and Susan and Lucy are at Cair Paravel.

And he has been restless ever since leaving the castle early this morning.

It is a vague sort of restlessness that plagues him, and he senses no danger to himself, but his thoughts unerringly swerve back to his siblings.

While he has always looked forward to this ride of his, today he has a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. It comes and goes, but it is nonetheless there, and Edmund, who has seen many things happen to many people over the past six years, has an endless store of "what if" scenarios that dance about his head in the daytime and torture his dreams at night.

His subjects and his siblings know better, but in the Southern Countries, below Narnia's border, whispers and rumors fly about the youngest king. In Archenland, where the people are sympathetic and friendly toward the Narnians and their regents, a man or a woman might say to his or her neighbor, "Have you heard about the young Narnian king? Oh, no, not the High King. No, the brother. Yes, him. They say he never sleeps."

Then that neighbor might say in return, "The poor lad. I hear he's cursed."

The Archenland royalty hear these rumors, and since they are such wonderful friends with the Narnian monarchs, do everything in their power to right those tales.

But since kings and queens are such interesting people to gossip about, the neighbors go on telling.

Edmund sometimes thinks those rumors are closer to the truth than many would like to believe. Even his siblings aren't aware of the many nights he has stayed up. Peter notices the dark shadows beneath his eyes, but never comments on them. After all, he sometimes gets them, too. Lucy finds him catching a nap under a tree in the garden, but never objects. After all, she's quite happy to take a nap, too. Susan watches him gaze off into space, but never complains. After all, she's always known he's the thoughtful sort and is perfectly content to daydream, too.

Farther South lie lands not so friendly to Narnia. In Calormen, where Narnia is regarded with contempt and fear, the whispers are darker, the rumors more sinister. One neighbor might covertly tug on another's sleeve and lead him into a side room. And with merely a candlestick between them, they'll lean close and barely breathe, "Did you know? The youngest white barbarian lord is suicidal."

"What awful knowledge is this?" that other might ask, askance. "Does he not know the great poet that once said, 'Break not the stem of the flower, lest its lifeblood be poisoned?'"

But they are, after all, barbarians, and wouldn't know about such things as great poets. The Tisroc (may he live for ever) hears these whispers, and since he's such a wonderful enemy of the Narnian monarchs, does everything in his power to encourage those stories.

And since barbarian lords and ladies are such horrifyingly fascinating creatures to gossip about, the neighbors go on whispering.

Edmund sometimes wonders why he isn't suicidal. But then he just has to think of Aslan or look at his brother and sisters. Susan would be hurt and blame him. Lucy would not understand and life would lose a little bit of its joy for her. Peter would be shattered and blame himself.

As a middle child of four, he had become accustomed to competing for attention—although there never was any lack of it, as he can now see—and as such, was rather a selfish little beast at times, especially after he began attending some awful place called 'boarding school.'

Now, however, most of that has changed. Although he values his family's lives above all else (and it is in this that he knows he still is selfish), he does not value his own nearly so much.

And it has led to many a tearful quarrel with all three of his siblings.

He still remembers one of his most recent arguments with Peter. They had spent a grand hour bringing down the walls of the healers' ward around them in a shouting match which ultimately ended with the older of the two sinking down on Edmund's hospital bed in tears and yelling, "By Aslan's Mane, Ed! Are you absolutely determined to kill yourself before you reach twenty!"

He is only sixteen. And of course he doesn't say anything because he hates making Peter cry.

It is this argument, and that now-healed-injury, which made Peter forbid him from accompanying his older brother to the Northern Frontier.

He at first fought it. But Peter knows his younger brother well, and when he invoked all his power as High King and, more simply, pleaded with Edmund to trust him, the younger king found himself only able to obey.

It is perhaps one of the hardest decisions he has ever had to make. As it is, he still isn't sure he won't about-spur and head for the North.

Only the date, and the knowledge of how it might affect Peter and his campaign, stay his charge.

He has no time to further contemplate that situation, however, for with a sudden, almighty crack, one of the great trees tumbles across his path.

His horse rears and whinnies, and as he struggles to hang on, and struggles to calm the animal (it is, after all, a dumb animal; and when I say dumb, I mean it does not speak), leaves swirl and the tree reverts to her Dryad form.

The horse neighs, and shies back, all four hooves on the ground now. He whispers a quick, soothing litany into the mare's ear, and when the animal calms, he bids her stay and hastily dismounts from the saddle.

It is cruel fate indeed to see one of the blithe, beautiful tree-folk die, for as he reaches her side and falls to his knees beside her, he sees that the vivacity and brightness, indicative of a healthy Dryad, are fading. She is gray now, no longer bright or colorful. And it is by this sign that he knows he is too late.

As he eases her into his arms, tenderly cradling her upper body, her eyes flicker open halfway and glazed, fall on him. Her lips barely move as she speaks, "M'…M'Lord?"

He smiles sadly at her. "Aye, fair one."

A faint smile touches her lips. "No…no longer so fair…my Lord."

He keeps his smile even as his eyes water with tears. "Yet beauty you are."

Her smile remains as her eyes slip shut. He almost thinks she has passed on, when she speaks again, voice no more than a weak whisper, "M'…M'Lord?"

He starts. "Fair one?"

"M-Might I ask…a small…favor of you? S-Such a trifle…really," her voice rasps and she no longer has the strength to raise her eyelids.

"Ask away, fair one," he manages thickly. By repetition of her address he hopes he can keep her in this world but a little longer.

"M-My trunk…" she tries to raise a delicate hand and can't. But Edmund knows what she means, for he sees the newly-made stump close to the edge of the path. "M-My seedling…" she tries to clip a thin strand of hair and can't. But Edmund knows what she wants, so he first asks permission—to which she consents—and does it for her. "P-Please, Your Majesty…would you…would you carry me there?"

He does, and she is so feather-light that a single tear rolls down his cheek and is lost among her graying and crumbling hair. He does not notice the brief splash of green that fades as quickly as it appeared.

They have reached her stump, and he gingerly settles her between the nooks of its two largest roots where she curls up for the last time.

Then he kneels, and carefully scraping away the detritus, plants that single hair before warmly covering it with the same soil he has just moved.

She has managed to open her eyes the tiniest bit to watch him, and now when he looks at her, she smiles drowsily at him and tries yet again to raise her hand. Yet again, she is not able to.

So he takes her hand—gently—and places it over the little mound he has made.

Her smile widens by the smallest fraction and with a final, quiet breath, she passes from this world.

It happens shockingly fast.

Within a moment she has gone from gray to deep, dark, rich black, and then she is no longer a she but an it—for the body has deteriorated and become topsoil, which will nourish the seedling that has been planted.

Such is the way of things.

But as he stands, swiping his furiously watering eyes, he can't help but feel a heaviness in his heart that even the knowledge of a fresh, young tree soon to thrive near this stump cannot ease.

Slowly, he walks back to his horse, and for a long moment he merely stands there, face buried in the mare's warm neck as he lets his tears freely flow.

A few minutes later, the mare whickers softly at him and nips at his sleeve. It is time for them to move on.

He remounts his saddle, and murmuring a few words of thanks into her speckled ears, lightly digs his heels into her sides. They set off at a canter.

He does not look back at the stump, nor did he check it for signs of blight or ax marks. It does not matter how she died, it matters only that she's dead.

And as he lets the balmy breeze dry his tears, he promises himself that he will visit that spot every year.

Tbc