SunshineRose
Member
Summary: After Edmund is rescued from the White Witch, he and Aslan have an important conversation about guilt and forgiveness.
The Justified
“The Lord is not slack concerning His promise as some men count slackness, but is long-suffering toward us, not willing that any should perish, but that all should come to repentance” (2 Peter 3:9).
Edmund still couldn’t believe that he, a terrible traitor to his own family, who deserved to die for endangering his own flesh and blood, had been rescued from death by a host of strange creatures who had surged into the clearing just as the Witch’s cold dagger pressed against the nape of his neck. Even as he felt the centaur’s muscles moving beneath his legs and heard the beat of the hooves carrying him ever further away from the place where he had almost been forced to pay for his crimes, he couldn’t accept that he would be freed from the White Witch’s clutch so easily when he had willingly allied himself with her. He had made himself the enemy of everything good in Narnia, so the centaur couldn’t be taking him through the forest to any place pleasant.
Yet, those bright tents with verdant pennants that blazed brilliantly in his eyes even during the gray, pre-dawn light did not look unsafe or evil. They looked warm and welcoming, as if they were waiting for Edmund to arrive to eat, sleep, and recover from the cruelty of the White Witch within their secure flaps. Swallowing hard, he thought he didn’t deserve to lay eyes on such a merry campsite, nonetheless enter it.
He wanted to make this protest as the centaur, accompanied by the animals that had liberated him from the White Witch, bore him into the camp. However, the words died on his dry lips as he wondered whether his siblings and the Beavers had ever reached this beautiful place. Was Lucy with her wide eyes, quick grin, and unshakeable faith lost in the wilderness? Was sensible, delicate Susan confused about what to do next? Did calm, confident Peter not know how to lead his sister to safety in a strange land? Did the Beavers know they had only a damaged dam to return to? Tears stung his eyes. None of them deserved his betrayal, and if any of them were injured, lost, or scared, it was all his fault.
Before he could make any effort to compose himself, he was deposited unceremoniously in a heap in front of the grandest tent, staring into Lion’s legs as golden as the July sun.
“Here is the Son of Adam who has betrayed us all,” reported the centaur who had borne Edmund to the campsite, bowing to the Lion.
“Well done, My creatures.” The Lion’s voice was both firm and gentle. “Leave me alone with the child now, please.”
Edmund, not wishing to gaze into the face of the Lion he had betrayed and scoffed at the very existence of, stared at the ground as the animals who had saved him from the Witch’s clutches disappeared into various tents.
“Son of Adam,” rumbled the Lion, as soon as the creatures had left Him alone with Edmund. “Look into My face.”
Son of Adam, Edmund thought as he wished the earth would open and swallow his vile self whole. He had been called that ever since he arrived in Narnia, and that dread title fit him, so he would have to wear it, no matter how ugly it was. As the Son of Adam, he had eaten the tempter’s food and thought it tasted delicious even as it poisoned his mind and soul. As the Son of Adam, he had exchanged paradise for empty promises from evil incarnate. As the Son of Adam, he was weak but thirsted for the wrong kind of glory at any price. As the Son of Adam, he felt too exposed and ashamed to respond when he was called, so, with a piteous, self-loathing wail, he buried his damp face in his dirt-smeared palms.
“Edmund.” The Lion’s tail flicked out to swat his hands away from his cheeks. “Look into My face.”
His stomach knotting, Edmund drew on all the strength and courage he could find in his battered body and bullied himself into meeting the Lion’s eyes. There he saw justice and an intimate awareness of every evil he had ever done—every jealous thought, every malicious word, every derisive snort, and every act of contempt. He saw, reflected in that majestic gaze, how petty and vulgar he must look in the eyes of the mighty and virtuous, sniveling like a victim when he was a villain.
“Are You going to kill me, Sir?” he whispered, lower lip and chin trembling like pudding. With a gulp, he stared at the Lion’s sharp fangs and razor claws, remembering how he had told the White Witch what he knew of Aslan’s plans and how he had spit so hatefully on the lion statue in her courtyard, hoping with all the evil in his heart that the statue was Aslan. Yet, as a new river of tears flowed down his cheeks, he realized that he would rather be eaten or torn to shreds by Aslan than spend another moment in the cold, cruel presence of the White Witch, her awful wand, and terrible dagger.
“I would not have you brought to Me just to kill you.” The Lion’s glance softened as it remained fixated on Edmund. “Tell Me, Son of Adam, do you know Me at all?”
“No, Sir.” Miserably, Edmund shook his head. “If I knew You, I would never have acted as I did.” Then, before he could stop himself, he burst out from the depth of his tormented soul, “But I want to know You. I’m tired of being rotten. I want to be good. I want to be forgiven. I want to be better than I am right now, and I think only you can help me do that. I don’t just need to be saved from the Witch—I need to be saved from myself.”
“I am Aslan.” This time, when Edmund heard the name, he felt a tender promise of mercy and salvation, instead of the awful fear of condemnation and judgment he had experienced when Mr. Beaver referred to Aslan back at the dam what seemed like centuries ago. “I’ve known you and your siblings since before you set foot in Narnia. Now, arise, Edmund Pevensie, and walk with me. Then you shall begin to know me and how long I have waited to speak with you.”
The Justified
“The Lord is not slack concerning His promise as some men count slackness, but is long-suffering toward us, not willing that any should perish, but that all should come to repentance” (2 Peter 3:9).
Edmund still couldn’t believe that he, a terrible traitor to his own family, who deserved to die for endangering his own flesh and blood, had been rescued from death by a host of strange creatures who had surged into the clearing just as the Witch’s cold dagger pressed against the nape of his neck. Even as he felt the centaur’s muscles moving beneath his legs and heard the beat of the hooves carrying him ever further away from the place where he had almost been forced to pay for his crimes, he couldn’t accept that he would be freed from the White Witch’s clutch so easily when he had willingly allied himself with her. He had made himself the enemy of everything good in Narnia, so the centaur couldn’t be taking him through the forest to any place pleasant.
Yet, those bright tents with verdant pennants that blazed brilliantly in his eyes even during the gray, pre-dawn light did not look unsafe or evil. They looked warm and welcoming, as if they were waiting for Edmund to arrive to eat, sleep, and recover from the cruelty of the White Witch within their secure flaps. Swallowing hard, he thought he didn’t deserve to lay eyes on such a merry campsite, nonetheless enter it.
He wanted to make this protest as the centaur, accompanied by the animals that had liberated him from the White Witch, bore him into the camp. However, the words died on his dry lips as he wondered whether his siblings and the Beavers had ever reached this beautiful place. Was Lucy with her wide eyes, quick grin, and unshakeable faith lost in the wilderness? Was sensible, delicate Susan confused about what to do next? Did calm, confident Peter not know how to lead his sister to safety in a strange land? Did the Beavers know they had only a damaged dam to return to? Tears stung his eyes. None of them deserved his betrayal, and if any of them were injured, lost, or scared, it was all his fault.
Before he could make any effort to compose himself, he was deposited unceremoniously in a heap in front of the grandest tent, staring into Lion’s legs as golden as the July sun.
“Here is the Son of Adam who has betrayed us all,” reported the centaur who had borne Edmund to the campsite, bowing to the Lion.
“Well done, My creatures.” The Lion’s voice was both firm and gentle. “Leave me alone with the child now, please.”
Edmund, not wishing to gaze into the face of the Lion he had betrayed and scoffed at the very existence of, stared at the ground as the animals who had saved him from the Witch’s clutches disappeared into various tents.
“Son of Adam,” rumbled the Lion, as soon as the creatures had left Him alone with Edmund. “Look into My face.”
Son of Adam, Edmund thought as he wished the earth would open and swallow his vile self whole. He had been called that ever since he arrived in Narnia, and that dread title fit him, so he would have to wear it, no matter how ugly it was. As the Son of Adam, he had eaten the tempter’s food and thought it tasted delicious even as it poisoned his mind and soul. As the Son of Adam, he had exchanged paradise for empty promises from evil incarnate. As the Son of Adam, he was weak but thirsted for the wrong kind of glory at any price. As the Son of Adam, he felt too exposed and ashamed to respond when he was called, so, with a piteous, self-loathing wail, he buried his damp face in his dirt-smeared palms.
“Edmund.” The Lion’s tail flicked out to swat his hands away from his cheeks. “Look into My face.”
His stomach knotting, Edmund drew on all the strength and courage he could find in his battered body and bullied himself into meeting the Lion’s eyes. There he saw justice and an intimate awareness of every evil he had ever done—every jealous thought, every malicious word, every derisive snort, and every act of contempt. He saw, reflected in that majestic gaze, how petty and vulgar he must look in the eyes of the mighty and virtuous, sniveling like a victim when he was a villain.
“Are You going to kill me, Sir?” he whispered, lower lip and chin trembling like pudding. With a gulp, he stared at the Lion’s sharp fangs and razor claws, remembering how he had told the White Witch what he knew of Aslan’s plans and how he had spit so hatefully on the lion statue in her courtyard, hoping with all the evil in his heart that the statue was Aslan. Yet, as a new river of tears flowed down his cheeks, he realized that he would rather be eaten or torn to shreds by Aslan than spend another moment in the cold, cruel presence of the White Witch, her awful wand, and terrible dagger.
“I would not have you brought to Me just to kill you.” The Lion’s glance softened as it remained fixated on Edmund. “Tell Me, Son of Adam, do you know Me at all?”
“No, Sir.” Miserably, Edmund shook his head. “If I knew You, I would never have acted as I did.” Then, before he could stop himself, he burst out from the depth of his tormented soul, “But I want to know You. I’m tired of being rotten. I want to be good. I want to be forgiven. I want to be better than I am right now, and I think only you can help me do that. I don’t just need to be saved from the Witch—I need to be saved from myself.”
“I am Aslan.” This time, when Edmund heard the name, he felt a tender promise of mercy and salvation, instead of the awful fear of condemnation and judgment he had experienced when Mr. Beaver referred to Aslan back at the dam what seemed like centuries ago. “I’ve known you and your siblings since before you set foot in Narnia. Now, arise, Edmund Pevensie, and walk with me. Then you shall begin to know me and how long I have waited to speak with you.”
It was wonderful to be able to write about Edmund whom I haven't written about in a long time. He's such a great character.
