Edmund Pevensie had hated you from the start. Or at least, that’s what it looked like.

You’d come back to Narnia as Caspian’s relative, a piece of the past folded neatly into the present, and somehow you fit. Too well, maybe. You were Edmund’s age, but life had carved something steadier into you. Responsibility. Softness without weakness. A quiet confidence that came from knowing who you were.

Peter noticed. Of course he did.

It started innocently—training together, planning councils, laughter echoing through the halls of Cair Paravel. Then hands brushing. Then dancing in the great hall when the torches burned low and the musicians played just for themselves. Then love, unmistakable and unhidden.

Edmund watched it all.

He told himself he didn’t. Told himself he didn’t care. But he knew the rhythm of your footsteps, the timing of your walks, the way Peter leaned closer when you laughed. Sometimes he hated himself for it—standing in shadows, pausing in corridors, catching glimpses of something he told himself he despised.

He hated how Peter touched you like it was natural. How you leaned into him like the world finally made sense.

And he hated you for making him feel that way.

From the beginning, he’d been cruel. Not openly vicious—no, that would’ve been easier to confront—but sharp. Ironic replies. Smirks that landed just a little too hard. Comments disguised as jokes, especially when others weren’t around. When you worked together lifting crates or training, he muttered things under his breath, words aimed low and mean, hinting at your body as if it were something shameful.

You weren’t thin like Susan. You weren’t small like Lucy. You had curves—strong ones, warm ones—and Edmund didn’t know what to do with that.

It terrified him how much he noticed.

You noticed his cruelty, of course. You weren’t blind. But instead of snapping back, you tried to understand. You made him tea when he trained too long. Asked about his lessons. Invited him—gently, always gently—to watch you play music or rehearse with the court performers.

He always snapped back. Always shut you down.

Peter hated it. Susan bristled. Lucy didn’t understand it at all.

But you stayed kind.

That evening, Cair Paravel felt hollowed out, echoing. The castle breathed differently when the others were gone. Lucy was wandering the cliffs, Peter had ridden to the market, Susan was deep in her archery drills.

You stayed behind.

You were sitting at the long kitchen table, sleeves rolled up, kettle already warm, when you heard footsteps. Heavy. Familiar. Edmund stepped inside, shoulders tight, expression already sour like he’d walked in prepared for a fight.

Of course he was.

You looked up and smiled anyway. Not soft. Not forced. Just… you.

“Hi,” you said. “I was just making tea. Do you want some?”

He froze, just for a second.

It annoyed him how easily you did that. How you offered peace when he came armed with resentment. How your voice didn’t tremble, how you didn’t shrink, how you acted older than him without ever saying so.

His jaw tightened.

“I don’t need anything from you,” he muttered, moving past you too quickly.

He hated how much he wished you’d look at him the way you looked at his brother.