I Am Edmund

I am traitorous Edmund, pompous Eustace, Christ-denying Peter.

I have been loved by a lion-hearted son of Judah. He knows me—corrupted me!—and loves the same. The Stone Table cracked and death worked backwards. I have been restored, confirmed, strengthened, and established. I have been called, clothed, kissed, and crowned—Cair Paravel meets New Jerusalem. I look down at my hands, hands I have watched work misery and madness, hands I have lifted, fist-clenched, to God—and behold! A ring on those fingers. A signet ring, a Father’s ring.

 

I am Edmund.

I am a cold-blooded traitor, a brother-despiser, a sister-scorner, a world-corrupter. I have ruined days and friendships. I have murdered legions with my bitter heart and defiled endless scores in the hidden places of my imagination. I have grown bitterness and envy like a cash crop; no field long remains fallow—I have handfuls of thistles to sow, in season and out.

I have nursed petty grievances, manufactured gangrene from mosquito bites. My pride is ravenous; always feeding, never full. I have forged golden monuments to my own glory and commanded worlds to bow and scrape. I have raged at their refusal.

And my tongue—oh, my tongue! My lust has slain its thousands, my tongue its ten-thousands.

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