A/N: I'm posting a new story to see if that bypasses fanfiction . net's current glitch. I'm aware today is Crown of Life day, but until the glitch fixes, I really don't want to post a new chapter. Also, I don't own.

Do you know, Lucy, that I have regrets?

The worlds rent my heart in two and I watched the blood spill onto the three of you; I watched it stain you. We bled with each other in that other world; if one of us hurt, we all did. But not now.

Now that I ripped my heart away from the world you three long for, we cannot bleed together. My words do not stem your bleeding, they cause it. But I don't have a choice. Oh, can't you see that? Can't you see it has to be this way? Yes, I might have lost what you loved, but I am no longer being torn. I am better.

The three of you are not.

Blood spilled becomes chilled, and I watch the cold pool freeze you—you especially, Lucy. Peter chooses as he must, bound by his authority over me. No longer a friend of Narnia. Still his sister, no longer his fellow Queen. And Edmund has always known what it means to be a traitor.

You do not. The foolish courage of your sisterly heart! You offer it again and again, sitting on my bed as I brush out my hair. "Your hair reminds me of a Dryad's right now." My voice tells you to grow up, and you look at me with eyes older than the ones in my mirror. The next evening you are back, sitting again in my room. "You're going to the party instead of to Edmund's poetry reading, aren't you?" Oh, you see me. You tell me what I love is foolish. But you don't stop loving me.

No. You didn't.

You didn't, because I stand at your grave knowing it is no longer don't. And Lucy, Lucy, my regrets are drowning me.

I can trace your name a hundred times till the stone rubs blood from my raw fingers, and my blood stains your gravestone instead of your heart, and with everything you loved, Lucy, that I threw away, I threw away myself too.

We cannot be ourselves apart from Him. I fled Him, I told myself I no longer loved Him, but here at your grave, He is all that is left.

If He is not real, you are forever gone, and I will never be able to tell more than empty air that I am sorry.

If He is real-

Oh, Lucy, if He is real, what do I do with regrets?


There is no need to talk of what is past.*

Edmund, when He said that—what did He say to you before? Were you forgiven?

Because I know now, why I'm sorry is not enough, will never be enough, but I know too how the words beg to be said, how they slip between my lips at all these grave stones and while reading your journals and in the darkness under my blankets when the pain is bigger than the world and my face is a mess. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry. The words will never be enough, but I cannot stop saying them.

I have nothing else to offer.

Please, Edmund, tell me somehow that you hear them. You were forgiving even when it wasn't deserved, anytime the I'm sorry slipped through lips drenched in repentant blood, so please, tell me somehow that you hear me. That I'm forgiven.

I stand at your grave and plead for your forgiveness, while you lie dead. Why should the living bother the dead?

Edmund, it's a need. I have nothing to offer for forgiveness. I know I don't deserve it. I come here anyway, talking to stone with words that drip blood, believing you'll somehow answer, as if my need is enough to raise you from the grave. Why is it so human to believe that because I need something, it should be granted?

Edmund, Edmund, you don't even have to forgive me. Just let me know you heard. Please?

*The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe


Welcome to thy home, or, if not thy home, the land every-ready to welcome thee.

You told me that after I made a mistake. Tell it to me again.

… Does your silence mean it's no longer true?

They're both silent, Peter, the other two. All the times I wished they'd just be quiet…

I wished that most often about you. Their hurt I could become impatient with, dismiss with a mocking sentence. Yours—you never gave up your authority. The words you spoke were laden with it, even here in England. I raged against that authority, tossed my hair. I tried to toss my beauty, my independence, my set's adoration back in your face, to set my power against yours. It never worked.

You were granted indisputable authority. You kept it, being so firmly on the side of right, of truth and nobility and righteousness. For so long, Peter, you lived a King. With Edmund, Judge and King were pulled forward and pushed back, roles he switched between, though he was ever both at once.

You were High King, ever and always.

You told me goodbye, that day before you left. You told me goodbye, and on your authority it became true.

You told me goodbye, you said it, you stood in my door and you told me goodbye, and you left!

Peter, Peter, my High King, I need you back, I need that nobility to ground me, to tell me what to do. Please, Peter, I need you—

Oh, Peter, please.

Please, I'll listen now. I'm listening.

I'm begging.

Please.