𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐆𝐑𝐀𝐕𝐈𝐓𝐘 𝐎𝐅 𝐆𝐑𝐀𝐂𝐄 ━━━━ 𝐄𝐝𝐦𝐮𝐧𝐝

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐆𝐑𝐀𝐕𝐈𝐓𝐘 𝐎𝐅 𝐆𝐑𝐀𝐂𝐄 ━━━━ 𝐄𝐝𝐦𝐮𝐧𝐝 𝐏𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧𝐬𝐢𝐞

SUMMARY: A weary King Edmund encounters a celestial being of moonlight given human form—and in her eyes, he finds not judgment, but the quiet promise of peace he’d forgotten to hope for.

AUTHOR’S NOTE: Just because I saw a portrait of a knight and a princess under the Golden Brown song but make it a king and an enchantress. Below 500 word count.

Edmund Pevensie moved through his kingdom like a hymn half-remembered at dawn—each gesture measured, each word weighted with the gold of hard-won wisdom. The crown upon his brow had long since ceased to be a burden; it had grown into him, vines of silver and duty twining through his dark curls until metal and flesh became one. His sword, once thirsty for justice, now rested in its scabbard with the contentment of a sated beast.

Then something—someone, emerged from the weeping willows as mist takes form—first a suggestion, then a certainty.

He stood at the forest’s edge, his crown catching the last honeyed light of dusk—not as a king awaiting tribute, but as a man who had long since learned to listen to the whispers of leaves.

And then—you appeared.

Not as a vision, nor a specter, but as the earth gives way to spring: tenderly, inevitably, and beautiful. Crushingly so.

It hummed with a warmth that had nothing to do with the fading sun. Your garment was spun from the whispers of jasmine and the last sigh of golden spring. Your hair like liquid onyx spilled down your back, threaded through with veins of quicksilver that shimmered with each breath you did not need to take, slipping through the mist like something half-dreamed.

The first thing he noticed was the scent—wild thyme and something colder, sharper, like frost on silver. Then, the light. Or rather, the way it bent around you, as if hesitant to touch your skin, dappling silhouette with fragments of stolen moonlight.

Yet, it was your eyes that seemed to lead him in his undoing.

They were the soft grey of dawn mist over still waters, twinkling sort that men charted courses by, flickering kind that danced just before the universe collapsed into itself. When you blinked, galaxies were born and died in the sweep of your lashes—twin abysses lined with stars.

As you looked at him, Edmund felt something in his chest loosen—not the unraveling of a noose, but the gentle slipping of a knot he hadn’t realized he’d tied. There was no judgment in your gaze, only a quiet understanding that flowed over him like soft balm.

“Son of Adam,” You breathed, and the words unfurled like smoke from an altar, “do you still taste the lies of winter on your tongue?”

Edmund’s fingers brushed the hilt of his sword—not in threat, but in remembrance. The leather groaned beneath his touch, whispering of frostbitten battlefields and the sweet, cloying rot of enchanted confections.

He could no more have refused you than the tide could refuse the moon.

“I taste only the wine of today’s council,” he replied, his voice the steady cadence of a heartbeat beneath armor. “The past has lost its flavor.”

You laughed, and the sound was the cracking of ancient ice, the first fall of snow upon a forgotten grave. For someone who loathed winter, Edmund seems to be adjusting well with the very terms you appear to represent. Then, a hand—pale as a communion wafer, cold as a buried blade—drifted toward his cheek.

“Tell me, does your lion still roar in your dreams?”

The king did not shudder. “All kings dream of lions,” he admitted, his voice rough with something like wonder.

For a moment, the very forest stilled. The creek ceased its babbling, the wind forgot to sigh, and the fireflies paused in their drunken waltz. Then you smiled, and it was the most terrifying thing he had ever witnessed—beautiful as a bloodstain on fresh snow, inevitable as a noose settling into place, yet it was as if someone had lit a candle in a long abandoned chamber.

“They say you kneel only to truth,” you said. The hem of your dress stirred though no wind blew—a thing woven from spider-silk and the twinkle of dying stars.

Edmund did not flinch. “I have knelt to many things,” he replied. His breath fogged the air between them, a fleeting veil. “I know the difference now.”

You tilted your head, and the rising steadfast moonlight slid down your throat like a knife. “And what does a king kneel to, when the world is quiet?”

“To the things that outlast crowns,”

A pause. Somewhere, an owl called—or perhaps it was the whispers of the winds, low and humming, the sound a blade might make if it could sing.

“King Edmund,” You murmured. Your fingers traced the air above his lips, close enough that he could feel the warmth in its touch. “You are more than your regrets.”

And as suddenly as you had come, you were gone—leaving behind only the scent of crushed violets and the unsettling certainty that the moon was watching him more closely than before.

For in that moment, Edmund—once a king, once a traitor, now simply a man—let himself drown in the quiet harbor of your presence. The silence around him hums with the lullabies of twilight blues, with the weight of things he’ll never name.

The trees, ancient and knowing, held its breath. Somewhere, far above, a thin sliver of moon pressed through the clouds.

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feuilletonette

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Sweetheart, he repressed his jealousy as much as he denies Whistledown by being intimate with her so when the Cressida plot emerges, he conciously hurt Penelope physically because of his unadressed anger.

In contrast, show Colin refuses to be taken by passion because he doesn't want to deduce the sanctity he and Penelope shares in those sacred moments. Not when he's processsing his hurt and overcoming his trauma response.

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feuilletonette

1 year ago

Historical romances, stories of young, innocent love, clandestine meetings, that longing for a kiss, then parting of ways, that train taking one of them far away, writing letters and waiting for them, letters lost or left unread, a lover holding the other as a brutal wave makes them lose their balance, sticking together through the best and the worst of it—stories that break your heart but leave you smiling through the tears.

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Lidia Yuknavitch, from Reading the Waves: A Memoir published in 2025

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oh the urge to be part of a hedonistic slightly deranged secret society

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poems to read while having breakfast at the heartbreak hotel

I know I am but summer to your heart (Sonnet XXVII) by Edna St. Vincent Millay

What lips my lips have kissed, and where, and why (Sonnet XLIII) by Edna St. Vincent Millay

Time does not bring relief (Sonnet II) by Edna St. Vincent Millay

I Am Not Yours by Sara Teasdale

[you fit into me] by Margaret Atwood

You by Carol Ann Duffy

Be Near Me by Faiz Ahmed Faiz

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You Are Tired (I Think) by E.E. Cummings

Hope you're well. Please don't read this by Lev St. Valentine

To Say Dark Things by Ingeborg Bachmann

Lilichka by Vladimir Mayakovski

Love and Hate by Elizabeth Eleanor Siddal

Sanctuary by Jean Valentine

the winter sun says fight by Peter Gizzi

The More Loving One by W. H. Auden

A Primer For The Small Weird Loves by Richard Siken

Dirty Valentine by Richard Siken

Morning by Frank O Hara

We Don't Know How To Say Goodbye by Anna Akhmatova

You'll Live, But I'll Not… by Anna Akhmatova

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The Last Toast by Anna Akhmatova

In Dream by Anna Akhmatova

Mad Girl's Love Song by Sylvia Plath

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La Belle Dame Sans Merci by John Keats

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feuilletonette

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i like men that make things happen

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feuilletonette

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Perhaps one of my biggest assets has been my capacity to live in the present. Don’t lose yourself in planning, daydreaming, scourging, constantly preparing. The best time is now!

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feuilletonette

8 months ago

"it's okay, i can peel back the layers of you until i find the soft and gentle core of you you've had to work so hard to hide"? no. no, it's okay, i know you're hollow; i'm here anyway. you don't have to pretend it isn't masks the whole way down. whatever face you want to wear, i still love you. i don't need you to be good or unflinching or the antonym of violence. if i did, i wouldn't be here. i wouldn't ask that of you.

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feuilletonette

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I do not want a connection that simply brims.

I want a love that echoes in the passage of time. That takes notes in the margins of my silences, memorizes the cadence of my quiet. That lingers not for the warmth of my body, but for the architecture of my thoughts—the labyrinthine halls of very being, dimly lit by longing, waiting to be known.

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Is it not the most sacred act, to be read deeply?

I do not want possession—I want presence. Your eyes on me like a scholar, your voice in conversation like candlelight.

Soft.

Careful.

Eternally curious.

Unravel me like a question you want to live the answer to.

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feuilletonette

1 year ago

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