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THE REMAINDER of our trek to the ruins is unexpectedly fun.
Edmund tells me all about his siblings and their time spent in Narnia. He tells of all the adventures, councils and battles they endured — all their friends and their life in the once-grand Cair Paravel. Though I can't help but notice how deliberately he avoids mentioning anything prior to the Battle of Beruna, which he treads quite lightly around to begin with. Though he tells me about the brief time he knew Aslan, his voice heavy with wistfulness and what seems to be even more regret. I can hardly imagine living every day with the amount of remorse he carries weighing me down. And yet, even though I sense the distress and sadness in him filling the air around us, the king keeps a lightness in his step and a smile on his face — making little quips and jokes that cause the both of us to laugh. We banter and tease like old friends and turn a walk into an adventure that ends too soon. Because we have a mission. We have a purpose and what time we have is not to be wasted.
Edmund leads me straight to the Treasure Room, making sure to point out where certain rooms and structures used to stand as we go. I take in as much of the ruins as I can before following him down the staircase into the earth. As we descend into the darkness, he mutters something about leaving his torch on the beach, which I don't understand.
Soon enough, light filters into the stairwell from a chamber up ahead. When we get closer, I realize it's at last the Treasure Room. The stone ceiling is cracked and slightly caved in, allowing sunlight to illuminate the dusty, ancient contents of the room.
I follow him down a spiral staircase, eager to explore. He catches on quickly to my excitement with a light laugh and reaches forward to push open the metal gates, causing them to squeak and whine on their old, rickety hinges.
He steps into the room, dust motes swirling thick in the musty air. The stone floor is cold on my bare feet but I hardly notice as I hurry inside past him, taking in the grandness of it all.
Four, life-size statues of the kings and queens of old stand regally in their respective alcoves, each with a large, ornate, golden chest positioned before them. Although the closer I look at the stone statues, the more I realize how little they resemble their living counterparts.
The High King is towering and large with a full beard and strong face. The oldest Queen is hardened yet graceful and looks like a well-weathered woman of status. The younger Queen does not look young at all, but full and mature and though her face is not shaped by innocence, her likeness radiates compassion and joy.
And the king who is supposed to be the same young man behind me, leaning against a weathered stone column, is a man with a sharp, angular face and a full, strong figure with eyes hardened by battle and sadness. I glance between Edmund and the stone statue, not bothering to conceal my confusion.
