Author's Note: There's something about the Chronicles of Narnia that seems to inspire sappy family fics. But don't worry- this is just the beginning. I'm hoping to incorporate the family (namely, their father) in finding out about the scars, and reactions. I just hope I got the characters right!
Summary: What is it like, being pushed back into another world? When the only thing you have left to remember your home is the scars that your child's body carries? Told in different POVs—read and review!
Scars (Chapter 1, Mirrors)
He could not stop staring at his hands. They were smooth, un-calloused, unmarred. No longer bearing the marks and remains of long hours practicing swordsmanship and honing battle skills, they instead spoke of time spent lazing about indoors. They were the hands of a child. Small, pale and weak. The rest of his body followed of course, but he could not help dwelling on his hands. The tools that he had trained for years now failed him in doing embarrassingly simple tasks. Even his dexterous mind, sharpened and perfected from dark nights spent pouring over legal codes and battle strategies, remembered less and less every day. He was almost used to seeing a small, thin, dark-haired boy staring at him out of the mirror. But still, he told himself firmly again and again, Narnia never left. He could see it in the stubborn lines of his baby-smooth jaw, in the grave look of empathy in his brown eyes.
Peter's eyes hadn't changed. His baby blue orbs still looked off towards adventures unknown, and his gaze still held the power to entrap all and any it captured. Susan's eyes still held their solemn gentleness, but Edmund could perceive an edge of pain hiding in the back. Lucy's, though often filled with the frustration and confusion of a six year-old child, still filled to the brim with joy and love for every person who crossed her path. One might think the innocence that shone forth was a result of her age, but those who truly knew her knew better. Her innocence came from the love of Aslan, and her childish wisdom held more truth than anyone knew. And Edmund himself—as he looked into the mirror, he saw. His eyes told the story, to those who would see, of redemption. Many of the adults who had visited Professor Kirke's house were unnerved by what they found in the child's thoughtful eyes—perhaps because they had not allowed themselves to accept what he had. Many adults did not see at all but merely looked at a small, unusually thoughtful ten-year old. Edmund watched all their expressions and smiled, not for the first time and certainly not the last. It seemed some things never changed or left, and they needn't always be scars to be reminders.