Narnian magic works even in England.

Shell shock.

Bomb.

Cowardice.

Bomb.

Jitters.

Bomb

Broken.

Bomb.

Bomb.

Bomb.

That's all I know anymore, you see.

The only thing I can say.

The only word I can hear.

I'm trapped, in a world of explosions.

Funny, isn't it?

My own personal hell.

It sets my teeth on edge.

People have long given up trying to talk to me, it's useless and they know it.

My legs don't work very well anymore.

Neither does my head.

My eyes only see grey these days, well my right eye does.

The left one doesn't really do much now.

It's covered with too much gauze.

Honourable discharge to the cause of injury, the army called it.

You're too screwed up to fight anymore, they meant. Done-for by seventeen, I must have set a record.

But I'm not surprised really.

I throw a few seeds to the pigeons fluttering around the park bench. I can't blame the army for getting rid of me, no one wants a bloke who starts screaming at the word bomb and the wizzing of bullets on the front lines. Something dances just outside of my line of sight, I look up.

There's a boy, coming towards me. He's tall and rather thin. We all are nowadays, with rations and all. The boy is quite good looking too, very regal. Ha, I sound like my little sister. Like she did, I mean. She doesn't speak much now, not since Dad got killed and I wound up as damaged goods.

He stops in front of me, the pigeons I was feeding fly off as he kneels, beginning to speak. I can see his lips moving. The words are garbled.

What might he be asking?

I wonder how long it will take for the boy to realize that I can't understand him.

That I can't reply.

That what he's doing is pointless.

I shake my head, maybe he'll work it out. The boy looks at me, pale brow knotting in confusion. I hold his gaze and my leg starts to jack-knife up and down. It's odd, his eyes are like mine, too old for our years. It's wrong, because he's a child and shouldn't know anything. His face clears, and I know that he understands why I am. It's scary, he's too young to know why and not just what.

Oh, his mouth pops open, his eyes sharpening. I am certain he's realized now. I wait for him to leave, having seen my... impediment. Instead he stands and relocates himself so he can sit beside me on the park bench, he takes on of my hands, torn and scarred in his own.

He should just leave.

I'm useless as a listener.

Nonetheless, he continues, his voice beginning to change. It feels like he's singing without words, a song of battles long since waged and long nights under the stars. A silent melody, with a single note breaking through. I don't really know what he's saying, all I can make out is Aslan. I don't know what it means, but I nod because it sounds beautiful. Well nicer than bomb and death and coward at sounds like safety, like hope.

Peace.

Kindness.

Forgiving.

Honour.

I wonder if the boy with the eyes of a man sitting before me is a saint. Or an angel. Although, those things don't seem to quite fit him.

He's more like a king. No, not the jolly kind of king you see on the back of a coin. He is the kind of king whose crown and country were torn from under his feet. Yet, a king who is still strong. A king who isn't ready to give up yet. A king who refuses to leave his people.

The good sort of king.

He blinks, saying something more. Words that I can't catch. I hear the word Aslan again and then something more that I don't know. I jump a little when his head jerks up to look at someone behind me. I turn to see a little girl in a short school dress standing at the entrance to the park, waving to him. The boy beside me drops my hand, letting it fall onto my black trousers.

The boy says something, his face bright. He must have called over the girl, for she soon appears before us. Her face is flushed by the short run. She's got a few freckles. Looks like my sister. The way my sister used to. The pair speak for a moment, the girl becoming excited. They say the word again, Aslan and I swear the grey sun shines just a little brighter. The little girl grins happily and leans down towards me, she whispers something.

A blessing.

Pressing her lips to my forehead, I think that she spoke again. I can feel the words ghosting over me. They feel like spring. The boy then follows suit, brushing his lips over my brow. Something pricks at the edge of my conscience as he looks down at me, it burns like hope. But I can't be sure, I've long forgotten it's meaning.

The girl smiles, her eyes are so alight with life that I swear that I can feel the kindness radiating off of her.

The love.

She curtsies before me, oddly elegant for a young child, and turns to leave. The older boy, who must be her brother I realize, clasps my shoulder. He looks at me solemnly, inclining his head slightly. His lips move again and he turns to follow his sister.

I nearly heard the words.

As they walk away, my eyes begin to sting. Colours blossom lethargically from where the siblings step, pale at first, spreading like those of a watercolour painting. Slowly the shades deepen, waxing into something more.

The boy is blonde and wears navy blue school clothes. The girl's dress is matching, although she has sewn little yellow bows on the pockets. She laughs and language, sweet, beautiful words trickle to my ears. Pulling at the edge of my mind. I have to grasp the rough wood of bench to stop myself from falling off. There is a child laughing with a friend to my left all dressed in red, a dog is barking furiously up a birch tree.

I understand the meaning of the boys' laughter once more.

It aches, I have lived without even the simplest words for far too long. The colours prick against my eye, all is far too strong and much too bright.

Though for all the pain, I am grateful. A miracle, my mother would have called it.

"Th-," My voice is rough and broken against my throat, "Thank you," I whisper so as not to break the spell.

The children do not hear me, but they know what they have done all the same. The boy, at least, understood from the moment he sat beside me. He must have. From his first word to me, his voice thrummed with old tales and hidden wishes.

"Aslan."

The word is honey on my tongue, it tickles my teeth. Magic. The games we played as children. This name is them all.

"Aslan, thank you."

A breeze, warm and soft caresses my face.

I am whole again.

So this is written in the perspective of a young war vet, he's not got a name or anything. I'd love to hear what you all think of this! (It's my first time writing someone who's not cannon). He has PTSD, shell shock, it's caused by extreme trauma, and people with it were often though of as being incurable. They were also called cowards for breaking down under the stress. If anyone is interested, there's plenty of information about post traumatic stress disorder on the internet.