Um...hello :-) So, I posted this story ages ago at the beginning of summer and wrote it even longer ago, back when I was still in high school. I am afraid my inexperience as a writer showed terribly. I was reading over this and realised how annoyed I was with the overall quality and decided to revise-then I revised a second time. This is still technically the same story, but it has been majorly revised (twice) and edited. Hopefully it is better!

June, 1941-August, 1941

Fifteen years as kings and queens, and it was over in a moment with the Macready scolding them for disturbing the Professor. Edmund still couldn't quite comprehend how such a thing could have happened. Time could not simply unwind; could it? Even if it could, surely that was not what had happened now. It could not be, for he still remembered everything; battles won and lost, the faces of friends and foes alike, celebrations and funerals, and the brilliant light of a warm sun that seemed so much closer and younger than the pale light that greeted them at the Professor's.

It simply isn't fair, he reflected as he wandered aimlessly through the empty rooms and dusty hallways of the grand old house-it reminded him irrepressibly of Cair Paravel even in its abject silence. He had spent fifteen years in Narnia learning just how unfair life could be at times, but the unfailing sense of justice he possessed had never allowed him to stop questioning the world's injustices.

Life ought to be fair, or at the very least, a good deal more fair than it is. For everything to go back to the way it was-it simply isn't right. But, if he was being entirely honest with himself it wasn't the injustice of the situation that troubled him most-it was the memory of what had been before Narnia and what might yet be again. If he was being entirely truthful, which he had once promised himself he would try to be whenever possible, then he would have to admit how afraid he really was of that.

I'm afraid of who I was before Narnia, he conceded silently, finding refuge in one of the Professor's many libraries. He could think more clearly surrounded by books and knew that they would keep his secrets. Besides, before he had never bothered with exploring the book-lined rooms. Here there were no ghosts of harsh words or shadows of spiteful actions to haunt him. The same could not be said for the rest of the house; everywhere he turned there was something to remind him of the hateful child he had been, and who he now feared he would return to being.

Fifteen years; fifteen years of laughter and friendship and learning how to be the person I want to be. Now what? He scowled and shook his head, realising belatedly that he was dangerously close to feeling sorry for himself. To him, this was one more sign that he was inevitably falling back into his old ways.

What's next; shouting at Peter, making fun of Lucy, unraveling Susan's knitting? None of those things sounded particularly appealing, but the list served to remind Edmund that he was not the only one suffering. He was not alone in feeling the strangeness of losing so much time, so many years, a whole world, and the closeness the four of them had gained to each other in Narnia.

The change in Peter was perhaps the most pronounced, and it worried Edmund. His brother, usually so confident and well at ease, had become increasingly silent and sullen since their return. It was easy, at least for Edmund who had grown to understand him so well, to deduce the reason for this change. Peter had been the High King, his word had been law, and Narnia had been his to command; in England that could not have been further from the truth. Peter no longer had the authority to choose his own path, let alone decide the fate of his country, and Edmund knew he was struggling to accept his vastly altered circumstances.

He had heard the Macready whispering to the Professor about how arrogant the eldest child suddenly was, and it had been with difficulty that had resisted correcting her sharply-it was no longer his place to defend Peter. The fact remained, however, that Peter was not arrogant. He was simply the High King, a ruler and warrior whose pride had been well founded.

I do want to help him, Edmund acknowledged miserably, wishing that books could talk to offer him advice. But how could he help now? He was no longer King Edmund the Just, High King Peter's most trusted adviser. Now he was just Edmund, and much closer to being Edmund the Traitor than Edmund the King.

"No," he said aloud, though only the books were there to hear him. "Peter has to learn how to go back to who he was before, no matter the pain it causes him." The books remained silent, and Edmund wondered briefly if he had really been talking about Peter at all.

Then there was Susan; she seemed to have retained something of her adult grace, but it seemed strange and out of place in England. The Macready often complained loudly that she was "putting on airs", "trying too hard to be a grownup", and had assured the Professor that it simply wasn't "proper". The Professor, for his part, had regarded her mildly from above the bowl of his pipe and said nothing-though Edmund, who had been watching the exchange from his seat near the fire, thought the elderly man seemed rather more annoyed with his housekeeper than with Susan's reported strangeness.

When Edmund had cautiously inquired if she was alright, Susan had shrugged and done her best to brush the question aside. Despite her avoidance and denial, the pain of her loss was clearly visible in the dark circles beneath her eyes that spoke of tears and sleepless nights. But what could he say to ease her troubles? He was only her beastly younger brother now; more likely to laugh at her weakness than to offer comfort. So, he said nothing, and Susan did not ask for his aid.

"It wouldn't be particularly helpful of me anyway," he said, once again seeming to address the silent, dust-covered books, "to tell her she has to go back to being a school girl when she was once a queen whose beauty was famed through every kingdom." The books still offered no insight, and he had not expected them to.

Lucy seemed the least effected of them all, but Edmund knew her pain was the deepest. She smiled and laughed and brought light to everyone, just as she always had-not even the Macready could find fault with her-but he saw the sorrow in her eyes which the smiles and laughter never reached. She had not only lost a land, a kingdom, and a crown; she had lost Aslan, and Edmund knew that was worse.

When she thought no one was watching she would grow silent and withdrawn as she turned towards the East, eyes filling with unshed tears. But there was no Golden Roar, no familiar Voice to wake her from her shadowed dreams. Edmund could only watch distantly, though he shared her grief. But how could he tell her that now? In Narnia they were the best of friends; they shared their secrets, their joy, and their pain, but here he was only her cruel and mocking older brother. He was careful to make sure he no longer mocked her, but he could not find the strength to comfort her either.

"She has it the worst," he informed the books. "She was the one who knew Aslan best, and now He's gone. She has to look for Him all over again, and when she can't find Him here she'll simply have to go back to living without Him." The books remained stubbornly silent.

In the weeks that followed, before they left the Professor's to return home, he watched them all in silent regret-his sisters and his brother. They had been his friends once, but here-now-he was not worthy of them. He remembered everything from Narnia, how he had saved them, protected them, nearly died for them, and they for him, but most of all he remembered how he had betrayed them.

Time could not simply unwind, yet somehow it had. His life had spiraled backwards, out of control, until he was once again the same brother who would betray them, taunt them, and shut them out.

It did not occur to Edmund to think his own path was the most difficult. He did not consider, as perhaps he ought to have done, the possibility that this simple fact proved how much he really had changed. All he knew was that he could not risk endangering them again. He must refuse to allow for the possibilty of betraying them, as he once had, and so he quietly withdrew.

"I have to go back too," he informed his reflection in the train window as they returned to London in time for school to start again. "But, if I am to go back to being a traitor, I must do it alone." His too young reflection offered him no contradiction.

Peter acknowledged himself to be lost, adrift in a familiar world suddenly made alien, but it was not that which troubled him most. True, he found it nearly impossible to accept that he must now follow orders, rather than giving them, and he knew he now seemed arrogant to those around him. But, regardless of his own uncertainty and loss, it was the sadness reflected in the eyes of his family that made their return from Narnia most unbearable.

Lucy's silent tears clawed at his already shaken faith until his trust and belief in Aslan threatened to crumble entirely. Susan's weary sorrow made him want to shout and curse against the One who had sent them so summarily from their home with no warning, and no preparation for the strangeness that would greet them in England. These, he felt, he would have been able to bear, had it not been for Edmund.

The brother, friend, and steadfast companion he had gained in the fifteen years they had spent as kings had vanished nearly as suddenly as Narnia itself. In his place was a far too quiet, far too withdrawn, shadow of his brother, and-if Edmund was no longer sullen as he had been before Narnia- the the silent guilt that clung to him like a shroud was far worse.

By the time they returned to London, three weeks before the start of fall term, Edmund had retreated so far into himself that Peter began to doubt his ability to bring him back. He seemed more a stranger than a brother, more distant now than he had ever been-even so many years ago, when they had first come to the Professor's. No amount of carefully phrased questions, old jokes they had shared in Narnia, or exasperated shows of temper on Peter's part seemed able to shift the wall Edmund had built between them.

Peter was at last forced to admit that he had no idea how to help. Edmund had never been one to cry or give in to violent displays of temper, seemed even less inclined to do so since their return, and-if past experience was anything indication-Edmund would continue brooding until something happened to shock him back to his senses. What would be most effective in accomplishing this dubiously feasible task however, Peter could not begin to guess. It wasn't as if England possessed the equivalent of a ruthless Centaur general-who never hesitated to knock Edmund soundly over the head when he was being particularly foolish.

We all lost Narnia, Peter thought sadly, watching his brother stare distractedly out at the passing countryside, and trying not to wonder what had become of their home now that they were gone. But now, I'm losing my best friend as well. It wasn't fair, and more than that, it hurt terribly.

Peter knew his brother too well to doubt the reason behind his suddenly withdrawn nature, but that scarcely made it more bearable. They had all found themselves right back where they had started, and he knew, that for Edmund especially, where he had started was not somewhere he wanted to return. In his mind, he would be once again hovering on the brink of betraying his family.

Why can't he see how much he's changed? Peter wondered, pretending to focus on reading his book. Everyone else can; even the Macready. Despite his determined display of interest in the book, he did not miss hearing his brother's nearly inaudible words-which seemed to be directed at his own reflection.

"I have to go back too," the despair in that simple statement nearly made Peter admit to eavesdropping, but before he could, Edmund continued-sounding painfully determined. "But, if I am to go back to being a traitor, I must do it alone."

You won't be alone, Peter found himself promising silently, all too aware that he could not now admit to having heard the quiet words. When you're ready to listen, I'll be here to remind you who you really are. He sighed and pushed the book away, acknowledging that he would gain nothing by attempting to read in his current state of mind.

I just want my brother back.

The first time he had spoken those words Aslan had answered. The price then for granting Peter's wish had been the Lion's blood, and Edmund's own. This time there was no Lion, and Peter found he would not have trusted Him even if he had been present. It's up to me now.

Peter knew he was no longer a king, but he would always be an elder brother, unwilling to surrender those he loved to the demons of the past. That thought brought him some measure of peace-regardless of how much things had changed that simple fact never would.

Hope you enjoyed this revision, the other chapters will be reposted soon as well. Leave me review :-)

Cheers,

A