Edmund had always wanted to fly. It was just such a novel idea, to glide above the streets and towns, to live a life amongst the clouds. It was a silly dream and one that when the war had broken out had alarmed his family. He knew that they feared his dreams of flying would lead to a career as a fighter pilot and all of the potential for awfulness that came along with that sort of thing. He'd never been tempted but his mother winced at every mention of flying, at all the evidence of his fascination with flight, until he learnt not to show it except for when he was alone.
In Narnia, he had rode gryphons – spun and soared as a king over his country. In England, he forgot about cramped cockpits and noisy engines and instead though of setting his sights upon engineering a way to fly as he had in Narnia, for everybody to share in flight like that. But it wouldn't be the same. England's smog filled sky and battered cities could never hold a candle to the rolling hills and winding streams of Narnia, which were beautiful and pure and perfect and his.