A/N: Don't be put off by Cifel, he's more of a plot device than an actual character…this chapter begins with Edmund's dream.

Cifel: (sulks)

Chapter three

Laughter.

Laughter on the sunset lit shores…rays casting dancing red and yellow sparks across the glistening surface. Coarse sand beneath his feet, shells scattered here and there among seaweed and small pebbles covered with foam. Rushing waves, children's laughter.

"Co' won, Ed!"

Edmund jumped, and looked down, to see Lucy, but not as he knew her now. She wore a small blue, flower printed dress, and was half his height. She clutched a bright red bucket and yellow spade. She laughed, and padded, stumbling slightly, across the wet sand towards where the tide reached its highest point. There, two other small children, one with plaited brown hair, the other with windswept blond, stooped over the nearest tail of seaweed.

"It's a fish!"

"Don't be stupid! It has no eyes. All fish have eyes."

"It do!"

"No, Lu, that's a shell…and you say 'it does' not 'it do'…"

He remembered this all too well. Five years ago from now, a holiday in Blackpool. Edmund whirled around, and saw the silhouetted figure of his mother, sitting in a deckchair, and she smiled and waved at him. Shaking his head, he turned back to the three small children, poking the large clump of seaweed cautiously. He watched them, a small smile growing on his face. It felt foreign. Peter had been…nine, then, and Susan eight, Lucy four and he himself six. They seemed a lot…smaller than they had then.

"Don't touch it, Peter!"

"It's just a fish!"

"It's NOT a fish!"

He walked shakily over to join them, trying desperately to recall what had happened that holiday. When they had been looking at the seaweed, father had been buying ice cream, mother reading a book in the deckchair. Then, Lucy and Susan had gotten wet, and run back to the warmth of the waiting towels drying in the setting sun, hair lank and in clumps but still smiling. And then…he and Peter had gone to explore the rock pools left by the tide.

Edmund was jolted out of his reverie as there were screams of laughter, then Susan and Lucy, hand in hand, raced back up the sand dunes towards their mother. Edmund looked down to see Peter, trousers rolled up into lopsided clumps around his knees, holding a spade which was almost as big as he was. He watched his sisters go, smiling slightly, before turning to look up at Edmund. Edmund felt a small sense of accomplishment in looking down on his older brother. He had always wondered what it would be like to one day grow taller than Peter.

"I'm going to explore the rocks. You coming?"

Edmund nodded numbly, and followed his brother at a slow jog. Where was he? Was he dreaming? What had happened? He…couldn't remember…there was a white light, and sharded glass…a battle…a lion, a witch…

"ED!"

Peter had stopped, now standing at the bottom of the sharp rock which marked the beginning of the rockpools. He looked impatient, and tapped his foot against the sand.

"Come on! You're not chicken, are you?"

The world was spinning slightly. There were voices, far off, calling, shouting, crying. The battle…there had been a large bull, horses with human torsos…a general in armour…the witch…a wand, broken, a blinding white light…

The beach shook, and Edmund could hear the far off cries of his sisters, and his mother's frantic cries for her sons to come to her. He stared down at his brother, whose china blue eyes had suddenly gone wide with fear.

"Edmund?"

He said, uncertainly, dropping the spade and stepping forward to stand right beside him. His shirt had changed colour. It was now a deep red, with a lion, reared mid-roar. It appeared to be writhing pain rather than majestically stating its courage, however.

There were screams and cries from up the beach, and they both turned to see the upper beach swirling, caving in on itself, forming a deep crevice. The sea came crashing forwards, and Edmund reached desperately for the younger Peter's hand, only to find the child was not beside him anymore. He stared around, wildly, and felt his heart fill with a very familiar despair.

"Mother! Father!"

The darkness pressed in, forming a black void around him, but he could still hear their echoing cries all around him. Susan, Lucy, Peter…

"Where are you!"

But they were gone.

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The witch languished on her ice carved throne, surveying the scene before her with a small smirk. Krimlock stood, axe at hand, beside the two limp forms of the son's of Adam, lying side by side on the floor of the throne room. The youngest was pale faced and blue lipped, lying quite still, and the witch confirmed with satisfaction that the healing magic had worked. The eldest was flushed, his breathing shallow, and shuddered with each breath he drew. But he would not die. He was fine, apart from the physical stress he had exerted.

And finally, currently surveying the carved engravings upon the walls of her throne room, stood what would have appeared to be a man. He was tall, and wore a simple black tunic with grey embroidered sleeves, white leggings and brown leather boots. He would be entirely unremarkable, were it not for his overly pale face, deep blue shoulder length hair streaked with sky blue and contrasting crimson eyes. He bore and air of dignity and shrouds of mist seemed to cling to him as though he was a saviour.

He appeared to be only about eighteen, but his dark burgundy eyes held a wisdom which spoke otherwise. He eyed the carvings with disdain, and fingered each experimentally. He paused, and then turned to regard the queen with an impassive, slightly arrogant gaze.

"Cifel. I would say it is a pleasure…though truly, it is not."

Cifel leant back against the wall, the said structure hissing and melting, molding with the curves his body. He eyed her with slight mocking disappointment, a single eyebrow raised.

"Your magic has grown no stronger, I see."

The witch clenched her teeth and snarled, her lips curling into a thin sneer. This being was her greatest triumph of magic, she had to remember that. It was a pity he had turned out to be such a brat. The witch drew herself up and tapped her fingernails idly against the sides of her throne.

"Strength has nothing to do with power, it would seem." She eyed him with a smirk "As I have so easily enrolled you to my service."

Cifel bristled, and his brow furrowed into a menacing, scathing glare. The witch laughed coldly, drawing strength from his anger. Her face fell as her eyes were drawn once again to the crumpled figures of the sons of Adam, still sprawled across the floor.

"But to the matter at hand. I have summoned you to be the guardian of the youngest son of Adam."

Cifel moved away from the wall, descended the steps to the main floor and circled the two forms slowly, eyes studying each in turn. After a time he looked up, eyebrow once again raised in questioning.

"That is a strange request."

The witch leant back in her seat, folding her hands in her lap as she did so.

"It is not a request; it is an order, as you well know. I have plans for this boy. He may, after all, be just the thing I need."

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Cifel leant down, and placed a cool hand on the flushed cheek of the eldest son of Adam; Peter, his name was, if Cifel could read correctly. The rock, also derived as Simon. Fourteen. Resembled his father. Element, earth, for steadfast courage. A turbulent, weary and troubled aura the colour and hue of dawn light. Elder brother to three. And the other boy, the boy which Jadis had summoned him here to guide. Edmund, for regality, and just, wise, fair judgment. Twelve. Resembled his mother, disposition of his father. Element, air, for wise wandering one. A raging storm of undecided thought, the sheen of a shining blade, pulsating. Brother to three.

"Now is not the time." The witch snapped, bringing Cifel back to reality with a jolt "I shall give you the proper details of the boy presently. First, I have another task for you."

Cifel stared at her, not attempting to read her as he did others. He knew he was unable. It was both a blessing, and a curse, which he had to gather the patience to bear. He needed to; he had no choice.

'Oh, cursed and blessed children of the forbidden earth. How I love you, and yet hate you so.'

He would do the witches bidding; he was bound too. But that did not mean that some day, somehow, he would find a weak point, a loophole, and finally be free of this hell. Maybe this was the opportunity he had been waiting for.

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A/N: Cifel is my own character. He's my first, actually, unless you count Sorlim and Salem. I hope he's not too badly developed…you will find out more about him as the story progresses. He's not that important, however.

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