A/N: Okay…we're back to Edmund POV for most of this chapter I've been neglecting him recently. I'd like to thank all the reviewers who have reviewed so far. Please remember that this is my first ever story!

And now I'll shut up and let you read...

Chapter nine

Edmund frowned as he tied the laces to his now pristine black shoes. He wished he knew where he was. The young, dark haired boy had told him of the hunting accident, where he had fallen off his horse, hit his head, and been found out in the snow on the edge of the lake which surrounded this castle. The boy had told him no more. But where was this lake? Who was he? Was he really a Prince, as the boy had said?

"I will make you Prince of Narnia, maybe even King, one day!"

He recalled a kindly voice speaking these words. The Queen, he supposed. Well, if he could remember such words, then it must be true. If that was so, she did not sound like a cruel woman. Her voice in his fractured memories seemed soft and gentle. But there was something missing…something he had forgotten…

"You forgot, you forgot, YOU FORGOT!"

Edmund winced as another voice, a child's voice, invaded his senses. He tried desperately to cling to the voice, to conjure some sort of image, a face to match the child's desperate tones, but no such vision appeared. He growled, and slid off the bed, feet landing hard upon the stone floor. He had a feeling he had heard that voice before, many times. But when? Were the memories, or merely the remnant of a dream he had?

Edmund sighed, and reached into his chest pocket to retrieve the handkerchief the young boy had given him to wipe his nose when he had sneezed earlier that morning. He froze as his hand began to withdraw from the soft material.

Something else should have been in this pocket. It was there, on the very borders of his mind, he could almost see it. He closed his eyes, pulled out the handkerchief swiftly, then opened them to see the ornate carvings on the rosewood bedpost, and froze.

Tiny flowers.

They should have been blue, he reasoned. With a small yellow patch in the middle.

How did he know that? The dark haired boy had not told him that, he was sure of it. Where had that thought come from? Blue flowers…a yellow centre…sky blue, like…like…a pair of eyes, narrowed, accusing, and a small pale face, with…sandy, golden coloured hair tossing in the wind. He could see him! He could the little child, a boy, who had spoken to him. But when?

There was no answer to that question, but Edmund was encouraged by this small progress. He stood abruptly, and stared wildly around the room for a piece of paper and a pencil, anything with which he could record this small triumph. His eyes fell on a large, inky black coloured leather brown book, lying face down and disregarded on the floor not a few feet away.

He hurried over to it and lifted it with little effort. The pages were wafer thin and delicate, rustling ominously as he lifted it. He studied the cover. It had neither title nor author, merely the crude carving of what appeared to be a simple fish, made up of two lines bent in an oval shape and then crossing to form a tail. It appeared to have been scratched into the surface with some sort of sharp instrument. Edmund sat carefully down on the floor, and settled the book on his crossed legs.

Opening the front cover, his eyes widened as he found an ornate script also carved into the stiff leather, on the inside cover of the book:

Edmund, Son of Adam.

Find the little boy with the broken smile from your memories, within the pages of this book, and all will become clear to you.

You may find also, a powerful acquaintance who is not easy to forget. Do not trust your eyes, they deceive you.

I wish you the best of luck, dearly loved blessed and cursed child of the forbidden earth.

Edmund read the note several times, feeling the indentations gently with his forefinger. It was hastily done, some of the writing faded as it curved awkwardly. He frowned, and glanced around the room, as if hoping the author was still somehow present nearby. He lowered his gaze, and turned the first page of the book, bending down so his nose nearly touched the paper and his dark hair fell in his eyes, to read the tiny writing which began below the simple title;

Genesis

The beginning

In the beginning God

created the Heavens

and the Earth. Now

the earth was formless

and empty, darkness

was over the surface

of the deep, and the

Spirit of God was

hovering over the

waters.

And God said,

let there be light…

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There were sirens blaring. The sound of rumbling aircraft overhead, the smell of sulfur in the air. Peter knew this place well. He stared at the china plates hanging in the alcove by the dresser, the painfully familiar carpet beneath his feet, and felt no surprise or fear from the recognition. He walked slowly down the hallway which he had trodden many a time before, and came to stand in the doorway to the front room, and watched from just outside the doorframe.

The curtains were drawn, save for a small slit of light filtering in down the centre. This tiny amount of light was enough to illuminate the neatly arranged, slightly cramped room which had not changed since Peter had last seen it. Peter let his eyes roam over the window where Edmund had stood staring every night and every morning, either watching for their father or staring with hypnotized wonder at the soaring enemy aircraft above.

His eyes fell on the small table to the side of the sofa, where a shattered glass covered picture frame stood lopsidedly, showing a smiling man in army uniform with piercing sky blue eyes.

Peter felt the nausea rise in his stomach once again, and his hand flew to his now unmarked face, where the sticky, hot blood had once clung. But it was smooth now. He closed his eyes and breathed slowly through his nose.

"Peter?"

The slumped figure in the armchair sat up straight, her dark hair disheveled and he cheeks thin and hollow, more lined than Peter had remembered. Her dark eyes were filled with joy, mixed with fear, tiredness, and disbelief. She opened her mouth, and chuckled bitterly, weakly. Peter just watched her, trying desperately to find the smiling, strong woman who had bade him a loving goodbye at the train station not so long ago in this broken shell of a person.

"And now I know I really must be insane…"

The woman let out a choked chuckle, and Peter winced at the harsh sound, before his mother broke into a bout of coughs. He slowly approached the armchair, before he stood right in front of her, looking down at her. He didn't know what drove him to feel a strange sense of calm. He didn't know what instinct made him get down onto his knees and place his smooth, healthy hand atop her trembling, wrinkled one, and smile warmly.

"It's alright, Mum. It's okay."

She looked at him in confusion, then looked down to her hand, which he had held gently in his own. His mother had never seemed so delicate and frail before. Even though he couldn't properly feel her cold hand in his, as he was still only half solid, but it felt very real, nonetheless.

Helen Pevensie felt a gentle warmth slowly envelop her hand, then spiral lovingly up her arm, and she stared at the apparition which appeared as her son, and smiled back into her husbands blue eyes. She leant back in her chair and closed her eyes, sighing.

"I prayed for a sign of the Lord. I didn't expect him to send an angel to comfort me in my sorrow."

Peter's smile faltered, but when he saw a calm, content smile grow on his mothers face, and it shine with the strength of rekindled hope, he mimicked her expression and smiled all the wider.

"Tell me, angel. Are my children safe?"

Peter got up, and leant over the arm of the chair, and wrapped his astral arms around his mother, placing his cheek beside her slightly flushed one.

"Yes, mum. They will be safe. I'll look after them."

Helen opened her eyes once again looked to the small crucifix which hung above the fireplace. She sighed, her wearied body slipping slowly into a desperately craved dreamless sleep. Before she fell into the warmth completely, she spoke one last time.

"Watch over them, my angel. Get them home safe."

Peter watched his mothers peacefully sleeping face, and drew back, gathering the fallen quilt pooled at her feet and, with some difficulty, arranged it snugly around her shoulders. He smiled one last time, leant down and pressed a soft kiss to her temple, before turning and padding softly over to clamber up onto the window sill, staring out as the sirens halted in their screaming and the planes retreated back up into the swirling clouds.

There would be no more attacks tonight.

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Edmund had spent the whole morning reading the book, and felt a strange calm as he absorbed the writing on each thin page. It was comforting, somehow. And familiar. Maybe he had read this book before, somewhere, and had forgotten. Either way, it was a very interesting book. Edmund stretched slightly, wincing as his adolescent spine cracked, and then relaxed again. He was about a third of the way through. The illustrations were beautiful. They were all colours and hues, and appeared to have been hand painted. Every new story had a calligraphy designed first letter.

He had yet to find the little boy in the book yet, and was growing slightly frustrated. Had he missed something? He had searched carefully for any story involving a young boy, but found nothing. He paused, then re-arranged the book on his lap, and flicked idly through the pages, searching for something which may catch his eye.

Quite suddenly, something fell from the indent between two pages about three quarters through, and Edmund froze, his finger marking the page, staring down at it. It was a small, completely flat, blue flower. Before Edmund could study the page it had fallen from, the door slammed open and Edmund dropped the book in surprise, losing the page. Cifel skidded into the room, hair in disarray, and hastily bowed to Edmund before gasping out.

"My Prince, the Queen requests your presence at once!"

Edmund looked longingly from the book to Cifel, and slowly stood up.

"Now, Sennjan? But I was just…"

Cifel took hold of his arm, and pushed him towards the door, shooting a furtive glance at the book as he did so.

"No time! Hurry! Down the stairs, third double door on the left. Go!"

Once Edmund had turned the corner, Cifel closed the door and leant against it, breathing deeply, eyes closed. That had been close. Far too close. He hurried over to the fallen book, and searched desperately for the small flower he himself had placed within it. It was nowhere to be found. Had the son of Adam already found it? But he did not know. Not yet.

Cifel looked disdainfully down at the beautifully illustrated page where the small flower had been lodged, and smiled. He slammed the book shut and slid it under the bed, arranging the sheets to cover the small cavity beneath the rosewood base. He sighed, and muttered to himself;

"No, not yet. Not yet."

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A/N: I was going to have Edmund's last beach dream, as promised, in this chapter, but unfortunately it just doesn't fit in. Next chapter, I swear, and it'll all become clear!

I'd like to have a bit of a rant. Why are people so obsessed with placing themselves as characters in Narnia? Don't get me wrong, some of these stories are well written and the OC characters well developed. I just don't understand why you would want to place yourself into a book…why spoil the original by twisting it so you are the main character? Does anyone know why people write stories like this? I'm not insulting them, in fact I have read quite a few myself and enjoyed it; I would just like to understand the motives behind them…

Ah well (sighs)

Review if you are feeling charitable!