A/N: Finally, the situation with Peter is near to ending, and the last EVER beach dream is done…this was one hell of a difficult chapter to write. The witch is a pain to keep true to her character. I am now the proud owner of Narnia Top Trumps! Ah, I'm so proud…It helps me find out the obscure characters names. I apologise, Krimlock's name is not correct. It is in fact Ginarrbrik, but I reckon my name is easier to pronounce.

I WILL REPEAT, ANYTHING IN ITALICS (in this chapter, anyway) IS A DREAM. All of the beach sections have been Edmund's dreams, they ARE NOT REAL. Okay? Goody goody.

Anyway…

Chapter ten

Screaming.

Screaming 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, a single child screaming desperately.

There was no laughter, nor crying. Edmund winced and brought a hand to his head, staring around for a sign of the little boy, whose voice was surely the one screaming. It did not sound as though he was afraid, nor in physical pain. He felt, somewhere deep in his memory, he had heard such sounds before. But try as he might, he could match no face to the sound. It had been higher pitched, though, and more controlled, an acceptance and mourning rather than a seeming despairing denial.

He almost tripped over the red bucket, and two broken spades which lay in a heap, wet sand seeping over the dry surface, as though kicked in a frenzy. Small toy soldiers and horses, guns and tanks were littered across the sand in droves, thankfully all whole. Edmund followed the vague trail of destruction up the beach to the now almost completely destroyed deckchair, which was lying in hundreds of shards, half embedded in the sand.

Edmund picked his way carefully through the wreckage, and stared down at the broken deckchair, troubled. It was a different sort of abuse from before. It looked like it had been kicked and snapped by a hand, not blown to pieces a sudden impact of high wind. Edmund stood up and stared around the deserted beach.

"Anyone here?"

He called. It echoed around the empty, strangely quiet shoreline, and Edmund frowned, feeling the beginnings of fear beginning to settle in his stomach. He had met the little boy here before, he didn't know how, but he knew it. He should be here! The screaming had come from this direction. But it was now eerily silent, only the rustle of the far off trees on the coast made a sound.

"He's broken."

Edmund leapt about a foot in the air, let out a yelp and turned, hand on his heart, to find the little boy standing right behind him, features hidden by his golden hair, cradling something in his hands close to his thin chest. Edmund leant down and studied the boy. Yes, this was definitely the boy he had met before. But he seemed different, somehow. Taller, thinner. He now reached Edmund's chest, his hair longer, and his features sharper.

Simon, as the boy wished to be called, looked up with a blank expression and brought his hands carefully away from his chest to show Edmund a painted tin soldier, with sand coloured uniform stained with red, and no eyes shining in it's white face. Tiny patches of crimson were scattered across the toy. Simon dropped to his knees and gathered up some of the fallen soldiers, and a few guns, then lined them up neatly with his hands shaking slightly.

Edmund sat down next to him, and watched him arrange them silently, righting the soldiers which fell over when the little boy positioned them too awkwardly. He studied the boy's face more carefully, trying to read his expression, but it seemed merely to show deep concentration. Simon bit his lip as he gently placed the white skinned, stained soldier a little way away from the line of guns and 'enemy' soldiers and seemed to pause, holding his breath.

"BANG BANG BANG, atishoo, atishoo, and they all fall DOWN!"

The little boy's hand lashed out and flung the line of 'enemy' soldiers and weapons into the air, where they fell like shrapnel all around Edmund. The boy then wrapped his small fingers around the neck of the wooden soldier, a twisted smile filling his face with bitter sadness. He placed his other hand on the toy's feet, held it up in front of Edmund's face, and snapped it in two.

"And Daddy's all gone."

The boy let out that terrible scream which Edmund had heard when he first came upon the beach, then curled in on himself, sobbing dryly, his frail figure shuddering uncontrollably. Edmund sat paralyzed, staring from the boy to the two broken halves of the toy at by his knee. He picked them up, and placed them carefully side by side, then wrapped a consoling arm awkwardly around the boy.

"Hey, it's alright. We can fix it, we can glue it back together again. You'll see. Don't cry, Peter."

Edmund blinked. Peter. Where had that come from? This boy's name was Simon. But the name had seemed so…natural. So right. Peter. Peter. Something…something was pushing, slamming against the impenetrable frosted glass walls which enclosed his memories, something important. Simon. Peter. Edmund watched in helpless dismay as the little boy beat his fists against the ground and scrubbed furiously at his eyes, before letting out another fearful wail and throwing his arms around Edmund's torso, burying his head in his chest.

Edmund stared, then slowly put his arms around the boy and rocked him gently as the small hands fisted in the material of his shirt and the centre of the garment grew damp with tears. He placed one hand on the golden hair, feeling the tickle at the back of his mind itch painfully. This was familiar. He could almost see it, hear it, smell it, but the walls of ice slammed up once more and Edmund felt a numb emptiness fill his head. He sighed, and rubbed the little boy's back in comforting circles.

Eventually the boy drew back, and smiled shakily up at Edmund, wiping his nose on his sky blue jumper, which was stretched and damp now, too. Edmund reached into his pocket and withdrew a hankie, handing it to the boy and watching as he blew his nose and wiped his face, tears still clinging to his fair lashes and making his blue eyes shine overbright.

"Will you promise me something?"

Edmund took back the hankie and placed a hand on the boys shoulder, standing with him as the boy struggled to his feet.

"Yes, of course."

The boy smiled, drew in a deep breath, and drew a large bunch of sky blue flowers from behind his back, tied with an emerald green ribbon. Edmund took them, studying the small posy of carefully trimmed flowers, confused. He looked to the boy, who only smiled wider, the tear tracks dry on his cheeks.

"Soon, you won't have to remember not to forget your brother anymore…but…don't you forget about me either, will you?"

Edmund frowned.

"My…brother? But…Simon, Peter…you are Peter, aren't you?"

The boy stepped back, still smiling, and shook his head slightly, laughing.

"You created me. I'm the embodiment of your love for your brother. You created me subconsciously to guard your memories, and thus your love, from the witch's spell. This is only a dream, Edmund. And you saved me. And soon you will remember. Just…please don't forget about me either, alright?"

Edmund stepped forward, but his movements were sluggish. The sun over the sea was setting. All was calm on the sunset lit shores…rays casting dancing red and yellow sparks across the glistening surface. Coarse sand beneath his feet grew damp with the oncoming tide, shells scattered here and there among seaweed and small pebbles covered with foam being drawn back into the warm depths. Rushing waves, a joy filled laugh, and the child was gone, sandaled feet slapping against the sand, waving a last goodbye.

Edmund clutched the small posy to his chest as the world grew black, finally recalling the peculiar name given to the frail plants he held;

Forget me nots.

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Edmund jerked abruptly awake, stiff and aching all over, and sat up groggily, unsticking his cheek from the pages of the book. Like many times before now, he could not recall the dream he had just witnessed. But he was far too tired to attempt another through interrogation of his brain now. He rubbed his eyes, blinked, and turned again to the task of flipping through the pages of the book for anything which may appear out of place, a hint, a sign, a symbol, anything.

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 down on the floor and slid it across the floor to lie in the middle of the room, face up, and open at the page which he himself had marked with the small blue flower. He sighed, and muttered to himself;

"No, not yet. Not yet."

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Edmund looked upon the witch, who sat regally on her icy throne. He felt that he should really feel some awe, or fear, or something, as he stood there. But really, his irritation at being so close to unraveling the mystery of his past overcame any emotions he may have had, and he resolved to get this meeting over with as soon as possible so he could get back to the book.

"Are you hungry, my child?"

The witch asked, gently. Edmund shook his head, studying her facial features carefully. Her face was kindly enough, but her eyes held some deeper purpose, some emotion which ran deeper than mere concern. He repressed the urge to shiver, and stiffened his back resolutely. He would not lose face in front of this Queen, or whoever she was.

"Do you have any idea who I am, Prince? Come closer, now."

Edmund walked forward to stand at the bottom of the steps to her raised dais, before answering with a swift and rather abrupt bow.

"No, your majesty. I do not."

The witch's eyes flashed and, for a single moment, Edmund saw the anger in them. This woman was, by no means, sincere. What was it the dark haired boy, Cifel, had told him? That there had been a hunting accident…but nothing more about his life before that. Something was wrong, out of place. He had a strange feeling in his chest, an uneasy sense that he was not safe here. He felt no familiarity for anything he had seen in this castle, unlike the flashes of brief memory he received in the things it was lacking. The flowers were a strange addition to the décor. He felt sure that they had not been planted by the witch, as the rest of the building was devoid of any life whatsoever.

"Very well. Do you recall anything of…your childhood? I would be most grieved if you did not remember those joyful days…you were so happy then…"

Her eyes grew distant, but Edmund did not feel in the least that she was truly recalling anything of the sort. This is a farce, he thought. This woman is not my ally. No matter who I am, I know I am not this 'Prince'.

The icy walls around his memories began to creak ominously. Edmund swallowed hard, feeling again that desperation to return to his room. The answers to all of this were just a few moments away from him, within the pages of the book. He had to get back to it. He had to.

"Um, begging your pardon, your majesty…" he bowed slightly, keeping his eyes focused on hers, carefully allowing none of his emotions to show on his face. "But I feel a little ill."

She smiled a fake, tight lipped, smile. Obviously she was not used to public displays of emotion. Edmund repressed the urge to shudder at the raw rage he saw simmering beneath the surface of those dark eyes.

"Of course. We shall talk later, when you feel better. Sleep well, dear Prince."

Edmund bowed hastily, and forced himself to walk slowly and deliberately until he was out of sight. He couldn't get the image of her face out of his mind. It was so…inhuman. Somehow, the knowledge that the rage was being suppressed scared him more than it being unleashed upon him. He couldn't allow himself to become distracted now.

He was close now, so very close, to discovering the truth.

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A/N: NO MORE WEIRD DREAMS, PEOPLE. WE HAVE RETURNED TO NORMALITY. In the next chapter, finally, we will discover what the hell has been up with Peter. This is based a little on the symbolic meaning of CS Lewis' last book 'The Last Battle' in which a second Narnia is discovered, the 'real' one, and it is supposed to represent Heaven. Don't worry, though, Peter will soon be re-united with his body, and his brother, again (sappy smile).

Any comments would be appreciated! Please review!