Edmund Pevensie, Somewhere-in-England, Walking:

Edmund was cold.

Actually, he wasn't just cold, he was downright frozen, right to the tips of his little toes. And all because he hadn't had the foresight to bring a cloak with him - wait, no, jacket - he hadn't had the foresight to bring a jacket with him. Shaking his head, Edmund tried to dispel certain traitorous thoughts; thoughts that he was better off not remembering.

Nevertheless...it was hard. It was so hard to forget almost fifteen years worth of memories...more memories than he'd lived as he was now at a mere eleven years old.

And the way they treated him! As if he didn't understand them, as if he were merely some ignorant child who knew nothing of the world. He was 25 for Pete's sake!

Wait...no...he was eleven, yes, eleven. Every time he looked in a mirror Edmund was reminded again of the fact that to everyone but his siblings, he was indeed eleven.

It wasn't fair.

Edmund tried his hardest not to be spiteful or hurtful, but he wasn't like Peter. He couldn't accept what had happened so easily. Here, in wartime England he was merely a boy; a young, naive boy who held no more importance than any other young British lad. But in Narnia, oh sweet Narnia, he was a king! He was important, he was listened to, he was looked up to! People came from far and wide for him to judge their disputes!

And now here he was trudging across the misty ground with the rest of his silly eleven year old class at the break of dawn, shivering and miserable.

It would be better if Lucy were here, he reflected bitterly. Or Peter, or even Susan, ridiculous as she was acting lately. But Peter was kept mostly separated from him by age and both Susan and Lucy were in some horrid all-girls boarding school. As it was, Edmund had no one to whom he could relate. He was alone. The minds of his classmates were simply too childish for him to get along with. He couldn't help it. Peter kept advising him to fit in, but Edmund just couldn't bear it. He'd changed too much. He'd grown up; he'd seen things these boys would never see and done things these boys would never do. They were on a completely different level.

Not to mention Edmund was a king.

He remembered his life with such clarity, yet sometimes he found it hard to recall details from before - from when he was still living in England; from his true childhood. To Edmund, this was no longer his childhood.

He didn't tell Peter everything - only a little. If Peter could put up a mask of happiness, so could Edmund. But Peter had always been the stronger one in that department and while perhaps he could grin and bear it, Edmund struggled. He tried to pretend, tried to imagine that Narnia had simply been but a dream, but...

But Edmund wasn't ready to give up Narnia just yet. So he kept his heart locked away in his chest; his disappointment and grief stayed tucked away in a little chamber where they couldn't touch anyone else. If Peter knew how he truly felt, he would worry.

Besides, they'd gone back once, who was to say they wouldn't again? Peter and Susan didn't seem to think so, but Edmund and Lucy had talked on their own, and neither was giving up hope.

His teeth chattered.

"By Aslan," he swore quietly at the weather. He honestly hadn't expected it to be this cold so early in the year, despite the early hour. The sun had only just peeked over the horizon and begun its work warming the land.

A young boy next to him turned to look at him and asked, "Didja say s'mthin'?"

Edmund blinked at the boy's heavy accent and ignored him, mentally heaving a sigh at his inability to properly enunciate.

The boy continued on, oblivious, "This's excitin' don'cha think? It'll be like 'em knights."

And that brought Edmund's mind back round to the reason why he was outside at such an ungodly hour of the morning, tramping across the dewy grass towards the steadily growing smell of straw and horse manure.

Which, he decided as they got closer and closer, wasn't so bad...it was just the blooming cold. And the masks. Whoever decided that they all needed to have gas masks wherever they went (even in the middle of nowhere) needed a right good kick in the pants in Edmund's opinion. Thus the professors had all decided that each boy would carry their own mask; to build a sense of responsibility, they said. Edmund could have told them all what he thought of that, but kept his mouth shut. He had once had more responsibility than these balding men could ever have dreamed of.

Soon, they were in sight of the stables and paddock and Edmund felt the beginnings of a smile. He had always loved horses and he loved riding. It had been a hobby of his back in Narnia, and seeing the horses before him conjured such fond memories of his riding days that it was all Edmund could do not to immediately jump onto the nearest grazing animal and gallop away into the distance.

Perhaps he was being a tad melodramatic, but the swell of anticipation was steadily building and Edmund felt jittery. Impatiently, he waited as the professor responsible for this excursion called for order amongst the excited jabbering of eleven year old boys.

Five minutes later Edmund was still waiting as the man (a Professor Caulworth) continued to outline the proper safety procedures when dealing with horses, not to mention a few pointers about riding the horses. Edmund thought he could give the man a few pointers himself. After all, he was an expert horseman.

Finally, they were led into the stables to be shown the proper way to bridle and saddle a horse. Edmund stood at the back as the rest of the boys crowded forward eagerly, instead choosing to take stock of the horse. It was an old thing, back curved, clearly weary and with hardly any spirit left at all. It was the perfect animal for a stream of excited little boys to ride on. For Edmund, it was an extreme disappointment. He surreptitiously edged away from his classmates and further into the stables, standing on his toes to peer over each stall door and into the gloom beyond. This somewhat irked him, as most things tended to do these days, because he remembered being much taller than he was now, and it was quite unfair to have to peer up rather than down.

At least he had the small comfort that he would grow to be taller and, if he did say so himself, quite dashing. He tried not to think about puberty - that was like opening a whole new kettle of horrid fish.

As Edmund progressed down the aisle he looked each horse over with a critical eye. Some stalls were empty, but most were filled with mediocre animals - the type of horses one might use for training or practice for younger adolescents. But none were quite up to Edmund's usual standards. None had that fiery spirit and wildness he was used to.

Then he reached the far back.

Edmund wouldn't have said the horse was beautiful. He was nothing like Edmund's own personal steed, his beloved companion whom he had left behind in Narnia such a short time ago (at least it seemed so to Edmund). Still - he let his eyes rove over the dappled flank and the wary eyes - the horse was of a decent breed. He was by far the best horse in the entire stable - and probably the most temperamental too, if the way the animal pawed at the ground and snorted when Edmund moved up close to the door was any indication.

Edmund barely realised he'd dropped his gas mask on the straw covered ground as he stared the horse in the eye. It had turned its head to look at him and he held its gaze confidently. Then he held out his hand and clicked his tongue in the way he knew most horses responded to if they were properly trained (of course, if they were talking horses, then that was another matter entirely). Sure enough, the horse stuck it's head over the stall door and sniffed at Edmund's flat palm.

"My apologies," he told it, half expecting it to speak back to him, "I have no apple."

The horse snorted and nipped at his skin. Edmund held his hand steady and didn't flinch at the brief pressure.

And just like that he was back in the royal stables at Cair Paravel, inspecting a new steed and giving his approval. Without thinking of the consequences, both that he could get in trouble and that he was only eleven, Edmund plucked the bridle off its hook and, tugging the horse's head down to reach, slipped it over its head and deftly fastened the buckles. The wily animal tried to clamp its teeth down on the bit, but Edmund was having none of that and slipped his fingers into its mouth in one deft movement. Before the poor thing realised what had happened it was done. Clipping the lead on in a similar fashion, Edmund unlatched the door and let it swing open, standing to the side and letting the horse take a dainty step forward.

Still caught up in memories, Edmund lead the horse out of his stall and lined him up sideways, facing the wall, clipping the lead into a conveniently placed metal ring designed for that purpose. On the wall in front of them both hung the saddle and girth, below it, a well-placed step-stool. Edmund didn't think twice, he immediately reached for the hard leather and set to work.

The shout came when he'd finished tightening the girth for the second time after the animal had let go of the breath it had been holding to expand its rib-cage. Really quite crafty! Edmund blinked and felt a rush of guilt as he realised what he'd done and where he was. Turning, he observed the angry men heading his way and the gaggle of students behind them.

"Mr. Pevensie!" exclaimed Professor Caulworth, completely aghast.

"What do you think you're doing, boy?" said the stable owner at the same time, a tall man with thinning hair and a heavy moustache. He was eyeing Edmund like he didn't know quite what to think of an eleven year old boy saddling up his best mount.

"My apologies," Edmund uttered stoically, internally wincing, "I forgot myself." He turned to address the owner, reminding himself to be diplomatic. "You had such a fine mount that I couldn't help myself." Perhaps too much flattery, then again, perhaps not.

The stableman stared for a moment and then muttered, "Precocious child, isn't he?"

"Quite," agreed Edmund's teacher dryly.

Edmund almost let out an indignant "Excuse me!" but stifled the impulse as being entirely too childish. Instead, he reached out to stroke a hand down the horse's side. It snorted and shuddered.

"Now then," said the stableman. "You're only eleven, you really shouldn't be doing this, you could get hurt."

"Don't worry," Edmund told him, "I know what I'm doing."

Professor Caulworth spluttered.

The stableman raised an eyebrow and stepped forward to place a hand on the saddled back of his horse. "Is that so?" His eyes ran over the placement of the saddle, and he slipped a finger between the girth and the skin to check the tightness. He pulled it back with a look of mild surprise on his face.

"You never said you could ride, Edmund!" exclaimed one of his classmates. Muttering broke out and the boys began quietly exclaiming. Apparently at least part of Professor Caulworth's previous lecture about being quiet had sunk in.

"You never asked," replied Edmund.

"Well, Edmund, I believe you owe Mr. Brooks an apology," Professor Caulworth informed him.

"Actually," interrupted said Mr. Brooks before Edmund could so much as open his mouth, "the boy's done a completely professional job of preparing my Archer."

Archer was an interesting name, Edmund reflected. He thought Susan might like a horse named Archer. It would be ironic as well as appropriate. The animal was even of a nice size for someone like Susan - just under fifteen hands - hardly a pony, but neither was he a giant of a beast. Edmund blinked, remembering that these were not his stables, nor was this his horse, and whether or not Susan would like him was entirely irrelevant.

"Really?" asked Caulworth, clearly astonished.

"Yes, he has, and not to mention Archer here is a bit temperamental if you don't know how to properly handle him. I doubt anyone but myself or someone very intimate with horses would have been able to do what this young boy did without getting hurt."

Silently, Edmund rolled his eyes as the two "adults" talked over his head. Oh how he wished he was back where he belonged, home, in Narnia. Although to be frank, Edmund was quite certain Mr. Brooks was over-exaggerating the temperament of his horse just to sound more impressive.

"Hey there, boy, Edmund, is it? I'd like to see how you ride. You're only eleven, but you've got me interested."

Edmund's heart leapt and he stepped forward eagerly.

"Now wait a minute," said Caulworth. "I don't think that's such a good idea. Like you said, he is eleven."

"And he has better horse sense than adults twice his age," replied Mr. Brooks stubbornly. He had a gleam in his eye as he ran his hand down Archer's neck and checked the buckles on the bridle.

Edmund silently commended the man.

Stepping around Brooks, he unhooked the horse's - Archer's - lead and began to tug the beast in a circle to get him facing the right way. Mr. Brooks stepped back and was already herding Edmund's classmates out the door, past the poor excuse of a steed at the entrance, and out into the chilly morning. Both of them completely ignored Caulworth's protests.

Feeling his giddiness return, Edmund continued down the aisle, Archer prancing along behind him. When Edmund walked faster, he felt no tightness on the lead as Archer sped up to match his pace, his hooves clip-clopping jauntily, feet picking up rather than dragging along the stable grounds. Archer was excited too. His flank was warm, breath puffing, and Edmund wondered if he hadn't already had some exercise that morning.

Together, they stepped out into the early morning sunshine and Edmund took a deep breath of the crisp air. He wasn't cold any longer, now he was simply excited, and the cold and the dew reminded him of his own early morning rides down the sandy beaches of Cair Paravel.

"Ho boy!" Mr. Brooks exclaimed behind him before Edmund could finish unclipping the lead. "Don't forget your hat."

Edmund stared. His hat? He looked at the hard black riding helmet and wondered if the man was serious.

"No thanks," he told him. "I don't wear one."

Mr. Brooks was shocked. "Don't wear one? But that's unsafe!"

But Edmund was no longer listening. He was off in another time and another place. He remembered his first horse ride when he and Peter had been training for the battle against the White Witch. He had been the same age and height then as he was now. Remembering what it felt like to ride as someone young, Edmund set his foot in the stirrups and effortlessly mounted.

"Wait!" he heard someone distantly call.

Gathering the reins in both hands, he felt his fingers curl into the appropriate positions just like they always did and his feet automatically adjusted themselves to grip the stirrups. His back straightened and his head was held high as he peered out across the green expanse of Mr. Brooks' field - except it was no longer Mr. Brooks' field, it was Narnia and he was King Edmund the Just. His feet dug into Archer's flanks and suddenly they were off, the horse prancing forward for several steps before breaking out into a trot.

"Boy! Come back here! You must wear a helmet!"

Normally he would wait for the horse to warm up his muscles. Do some walking and trotting, but both he and Archer simply couldn't wait. They wanted to run. All it took was a shift in his weight, his outside leg coming back and they leapt forward into a canter.

And then there was a fence - what was a fence doing in Narnia? No matter. Edmund shifted his weight appropriately, the motion one of ingrained practise. His feet dug into Archer's side and his hands tightened up on the reins...and they were up and over, landing with a thud and continuing on; a perfectly executed jump.

Distantly, in his mind's eye Edmund could hear three more horses thudding along with him and his sibling's jubilant cries as they raced along behind him, calling his name.

Faster, he thought. And they were going faster. The horse broke into a gallop, but Edmund kept his seat, leaning over slightly.

He didn't know how long he raced, stuck in memories that were part of his past, but eventually he came out of his stupor when he realised he'd done a full circle and was approaching the fence again at a mild canter. Archer's sides were heaving with the improper exercise and Edmund hoped they hadn't been running for too long, lest he tire the horse out.

Archer's muscle's bunched, Edmund tensed, and they were up and over the fence once again and slowing to a trot. Then, from a trot to a walk, and finally Edmund guided Archer to a stop in front of his gaping class.

Mournfully, he dismounted in one fluid motion, shoes thudding into the moist dirt. He realised he was breathing rather heavily. Slowly, he ran a hand over Archer's side and walked around to face the horse, hand still trailing in the course hair.

Archer lowered his head and whinnied into Edmund's hair. And just that simple act - for it reminded Edmund of his current height - brought Edmund truly crashing back into reality. Once again he was just eleven-year-old Edmund back in England, his siblings nowhere to be found. Archer nudged his head again and he reached up and grasped the horse's head between his hands, stroking the sides of its face. Quietly, he pressed his forehead softly against the length of its nose and mourned the loss of who he had been.