TIMELINE DISCLAIMER: In my personal canon, the stories have been adjusted to the following years: LWW in 1940, PC in 1943, VDT & SC in 1946, and LB in 1949.

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Entropy

(n.) a process of degradation, running down, or a gradual decline into disorder

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"If I find in myself a desire which no experience in this world can satisfy, the most probable explanation is that I was made for another world." —C S Lewis

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england / september 14, 1948

prompt: "change"

word count: 1,331

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Eustace wasn't in his room.

Edmund poked his head in after his second knock went unanswered, only to find the bedclothes tossed aside and the desk empty, curtains open wide into the peachy morning light pouring through an eastward window.

"Bit early for you, isn't it?" he asked as he descended the stairs and finally spotted his cousin hunched over a notebook at the kitchen table.

Eustace looked up, a lock of sandy hair slipping out from behind his ear. "Habit." He cocked his head in an offhanded shrug. "I like taking a walk before the rest of the world gets up to bother me."

Edmund raised a brow, and Eustace cracked a grin.

"Don't worry, it's not you I'm avoiding."

"I should hope not," said Edmund. He took the seat next to his cousin and scooted it closer, shirt still half unbuttoned and hair unbrushed. In comparison, Eustace looked like he'd been up for an hour at least. "I'm certainly not here for the accommodations."

"Ah, enjoying your old room, then?"

Edmund breathed out sharply through his nose. He couldn't say he particularly loved the Scrubbs' spare bedroom, however many adventures had come out of it, though it still held one thing worth noticing. "The art's not bad."

Eustace's grin spread into a smile as he turned back to his work, spinning a pencil between pale, bony fingers, and Edmund glanced over to where a small glass case lay open beside the notebook, the delicate black wings of a large butterfly resting on its edges.

"What have you got there?"

His cousin's grey eyes flicked to the insect. "Found it on the edge of the sidewalk this morning. Already dead, you know, I think the early frost did it in. Good specimen."

"I didn't know you still collected things like that."

Eustace laid his pencil down and picked up a delicate pair of tweezers, gently lifting the butterfly and turning it so that the light from the windows glinted almost blue on its wings. "I just find them fascinating, I suppose."

Edmund gazed at its velvety black feather-dust, resisting the childish temptation to touch it by its paper-thin wings, perfectly rounded and tapering into soft points.

"You know… when caterpillars form their cocoons," said Eustace, "they don't just grow wings and crawl out again. They fall apart, essentially melt into a sack of pulp, and all that matter reforms into a completely new organism. It's incredible. It's… almost like magic, really."

Edmund glanced at him. "I'm not sure I've ever heard pulp and magic in the same sentence before."

Eustace scoffed. "Oh, shut up, you know what I mean."

"Yes, the moth goo is very interesting."

Eustace pursed his lips and placed the butterfly carefully back into its case, taking up his pencil to continue a sketch in the corner of his open page, copying the shape of its wings and shading them in next to a printed entry.

"That's not too bad," said Edmund, leaning in to get a better look at the diagram. "You do this often?"

Eustace lifted the pencil and flipped through the nearly-filled notebook, graphite butterflies of all shapes and sizes littered throughout a sea of scratchy text. "Been working on it all summer."

Edmund reached out, and Eustace handed him the book.

"There's not much else to do around here." He spun his pencil again as Edmund flipped slowly through an extensive collection of notes and illustrations. "And it gets me out of the house. I like documenting them. Preserving them. Not for any particular reason, I suppose, I just…"

Edmund's eyes wandered up to meet those of pale grey when the boy's words trailed off.

Eustace looked away. "I know what it's like, you know. To be unmade."

Edmund took a breath and nodded, glancing back down to the careful sketch of delicate black wings under his finger. "Me too," he muttered after a long moment of silence, and placed the book back onto the table in front of his cousin, though his eyes lingered on the page. He smirked softly. "You're the only one who ended up with wings, though."

Eustace scoffed, but a faint grin tugged at his lips all the same.

"Do you ever miss it? Being a dragon?"

Eustace shrugged with a sigh and shook his head, leaning back in his chair. "Sometimes, a little. Not every part, of course, but I suppose I wouldn't mind flying again."

"Mm. Imagine seeing the city from up there." Edmund couldn't help but remember the way the forests and mountains had looked from a dragon's-eye view, on those days when they flew over the island to hunt or explore, or to search for a replacement mast. Even then he'd thought it looked like a brilliant map, or a little model ecosystem like the ones they built with twigs and moss at school. "Think of the roads and buildings all that way below you. Like the photographs they take from aeroplanes."

Eustace smirked. "I'm not sure England is quite ready for that."

"Well, if you want to think of it that way, we're actually a few hundred years too late for dragons."

"Ah, missed my shot."

Edmund opened his mouth to say something about bad luck, but Alberta's sharp tone made him promptly shut it again.

"What on earth do you think you're doing, Eustace Clarence? Tracking dirt into my front rug before the sun is even properly up?" She bustled into the room, pinning up her flat brown hair into a tight bun as piercing eyes glanced over the table and Edmund's state of partial undress before fixing on her son. "Clean up this nonsense, what have I told you about bringing bugs into the kitchen? The table is for eating, not for science experiments."

"Sorry, mum," he muttered, and expertly gathered up his tools into one hand as he shut the butterfly's case and Edmund stood with the book.

Eustace led the way upstairs before another word could be exchanged, retreating into his room where light still poured in through the window onto his unmade bed.

"I thought your parents used to approve of this hobby," said Edmund once he could be sure they were alone again.

Eustace placed the butterfly case on top of his desk and took the book from Edmund's hand, slipping it into a drawer along with the rest of the odds and ends. "I don't know. Maybe they did. Strangely enough, though, I think they always preferred the crawling things."

He paused, and glanced at Edmund as the words sank in.

Neither of them said a word.

An echo of pity must have shown in Edmund's eyes, because a weak smile twitched over Eustace's face, as if to say it didn't matter—half rueful, half apologetic.

Alberta shouted something up about breakfast.

Edmund squeezed his shoulder as they turned back down the stairs. "Why don't we look for some more after we eat?" he said at last, earning himself a look of surprise from the younger boy. He shrugged in response to the unspoken question. "I have to admit I've never tried before, but if the frost took one out there must be more."

"We could check the park," suggested Eustace tentatively. "It's not far, and I saw some High Brown Fritillaries there a few days ago before the weather turned. You're sure you don't mind?"

"Course not, you can tell me all about the goo, or whatever it is they do in their sacks."

"Cocoons."

"Those."

Eustace snorted.

Edmund stopped him just before they reached the foot of the stairs, voice dropping a little. "And Stace?"

Eustace looked up at him from the step below.

He glanced around briefly to ensure they weren't overheard. "Who knows." He clapped the boy on the shoulder. "Maybe England will be ready for dragons again one day."

A tiny, shy smile tugged at Eustace's lips, pale eyes reflecting a thanks that didn't quite make it into words.

Edmund smiled back.