Sliver of Hope

Sliver of Hope

By Allyson

(A/N – all of Narnia belongs to C. S. Lewis)

The stricken wail of the air raid siren pierced the soot-filled night sky. The stars had long since fled the inky blackness. The deserted street was eerily silent. Not even a slight breeze ruffled the leaves on the nearby tree or swept debris across the road.

He didn't want to turn around and see the rubble that was once his home behind him. Didn't want to admit he could never return to his home. Couldn't believe that this had happened at all. He still clung to a sliver of hope that when he turned around, he'd be faced with the wrong house and find his home just as they had left it – intact, safe, and welcoming.

Dragging his eyes to the charred remains, shrapnel stabbed at his heart as it had when it created a huge gaping wound in the living room and a fractured gash through his parent's bedroom. The tattered remains of curtains and netting still clung to the window frames. Stumbling, he opened the front door and entered, though he could have easily climbed over the crumbled living room wall. Glass and broken furniture littered the floor. Overhead, the light fixture creaked ominously as it swayed.

A glimpse of bright yellow caught his eye, contrasting starkly against the dim interior. Moving closer, he found it was the burnt remains of Susan's best Sunday hat. With trembling hands, he stooped to pick the hat up, his heart crumbling along with the fragile remains in his open palm. One of his mother's pearl hatpins had remained intact and seemed to glow with an eerie cold light.

His gaze dropped to what had been hidden under Susan's hat and all the breath out of his lungs left him in an instance. A silver picture frame, its glass still cracked and spider-webbing across the picture from the last time he'd seen it, revealed Dad. Snatching up the frame in disbelief, he couldn't take it in that it had survived the bombing.

"Dad," his whispered smile was almost engulfed by his depressing surroundings.

Looking closer at his father's photograph, he frowned and almost dropped the precious object in shock. Before his eyes, the handsome image of the older man in uniform seemed to morph into another image. That of a young teenager with a disappointed expression and familiar piercing sky-blue eyes. Peter.

"Now look what you've done," Peter's voice echoed inside his head.

The frame slipped from suddenly numb fingers and crashed to the floor, glass twinkling in the rubble like glittering icicles . . .

. . . Edmund awoke with a gasp of frosted breath, his heart pounding. Momentarily confused, he looked around panicked before he realized he was still locked in his ice-cell in the Witch's castle. Ice water ran through his veins and he hugged his knees closer to his chest in a futile attempt to keep warm. He'd had a nightmare and then awoken to another more realistic nightmare. Memories of meeting the Witch and his betrayal of his family blanketed him like a frosted coat.

"Now look what I've done," he muttered to himself through chattering teeth. Resting his chin on his knees, he forced his nightmare to the back of his mind. He wanted to go home – and home was with his family.

As the temperature in his cell continued to drop, Edmund waited for his fate to be decided and clung onto a sliver of hope that he'd see his family again soon.

The End