AN: I wanted to try something a little different and so what do I come up with? A modern-day AU told mostly from Edmund's point of view. Okay then. Just so everyone's on the same page, there are some things in this chapter that aren't explained, that's because they're going to be explained LATER in the story. So if you aren't 100% sure what's going on, it's okay. Now about the pairings: Um, obviously implied Edmund/Lucy, and possibly some (most likely very subtle, but I haven't decided yet) Edmund/Susan later on. If you don't like those pairings even in AU feel free to click the back button. And just so that no one can say I never directly explained it, this is NOT taking place in the 1940s, it's completely modern day.

It is the first term after the summer holidays. I have a two-year-old satchel, a hat I rather dislike, a new electric-torch, a mobile for emergencies only, and an apple given to me by my parents in case I get hungry-even though I haven't felt like eating anything for so long I've almost forgotten what hunger feels like. Even though everything tastes like sawdust now.

This morning I didn't want to go to school. I still don't. I do not want to ever go anywhere again. But of course my parents, the lovely Mr. and Mrs. Justaciturn, made me get up and put on my school uniform.

Which brings me to another thing I loathe about today; the fact that my school is barely a half-step up from being a public privy, the five pound admittance fee is practically a joke (most kids my age are probably just going to pocket it as soon as their parents are out of sight), and yet they still make us wear uniforms. What's worse is they can't even keep their own school colours straight. First it was red because we were the home of the Bloody Bears (no, I'm dead serious, that's what our rugger team was called); then people got all worked up because apparently 'bloody' is a swear word, not to mention it invoked 'too violent an image' and was evidently offensive to bears everywhere (who knew?). So then the new colour was blue and we became the Blue Lions (they wanted us to be the 'Gold Lions' but the headmaster said like heck he was letting us strut around in uniforms with golden thread thinking we were better than everybody else). Which of course freaked out the parents who realized they were the ones who had to pay for the new uniforms, and a nice-sized chunk of them refused, so a lot of the kids have red jackets over their white shirts. My parents were total kiss-ups to the administration; and so I'm one of few who have a blue jacket and a monogram-school-crest shaped like a Lion as opposed to the classic bear.

So here I stand, in my blue jacket that apparently will help bleeding bears with their self-esteem, waiting in the middle of a subway station so I can go back to a place that probably has lice. Yeah, I'm so thrilled.

Bored, I take a book out of my satchel. It's not a school book, just some semi-popular novel I've been trying to work my way through since the beginning of summer. My bookmark is in the middle, I know I've read nearly half of the book, yet I remember nothing about its plot or characters. Nothing except the first two pages I read before everything worthwhile in my life went down the drain.

I turn to the third page. There's a little red flower pressed into it. A fire-flower, I think it's called. My stomach tightens. I don't want to look at that flower or think about the person who gave it to me. Slamming the book shut, I wipe at my eyes which are mostly dry anyway. Still I had to check. If I've got to go to school, then I'm not showing up there with tears in my eyes. I don't want pity or scorn.

What do I want? I want to be home with the covers over my head.

No, forget that, I want a time machine to take me back in time to when I didn't know the one person you felt the closest to could just be snatched away from you. Before the phone rang and my parents looked at me, their eyes glistening sadly.

I wonder if anyone is even going to bother talking to me this year. I had a bit of a falling out with most of my friends recently-although it feels like decades ago. It didn't matter to me at the time. They were being asses, and I didn't care if they ever got over themselves and came round or not.

Probably they knew perfectly well I wasn't going to suck up to them until they forgave me. From what I heard, they all said, "It's just because he's got a girl."

Well, they were wrong, I didn't have a girl; I had the girl. The sweetest girl in the world.

Maybe I should try to act like nothing's happened to me, as if I'm simply not the same person who just lost his girlfriend. I might even change my name this term. Then I won't be me. I could find some new group to hang out with.

But that's all rot. No group would take me in. I avoided Television like the plague all summer so I wouldn't risk hearing the news reports about the recent railway accident. I refused to go anywhere; no parties, no pools, no beaches, no parks. No one's really seen me since it happened. No one wants to talk to some apathetic guy who doesn't care if the world blows up next week. And even if they do, I have nothing to say.

The subway has arrived; the doors open. I step onto it.

Half-heartedly, I glance at the other people around me. No one too interesting.

A mother with a yowling baby. A fat man with a long white beard wearing a blood-red suit as bright as hollyberries; rather makes one think of Father Christmas. A dwarf with a short red beard and a brief-case; seems grumpy. His nametag says: 'Trumpkin'. I guess it is his surname. A young couple-maybe fourteen years old, a little over a year younger than me-holding hands. They don't go to my school; I've never seen them before.

I can't look at them for too long. He squeezes her hand lightly and she smiles at him. I wish I could make myself not know that kind of smile, make it mean nothing.

A distraction, I'm praying, anything.

Bam! I get my wish. Two boys from my school I haven't noticed because they are standing directly behind me snatch my hat from my head and laugh.

What do I care? I didn't like that stupid hat anyway.

One of them takes what looks-and smells-like a piece of fish out of his lunchbox and puts it inside the hat, waving it around like a trophy. Idiot, I think. Surprisingly, I almost feel angry with him. Just because it's not the best-looking hat in the world doesn't mean I want to see it used as a fish-basket.

What frightens me is how readily I realize I want to be angry with him. Not because of the hat and the fish. Because I want to feel something. I want this gnawing at my stomach to go away. Hurting would be better than feeling numb day after day. I've felt numb all summer. Now, for one passing moment, I'm truly mad-I want to hit something. The rage subsides within a few seconds. I do not react.

The one not stinking up my hat with fish nudges me roughly.

In my head I shout awful things at him. None of my thoughts, flashing by so quickly before my brain goes quiet again, reach my mouth. My lips don't even part. Out loud, I say nothing. I don't know if they have any idea what I've been through, I don't even know if they know who I am, or if they're in the same year I am. Thing is, I don't care-about any of it.

We come to a stop. The boys get out. I think they are following me. Of course they are. I realize how stupid I'm being. They're going the same way I am. They aren't going to bother me. I think one of them threw my hat in a dustbin, and now that their moment of jeering and merry-making is over, I'm just another kid from their school. I bet they're so dense they need help finding it to begin with. I almost feel sorry for them.

When we reach the school, the boys' friends greet them by swearing and tossing potato chips at their heads. The one who stole my hat picks up a chip off the ground and eats it. He swallows an ant by mistake and nearly chokes on it. The cursers all flock to see the show. When he survives this unpleasant experience, they clap him on the back like he's King David returning from fighting Goliath. A strange form of group-initiation? Or just plan idiocy on the rise? Both? I can't tell.

Waiting for the bell to ring, I settle down on a stone step in front of the building.

Flash! Someone's taken a picture of me.

"Name?" says a voice above me.

I glance up. Two blonde boys-identical twins-are staring at me expectantly. One of them has a camera hanging from a strap around his neck.

"Maybe I should box him," whispers the one without the camera.

I notice an interesting feature about him that does not match his brother.

"You're missing a tooth," I mutter under my breath, barely even speaking to him.

"Yeah, I lost it in a fight," he explains in a hurry. "A boy made a beastly joke about Susan Pevensie, so I knocked him down."

Susan Pevensie. It takes a minute for that name to register. Oh, yeah, I know her. She's a bit older than I am. She is considered the school beauty; pretty much all of the guys here are in love with her. I think this is her last year before she tries for a university. She'll probably get in, too. Every Professor on the planet adores her. Even if she is a bit of a know-it-all and her grades are only so-so in most classes. Her vocabulary, however, is excellent; she likes to use big words.

We used to be friends-Susan and I-when we were little kids, but we drifted apart years ago. It was all because she stopped caring about anything that wasn't nylons, lipsticks, or invitations to parties. I mean, it's one thing to put up with a chum who knows everything and has no problem pointing out when she thinks-or, rather, according to her, knows-you're wrong. It's annoying some of the time, but it has proven helpful upon certain occasions as well. Vanity on the other hand makes a person unbearable. And you can't really give a girl everybody loves a good what-for; God forbid you should make her cry!

"I'm Corin, by the way," says the toothless-wonder. He points to his brother. "That's Cor."

I nod.

"What's your name?"

Are they on something? What's with these two? Can't they go take pictures of, I don't know, the leaves changing colours, and leave me alone?

"It's for the yearbook," Cor tells me.

Oh, yes, I'm sure everyone wants to see a picture of me sitting on the steps, squinting in the sun, and looking unkempt. That's got to be a happy school memory they're going to cherish for life and share with their children. Um, not.

I finally get the hint that they aren't going to take no for an answer. They want my name.

"Edmund," I mutter, "Edmund Justaciturn."

"See?" says Corin, jokingly. "Now I don't have to box you."

He's trying to be nice, I think, I should say something. But no words come out of my mouth. Instead, my mind comes up with a nickname for him. Nothing I'll probably ever call him to his face, but something that will definitely pop up every time I see him. I call him Thunder-Fist.

Thunder-Fist's brother says something else; but I've spaced out. I think it was goodbye. They were both gone three seconds afterwards.

I'm tired. Strange to think that I had never felt so empty before. It was as if a simple conversation was slowly zapping whatever drops of life still pulsed through me. What would happen, I wonder, if I really talked? What if I became less monosyllabic? Would that be the end of me? Could be. It could be and I am not even sure if anyone would care. My parents might miss me, but, hey, they're young; they can have more children if they want. Besides I don't like them right now. It's nothing personal. I'm certainly not trying to discriminate, I just hate everyone in general.

Without thinking, I reach into my satchel and pull out my apple. My fingers brush against the novel as I do so. As though they can feel through binding and paper, sensing the burning petals of what I know now is pressed between the pages, they tingle.

I ignore this sensation and bring the apple to my lips. The smell of apple makes me think of orchards. I've never actually been inside an orchard before in my life, but I imagine the smell would be exactly the same, only stronger. Once I promised someone that one day when I was older I would buy them a house with an apple orchard on the property. Sounds silly, I know, but that's what I said. The scariest part? I meant it. I was dead-serious. If the world hadn't come to an end since then, that is exactly what I would still be planning to do in the future.

Don't think about her. Don't think about her. Don't think about her. But my eyes are shut and she always waits there behind my closed lids. I can't help myself.

And here it comes...

The glass-front oak door with the white-lace curtains started to open as Lucy Valiant laughed and turned the key in the lock.

It was Edmund who had made her laugh, standing right behind her, his satchel hanging limply over one shoulder.

"Are you timing those comments so that I turn the key the wrong way?" she asked him, still giggling, turning her head slightly to give him a pretend-hard look.

"What comments?" His eyes widened with faux-innocence. "I say, Lu, it's hardly my fault if you can't open a simple door."

"And those weird Jackdaw jokes you've been telling one after another?"

"Merely passing the time while you figure out how to turn a lock."

Lucy stuck her tongue out at him.

"All right," he gave in, sighing with forced depth and slipping his arms around her waist, brushing lightly against the sleeves of the school sweater she'd tied around it. "You win. I was being impossible. Call it Pax?"

"Of course," said Lucy. "Now will you please let me open the door?"

"Nothing's stopping you."

"Ed, you're still holding onto my waist."

"Since when do you open doors with your waist?"

Rolling her eyes, Lucy turned the key again, working around the young man clinging to her.

"Say, Lucy?" he sounded a little anxious.

"Yes?"

"Why is there some creepy lady with binoculars staring at us and scowling over on the porch next door?"

"That's just Mrs. Scrubb," said Lucy, absently. "You know she spies on everybody."

"Old Alberta!" chuckled Edmund, recognizing the thin-boned, sour-faced woman they'd known since they were little. "She finally got a haircut. I thought the Scrubbs were against them-Eustace's hair almost touched his shoulders for a while there."

Lucy corrected him, finally getting the door open all the way. "No, that was last year, this year they're against closing windows."

Edmund let go of her waist so she could walk inside, following her a pace or so behind.

"Father! Mum! I'm home!" Lucy called into the spacious entryway with the springy sky-blue carpet lining the floors and baseboard.

"Mr. and Mrs. Valiant?" Edmund shouted when they didn't get a reply after a couple of minutes.

"Who's that?" roared her father's voice from his study a few rooms away.

"It's Edmund," Lucy told him.

A very unexcited, depleted, utterly-despairing, "Oh, God." came back.

"This is getting pretty steep," muttered Edmund.

"How do you mean?" Lucy blinked at him.

"That your parents still hate me."

"They don't," she said a little too quickly.

Edmund cocked his head in a who-do-you-think-you're-kidding fashion.

"They really don't, Ed, they've known you since you were a baby."

"What difference does that make?" said Edmund, stubbornly. "They don't like me."

Lucy lowered her eyes and glanced at him shyly out of the corners of them. "I like you."

He grinned and pulled playfully at one of her pigtails. "Even when I'm being difficult?"

"I like you because you're you, Edmund." She leaned on one of his shoulders and he let the pigtail go. "Difficult or not."

His arm ended up around her shoulder and they walked into the living room. It was well-furnished with cherry-wood bookcases; and in the centre there was a white china-tea table with a glass chessboard. The chessmen were made of gleaming solid brass so well-polished that they looked more like gold.

As they plopped down together on the black leather couch, Lucy grabbed an apple from the small crystal bowl beside the chessboard.

"One day I want to grow my own apples," Lucy told him.

"Eh?" This was new.

"My parents took me to an apple orchard once when I was six and I loved it. One day, I'm going to have my own."

"Hmm," said Edmund, brooding pensively.

"What?"

"I was just thinking, I suppose that means I'll have to buy you a house with an orchard in the back someday."

Lucy blushed and squeezed his hand. "Where would you live, though?"

"With you, of course!" exclaimed Edmund.

"With me?" she echoed.

Leaning forward, he took two of the brass chessmen, one king and one queen, off of the board and held them in his hand. "The king and queen should never be apart."

"Are you a king?"

He shrugged his shoulders. "Who knows? Stranger things have happened. But, Lucy, you are my queen."

"Then that makes you my king."

With his free hand, he lightly touched the side of her face. Then, pulling away, he placed the king and queen pieces down into the apple-bowl. "Well, then your king promises you, Queen Lucy, someday when he's older he will buy a house with an apple orchard."

"Ahem," coughed Lucy's mother, Helen Valiant, as she entered the room. "Do either of you care to tell me why there are chessmen in the apple bowl?"

Lucy's eyes shifted involuntarily towards Edmund, and she struggled to keep her laughter in check by pressing her lips tightly together.

"I put them there, Mrs. Valiant," Edmund confessed, reaching into the bowl to take the brass pieces out of it, setting them back neatly on the chessboard like a good boy. "Sorry."

"You're a very strange child, Edmund," said Helen, crinkling her brow. "Has anyone ever told you that?"

I am snapped out of it. The sound of the bell rattles me out of my memory. I toss the apple into the first waste-basket I come across in the hallway. It still tastes like sawdust. My stomach hurts.

AN: So was it any good? Please review and let me know if you think I should keep going with this story.