TITLE: Strings
AUTHOR: Eleanor Pepperland
RATING: M, for swearing and some themes [though if you readers want smut, I'll try.]
PAIRING: Edmund/OC.
SUMMARY: [AU.] The students at the Narnia School for the Gifted are all connected by strings. Some connections are so deep that they are called rope, others so distant that the string that binds them together is wearing away, stretched to snapping. Fifteen-year-old Edmund Pevensie doesn't know that he's already been woven into the web. Will he cut the strings that attach him to the school, or will he deepen those connections enough that he's wrapped up in rope? And what, in the name of Aslan, does that girl have to do with all of it?
DISCLAIMER: The Chronicles of Narnia, its characters, themes, places, and concepts are all property of C.S. Lewis and Warner Bros. I think Mister Lewis would be mortified to know what I've been doing to his work.

A PERSPECTIVE ON GROUPS AT THE NARNIA SCHOOL FOR THE GIFTED
(written for Narnia's Nanny, the website for the Narnians, by the Narnians)

OK, so maybe C.S. Lewis was wrong on a lot of things. What can you expect? The old man was bored, probably, and thought his version of things would please the kiddies. In any event, well, Narnia isn't a place you'd expect great things to be. Officially, it's called the Narnia School for the Gifted. Unofficially, it's called the Narnia School for the Damned. No, I'm not joking. This is where English parents of good social standing send their unusual or delinquent offspring to be straightened out. Not like it's any use to them, seeing as all the students are just the way they were—only more contained, less moneyed, and just a tiny bit more reckless.

Essentially, there are five major clans you need to know about, if you're going to try and get into Narnia.

First we have the Royals; these are annoying bigots who think that because they can get you an iPod within two minutes of your asking that they own the place and deserve ridiculous titles, aside from special treatment from teachers and fellow students. OK, so I'm being too hard on them. The Royals aren't that bad, but they can get a bit mean. The last "rulers" were Peter and Susan Pevensie; Peter was called High King, the Magnificent, upon pulling some rude prank on the Dryads (we'll get to them later) and not being caught. Susan, his sister, was called Queen, the Gentle, after the news had spread that she was positively saint like toward the first years. According to Royal-centric gossip, the two Pevensies were in Narnia for no terrible reason—apparently, their parents had wanted a school that would further hone Peter's skills at fencing (which he became famous for, later) and Susan's uncanny gift with a bow and arrow (what she became famous for). Their "reign" was called the Golden Age. Narnia's current "ruler" is Caspian X, an export from Spain (or so the story goes—nobody really knows where he's from) who's the fastest when it comes to delivery of your chosen goods.

You can spot a Royal a mile away if he or she's got something on his or her body that's violet. They fancy themselves kings and queens, and purple is the colour of the aristocracy. That, and their high-and-mighty vibe.

After those irksome prigs we have the Centaurs; this isn't a title given to just anyone. Centaurs are athletes, wise beyond their years and steadfast as the sky they're fond of watching. They're kind, indifferent, and genuinely gifted. Centaurs are tall, above all things, and they do not take too kindly to people who have jeopardised the safety of the general population or made jest of their morals. They also speak that way. Fame among Centaurs is rare—this is a clan which does not like to take credit for their many good works. To be able to meet one of them is equally hard to come by; greatly elusive and always stunningly under the radar, these are girls and boys who are either saints or on the way to canonisation. That isn't to say that Centaurs are perfect, though. Even if they're calm, clever beings, they don't like having to resort to brute force. They like being intellectual, and sometimes that leads them into thinking they're smarter than everyone else. After all, skill in many areas does not come from raw talent. They work hard. They play hard, too. That is, if you can find them, which, according to what you already know about these guys, will be quite a Herculean task.

Centaurs don't like standing out, so they wear black. They aren't exactly in the height of fashion like the Royals, but they say that their clothing of choice gets the job done, and that's all what really matters to them.

To combat the intense valour of those Centaurs, we have the Dwarves; no, they aren't called that because they're short. They're called that because they are cunning, deceitful, and malevolent creatures meant to cause havoc and destroy futures. That isn't hyperbole, either. Dwarves do not want to help anyone else unless they have guarantee of payment. In Narnian lore, the worst thing you could ever do is not pay a debt to a Dwarf. They say that if you don't, the Dwarf will take his or her bounty in any way possible. I would be lying to you if I said that these were honest, reputable people. The Dwarves themselves say that they cannot be trusted to stay true to a Royal or a Centaur or anyone who wasn't a Dwarf. They say that much like the figures their clan is named for, they can create great things for other clans, but they serve only their own. It is a shame, because they create the most beautiful things that only get better over time (hence, an asset to school projects) but no one has attempted asking a Dwarf to make a project for eons, seeing as paying debts is a hard thing to do at a school where currency is confiscated at the door along with one's mobile phone, music player, and dignity.

They also like standing out and telling the world what they are, so they are fond of wearing orange. Words from the wise—never get stuck in a room full of Dwarves. You're going to permanently ruin your eyes.

If there are the strong silent types and the weak loud types, there are the Animals; they are ruthless, unpredictable people who you cannot guarantee will be on your side if there is some big war. They aren't bad or anything, just loose cannons. Some are nice, but can get dangerous if you cross them. Some are cross all the time, some are misunderstood. Animals tend to be the catch-all clan for all the students who can't seem to fit the power-laden demographic of the Royals, the humble skill of the Centaurs, or the conniving of the Dwarves. Most Animals are either straight-edge or really fit, being anywhere from boisterous in their volume or terrifying in their silence. I have yet to meet an Animal who did not know how to run from the placid (but still quite commanding) dean of students, Aslan, after doing something terribly naughty. There have been tales of Animals running free of a suspension after unwittingly taking the blame for an endeavour that some Royals had set them to do (they didn't like the Royals very much after this story came out) but nonetheless, these are students that remain enrolled, remain untouched by disciplinary measures, and indubitably free of allegiance.

Royal violet, Centaur black, and Dwarf orange are never mistaken for Animal scarlet, the garment colour of choice when it comes to instilling both fear and trust in anyone who comes in contact with these enigmas.

In Narnia the highs of life are capable of becoming chemical—and when you need that kind of grass, look no further than the Dryads; they are first of only two all-female clans, both of which dealing in illegal substances. These are girls with hair no shorter than chest-length, eyes wide and sharp in spite of perpetual cannabis consumption, and wits beyond compare. They aren't bookish like the Centaurs, snobby like the Royals, deceiving like the Dwarves, or unpredictable like the Animals. They're beautiful, solid, and well-stocked with whatever source of your chemical high you wish. I say solid because some do not understand in full that while some other girls know that they are grass-fuelled machines capable of days without sleep, they forget their humanity and fade away from themselves. Perhaps seasoned usage has turned most of the Dryads into those whose bodies have adapted to the effects of the drug. Aside from being suppliers of various chemical highs, Dryads can sate the, well, let's say, needs of the average student. They are said to be both talented and choosey, seeing as they keep themselves in top condition to remain marketable. It is their second determining feature.

Dryads, according to myth, are tree-spirits. In a twisted homage to this, all Dryads have gold rings set with emeralds around their finger. That and long legs exposed to the harsh elements in ridiculously short skirts.

If there are chemical highs, there are alcoholic ones. That being said, look for the Naiads; liquid things are their specialty, be it lube or whiskey or even some well-deserved spring water. They are not like the Dryads, who wash their hands of every skirmish, and wish never to be involved in anything that could cause them danger. No, these girls drink their alcohol in a nonplussed manner right in front of the teachers, and do not shy away from their warnings. However daring they appear to be, Naiads are relatively more volatile and sensitive to comments. This is primarily the reason why they keep to themselves, if not only to deal with their allies the Dryads and the Centaurs. Not much can be said about them, really; they are almost as elusive as the Centaurs. That, and they are about as lovely as their Dryad "relatives," who only outdo them in their strange rooted way of going about their lives in Narnia.

A Naiad is marked only by the blue ribbon woven into her hair.

If there are these five, there is a group called the General Narnians; this clan is made of groups too small to be called a clan. Not much to say about that, really.

—Tristesse Appleby, 18, Dryad.

-:-|-:-

"You take care, Ed," Peter told him over the phone, seeing as he and his older sister were on the way to college. Edmund would have shrugged, but it wasn't as if his brother could see. "Yeah," he muttered, holding one earphone and aching to stuff it back into his ear. He wished to be spared of the gooey formalities their mother had imposed upon them. "I'll put Susan on real quick, but we'll be off soon," the eldest Pevensie went off the line, his curt tones replaced by Susan's mellifluous speech. "Hello, Edmund," she said, sounding genteel. "Hi, Su," he responded. No matter how much niggling annoyance he had for Peter, he couldn't say anything bad about his older sister. She was nice and too reasonable to nurture any negative feelings toward. "Don't get into any fights now, Ed," she began, "your dean of students isn't very lenient toward troublemakers, but if and when you get a disciplinary mention, bear in mind that his intentions are purely for your benefit. There's absolutely no use harbouring any grudges against him, or anyone else." He resisted the urge to roll his eyes.

"Alright, Su," he said instead. He could almost hear Susan smiling that I-hope-you're-making-good-on-that sort of smile. "Goodbye, Edmund," she passed the phone back to Peter, who only said hurriedly, "We've got to go, Ed. Have fun at school, don't break too many rules. Tell Lu we love her." Their mother took the phone back just as their father stopped before the imposing iron-wrought gates. They swung open. "What did they say?" asked his fifteen-year-old sister, Lucy. "They told me to tell you that they love you," he muttered, stuffing the earphone back into his ear, changing the song to an electronic track from a band he'd just found out about. "What else did they say?" she continued. "Just that," he turned up the volume. I don't ever want to be here, like punching in a dream, breathing life into the nightmare. "Edmund, Lucy," even over the music, he could still hear his father, infuriatingly enough. What'd he do to end up in the school where Peter and Susan were legends, anyway? Wasn't the reform school he was going to enough? Why did he have to go with Lucy?

"Behave, children," this was mostly directed at him, Edmund knew—Lucy was about as mischievous as a lamb. Provided she was a very athletic, physically able lamb, but a lamb nonetheless. While he was off smoking weed with his mates, she was at cricket practice. In the time that he spent shagging some bird with red hair, Lucy had already cleaned her room to the level of sublime neatness he thought only hotels could attain. Mister Pevensie stopped the car in front of a red brick-made building at the very end of the school's property, with immaculately white steps up to the door. Edmund looked around, taking in the fields of grass between the five buildings his eye could see. The largest by far was the one their father had halted before; it appeared to be about six floors high (he groaned inwardly, knowing he would have to go down several flights of stairs just to get to class) "Isn't it lovely, Edmund?" Lucy sighed, holding her suitcase of personal items in one hand while the other held on to the handle of her trolley luggage. "Yeah," he responded nonchalantly, starting to heft his trunk up the white steps. It may have been large and able to hold his clothes, shoes, school paraphernalia, and various items that did not fall into the other categories, but it wasn't the lightest thing to carry.

Their parents said their goodbyes and drove away. Edmund shot an accusing glance at his trunk. He was certainly strong enough to take it all the way to the sixth floor, he knew, but a blond-haired guy who was built like a rugby player appeared to carry it the rest of the way up. He frowned while Lucy smirked at him, easily pulling her trolley luggage up with no assistance whatsoever. What, do I look weak to you, strange person? "Sorry to stop you there," said the blond, smoothing his hair back and extending a hand, "But you're new, and I knew your brother. I'm Patrick Gregory, nice to meet you." His eyes went from Patrick's hand to his face, which, if he was being honest, wasn't ugly to look at. "I would tell you to help my sister find her room, but I don't know you, and I don't trust you just because you say you know my brother. The name's Edmund Pevensie, and I suggest you sod off," he replied, taking the handle of his trunk back. He could really use a cigarette. "Peter warned me you'd be like this," Patrick chuckled, "I'll leave you alone, but if you need anything, just ask for me."

Lucy hid a smile behind a hand as Patrick went back into the building. "Come on, Lu," he sighed. A guard stopped him at the door. "Surrender any electronic devices aside from the laptop computer," said the man. "How am I supposed to call our parents? They'll want to know how my sister is doing, and I can't wait for my turn at the communal phone if she's got into an emergency," he lied, knowing that he sounded irritated at that fact. He was an adept liar in Winchester, and that hadn't changed when he had arrived. "Communal phones are in the cafeteria. iPod and mobile phone, please," the guard extended a dinner plate-sized hand. Lucy obediently deposited her mobile into the hand and told him in a low voice, "I'm going to my room, Ed. See you around." He huffed and grudgingly put his beloved music player and mobile into the massive palm.

He was much relieved to find that there was a dumbwaiter for the luggage, seeing as there was no way that he was going to bring his trunk up five flights of stairs, all the way to the fortieth room, on the sixth floor. The transport of his person was manual, but he didn't mind that. He made his way up, continuing the song that was playing on his iPod in his mind. He rather liked that song. The steps were set very close to each other, as if one unsupervised step could spell one's imminent roll down the staircase. He watched his feet come up those close-together steps, like they were moving by themselves. He went over to the dumbwaiter by the stairs, from which he took out his trunk and found his room at the very end of the hall, near the fire exit. Edmund was glad to know that he wouldn't need to share his room—he'd shared with Peter for most of his life, and it was interesting to know that he'd finally be able to decorate his room as he pleased. He didn't have the greatest design aesthetic, though (he was sixteen, for god's sake; sixteen-year-olds don't spend time for that).

The room was almost a box; the small bed was pushed up against the wall, one white-paned window serving as a headboard, its similarly white-paned sibling to right of the bed (that is, directly across from where Edmund was currently standing). His chest of drawers was pushed into the remaining space at the foot of the bed, making him wonder for a moment how he was going to get ready every morning if it was there. A yellowed pillow was placed sombrely on the bed. To the left of the bed, nearer to him than he thought it would be, was a humble oak writing desk, with a chair pulled up next to it. The bathroom was an entirely different story. It was so small that the sink was on the toilet, like in prison cells, and the shower area couldn't even allow a window; it had a strange aluminium vent above it. A full-length mirror hung at the back of the door.

Edmund got to work. He folded his clothes as best he could and placed them inside the drawers, which wasn't too hard. There was a knock on the door a few minutes later. Whoever it was had interrupted him while he was putting up a poster of the Ramones on the wall above his tiny writing desk, wiping his fingers on his jeans to rid them of dust.

A boy was behind the door—a very handsome boy, Edmund corrected himself, as soon as he saw the almond-shaped brown eyes, finely chiselled nostrils, well-curved mouth, his features set in a tanned complexion, dark hair falling on either side of his face in waves—and he leaned on the door frame when he said matter-of-factly in some sort of foreign accent,

"Well hello there, Edmund. I'm Caspian."

—TBC—