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I DREAM of Narnia most nights. Of the trees and the sweet scent of the rain and the symphony of birds and insects after the sun falls. Of my friends and the adventures we've shared. But mostly I dream of flying.
Flying from Lantern Waste to the Western Woods and Beaversdam and Caspian's Castle, over the Shuddering Woods and Beruna to Cair Paravel on the edge of the Eastern Ocean. Where old ruins stand among the apple trees and overgrown gardens. Where the Pevensies live ensconced in my memory, standing on the beach in their aged clothes and ancient weapons, four rulers returned to Narnia. Sometimes, they're waiting for me there. A blanket is spread out over the sand, Susan digging through baskets of sweet fruit and fresh pastries while Edmund watches Caspian and Peter spar and Lucy scours the beach for seashells.
Other times, I rescue Trumpkin from the Telmarines in the boat and walk with Edmund to the old treasury, asking him all the questions I never had the chance to ask. And sometimes, no matter how hard I fly, I just can't get to them. The delta and the Pevensies remain a silhouette balanced on the edge of the world. Unreachable.
I still wake up from those dreams thinking they're gone. I have to sit up and check the hammock beside mine, feeling my heart swell with reassurance when I see for myself that Edmund is still there, real as ever. Only this time, he isn't. That space where he should be is empty — not even a hammock strung between the posts.
No.
Panic sends my heart into overdrive. Had Aslan sent them back while I was asleep? Unable to say goodbye? My throat tightens. My body is shot through with adrenaline yet feels weighted with lead. He can't be gone; I just saw him for dinner.
Oh, I remember dumbly. Night watch. Tavros assigned Edmund the first shift when we were eating in the galley. That's where he must be.
I flop back into my hammock with a relieved sigh, muscles relaxing as my terror dissipates. Not a moment later, a soft caress reaches across the bond, worried and reassuring. Asking if I'm okay. I must've projected my emotions without realizing it. Over our weeks at sea, I've gotten pretty good at limiting what crosses the link, but this... there was too much fear to even think of controlling it.
I rub the velvet cuff of my sleeve between my fingers, worrying at the already-worn fabric, and slip out of my hammock. Caspian sleeps soundlessly in the next row over, unphased by the alternating snores of the crew and the soft echoes of my bootsteps.
Maybe feeling him call to me over the link has illuminated a hollow spot in my heart, but I'm suddenly aware of an emptiness yawning in my chest. It swallows any warmth so the chill of the midnight air seeps into my bones when I open the hatch. Something in me yearns for Edmund's reassuring presence, urging my feet one in front of the other to climb the stairs.
On deck, the stuffy smell of the crew's quarters is replaced with a cold, fresh ocean breeze. Scattered oil lamps illuminate enough to navigate the deck, but beyond the confines of the Treader,the darkness is so whole there is no distinction between the sky and the ocean. No horizon. The only indication that we still sail the eastern ocean is the familiar sound of water rushing against the hull.
