A/N: I was wanting to write some sort of Edmund-related ficlet the first time after seeing The Lion, The Witch, And The Wardrobe. Three viewings later, I hooked up with a good friend and we decided to duel computers (in other words, we timed ourselves and both wrote different ficlets). This is my result. (on the side, I love to do family angst) Quotes might not be exact.
-Sick For More Than Home-
The radio news drifts through the doorway into my room. More bombings. I try not to hear, because hearing makes me homesick, and only sissies would be homesick on the first night out.
But I wish Peter would just turn it off. I'm tired of hearing the news, always the news. Mum sent us here to escape war, didn't she? So why can't he stop obsessing over the latest bombings and battles?
I glance at the picture on my nightstand. Dad looks back at me in his hero-like uniform, and I wonder why he could not keep the news out of our house, either. Mum has said often enough that Peter is just like our father, and perhaps I would not mind if I could be like him, too.
I did not like to think about it, and so far I had managed not to, but when I looked back out the dark window I remembered the air raid. I shivered a little, hearing the shattering glass and being thrown off my feet with Peter as our house shook. No one had understood—except maybe Mum—why I had to have Dad's picture. He'd shown me it when he left, tapping the frame lightly with his big fingers. "If you ever miss me, you can look right here and I'll be watching you. You can be proud of your old dad here in his shiny uniform, protecting his country."
It was silly and childish, but I did believe him, at least a little. The picture was all I had of Dad. Peter wouldn't understand that.
The radio was snapped off, and I heard Susan talking sweetly to Lucy. A vague part of me wanted to be comforted, too—probably a part of this foolish homesickness—so I got up and walked to the room. Susan was saying something about being home soon.
"If there's still a home to go back to," I mutter
She looked at me like I was a child, no more than Lucy—or less than Lucy, because at least Lucy gets to be spoiled. "Shouldn't you be in bed."
"Sorry, Mum!" I retorted, angry at myself for even coming in. Peter made some snide remark meant to keep me quiet, then turned gently back to Lucy.
I was cut out of their circle of comfort, but I told myself it did not matter.