A/N: Hello, my dears. I'm adding more to Schooltime Troubles! Yay me! This chapter is brought to you by the wonderful Tamuril2. Thank you once again for this wonderful idea!

Disclaimer: Couscous with butter is delicious! Why do these things frequently involve food? I just noticed that.

Jason Jones wandered the perimeter of the rugby field at his son's school. A wistful smile tugged at his lips as he remembered his own days playing rugby for this school, and then later coaching himself. But that was before he'd been drafted.

He breathed a sigh and leaned a little more heavily on his cane, the aluminum prosthesis attached to his knee making him limp. "Time to sit for a while," he reasoned and slowly made his way to the stands to rest. Another smile appeared as he watched this year's rugby team practice.

Though he didn't actively participate in the coaching of the rugby team, Jason always liked to stay involved in some way or other, even if it was just watching from the sidelines and giving the current coach his thoughts and opinions. It was always appreciated, so Jason continued to do it.

One boy caught his eye, a tall, wiry boy with hair almost as black as his own. The boy's frame made Jason think of his own son, Rupert. "Though Rupert would be a few years older than this boy," Jason noticed. His blue eyes followed the boy as he ran down the field, the ball tucked snugly under his arm. "That boy can run," he observed. However, the boy was tackled before he could reach the end of the field. "Ooh." Jason winced in sympathy. That looked like it hurt.

As the other team members got up to run another play, one boy extended a hand toward the one on the ground. To Jason's surprise, however, the boy slapped the hand away fiercely and shot up into a defensive stance. Jason stood, alert, and kept his eyes on the field. He'd seen that kind of response before, too many times. He had to get down there before somebody got hurt.

Edmund Pevensie lay on the grass, his back and shoulder aching from their impact with the unforgiving ground. Voices surrounded him, indistinguishable from each other. He couldn't make out any single voice or word; they all just blended together into a mass of sound.

His mind flashed back to another time and place where he'd heard and felt similar. He opened his eyes just barely, enough to let in light and see the green turf stretched out before him.

A pair of feet appeared in his line of sight, and Edmund's instincts took over.

No longer was Edmund on a rugby field, practicing with his teammates. He was now in Narnia, and Edmund the Just was leading his battalion into a skirmish. With lightening fast movements, Edmund was on his feet, his arms held up defensively. His dark eyes scanned the field, trying to determine where he was and how many enemies he was against.

This place was strange to Edmund. There were no trees in sight. Even in the wide plane that was Beruna, where he'd first seen battle, had trees that he could clearly see. They were far into the distance, but they were there.

Here, the only green he could see was the grass. Everything else was a dingy gray; even the sky had no color to it. Where am I? he thought in fear as his brain tried to process what he was seeing and compare it to places he'd been, fought, in the past. Edmund reached to his hip for his sword and drew his hand back as if stung. His sword was gone!

How could his sword be gone? It was supposed to be right there, ever present at his side. Edmund never removed his sword from his belt unless he was safely in Cair Paravel. How could he have gone out without his bloody sword?

The people around him began to close in on him, their voices getting louder. "No! Back away!" Edmund commanded, a fierce scowl on his face as he swung around to face all his opponents. His fists tightened threateningly, a warning to stay away.

"Soldier!" a powerful voice broke through the haze surrounding the confused king. Turning toward it, his eyes found an unfamiliar man with black hair and bright blue eyes.

Like Rupert Jones, his brain supplied quickly. Must be his father.

"Stand down, soldier," the man spoke again, though not as loudly this time.

"I am your king!" Edmund responded just as forcefully. "You do not command me."

"Forgive me, sire," the voice spoke again, this time more contrite. "But sire, you're not in combat. You're safe."

The calm words confused Edmund. What did this man mean, he wasn't in combat? His eyes never strayed from the older man standing tall before him, but his mind scanned all that was in his periphery. Again, he saw the gray sky behind the other men in odd armor.

No, not men, he realized. Boys. Edmund was surrounded by boys roughly his own age. And that wasn't armor they were wearing. Uniforms?

"Can you understand me, sir?" the older man, Jones, spoke again. Edmund's vision focused on that one person, that one voice, and nodded once. "Come with me, sir. Let's leave the field."

Field? Looking more closely at his surroundings, Edmund realized he was standing on a rugby field instead a battlefield. "My sword?" he wondered softly in confusion, his mind struggling to reconcile the images in his memories with the images he was seeing with his own eyes.

"It's alright, sir. You didn't bring your sword with you. It's safe enough that you didn't need it with you." Edmund didn't answer. It was never too safe to go somewhere without your sword. Shouldn't this man know that? "Let's go and rest, sire. You don't need to fight."

Jones senior was holding a hand out toward Edmund, which the king eyed warily. But it was moving slowly and gently, not threateningly. When the hand landed on Edmund's shoulder, he felt himself flinch under it, but it was a kind touch, firm yet caring.

And so Edmund allowed himself to drop his hands and relax ever so slightly from his defensive stance. "That's it, son," Jones spoke softly. "Let's go sit down."

As the pair moved toward the stands, Edmund felt himself calming back down and recognized where he was. He wasn't in Narnia, fighting in a battle. He was at school, having rugby practice. I knew it would be a bad idea to try out, he grumbled in his mind. Try out for rugby, she said. It'll be fun, she said. That's the last time I take sporting advice from Susan.

Soon, Edmund found himself being lowered onto a bench beside the field and a canteen was pressed into his hand. "Thank you," he said softly before taking a long drink. The cool water felt good on his parched throat.

"What happened out there?" Jones asked as he seated himself next to Edmund.

Edmund sighed. "Memories," was all he said.

"I could tell." The younger man looked over at the older. His blue eyes were hard, like they'd seen too much.

They look like Peter's, Edmund noticed. There were lines at the corners of Mr. Jones's eyes, worry lines that Edmund was very familiar with.

"You fought in the war." It was a statement, not a question. Mr. Jones nodded. "I can tell."

"A soldier knows a fellow soldier," Jones agreed. Edmund just nodded. What else could he say to that?

"Are you related to Rupert Jones?" the boy suddenly asked after a while of silence. It surprised Jason after they'd sat in peaceful quiet for so long.

"How could you tell?" he asked.

"You have the same eyes," the boy answered. Jason lifted an eyebrow in response.

"You have an observant eye." He extended a hand to the boy next to him. "Jason Jones."

"Edmund Pevensie." Edmund returned the handshake and finally met Jason's eyes.

"It's nice to meet you, Edmund." The men dropped their hands back to their laps and turned their eyes back to the practice going on in front of them. "I won't ask what you saw just then." Jason could feel Edmund tense up next to him. "I have my own memories. Memories that I fight with everyday. But thankfully, I have my family to help me through those memories." He glanced over at Edmund. "Do you have anybody to help you fight yours?"

"Yes, sir. My brother and sisters. We all have the same memories, so we're all there for each other."

"Good." At that moment, the clock in the tower chimed five o'clock, signaling the end of practice.

"Ed?" a voice called, drawing the men's attention to the edge of the field. A tall boy with golden hair stood not far away, eyeing the dark haired men in confusion. "Everything alright?"

"I'm alright," Edmund answered in a tired voice, one that the older boy recognized if the understanding in his eyes was anything to go by. He took that as his cue to approach the bench. "This is Rupert Jones's father. Mr. Jones, this is my brother, Peter."

"Jason Jones. It's a pleasure to meet you." He reached out to Peter, just as he'd done to Edmund just minutes before.

"Nice to meet you as well, sir." Peter shook his hand firmly. "Thank you for keeping Edmund company this afternoon. I normally do, but I had to tutor a younger student that's struggling in arithmetic."

"Not a problem. I'm a frequent visitor during rugby practice. I used to be the rugby coach here before I was drafted." Jason noted the lack of reaction on Peter's part. They both recognized each other as a fellow soldier.

"How is our team looking, sir?" Edmund asked. Peter set his bag on the ground and sat down next to his brother.

"You're doing well, though I think your defense could use some work."

"I've been trying to tell Coach Byron that for a while now," Edmund sighed in aggravation. "I don't know why he won't listen to me."

"He's a bit of a proud man," Jason explained. "He doesn't like to be corrected much, especially by someone younger than himself."

"He's going to have to get over that if he wants to see any kind of improvement," Peter groused.

"That's why I keep doing what I'm doing. I'm a few years older than Byron, and we played on the same rugby team while we were students here. So he listens to me. Why don't you bring any suggestions you have to me and I'll relay them to him? You probably see things I can't see from the stands."

"Thank you, Mr. Jones," Edmund said sincerely, as if being taken seriously by an adult were a rarity for him. Jason hid a scowl at this. He hated it when adults dismissed children simply because they were children. He had learned more from his children than from anybody else. One could learn a lot from children if he just payed attention.

"You're welcome, son," Jason answered with a smile. Glancing toward the field, he saw the players had begun making their way toward the locker room to change out of their uniforms. "It looks as though you might want to go change out of that uniform and get ready for supper. It's already after five."

"Yes, you're right," Peter spoke up. He grabbed the strap of his bag and stood. "Thank you again, Mr. Jones. I'll see you at supper, okay, Ed?"

"Alright, Pete. And will you help me go over my homework later? There's a bit of my literature assignment that I'm having trouble with."

"How is the silver-tongued devil having trouble with literature?" Peter laughed. "You're better than all the rest of us when it comes to using words."

"That only applies to missives and treaties, sir," Edmund spat back with a twinkle of mirth in his eyes. "I'm only the silver-tongued devil in a court." And suddenly the statement about being a king made sense.

"You're right about that," Peter snorted. "Oh well, don't take too long, brother. Have a nice evening, Mr. Jones." With that, Peter Pevensie walked back toward the school building.

"That brother of yours is something else," Jason chuckled as he watched the blond walk away.

"That he is, sir. But he was right, I need to hurry before I miss supper." Jason noted that both brothers used the term supper, just as he had. Most younger people Jason came across used the term dinner when referring to their evening meal. Even his own children preferred to use the term dinner.

"Well, you better get going then. It was a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Pevensie." Jason stood with Edmund and held his hand out once more.

"And you, Mr. Jones." With a bright smile, Edmund released his new acquaintance's hand and turned to join his teammates. Jason's eyes followed the younger man and he felt a smile of his own. What an interesting pair of brothers.

A/N: Et, fini. Thank you, my dear friends. And now, for some notes regarding some things included in this chapter.

Dinner vs supper: While used interchangeably nowadays, dinner and supper have two different meanings. Supper refers to the evening meal, while dinner refers to the main meal of the day. Dinner is used more formally a lot of the time, such as a charity dinner or a dinner party. Supper is much more informal, used in history usually by farmers. Supper was a lighter meal, whereas lunch was a bigger meal, sometimes referred to as dinner. Supper was also much more informal, just a simple meal shared with family. I figure spending fifteen years in a sort of medieval universe would have the Pevensies referring to their evening meal as supper instead, saving dinner for when they're referring to a dinner. Yes, I did research this before typing all this out.

Jason's aluminum leg: I couldn't find much detailed information about prosthesis in the 1940s, but I found that in 1912, doctors started using artificial limbs made from lighter aluminum around 1912. Before, they were made primarily with wood and iron or steel. But those were heavy and cumbersome, so a lighter prosthesis was made from aluminum in the early 20th century. Again, I couldn't find much so if anybody has any information that's more detailed and precise, please let me know. I'm a stickler for historical accuracy!

Jason himself: If anybody's curious, I'm picturing Richard Armitage as Jason in this chapter. The name Rupert just popped into my head when I wrote the previous chapter since it was appropriate for the era, though I didn't really have any kind of inspiration for him. Though if you're a Potterhead like me, feel free to use Rupert Grint as inspiration for Rupert Jones. I just had to have Richard Armitage as Jason because I love me some Richard!

Thank you for reading my loves! Please leave a review and let me know what you think or if there's anything you'd like me to write. Have a blessed day!