He doesn’t know what it is, really. This is England, not Narnia, and the world seems greyer, the colors aren’t as sharp, and the air is stale, but there’s something about the way the rain falls, relentless, that has him drawn to the window, unable to look away.
He’d loved the rain in Narnia, the small showers, and the storms, and the way they were both so wild, poured down with abandon, and felt like forgiveness.
It isn’t supposed to be the same here, he knows, in this world where he must have faith, cannot touch, or see, or feel the Lion who walked so easily by his side, and saved him from himself. It isn’t supposed to be the same at all, but when he flings open the window, leans out as far as he can, and turns his face to the skies, the cool rain hits his skin; it soaks his hair, washes down his skin, and he can’t help but feel that it’s washing his sins away.
Even here, in this world where he’s naught but an exiled King, a boy who’s far too old, and has learned too much the hard way, the rain still feels like forgiveness, and love, and when Edmund closes his eyes, he thinks he can still feel the Lion’s breath intermingled with the warmth of Spring.