Kings in Exile

The Professor had said "Once a king or queen in Narnia, always a king or queen in Narnia." This was true, and it was what had gotten Peter through everything up until this point. He had remembered how it was to lead, and treated all his schoolmates with fairness and kindness. He knew that he carried the title of King Peter the Magnificent with him, and he kept out of sour arguments and bitter battles throughout university, sticking only to his books and his principles.

All this had been possible, even easy while he was at school, because school seemed a holding pattern, a waiting for life to really begin. So Peter was happy only to remember his glory days in the exile of modern England. But now he was standing in his dormitory still in his graduation robe, and he realized he had no idea where he was going. Because he was a king of Narnia, he was the High King of Narnia whose reign was the stuff of legend. But nobody knew.

"Maybe that's what happened to Susan. It was easier for her to forget," he muttered. When Peter heard her talk of these empty aspirations he wanted to shake her sometimes. Other times, he wished that he too could forget what he was. What he had been.

He was making a halfhearted attempt at packing. The suitcases were thrown open on his slender bed, but he was merely picking items off his bureau and setting them down again, wishing all the while that just one of them could be something from Narnia, some assurance that it had all been real after all and not some fevered dream of fauns and talking beavers.

In the midst of his melancholy, there was a knock on the door and Lucy entered, all smiles and sunshine. "Why, Peter!" she cried when she looked around the room, "You're off in a few hours and you've hardly even begun!" Her chiding was affectionate, and Peter smiled as he watched her take a stack of shirts and pack them neatly away. "Goodness," Lucy continued, "You're not even changed out of your robe! The ceremony's been done for an hour. What on earth has gotten into you?"

Inspired somewhat by Lucy's busyness, Peter started to help her shift the contents of his drawers to his suitcase. His youngest sister had a brightness that took away some of the gloom that had begun to coat everything. There was little need to talk; for the moment, Lucy's cheerful glances were enough to get him moving.

"I know you're fond of pomp and circumstance and all that, but really Peter, don't you think this is carrying it a bit too far? You're wearing that graduation robe as if it were your best court attire at Cair Paravel." Edmund was leaning against the doorframe, his dark hair in slight disarray.

Peter smiled thinly at his brother, and Edmund stepped into the room.

"I see," Lucy said, looking closely at Peter, "I know what it is that's troubling you."

"What?" said both boys together.

"He wishes it were his court robe at Cair Paravel, at a festival with the mermaids singing in the sea, and Tumnus playing on his flute while the dryads and the satyrs danced."

When Lucy spoke, Peter could see the whole scene unfold before him. The Great Hall in Cair Paravel was draped in silk woven with threads of pure gold. Dwarf-wrought chandeliers dripped jewels from the ceiling. Outside, the voices of the mermaids mingled with the sound of crashing waves, and that music formed a lilting background to which the company ate. The food was heavenly, all light and delicious, nothing heavy to weigh you down so that you went on eating until you were tired rather than full, and when you got up to dance, you didn't feel sick but perfectly satisfied.

Better still was the company: dryads talking of a fine spring in the woods with the satyrs and the fauns at one end of the table, Beaver discussing the latest improvements to his dam at the other, and in the middle, Edmund counseling Susan on her latest beau and Lucy talking of her latest happy adventure. Sometimes there was a guest—a duke from the Lone Islands, perhaps, or more frequently King Lune of Archenland and his headstrong sons. Their voices added a new pitch and cadence to the familiar revelry, and Peter heard this even as he discussed the state of Narnia with them.

After everyone was tired from eating and the desserts had been swept from the tables—though Edmund forbade Turkish Delight and was much offended when a Calormene prince once offered him something very much like it—the dancing began. Tumnus would take out his flute and play a slow, lilting melody. All the fauns rose first, followed by the satyrs and the dryads, and their performance was lovelier than a geisha's and more lively than a swing dance. Peter always longed to dance from the first, but he felt that as High King he ought to preserve his dignity until some dryad or perhaps Lucy implored him to cast it aside by tugging on his hand. Then he would rise and join the company on the dance floor, dancing so fast and free his crown would fall askew, but that was alright because Lucy's hair was flying and Edmund's cheeks were flushed and only Susan, though she too was joyful in the dance, remained cool and pristine.

Peter came back to himself and realized that he wasn't in Narnia (though it seemed for a moment that he had almost gone back) and he looked at his brother and sister and said nothing.

Edmund put his hand on Peter's shoulder. "I know, Peter. It's hard here. We all wish we could go back."

"At least you did go back once more," Peter said, trying hard not to sound bitter. "Sailing with Caspian to the end of the world. How I should have liked to go!" When Edmund and Lucy visited Narnia the last time, Peter had been at the Professor's studying for exams. Not that it mattered much—Aslan himself had told Peter that Narnia was forever closed to him. Aslan had said a good deal more to him and Susan when he delivered this news, but it was so hard to remember when Peter thought of the fun of exploring the open seas with Caspian, who he always liked very much. So much, in fact, that he had yet to find a friend in England he would have enjoyed spending time with as much.

"And Eustace went back when we weren't allowed," Edmund added. "We know what it's like to lose Narnia, Peter."

Peter turned from Edmund and paced to the window. His strides were restless, but still they were the firm and sure foot of a king. "I just don't understand. What was the point of going if only to know what we are missing, what we can't ever have again?" behind the frustration in his voice, despair lurked. He didn't remember that in his last moments as High King, just before the coronation of Caspian, he had told Lucy that he might be able to bear it. He had forgotten that moment.

"I think," Lucy began softly, "the point is that we went at all." Her voice grew stronger and took on its deep confident ring like the pure bell in a church tower. "That we saw Aslan and we know him. We may not go back to Narnia, but having been there makes us different. It makes you a king, Peter, a true king in everything you are. It makes Edmund so just. I think that it has even made me a little better—at least, I don't ever doubt about anything, and that's because of Narnia. I have always wanted to go back, but what bothers me more is that we can't share this, because it seems to me everyone deserves to know and be so changed."

Lucy spoke with such conviction that both her brothers stared at her, transfixed by her words. Peter saw that the light from the window touched her forehead like a crown, though he couldn't be sure if it were really so, or just a trick of his imagination. Nevertheless, he went to embrace his sister and kiss her forehead. "Lu," he said, "You're a hero."