in limbo
Musing upon the king my brother's wreck
And on the king my father's death before him.
- TS Eliot
...
I. Allegiance
"Pevensie."
The kick to his boots jolts him awake, and he wearily passes a hand over his face before nodding his thanks to the other man.
He breathes deep as he takes up the watch. Above him, the sky is the cold inky black of the deepest recesses of the night. Around him, the silence is heavy with the watchful tension of hundreds of soldiers. It will be an age before dawn breaks once more.
He had been dreaming of England again.
He shuts his eyes for a dangerous second, allowing himself to vaguely recall the slope of his wife's smooth shoulder. He opens his eyes again, and imagines that the breeze whispering around him carries a hint of the sweet scent of her hair.
He rubs absently at a dull ache in his chest as he surveys the scarred landscape. He rarely allows himself to indulge in far-off memory, but awaking from a dream of England is the one exception.
He idly recalls the well-manicured quadrangle of the university. Frowns as he wonders how it has fared during the Blitz.
He shifts his weight and adjusts the grip on his gun.
And then he thinks of his boys. Hopes they are safe with the girls.
...
"Pevensie."
The nudge on his arm draws him out of his reverie. It takes a moment for his eyes to focus on the man beside him in the flesh, rather than on the men surrounding him in his mind.
He nods his thanks at the other man, rises wearily from his desk, and makes his way to the lecture hall, where the chatter of the students presses in on him.
And then he breathes as deeply as he can.
He had been dreaming of the front again.
Midway through his notes, his mind goes blank and he has to shut his eyes for a moment in order to recollect himself. This is happening more and more often, and he wonders what his students must think of him.
Later he crosses the quadrangle and imagines he is making his way to stand watch. The sky above him is bright with the midday sun, but he feels the old vise drawing shut around him yet again, bleak and unforgiving. Night seems to fall much sooner here than in England, he thinks.
He somehow sits down to a quiet dinner with his lovely wife later that evening.
And then he thinks of his men. Hopes they are faring much better than he is.
...
II. Belonging
"Peter."
He looks up from the book in his hands, away from the single sentence he has been staring blindly at for he is not sure how long, nods at his friend.
A pint down at the pub sounds exactly like what he needs at the moment.
He burrows his hands deep into the pockets of his coat as he slowly follows the group down the street, trailing slightly behind and wholly alone. He tips his head back, breathes deep, idly traces the unfamiliar constellations with his gaze.
Some of the boys exchange looks, but everyone knows that the war has changed the Pevensie brothers in certain ways.
Embraced by the warmth of the pub, he settles into a chair in a corner. Gaze hooded, he quickly and imperceptibly takes in the pockets of chattering students, the shortest routes to the two exits – casual habits he has picked up from living so long with a spymaster. He grins at the realization, and a brunette at the bar with whom he accidentally makes eye contact smiles prettily and hopefully back.
But he tilts his head back against the wall and shuts his eyes and mind to everything around him.
He has been dreaming of Narnia lately.
Perhaps it is the war. These days, he follows news of troop movements, tactical formations, and generals' stratagems with a keener understanding than he has ever known. He knows now what every minor win or major loss could mean for politics on a local and global scale. He is afraid he has realized just how devastating for morale the lack of the right leader can be, the opportunities it can afford the enemy.
And he cannot help but wonder desperately how Narnia is faring without him. He worries that she may have descended into madness, much like this world has.
...
"Peter."
He nods at the future king, knows that the time is near now.
It feels good to be back home. Good to be fitted into his armor once more, good to know the weighty feel of a sword wielded by his hand. It is almost as though the years – one, a thousand – have not passed.
Almost.
He is back in Narnia, and yet he has seen her in his dreams every night since his return.
Home is not home anymore. She is still beautiful, yes, still lovely and feral. But she has traveled too far down a path that he had never thought to envision for her, far beyond his reach.
Even as he readies himself to do battle in her name, he knows that he is fighting to place her into the care of someone other than himself.
Just as he found his suit covered in a film of dust, and knew a brief but telling moment of uncertainty with a sword the first time after having been forced back into the awkward physique of his youth, so too does he realize that Narnia has outgrown him.
He can only hope that she will fare well long after him.
And he continues to think, secretly, yearningly, of the Narnia he cannot help but recall.
...
III. Bound
"Edmund."
He imagines he can feel the fearful tension traveling slowly through his veins, drugging him, paralyzing him. It cannot be –
– But no. It is only Susan who materializes in his line of vision.
He flexes slim, deceptively strong fingers thoughtfully as he absently answers the queen's question, thinks to himself that he should know better by now.
But he has been dreaming of her again lately.
Narnia has always protected him, but not even she can protect him from the darkest recesses of his mind at times.
It has been years now since he has seen her. But in his dreams deep within the night, and sometimes even in his waking dreams, he thinks he can just make out the echo of her voice, beautiful and terrible at once. He knows she treads lightly at the outer edges of his soul's landscape still.
Later he relieves one of the men-at-arms of his watch, leans precariously over the parapet, breathes deep.
And silently, furiously, he wonders just how far he has to travel to escape her.
...
"Edmund."
He turns his head slightly at the sound of Lucy's sweet voice, a smirk curving his lips. But the quick-fire joke dies in his throat, and suddenly he is not lounging idly in the chair by the fire. Fingers grip upholstery tightly, go from pale to white.
It is her.
And then he wakes from the dream covered in a cold sweat.
Much later he exits the pub, puts a cigarette to his lips, but does not light it. He unconsciously shifts his weight as a man unfamiliar to the small village passes by.
He tilts his head back and looks through the odd constellations with unseeing eyes, imagines he can see Narnia beyond.
And then finally, despairingly, he allows himself to wonder if he will ever be able to escape her, whether in this world or the next.
...
I sat upon the shore
Fishing, with the arid plain behind me
Shall I at least set my lands in order?
- TS Eliot
...
Fin.