Disclaimer: I do not own the Chronicles of Narnia.

A/N: I've been busy. Abominably so. And hopefully once school is ended, I shall have time to write once more. This, however, is a story I've begun in case I can't get around to finishing any plotlines I've got going at the present. This is a series of oneshots that take place in Narnia, and possibly in our world. Not sure about that yet. I'll try to post the time and place whenever I post a new chapter. :)

This one is Golden Age, told from Susan's POV. Some of the dialogue is from Stephen Lawhead's Pendragon, but referring to King Arthur, not King Peter (although it reminded me of both when I read it). I don't own that either.

Splendor

The splendor falls on castle walls
And snowy summits old in story;
The long light shakes across the lakes,
And the wild cataract leaps in glory.
Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying,
Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying. dying, dying.

-Alfred Lord Tennyson

1.

The sun is large and beautiful in the Narnian spring, when it casts a strong, powerful light on the world that is coming to life again. It melts the snow to water the grass and makes the icicles give way to budding flowers, warms the skin instead of skating across it mockingly, gives the wind a merry touch that rings in the ears like laughter.

More often than not, the laughter belongs to Lucy, not the wind. She turns into a dryad on the first day of Rosebloom—becomes a laughing creature with flushed cheeks and hair full of tangled curls and daisies. She and I were different enough during the rest of the year, but in the spring, the contrast between her colorful gaiety and what my brothers call my sober radiance is greater. She is joyful; I am austere. She is sweet. I am beautiful. Like the difference between spring and autumn are the differences between me and Lucy.

Our brothers, too, are different. Lu and I loved to watch them fight in the battle yard, light on light, victorious smile and concentrated frown. Their swords would ring in the early morning air and send flashes of sunlight to where we, their sisters, sat in the shade of the apple tree used often for target practice. We would talk, Lu and I, as we watched our brothers grow stronger and skillful in the way of the blade.

And then there were the times when Edmund was at his desk or still in bed, and Peter was alone in the yards, whirling to the rhythm of an invisible drum, or practicing with one of his instructors or subjects. It was then that my sister made the most interesting observations.

"I have seen Edmund fight," Lucy reflected, breaking the silence (as was her habit) with whatever random notion took her fancy. "When the battle frenzy comes upon him, no one can stand against him."

"Well I know it," I replied, recalling our brother's extraordinary ability to turn himself into a fighting whirlwind. It was as if all his caution and subtlety that it took to be a politician and "paperwork" king of diplomacy was ripped away, and the rules did not matter—at least, not the rules of state.

"The battle frenzy grips him and Edmund loses himself," she continued, frowning thoughtfully. Our eldest brother of golden hair parried a blow and twisted his opponent's sword away. The light from the blades cast spots of gleaming yellow over my sister's face, and ignited her eyes. Her eyes, which were carefully trained on the face of the High King; the face that was serene and impossible innocent and void of fear. Most times, men were courageous despite their fear, but what was to be said about a man or boy who had no courage because he was not even afraid?

His blue eyes were alight with glory as he spun and batted at the other man's sword. He stabbed. He parried. He swiped for the knees with the flat. Yet there was nothing in his face save pure delight, unadultered ecstasy.

"But with Peter," Lucy was saying, breaking through my reflections with that thrilling voice that spoke of life and glowing vitality, "I think it must be the other way: he finds himself."