Disclaimer: Narnia, its inhabitants and its rulers belong to CS Lewis.
Perfumes of Narnia
Peter is a man in a boy's body.
He shifts in his seat as the history teacher drones on about the Wars of the Roses. She makes it all sound so clinical, he thinks. He remembers the gripping fear he'd felt in that first battle against the White Witch, and after that, facing the giants of Ettinsmuir, and other such little uprisings. He remembers digging his heels into the sides of his horse, screaming out Aslan's name and Narnia's as he hews off heads, the blood spattering his gleaming armour and his face, the coppery tang filling his mouth.
"Mr. Pevensie, are you alright?"
Peter is shaken from his memories by the teacher staring at him, unsure what to make of his ashen face and clenched jaw. He murmurs something about a stomach-ache, and busies himself copying notes.
He sits with Edmund during breaks, and the two of them are silent, each knowing what the other is going through. In Narnia they were Kings and warriors, and swords and battles were expected of them, as were laws and taxes and ruling. In England they are schoolboys, with nothing more to worry about but exams and girls and the sports team of their choice. Schoolboys do not miss the weight of a sword at their side, or wake in the night with memories of war, and blood, and taking lives, and nearly losing theirs. Even Lucy and Susan remember playing their parts in battle, but archery from horseback at the back of the lines is a little more detached than laying about you with a sword in the thick of battle. Still, they too have taken lives, and they remember it.
Part of him longs to join the army, to at least find some semblance of his former life among soldiers, and part of him rebels, not wanting to relive that, not wanting to kill again. He doesn't know which part is stronger.
There is blood on his hands, on his siblings' hands, and he thinks wryly that he would make a dashing Lady Macbeth. He longs for Narnia, where the very air seems to absolve him of the lingering guilt after a war, where the clear streams wash away all such stains, where it is simply another part of his duty and not a memory that is jarringly incongruous with the world he has been thrust back into.
Peter is a man, a soldier, a King, trapped in a boy's body.
~*~
A/N: The title is a reference to the famous line uttered by Lady Macbeth.
And am I the only person bothered by the fact that these are CHILDREN KILLING PEOPLE?!