The room was nearly silent; all that was heard was the musical sound of pen scratching on paper and the droning, monotonous voice of an aged Professor.
While the rest of the class' faces were crumpled in concentration, one boy's mind traveled much farther than the lecture on Latin verbs. The sketches of crowns, ships, and battles littered Peter Pevensie's notebook paper. But, to him, these mere drawings came to life. A cinema could not compare to the richness of his Narnian memories. The vivid colors of the flowers in bloom, the sun reflecting off his sword, all made his heart ache bitterly for his home, his kingdom. Simply thinking of the magical land seemed to freshen and air out the stuffy classroom.
As he was putting on the finishing touches of a Faun-led dance, the bell startled him out of his fantasies. Quickly shoving the proof into his textbook, he joined the mass of crowding students, making a quick escape to avoid Mr. Lee's inquiries about his incompletion of last night's assignments.
Thankfully, it was lunch break. For a full hour, he was freed of all lectures and quizzes. Peter stepped outside, breathing in deeply the crisp, fall air. Ever since his return from Narnia, he felt anxious and claustrophobic if he stayed indoors too long.
If he had been looking up, Peter would have noticed the great sea of people slowly parting at the middle, would have seen more and more students scrambling off of the walkway to instead tread in the wet and dew-ridden grass. But, most importantly, Peter would have observed the five massive boys strutting towards him.
Peter, immersed in his own thoughts, kept on walking his slow, steady pace. Something, probably the sudden, hushed silence that surrounded him, finally worked through the wall barriers he had set up in his head, and he looked up.
In a sweeping glance, he quickly took it all in. Standing alone on the walkway was, of course, Peter and the five wall-like boys. The fattest and cleverest one of the gang, William, smiled wickedly at Peter, cracking his knuckles in the way only school bullies do. The other four (whose names are never remembered) glared maliciously at Peter.
"You're on my sidewalk," William (ironically, and secretly, called Little Willie by his schoolmates) spoke, breaking the silence. "Get off."
"Who said it's your sidewalk, anyhow?" Peter replied, holding a calm look that somewhat contradicted his feelings.
"I did."
"Well," Peter retorted sarcastically. "That's surely saying something." He rolled his eyes and continued walking forward, until there was only about ten yards between them.
"If you know what's best for you, you'll get off."
"What're you going to do to me, Little Willie? Sit on me?" Peter knew he was walking on very thin ice and was deliberately doing so. "I've as much right," he paused, scrunching up his nose a bit, "or more, as you to be walking on this walkway." With that, Peter ambled even closer to the gang.
As soon as Peter was in distance, William shoved Peter, hard, backwards. Instinctively, Peter reached for the hilt of his royal sword. All he grasped was air. He straightened the mail shirt that he wasn't wearing, secured the shield that was not strapped on his bare left arm, lowered the visor of the helmet that wasn't there. It took a moment for Peter to realize that he was no longer in Narnia, no longer preparing to fight in a noble, epic battle. For he was only in London, in a schoolyard, wearing nothing except his blasted uniform. Fighting this aggravator seemed pointless, stupid, and even childish now.
William's booming laugh erupted from him. Mistaking Peter for crossing himself, William announced, "Holy Mary's not going to help you now, St. Petey!" he cackled. Some nervous twitters of laughter arose from the nearby students.
Peter felt his pride twinge. "That is –" He stopped himself. "That is Your Majesty and High King Peter of Narnia, to you, lowlife!" was on the tip of his tongue, and it took all the willpower and inner strength Peter possessed to stop him from proclaiming just that. He closed his mouth and set his jaw, waiting.
An awkward, heavy pause weighed the air. The tension was rising. William, once again, cracked his beefy fingers; Peter licked his dry lips.
William nodded slightly to his gang and they all promptly turned around, making the motions of walking away. But then, suddenly, swifter than one would think possible for someone as big as he, William pivoted on one foot, sending Peter a sure jaw-crusher.
If it had probably been anyone else besides Peter, the fight would have ended right there with that punch and an ambulance would be on its way. But, all magic did not drain from Peter once he left Narnia. Some inner instinct, one from battle, no doubt, saved him. Peter, expecting the trick, rolled with the hit, allowing William's fist to only graze his jaw. The combined power of the punch and the roll pushed Peter to the ground. But, in milliseconds, Peter was back on his feet and the brawl officially began.
The intensity of the match suggested fight-to-the-death, one-on-one combat. That would have been true, if one of the boys intended on killing (though the thought did cross both William's and Peter's minds, but as a result of instinct on Peter's part) and if it hadn't been five-on-one. Peter, unaccustomed to battling without a sword, fought admirably, and looked, for a while, as if he would claim the fight as his, but his tries were in vain.
If he had been Narnia, up against the same five boys, still without both sword and shield, Peter would've claimed victory indubitably. But, in dreary England, one against five is no fair match.
After the first punch, Peter drove a quick uppercut to William's pig-like nose, instantly breaking it. Blood spurting and curses spewing from a split lip, William pounced on Peter. All that could be seen was flailing limbs.
Then, the dirtiest trick was played on Peter, though it was not unseen. Three of William's clang grasped onto Peter, holding him in a vice-like grip. William and the fourth took turns repeatedly beating every available inch of Peter. Freeing one of his arms, Peter had just enough time to bust his knuckles on one of the bully's head before it was pinned down again. Peter had no chance whatsoever. Of course, Peter did not sit by and let himself get beat-up, but jerked around haphazardly, making his captors get the occasional hit.
To Peter, everything was confusing, chaotic. He numbed himself from the pain, separated himself from this London schoolyard. Finally, the contact stopped; the splotches of red stopped flashing beneath his eyes. He was pulled back to the sidewalk, the blood, the jeering, cat-calling crowd. He bit back a groan that welled up inside his throat.
Slowly opening his eyes, he noticed the William and his cronies were gone, most of the crowd had dispersed. Whether the fight had ended because William dug up a shallow pit of mercy that lay deep inside of him, a teacher or prefect was spotted, or William was plain exhausted from the physical effort, it wasn't known.
Peter stared at the ground, ashamed. To him, this was the worst insult he, as High King, had ever been thrown upon. He'd rather a noble death than this. What Peter forgot, though, was that he wasn't in this fight as High King of Peter against a valiant rival, but as an average schoolboy against five rather corpulent ones.
He struggled to his feet. A few, gaping onlookers were still at the scene. They stared, wide-eyed, at Peter, as he limped away. A small pool of six persons' blood stained the walkway.
"What's there to see, you lowly lot?" He shouted at them. The bystanders all jumped at the harshness of Peter's voice, and quickly fled, in fear that, in his temper, he would lash out at them.
Spitting out a mouthful of blood, Peter staggered to his room, curses spewing from his mouth the entire way. He hated William for disgracing him, hated the people who stood there and watched the beating, hated the school for allowing the fight to happen, hated London for the simple reason that it wasn't Narnia.
Peter slammed his door behind him, making the windows shudder. He looked up, into the calm golden eyes of Aslan. Of course it wasn't the real Aslan, but a mere depiction he had drawn after his return from Narnia. It was quite life-like, for not all the Magic had rubbed off of him when he drew it.
"I hate you, Aslan," he whispered, malice dripping from his words. "I hate you for keeping me cooped up in this forsaken hole. I hate you for letting me take a sip of Narnia, then taking the cup away from me! I hate you for making me High King and not letting me return to my own dominion."
Peter did not fully, whole-heartedly, believe these words, but it felt somewhat good to say them. But when Peter again looked up at the Lion, at the serene manner the Lion was so known for, another surge of flowed through him. He grabbed a book from a nearby table and hurled it at Aslan with all of his might.
The book did not give the desired effect; the Lion remained unchanged. Peter, chest heaving from anger, frustration, and pain, suddenly recalled something the real Lion, the real Aslan, had told him in the court of Cair Paravel at the eve of his coronation, seemingly centuries ago.
"A king should be quick to listen, slow to speak, and slow to become angry. For a king's anger does not bring about the righteous life Narnia needs to sustain herself," the rich, deep voice warned him.
Reminiscing on that moment, Peter knew. Peter understood.
And then, the great Lion appeared. Standing before Aslan, Peter felt a different kind of shame. It wasn't the shame he had felt because he had disgraced himself, but one because of the disappointing look on Aslan's face.
Peter lowered his head, unable to look in those sad eyes. He kneeled.
"Aslan," he stammered. "I'm sorry." He knew not what else to say, but Peter also thought that maybe there simply wasn't anything else to say.
The Lion gave a great sigh. Putting his huge velvety paw on Peter's shoulder, Peter felt as if he could now look up.
"It is alright, my dear son. You have learned. Now, you must forgive those others you had cursed earlier, as I have forgiven you."
Peter nodded; guilt and the smallest amount of ill feelings towards the bullies squirmed inside of his stomach.
"Come, let me breathe on you."
Peter obeyed and stood. The soft breath of Aslan was more refreshing and sweet and indescribable than anything in any world. The anger that had poisoned his features before disappeared, leaving behind a certain peace.
Just as the aches and pains from the brawl had vanished, with a solemn nod, so did the great Lion.
But, Peter was not greatly saddened, for even though he was no longer in Narnia, Peter would see Aslan again. Peter knew. Peter understood.