Disclaimer: Based on C.S. Lewis' work.
Rating: G
Notes: I'm not sure I did this justice, because really, this could go deeper, but not without getting confusing. And I don't know if I can write well enough to pull something more intense, something deeper without utterly confusing everyone (including myself) so I think I won't try. :) Enjoy, and please review. Tell me something horrible about it, something that really irked you – I like criticism, really! I might continue this, with, well, not really sequels but companion stories, all depending on how lazy I am and how well (or poorly) received this is.Yes. Well, thank you, and God bless.
Sometimes he thinks he's going insane.
Sitting in the classroom, Peter hears the steady thud-thud of the cold rain against the windowpanes and looks out through the streams of water flowing down the glass into the grounds of the building. He's seated by the window, the second last seat from the back, neatly out of the professor's bumbling gaze, and quietly as ever he dreams, imagines, remembers, and he sketches along the margins of his textbook. The class is silent save for the occasional mumble here and there, and six dim lights framing the ceiling shine lazily over the classroom of boys prim in their tightly starched maroon uniforms, collars high and ties tied just so around their young bobbing throats.
He runs one fingertip lightly over the silver crest of Whitford College on his blazer as he stares blankly into the face of a stern-looking man with a bristly moustache in a military uniform. The text beneath states Colonel A. Stuart (1890-1947), and absently he thinks, The poor chap only lived 57 years.
He continues doodling, fingers sure and deft and precise in their casual sketching, and the dark carbon streaks never veer from their familiar, comfortable paths. His friends, dorm-mates always wonder why he continually draws lions and castles, why he never practises on still-life portraits or fruits or nude women in erotic poses. Why have Peter's talent if all you draw is mountains and castles and animals and beavers, for crying out loud? That's what they think, but have long since given up trying to tease him, wheedle an answer or explanation out of him. Peter – he just laughed, or grinned, or teased them back about being jealous. Who knew what went on in that mad head of his? Artists – you just couldn't understand them.
Peter figures they wouldn't believe him even if he did explain, even if he did tell them about the things he saw, as real as ever, every once in a while, those strange images of flashbacks from Narnia, and he knows that his solace will continue to be in his drawn-out memories of that Golden Age of Narnia, that Golden Age of his life. Those old, long-ago times… He feels old, some days, because he knows how long he's lived, how he would have lived almost two lifetimes by the time he grows old in this world, once in Narnia and once on Earth, and when he looks at his friends he finds himself thinking, bizarrely, that they are too young for their – his – age.
But for the most part he gets by normally enough. College, studying, building, cars, machines… He's stopped looking at them, forgetting why they exist, forgetting what they're for, and he's stopped wondering where all the sky and all the trees and all the rivers have gone. He's gotten by. He remembered what Aslan promised, that he would learn to know Him by another name on Earth, and he goes to church each Sunday. When he is eighteen he feels that same power, that same love, that same joy surge and plunder through his heart and soul and he knows in that moment he is tasting his home. He accepts Christ, and there, too, he finds his peace – in Aslan, in God. It is enough.
College, however, does sometimes bore him, he has to admit. All those dates, those names of warriors and kings fighting in dust-covered battles… When he closes his eyes he still feels the rush of blood and exhilaration through his veins, pumping each finger clutched white 'round his trusty Narnian sword – it hardly compares, majoring in European History, reading and studying about Ancient Folklore and Traditions…
He knows why he bothers, though. Narnia, it reminds him of those days, reliving those intense, adventurous days of being High King Peter of Narnia, Peter the Brave, Peter the Fearless – and, oh, oh yes, he misses those days. It's the closest, the closest thing to being in those battles, having those feasts, hearing those trumpets of tribulation… The nearest thing to hearing the sound of dwarves and gnomes and all the woodland creatures dancing, celebrating, feasting into the night, the sound of Cair Paravel's warm stone walls humming, as if lulling him to sleep each night against her comforting bosom… Quite normal he may have settled down to become on Earth, but even so, not a day since he left has he not thought of his Narnia, not remembered those times at least for a second, a moment.
It has been almost six years, since, and he turns 21 next month. Even this brings to mind his true home, as he calls it to himself, because closing his eyes he can almost taste the sweet juice of pears and berries and Narnian-style cooked stag (not Talking stag, of course) against his tongue, almost feel like Peter, High King once more… It is a while before he opens his eyes and sees no parade, no trumpets of celebration (for in Narnia, everything was celebrated, especially birthdays), and once again he remembers that he can no longer be what he used to be.
The rain is steady, the thud-thud-thud of droplets mirroring the drum beats of the Dwarves he still faintly remembers in his mind, and the dull clatter of chairs scraping back and tables jostled shakes Peter back into the classroom. His professor, as ancient as his specialty, raps lightly against the tabletop to call for their attention as they file out of the room, the rhythmic, cozy effect of the rain causing the normally energetic youths to move lethargically.
"Gentlemen, please remember, a 15-page essay on Chapter 29 on my shelf by Tuesday, thank you."
He stands to follow his classmates out, clutching his books to his chest, the strap of his bag held loosely in his hand as he swings it around his shoulder. He turns, looking out the window once more. His eyes catch a glint of sunlight spinning a thread through the thinning rain, sweeping across the wet hills surrounding the college, and for a moment – for a moment – he thinks he sees Aslan, shining as molten gold and moonlight as small as one of the raindrops on the windows, and he hears a thrumming in his chest – "My son, I love you."
That still, small voice.
He is smiling as he turns away and walks out, as the vision fades and all that's left is a rain-splattered stretch of grass and glass. His fingers twitch to put it down on paper, and already the colours burn themselves like fire, like gold in his mind's eye. Yes. Yes, it's enough to get by.