She looked into his eyes; they were bloodshot from desperation at the fight. 'He never could keep his head' she thought, and she grinned, and dived in. There were three or four others, she couldn't say exactly, but all she had to see was them attacking a someone for whom she felt responsible, someone she held intense loyalty for, and they were done.
A dark-haired stocky boy was holding Peter against a wall. She grabbed his gray school sweater vest. It ripped as she threw him against the opposite wall, baring her teeth as she drew back her fist and gave him two fast punches, one in the nose, one in the throat; this one would stay down. Someone much heavier than her slammed into her back; she dropped to her knees, grabbed him arm behind her and twisted it up behind his back as she regained her feet while turning to bring herself up behind him. Adrenaline and glory filled her veins; this was right, she was made to to this. Placing her leg in front of his, she forced him forward so he tripped and went down. Grabbing his other arm, she held both wrists behind his back, forcing him to stay stomach-down in the ground of the grimy tube tunnel. There were only four or fewer of them, she remembered. Surely Peter could take care of one or two by himself. True, he was not as adept at fighting and keeping his head as she was, but still . . . She looked over and cursed. Another boy- the last one- was holding her liege lord's head over the tracks, where the platform dropped away. Abandoning the one she had so neatly pinned, she rugby-tackled the one threatening Peter's life, bowling him over, giving her ally a chance to get up. As she was grappling for the advantage with her new enemy, whistles sounded through the tunnel. Looking into her foe's eyes, she nodded, and they backed away from each other to melt into opposite sides of the crowd. Flicking her eyes over the mulling kids, all in school uniforms, various shades of gray with striped accents all the colours of the rainbow, she spotted the dark brunette heads of three of her four friends, all of them of the Pevensie family.
"Hey." She quickly rejoined them, wincing as she listened to Peter being told off by a copper; he was also not as adept as her at not getting caught. He joined the rest of them as Edmund, Susan, and Lucy parked themselves on one of the benches sunk into a niche in the curving tunnel wall.
"You're welcome," Edmund muttered from the far side of the bench. He had apparently helped out with the fight, and she hadn't even noticed. . . "Thanks", she murmured in reply. She glanced over at Peter. On her right sat Susan while Peter paced in short irritated circles to her left. "I had it sorted," he barked. Disbelief and indignation filled her being. "No. You didn't," she stated angrily. He huffed and plopped down net to Lucy, who promptly began to hug his arm. 'He doesn't deserve the comfort,' she thought derisively, but then her anger crumbled and she sighed. "What was it this time?" Susan asked. Peter told the story in few words, of being shoved and asked to apologize for it. Though the violence may have gotten out of hand, the boys deserved a lesson, she reflected. The Pevensies continued into a short discussion about accepting where they lived now. Rachel blocked it out; she knew they lived in England, she had no problem coming to grips with it. She had possessed little power to give up, so though she had just as severe a lifestyle shift, she didn't have to drastically change the way she interacted with those around her. And though she desperately missed fighting, she still had exercise; in it she could lose herself, sometimes just as surely as should used to in the training yards. And in thinking this, she realized once again that she should have more sympathy for her four friends; they had given up much more. She had been staring at the blackness where the train would appear. Jarring echoes vibrated up from the tracks, signaling the impending arrival of their train. Rachel sighed again and turned back towards her friends, a small smile pulling up a corner of her mouth. Peter caught her eye and nodded, mouthing 'thank you'. Her smile widened and she nodded in return. She flicked her head at Edmund, who was gazing blackly and the ground under the bench. Peter looked down, shamed. Rachel nodded again, an improvement. At least now he knew he was wrong, and he knew who was right. Edmund was right. The four Pevensies needed to come to grips with the fact that none of them were monarchs anymore, Peter most of all. He had exchanged his sometimes crippling over-cautiousness with overconfidence and arrogance, and Rachel could not stand it.
The train was almost there, she could see it's light reflecting off of the dusty tiles that lined the tube tunnel, when she felt as if she were being pushed by some powerful but definitively friendly presence. Susan, Lucy, Edmund, and Peter were all complaining of something behind her, but she could barely discern their voices over the roar of the fast-approaching train. Someone grabbed her hand; Susan, funnily enough. She and Susan had always gotten on the least well, being completely opposed in their outlooks. And suddenly they were shielded from the train's light by rough dark rock, and the train was not the origin of the light. It was hot sunlight on a bright beach that felt very familiar. Joy exploded in Rachel's soul. They were back! Back to a land that she fought for, where she and Peter were a seamless team, where the five of them laughed at Edmund's jokes and rolled their eyes at Susan's propriety, where Lucy was as much an adult as Peter and the Pevensies were the monarchs they were made to be, and Rachel was a warrior who defended King and Country with her life, where her duties were simply to train herself and deal with the military.
Giggles and then full-throated laughter resounded from her mouth and she ran to the water, soon joined by the more careful monarchs, the way it should be. They were all soon soaked, but the pure joy in all of them, showing in beaming smiles and chuckles for no reason between splashes, seemed to shine from their very skin; at least that's how Rachel felt. Something else she hadn't felt in a while stirred as she laughed at Peter and Edmund's merciless water fight.
He used to be like this all the time, she thought. Never this carefree, not with a country to run, none of them were . . . but still, more at home. It was heart-warming, and brought a glowing grin to her lips. She flicked her fingers at Ed to signal him to stop, reached up to hold Peter's pale cheek and bring his head to hers. They shared one sweet lingering kiss before Edmund shouted, "Look!"
She stroked his cheek once as he smiled down at her, his arms resting about her for a moment before they broke apart. She put her hands on her hips, staring up along Ed's line of vision. There was a great mass of ruins on the cliff the soared above the beach they played on. Again a feeling nudged her in the back of her mind, a memory. She had been here before, had done this before, or something very similar. When had she played on a beach, kissed Peter after a water fight? Narnia . . . on the beach below the Cair. After an evening run, she would occasionally meet Peter on the beach, sometimes the rest of the monarchs as well, to play and swim in the water, to kiss and practice fighting. The ruins . . . they looked as if they could have been the Cair . . . she decided not to say anything as of yet. No reason to alarm anyone, but was it possible that so much time could have passed when they were in England? Perhaps . . .
She needn't have been quiet. After the group had hiked up behind the cliff to explore the ruins, Susan found pieces of Edmund's gold and onyx chess set. Lucy found the dais and the remnants of the four thrones. She even shoved them into their places, from the right, Edmund, Peter, Susan, then Lucy. Rachel fell into place with utterly automatic steps behind Peter's right shoulder, between him and Edmund, the fighting rulers and their general, their defender. It felt right. Like the days of old when Edmund would sleep in Peter and Rachel's rooms, the three of them laughing late into the night, only to rise early the following morning for arms practice, after which were sitting lessons about tact and military strategies where between one and all three of them would manage to doze off for at least a minute. It had been a beautiful existence, full of love, laughter, loyalty, and war.
The night was cold for late summer, and fed only on the apples from trees that had taken over the Cair, none of the five were terribly happy about sleeping under the stars. With no other option, they lay in front of the dais under a twinkling sky.
Rachel awoke very early, as she was prone to do when outside in dawn light. It was the first time in a long time that she had had to slip out from under Peter's arm as she rose under the bright grey light to collect more apples for breakfast. Later she and the boys would fish, she decided. For now, she was content to wander about, intent on finding the firmest, biggest apples for her and their majesties to eat. It was funny how easily she slipped back into this version of herself, she thought. The version where she considered her friends her lieges. The brothers-in-arms that Peter and Edmund were- that mentality had been as slow to leave as Peter's attitude of kingship; it lingered still. And Peter as her partner, in war, but also in love . . . that had not been the case for several months, not since his arrogance had caused her such disgust she couldn't bear to be touched by him. Nothing had been said, she had just become more of a friend to Edmund and to Lucy, and spent little, and then no, time alone with Peter. Susan she had never truly gotten on with as an equal. When Susan was a Queen, she was in her own right to run the castle and all the pomp and particulars that went with it. On equal footing, the two girls were at odds, with completely different ideas about fun, propriety, even pleasantries were stilted between the two sometimes, for Rachel couldn't stand it when she knew Susan was fussing over her appearance, and Susan couldn't take it when Rachel dressed for school as she did for practice. Still, they were back home now, Rachel thought with suppressed glee, so she and Susan should get along fine.
She returned to the circle of sleeping Pevensies, shirt stretching under its load of apples. Rachel sighed; it would be nice if someone had been awake to talk to . . . but no matter. She decided to explore a bit by herself.
She had never fit in with the Pevensies, slender and beautiful as they were. She wasn't a hag, but Rachel was built heavily, muscularly broad, with a figure more suited to armour than flowing skirts. She always thought that her and Peter were only . . . together . . . because she was the only one he could go to battle with, and the only one who could train longer than him in the practice courts. The only one who could be a brother-in-arms as well as a girl in his arms. Well, no matter. It was who she was, in any case, so she might as well be loved for it. She was lucky to be loved for it. Many, including Susan, found violence and hard work scandalizing in a female; in fact, Rachel doubted that Susan saw her as female anymore.
Later that morning Peter decided to check the treasury, to see if it had been raided which, honestly, it was most likely to have been. Edmund had noted the tell-tale signs of attack by catapults, and if the palace had been taken by force, it had most certainly been looted. She and the boys heaved their weight against the stone panel that shielded the wooden door from view while Lucy and Susan watched excitedly. The door, its wood ancient and dry-rotted, crumbled fairly easily under her and Peter's hands. After elbowing it sharply, she and Peter really ripped the thing apart. Then Edmund stepped in, eyebrows raised, to reach into the hole and open the door from the inside.
"No need to be so violent," he said with a smirk. Rachel giggled sheepishly. Peter, meanwhile, was ripping up his shirt.
"What are you doing?" she asked with resigned consternation.
"It isn't like there's a light switch we can flick on to see in there-"
"Ahem." Edmund cleared his throat, shaking his head at Peter. He held up his new torch.
"You might've mentioned that a bit earlier," Peter responded with a incredulous chuckle.
Rachel watched with trepidation, not looking forward to the sight of a ransacked, destroyed room that had once held the monarchs' most precious treasures, as Edmund led the way into the darkened space. Peter signaled for the girls to go in front of him, and Rachel guarded the rear, glancing backwards suspiciously.
The light filtered down from the loft they stood on to reveal the room below.
"It's all still here!" Lucy exclaimed brightly. Rachel beamed. The statues of the monarchs, all fashioned when they were in their twenties, stood gleaming above stone chests of their possessions, each royal with a marble alcove of their own. She watched the four of them scatter to rediscover their respective treasures.
"I was so tall . . ." Lucy sighed, pulling out an brocade gown that fell well below her feet.
"Well, you were older then," Susan commiserated cheerfully.
"As opposed to hundreds of years later, when you're younger," Edmund interjected dryly. Rachel and Lucy chuckled while Susan shook her head, clutching her bow and quiver of arrows, their fletching dyed an ostentatious scarlet. Peter blew the dust off a platter bearing a likeness of the great lion on it, gazing at the visage contemplatively. Rachel's eyes flicked to the corners of the room. She noticed a small, long chest of dark crumbling wood sitting between Edmund and Peters' alcoves. 'Could it be?' she wondered. Timidly, she knelt beside it, forcing the old lock open. It was dusty inside, but a long curved form beside a shorter straight one gleamed at her, and joy blossomed in her heart. Reverently she drew the comfortable weight of the curved blade out of the box, stroking the dust from the scabbard and hilt. Grasping the leather-wrapped hilt she drew the weapon in one swift, practiced motion, its diamond-hardened edges gleaming razor sharp in the light of Edmund's torch. She gasped, staring at the beautiful weapon, its length reflecting glimmering bars onto the walls. To her left she heard a heavier weapon being drawn and looked over to see Peter gazing with awe at his broadsword, feeling its weight, reading the inscription on the fuller. Rachel felt warm and at home, at peace; this was what she remembered, what she loved. The simple duty of defending her kings, fighting alongside them. Edmund beside her stroked his thumb over the pommel of his long-sword. She remembered when she was given the duty. Before they had met Aslan for the first time, when Edmund had still been with the witch . . . she grinned as she recalled the look on Susan's face . . .
She couldn't believe, yet- there he was.
"Merry Christmas, sir," was Lucy's heartfelt greeting.
Susan, trying to puzzle out this man's presence, his great red leather coat and sledge pulled by reindeer in harnesses resplendent with hundreds of tiny tinkling silver bells. "I thought there was no Christmas in Narnia?"
Peter and Rachel simply beamed at the figure whom the American girl knew as Santa Claus. "There wasn't," the bearded man replied. "Not for a long time. But the arrival of your majesties has set the Witch's power to fading. He turned his back to them, hauling something huge from the seat of the sleigh.
"Presents!" Lucy realized. Father Christmas just chuckled. To Lucy he gave a glittering bottle of red juice and a small sheathed knife. ""The juice of the fire flower," he explained. "One drop and this cordial will heal any injury. And though I hope you won't find use for it-" She took the knife and looked up into the fairy tale man's eyes.
"Thank you, sir. But- I think I could be brave enough."
Father Christmas smiled. "I'm sure you could. But battles are- ugly affairs." He turned to Susan with a bow, a quiver of arrows, and a heavily carved ivory horn. He told her to trust the bow, that it did not easily miss.
"What happened to 'battles are ugly affairs'?" she protested weakly.
He chuckled. "And though you don't seem to have trouble making yourself heard, put this horn to your lips, and wherever you are, help will come." Susan thanked him as he pulled out a large sword and shining shield, turning to Peter. The youth took them with awe, and immediately drew the sword, staring up at the gleaming blade. "That is a tool, Peter, no toy. Use it wisely." The boy nodded and sheathed the weapon. Rachel looked across the three Pevensies. They were to be monarchs, if they stayed in this land of magic. Each gift fit their roles as such. What would Father Christmas have for a headstrong girl who was too interested in, as many had put it to her before, the affairs of men? She would be no beautiful and gentle queen. She watched the red coat swish above the snow as she gazed at the ground, acceptance at her state as an outcast filling her. She took a deep breath to see what gift the man would have for a misfit such as her- perhaps some pretty trinket that a girl should enjoy. And then she gasped, her soul flooded with hope and happiness. The old man gave her a knowing smile. She hesitantly took from his hands a curved blade sheathed in simple leather, a matching straight dagger, the assortment of belts to wear them with, and a thick, small round shield. He reached back into his bag to produce a broad leather sash in which five small, thin knives were sheathed.
"Jesus, Rachel," Peter exclaimed. She looked back up at Father Christmas, needing to be assured that these gifts were indeed meant for her. He set a hand on each of her shoulders.
"Young Lona. Your duty is both the simplest and yet the most easily misunderstood. Not a monarch, never will you rule. Yours is to defend your land and your kings with every skill and resource you can muster. Fight well, Daughter of Eve." Turning to face them all, he cried, "Merry Christmas- and Long Live Aslan!" With these final words, he slung himself and his bag back into the sleigh, and was off, the humans watching as he disappeared into the white landscape.
When the five emerged into the sunlight, they were redressed, outfitted in the clothes of their reign. The boys and Rachel wore long tunics, leggings, and boots, the girls having donned gowns. Rachel's scimitar was strapped to her back along with the buckler she had discovered in a pile of equipment off to the side, her dagger on her left thigh. The boys and Lucy had their weapons belted on their waists, and Susan had her quiver upon her back, her bow held loosely in her hands. She unconsciously ran her hands along its smooth yellow wood every so often.
That night, fed by the trout which Rachel and Ed had fished out of a deep pool in a stream running down to the beach (Peter had been unsuccessful with his line), the Pevensies and Rachel sat in a circle in the fading daylight.
"What shall we do?" was Lucy's question.
"Well . . . " Peter began slowly, "We must have been brought back for some purpose . . . "
"Yes, but how are we to know what it is?" Susan asked flatly. She continued, "Nothing we've seen has led us to believe that anything is wrong."
"Cair Paravel is in ruins! What would you call that?" Peter replied fervently.
"Peter, it's been a ruin for some time . . . I mean, look at the apple trees, the forest has taken over. It's been destroyed for a long time," Ed argued. The five of them conceded but winced at the declaration. No one wanted to believe that their homeland had been so changed in their time away from it. "Though, it was attacked with catapults- I saw the marks on the stonework over there." He pointed.
"We need to move away from the Cair. To find out what's going on in the country, to find out what's happened to the Narnians", Peter said softly, but his voice seemed to resound into the corners of the clearing. The other four gazed at him, Susan with mistrust, Edmund with agreement, Rachel with loyalty, Lucy with sadness. "How else are we to find out why we were brought back?" Peter nodded slowly while Lucy smiled sadly and inclined her head.
"But where are we to go? How are we to find our subjects?" Susan queried with clinging uncertainty. Peter shrugged.
"I don't know. But we have to find someone who knows what's going on."
"Yes," Edmund agreed.
"We don't know if there will be food if we go anywhere outside the apple trees around the Cair. So why don't we spend tomorrow collecting provisions and getting ready to leave. We can start off the day after tomorrow. How's that?" Rachel gazed around at them, Peter, smiling and comfortable in his role as leader, nodding in agreement.
"Agreed," Ed nodded.
"Yeah", Peter said.
"All right", Lucy murmured, obviously not over-joyed at the prospect of leaving their old home.
"Fine," Susan resigned.
When true darkness had fallen, a cool breeze rustled through the canopy of foliage above three sleeping heads. Peter awoke to find a curious chill on his right; Rachel was gone. She had always loved the feel of the surf on her bare feet, he recalled, and they had spent many an evening on the beach with Ed, playing in the waves. Quietly he rose and descended the narrow path to the beach, noting fresh footsteps visible in the few patches of moonlight that had managed to filter through the trees to pool on the dirt.
She was standing, the waves rushing in almost at her knees, barefoot in the water. Her leggings, weapons, and boots lay piled several meters away from the waterline. He dropped his next to them and paused. Rachel had her arms spread to the night sky, occasionally running her fingers under the waves that rushed through her. Her skin was a ghostly shimmering white in the moonlight. He looked down at his own limbs to see the same colour. It brought an appreciative grin to his face, and he jogged down to water, softly calling her name so as not to frighten her.
"Rachel . . . Rachel." She glanced back at him, a soft gleaming smile lighting her face.
"Hey," she said quietly, her yankee accent relaxing the word and bringing a warmth to his heart. His own accent, along with his siblings . . . they made words seem so formal and hard sometimes. He came to stand beside her, looking out to enjoy the night, the landscapes, the familiar constellations he had not seen in a year bringing further gladness to his soul. Breathing out a sigh, he placed his palm on the curve between her shoulder and neck. Half a clap on the shoulder, half a lover's caress. He looked once at her face, then back out at the dark seas.
"It's wonderful to be back."
"Yes." She came closer, to lean her head to his chest. She could feel the deep vibrations of his mellow baritone voice as his hand smoothed wisps of hair away from her cheek. "It's good to have you back. I've missed you."
"I guess." She heard the shrug in his voice.
"Mmm."
"I've missed being a king . . . "
"I know. I missed my role here too. It feels so good to hold a blade in my hand again, you know?"
"Yes. And to be in charge, to have some responsibility. It just feels . . . right." Her brow knitted and she reached up to hold his cheek.
"Look . . . I know you're used to being the leader. But we don't know what this land is like anymore. Just- be careful. Plan careful. Don't dive into anything without thinking. Alright? And listen to me and Ed. You did as High King. You should now." Rachel dropped her hand and watched the waves for a moment. She knew Peter was digesting her speech and she was hoping he had received it well.
"I- Of course I'll listen to you. And Ed."
"It's just, you haven't been so . . . attentive to us . . . for the past year."
"But we were in England!-"
"Where we are shouldn't change who we are, Peter."
"I- I know . . ."
"I'm just saying- well, I'm really saying go back to who you were before we came back, but- but tone down the, the kingliness? Yeah? You come off as- and don't hit me for saying it- but you come off as arrogant-"
"Well-"
"And I don't know if you realize it or not! Do you?"
"Look, I just do what I think is right. And I should be in charge, I'm the High King!-"
"Yes, you are! But remember what it means to be a king! Not a tyrant, not a general. A king."
"So what does it mean, if you're the expert?" He was angry now, and Rachel groaned in frustration.
She grabbed his arms, trying to get through to his common sense, saying, "I'm sorry. I am! It just came out wrong . . . please, just try and see it from my perspective, from everyone else's- take a step back, Peter. Think about how others see you. It's not all bad, there's not much bad in you! But watch for it, because this reckless power you try to throw around- it really makes into someone I just- I don't know." He turned away from her and slowly walked back to the shore and disappeared into the woods, on the path leading up to the ruins of the Cair. Rachel sighed, deciding to sleep on the beach. It would be best if she could give him time to himself, to sleep on it. She thought of the fights he had gotten himself into, the many, many fights. They were against bullies, people who looked at Susan the wrong way, and sometimes they were over his sense of honour and pride, which seemed to have grown in size to compensate for his loss of age when they returned to England. She had always been surprised that Peter was the one getting into petty fights rather than she. Her love of battle and sparring was an integral part of her, whereas Peter had always looked on violence as something inhuman and distasteful. She recalled one day when she and Ed had been chatting in his room and Peter had come in and seen the bruises on her arms and face from a brawl she herself had gotten into. She had been telling Ed about it . . .
"Turning into Peter, are you?" His query was skeptical.
"No! No, I'm not. It was just- there were these boys-"
"How many?"
"Maybe five?" She had shrugged.
"Five!" Edmund had gasped as Peter repeated the number loudly, walking toward them from where he had been concealed out in the hallway.
"Well, they were throwing around this poor kid and I had to stop them!"
"So they didn't even do anything to you?" Peter's question earned a look of complete disgust from Rachel.
"Do you not remember- has it somehow slipped your mind that we used to defend people, that it was my job to defend you and your subjects- how can you even say that!"
"Well, of course defending people in trouble is necessary, but- " Peter tried to hastily back out of the situation while Edmund somberly watched the verbal battle between the other two. And then Peter struck himself a killing blow. "But Rachel, you're just a girl, against five boys, that's just . . ."
"What?" Rachel asked, sparks practically visible shooting from her skin. "You- I could beat you, both of you, at the same time, for God's sake! I am a better fighter than you ever will be, Peter, don't you dare call me 'just a girl'! I can damn well take care of myself against any puny school boys who push me far enough-" She rose halfway out of her seat on Edmund's bed, her arm drawn back, fist aimed straight at Peter's face. She expelled at great breath of air and strode out the bedroom door.
She never regretted that fight. She had gone up against too many to properly trounce them, yet if she were sparring, with little possibility of fatal injury, she preferred to fight against a group who could eventually take her down- that way she would not panic if it happened in a true battle. She remembered the feel of the branch in her hand, reminding her of Ally, her tried and true scimitar, the whoosh as she whacked it into one of the ruffian's stomachs. Her knuckles bruising as she punched one in the jaw, then backhanded another in the face, to trip a fourth, knee another where it hurt, then high-kick a fist aimed at her and then a stomach, dragged an arm behind a back . . . she had recalled what pleasure her duties had brought her. And it was glorious. No doubt the school boys she had fought had been put off by her maniacal grins and the chuckles she voiced as she struck and was hit herself. She was smiling as she relived it while dozing off against the sand . . .