AN: I promised you all a Christmas story, and I had a certain one in mind, but it's not coming very well, so this is what I'm putting up instead. This story was born as a Narnia fanfic, came to maturity as an anonymous short, was entered in the Lulu short short contest, did not win, and is now re-"Pevensified" for your enjoyment. It doesn't really fit with the timeline I created for my other fics, and I'm not even sure it's quite canonical for the book, this is how it turned out, and I'd love to hear your thoughts on it. Merry Christmas, everyone!
Disclaimer: The non-Pevensie version of this story (starring one Michael Parr) belongs to me, and me alone, but the cast for the adaptation has to be paid scale.
I loved him long ago. So did Mary St. James and Anne Martin and Lenore Preston, but they always claimed to love every boy in town—excepting Lester Hamilton, of course. Peter Pevensie, who just passed my window in all his blond good looks, has never been a Lester. He was, and still is, the best-liked boy in town. The adults have always trusted him, the boys followed him, the girls pined after him; but I, the only one who thought Lester Hamilton nice, was the only one who truly loved Peter.
I should be too old to care about a schoolgirl crush. I graduated several years ago, and went away to university on a mathematics scholarship. My parents tell me I will go far in the world and have always said that one day, I'll be invited to parties far more interesting than any of those thrown by Mary St. James and her crowd. I do enjoy university, but it all seemed very far away this last hour. Sitting here by my old window, listening to Elvis croon "Blue Christmas" on the wireless, and seeing Peter Pevensie hurry off to catch a train, all the old memories come back.
Growing up, we were different in so many ways, but he cared for the popular set as little as I did. I never saw him with a girl other than his golden- and black-haired younger sisters, (he took them to all his dances, making them the envy of half the town) and he spent most of his time with his brother (the dark-haired, serious one with whom he was walking just now to the railway station, their heads bent together in earnest discussion of something important only to the two of them). He never knew I existed, except as the little girl next door who used to play with his little sister, but I always used to watch him, striding down the street with his head up and his shoulders back, looking as if all the cares in the world couldn't weigh him down.
I didn't wave just now, but I used to wave when I saw him from my window. Sometimes, he'd look up and wave back, or if we met in the street, he'd tip his cap to me with the easy smile he gave the world, and I would need no more for happiness. It didn't mean anything to him, just as it meant nothing to him to help me out of the tree when I was five years old, stuck, and scared; but I, the lonely little girl next door who never went to the popular dances, loved him from my upstairs window—not for his golden hair or his iridescent blue eyes or his bronzed biceps, but for the open honesty in his face, the cheerful friendliness in his manner, and the protective love in his arm around his little sister's shoulders.
It's snowing again. An odd thunder rumbles across town, and then the wail of an ambulance siren drowns out Elvis. I turn up the volume and I am about to change the station, but my hand stops, poised over the dial, when Elvis breaks off for an announcement. "Serious railway accident," a voice reads, and "many dead." Looking out the window, I see the older of Peter's sisters running toward the train station, and I grab for my coat. Mary St. James and Anne Martin and Lenore Preston won't be rushing to the station, but they loved every boy in town. I loved Peter Pevensie.
~ finis ~
