Peter
I almost tripped down the stairs today, over my own feet. They're just too small, and I'm too light. Funny, most boys my age are trying to grow into their bodies. I've got to shrink into mine.
I miss the frivolity of being able to do whatever I wished, and therefore celebrating every tiny occasion with some sort of party. Of having balls and feasts every week. I miss the grandeur of Cair Paravel, of living in so fine a palace, and having servants that took complete care of you and everything that went on.
It doesn't help that I still talk like a king. Even my own mother teases me for my choices of words. It's not my fault I don't talk like a kid. I haven't been a kid in years, or so it seems.
Not only to I get teased for talking like a king, but also there is the simple fact that I am not a king. I don't fight in battles, make decisions, determine what will happen, go to council or even really have a voice. I no longer have my crown to put on every morning, no matter how hard I reach for it on my bedside table. My head feels naked without it.
Any time I get mad, my hand flashes to my hip, to the sword hilt that isn't there. I feel curiously lopsided without it.
My clothes are messed up. Itchy, and too close to the skin. Too heavy.
I don't think I'll ever be able to get used to England again, not after Narnia. You can't be a kid after you've been an adult, can't be a child after you've been a king. You just can't.