Dedicated to a friend. May you find peace amidst your loss.
Northern Star
Peter the Magnificent misses…his mother.
The Northern sky was clouded over. But he knew the constellations by heart and imagined them burning unfailingly bright behind the thin, pale mask the night wore. Clear, tranquil in their places, he mused the stars belonging here weren't so different from the ones currently preoccupying his mind. Stars he hadn't thought about in a long while. With his hands carefully pressed against the cold window-pane, his breath misting the glass, his blue eyes scanned heavenward, searching for…anything.
It had started with a dull ache ― deep within his chest like an old battle-wound ― that had come to his notice a number of days ago when he first woke to a new day. It had been easily ignored, and therefore handled, while he was seeing to the affairs requiring his attention ― which seemed to be an increasing amount these days. It had been pushed further from his mind when he had chuckled inwardly while hosting Court, reminiscing distant memories of his first experiences handling his responsibilities while as a mere boy. So ignorant, so eager to be molded into the kind of ruler his title demanded.
Magnificent. Yes ― Peter had wanted to become just that.
It had increased into a persistent throb a number of evenings later, difficult to discard from his mind while sitting beside a fire that had long since gone cold, leaving nothing but dancing embers in its wake, which he sat studying. The urgency of finding a way to defend his border from Giants had yielded to an inexplicable, excruciating stab of pain that stole his breath, causing his hands to clench, his jaw to tense. As it passed, he decided he was becoming less resilient in coping with heavy stresses as he aged, and he had gone to bed. The following day, when Lucy had asked him if he felt ill, for he looked rather drawn, he had reassured her with a smile that all was well with him. And he had made a mental note to carefully guard his expressions while around his observant little sister.
That very night, sleepless, he had looked to the sky for an answer to his hurt, which perplexed him. Upon examination, aside from no physical harm, he inwardly felt as if a tiny hole that had been pricked within him long before had steadily torn and shredded away at the edges, fraying and expanding in size until, quite suddenly, he was left feeling incomplete. They sky had given him no answer for his pain.
But he was Peter, called Magnificent ― and so his hurt had been hidden.
Then the dreams began. Never completely limited to overcoming his mind at night, while defenseless in sleep, they would overwhelm him while he was mid-way through a conversation with Susan, or laughing with Lucy, or sparring with Edmund. In every case, images would pervade his attention, merging his reality with one of dreams: Susan suddenly became younger, with her hair in pigtails; Lucy was a baby he was holding in his arms for the first time; Ed and he were holding sticks, attempting to whack one another. The dreams were relentless.
And a face. Always a face, blending with his siblings' features in other moments…on the verge of his mind, like a lost thought so desperate to be discovered.
He had realized that night that these were not dreams he was experiencing. They were memories. Memories so frail they were nearly translucent.
The sky had held no answers for him that night either.
But the sky was his. And it would not fail him.
It had finally unfolded to him the following evening in the moment that the first star appeared on the rim of the world, while the sky was wrapping herself in a thick shawl of indigo clouds. A memory so vibrant, so perfectly clear that he could feel himself seven again, still small enough, still young enough, to want to be held by someone who was his safety and his greatest ally. Someone who stood with him before the window-pane to point out a star. A star belonging to an entirely different sky; different constellations. But oh, so painfully familiar.
Still his.
"Do you see it?" his mother had whispered, speaking as if there was something delicate she would break if she were to speak loudly. Her hand was pointing. "The Northern Star. If you know where it is in the sky, than you will always be able to find your way home."
The window-pane misted over once again as he breathed out, sighing. Ah. There it was. His answer.
The cover over the night pulled apart, clouds dispersing beneath the incessant tugging of the wind. Through their separation, he saw it glimmering exactly where he knew he would find it. The Northern sky became clear.
The Northern Star of Narnia was exceptionally bright in comparison to the other shimmering orbs decorating the night, which Peter found comforting. Through that one, unfailing connection, his former world and his current reality were united. Forever. It couldn't have been very far away that his mother was watching her own set of stars.
And, through them, watching over him.
Thank you, Aslan.
Peter, feeling as if he were once again that ignorant, mold-able boy, lowered his hands from the window-pane.
Not a King.
Just a boy.
A boy who still needed his mother's guidance. One who would find it in the clear, Northern skies.
In a word: Magnificent.