Kingly
"Alex, why do you love me?" I turned, startled at Peter's odd inquiry.
"What do you mean?" I answered cautiously, not quite understanding the question.
He looked at me from where he was seated on one of the over-stuffed couches in his room. "I mean – why do you love me? What for? Is there a reason or do you just . . . love me? What I'm trying to ask is do you love me because I rule Narnia? Do you love me because of the power you could have? Or is it something else? I know it's a stupid question, and not at all rational, but I'm just wondering."
I walked over from where I was standing by the window and sat beside him, watching his face, trying to catch the meaning of his words in his deep, blue eyes. "Ii guess," I started," well, I guess I love you because I just do. But I know I don't love you for Narnia, or for the power that I could have, and know that I shouldn't have. I don't love you for being a king. I love you for being a King."
He watched me with confusion. "What do you mean?"
"What I mean, is that crown or no you're Kingly. No matter how much royal paraphernalia and courtiers you have, you're still Kingly. You could be living in the slums of England for your entire life and not have known you were – and are – a king, and you would still be Kingly. It's the way you act and think and do things. Do you understand?"
He leaned back, looking thoughtful. "Yes. I think I do."
"Does that answer your question?"
He looked down at me, a hint of a smile playing across his face. "Yes, it does, Alex."
"Good."
Fin.