AN: My submission to the NFFR Autumn challenge, which focuses around the lamppost.
Disclaimer: Nope. I have never, and shall never own Narnia.
The lamppost. It stood there in that quiet street, its old-fashioned make a direct contrast to the modernity around it. A flame flickered merrily at the top, not yet extinguished, and Peter felt a sense of familiarity engulf him as he glanced upwards.
It was his lamppost... and yet, it wasn't.
Reaching forward with a trembling and unsure hand, Peter traced the raised pattern, made coarse by its rusty coating. The lines blended beneath his hand, and his heart ached dully as a rush of memories, connected to the lamppost, made themselves known.
A flurry of wind, and snow, and ice. A beaming smile from the face of a beloved sister, and a practical frown from one now lost. Lucy's eyes danced within his memories, and frown softened as the kind hand of remembrance returned Susan to her former self; her gentle self. He saw, in his mind's eye, the darkening of his brother's face; and, once more, feelings of sombre and exhausting guilt clutched his heart, for now he knew what plan rested behind bitter, dark eyes. He reached forward, to grasp Edmund, to save him from himself; but his hand connected sharply with rusting metal and raised detail, jolting him from his memories with startling suddenness.
"It's as old as me, that lamppost," a bleak voice observed, cuttingly loud to Peter's dazed state of mind. "Maybe a little older."
Peter turned at the sound of the voice, and bowed mechanically to the old woman who stood there, her wizened face shining at the courtesy.
"You've got manners, you have," she said, in a voice of extreme satisfaction, bobbing in a feeble imitation of a curtsy. "Do you like the lamppost?" she continued.
"Yes," said Peter softly, his gaze once more drifting upwards and his pupils dilating. "It reminds me of so many things."
"Go on now," the old woman cackled, bending double with shrill, maniacal laughter, "you're a bit young to be reminiscing, don't you think?"
"A person is only as old as their soul," said Peter quietly, "and my soul has lived many years."
His face had an expression of such noble bearing, as he recalled those many years, that the old woman had a glimpse at Peter, the High King, and immediately stopped cackling.
"I believe you, dear," she said earnestly, placing a gnarled hand upon his arm and squeezing weakly. "You remind me so much of..." she stopped, poised in thought.
"Your son?" Peter supplied helpfully.
"No, no, God rest his soul," the old woman muttered, peering up at Peter with surprisingly sharp and intelligent eyes, "not of him. You remind me of the woman with the pale face and regal bearing, who nigh destroyed the street many years ago. She was cruel and cold, however; nothing like you. No, but you have the same other world quality. As though you were a foreigner not to England... but to the world."
Peter smiled at the perceptiveness of her statement, and answered with hidden truth:
"You don't know how many times I've wished to be in another world."
She laughed shrilly again, and shrugged bony shoulders. "Well, on the subject of lampposts," she continued, "and that pale woman; she caused a great deal of disorder to the street, and uprooted -- yes, I said uprooted -- one of the lampposts you seem so transfixed by. They never found it. No, she vanished out of the arms of the law and took the lamppost with her!"
Peter had heard this story many times from Digory, but the fact that he was on the very street where it occurred seemed to lend it a sort of allure. He looked around excitedly with all the enthusiasm of a schoolboy.
"Where did she pull it up?" he asked.
"Over there," said the old woman, pointing a quavering hand. "They replaced it with a modern one. Go look at it, dear. I must feed my cats."
She hobbled off with clumsy strides, a look of pure joy lighting and changing her face. Not many people bothered with senile Ivy Mathrope, and the fact that the handsome young gentleman had not only talked with her, but seemed genuinely interested in her company had caused the flush of youth to momentarily transfigure her bearing.
Peter waited respectfully for her figure to disappear from sight, before venturing forward, his gaze fixed upon the post that was, unlike the other, so foreign, yet familiar. It was smooth, and tall, and ugly. An impostor with no place in the suddenly old-fashioned street. Touching the smooth post with no sense of delicacy, or reverence, Peter felt a chill race up and down his spine.
There was a presence, not weakened or dulled by the passing of time, which still lingered by that spot. It was a cruel, malignant presence, and the hairs on Peter's neck and arms rose in sudden dread.
For he remembered to whom that Presence belonged.
Staggering backwards, shaking his head to distil dark and depressing thoughts, Peter glanced up at the top of the post. No flame flickered there. It was as devoid of warmth as the presence he felt.
"Hey, hullo!" a cheery, if impatient, voice distracted Peter from his musings. "We don't have all day to check the drains!"
Edmund's tousled head appeared over a nearby wall, and Peter allowed himself a fond smile.
"I'm coming, Edmund," he called.
Edmund was safe, he reminded himself; his family was safe; and, God willing, Narnia would be safe, too.
For the Witch was not only devoid of power, but of life.
As he walked away from both the lampposts, and turned to clamber the wall, Peter remembered that a certain lamppost has signified the beginning and end of a lifetime.
And he couldn't help but wonder if a new life was about to begin.