In the three years since the start of the war, we had all seen more than any of us should have. The deaths of loved ones and fellow soldiers, the takeover of nations, the rise of pure evil. Things none of us will ever be able to unsee. But currently, I can honestly say I've never encountered such a strange person as Lucy Pevensie. And her family for that matter. Even in the darkness of this dorm room, with all its quiet answers, I still can't fathom how one family can be so, peculiar. If peculiar can even begin to cover what level of strange they operate on.
"Emma! Lucy's talking in her sleep again!" Is that Blaire? Wait, no Elizabeth. They room together, I think.
"Right-o, love. I'll take care of that in a minute. How did you get in my room again?" The little dark haired girl cocked her head to the left, like she always did while talking. That quirk was just weird. And when did she turn on my light? I'm slipping, I think.
"You left the door unlocked. Aren't you supposed to, being a RA and all?" Right, I'm a RA. Or a baby-sitter, as the running joke with the guys goes. Elizabeth's looking at me oddly. I guess I should do something about Lucy. The fog of sleep begins to life, even though I really wish it wouldn't.
Heaving myself to my feet, and nearly falling in the process, I'm faced with the startling realization that I'm not in the barracks anymore. Again. After nearly six months of being in this damned school, one would think I'd be used to this by now. Clearly, I'm not used to waking up to whining twelve year olds. Or skirts. Those are infinitely worse than the twelve year olds.
"Aren't you coming Emma? Emma?" I smile softly, or as much as one can smile at some unknown, and certainly unholy, hour of the morning. Elizabeth pads softly out of my room, prison, whatever, and down the dimly lit hall, towards the suite she shares with Blaire, Lucy, and some other girl whose name I can't be bothered to remember at this point in time.
I'm not used to the name either, I suppose. No stranger than Maddison, certainly, but Emma isn't exactly a name I like. But, neither is this God awful wig they have me wearing. All day, every day. Yay for me.
The door to their suite is open, and Elizabeth leads me quietly into the adjoining room, where Lucy is, rather predictably, talking in her sleep. And not mumbling like a normal person, but actually talking.
"But Aslan, why can't we? What did I do wrong?" Same as last week, apparently. More about Aslan, more about what they, he, she, did wrong. And as much sense, or lack thereof, as normal. I'd wake her and get no answers. As usual. Pushing back a fake strand of dark hair, I move to wake Lucy, when she bolts upright. And subsequently out of the bed. That was different. Though, not to be confused with good. Crying twelve year olds are never good.
Trying to maintain a calm façade, and not ask what the hell it was she was doing, I drop, wordlessly, into a crouch beside the frightened girl. And I'm positively dumbfounded. I haven't seen such fear since the battlefield. The raw fear, the sheer terror. A look a twelve year should never know. Another thing to note about the Pevensies. They seem to know more than they should. How government works, hell, how war works. It shows when they speak to each other, in cryptic phrases that no one understands. How they respond to questions in class, how they respond to more deaths that come in frightening waves, listed in the papers like ads for puppies. Like it doesn't even phase them; almost like they've accepted the fact, and are simply working with it. I don't understand it. And this girl doesn't like not understanding something, especially when it's becoming this vital.
"Lucy?" Surprisingly, the voice doesn't emanate from me, but from her eldest brother. Who's somehow magically bypassed security. Oh wait, the security for the girl's dorms is Miss Kreamons. A woman so old, I'm still not entirely convinced she hasn't seen every one of America's wars. Not exactly someone to fear.
Lucy bolts from her position on the floor into Peter's arm in about five seconds flat. He's cradling her much like one would an infant, whispering soothing nothings into her ear. I can't honestly decide which part of this I find more odd; the fact that Peter's here at all, conveniently at the same time his youngest sister has some bizarre nightmare, or the fact that he's dressed. No pajama pants, no sleeping shirt, but his school uniform. This isn't adding up. At all. And as much as I hate to break up this increasingly strange reunion, I really need to know what's going on.
"Um, excuse me, but what are you doing here, Pevensie?" As a standard rule, drilled into me by a few years of military experience, I address people by their last name.
If the bizarre reactions that had already happened weren't undeniably leading to something even odder, I would have been surprised by the look given to be the eldest Pevensie. As it was, that look brought back some memories of the Corps. Memories that I thought I'd buried better when they put me under in this assignment. Withering looks of pure hate from German soldiers who were being pumped for information. And now, a withering look of pure hate from a boy who certainly wasn't a German soldier, but an older brother, a young man no more than seventeen.
Elizabeth, who I had honestly forgotten about, shuffled uncomfortably in the corner. Sparing her a side glance, I tell her to go back to her bed. Carefully skirting around Peter, she sprints around the tight corner, probably to tell Blaire all about this otherworldly occurrence. Sliding my attention back to Peter and Lucy I'm surprised, yet again, to find them speaking softly to each other. In a language I've never heard before. And I've heard quite a few languages in my three years in the Marines.
"What's going on here Pevensie? How did you know Lucy was in trouble?" Another look of contempt, and I'm back to being ignored. Lucy shakes her head fiercely, apparently not liking whatever Peter had said. Not that I know what's being said. I can feel the frustration welling up inside me. A Marine plus frustration rarely ends well. Frankly, someone usually ends up dead. I move to step closer to the pair, when Peter rises up. Not stands, but truly rises. Like some kind of king or something. Startled, a hard thing to do to a Marine, I shuffle back a few feet. Lucy watches us with some kind of calm fascination, casually watching her brother and I, like this has happened before.
Has it?
"You will not question what goes on within my family. You will stay out of our affairs, and you will mind your own business." Peter's command flows with a practiced ease, the authority radiating off him in waves. No Colonel I've ever encountered seems to stand up to the power that Peter is displaying. Not the power, or the calm anger. It's an anger I'm admittedly more terrified of than I usually would be. There's something about a measured anger that is infinitely more dangerous than an outburst. A level of clear-headedness that isn't usually found, a sort of rationality that leads to carefully laid out plans. I nod dumbly, distinctly aware that we've gathered a crowd outside the door.
Peter gently smiles at his sister, tenderly kisses her forehead, and turns to leave. The girls part before him, like something I've only ever read about happening to royalty. I trail after him in a confused daze, numbly aware that this isn't how this should have gone at all. Irritated by the thought of being beaten, by a seventeen year old boy of all things, I snap at the girls in the corridor.
"Bed! Now!" The girls scatter towards their respective rooms, some sparing quick glances towards Peter, who has stopped abruptly in the middle of the hall. As if the tables had somehow turned in those two words, Peter is staring at me, confusion marring his face. And I know why. Somehow or another, maybe by the will of God, I snuck a bit of a southern accent into my short command. An accent that should never be found in England. And Peter knows it.
Lucy hums softly, almost to herself, loitering in the doorway. "Maybe this is why we were sent back." I turn to question her on the odd phrase, but the door is closed with finality; the knowledge that this conversation will certainly not be continued clearly communicated. Wondering how this night had gone so off-course, I turn back to address Peter.
But Peter Pevensie has disappeared like a whisper in the night.
So, Meg here. This is my first story, in um, an embarrassingly long time. The first I've ever actually put on here. Please be honest… Do you love it, hate it, think it's the worst thing you've ever read? Please review, let me know; any updates (should anyone actually like this) will be done when this college girl carves out some time. Thanks all!