My Soul Can Reach

Chapter Four: Peter

"I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise."

~ Sonnets from the Portuguese, XLIII, Elizabeth Barrett Browning

When Peter Pevensie was ten years old and boarding a train for school, his father gave him his younger sister's hand and a copy of Rudyard Kipling's "If." Peter copied it out, memorized it and kept the book by his bed. He took it back to school with him and when the bombs started falling, he took it to the country. He didn't take it into the wardrobe, but by then he didn't need to.

Being the eldest wasn't the easiest thing. It was a bit, Peter thought, like walking with crowds in Kipling's poem. One was expected to lead, but only so far, because parents would return soon, siblings were still equals and rarely ever cared to be led (though they always expected one to know), and if he ever lost hold of that hand in his, he might be forgiven, but never by himself.

When Peter first saw Cair Paravel, shining like a star on the eastern horizon, his breath caught. He would have knelt in awe, except that he'd already seen greater. I show you this because you are the eldest and will be high king over the others. Being high king was a lot like being the eldest. It meant taking care of what was not his as if it was, taking a great deal of complaint as he did so, and giving everything back when called on. Until the memories faded, Peter was the only one who never questioned that they might go back (Or go on. Kings did not live longer than ordinary men, after all, and often quite the opposite.). A king held more hands in his than a brother.

Peter was a warrior. He led troops in battle and lost, even when he won, because it was a rare day on which an army returned without a single soul fallen. Victory was a thing to be cherished with mead and song, with thanks to the One who made it possible, and honor to those who would not see what they had preserved. There were many songs written about the high king, but Peter allowed them to be sung only when credit was given where it was due.

Magnificent was a word for the overenthusiastic. It bespoke grandeur, but only bards and children saw grandeur in a battlefield. Peter saw only honor and duty, the swift arrow, the sharp tooth, and the arm seconding his. He saw the bright hearths and quiet woods and raised his sword to keep them undisturbed. Children deserved the naiveté of safety, thought Peter who had been innocent, but never naive.

Peter expected to go back or go on, but he expected to leave someone behind to the take the reins. The floorboards of the spare room were fragile and weak under Peter's feet or perhaps it was his legs that were unsteady, but he pushed himself up anyway. "Well, we're back."

It was the high king's responsibility to say what others couldn't.

Being the eldest was a lot like being high king. Siblings, like subjects, needed protecting and often don't realize it. They needed an example even more, and so the eldest could not grow impatient (he'd learned the dangers of that) or give into the temptation to complain about unfairness (It was not that he never asked why, but that the answer was always in front of him).

The Old Narnians would have followed their high king returned into the mouth of an abyss, and leading them was like mounting a familiar steed again for the first time after a long illness. "We haven't come to take your place, you know, but to put you in it," Peter said because the Narnians needed to hear it, and so did Caspian, and because once the promise was made he knew he would keep it.

Caspian was as young and uninitiated as Peter once was. He had no brothers or sisters, but he did have years of training in battle and statecraft-just enough to befit a prince, but never so much as to threaten a king (one of Miraz's many misjudgments). It was not Peter's crown he gave to Caspian-Under us and the high king-but it felt that way.

Bear it well, son of Adam.

Professor Kirke was a good teacher, of both philosophy and life, and he had tutored students for the university admissions before. Peter put his mind to his work and wrote advice to Susan in America and commiseration to Edmund and Lucy in Cambridge. When three overflowing letters arrived from the latter, he wished he'd thought to send word to Caspian, just in case. Letters were sparse from Susan, but that could be blamed on German U-boats.

When Peter was old enough, at last, to fight again, the war in England was over. "There will be another one," said his fellows, nodding sagely. Peter, who knew how true it was, said nothing.

He said nothing again, when Susan first excused herself from meeting with the others. Saying nothing became harder as one excuse became many. Magnificence was just a word, but they were Gentle and Just and Valiant, and Peter had no more battles to fight except to keep them so.

Being right was not always enough, and quarreling had never succeeded in keeping that hand in his. Edmund all but named it a betrayal when Peter finally called a retreat. "You never gave up on me."

He tried to explain that it wasn't giving up. I wasn't the one who brought you back. A king knew when a battle was out of his hands.

He was twenty-one and bent over his medical books in the Professor's study, when he overheard Jill in the garden outside. "It seems a bit unfair," she said. "what if Edmund had been older or Lucy?"

"That would have been a right disaster," said Eustace who was less of a trial, but as blunt as ever, and had shared a room during long ago holidays with Peter and the old Edmund. "Er. No offense."

Edmund snorted. "It would have been," he said. "But can you imagine it? Really?"

Jill's voice was thoughtful. "I suppose not."

"Peter is high king," said Lucy. "No one else could be."

Eavesdropping, even unintentionally, never felt right. Peter cleared his throat, and closed the window.

You are the eldest and will be high king.

It never crossed his mind that the one might have nothing to do with the other ("Magnificent," Edmund said long after. "Of course it didn't.").