Epilogue 5: My King

This one, I confess, wasn't a request. It came to mind after I wrote "Burning White," where Patterfeet sees Peter rescue his siblings. I thought of how his siblings saw him, and, remembering a specific passage from The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe in conjunction with that, my brain birthed this.

"But none of the three were looking at Queen Lucy. Their eyes were fixed on something ahead of us.

"Oh, Peter," whispered Queen Susan.

I turned around. Around the High King lay dead or dying Fell. His helmeted crown shone in the light, his sword flashed in a dancing flame, and his entire being radiated that terrible light of unstoppable glory."

I once wanted you kneeling at my feet.

Of all the things I found sweetest, of all the promises she made, I never told you the one I dreamed of the most on that long walk to her castle. I saw myself making decent roads, smoothing my own way till my entire life was a walk of ease. I saw myself making laws, wielding power as easily as I breathed.

(I make laws now. It is one of the hardest things I do.)

But Peter, Peter, I never told you, I never confessed, that what I dwelt on the most was you, my King, at my feet. I pictured every detail. Your eyes fixed downwards, not daring to look up and judge me. Your hands were trembling. (I had never seen you afraid, but I would make you afraid, I would). Your shoulders bent under the weight of my authority. I was above you, so far above you that you could never reach my height. You were beneath me, where you belonged. I was where I belonged.

My King. I watch the sun burning on your sword, your eyes as stern and terrible as a star's pure light, and I wince at my former dreams. What a fool I was.

I have all that I asked for, and I have none of it.

You have knelt at my feet. When I sat wounded, unable to bend and bandage my leg, you came in. Without a word, you knelt. You cut off the soiled material, kneeling before me, careful of my pain. You washed the wound, water running in warm streams, so gentle as I flinched, and your strong hands wound bandages around my hurt once you finished. You, the High King. You knelt, and by kneeling made your glory greater.

Now I willingly kneel to you. High King over me and my sisters, over Narnia, made so by Aslan, it is a joy to kneel to your authority. Even there, You acknowledge my authority. And I have made you tremble, even cry, as I lay on a field dying. There is greater joy in kneeling than in having others kneel; I have been given the better part.

I am so glad, now, that I did not get what I wanted. Thanks be to Aslan, I did not live what I dreamed. Now, I see you fight, I see you burn, and I see those you lead. I know in my heart I would follow you anywhere. My brother, you forgave me for all that I once was, but sometimes I see so clearly how foolish were my desires. He who lifted you has lifted me, but put you higher, and I am fiercely glad for it.

You see us, and you are running. Your arms around us, your voice in our ears, thanking Him. Peter, I thank Him too.

Your gentle hands on Lucy, lifting her up.

Oh, my King, you are magnificent. You are safety, you are home, you and Susan and Lucy, and I do not deserve any of you.

I do not deserve anything, but He gave it to me to kneel to you.

He gave me so much more than all I once desired.