A few weeks after the first chapter.
Susan rapped on Peter and Edmund's door. "Enter," came Peter's voice. She poked her head in, and looked around. Peter was leaning against the window, looking down into the tiny back yard, watching Edmund and Lucy weeding the side garden patch. A notebook rested, forgotten, in his hand.
When she didn't say anything, just stood there looking at him for a moment, he turned. "Yes? What do you need, Susan?"
She dropped her eyes from his bright blue gaze, still piercing and commanding, even here. She fiddled with the hem of her sweater. "Well. You know Father's coming home tomorrow."
The golden head turned back to watch their younger siblings. "I do."
"Are you nervous?"
"No."
"Are you…" she gulped, and went on. Peter was always at his most obstinate when you suggested he might be the slightest bit out of order. "Are you going to… give the family back to him?"
He twisted to look at her, looking confused, and closer to his own age here in England. "What do you mean?"
"Well, your taking care of Mother with that man down at the factory a few weeks ago, for one."
"What?" his brows knit. "You didn't hear the things he was saying. He needed taking care of."
"And Father's not here."
"Right. So I took care of it. What's wrong with that?"
Ah. He has no idea. All right. That makes things easier. Drawing on the years in which she earned her title as the Gentle Queen, she crossed to him.
She knew, now, that she was right to speak to him, to soften the potentially harsh meeting between a father and his eldest son. A father who would still remember the gangly boy on the cusp of adolescence, and wouldn't be remotely prepared for the king gazing out of his son's face. A son who was used to ruling, and accustomed to taking the burdens of leadership and responsibility on his own shoulders. A son who was unused to ceding that responsibility to anyone else.
"It's going to be more difficult for you and me," she said. "Accepting Father as the head of the household, I mean. He was gone for so long, even before Narnia, and then…"
Understanding dawned. "…And then, with the four of us spending the better part of two decades there, learning and growing and ruling…"
"And of course we had our advisors, and our tutors, and Orieus really was like another father, especially to you and Ed," she said, "but you and I had to be brother and sister and father and mother to Ed and Lu, especially early on."
"And now we're right back there again," he said. "Oh. I hadn't even thought of it."
"And we all—the three of us—are in the long habit of looking, ultimately, to you for direction."
"We were co-rulers!" he protested. "You all had as much say in the goings on in Narnia as I did. More, in some instances," he snorted.
"Yes, but when push really came to shove, it was our High King we looked to, and Aslan."
"True." He sighed, and ran a hand through his hair. "It's funny. I was just writing down all the precepts of chivalry, of knighthood, and of kingship that I could remember. I don't want to forget them, and surely if they are good enough for the High King of Narnia, they are good enough for plain old Peter Pevensie. But now I wonder if dwelling on our time in Narnia will make it more difficult to… fit in, here."
"Well, I don't see how being chivalrous and knightly and kingly could get you into trouble," Susan said slowly. "But especially with Dad, you're going to have to keep it under wraps somewhat, or he might feel you've taken his place."
"But he told me to!"
"Yes, and now you have to give that place back, Peter." She urged him gently, and he blew out a breath.
"You're right. Though I think fitting back in is going to be hardest for Ed and Lu, not you or I."
"How's that?"
"They were so little when he went away… spent so much of their lives away from him. I'd be surprised if Lucy really remembers him much. And Ed, of course, was so angry at him for going away in the first place, back then."
"Right. But all that's changed, now. I suppose," she laughed a little, "the four of us will just have to hang together through this, too. I never thought England would offer as many difficulties as Narnia did!"
"Every world has its challenges, which we must overcome with as much grace as we may," he said thoughtfully, and again, the High King shone through. Then he was just Peter again as he snarked, "And my chief challenge seems to be having three younger siblings to keep after, in whatever world."
She mock-punched him in the arm. "That's not a very chivalrous thought. You are supposed to care for and protect us!"
"You told me to keep it under wraps," he shot back, and she laughed.
"Really, though, thanks for the reminder, Su. Things are going to change, one way or the other, tomorrow."
"We'll weather through it," she said. "We always do."
The next day was tense. At the station, where they were to meet Father, Peter nearly had to sit on Lucy to keep her from bouncing around, Ed had fallen into a sort of uncertain sulk, and Susan was being extraordinarily upbeat, keeping a smile fixed to her face at all times.
Their mother by contrast was the epitome of calm, and Peter was suddenly reminded of Susan as she'd been during their Narnian days: serene and kind and calm in nearly every circumstance. She never wanted to make a fuss or upset anyone, and Peter suspected much the same thought was going through his mother's mind. He gave Lucy an admonishing squeeze, tousled Edmund's hair (he got a scowl back), and patted Susan's shoulder as he rose and strode to where his mother stood alone on the platform, looking past the other milling people, her eyes fixed on the empty tracks.
"C'mon, Mum," he urged, gently taking her arm and leading her to the bench where the others were sitting. "It's no good your standing around in the wind alone. Sit with us. We'll all get up to meet Dad when the train gets here."
Her hands flew to her cheeks. "Are my nerves so obvious as all that?"
He grinned. "No, but your hair flying around in the wind does look a trifle odd."
The hands moved to her head in disbelief. "My hat. My goodness, I left my hat at home. How could—"
"I didn't notice until we were nearly here," Peter said apologetically.
"You can borrow Susan's," Lucy volunteered. "Hers matches your coat."
"Certainly, Mother," Susan agreed, "Here, take it."
"But what will you wear?"
"She'll take Lucy's," Edmund put in.
"But that leaves Lucy without a—"
"She doesn't mind," Peter, Susan, and Edmund all said, before Lucy could say a word. The youngest only laughed and nodded.
"Truly, Mother, I don't mind."
"She'd be barefoot too, if we gave her half a chance," Edmund muttered to Peter, and got an elbow in the ribs from his sister for his teasing.
So they were all laughing and chattering and far more relaxed when the train finally chuffed its way up to the station, and then there was a veritable flood of muted khaki and green and brown out of the cars' narrow doors.
There were cries of joy from some of the knots of people around them, intermixed with cries of half-dismay when a loved one proved to have returned missing fingers or his nose or an ear.
Mrs Pevensie stood on her tiptoes for a moment, bracing herself against her son's strong shoulder, straining to see her long-gone husband in the milling crowd.
Peter took advantage of his relative height to scan the faces of the men pouring out of the cars. They all looked so similar, with their uniform jackets and hats framing faces with uniform haircuts and moustaches.
Susan concentrated on keeping her smile bright, and blushed when she inadvertently caught a passing young man's eye.
Edmund frowned as he watched the crowd, trying to put a few years' ageing on the face in his mind, recalled how Peter's face had changed so drastically after the Battle of Beruna, and mentally added another couple of years.
Lucy, for her part, uncharacteristically hung back a little, unable to reconcile the rather stern looking man in the sepia-toned photograph with any of these living men walking towards them. She turned in a circle, looking at all of the identically-dressed men carrying identical haversacks, and felt a little afraid. How would she ever know her father in this crowd, when she had only the vaguest memory of what he looked like?
Then she remembered the feel of a Lion's breath on her and straightened. It was only her father, after all. Orieus had been far, far more stern than anyone she'd ever met here. And if she didn't quite remember her father—didn't quite recognize him—what did it matter? She'd just have to get to know him now the War was over.
As she straightened and turned, she heard a step on the pavement behind her.
"Is—is that—my little Lucy?" She heard someone gasp, and, bewildered, turned toward him. Oh—she did recognize him, in a vague sort of way. Not his face, so much as his personality or his presence, but...
"Dad?" She half whispered, taking a step toward him.
Edmund turned to see what she was looking at, and his eyes went wide. "Dad!" He shouted, as though he were eight again, and right after it came Peter's voice, in a bark, Dad, like he was shouting orders in battle, and then the whole knot of them closed in on one another and it was all tears and hugs and shaking hands and claps on backs. The boys got manly hugs from him, the girls a smacking kiss on the tops of their heads, and Margaret a sweet kiss that made Susan sigh and Edmund make a face. Then they were all walking down the road together, a whole family for the first time in a long, long time.
It took a few days for things to settle down. As there really wasn't a routine for anyone to get into—school didn't start for another two weeks—they all more or less made it up as they went along. Mr Pevensie would take his sons fishing in the early morning, and Lucy went along too a few times when she woke early enough.
That had been one of the first surprises; Joseph had entirely expected one or another of his sons to strenuously object to their baby sister tagging along. Or at least give her a look or roll his eyes. To the contrary, they both welcomed her eagerly into the fisherman's ranks, and showed no sign of wishing she were gone.
And another surprise was on its heels: rather than being impatient and running about and scaring all the fish away, as any energetic girl of her age would be expected to do, Lucy was nearly soporific, leaning heavily and contentedly against Peter's back as she lazily watched her line for bites. Edmund was snugged against her leg, in turn, idly watching his own line.
No one spoke much. Mr Pevensie had intended to let this be a manly, bonding sort of activity, wherein he could impart some of his hard-earned wisdom about growing up to be a strong and stalwart sort of man, but… he had the strangest sense neither of his boys needed the lessons.
There was something odd about his children, and he couldn't quite place what it was.
Perhaps it was the odd half conversations they had with one another, almost as though they forgot he was sitting two feet away. Or perhaps they thought he was asleep, as he had his hat pulled quite low across his face.
"You know what this reminds me of?" Peter drawled suddenly, casting a sideways glance at Lucy, who snickered.
"I believe I do, brother mine. It reminds me of a time when—"
Edmund straightened. "Oi! Allow me, friends, to advise that the first who should hit me in the face with any fish will soon be meeting the rest of the pond's inhabitants …in their living rooms." He said, with perfect dignity.
Lucy giggled. "Oh, Ed. We wouldn't. On purpose anyway."
"You're still maintaining it was entirely an accident? You ruined my best doub… er, shirt, dear sister." He cast a nervous glance at his apparently-sleeping father.
"It's not my fault that Otter came chattering up—" started, a trifle heated.
"Ssh, sister. Calm down, or you'll scare the fish," Peter reminded her, and she relaxed back againt him with a sigh. "You too, Ed."
"Certainly, your magnificence," Edmund replied, and Joseph though that a very curious name for a boy to give his elder brother.
There was a little silence, and Joseph used the time to think. Something about the conversation—its tone, as though they were discussing secrets instead of fishing, or perhaps the slightly odd cadence to their words—bothered him slightly. Perhaps they'd picked up a bit of one of these country dialects? That must be it.
He made a show of 'starting awake' then, stretched, and readjusted his pole. "Anyone have any bites?" he asked casually.
"Ed has two; Lu has one pretty big one—"
"—I threw the really tiny one back—" she interjected.
"—and I've got three mediumish ones." Peter finished.
"Ever our leader," Lucy smiled, and though the tone was teasing, her eyes were sincere.
Joseph decided he'd had enough of this strangeness. "Well I've got two decent sized ones, and that should be ample fish for dinner, so what say we head back home?"
The three exchanged a look, then rose as one.
Joseph rather had the feeling they'd have stayed, sprawled across one another like puppies, if he'd let them. Just as well they were heading home, then.
Later, after the children were in bed, he and Margaret discussed it. "I just don't know," she said, in response to his theory of the children having picked up a trace of a dialect. "It doesn't seem to fit. It's not how they speak, exactly. It's how they act."
"Well, what is it they're doing?"
"They're… good." He gave her a look. "I know, it sounds stupid when one says it out loud, but they're unnaturally good. They hardly quarrel or squabble, they are courteous and kind and respectful, and even when it rains for an entire day and they're all cooped up indoors, they get along pretty beautifully. And the moment a quarrel might start, all Peter or Susan have to do is say a word, or give a look, and the quarrel is forgot.
"And the other day, there was a boy teasing a kitten when Edmund and Lucy were helping me carry groceries back home, and Lucy shouted at him to stop."
"That certainly sounds like Lucy."
"Except she gave Edmund her bag and started after the boy, quite as though she were going to box his ears or rescue the kitten, or, oh, I don't know. But she didn't react like a usual little girl. I'd have expected her to cry out of pity for the kitten; she was ready to fight, or at least to rescue."
Joseph sat up straighter. "My goodness. What happened then?"
"Edmund muttered something about valor, put his bags down, and caught up with her, said something she didn't much like, and sent her back to me. It was all very fast. It takes far longer to tell you than it took to actually happen, you see. And Eddie caught up to the boy, said something to him he didn't much like, and simply took the kitten away from him. And whatever he said to the other boy left him standing there staring, when I was half expecting to have to witness a fistfight. And while I'm glad the children would defend a poor, helpless animal from someone who would be cruel to it…" she sighed. "Again, it all seemed very… deliberate. As though they had roles to play, or a job to fulfill."
"Hm." Joseph was silent a moment. "What happened to the kitten?"
"Oh, Lucy took it, and looked at it a moment, and then rather suddenly carried it up a few doors and gave it to those elderly sisters who live at thirty-six. The Misses Featherson. And there was another strange thing."
"What's that?"
"Lucy gave the kitten to Miss Featherston, and said to her, 'I know you've decided to get a kitten, and this one needs a safe, loving home. Won't you take him in?' and Miss Featherston agreed. I came up as quickly as I could, but Lucy had already gone on. Of course I apologized for Lucy inflicting a pet on a neighbor, and offered to take it back, but Miss Featherston laughed. 'Bless me, the little lady is right,' she said. 'We have been thinking of getting a pet. But what I don't understand is how she knew. For you see,' she said to me, 'We only settled that we definitely wanted a kitten about an hour ago. I was just heading out to the shop, when the little miss solved that problem very nicely.' "
Joseph frownd. "That is a little peculiar," he admitted. "But surely it's a coincidence."
"Maybe. But there's just something odd. Like they're not the children we sent away."
"Well, children do grow, you know. And who knows what effect growing up during the Blitz, and the beastly War, and having to leave your whole town behind, might have on a child? Perhaps they just had to grow up a little sooner, and now their childhood fits them a little oddly. We just need to have faith and patience that it will all work out for the best."
"Do you think so?"
"You're telling me my children are, after a war, more polite, more thoughtful, more courteous, and more selfless than they were before? Darling, I think we have the least worrisome children in the whole of south England. Peculiar or not."
"I suppose you're right."
"Just have faith." He soothed her, and peace fell on the finally united household.
Please let me know your thoughts so far!
