III: but i'll be back, i'll be coming back to life

Peter fell through first. He tumbled out of the wardrobe onto the floor, the wood banging against too-knobby knees and the groan that came out of his throat was too high, too light. He didn't have much time to gather himself before a body, small but bony, barrelled into his back with enough force to send him sprawling,

Peter wrapped his arms around Lucy's shoulders, holding her tightly as he rolled them out of the way. There was something off about him, about the air around them, about herself.

His hold was weaker, his fingers thinner, his chest narrower and more hollow against her back. The fabric of his shirt itched against her skin and it smelt funny, like dust and copper.

A cough bubbled in her throat as she breathed, the air dry and heavy in her lungs. She watched, trying to figure out what was different about herself, as her last two siblings fell from the wardrobe. She saw Edmund's mop of dark hair, and Susan's outstretched arms as she tried to catch herself. Edmund rolled to the side, much like Peter had done, but Susan raised herself up on shaky, pale elbows. And Lucy saw her face and barely recognised her, all wide and frightened, the face of a child, before she turned.

Susan was the first to run back to the wardrobe. It was her who practically threw herself back in. It was her arm that was thrust into the coats, it was her fingers that reached and reached till it hit the back wall. It was her knees that gave out, and she was the one to realise what had happened. Before Peter, who sat up, his mind too caught up in Lucy? Is she all right? Susan? Where's Ed? Is everyone all right? Before Lucy, who stared at her like she was a ghost. Before Edmund, whose eyes were glued on the windowsill, watching out for his siblings when they couldn't watch out for themselves.

There was a man on the windowsill. Though Edmund felt off-balance, though his side was barren of the weight of a sword, though his hands shook at his sides, Edmund knew that if it came down to it, he would fight him.

He took the man in, noting his weaknesses. He was old. Though age never meant anything, he reminded himself. He favoured his left leg, shifting a majority of his weight onto his right. His knuckles were red and inflamed, hinting at arthritis. There was a gleam in his eyes— curiosity, if Edmund had to name it— and a quirk to his lips that contradicted any ill will. But Edmund had been fooled before.

'So you've finally come back,' the man said, his voice soft and worn like the pages of an old Narnian history.

The three remaining Pevensies whipped around. On instinct, Peter held a hand out, pushing Lucy behind him. Susan rose to her feet, though her eyes were glassy with unshed tears. Edmund stepped forward and demanded in a voice that couldn't carry all the threat that he intended, 'Who are you?'

The man smiled. 'Do you really not remember?' He tilted his head at them. 'You weren't gone for but an hour. How long does an hour span in the Lion's Land?'

Lucy perked up. 'You mean Narnia?' she asked.

'Is that what they're calling it now?' The man chuckled. 'I was there when it was created, you know. When the Lion called upon the first trees, when the apple tree was planted and Jadis of Charn tainted the holy soils.' He looked at them, that curious gleam back in his eyes. "When the Lion left with the promise of saviours to defeat her once and for all.'

Edmund flinched at the mention of the half-giant. 'And we were there at the fall of the White Witch,' he said lowly. 'When the Lion returned and breathed life back into the land.'

The man's eyes widened as he looked at Edmund and Peter. 'The two sons of Adam,' he whispered. Then Lucy and Susan. 'The two daughters of Eve.'

They didn't say anything.

Peter relaxed his stance, sensing no danger in the situation. He glanced behind him at Lucy, who clung to his arm. She sensed his gaze and looked up to him. She offered him a small smile and gave his hand a soft squeeze. It'll be fine, the smile said. We'll figure this out, the squeeze assured him.

Susan stared outside the window as her mind caught up with the world around her. Memories floated to the surface, and a name stalled on the tip of her tongue. The name of the man on the windowsill.

Edmund spoke first, 'You're Diggory Kirke.'

The man only smiled. 'And you're the King of Narnia.' He dipped his chin towards the other three. 'Your Majesties.'

They didn't blush or duck their heads, only took the words as if he was only an ambassador from Calormen.

But Lucy pushed forward, despite Peter's arm still holding her back. She looked into the man's eyes, the man of old age, the man who had seen the Old Age, the only man who knew, who would understand their situation.

She looked at him, and asked, 'Will we ever go back?' Because that was the sort of question that a seven year old girl was supposed to ask. But it was a twenty year old queen who begged, who pleaded for reassurance. Who would barter and claw and bleed her way back to her kingdom.

The old man saw this, despite her youth, and answered as honestly as he could, 'Of course you'll get back to Narnia again someday. But don't go trying to use the same route twice. Indeed, don't try to get there at all. It'll happen when you're not looking for it.'

And the little girl nodded, satisfied with this answer. But the queen inside wept, because she knew that if there was a way back, then the old man would've found it by now, and he wouldn't be on the windowsill, exiled and abandoned.

But perhaps it was because he was looking for a way back. Or perhaps it was because the Great Lion knew that, though he wanted Narnia, Narnia was not what he needed. Or perhaps, deep down, despite everything, the man was done with Narnia.

Little did the little girl, or the queen inside her, or the two sons of Adam, or the girl who ran back to the wardrobe know that Narnia wasn't done with them.