Chapter Two

Our Wills Are Ours, We Know Not How

A familiar scenery unfolded before Agnes as she stood on the safe edge of the station platform. She watched closely the clusters of passengers waiting for the next tube. Her dark blue coat was buttoned tightly against the chill. The school crest shone proudly on her chest. She clutched her school bag filled with books to study over the weekend in one hand. Her small trunk was leaning against her leg to be close enough for her to pick up if ever she must.

The London Underground station, veiled in the grey chill of early morning, was teeming with soldiers of the British Army. They shed no tears as they murmured apologies; they knew their chances of returning home were slim, yet they did not speak of it explicitly. Their promises had long gone cold.

And the look in their eyes. Agnes knew it well from both this war and the one in Narnia. She had grown familiar with such sights after years of war in Narnia. Their stiff uniforms, their quiet, resolute stares. They reminded her too much of her own army, the way they had stood tall even as the Great Hall crumbled around them.

But Narnia was different. The Second World War was only young. England bore no traces of turmoil suffered in centuries from the Dark Ages. Although, the pain was all the same to her.

Agnes' gaze lingered on the soldiers; their faces tight with unspoken goodbyes. The sight reminded her too much of her older sister Caroline, who had left the family a year ago, just like their eldest brother Frederick years before her. Both had promised to come back with hesitant promises fragile as glass. I'll try, my darling.

But one returned cold. The other remained somewhere out there, and the war went on.

Agnes clutched her school bag tightly, her knuckles pale. The station's whistle pierced the air, and for a fleeting moment, it sounded like a battle horn.

She blinked rapidly, shaking her head. 'No. That was another life. Another war.'

None of her family ever knew the battles their youngest daughter had fought in another world. They never would.

They would never ever know that when she was evacuated, Ms. Amelia took advantage of her independence and made her do labor in exchange for her safety in Wales. Agnes thought the older woman had a disdain towards aristocratic families, so Ms. Amelia took it out on Agnes, even if her parents had unnecessarily paid the accommodation handsomely. It was supposed to be a donation, but Ms. Amelia had another way to extend the collection of her payment.

Of course, Agnes did not tell. It was there that she discovered Narnia.

It had all started by an accident: a slip into the fountain pond at Miss Amelia's villa a year ago led her to be washed up on Narnia's seashores. As she had made sense of her surroundings, Agnes was named regent with the court of the Kings and Queens of Old waiting for her arrival. It was not an easy feat for her to accept the prophecy, but eventually, she did, spending decades learning to rule, to command armies, and to lead through increasing tensions. And when her time was done, Aslan returned her to England at the same time, the same place as though nothing had changed—unchanged in body, but her heart and soul profoundly altered. Then, bring her back each day she spent in her world to spend years in a world that she tried to make sense of as her own as well.

The Dark Ages came suddenly. For Agnes, it had been only a day in England, but Narnian time worked differently. Prophecy, which she no longer remembered completely, had made her the interim ruler, at least until Cair Paravel could find its rightful monarch. With each passing time, her shoulders grew heavier with the weight of the kingdom's struggles. She was weary of the endless struggles—crises within the royal family's line of succession, the constant strain of leadership, wavering faith and growing dissent, and lives lost in battle. Even though she was the most capable regent, she could not stay forever as she always had belonged to England. And without a true monarch, the Narnian kingdom's future remained uncertain.

" Aslan's plan ," the people would whisper whenever she disappeared for an uncertain amount of time, unsure of her own place in the grand design.

Time and time again, she returned until the siege and was thrust back into this world, where her life as a schoolgirl never seemed so small.

It had been a year since then.

Now, she waited on the edge of a crowded tube station, no longer a warrior nor regent. Her heart was heavier than she cared to admit. Everything about continuing her life felt wrong. How could she move on while Narnians definitely perished in her absence?

The station's oppressive hum from the bustling noises pressed against her temples, drawing memories she had fought to bury, so she diverted her attention to somewhere else. She was surrounded by a chaotic mix of footsteps and chatter echoing off tiled walls. There were muffled announcements crackling over loudspeakers that only the older people paid attention to.

Agnes decided she had enough of the crowd, so she followed the line of the platform down the other side. As the cold wind passed through her, her gaze drifted until it settled on a boy around her age sitting on a wooden bench with a newspaper at the far end of the platform.

Strangely, as she moved, she felt… Lighter and effortless, despite her trunk in tow. There was a profound oddness in her state. As if the sight of that boy had struck a forgotten chord inside her.

There was something familiar about him, though Agnes could not quite place why. Surely, it must be his navy-blue uniform that she had seen around public spaces like this one in London at this time. Judging from the red and gold crest on his blazer, he was going to Hendon House. Despite fitting him nicely, his coat seemed to weigh his shoulder down.

Realizing her presence, he lowered the newspaper, revealing his face, and shot her an indifferent glance. He was handsome in a regal fashion, but undeniably boyish in his stature.

A flush spread across Agnes' cheeks. She felt a pang of self-consciousness. Had she annoyed him? But she needed an answer to her troubled thoughts.

The boy shifted upon regarding her, folding the newspaper with practiced ease. For a moment, their eyes met, and Agnes felt it. A fleeting sense of recognition in a way that made her back straighten just slightly.

She took a steadying breath. It was foolish, really, how easily the mundane world triggered her longing for a place that seemed more a dream than a memory. Her footsteps felt light as she moved closer to the bench, her curiosity pulling her forward, as she came up with a quick and believable excuse as to why she was staring.

"Excuse me, sir," she asked, her voice composed but light. "Would you happen to know the time for the next tube's arrival?"

His eyes narrowed just slightly as he took her in, and she noted that his eyes were blue. A beat passed, but he did not reply, as if he was weighing whether to speak at all.

"Nine and twenty-six of the clock," he said finally. His voice was steady, but his gaze lingered on her face longer than necessary, before looking away with a frown as though she had unsettled him.

"Thank you," Agnes said, dipping her head instinctively in a gesture of formality she had practiced a thousand times in another life. Then, she caught the frown and apologized. "I don't mean to bother you…"

He shook his head almost immediately as if to clarify himself. "It's not that. You seem—" He paused. There was something searching in his expression, something that made Agnes stand a little taller. "I think I know you from somewhere."

His eyes flicked briefly to the crest of her school uniform—the school crest gleaming under the fluorescent lights—then back to her, before he looked away. The boy's lips quirked upward in the faintest hint of a smile.

"Your school," he said casually as if the words were not laced with curiosity. "Henrietta Barnett, isn't it?"

"Yes." Agnes shifted, her curiosity growing. "You know it?"

"You don't see that kind of courtesy often," he remarked.

Agnes' face reddened even more. "It's just," her thoughts fumbled, "Yes—you really don't." She glanced down, feeling exposed.

He smiled faintly. "You remind me of my sister. She goes to St. Finbarr's with our youngest sister. You speak like her. Articulate, measured. The sort of person I don't come across every day." He nodded toward her school uniform. "They must teach you well."

Agnes returned the smile. "Thank you. I suppose they do." Though she had spent most of her time in Narnia learning strategy and politics, she was grateful for the lessons she had received here, too.

Her thoughts lingered on Trotwood, the faun who had served her loyally in Narnia. What had happened to him? To the Horn? And to Cair Paravel itself? Her mind swirled with anxiety, but she pushed the thoughts aside for now.

As she turned her gaze back to the tracks, she caught him watching her again, though he quickly looked away. There was something about him. Something in the way he held himself, poised yet restrained. Something that Agnes wished she understood, so she could know why she was feeling this way for a stranger, a boy most of all.

He could not be one of them. She had blown the Horn, but the Kings and Queens of Old were surely long gone.

Perhaps he was simply the son of some nobleman like her. Yes, he could be.

She searched through her memory, trying to recall anything she had heard about them aside that they were from Spare Oom , but her thoughts scattered as she saw his posture slump again, reminding her that he was just a boy, after all.

"You know," he said, breaking the silence. "You could borrow it if you don't want to keep staring."

She had been unintentionally focused on the newspaper's headlines. "FOREIGN SECRETARY EDEN SIGNS ANGLO-SOVIET TREATY."

"Forgive me. My mother tries to shield me from the news of war, but I can't help sneaking glimpses when I can." Carefully, she set her trunk against the wall as she spoke and sat beside him, feeling him watching her movements as he placed the newspaper beside him on the bench.

His eyes softened as he regarded her empathetically. "I understand," he said. "After the Blitz, my youngest sister couldn't bear hearing the war reports. Our father was called to war, and after hearing so much bad news from out there, we had to shut off the radio at night. I can't imagine what it's like for someone like you."

Agnes' chest tightened as memories of home in Hampstead flooded back. She remembered her mother, ever reserved and stern, simply walked out of the drawing room after a telegram arrived bearing news that Frederick was killed in action during the Battle of Narvik. The shouts in her father's study as her parents argued with the perpetually stubborn Caroline, who insisted on continuing rendering her efforts for the Auxiliary Territorial Service; her thirst for justice burning brighter than Agnes' sense of duty.

"My mother did it because she didn't want to be reminded of my brother," Agnes whispered before the words left her mouth, and a weight settled deep within her. "He fought in Norway while he was serving in the Coldstream Guards."

"I'm sorry for your loss," the boy said softly, his tone sincere. "He must have been a good man."

Her voice faltered. "Don't be. It still hurts," she added, more pleading than she meant. "I feel like I should've done more to honor him."

They sat in silence for a while before he spoke again, noticing her shift in demeanor. His voice was barely above a murmur. "Isn't it a privilege that you don't have to fight, though?"

"No, it's not." Agnes shook her head. "It feels like I'm supposed to fulfill something . Like I have a duty," she murmured, eyes casting downward. "I can't shake the feeling that I should be doing more. The war's still out there, and I'm here, stuck in school while my family fights."

"I get it," he said. "I feel the same way. I wish I could do more. But the thought of never coming back to see them—my family. That keeps me from it."

"Everyone would regard this as a fairytale life," she muttered dolefully. "I could do more. I want to do more."

"By Lion's mane, I could not agree more," Peter said with a mirthless chuckle, almost to himself. "I feel like I'm trapped in a fairy tale. Kings and queens in a land that doesn't exist anymore."

Agnes froze. "What did you say?"

Peter looked as if he was a deer caught in the headlights, but then shrugged it off. "Nothing. Just an old habit of expression..."

"That's not a habit most people have," she murmured, watching him more carefully now.

For a moment, neither spoke. Agnes felt the conversation teetering on the edge of something unspoken. The crowd moved around them, oblivious to the invisible thread that now tethered the two strangers together.

"What's your name?" he asked finally, his voice steady but carrying an undercurrent of urgency.

"Agnes Beckett," she replied. "And you?"

"I'm Peter," he said simply. He paused briefly, then added, "Peter Pevensie."

The name struck her like a thunderclap, a jarring collision of memory and reality. She fought to keep her expression composed, though her mind reeled. ' Could it be? '

Could this boy—this seemingly ordinary schoolboy—be connected to the Kings and Queens of Old Narnia she had heard so much about from another life? But there was something about the way he stood, his shoulders heavy as though he carried a burden too great for someone his age.

Could it truly be The High King here in this world, unaware of who he once was?

Before she could form a reply, the tube's arrival was announced through the crackle of the loudspeakers, its approach signaled by a rush of wind.

"Perhaps," his voice was barely audible over the growing noise, "We've more in common than we realize." He helped her to gather her small trunk, a chivalrous gesture that tugged something inside her chest.

Agnes nodded, her heart pounding. "Perhaps."

She stood still momentarily, her eyes catching Peter's across the bustling crowd. Something unspoken lingered between them, a quiet agreement on what had been said and what remained unsaid. At the back of her mind, she knew this encounter was no coincidence.

Whether fate or Aslan himself had orchestrated it.

She shifted her weight from one foot to the other, her thoughts suddenly swirling. Her fingers itched to do something, anything, to make sure this fleeting encounter was not their last. Then, she remembered she could make it last.

She glanced at the postcard tucked into her school bag: a girl in a war uniform standing proudly with a Union Jack flag waving in the background with motifs of roses and daisies bordered with ribbons, stars, and hearts. It came from Caroline, but she was determined to give it to him. She could not let the opportunity slip with the air between them charged. The postcard had the address of her family's Hampstead townhouse.

Peter was about to return to his place on the bench when Agnes called to him softly.

"Peter," she said. The sound of his name for the first time on her tongue felt foreign and oddly intimate.

He paused and looked back at her, his brow furrowing slightly.

"I—I have something for you," Agnes continued, her voice a little more hesitant than she anticipated. She reached into her school bag, retrieving the postcard and holding it out toward him.

Peter raised an eyebrow but did not speak. His gaze dropped to the card in her hand, and his eyes lingered there for a moment longer than necessary.

Agnes hesitated, the postcard trembling slightly in her fingers. What was she doing?

And his eyes…

Deep blue as if they held the secrets of the universe.

Her heart pounded in her chest as she extended the card. "If you ever—if you ever feel like it," she said quickly before her courage faltered.

It was as if the words could slip away and dissolve into the noise of the station. The gesture was so vulnerable that she felt lightweight. But then, she took a breath, squared her shoulders, and continued as her conviction steadied.

"Would you mind? I'd like you to keep in touch. You know my school. We have a house in Hampstead. I'll be in Surrey for a while, but I would appreciate it if I come back and see if there's a letter from you. You can write to me there if you ever feel like it."

Peter took the postcard, his fingers brushing hers lightly as she pulled away. Her heart seemed to skip a beat at the touch. He looked at the writing on the back; her address neatly scrawled in her older sister's careful script. Then, without warning, he glanced up at her, his eyes a little more guarded now.

"Funny, isn't it?" Peter said. "Sometimes you meet someone, and it feels like you've known them forever." His last words were almost to himself, his voice quieter, glancing down at the postcard in his hand.

Agnes' heart pounded in her ears. She forced herself to smile lightly, though her mind raced. "Do I?"

Then, his eyes were on hers again. A flicker of uncertainty passed over his face. He looked away then, frowning slightly as if the thought unsettled him.

"Known in forever," she echoed, the words tasting both foreign and familiar. Agnes bit her lip, the weight of their strange connection pressing in on her chest.

As the tube pulled into the station with a rumble, a sudden flurry of activity swept over them. Passengers moved briskly, pushing toward the doors, eager to board and leave the station.

The station seemed to blur around them. There was no reason to think he meant Narnia, yet his words stirred something deep within her. Had he ever stood on the shores of a great sea, where the horizon seemed endless? Had he ever walked through ancient woods, where the trees whispered secrets older than time?

Peter gave a small, almost imperceptible nod. Then, he looked down at the postcard again, turning it over in his fingers.

"I'll write," he said, almost a promise, but with an unreadable expression.

Agnes smiled. "Thank you," she whispered. A strange certainty washed over her at that moment, like standing at the gates of a castle she had once called home.

When the tube had fully stopped with a loud hum, both Agnes and Peter's eyes were drawn to the glass windows of the tube in front of them. It reflected nothing but their school uniforms. But then, the reflection rippled.

Agnes' breath was caught in her throat. She was not wearing her school uniform anymore, but a familiar gown of crimson embroidered with intricate golden patterns. Her hair was braided and pinned like a crown and her golden rapier strapped at her side. She looked regal, as she had once been. Her heart clenched as the memories surfaced, sharper than she expected.

And, Peter's reflection transformed as well. He stood tall in resplendent robes of blue and gold, and a sword at his side. A crown rested upon his fair hair. His hand hovered near the hilt of a sword with a pommel she recognized faintly, but he held himself with authority.

Like he was king of kings.

Agnes could not breathe as she took everything in. She blinked, then frowned.

A faint sound—the rustle of wind through ancient woods, the crash of waves against a distant shore—resonated in her mind. Instantly, the air felt lighter, tinged with the salty tang of the Narnian seas.

Peter turned his head slightly, and for one heart-stopping moment, their reflected eyes met. Not as two strangers in the underground station, but as two figures who had stood on a faraway shore, an ancient battlefield, in a time long past.

There was a sharp whistle being blown, and the spell was broken.

The reflection shattered, rippling back into the mundane glass of the tube window. They were themselves again in the grim monotony of wartime England.

And yet the weight of it lingered, pressing against her chest like a stone. She glanced at Peter. He looked confused. His brow was furrowed as though he, too, had seen something he did not understand.

' Could it be? ' Her thoughts raced again and made her head spin. She gripped the handle of her school bag tightly, trying to ground herself in the present.

Peter gingerly passed her trunk to her grasp. He appeared to be something that had shaken his resolve. "It's strange, isn't it?" he said softly. "Sometimes, the past doesn't stay where it should."

Agnes hesitated. "Yes. Almost as if it's waiting for you to remember."

The doors of the tube carriages slid open with a loud, mechanical sigh, and the other passengers surged forward.

Peter glanced at the tube carriage, then back at Agnes, as if he wanted to say something else. Instead, he simply nodded, his lips pressing into a thin line.

"I'll see you soon," he said softly. More to himself than to her, as if there was a certainty.

Agnes stepped towards the tube carriage, her heart thudding in her chest. She did not know when she would see him again, but the postcard in his hand felt like a tether. A bridge between two worlds. One was grounded in the present, the other she suspected might be something far beyond either of their reach.

Agnes held the cold, metal pole of the tube train. Her thoughts lingered on the brief encounter with Peter—his hopeful gaze, the strange sense of familiarity that tugged at her heart. It was as though they had known each other far longer than a chance meeting could explain.

As the station settled into a rhythm of bustling movement, she caught sight of a group of schoolboys in mismatched uniforms. Their laughter harsh and loud. They sauntered toward Peter with a swagger that made her stomach churn in worry.

One of the boys bumped purposely against Peter, blocking his view of the tracks. Peter looked up, frowning slightly, but said nothing. Another boy stepped behind the bench, and Agnes felt the hairs on the back of her neck rise.

"What's this, Pevensie?" the taller boy sneered, his voice carrying over the din of the station. He reached down, yanking the postcard out of Peter's hands. "Bein' lovey-dovey, are we? Got your head in the clouds again?"

Peter stood slowly, his expression calm but his jaw tightening. "I'd like that back, please," he said evenly, but Agnes caught the slight waver in his tone.

The boys laughed as the tallest one crumpled the postcard in his fist.

"Oops," the tallest said with mock innocence. "Guess you'll have to keep this one. How about you apologize first for getting in my way so I could mail you the scraps?"

Agnes felt her blood boil. She took a step forward, but the crowd shifted around her, and the tube's doors closed just as she reached for them. The mechanical hiss it emitted seemed to add salt to her helpless state.

She pressed her hands against the glass. "Stop it," she whispered, but the sound was drowned out by the muffled hum of the tube.

Outside, Peter landed the first hit, sending the taller one reeling back. He caught himself, his hand gripping the edge of the bench, but the boys retaliated. A second hit sent Peter sideways into one of the pillars.

Before Peter could recover, a dark-haired boy appeared out of nowhere, stepping between him and the group.

Agnes' fingers pressed firmly onto the glass surface, her knuckles white. Memories of battles in Narnia flooded her mind, and her hands twitched as if reaching for a weapon that was not there. Who was that dark-haired boy?

The train lurched forward, pulling away from the platform. Agnes' view of the fight blurred. The shapes of the boys dissolved into shadows. She slammed her hand against the glass in frustration.

The tube plunged into the dark tunnel and the hum of the tracks filled the silence. Agnes pressed her forehead against the cold glass, her breath fogging the surface. All she could see outside was the long wall of the dark tunnel.

"Why couldn't I do something?" she whispered to herself, her voice trembling with anger and shame. In Narnia, she would have drawn her rapier without hesitation, standing shoulder to shoulder with her soldiers.

But here? She had no sword to wield, no armies to command.

Only the suffocating weight of helplessness.

She clutched her forehead in dismay throughout the ride. Another sigh left her lips, this time longer and more exasperated, but before she could do anything else, the world before her shifted.

It started with a tremor beneath her feet. The dark tunnel blurred. The harsh fluorescent lights flickered like dying stars. The clang of the tracks felt like a distant echo, and the walls of the station began to dissolve, like smoke unraveling in the wind.

Agnes gasped, her hand flying to her chest. Her other hand immediately grabbed ahold of the hanging strap above her, only to clutch nothing but air. She looked up and immediately squeezed her eyes shut from the blinding hot light that blinded her view.

Her ears picked up the sound of waves crashing to and fro. As the light began to fade and the scenery began to appear vividly, her green eyes adjusted to a beach with golden sand and glittering waters stretching towards a horizon crowned by a great sun. In the place of the underground station, a salty breeze of sea spray and pine swept over her, warm and bracing.

Follow me at X and Tumblr heythereflyboy. Chapter 3 will be up by next week! Reviews will be very much appreciated.