Always Spring and Never Summer (Once a King, Always, Immortal Remix)
Remix Author: Aldalindil
Original Story: Once a King by Rynne
Summary: Once a king or queen in Narnia, always, forever. They never thought it would be like this, and they will never be the same.
Rating: PG-13
Fandom: Chronicles of Narnia
1. Time Cannot Erase
The bed felt too large for Lucy. Though it was the right size for an average adult, the expanse of cool, smooth sheets was far too vast for someone whose hands could scarcely encircle a cup, who couldn't see the top of the bureau, whose feet didn't reach the floor when sitting in most chairs. The white sheets were pale like snow in the moonlight, too, and Lucy couldn't bear them.
She couldn't bear many things, lately. Sardines and eggs and tea turned bitter in her mouth, and even toast was hard to swallow and left a lump in her throat. Outside was dreadful; the fresh air brought tears to her eyes. Indoors, the sight of a fire, of shadows on the walls, put an ache in her heart and seemed to choke her.
"Thank goodness it isn't Christmastime," she whispered once, to Peter. "I couldn't live through it."
He only nodded, as Lucy had expected. Peter didn't tell her she was being silly, like Susan did, with her eyes bright with tears. And, unlike Edmund, he didn't put on a brave face and tell her that it would all be all right. Peter nodded, seeming far away, and because Lucy was looking, she saw his fingers twitch toward where his sword should have been.
Since her bed was out of the question, the concept of bedtime itself ridiculous for her, Lucy had taken to wandering about after the others were asleep. She used to love nighttime, when she was a queen. The stars in Narnia were brighter than in England; they sparkled like a scattered handful of jewels across the sky. She had a necklace made of sapphires and diamonds, once, a constellation at her throat.
***
Summer nights in Narnia are warm and wild. Alive. At home, the world seemed to stop at bedtime, but here, Lucy knows the beasts and beings out being raucous in the woods and by the shore and in the sea. She has talked to the foxes and owls and hedgehogs; can feel the trees growing, stretching to reach the stars.
Mr Tumnus has told her about the wild dances in the woods, fauns and dryads and naiads playing pipes and drumming and dancing. He promised to take her to one, someday, when she's a little older.
The trees are alive here, more than they are in England. Mr Tumnus promised, too, to teach her to talk to them. They are Awake, he said, and perhaps that is what Lucy feels.
All of Narnia is Awake, and it seems silly to go to bed simply because it's dark. There's so much to see here, so many things to do, so much to learn that Lucy can hardly bear it. Sometimes, she thinks her heart might burst with joy.
"Shouldn't you be in bed, Lucy?" Edmund asks behind her as he comes out onto the balcony overlooking the sea.
Lucy turns and smiles, because she can hear joy in his voice, too. Edmund has started to smile again without looking nervous or guilty, and that, more than anything, is why she reaches for his hand to pull him closer.
"How can we sleep with all this around us?" Lucy asks quietly, looking up at him, gesturing with a hand that seems far too small to take it all in. "We're kings and queens of Narnia, Edmund!"
Edmund ducks his head modestly, but not fast enough for Lucy to miss his quick, pleased smile.
"We're just children, still," he points out, reminding Lucy why Aslan named him 'The Just.' Trust Edmund to be fair and practical about things, even when they're in a castle, awake in the middle of the night, with a faun playing a lute in the courtyard below and the stars almost singing.
"I'm not a child," Lucy says, and she's surprised that she doesn't sound like one, even though she swings his hand and could--but doesn't--twirl with delight. "I don't feel like one anymore. Not really. Not…quite."
"But you are," Edmund replies gently, and he ruffles her hair exactly like a big brother should. "We both are. That's why Aslan wants us to be kings and queens, I think."
Lucy lets go of his hand in order to lean her arms on the low balcony railing, and she rests her chin on her hands, thinking about this. "I didn't mean it like that," she says at last, quietly, hoping Aslan wouldn't be disappointed in her for wishing, earlier, that she was grown up and beautiful, a true queen already. "I just meant…I feel different. I feel more."
Edmund is quiet for a long moment before he comes closer and puts his hands on her shoulders. "You are more, Lu," he says. "You're a queen, now. But you have years to grow up. We all do."
"Here in Narnia?" Lucy murmurs, finally starting to feel a little sleepy.
"Here in Narnia," he agrees, and he bends to kiss the top of her head before turning her and offering his arm to lead her to bed, formally, as Mr Tumnus taught him to in their first Proper Manners for Court lesson. He pauses in the doorway.
"Goodnight, Queen Lucy the Valiant."
When Lucy falls asleep, she dreams of being a little girl, back at home, in thick, scratchy socks and a heavy jumper and heavier shoes, of plodding to school and eating a bland lunch, of dreary rainy days and a beginning arithmetic book.
She wakes to the scent of daffodils and the sea, to bright morning sunlight and a robin's egg blue summer sky.
"Narnia," Lucy whispers, overjoyed.
2. These Wounds Won't Seem to Heal
Fur. And blood, so much blood, how could so much blood be in anything? And sweat, and his feet slipping on the slick, dark grass, and hot, burning, sour bile in the back of his throat, and oh, God, he'd killed it. He'd killed it, and it had almost killed him, and the world was shaking. The ground was tilting. Wasn't his name down for Eaton, and wasn't he supposed to be studying algebra and Latin conjugations, and wasn't it Peter who was supposed to look after the others, to keep them safe, set a good example, and not have a steaming, hairy carcass at his feet?
The sword felt so right in his hand. It was made for him, as if he'd pulled it out of a stone (or Father Christmas' sled, equally ludicrous), and he knew, now, that he would always feel naked unless it was at his side.
Not because he wanted to use it, but because he could.
His fingers twitch.
"I think Professor Kirke wouldn't mind if we took them down and tried a few passes," Edmund says behind Peter, causing him to start and blink stupidly for a moment, disoriented.
Not in Narnia, he reminds himself. Not High King, not magnificent, not with a sword--oh, God, his sword--just blooded, his own blood singing in his veins, his trousers tight, shamefully, exhilaratingly, magnificently; he was a man, could do anything, world stretching before him like the sea--
Peter clears his throat and presses his lips together and blinks again, because the crossed heirloom swords above Professor Kirke's mantle have begun to waver, and High Kings--and boys his age, for that matter--don't cry in front of their younger brothers.
"We wouldn't want to get too out of practice," Edmund continues, tactfully not looking at Peter's face. "The Lone Islanders will get arrogant, and we'll have to work extra hard to put them in their place."
Edmund's voice threatens to crack on the last word, and Peter looks at him for a long moment before closing his eyes. He doesn't trust himself to speak, yet. Particularly not the words on his tongue. "But those aren't our swords."
"I--" he glances at the swords again. Can almost feel the hilt of the one on the left, the heavier one, against his palm. Can almost hear them ringing. Is afraid to find out how much his body has forgotten, even if his hand remembers.
"Well, or not," Edmund says at last, and tension loosens its grip on Peter's shoulders. "Even if the Professor wouldn't mind, the Macready would have our heads."
Peter nods, and though he wants to turn away, to go to the library and find the dullest Latin verbs he can, he forces himself to look at Edmund.
There was a time, years and a few weeks ago, when Edmund's jibes would have been merciless if he'd seen his brother crying. Now, Ed looks back soberly, compassion clear on his features, and, after a moment, bows.
"Always," Edmund says when he rises. Peter nods, closes the distance between them, sets his hand on his brother's shoulders, and kisses him upon both cheeks.
There are boys at school who would be merciless about that, about Edmund's court poetry and Peter's skill with a harp, the way they both can dance, but Peter and Edmund haven't been like other boys for a very long time.
"Thank you, brother," Peter whispers.
"Always," Edmund says again, and Peter knows, hearing him speak the word, that it's true.
3. The Life You Left Behind
There was a time when the damp didn't seep into Digory Kirke's joints and press on his shoulders, slumping them down and forward. There was a time when his voice was not hoarse but clear, when his mind was not cluttered with cobwebs and books, when his knees and fingers still remembered how to climb walls and trees and steep attic stairs.
They don't, anymore. His mind does, but flesh is weak, and old, and tired, and the chair in his study is comfortable, which is why it takes a very good reason indeed for him to venture outside in the unseasonably cold rain, hobble down the slippery garden path, and fold himself onto the bench.
"Bit cold for admiring the garden, is it not?" he asks at last, eyeing the younger Master Pevensie who sits, coatless and shivering, in only short trousers and a jumper.
The boy shrugs. "It's spring," he says stubbornly, frowning at his lap. "And I like it. Sir."
"Hmm." Professor Kirke nods and spreads gnarled hands on his knees. The children told him about their adventure, once he revealed that he, too, had been to Narnia, and this boy--Edmund--had allied himself, at first, with Jadis. (The children called her 'the White Witch,' but Digory remembers--all too well--a face pale as salt, juice dribbling down her chin.)
"So," he says, when Edmund continues to shiver silently, "you have come here to flagellate yourself."
"What?" Edmund gasps, looking horrified, and the Professor's shoulders tremble as he realizes the boy's misunderstanding and tries not to chuckle aloud.
"To punish yourself," he clarifies, lips still twitching behind his beard. "For your involvement with the White Witch."
Edmund crosses his arms, red sleeves nearly dripping. "I haven't been."
The Professor nods again, looks out at the tiny leaves and newborn shoots through the rain, and sighs. "You know," he says, after a long moment, "I had a hand in bringing her to Narnia in the first place."
He continues to look straight ahead. Out of the corner of his eye, though, he can see the boy gaping at him again. "You did? How?"
"Oh, it's a very long story," the Professor says, "the point of which is, forgiveness is absolute, and while repentance is admirable, guilt, on the other hand, is unnecessary."
He does look at Edmund then, meets his eyes, and smiles. "And, I think, it is a tale best told indoors, with tea. If you are interested in hearing about how Narnia came to be?"
"Verily, good sir, I would be honoured," Edmund replies, and he rises in one smooth movement, with a warrior's grace, and offers his arm in a courtly gesture to assist the professor to his feet.
4. Been Alone All Along
It has rained every day for a week. There is rain this week almost every year, always on this date. And now, thick, fat drops slide down the taxicab's windows like tears, as if the sky itself is weeping.
There was a time, once, when Susan liked rainy days. When rain was comforting, cosy, and the dreary, colourless world outside could be ignored in favour of baking, or curling up with a good story, or playing safe, indoor games like checkers or hide-and-go-seek. The sound of rain used to be soothing, drumming on the windowpanes, splattering down from the gutters, blank, meaningless noise that always used to help lull Susan to sleep. She never had understood why rainy days made Lucy so restless.
Susan has never forgotten the sound of the rain against the spare room's windows at Professor Kirke's house. The way the downpour plastered her hair to her hot, swollen face when she stepped off the aeroplane and back into England. The way wet, upturned earth smelled, mingling with expensive perfume, as her high heels sank into the mud.
Susan closes her eyes; inhales, smelling cigarette smoke and the leathery seats; cradles her forehead in one hand and wishes the driver would turn the radio's volume up. The rain is too loud against the windows, too insistent; the street outside too grey and miserable.
***
"What's the matter, Su?" Edmund asked one day, years ago, when it was raining. "Are you all right?" He came and perched next to her on the window seat, red jumper seeming too bright, almost, next to the washed-out world outside.
"I saw a robin today, Edmund," Susan replied, wiping her eyes. "A big one, and I thought--"
His eyes widened, and his face got that knowing look he'd worn so often since coming back through the wardrobe. "Ohh. You thought it was… Did you speak to it?" he asked, almost a whisper. The hope on his face gripped Susan's heart and made her want to start sobbing again.
Instead, she drew herself up, pushed back her hair, and pulled away when Edmund moved to hold her. "I should hope not," Susan said at last, giving him a withering look. "Why would I do that? I thought, it's spring, and no word from Mother. If we have to spend the summer here, in this dull, dusty mansion, I'll die of boredom."
Something flickered across Edmund's face, and he stood, and nodded, and shoved his hands in his pockets. "Don't worry, Su," he said at last, looking past Susan, out the window, as if he could see something more interesting than the curtain of rain and fog. "We'll get back someday. We won't be stuck in this dreary world forever."
There was a promise in his voice, and in his eyes, when he finally met Susan's. For a moment, Edmund seemed taller, broader, and Susan could almost imagine that his voice was deep and reassuring instead of a boyish alto. Then thunder roared outside, and Susan jumped and shivered, and Edmund was just Edmund again. He gave her a small, sad smile before he turned to go.
Susan waited until the door was shut softly behind him before she finally opened her hand. The tiny piece of eggshell looked like a drop of summer sky against her skin.
***
"Airport, miss," the driver says.
Susan jumps. Forces a smile into the mirror, lipstick curving like a mask, and fumbles for her purse as they approach the terminal.
"Headed somewhere special?" the cabbie asks.
"London."
"Ah." He nods, the brim of his cap bobbing like a duck's bill. "Thought I heard an accent. Going to see family?"
"My family's dead," Susan snaps as she climbs out. There are deep puddles by the curb, and her stockings get soaked, but she doesn't care.
The cabbie looks wounded by her tone, sorry for asking, and Susan feels herself softening even as she hates herself for it. "They died eight years ago tomorrow," she adds quietly, more gently, fishing for a few more dollars for his tip. "I always go back, to--to--"
"Pay your respects?" he asks with a nod.
Susan's lips twist again, almost a smile. She always was the one most likely to fall apart quietly rather than explode or shatter. "Something like that."
It's raining harder now, but she can hardly hear it here, inside the airport. She can't see any windows, and the wet, muddy smears on the tiled floor make it easy to pretend that the rain is only water.
Only water, not the sky crying, not tears from someone who roars grief like thunder, sobs downpours, and isn't mourning them, but her.
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Always Spring and Never Summer (Once a King, Always, Immortal Remix)
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