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"Oh, will wonders ever cease?
Blessed be the mystery of love”
- Sufjan Stevens, Mystery of Love
Caspian finds him staring down at the Telmarine crown. It’s a heavy thing – overwrought, and unwieldy and has nothing much of Telmar design to it, at least as far as he can tell. There is an orb and sceptre to match and neither fare much better than the crown. The gold is yellow as butter, but there is no warmth to it. The gemstones unmatching, half bright blue as the sea, the rest the deep colour of blood drying.
“I think we should ask Aslan to postpone the coronation. You can’t possibly be seen wearing that.”
“Do you think?” Caspian asks, sincerely. Peter can only glance at his eyes, wide and warm and worried, for a moment. The crown is harder on the eyes but easier to look at.
“I’m only pulling your leg,” he says, laughing as a reassurance. “But I will put my foot down when you’re king.”
“There are a great many smiths now, between the Telmarines and the Narnians,” Caspian says, pensively, resting a hand on the sceptres shape. “It would be good, to make something that is not a weapon.”
As always, Caspian is poetic, in a way Peter has never been. He had never had his sibling’s silvered tongues, and so he kept his words short. In many ways, he had been as much a symbol as the crowns they wore, the thrones they sat. When troubled times had come to them, his sword had answered.
“May I ask you something?”
“You can ask me anything,” Peter replies, softer than he intends. Caspian seems more hesitant now at Peter’s willingness than he might have been should Peter have refused him.
“Where is your crown? Is it in the treasure room at Cair Paravel?”
“Lost,” he replies, but there is a sinking weight in his throat that he does not want to try and shift lest it become more obvious. “I was wearing it the day we left.”
And beyond the sorrow of it, for he had loved his crown, there lies relief. While he is glad, more than glad, to step aside for Caspian, Peter is afraid that to crown him with his own might unravel his newly won peace. Peter has spent a year, using the only voice he was left with, his hands. Picking fights, picking his fingers, desperate to return. He had never imagined that when he did return, it would be to a land that needed his sword more than it needed his Kingship. A land he could no longer navigate.
“Would you accept another, if I were to have another made?”
“I am no longer the King of Narnia,” he says, weary with the grief of it. It goes hand in hand with relief and they do not battle each other but wax and wane as the sun and moon. Would that their leaving had not be thrust upon them, would that it had been a choice, would that the Narnia they returned to had not needed saving.
“I was once told that once a King and Queen of Narnia, always a King and Queen of Narnia. There is no King Caspian without you, Peter. There is no Caspian at all.” Caspian voice is lowered now, though the King’s solar is empty and private besides.
“Perhaps.” He concedes. Caspian’s words are dangerously close to bringing him to tears, right here, only half an hour before they are due to leave. “As you say, it would be good for the smiths to be able to craft something that is not a weapon.”
♛
The procession to the ruins of Cair Paravel takes the whole day, but the joy and music and revelry do not stop for one moment. If one player stops for breath, there are a four others who pick up the trailing music and weave it back into the river of song. There are none of the great Narnian trumpets that had heralded their procession. Instead, the instruments are small offerings from Narnian homes, flutes and bells and lutes. What had kept their homes alive in their hiding, its own kind of sun. Susan is singing, Lucy’s voice harmonising alongside her, and it is one of the very same songs that the Narnian’s had marked their own coronation with.
Spring has taken her first breath,
And with it winter has met its death.
Adam’s blood will now sit at throne
In Cair Paravel, great jewel of stone.
Kings and Queens, Aslan will name,
And forevermore they will keep this flame.
Eventually, he cannot help it, his own joy comes trickling out from him like a waterfall and he has to join in. Peter’s voice has never been much to write home about, but he finds he doesn’t care.
By the time they reach the ruins, Narnians and Telmarines alike begin to perch on parts of crumbled pillars, fallen walls. It should feel painful, he thinks, to use their old home, a Narnian graveyard as a seat, but it’s not. There is nothing disrespectful in this. The centaurs had ridden ahead, and stand now like a tree tunnel, swords angled like a tin roof. Aslan steps forward and his siblings fall into their old order next to each other. Caspian hangs back in line with them, but Susan gently pushes him forward. Aslan bows his head, and the ceremony begins.
Eventually, it is their turn. Trumpkin waits with Trufflehunter and Reepicheep, ready to pass along their gifts. Once, another time, it had been Tumnus stood there, with the beavers. It stings, like a healing bruise, to see others in their place. But these new friends are no less cherished.
It is Lucy who goes first, as always, their bright light. She takes a vial of ocean water, that she collected herself. Pouring a little drop into her left hand while Susan takes the vial off her, she dips her thumb in it and when he bends down to her height, wipes it across Caspian’s forehead. Feather light, she places a kiss upon the same spot. Next, Edmund approaches Caspian with a handful of earth and lets it drop into his open palm. Peter’s own palms are starting to sweat a little, so he wipes them as surreptitiously as he can against his tunic. Susan, smiling and radiant as the southern sun she belongs to, hands Caspian the Telmarine sceptre in his free hand.
And now it is his turn. Peter takes the crown from Trumpkin’s proffered hands and grips it. The gold is cold to the touch, the various rises and falls of metal catching painfully on the scratches marking his hands. If his hands are shaking, then there is only Caspian who might notice, as Peter lifts the crown and rests it in Caspian’s dark hair. It is not Peter’s crown, but in many ways it feels as such, handing away Narnia and his stewardship in one fell swoop with his hands release.
But it is strange. As he steps back and Aslan’s voice goes ringing through the apple groves, across the ruins of Cair Paravel, Peter feels peace, for the first time since the battle was fought.
“To the bright celestial moon, I give you Caspian the Peaceful’
There are no thrones left for him to sit on, but he had reassured that it was no problem. ‘I have sat on royal chairs for long enough’, he had said when Susan had asked. Peter expects he will stand, but when he turns to face his people, he surprises them all and sits on the floor, legs crossed like a child. Even Aslan looks taken aback.
Peter is the first to kneel.
♛
The night before they are due to address the Telmarines, Peter finds himself waking in the stillness of middle night. It is not that in and of itself that is unusual; Peter, as with Edmund, as with Susan, but not with Lucy, is no stranger to starting awake from nightmares. They had all but lessened by the time they had returned to England, but of course, as with all things, that had changed on their return. However, this night he finds himself peaceful. His heart beats a dull thrum in his chest, and there is no sweat slicking his forehead. What there is, however, is two small hands tugging at his night shirt.
“Peter!” Lucy exclaims, as loud as if it were the middle of the day. “Aslan’s calling us.”
“Five more minutes, Lu.” He mumbles into his pillow. He doesn’t doubt her now, not ever, but surely even the great Lion may understand what kind of hour it is.
“Come on,” She says, tugging at his arm. Throwing back the covers in annoyance, he pads his way toward the window where she stands. The moon is at its zenith, and through the glass he can see Aslan across the valley, bright light haloing around his fur. Well. No use in putting it off.
Peter wraps himself in a robe, shoves his feet in slippers, and joins Lucy at the door with a fresh candle. They get about four steps down the great hallway before he hears a rather peeved whisper from behind them.
“Morning.”
It’s Susan, wrapped up too and holding her candle to herself as if it will protect. Her face, puffy from sleep, shifts in the candlelight, flickering from fear to resignment to hope. When she reaches them, he hooks her arm into his. Whatever this is, whatever it means, they will be doing it together.
“Where’s Ed?”
“Oh he’s waiting by the gates. He’ll be terribly grumpy by now.”
“What took you so long,” Edmund grumbles lightly when they reach him. He ducks out of the way when Peter goes to ruffle his hair.
♛
“Aslan,” Peter says, for them all. They have not seen sight nor sound of him since the coronation, and though they knew to expect him the next day, it is strange to see him appear so often. They have all become so used to his absence.
“Kings and Queens. Thank you for joining me tonight. Let us walk.”
Again, they fall into the same order beside Aslan, river water diverting down the grooves it’s always walked. When he does not start to speak straight away, Lucy breaks the silence.
“Does the land look different for you too Aslan?”
“It is both the same as it has always been, and as different as night and day.” Peter can only huff a little chuckle under his breath. It is exactly the kind of puzzling thing Aslan would say. “I have told you that I wish to gather everybody, and when I do, I intend to give the Telmarines a choice. Once, they came from the same land you hail from. That is what I shall offer them; the chance to step through a door and return to that land, or to remain here. Tonight,” he says, in the most indistinct part of woods, with only owls and moths and hedgehogs to bear witness, “I offer you the same.”
They all halt where they stand, looking at each other over Aslan’s back. He’s not looking back at them, but staring forward, his tail flicking like a falling leaf.
“A choice?” Susan asks, throatily. She is deadly still and looking to Peter. Aslan walks forward and turns back to face them. He too is looking at Peter.
“What do you mean, sir?” He asks, biting down on his gums to keep from drifting away.
“You have lived your lives; here in Narnia, and back in your own world. You have learnt well of both. Now it is up to you to choose where you shall learn more, for there is always learning to do. You have done enough. You are ready.”
Lucy and Edmund are looking over now too. They are waiting for him to speak, the sibling without words. Promise me you’ll look after the others, their mother had begged him at St Pancras’ station, so many years ago. Their mother… they would never see her again, if they stayed. And father, he thinks absently, a little guilty that he came as a second thought. But isn’t this just growing up, moving away from family, becoming your own. And they do, become their own here, in a way they never have at home. That is the reason they are looking at him, rather than voicing their thoughts, as his ever-opinionated siblings are wont to do. They all know what they want, they’re just afraid to say it. They want him to be brave for them.
“I wouldn’t stay if it’s not all of us. Wherever we go, we go together,” he says, and well, it says it all really.
“What about Mum and Dad? The Professor?” Susan asks, because she’ll always prod at an answer to make sure its watertight. She wants to stay too, but she’s needs to look over the edge before she takes the dive.
“I think they’d want us to be happy.” Edmund says, quietly. “And that’s the choice really, isn’t it? England’s not so bad, but it doesn’t make us happy, not like Narnia does. If we went home, we’d be leaving people too. Trumpkin, Glenstorm, Caspian.”
Peter keeps his face still at the last but he fears they know regardless. Of course they do.
“Will we ever see our parents again?” Lucy asks tremulously.
“When you walk my country, yes, little lioness, you will.”
Even in the darkness, Peter can see Lucy’s face light up like it did when they stumbled out from the station onto Narnia’s beaches. That’s all the reason he needs.
“We’ll stay, Aslan, if you’ll let us.”
Aslan smiles, and his great yellow eyes crinkle together. Lucy launches herself towards him and it only takes a second before the rest of them join her, a pile in the forest on top of Aslan.
♛
In the council room, after one particularly tedious drawn out discussion on the latest responses from the surrounding countries, Caspian calls him back while everyone else filters out. He can feel a headache oncoming, likely the result of the fresh snow that had fallen that morning, but in no way aided by the council. It is on days like this he remembers the less rosy parts of Kingship. Once he would never have thought to steal half an hour in his bed to stave off a migraine but things are different now. The world will not stop without him watching it.
“Come, sit here again for a moment.” Caspian says, and gestures to Peter’s seat to his right.
“If this is more policy, I am not responsible for my actions.” He says, coming to sit down regardless. In his delicate hands, Caspian has a tight scroll which a messenger had delivered to him just before talk had begun. Peter sits, but he keeps loosening and tightening the parchment. “Come on, you asked me to sit. What is it?”
“Do you remember,” Caspian begins, in a gentle tentative voice, “the day of my coronation?”
Peter only raises his eyebrows slightly. Caspian knows he remembers. He will have to give him more than that.
“That day, I asked you if I could have a new crown made for you- for all of you. And I, I wanted it to be a surprise. But the more I thought about it, and I started working with the smiths, I realised, I want you to have a hand in it. I had a few ideas but, that’s all they are, ideas. Will you look at them?”
“Why ask me, and not one of the others?” Peter asks, touched by his sweetness but confused. He has never shown much ability for aesthetics. Lucy was the artist, and Susan had the eye for beauty. Edmund knew how image counted. Peter should be the last choice.
“Oh, I have only started on your own. I wanted your thoughts first before I went to your siblings.”
Peter breathes, shallow and sweet. He doesn’t know how Caspian can reel off these words, like it’s easier than waking but as if he does, also, mean them. He wishes he could be so brave. And because Peter’s voice is his hands, he reaches out and gently unfurls the parchment as Caspian watches.
The sketches are his own, he can tell by now what Caspian’s distinctive marks look like. His name, Peter, is written at the top. There are various designs here. Some crowns are somewhat reminiscent of his old crown, but only in their broad strokes, as if it has been cobbled together based only on a memory. Which, he supposes, it would have been. Instead of having a band, some are only leaf like the girls had been. Others are entirely distinct, entirely something new. All have little notes scratched beside them; ‘acorns between circle, diamond?’ he makes out on one, and ‘running etchings’.
“Well?” Caspian asks, a word he has started to pick up from them. “Are they bad?”
Quickly, Caspian tries to tug the parchment back but Peter holds firm. “Of course they’re not bad. They’re wonderful. Talk them through to me.”
Susan interrupts them about an hour later, and admonishes them for not lighting any candles. “You’ll ruin your eyesight like that,” she mutters, and drags them off for dinner. The new design, an incorporation of various others, is left sitting patiently on the tabletop.
♛
Peter’s lying in bed, valiantly plodding his way through a particularly confusing Telmarine text Caspian gave him, when he hears a rap on the door. It’s not like Lucy to knock, so he knows it isn’t her. Truthfully, he knows it is Caspian just from the way the knocks fall in careful, gentle rhythm, but he is not thinking about that.
“Come in.”
Caspian peeks his head around the door, holding something behind his back. “I did not wake you?”
He’s still dressed for the day, though his hair is a mess. It makes up for the week he spent in his nightshirt, fighting for his life, Peter supposes.
“No, just making my way through this,” he replies, lifting the book so Caspian can see it. “How can I help you.”
“I know it is late, and I could have waited until the morning but the smith just brought me this.” He says, shutting the door and revealing some kind of covered item from behind his back. “It’s your crown.”
“Only mine?”
“I had them make yours first. Now,” and he gets a mischievous glint in his eye, something that he has started doing more and more now that he is beginning to grow comfortable wasting time with mythological figures. “Let me crown you.”
“Oh don’t be ridiculous.”
“You crowned me; it is only right. It is not some great ceremony but it should be done properly. Listen to your King.”
“Well, if my King commands it,” he swings himself out of bed, and out of self-consciousness, closes the book gently. There is something that feels incredibly guilty about having Caspian in his room. Peter has thought of him often, and not at all as a friend and subject should, in the last few months. Pushing the thoughts down, as always but with renewed vigour, has done nothing.
Caspian unfolds the cloth before him and there the crown lays, resting between his hands. It is a small band, oak and apple leaves almost drowning out the etched gold as if they left it outside and let it grow around. The etchings beneath he can see peeking out are little suns and acorns that once adorned his old crown. There is a flower alongside them now, a new addition, the daffodil. For rebirth, Caspian had said.
At his urging, Peter runs a hand along the top, feels each groove and indent. It is beautiful work. Once he’s had a good look, Caspian takes it and places it carefully on the end of the bed. “Now you kneel.”
“I’m not the King anymore you know,” Peter says, but does so anyway. Caspian coughs and makes his face serious.
“You do not have to promise again to protect this land and guide your people. You have shown it time and time again. Will you, High King, protect your king and guide him.”
“I will,” he whispers. What playfulness was in the air has given way to sincerity now.
“Will you love him?”
Peter whips his head up at that, astounded and scrambling. Caspian’s wide dark eyes are a deep pit he is ready to fall into. He can hear the drumming again of his blood, steady and answering. He has to speak to be brave. He has to be brave.
“I will.”
Caspian lips tremble, and then slowly melt into a smile. He swallows, picks up the crown again.
“Then I name you High King Peter, restored,” he says, and places the crown on Peter’s head. Before he can truly register the feeling of a weight on his brow again, Caspian kneels down too, and he feels his lips instead.