i'm sorry i didn't come visit you on sunday. you didn't tell me that by wednesday morning you'd be dead. i don't think i'll ever forgive myself for staying home that day.
i could've said so much. i fantasize about convincing you not to do it but i didn't know you were going to. we could have read another chapter of the little prince. i stayed home because i had a sore throat and because i was too much of a coward, and because i didn't know that by wednesday morning you would be dead. i'm sorry i stayed home on sunday. my sore throat wasn't even that bad. i'm sorry we never got to finish the book. the last thing you said was "is it okay if i stay in your room". i wish i had told you more but i just nodded. it was friday. i did not know that by wednesday morning you would be dead
thinking about: burning narnian skies. brightest narnian stars. burning narnian skies. brightest narnian stars. the narnian moon that is bigger than ours. the royal children-turned-kings-turned-children looking up to the crescent that is looming above in the gray English sky and feeling a sort of. unfathomable grief
the how is quiet, a deserted place full of dust and low-burning fires, the cheer of hard-won battle left lingering on the threshold of this ancient place.
in front of a long-cracked stone, caspian falls to his knees before the high king of old. he breathes narnian wine out into the dim light, and stares up into amber-blue eyes that hold every shade of the narnian sky.
freshly calloused hands reach out to hold up his chin, to push back at his hair. the very life of narnia hums where kingly skin meets his, where fingertips brush over bruised jaw and cheek, over cut and bleeding lip. a soft smile with the very world in the corners of a cracking mouth lets the fires around them burn anew.
"you must learn to stand rather than kneel," peter says, amusement a melody that burns caspian's skin. "a king cannot stand on buckling legs at every turn."
"i will learn," caspian whispers, too afraid to break whatever spell has come to rest on them. "i swear."
sword-weary hands tug at his head, then brush down to his shoulders to pull him up. "then you ought to start tonight. the throne does not wait."
peter's voice is gentle, yet feels like teeth atop his ribcage. caspian wishes nothing more than to be pried open by the king-turned-boy and back again. he wants nothing more than for narnia to consume him, heart and all. but he is afraid.
"can't i start with the rising sun?"
peter laughs, turns them ever so slightly, and pushes caspian to sit where the legends saw aslan sacrifice his body to the creeping ice. caspian's body turns tense, awe a potent paralysis, when his tired, wine-drunk eyes watch a myth come true slowly get on his knees before him.
"what are you doing?"
peter's night-and-morning eyes crinkle at their edges. his teeth seem bloodied and sharp. "you must learn to be kneeled to."
caspian wonders if his heart will break through his chest like the fleeing bird it seems to be. "i have been kneeled to my whole youth."
peter shakes his head, reaches out a hand to settle on caspian's shaking knee. "it is not the same."
and caspian knows it can't be, because there is a weight pressing down on his shoulders that he's never felt before. suddenly, it feels as though an enormous beast is bearing down on every inch of him, snapping teeth at his neck and talons digging into his thighs. caspian gasps. in front of him, peter looks on with a smile.
"learn to stand," peter repeats, his voice a blade beneath caspian's chin, "weather the strain." his mouth is stretched wide with teeth that do not belong to the image of a boy, his presence a wall before caspian's trembling body. there is blood where his eyes ought to be. his stare remains unrelenting.
a beast in front, and a beast behind. caspian shakes. "it is too much."
peter laughs, then, still kneeling but looming above like an ancient tree, a cavern stretching far beyond what caspian can see. "stand," he commands again, his voice coming from all around. "stand, caspian, or fall."
there are fangs scraping down caspian's spine, something hard prying its way beneath armour and skin. he takes a breath. something growls.
when he stands, his legs tremble. he doesn't dare to take a step for fear of losing his balance on what suddenly seems like a sword's edge beneath his feet.
but he stands. he doesn't fall.
when peter laughs this time, it is a soft, comforting thing, like the setting sun over the laughing crowds outside. his eyes are once again blue-amber in the firelight, his teeth sharp but human where his lips pull back.
"there you are," he hums, pride and satisfaction louder than the words themselves. caspian laughs full of relief, his eyes wet with unshed tears.
he stands where he was kneeling, and he doesn't fall. he holds out shaking hands and twines them in golden hair. "thank you," he says, even as his shoulders burn under the weight.
peter—the very weave of old narnia, a king of times long past and yet breathing the same air as those that only know him from washed-out carvings and whispered songs—only smiles.
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