₁.₀ YES TO HEAVEN; peter pevensie

018.

How do you tell your father - or rather, the man who returns from the frontline, bearing his name and his face, and yet missing his smile - that you understand why his hands shake as he lifts a spoon to his lips during a Sunday meal? How do you tell him that you know, without ever asking, how deeply he detests the wound that sent him back home and left him limping, and yet he thanks fate for the shrapnel that pierced his calf, making it seem more like a colander than a limb? How do you tell your mother you recognise the way she holds her breath while she turns up the radio, both longing for and dreading new information about the latest events in Europe? How do you tell her you sympathise with the way she kisses her children before seeing them leave for school in the morning, with her fingers placing a ghost of the sign of the cross on their foreheads?

How do you tell them you have lived a lifetime?

Peter tries his best to focus on his studies, instead. Being a professor's son, and looking up to his father so very much, he has always envisioned himself going to university - he was sure that a degree of some kind is in his future, before the war, at least. He's still thinking about it, though with less certainty than he used to. His marks are good enough, he supposes. Not as praise worthy as Susan's, of course, but it could still be considered somewhat of a miracle, considering his mind has been troubled with something beyond set books and tests for the past year. What's more, he can't even force himself to try and study when it comes to mathematics, for it reminds him far too much of the person he had to leave behind.

But, it's time, he hears from his teachers. They say that the moment to think about his future is now, so very unaware that Peter's past has far too strong a grip on him. And he doesn't miss the way they look at him, either - how many boys had they had similar conversations with before, only to hear that they had joined in to fight against the Nazis?

Many of his classmates think about it, Peter is well aware. Images of university halls and libraries have turned to those of trenches inside their minds. He hears them talk with longing about turning eighteen soon, and sometimes there's nothing more he wants than to grab them by the shoulders and shake some sense into them.

There was a time, a whole lifetime ago, when Peter had thought about it, too. Once his father had been drafted - if he didn't have his family to take care of in his stead and had been old enough - he might have gone with him, he desperately wanted to.

And now... Peter has seen war. Not this kind, for sure, but he has seen it, and sometimes he still is plagued by nightmares in which he finds himself on the battlefield at Beruna. Fighting, he used to be fuelled by anger and adrenaline, yet, once those faded, the terror emerged from the depths of his mind. He can recall with astounding detail the sound of his sword piercing through an enemy's flesh, or the way their eyes would bulge out upon the impact before being taken over by fog. He witnessed troops die all around him, his troops, and at his order, too, and that kind of thing is bound to leave a mark.

Still, perhaps there is something wrong with him, because Edmund has been through all that, too, and yet it seems there is nothing his younger brother wouldn't give away to be able to trick his way into joining the fight in Europe. Perhaps-

Thoughts about the war are torn out of his head as he staggers backwards, pushed by the force applied to his shoulder.

"Oi, watch where you're going, mate," says a boy in front of him, and the way he does so makes the blood in Peter's veins begin to boil.

"Well, you bumped into me." From underneath furrowed brows, he eyes the boy's companions. His fingers tighten around the handle of his bag, and he adds, "Mate."

"I think you ought to show a bit of good will, you see. An apology will do." And he snickers, turning his head back towards his friends a little, earning sounds of approval in return.