Further Up & Further In

Happier

In Narnia it was always said that Edmund was a graver man than Peter. Edmund was quieter, more thoughtful, while Peter was always smiling, and always talking, and always hosting balls and feasts and hunts. "King Peter the Magnificent," they said, "as magnificent in conversation as in battle." He was steady and friendly and quick-witted. And happy, of course. He must have been. He had to be.

Sometimes he was. In the daylight, with his friends and family close, he was happy. In the evening, surrounded by friendly conversation and high spirits, he was happy. In the spring, under beautiful skies and atop fresh grass, he was happy. Peter loved Narnia. He loved his people, and his country, and Aslan, and being a king. He had to be happy. How could he not be happy?

Though as much as he loved them, it just became natural for him to smile all day, but fall into bed at night like all the energy had drained out of him. "I'm getting old," he thought to himself, when the mornings came and he couldn't make himself get up, no matter how hard he tried. "It must be the cold," he reasoned, that made him freeze up in the winter and stare blankly at the fire Susan would graciously light for him (despite her annoyance,) as if he couldn't tear his eyes away.

He was older, it was true. He had new scars and aches and muscles and duties and headaches. He didn't look much like he used to, and that didn't bother him, but he couldn't explain why he didn't feel much like he used to either. That part did bother him. Days came when each cheer for High King Peter the Magnificent made him wonder what was ever magnificent about him, and where it had gone.

He blamed a lot of things, like his age, and his worries, and his memories, and battles, and wounds; and in a way he was right. But he didn't know that years of battles and bloodshed left scars he couldn't see. The insignificance came and went, as he gathered with family and friends, and as he prayed, to the point he sometimes wondered if he even felt it at all. But sometimes he still felt like nothing.

Sometimes he felt like stone.

"I'm getting old," he reassured himself. "It's natural."

When Peter hit the floor of the spare room, he felt the change instantly: a weight gone, a cloud lifted. He assumed it came with his youth that he loved to move again, and that he never seemed to get tired the way he used to. He never felt nothingness again. The battle scars he'd received, and the facial hair he'd grown, had faded away on his journey out the wardrobe, and for quite a while he didn't realize that the illness in his mind had been erased, too. "Young again," he mused.

It took him a long time after coming home to realize that he was happier in England, and that was a thought he fought hard.

But Peter had to admit that even though he was still a more solemn boy than he had been when he was first evacuated to the country, (really, they all were,) there was a peace and clarity he had nearly forgotten in Narnia. He still remembered the battles and hardships and tragedies and regrets as strongly as if he'd never left, but they didn't cloud his mind the way they once did. He was happier. Truly happier. So much happier.

He felt guilty for thinking such things, and would never have admitted it, until Edmund mentioned it to him on his own. "You're happier here, aren't you? I've noticed. There's something bright in you again, Pete. And it's okay. It's good."

In time, Peter embraced his happiness. He still loved Narnia, and some of his happiest memories remained those he made as High King. He missed it terribly, too. But he had come to realize that his own mind had failed him there, as if it forgot how to function at times. As if it forgot how to be happy. He never bothered to find a word for it. Perhaps even if he did, he'd have been no closer to understanding it. It just became natural for him to be happy again.

He missed Narnia, always. He was happy to go back, but when he left for the second time - for the last time - he knew it would be okay. He understood it better than he thought he would.

Peter Pevensie was happier in England. Somehow. For some reason. But surely.