Further Up & Further In

But We Are Four

It's funny,
Looking back,
How being a child was an insult;
Another word for immature,
Thoughtless,
Illogical,
Naive,
But now when she hears it
It's almost a comfort.

She is not a child,
Twenty-one,
The taste of wine on her lips,
And she has danced with enough men
To find comfort in a hand on her waist,
(But only her waist,
And only to dance;
All else is suffocating.)
She hasn't been a child in years,
Far more than she ever counts,
But now
She almost wishes.

And the adults -
The real adults -
The proper ones -
Look at her as she fades
Blue and black and red into the wall,
And say,
"Poor child,"
And she hates pity,
But she relishes the moment
Of being a child in somebody's eyes;
Of being innocent,
And safe,
And cared for
Once more.

"Poor child,"
They mutter,
And murmur into her hair as they embrace her.
"Poor child,"
They whisper to others,
"She is the last of her family, now."

But the truth is
She is not.
They remind her she is alone,
And when they say "poor child,"
They begin to mean,
"Only child,"
And she can't bear it.

"She is the last one,
You know,
The only survivor,
The only Pevensie child
Left."

"But we are four,"
She thinks against them.

Because the truth is
She is just one girl,
But she is not the only one.

Because the truth is
She still remembers
A scared boy,
A wolf-slayer,
A glint of silver and gold,
And she remembers the safe weight,
Of his hand on her shoulder,
As if she would fall apart
Like paper,
If he weren't there.
And somewhere deep inside her
Lay a reflection,
A glimmer
Of something
Magnificent.

"But we are four,"
She repeats,
And heavy paws tread
On her broken ground.

Because the truth is
She still remembers
The taste of sugar on her tongue,
When she wondered if it had been worth it,
And he looked back at her with dark eyes,
And didn't know her thoughts,
Because the boy in front of her
Was forgiven,
And rescued,
And redeemed.
And she remembers
Balance,
And swells like the tide,
And a boy
No longer bitter.
She feels him
In momentary clarity,
As she remembers what it was
For him to be
Just.

"But we are four,"
She insists,
And sharp teeth tear
Apart their muzzle.

Because the truth is
She still remembers
A light in the woods,
And the light in the girl
Who found it first.
Then she remembers
Small arms that were strong,
The small frame of a stronghold,
The sting of a blade
Set right
With flowers.
And somewhere
The light still burns,
Because somewhere
Still inside her,
Is just a sliver
Of a girl
Once called
Valiant.

"But we are four,"
She answers the calling voice,
And gold ripples over her,
Like an ocean of peace,
And a safe golden shore,
And she can still feel it
Under her fingers,
Cold and numb,
But alive.

Because the truth is
She still remembers
In the furthest recesses of her mind,
That she is not One,
She is not Only;
She is One of Four,
And all the thrones must be filled.

And she remembers,
In the salt-smell of the sea,
That mermaids love to sing,
And fauns love to dance,
And that she loved,
Once,
To dance with them.

She remembers,
In creaking wood,
That trees have voices,
And names,
And that only one sound,
One voice,
Could ever awaken them.

She remembers Him,
Justice and mercy,
Glorious,
And gold,
Pure gold.

She remembers it all,
Until,
Lastly,
She remembers,
"But we are four."

And somewhere,
In the dark,
There is a spark
Which grows brighter
In the memories.

Somewhere,
Though well hidden,
Magnificent,
And Just,
And Valiant
Still live,
Urging this tiny spark
To rage.

And somehow,
She knows this spark by name,
And she calls it
Gentle.

Because the truth is,
They are still four,
And in her,
They are four together.