Further Up & Further In

This Is Home

Hebrews 11:16 "Instead, they were longing for a better country—a heavenly one. Therefore God is not ashamed to be called their God, for he has prepared a city for them."

As the war rages, the children make wishes. It's almost a game, when they dare to say them aloud to one another, adding on their most unrealistic fancies until the desperation is painted over. Most nights, however, it's more like a prayer. In either sense, it is needed.

Peter wishes more than he cares to admit. In 5 years, this will be his war, too. Sometimes it pains him that that day is coming. Sometimes it pains him more that it hasn't come yet. He doesn't feel ready, and he'd never say he felt brave. Rather, he is desperate; desperate for any degree of control he can gain in this situation; desperate to be a soldier before he is a body; to be a martyr rather than a victim. So late at night he wishes that he might be strong enough when that day comes. Then, in sudden quiet, he wishes lighter things instead. More hot food than he can eat, and clean air, and twinkling lights, and his brother and sisters fearless and carefree like they hadn't been even in his memories; even in those peaceful years before they'd heard even the rumblings of war.

Susan wishes in quiet sobs when she's sure Lucy is asleep. She never tells anyone what she wishes for honestly. Even in her own mind, they are hardly formed in words. She just wants it all to be over. She just wants to feel safe. She just wants not to worry. She doesn't want to play wishing games because wishes aren't real, but when her sister looks up at her with hurt eyes, Susan wishes for simple things, like dresses and dances and and a pie almost too sweet to eat. In her own words, she doesn't wish for much else. Perhaps she knows if she looked a little deeper, she'd be lost in the yearning.

Edmund wishes angrily, and sorrowfully, and freely, and alone. His bitter heart wants to be respected; sometimes even loved, or more, adored. His secret regrets long to be forgotten and forgiven. Some days are good days, and he wishes with laughter instead; sweets, and the simple pleasure of turning all the lights on, and to take apart that suit of armour in the Professor's house. Edmund wishes for everything, and he is grateful that when wishing, self-control is not required. No one gets hurt when wishing; especially not if he keeps his wishes private. So, he thinks, perhaps he'll never stop.

Lucy wishes with every ounce of her being. Oh, yes, she wishes to go home, and for the war to be over, but somehow she never thinks of these first. She wishes for sunshine when the rain ruins her plans, and she wishes Edmund would stop being such a bully, and she wishes she could fly like the hawk they spotted over the yard. She wishes her stockings didn't itch so much, and she wishes Susan and Mrs. MacReady wouldn't make such a fuss every time she entered the house with muddy feet, especially as she'd already tried washing them off in the stream. And Lucy wishes to explore until her whole body aches, and to dance until she can't anymore, and to be listened to, just once, without reservation. But unlike her siblings, bless their hearts, Lucy believes wishes can come true.

They all wish they were somewhere else. Somewhere safe, and warm, and something like home.

There is a world just through the wardrobe door, and they will love it until they are homesick once more.

* * *

The king grew up on fairy tales, and he knows better than most how true they can be. As a young prince he had discovered how it all still existed; deep enough in the woods, high enough in the mountains, far enough out to sea... one could find anything in places like that. And he is King now.

Caspian remembers like the badgers do. He remembers his old nurse's tales, and he remembers Dr. Cornelius' secret history lessons. He remembers the Kings and Queens of old standing next to him, straight out of every legend he'd ever learned and loved. He remembers the Great Lion. And, under all of that, he remembers the stories he has not yet witnessed as truth, and he believes them anyways.

Deep in the eastern ocean, Caspian wants more; a new adventure, a new life, a new world. There is a round world, if he can only get to it. In that world he wouldn't be king, and he doesn't even mind it. No, instead he'd have a new freedom. Caspian doesn't know what to expect, but he is willing already to leave everything behind for one taste of a new world. The water here tastes like light, and surely there is new light waiting just around the corner, if only he will follow it. It is waiting. He is meant to go on. He is sure of it.

He is absolutely certain, until the Lion tells him otherwise.

* * *

Fifteen years and five minutes are equally too long in a place you're not meant to be.

* * *

For some, the world ends in firelight. It ends in both terror and peace.

The worlds they once loved lay frozen now. The lives they'd once lived are dead with the sun. Outside the door there is nothing but death and endless winter.

But here, they remember, it is still light. It is still warm. It is still alive - or, possibly, it is only alive; as if nothing they'd experienced had been life before. They can't help noticing that they feel safe here, like they'd never felt even in their most peaceful, joyful days in that other country. They feel peace greater than that peace. They feel joy greater still. In hindsight, it is all a dirty reflection.

"This," they say to one another, breaths fluttering like birds, desperate almost to capture the scent on the breeze rather than the air itself. "This is what we have been looking for."

The Lion is waiting for them at the gate.

"This," they repeat, mouths breaking like dawn into dazzling smiles, "This is Home."