Waiting by Shadow-of the-Night35
Chapter Four: The Magnificent
The fire was warm, but Peter did not notice it at all where he knelt before it, Lucy's head in his lap. He forgot he was stroking her hair and lost himself in his memories. His eyes were fixed on the flames, but he did not see them, really, as his mind led him down paths he had not walked in a long time. Memories bombarded his mind, trying to break down his defenses and throw him into the despair he knew he would feel when he remembered that he was no longer a king.
His mind took him to times he thought he had forgotten. He remembered his first battle—he could hear the screams of the dying again, and see the sun reflecting off the gleaming weapons soon to be stained with blood. He shuddered to remember battles in Narnia, but smiled grimly at how they pitted man against man, instead of how battles were in England, where a man could kill someone without ever seeing their face. His mind turned to more pleasant things, and he found he could no longer tell if the heat he felt was from the fire or from the summers at Cair Paravel, splashing in the waves below the castle. Summers were not like that here, where the air was not pure and it was all he could do to breathe.
He missed the way people in Narnia had come to him to fix things when they went wrong. He missed the responsibility the country had placed upon him, and he missed the pride he had felt when he looked into the faces of his people. He even missed the battles, with the rush of adrenaline and excitement before the charge. He missed the strength he had had as a grown man, and the way people looked up to him. He missed being a king, and he missed his people. He missed the weight of his crown on his forehead.
There was an emptiness in him where Narnia had been, and he longed for the day Aslan called him home.