Coming of Day

By all the glories of the day
And the cool evening's benison
By that last sunset touch that lay
Upon the hills when day was done,
By beauty lavishly outpoured
And blessings carelessly received,
By all the days that I have lived
Make me a soldier, Lord.

By all of all man's hopes and fears
And all the wonders poets sing,
The laughter of unclouded years,
And every sad and lovely thing;
By the romantic ages stored
With high endeavour that was his,
By all his mad catastrophes
Make me a man, O Lord.

I, that on my familiar hill
Saw with uncomprehending eyes
A hundred of thy sunsets spill
Their fresh and sanguine sacrifice,
Ere the sun swings his noonday sword
Must say good-bye to all of this; -
By all delights that I shall miss,
Help me to die, O Lord.

- Lieutenant William Noel Hodgson, MC, Published 29 June 1916

Light slanted through a turret window, running fingers along the furniture in the room as if it were testing the surface for dust. There was a certain quality to the light that poured through the Cair Paravel windows; it was a golden light, a honey-saturated light, a light like the golden sky at evening. People speculated that gold had been used in the melding of the glass when the panes were first being made and Cair Paravel was still a young castle. Those walls had grown old, vines circling in tendrils to burst into bloom, heavy with roses, but the light had stayed the same.

"Idiocy!" a glove hurled through the air landed half in and half out of an open traveling trunk.

"Blast!" A young man of the larger variety was kneeling on the floor in a patch of paned sunlight, next to a pile of assorted clothing, weapons and gear, haphazardly sorting through them.

"Double blast!" another glove sailed through the air to join the first.

"Peter," a cool, long-suffering voice said from atop a table in the middle of the room. "Those gloves don't match. One of them is a hawking glove. I dare even you to fight Giants in a hawking glove."

Peter darted a glance at the grave young man sitting on the table, then started to his feet to pick the felonious glove out of the trunk. He looked down at it ruefully, then laughed and hurled it at the other man's head.

"Don't smile at me, brother," Peter dropped down to the floor again as Edmund caught the glove. "Here am I, off to fight Giants of a more gigantic strain than ordinary and here are you, you and Susan, bound for Tashbaan to have a look at this fellow, Rabadash, in his natural element. Of course, I'll stand by her choice…and I've told her so; but I don't have to enjoy it."

"We can't get out of it, now," Edmund replied with a flicker of frustration. "We agreed to go long before the Giants started pitching a fit. Believe me, old man, I'd far rather be going off with you to bash Giants then sailing away to spend a few months in Tashbaan."

"It's that fellow Rabadash I can't abide," Peter said abruptly. "There is a cruelty to him I don't think Susan understands. He's rotten through; I can tell by his handshake."

"A handshake! Peter! You can't tell the color of a man's heart by his handshake!"

Peter looked up querulously. "I can."

"Is that just?" Edmund asked. "Rabadash has done nothing to offend us…quite the other way around. He has been an ideal guest."

"Laugh at me as you will," Peter said sobering. "His handshake is limp…The fellow has been prancing around in purple paisley, cocking his little finger and twiddling his moustaches, slathering flattery on all of us. Do you know what he called me?"

Peter looked up and caught his brother's eyes and Edmund knew they had finally gotten to the crux of the matter.

"He called me 'High King Peter the Magnificent'."

Peter let this profound statement sink in for a moment, the indignant bearing of his body speaking louder than words, What tosh…what foolery!

Edmund shrugged, "Everyone calls you that, old chap."

The sunlight that danced and twirled about the room like fairy orbs suddenly seemed to dim and turn grey. Peter half started to his feet, then sat down again. His face had turned a curious shade.

"What?" Peter asked as if he weren't sure if he had heard.

"Everyone calls you that," Edmund repeated. "It's become a sort of unofficial title. We all have one."

Peter face was still.

"I've become known as 'The Just', Susan goes around being 'The Gentle' and Lucy is apparently 'The Valiant'. Don't take it too hard, Peter. People see what they want to see…and as far as a title goes, I think 'The Magnificent' isn't half bad."

Slowly, Peter stood and walked across the room to the tall light-gleaming window, to fiddle with something that wasn't there. At last he turned to face Edmund, his troubled features half shaded, half-light. "Is that how people see me, then?"

Edmund shrugged, not certain what to say.

"Do you remember that fellow in our world…" Peter paused, searching his memory. "I've forgotten his name: Henry the something…the sixth, or was it the eighth…the one with all those wives…"

"Henry the Eighth," Edmund replied mechanically.

"That's the chap…do you remember the painting of the fellow? He was a grand figure of a man…magnificent. No one who looked at him could say he wasn't. Was he Kind? Was he Gracious or Wise? Was he Humble? Did he even know what Justice was? No…he knew none of it…but he was certainly Magnificent."

"I don't think that's the way they mean it-"

"Empty…no quality or meaning. It's about as useful a title as 'Peter the Beef-Eater' or 'Peter the Over-Sleeper'," Peter laughed suddenly and striding across the room, pounded his brother on the shoulder. "Don't look so glum, old man. I'll live with it. Somehow."

~o*o~

The wind ran fleet-footed, barely touching the ground as she snatched up the sound of trumpets, the beat of many hooves, the cheerful shouts of warriors coming home at last. The tired and tattered banner, the lion on the green ground, rippled suddenly alive, wild with the wind, as if eager at the site of the fluttering pennants on the battlements of Cair Paravel, to show that it was the King's banner and proud. The horses' hooves rang like bells on the cobbles, cheerful and full of song. Lucy heard it first, as she flew down from the battlements calling for Edmund and Susan.

"They're here, they are here! Oh hurry, hurry!"

The wind shifted, causing the Great Narnian Banner to steam off the other way, revealing a knight on a black horse, his head bare, his helmet tucked under his arm. No one could call that face handsome, not as it was now, haggard with battle, and weary; but as he sat tall on his horse with an easy grace born of time and patience, eyes turned towards him. It was his bearing, not his beauty, which made him noble.

Lucy felt that she flew just as the wind flew, her feet not touching the ground and the knight, leaning down out of his saddle, swung her up before him with a chain covered arm.

"Oh Peter! Peter!" she gasped. "Oh Peter!"

"Not looking my best, I'm afraid," Peter said with a twinkle in his eye, "But I'll wager my face is a sight fairer than those of the giants," he chuckled. "Ugly brutes; but we have them where we want them now. And what of you? Edmund sent me tidings of hair-raising events…escapes from Tashbaan, battles with Rabadash, Prince Cor returned from the dead."

"It has been wonderful and terrible," Lucy replied, resting her head against his shoulder. "And I am so glad you are back."

The cavalcade streamed into the courtyard, ragged, but proud and battle-hardened from war. Edmund and Susan were there to greet them, to draw their royal brother down from his horse and bring him inside.

"You must be exhausted!" Susan reached up to not quite touch a cut on his cheek; with a smile he bent his head so she could kiss it instead. "Edmund, you must help him take off this heavy maille."

"What is it they are saying outside?" Peter asked as he leaned over so Edmund could draw the heavy-linked shirt over his head. "I hear chanting."

They were silent as they listened to the sound, like the roaring sea and tide outside the castle gates. Cheering, echoes of laughter and shouting seemed to reverberate around them and chanting, long and steady.

"They're calling you Magnificent, Peter," Lucy said, looking up into his weary face.

Peter straightened; the padded jacket he wore under his maille was streaked with rust, torn and mended. Dirt had been driven into every crevice of his being, yet his back was unbent and unbroken.

"Still on that, are they?" Peter asked with distaste, then he smiled, shaking his head at the innocent stupidity of the crowd. "Just at this moment, I'm Peter the Rusty, thanks very much."

Susan laughed and took his hand, leading him away, "I've had a bath drawn for you and dinner is laid out in your chamber...all of your favorite things…"

Edmund and Lucy stood watching them, listening to Susan's voice drifting down the corridor.

"Is there a bed there, too?" Peter's voice asked hopefully.

Edmund shook his head and Lucy, looking up, saw a faint smile on his face.

"He doesn't know he is Magnificent," Edmund said. "And that is why he is."

Author's Note: It's been a while since We've set foot, here. Two years, if you really want to know. We've been at 49 stories for so long, we felt like we'd better make it 50.

This story is a not very coherent exploration of the 'were called' C. S. Lewis mentioned in one spot in the end of The Lion, The Witch and the Wardrobe. It was such a minor reference that I wonder if he even remembered that he came up with 'titles' of Magnificent, Gentle, Just and Valiant. He certainly didn't mention them in any of his other books.

We never could figure out why they caught on. Terms like 'magnificent' and 'gentle' are fairly meaningless, the former being almost an insult, really only useful in describing a mountain range, while the latter is even stranger, considering he gave Susan a bow, with the expectation that she would eventually shoot things with it. Violently.

'Were called' makes us think that the population of Narnia bestowed the names upon them and they really aren't meant to be taken seriously.

Anyway, expect Edmund's chapter next week. Providing we remember. ;)

~Rose and Psyche