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Each morning I get up, I die a little
Can barely stand on my feet
Take a look in the mirror
And cry
Lord, what you're doing to me?
I have spent all my years in believing You
But I just can't get no relief, Lord
“Somebody To Love”, Queen
Peter was not made for praying.
His voice, once powerful and barbaric as a heavenly clamor, wasn't made to whisper; nor his hands, once brutal and scarred from endless wars, were made to stay quiet and clasped together. After all, what's the point of praying? It's not like God ever bothered at giving him a plausible answer for the questions that kept hammering inside his skull and didn't let him sleep - actually, He never gave Peter any answer at all!
In Narnia, Peter was the almighty god people prayed for. Artists would recite sonnets, declaim poems and compose ballads in his honor. His defeated enemies would fall at his feet and, with ragged breaths and lips spitting blood, beg for his bounden mercy. His sister, the gentle queen who knew how to fight and still preferred not to, would light a candle every night and let burn it out in the darkness as she waited for his return from the battlefield, only hoping that fight hasn't taken another piece of his too young soul or another spark from his bright blue eyes.
Peter even remembers the way past lovers used to worship his body fervently and fill him with holy praises, like they were in the presence of a creature that was too divine to be walking between mere mortals. He would take them to his bed and, after finally reaching the peak of pleasure, his heart would always cry with delight at the sound of his name being exalted by the weak, hoarse voices beneath him.
(Oh, no wonder they used to call you Magnificent.)
Well, Peter doubts any Narnian would still think that way if they saw him now.
He's not magnificent anymore. He's not a king, he's not a god. He's only the shadow of the man he used to be. He's a restless soldier who bites his tongue every time his anger becomes a volcano ready to erupt, an abandoned hero left with nothing but bittersweet memories and the desperate search for a mission.
(But at least you still have your hands.)
Peter feels the familiar rush of adrenaline flowing through his veins - his body hears the call to war, the call to violence - and instinctively closes these same hands into fists until his knuckles turn white and he smiles when they collide against Arthur Bueller's jaw - that fucking asshole from boarding school that dares to bully him and call him "fag".
(But at least, you still have your mouth.)
Peter uses it to kiss that same asshole everyday after their P.E. classes. The two of them would meet at the janitor's closet when no one was watching and make out between the mops and brooms and cleaning products. Every time, Arthur would apologize for insulting him and, like a kicked dog, Peter would caress the bruised spot where he punched the other boy and tell him that it's okay before letting his lips travel through the column of Arthur's neck.
The same sick routine repeats again and again, as he lets it slowly consume him until it turns into an addiction. He willingly takes the drug, so he's capable of forgetting his melancholy for a few precious minutes. But when the effect is over, the abstinence rips Peter's stomach like a sword, sharp and deadly, and he's left all alone to deal with his disgust and self-hate. (Oh, noble golden-hearted king! What a pathetic little thing you've become…)
"Stop torturing yourself." Lucy tells him with a pleading voice every time she finds him with a bleeding nose and his white shirt torn "You deserve better than him." But does he? Where could Peter find someone better? And even if he did, what kind of future such relationship could have in a world where humanity believes he shouldn't exist?
During lonely nights, where Peter wasn’t tormented by visions of bloody battles, the smell of putrefying corpses and glassy looks hauting his sleep, he would find himself in a sunny clearing, stains of green and gold coloring an ethereal picture that blessed his eyes.
He’s lying down on his back in a soft bed of grass and everything around him is warm and calm and so safe. There’s another man there with him - or, to be more specific, on top of him - and they are both naked, tangled limbs moving in an erotic dance that Peter knows so well. He never met that man before, either in England or in any of the years he lived in Narnia. Is he an angel? Maybe a prince? Peter doesn't know, nor does he care. The only certainty he has is that this mysterious man is the most beautiful one he has ever seen in all his lifetimes. He's absolutely glorious, all smooth, tanned skin, dark hair falling in waves over large shoulders, and eyes deep enough to reveal the whole galaxy he holds within his soul.
Those reverent lips kiss Peter's scars as they make love and that touch seems to heal all the wounds in his poor, threadbare heart. When the man raises his head, he gives Peter a bright smile that makes the sun, the moon and the stars pale in comparison. Delightful moments like these are the only ones where Peter still remembers how to laugh.
“Peter” The man whispers his name like it was a holy word, a prayer that wasn’t made to be heard by mundane ears.
However, before Peter has the chance to say the man’s name back, the light fades into dark shadows and he’s surrounded by the blackness of the night and the heavy silence of his room. As reality takes her tight grip on him, Peter falls down on the mattress and buries his face on the pillow, drowning silently in the salty sea of his own tears.
Of course it was only a dream. Nothing so angelic and so perfect could ever be real. He should have already learned to never rely on stupid, silly illusions. It was just another kind of mindless torture.
(Maybe that's God's punishment for you: to spend the rest of your life chasing something that only will get you hurt. Maybe that's what you actually deserve in the end.)
Every sunday morning, Peter asks himself why he fell out of that magic wardrobe and got imprisoned in a fragile body that, after so many years - fifteen, to be more specific - had become such a foreign territory to the point of no longer being recognizable.
(Why was Adam sent away from Eden? Because he and Eve sinned against the Lord, and their descendants paid the terrible price for their mistake.)
So what has he done wrong? Which was the forbidden fruit that got him expelled from Narnia, dooming him and his siblings to a senseless existence in this miserable world? (Was it your pride? Your lust? Your wrath?)
Peter wasn't raised to be a king, nor a soldier, nor a fighter. He wasn't meant to carry a helm on his head, nor the weight of the entire world on his shoulders. He never planned to take on the mantle of leader, but he tried his best anyway. Why wasn't it enough? He always knew he wasn't the most fit to the role, but he still believed he could be enough.
He was wrong.
Jesus watches from the wall
But his face is cold as stone
If he loves me
Why do I feel so all alone?
Baby savior, meek and mild
What do you do with my prayers?
If you hear me
Why do I feel that no one cares?
“Evening Prayers”, Carrie The Musical
Susan should be paying attention to the priest's sermons right now.
Actually, she is expected to do a lot of things here. That's what they demand of her: close your eyes, bound your head, kneel before God and men - in another world, she used to be a queen who men, whether nobles or peasants, paid reverence to. (But hey, at least you don't need to worry about letting your crown fall anymore!)
And, of course, there's the most important rule of all: keep your pretty mouth shut, except when it's time to pray… like now.
Yes, Susan should be saying her prayers, but all her attention falls upon the big wooden crucifix suspended behind the altar. The girl fixes her gaze on Jesus' bloody face and, suddenly, a glimpse of agony takes a hold on her heart and leaves her out of breath, almost petrified. She sees what no one else can see: a vision of a stone table, a wicked woman with a silver dagger in her hand and light slowly fading out of pained golden eyes.
But those same eyes, now completely black and devoid of life, stare deeply at her, and suddenly she sees herself as the target of a shooting arrow. He was using her own weapon against her, pointing it precisely to that secret spot where lies her true self - and together with it, the core of her greatest despair.
God is always watching her. God has His eyes on her. He can see her rage, her grief, but mostly her guilt (Oh yes, your guilt!) and He shames her. He shames Susan for the pain she tries to bury in the depths of her rotten soul. He shames her for the person she once was and the one she pretends to be now. He shames her for the desires she tries to disguise behind her mask of beauty. (Young? Sweet? Innocent? Oh, who are you trying to fool, my dear?)
(Girl of porcelain skin and lips covered with roses, you’re a work of art made by the Creator Himself! Let your pearly smile light up the house of the Lord! Brand your long, dark hair, so the whole world can see your lovely face! - you're still allowed to let some discreet locks fall loosely over your blushed cheeks, if you wish so.
And don’t forget to wear your best dress; after all, a flower only has worth for her petals. So let yourself bloom, show your colors - pink and blue always looked so good on you! -, but do it only to praise the Lord, never to your own satisfaction. You can change your clothes too, even paint your cheeks with light make-up - nothing too outstanding though, God despises vanity! -, but do it only to please your future husband, never yourself. And never another woman.
No, never a woman…)
In Narnia, Queen Susan could pick a beautiful princess from Archeland out of a crowd of male suitors and, at the time, no one would have the right to demand any explanations from her. Queen Susan could pull her by the waist as they both smiled and kissed under the moonlight or danced in the pouring rain. Queen Susan could lay her head on her lover's shoulder as she read Susan's favorite tale from Susan's favorite book for the hundredth time. But here in England, even the careless act of brushing your hands accidently in public could be misinterpreted as an act of depravity and turn Susan's life into a living hell. (Spending the rest of your life in jail or in a hospice definitely isn't in your plans, right? But well… becoming the queen of a magical land wasn't part of them either. Maybe you're really going mad.) And maybe that's the point; after all, she's always been conditioned to believe that Hell is the place people like her - and people like her siblings - are bound to.
(Do you think God didn't catch you admiring that smart red-haired girl from your latin classes from afar? Do you think God didn't catch you covering your hot red cheeks between book pages as you watch her across the other side of the schoolyard? Do you think God doesn't know you daydream about inviting her to a date? That you can't help imagining yourself tasting the sweetness of her rosy lips and tracing the map of constellations in her soft, freckled skin?)
"Don't hide away from me, my child." There's something deeply unhinged about the way these words echo in Susan's mind. She already heard that voice before - once in a life as distant and blurred as a dream - , she knew it was supposed to be calm and soothing like a river that cleanses her soul. But this time, the voice carries a disturbing undertone, firstly low and haunting like a whisper from above, until it grows louder and more threatening like lightning - or maybe it sounded more like a lion's roar.
" Even in this world, He's still judging me" , Susan says to herself, as if she didn't already feel suffocated by the expectations of everyone around her; as if she didn't already try to swallow the screams stuck in her throat and the burning feelings in her chest and pretend they don't exist.
"I'm alright." It’s hard to be gentle to others, but it’s even harder to be gentle to yourself, especially when you live in a world that keeps dragging you down and telling you that you don't belong in it.
" I'm alright! " She was supposed to be gentle, but there's nothing gentle about screaming. This time, there’s no magical horn to call for help - not that she was waiting for anyone to come for her aid. Susan had already accepted long ago she was on her own.
"I 'M ALRIGHT! " The arrow hits Susan straight to the heart and she gasps for air as the blood dripping from her mouth paints her lips red crimson. (And that’s why you should never use that color of lipstick. Do you really want the world to know you lost your innocence?) More and more sharp arrows fly in her direction, ripping her flesh and tearing her spirit apart. She isn't Queen Susan, the Archer anymore: she is Susan Pevensie, the Martyr; a sort of Saint Sebastian: defeated, and yet still fighting for a fading hope. The defender of the innocent has become a defenseless prey to her own misery, her own fatal flaw.
"I'm alright. I'm alright." Susan repeats, her mind getting louder and louder each time, in hope that this statement will actually become true.
She does it again. And again.
And again.
And again.
Until she's breaking down in her locked bedroom, feeling the mask of beauty melting through her fingers as she lets the tears wash all the pain away.
She never felt so ugly as she does now.
“13 If a man lies with a man as he lies with a woman, both of them have committed an abomination. They shall surely be put to death. Their blood shall be upon them.”
Levictus 20:13
Edmund knows what it means to be a sinner. He knows what it's like to be seduced by the Devil and he doesn't need any stupid priest trying to explain to him how that whole deal about temptation works.
He's already familiar with the fear rooted in his soul and he’s no stranger to guilt. Even in his world, he still needs to fight constantly against the desperate urge to bend down and beg for mercy to the invisible monster that devours his heart like a parasite.
(What a bad boy you were, Edmund. You were a really bad boy.)
"I can be better! I will be better!" He swears on his knees to the phantom that rests on the deepest, most vulnerable corner of his mind. The phantom's eyes are cold and lifeless, like the ones of a corpse lying on a frosty tomb.
(Oh what a fool you are, silly boy. Still kneeling on that ice floor, shaking ankles chained to the stone wall. You're still waiting for your punishment, aren't you?)
"Punishment…" Edmund could never forget about his betrayal. He could never forget the way he turned his back so selfishly to his family and, when he least expected, became a prisoner to Jadis, the one and only mistress of evil. Even now, he's still forced to live with agonizing visions of blood, death and eternal winter. Flashes and images of the dread and the horror he witnessed, eternally frozen in his memory. All that suffering because he was incapable of swallowing his envy. (Envy… yes, the worst kind of plague… The wicked snake you let in and crawl under your skin. She whispered tempting lies into your brain, and you listened to her. You believed her. You paved the dreadful road that led you to your own doom. You brought it all to yourself.)
“But it’s over.” Edmund remembers and says to himself again, sure and convicted “It’s over now!”
He's not the same boy he once was - none of them are the same children they once were. His heart was redeemed. His soul was saved. His transgressions were forgiven. These were all undeniable and unchangeable truths. He wouldn't have been crowned ruler of Narnia alongside his siblings if he hadn't been considered worthy of this noble title.
He was a skilled diplomat and an exceptional swordsman and a wise counselor. His people named him "The Just". He may not be seen as a king in the world he was born in, his body may not be strong and experient as it used to, but none of his virtues were erased. He was still Edmund. Bold, snarky, outspoken and silver-tongued Edmund.
And yet… the phantom wouldn't stop tormenting him with cruel and insinuating provocations. It was always like this. Hours, days, weeks… time after time, stuck in this endless, vicious argument between him and the pale spectrum that gives voice to his darkest secrets - the ones he can't even name to himself.
"It's not up to you to judge me." Edmund replied through clenched teeth.
(Of course not, my dear. But you, Just king, are not the one who holds the verdict here. God can see right through you. He knows what you truly are. You know what you're being judged for, and you're afraid He won't be so forgiven like the last time.)
The priest says God's love knows no boundaries; the old man also says that God loves the sinner, but despises the sin they commit. And the only way to not lose yourself from Him is showing regret for your bad deeds and promising to never deviate from His holy path ever again.
Edmund always tries to be better. He tries twice, three times harder than what is expected from any other ordinary person. And yet, Edmund had already broken the sacred law, even after what happened to the White Witch.
Edmund didn't take on many lovers at his time as king, although he admits to have met men and women who came very close to awake a flickering spark in his heart. However, there was only one in particular that had been truly successful in catching his attention.
Laurent was a young artist who initially had been chosen to paint official portraits of the royal family. He was cult and vivacious and charming in a very shy way. Their relationship started as completely professional, but, as time passed, the thin line of cordiality that separated them became blurred and their discreet proximity suddenly grew into something more personal and… intimate.
He remembers the way Laurent liked to trace his skin with paint-stained fingers and find constellations of the night sky in the map of freckles on his body. He remembers all the times he accepted Laurent's requests to pose for his sketches - he also remembers the way green ocean eyes would admire the shape of his naked form throughout the whole process, like Edmund was some sort of living work of art. However, what had truly attracted him to the sweet ginger boy was his ability to find beauty and meaning in every broken piece of Edmund's being and then mend each one of them with liquid gold, turning his scarred soul into the most colorful and breathtaking kind of masterpiece.
Oh, what a lovely man Laurent was. Edmund missed him so dearly - and yet, he feared that he was wrong in doing so. He was once afraid of loving someone, and now he's afraid of having loved too much to the point that there was no place left for anyone else in his heart anymore… not even God himself.
(How ironic... the great judge is afraid of judgment.)
He is at the church right now, sitting between Susan and their father, and he's looking at the stained glass windows that surround the building. Shades of striking red, glimmering yellow and purplish blue captures the nature of biblical scenes so vividly in a way they seem to come to life if you stare deeply at them for too long - oh, Laurent would have absolutely loved this aesthetic. For a moment, Edmund's eyes lie on the figure of Eve, who stands beside a majestic tree, holding what can only be the famous forbidden fruit. And right there, crawling treacherously around the tree trunk, a green scaled snake shows its fangs in a subtly viperous smile.
Edmund knows the true intentions hidden behind that smile. He feels nauseous every time he dares to remember.
(Do you still think you have somewhere to hide?)
Edmund only wishes he could grab the snake by the throat and crush its neck with both hands, just so he would stop hearing that despicable voice hissing in his ear and finally have a single moment of peace where he didn't feel the constant need to curse himself for being nothing but human.
And I don't want the world to see me
'Cause I don't think that they'd understand
When everything's made to be broken
I just want you to know who I am
“Iris”, Goo Goo Dolls
The priest's lessons sound nothing but hollow and superficial to Lucy's ears. His words echo loudly through the room, but they fail at reaching her heart - they just seem to pass right through her, affecting her no more than a cold breath of wind blown against the hair of her nape -, and yet, she stays quiet in her place, pretending to absorb everything that's being said.
She can't say the same about her siblings though.
Peter tries to hide the tremor of his hands, his fingers curling anxiously against the left side of his hip in search of a sword hilt and a golden lion's head that isn't there anymore. Edmund's shoulders are clearly too tense and he can't help rubbing a sweaty palm on the pocket of his khaki pants. Susan has the same refined and well-educated posture that's expected from a young English lady, except by the fact that she keeps biting the corner of her lower lip constantly in a clear attempt to keep her cool.
Lucy knows they are in distress - just as much as she is - and she feels weak and hopeless for not being able to appease their turmoil and give an end to their anguish, so she offers comfort in the only way she can at the moment: she takes Peter's shaking hand in hers and gives it a tight squeeze as she feels his nervous grasp melt under her touch. He looks at her with the side of his eye and caresses the back of her hand with his thumb in a soft gesture of affection and gratitude.
(Oh healer queen, you should know that the wounds of the soul are harder to tend than the ones of the flesh.)
And here in this world, without her cordial, she can't afford to do either of the two. All that's left for her is to watch as her loved ones suffer and bleed.
(Where is salvation when you need it most? Who will you rely on when the only world you know is crumbling down?)
When Lucy tries to imagine this God the church preaches so much about, she pictures what can only be described as a faded painting of a greater divinity, a mere shadow of something that was meant to be extraordinary. For her, this God is nothing but an impostor, an imitation of the one and only God she learned to love and adore with every fiber of her being.
(I understand your frustration, dear one. They don't know Him like you do. They don't know the truth about anything.)
The God she loved was warm and golden like the Sun, ferocious like a summer storm, and gentle like a sweet lamb. The God she loved would never shut them out. The God she loved would never reject them or ask them to be something they are not.
(So where's your God now? Where has He gone?)
"I don't know." Lucy admits as she fights against the tears that burn her eyes. Everything inside her seems to burn, trying to consume all her memories and turn all the things that made her the person she is now into ashes "But He must be somewhere out there. I know He is... I just… I miss Him."
Oh yes, she does. There's not a single day that Lucy doesn't long for the soft pelage that sheltered her in her coldest nights, or yearn to hear the same wise voice that used to ease her fears and guided her through every daily trial. She also misses all the friends she had back in Narnia: Mr. Tumnus - the kindest faun she has ever met -, the beavers - who were always too generous for their own good -, and, of course, intrepid and loyal Oreius. So many people she found along the way and came to consider as family, for better or for worse.
And then there was a girl … (Oh, that girl) the one who still visited Lucy in her dreams. She was a dryad who lived in the entrance of the eastern woods, just as beautiful as the old Narnian tales would speak of, with dark brown skin and curly hair adorned with yellow dandelions. From the moment they met, her hazel gaze, so curious and entracing, had swooned Lucy off her feet. The scent of umid earth and wildflowers still reminds her of spring evenings, when they used to dance alongside the trees, sing pretty melodies wizzled by the birds and decipher secret verses whispered by the ancient wind of the north.
Lucy was only a child when she arrived in Narnia for the first time, so the thought that other people could see the idea of her being attracted to another woman as something unnatural had never crossed her mind. In Narnia, love took on so many shapes and forms and no one was ever censured for showing it, so why should she be afraid ? "Why should Peter, Susan or Edmund?" Lucy would ask herself.
(Now you know the answer, little warrior. Now you understand why your oldest brother keeps coming back to the arms of harm. Now you understand why your other brother feels anxiety every time he leafs through the pages of the open Bible in his hands. Now you understand why your sister has given up and lost her faith in the reality you four were forced to leave behind.)
But Lucy hadn't lost her faith yet. To abandon her belief meant to abandon her love, her will to live. Love is a tameless beast, powerful and unpredictable, but it doesn't mean you should be scared of it. It's in the wildness that you find freedom. The truth is that love too requires valiancy - and Lucy promised herself she would always be valiant, even without her flowery crown. After all, it wasn't the crown that made her a queen.
(Oh lion hearted girl, your soul is the most wonderful thing, and your heart is too big and too deep to be understood by the shallow minds of those who were never brave to walk beyond the shore.)
There's nothing wrong with love. How could it ever be?
(You don't need to be cured. You never did.)
She could recognize that voice from anywhere. There was only one creature who could make kind words whsipered from afar sound more deafining that thunder.
The name escapes her lips as she releases a deep sigh she didn't even know she was holding until then:
"Aslan."