Schooldays of C.S. Lewis - boarding school misery and theological crisis.

The chapel is hushed and cold, the stone holding the day’s chill. Lewis sits with Parsley in the back pew, and for once no prefect’s footfall stalks the aisle.

Parsley keeps his gaze on the dark altar, fingers worrying the edge of his sleeve. The silence is not empty, only gentle.

Lewis answers with his posture more than with any grand display, turning a little toward him. The question hangs between them, earnest and unashamed.

A faint draft stirs the hem of their blazers. The chapel seems to listen, old and indifferent, while the two boys sit together in the back pew and keep talking in low voices.

Lewis leans closer, lowering his voice to almost nothing. The words come out plain, stripped of polish, and he feels them slip uselessly into the chill air.

Parsley turns his head a fraction, listening hard. Lewis’s confession leaves the space between them thinner, more exposed.

For a moment, the answer warms the pew, and then the comfort goes thin. A dark shape shifts high along the side aisle, half lost in the shadow of a pillar.

Parsley’s fingers tighten on the edge of the pew. Both boys fall a little stiller, looking past the altar toward the dimness where a prefect’s sleeve can just be made out.

The shadow does not move to approach, remaining a static, watchful blot against the stone. It is not Fribble, but the heavy, silent presence of a senior boy who has no interest in the younger students beyond their quiet compliance.

The boy rises from his crouch, careful not to scrape the pew, and edges into the aisle with his shoulders drawn in.

Behind them, the chapel remains hushed, incense thin in the air, while the dark shape in the side aisle stays fixed and unreadable.

Lewis rises smoothly from the pew and falls in beside Parsley, matching his pace without crowding him. The chapel stays hushed as they start down the aisle together, the folded note kept low between them.

Parsley keeps his eyes forward, shoulders pinned tight, but he does not draw away. Their steps carry them past the incense haze toward the door, each boy careful not to make a sound.

The shadowed prefect shape remains high and still along the side aisle, watching the boys pass without moving to stop them.

Lewis guides him out under the dim afternoon light, and the chapel threshold gives way to the corridor beyond. The quiet has changed, it is no longer shelter, only distance.

Ahead of them, the route to Fribble’s room waits in the school’s hard silence, and Parsley tightens his grip on the note as if it might keep him steady.

Lewis lets the small sentence pass between them like a hand on the sleeve, brief and steady. Parsley’s shoulders ease by a fraction, and his grip on the folded note loosens without letting go.

They reach the doorway together, but the chapel no longer feels empty. The shape in the side aisle is still there, higher than before, half-swallowed by shadow and stone.

Parsley catches sight of it and stops short. His face drains, and the note twitches in his hand.

Beyond them, the corridor waits in its hard light, while the watcher remains motionless inside the chapel. The silence feels less like shelter now, and more like a warning.

Lewis does not raise his voice. He only angles his head toward Parsley and makes a small, calm motion toward the corridor, as if the decision were already settled.

Parsley’s fingers tighten on the folded note, and the paper bends at the crease. His eyes stay fixed on the shadowed aisle, not on Lewis.

Lewis’s quiet pressure meets nothing solid. Parsley edges back half a step, choosing the chapel wall over the bright corridor.

The watched silence holds. In the dim air of incense and stone, the boys remain pinned between the aisle and the door, and neither path feels safe.

Lewis steps closer to the shadowed aisle, keeping his hands visible and his voice low. The incense hangs between them like a curtain, and Parsley freezes where he stands.

For a moment, the figure says nothing. Then the chapel light catches only the edge of a face, and Lewis sees it is not a prefect at all, but one of the older boys who has been stationed there by chance, half-hidden and bored.

The answer lands badly, but it opens something useful. The boy shifts his weight, glances toward the doorway, and his attention is on Lewis now, not Parsley. Parsley’s grip loosens a fraction on the folded note.

Lewis does not get the courtesy he asks for, but he does get a route. The watcher remains in the aisle, still and wary, while the chapel’s stillness breaks just enough to let the boys choose their next move.

The boy steps fully into the light, and the insignia on his collar reveals he is not merely a student, but a junior prefect tasked with monitoring the chapel for unauthorized gatherings.

Parsley shifts at Lewis's side, still tense, but the line of his shoulders loosens as the prefect's permission lands.

The junior prefect keeps his cane upright and his gaze on them, but he does not stop them as they turn toward the aisle.

Lewis guides Parsley through the proper door, keeping his pace even as the chapel light falls away behind them. The note stays clenched in Parsley’s hand, and both boys move with the careful obedience of children trying not to be noticed.

The corridor beyond is narrower and colder, with stone underfoot and the chapel’s incense thinning to nothing. Their footsteps sound too loud, but they keep going.

Lewis brings him straight to Fribble’s room, and the door stands where it ought, half lit from the hall.

Parsley stops at the threshold, fingers tight around the folded note, while the room beyond waits with its ordinary, awful quiet.

From behind them, the chapel remains open and watchful, but the boys are here now, at the proper door, with no excuse left to give.