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prunesquallormdTitle: With A Clouded View (Part 3 of 9)
Fandom: Chronicles of Narnia
Pairing(s): Lucy/Susan
Rating: PG for this part. NC-17 overall
Summary: In which Lucy receives a visit from an old friend and comes to a decision.
Word count: 4895
Warnings: Incest, although only implied so far. Don't like? Don't read.
A/N: Chapter 1 and initial notes are here, and Chapter 2 is here.
Well, this part only took a couple of months, so go me! I still found it ridiculously hard to write, though (turns out, dreams sequences? Not as easy as they look). Also, 13000 words and still no smoochies! Fail D:
The question of Narnian diet is still bothering me. How are they not all vegetarians? And even that would be a problem in a country where a significant proportion of the flora is sentient. Lewis made a distinction between Talking and dumb beasts, and considered it fine to eat the latter, so I've gone with that (not an opinion I share, but whatever).
As always, loads of thanks to my betas, who this time round were![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
cobalt_siren and likecharity. You've both been super-helpful and encouraging. I really can't thank you enough ♥♥♥
Dedication: This part is forsushizuzoru, who's rather fond of Lucy/Aslan interaction. I hope you enjoy it, hon :D ♥
This is also dedicated toperverbially, because she's fabulous and deserves it! ♥
Disclaimer: Obviously all the characters and pretty much everything else belong to the estate of C.S. Lewis, and Walden Media. This is just for fun!
Part 1
Part 2
Part 4
Part 5
Part 6
Part 7
Part 8
Part 9, and Epilogue
Appendix (Various Interludes)
(For those of you who find white on black annoying, there are also copies at my Archive of Our Own page).
With a Clouded View, Part 3
She tries so hard not to think about it, not to think about anything at all, really. Where she was busy before, now she ensures that she has not a single moment to herself. She becomes the picture of sweet-natured enthusiasm. Even Edmund remarks on it, looking at her quizzically, eyebrows raised ever so slightly.
Susan takes her aside at the end of one particularly long day and hugs her tightly. “I'm so glad to see you back to your old self again, dear,” she says happily, rocking Lucy in her arms and making any sort of gracious escape impossible. “I was so worried about you.”
Even then, Lucy's mask doesn't slip. Unable to conjure any sort of coherent response with her sister's arms so firmly around her, still she manages a soothing murmur in her ear. Released, she is all sweetness and civility. She has trained her feet not to flee, excusing herself only after a few more minutes of Susan's gentle probing. She is proud of the progress she has made, but still the night is long and restless.
Susan, it appears, has entirely convinced herself that Lucy has recovered from whatever mysterious malady had been afflicting her. Like Edmund, she throws herself into the preparations for Lucy's birthday party. (Lucy can't bear to think about it in any other way. The prospect is terrifying enough even before she has to face the bitter reality of what they have plannedfor her). It seems that her every spare moment is engaged in some detail or other. She is all smiles, so obviously enjoying herself that Lucy doesn't have the heart to say anything that might change that. She ignores the way that those smiles make her breath catch, bring a flush to her cheeks; she doesn't allow her eyes to linger on Susan's lips and the way that her face is transformed so entirely by the simple act of smiling.
Her eyes don't linger, but her memory and her imagination do. She wishes she could help herself. She can't.
**
There is no escape, even in sleep.
She has never really spoken of her dreams. She has always thought of them as special, private. Now she has other reasons not to speak of them. They besiege her, merely in abeyance in daylight, waiting for night and sleep to overtake her once more. Her awakenings are too often things of heat and sweat and aching. She eases the longing as best she can with practised fingers. It's an all too temporary relief.
It is fitting then that Aslan, when he finally comes to her, comes at night.
**
It is autumn. Soft, gentle days and chill nights, ushered in by a brusque north-westerly wind. The weeks have scattered and Lucy considers the inevitable and ever-quickening approach of the day with an unpleasant squirming in the pit of her stomach. The effort of maintaining the mask, of remaining her old self, is ever more exhausting. Sometimes she thinks the smile will freeze on her face, a horrible travesty, finally betraying her.
She awakens to silence. The wind – so often relentless in the autumn nights, so much so that she notices its absence far more quickly than she would ever remark on its presence – is utterly still. The voices of the owls who convene their parliament in the long abandoned tower above Lucy's rooms are equally absent. She feels disoriented. Her eyes are open, she is sure of it, and yet she stares into the most profound blackness. She had gazed at the moon before she retired, a moon so full and bright that it caused shapes to dance on the inside of her eyelids, but now there's no sign of it. She could be blindfolded with the thickest, softest velvet.
She closes her eyes, giving up on any attempt to penetrate the darkness, and listens as at the farthest reaches of her hearing an insect whines and buzzes. It is a noise that's entirely familiar to her, a strangely rhythmic chuck-chuck-chucking overlain with a high, infuriating squeal. She strains to hear more clearly as it gets closer, louder, more insistent. More threatening. Lucy feels an icy chill flowing into her limbs, a fear so intense that she can hardly breathe. Recognition scratches at her conscious mind, far behind the responses of her body, which is quivering in anticipation now.
The wailing shatters the night moments before Susan opens her door and skitters in, voice raised in anxiety. A second voice – a woman's, more controlled but still fearfully urgent – is calling out to their brothers, the same words. They crash down on her, dragging her back to horror and death.
“Lucy, wake up! It's an air-raid! Get dressed quickly! We need to get to the shelter.” Susan sounds as terrified as Lucy feels. It never gets easier. Perhaps she is a child, but she still knows what the bombs can do. She's seen the rubble and wreckage they cause, and felt the loss they leave in their wake.
The dull drum-roll of the German bombs settles in, heavy and grim behind the chuck and whine of the planes. It swells the fear in her, making it grow until it seems to blot out her heart, freezing her in place. Susan's voice is ever more urgent. Lucy feels her hands grasping at the blankets that cover her, threatening to leave her exposed, cowering in the darkness.
"Come on, Lucy! You can't hide there, you know. Here, take my hand and we'll get some clothes on you but for heaven's sake, do hurry up!"
Lucy grips tightly at the woollen roof of her shelter, safe and dark and warm. The noise of the world outside, the world in all its bleakness and filth, drifts away from her. She feels Susan's hands, touching her but for a few layers of cloth. They're still, soothing.
**
Lucy isn't afraid. She can't even remember that she had reason to be, let alone what those reasons were. She grasps at the heavy material that nearly surrounds her, steadying herself against the sill, the glass cold at her back. It is raining. Without looking at the sky, Lucy knows that it is glowering, fearful. She has forgotten what other cause for fear the sky might hold.
The sill is narrow under her. It's the perfect hiding place, too small to easily conceal anyone but her. Even Edmund, only two years older, is a lot bigger than she, and he has much larger feet. Lucy is pleased with herself. This time at least, she's bound to win. That'll stop Ed being such a pig. (She knows in her heart that it won't. She wishes she knew what would).
There is a click and the gentle fall of stockinged feet. Lucy, if possible, stands even more still, is even more silent. The corridor - long and dingy, with doors at both ends and made no less dingy by three small, curtained windows - connects two wings of the Professor's house, one of which is almost entirely unvisited. Lucy had been so sure that she wouldn't be found. She holds her breath, pouting slightly. It's an expression that Edmund often teases her for. She's glad he's not here to see.
Lucy knows the owner of the feet just by the sound. They're too hesitant and light to be Peter's, and just too quiet to be Ed's. She can't hold her breath much longer, and Susan is being so terribly slow. Lucy grits her teeth, blowing ever so softly through her nose and trying desperately to ignore the pressure in her throat, the burning in her lungs.
Susan smiles as she draws aside the curtain but says nothing. She holds a finger to her lips, steps onto the sill beside Lucy and pulls the material back into place. Lucy's lungs burn still, the light at her back grows even dimmer. Susan is silent at Lucy's side.
**
Lucy cannot say when the noise of the rain at her back stopped, when the silence became so complete. She can't hear her own heart in her ears any more, or the sound of her sister's breathing at her side. She is utterly bereft of sensation, but for the warmth at her neck, an oh-so-gentle softness. It is familiar and comforting. She leans into the warmth, feeling it envelope her. The joy that wells up in her almost overwhelms her anxiety and guilt. Almost. At the last moment she turns and, mischievously, an impish grin lighting her face, she reaches up on tiptoe and plants a kiss on the nose that she finds there. It is warm and velvety soft.
The Lion seems smaller than he once had been. She has grown, of course, and who is she to say that he has not, with a will, become smaller? Lucy is so used to this form that he chooses but she knows now that it is simply that, a choice. A few steps further and her face is in his mane, her arms stretching to encircle his neck. Smaller he may be, but her hands do not meet.
"Aslan, darling. You've been gone for so long," she says, her voice hardly more than a breath against the softness of his mane. There has never been a time when feeling him against her, all gentleness and controlled power, has not filled her with joy. Aslan doesn't speak. Deep in his throat Lucy hears the deepest, slowest vibration. Of course he is not purring. Aslan would never do something so undignified. "Are you really here, my dear? Am I dreaming?"
When he does speak, the Lion's voice is slow and rich. He sounds amused. "Lucy, my daughter, do you really believe that, if you were dreaming, I would not be here? Do you think that that would make me any less real?" He pauses, and now the vibration becomes a chuckle. "I know you better than that. You have, after all, always been a most perceptive child."
"And you, dear Aslan, have always spoken in riddles." Lucy laughs into his mane. Few others would dare tease him so but she has known him since childhood and she loves him as an old friend. His chuckle is louder now; it is nearly enough to vibrate through her skull. Finally, Lucy releases the strangle-hold she has on his neck and steps back. The warmth of him lingers against her skin, his scent - the strangest mixture of forests and flowers, and the fresh tang of the ocean, all shot through with a dark, sweet musk - is in her nostrils. She wishes she could keep it with her always.
Lucy Pevensie, sixteen years old, yellow-haired, slight and boyish, stands before the Great Lion of Narnia and looks him full in the eyes as a friend and an equal. There is the tiniest voice in the back of her mind, taunting her. This she can do, yet she cannot stand up to her own siblings? And what of the other thing? All the bravery and dignity in the world won't help her when that comes out.
"I'm not a child any longer. I wish I were," Lucy whispers. "What's wrong with me? What does all this mean? It can't be right that I feel like this, can it?" It has been months. Months of silent torment, unable to talk about her feelings, barely able to acknowledge them to herself. The trickle of words becomes a flood. She cannot stop herself. Who could?
"I dream about her. She's everywhere. Awake or asleep, it doesn't even matter any more. And oh, I want to touch her so badly, and stroke her hair and feel her lips against mine." She feels the sting of tears; she can hardly keep her voice steady. All of Shatterstaff's teachings in dignity, deportment, and all of the ways a queen should carry herself, all wasted. She is shaking, and at last her face crumples. She can look at him no longer; her knees buckle and she sinks, sobbing, to the ground. "Please don't hate me. Only make it stop. I don't want to feel like this any more. Just make it stop. Please." She speaks the last few words through gasps, sobbing so hard now that she can barely breathe.
Lucy curls in the soft, sweet grass, the great wave of her emotion drowning her, terrified that she'll be totally incapable of rebuilding the dam that has held it back. She doesn't hear him approach, merely feels the warmth of his breath on his face. A lion's kiss is a rare thing, and so often fatal. This Lion's kiss is rarer still. Lucy feels his lips on her temple; her tears subside as she feels his strength and his calmness, so close, flowing into her.
"Oh, my daughter. Do not let your tears overwhelm you. Do you truly believe that it can be wrong to love? Have I taught you so poorly?"
"But surely it must be wrong. How can it be right to feel like this?" Lucy's tears are gone, and that in itself is a miracle. It will take more than a kiss to ease her fear and guilt.
"Lucy," Aslan says softly, the humour back again, somehow lacing even that single word plainly. "I believe you may have forgotten to whom you are speaking. There are things that even I do not know, and they are many. My Father has not vouchsafed all his knowledge to me. But, dearheart, there are few mysteries so simple as love. You love her, and your love is real. I ask once again. Do you believe it is wrong to love?"
She rubs at her eyes, dashing away the tears, and sniffs loudly. She struggles to her knees also, gathering what little dignity she has left around her. "But it's not just love, is it? I know you know what I mean, you always know. Oh, the things I've dreamed about. What would she think if she knew?"
She closes her eyes, unable to bear the thought, equally unable to escape it. When she opens them again Aslan holds them with his own, dark and unblinking. "Dearheart, I know that you are not asking me that question. You know it is one that I will not answer. I may tell you your story. I may not tell you your sister's. If you wish to know that, then you must ask her.
"You will awaken soon, and perhaps you will believe that this has been a dream. Still, you will remember that we have spoken, I think. And I think, most of all, that you will remember this: that love freely given and freely received cannot be wrong." Aslan's breath swirls around her, caressing her and drawing her back towards sleep. "You know your heart, child. Follow it where you may, but be gentle with it. Be gentle also with the hearts of others, and perhaps they will follow where you lead."
Lucy awakes for a second time, into a chill autumn morning. Stretching and yawning, she scratches at a temple and feels an echoing scratch, on the edge of her consciousness. Something is different, she feels lighter, almost. She couldn't even begin to say why.
**
The kitchens of Cair Paravel are a constant bustle, even – especially – in the still of dawn. Lucy can hear the thrum and swell of voices from down the corridor, mixed with the clang of oven doors and the sound of steel on wood. The sound and heat breaks over her as she pushes at the small side entrance and she stops for a moment, regretting the heavy robe she had thrown on to ward off the chill. Her stomach grumbles as the smell of baking bread wafts around her and, giving herself a minute to become accustomed to the relative gloom, she begins to plot her way to her goal.
A long table stands against the wall opposite Lucy, made smaller by the cavernous nature of the kitchens but large enough, nevertheless. It all but creaks under its burden: fresh loaves, fish, cheese, cold meats, fruit, nuts and berries, vegetables of all sorts, and on, and on. There is an informality to the eating arrangements that would shock a more traditionally-minded potentate. Narnia's young rulers have never been able to accustom themselves to the idea of being served, waited on. It is in part, perhaps, a result of an inability to see their friends as subjects. (Susan has suggested, perfectly seriously, that the only reason they rule is that no one else is prepared to handle the paperwork). Formality and ceremony must have their moment, of course, although it amuses Peter especially to give the lesson of humility to the more presumptuous of their neighbours' ambassadors once in awhile. But, far more often, there is this.
Gruffle the dwarf – fiery of hair and warm of temperament; lord of his kitchen and subservient to no one, within it or without – is in heated discussion with Thornfoot the badger (his lifelong friend and only nominally his underling) about, well Lucy isn't too bothered with what, she just knows that it's loud and unlikely to end any time soon. Creatures of all sorts busy themselves with tasks assigned according to a rota so complex that it makes Lucy's head throb; all she knows is that, one way or another, everybody chips in something and the entire castle stays fed. Lucy has seen some genuine miracles in her short life. This daily miracle is in no way lessened because of that.
There is a single figure at the table that serves as eating place for a fair part of the castle's population at one time or another. The quickest and safest route to her breakfast planned with single-minded precision, it is only when Lucy takes her seat that her finally-accustomed eyes connect with her sleep-addled brain. It's far too late. The ledger, ink bottle and quill – pushed to one side for the moment – should have given fair warning but even that's not enough this morning.
Lucy slumps onto the bench, bleary-eyed, and attempts a smile at her breakfast companion. Susan returns the smile far more brightly, appearing almost like a figure from a thick fog, her face suddenly completely clear. It is all that Lucy can do to stop herself reeling backwards in shock. She is entirely unprepared, defenceless.
Susan's hair, midnight black and hanging half-way to her waist, is tied back, her face free of cosmetics. It makes the smudge of ink on the side of her nose all the more obvious. (Lucy pictures her, bowed over the ledger, tongue between her teeth (a habit that her siblings never tire of teasing her for); she sees her raise the almost invariably ink-stained index finger, heedlessly soothing her itching nose before lifting the quill again, scritching and correcting her working). Her simple green dress is cut square across the bodice and sets off her eyes as they meet Lucy's. The whiteness of her neckline is unadorned except for the simple silver chain that bears the key – both ceremonial and practical – of the Chatalaine of Cair Paravel and its provinces. Lucy has never seen her look more lovely. So early in the morning, and so utterly unprepared, she is greatly relieved that she is already in her seat.
Susan smiles even more broadly, dropping a chunk of bread to flitter her fingers at her. “Lucy, dear. Good morning! How delightful, and so early, too! I sometimes think that I'm the only sovereign of this fair nation who knows what morning looks like.”
Lucy smiles, mouth closed, and makes a show of chewing and swallowing the sliver of cheese that she'd helped herself to before sitting down. She watches the smudge of ink on her sister's nose, uncertain for a moment what to do or say. It seems mean not to do anything, though. She raises a hand, still silent, and, wetting the corner of her kerchief, steps around the table to cup Susan's face gently in her left hand. Her skin is warm and unbelievably soft. It is all Lucy can do not to stroke her cheek as she brings the damp cloth to bear on the stain. It is stubborn – almost as stubborn as she is, perhaps – and requires a couple of minutes of concerted effort to erase.
Susan raises her eyebrows slightly at the first assault but is uncomplaining besides, the patter of her fingernails on the table her only other movement. Lucy can't tell what that signifies and anyway, she is far more engaged in not noting the shadowed glade of skin that sits at the curve between Susan's neck and shoulder. She focuses resolutely on the job at hand, not in any way lingering on the way the quickly fading stain mars the whiteness of Susan's cheek; or on the redness of her lips (pressed into a slight line now), or the way the fullness of the bottom lip gives the impression of an almost permanent pout. She especially does not notice the way it would be so easy to lean forward and press her lips to her sister's gently, to flicker her tongue against them until they part with a sigh...
“Lucy? Really, dear, are you sure you shouldn't still be in bed? You're asleep on your feet. And have you quite finished mothering me or am I going to have to spend the next half an hour with a soggy cloth stuck to my face?” There is no irritation in her tone. Her lips curve upwards slightly as she speaks and she raises a hand to carefully tuck a stray strand of yellow hair behind Lucy's ear. It is all Lucy can do not to jolt away from her as Susan's thumb strokes her cheek a single time before she drops her hand to the table once more.
Lucy kicks herself inwardly. Her hand is unmoving against Susan's face now and she doesn't know exactly how long she's been simply staring at her mouth. The quirk of Susan's lips is the perfect companion to the slightly quizzical look that she is directing at her. Lucy raises her hand mutely, displaying the dark smudges on the previously unblemished material, as if that were all the explanation required for her behaviour. Susan takes the raised hand in her own and squeezes it.
“Thank you, dear. That's really very thoughtful of you.” She pulls Lucy close, gesturing to the bench beside her. “Now sit! Distract me from all these facts and figures! I think it's my turn to mother you, yes? And I can start by making sure that you actually eat a proper meal for once. Really Lucy, you're skin and bone. Does no one ever feed you?”
Lucy sits and takes a deep breath, feeling normality reassert itself, if only for a while. She's in two minds, unsure whether to smile or scowl. She chooses the latter, allowing her irritation free rein. The relief is overwhelming.
“Oh, stop nagging me! I eat more than enough, and I really don't need someone to feed me up, thank you! This is all part of your conspiracy with Ed, isn't it? Fatten me up so you can marry me off to some obnoxious Calormene prince. Well, it's not going to happen, you know that, don't you? Just because Ed's got it into his head that he can solve all my problems with some stupid party ...” Lucy stumbles to a halt, surprised almost by her own vehemence. She inhales slowly and continues, a little more calmly. “By the Lion, Su, do you have any idea how frustrating it is? Having the three of you always so sure you know what's best for me? And I feel horrible complaining because I know you mean well, but really, does it never occur to any of you to actually ask me what I want? You never know, I might actually have an idea!”
She stops again, suddenly overcome with guilt. She's actually out of breath, convinced that she must look like a small, golden haired bull, alternately bellowing into the gloom and blowing hard.
Susan simply waits, her chin on her palm, her face impassive and entirely unreadable. Her other hand still holds Lucy's loosely. She's making slow circling motions with her thumb against the back of Lucy's hand, so softly that she barely notices at first, is sure that she must be imagining it. Then, just as gently, Susan pinches her, and pokes out her tongue very quickly, just the tip but Lucy definitely sees it. Susan laughs.
“Well, that's more like it! I was starting to think that we'd lost you again. I can't get used to you being all silent and, and, accommodating. It just doesn't feel right.” She grins when Lucy, after the briefest pause, exactly mirrors her actions. “Lucy, you know you don't have to do anything you don't want to, but, well, even the things you don't want to do can have their purpose. We are trying to help, but you can help yourself, too, you know.” She hesitates. “Does the ball sound like such a horrible idea to you?”
Lucy clears her throat and shakes her head quickly. “Well, not horrible. I just, well Ed does have some strange ideas about what I want.”
Susan, too, shakes her head, ever so slightly. There is a look on her face that might almost be exasperation, but her lips at least suggest amusement. “Oh, give me strength! Honestly, there are times when I feel like it would do you both the world of good to spend a few days in the dungeons. They are rather underused after all, and then at least you might talk to each other, and listen, more importantly.”
“Hey, that's not fair!” Lucy knows how childish she sounds almost before the words leave her lips but she ploughs on all the same. She has little enough to lose. “You know what Ed's like. It's like talking to a very enthusiastic statue!”
Susan giggles, and it's incongruous, really. She's so often serious, so much the adult, that Lucy forgets that she is only a few years older. Susan releases her hand, only to reach out and enfold Lucy in both arms. She freezes, shocked.
“Oh Lucy, what am I going to do with you?” she says, a giggle still playing among the syllables. She shows no inclination to release her hold. Lucy is rigid, like the statue she accused her brother of resembling but without its more lively traits. Time crawls at the most agonising pace as Lucy forces her arms upwards to return the hug. She squeezes back, desperately ignoring the softness she holds against her, the flower-scent of her sister's hair.
Susan continues, entirely oblivious, “I know he has a funny way of showing it, but Edmund only wants what you want, just like I do. But we can't know what you want if you won't tell us.” She squeezes Lucy a final time and lets go, fixing her with a stern glare, the effect of which is almost immediately ruined by a grin that, well, Lucy can't think of it as anything other than wicked.
“And you're allowed to take what you want sometimes, you know. You are queen, after all.”
Lucy attempts an easy smile in response. She's certain that she comes up short.
“Well, my dear, much as I wish it weren't true and much as our dear brothers would have people believe otherwise, this castle and this country don't organise themselves. I'll let you finish your breakfast in peace.”
Hefting the ledger in both hands she stands and, bending to drop a final kiss onto Lucy's brow, she bustles away, all business now.
Lucy sinks back in her seat, watching her sister's retreating form, admiring the green of her dress, the way it contrasts with her hair, the way it flares around her hips as she walks. Lucy feels almost calm, for the first time in, well, she couldn't say how long. She had despaired of ever feeling anything but confusion and anguish, her mind always a storm of violent emotions. It's a millpond now, though, and unbidden a memory rises to its surface, words in a voice so, so familiar.
"You know your heart, child. Follow it where you may, but be gentle with it. Be gentle also with the hearts of others, and perhaps they will follow where you lead."
She smiles as she watches Susan struggle with the door, seemingly battling it open through sheer force of will, the ledger still held firmly in both hands, and as her lips curve upwards she touches a finger to them and, a little self-consciously, puckers them slightly. For a moment only, the most fleeting moment, but …
Oh, it's perfect.
She's allowed to take what she wants, sometimes. She is queen, after all.
Oh.
Lucy turns on the bench to face her breakfast. All of a sudden she is utterly ravenous. She hums quietly as she eats, feeling very, very pleased with herself.
Fandom: Chronicles of Narnia
Pairing(s): Lucy/Susan
Rating: PG for this part. NC-17 overall
Summary: In which Lucy receives a visit from an old friend and comes to a decision.
Word count: 4895
Warnings: Incest, although only implied so far. Don't like? Don't read.
A/N: Chapter 1 and initial notes are here, and Chapter 2 is here.
Well, this part only took a couple of months, so go me! I still found it ridiculously hard to write, though (turns out, dreams sequences? Not as easy as they look). Also, 13000 words and still no smoochies! Fail D:
The question of Narnian diet is still bothering me. How are they not all vegetarians? And even that would be a problem in a country where a significant proportion of the flora is sentient. Lewis made a distinction between Talking and dumb beasts, and considered it fine to eat the latter, so I've gone with that (not an opinion I share, but whatever).
As always, loads of thanks to my betas, who this time round were
cobalt_siren and likecharity. You've both been super-helpful and encouraging. I really can't thank you enough ♥♥♥Dedication: This part is for
sushizuzoru, who's rather fond of Lucy/Aslan interaction. I hope you enjoy it, hon :D ♥This is also dedicated to
perverbially, because she's fabulous and deserves it! ♥Disclaimer: Obviously all the characters and pretty much everything else belong to the estate of C.S. Lewis, and Walden Media. This is just for fun!
Part 1
Part 2
Part 4
Part 5
Part 6
Part 7
Part 8
Part 9, and Epilogue
Appendix (Various Interludes)
(For those of you who find white on black annoying, there are also copies at my Archive of Our Own page).
With a Clouded View, Part 3
She tries so hard not to think about it, not to think about anything at all, really. Where she was busy before, now she ensures that she has not a single moment to herself. She becomes the picture of sweet-natured enthusiasm. Even Edmund remarks on it, looking at her quizzically, eyebrows raised ever so slightly.
Susan takes her aside at the end of one particularly long day and hugs her tightly. “I'm so glad to see you back to your old self again, dear,” she says happily, rocking Lucy in her arms and making any sort of gracious escape impossible. “I was so worried about you.”
Even then, Lucy's mask doesn't slip. Unable to conjure any sort of coherent response with her sister's arms so firmly around her, still she manages a soothing murmur in her ear. Released, she is all sweetness and civility. She has trained her feet not to flee, excusing herself only after a few more minutes of Susan's gentle probing. She is proud of the progress she has made, but still the night is long and restless.
Susan, it appears, has entirely convinced herself that Lucy has recovered from whatever mysterious malady had been afflicting her. Like Edmund, she throws herself into the preparations for Lucy's birthday party. (Lucy can't bear to think about it in any other way. The prospect is terrifying enough even before she has to face the bitter reality of what they have plannedfor her). It seems that her every spare moment is engaged in some detail or other. She is all smiles, so obviously enjoying herself that Lucy doesn't have the heart to say anything that might change that. She ignores the way that those smiles make her breath catch, bring a flush to her cheeks; she doesn't allow her eyes to linger on Susan's lips and the way that her face is transformed so entirely by the simple act of smiling.
Her eyes don't linger, but her memory and her imagination do. She wishes she could help herself. She can't.
**
There is no escape, even in sleep.
She has never really spoken of her dreams. She has always thought of them as special, private. Now she has other reasons not to speak of them. They besiege her, merely in abeyance in daylight, waiting for night and sleep to overtake her once more. Her awakenings are too often things of heat and sweat and aching. She eases the longing as best she can with practised fingers. It's an all too temporary relief.
It is fitting then that Aslan, when he finally comes to her, comes at night.
**
It is autumn. Soft, gentle days and chill nights, ushered in by a brusque north-westerly wind. The weeks have scattered and Lucy considers the inevitable and ever-quickening approach of the day with an unpleasant squirming in the pit of her stomach. The effort of maintaining the mask, of remaining her old self, is ever more exhausting. Sometimes she thinks the smile will freeze on her face, a horrible travesty, finally betraying her.
She awakens to silence. The wind – so often relentless in the autumn nights, so much so that she notices its absence far more quickly than she would ever remark on its presence – is utterly still. The voices of the owls who convene their parliament in the long abandoned tower above Lucy's rooms are equally absent. She feels disoriented. Her eyes are open, she is sure of it, and yet she stares into the most profound blackness. She had gazed at the moon before she retired, a moon so full and bright that it caused shapes to dance on the inside of her eyelids, but now there's no sign of it. She could be blindfolded with the thickest, softest velvet.
She closes her eyes, giving up on any attempt to penetrate the darkness, and listens as at the farthest reaches of her hearing an insect whines and buzzes. It is a noise that's entirely familiar to her, a strangely rhythmic chuck-chuck-chucking overlain with a high, infuriating squeal. She strains to hear more clearly as it gets closer, louder, more insistent. More threatening. Lucy feels an icy chill flowing into her limbs, a fear so intense that she can hardly breathe. Recognition scratches at her conscious mind, far behind the responses of her body, which is quivering in anticipation now.
The wailing shatters the night moments before Susan opens her door and skitters in, voice raised in anxiety. A second voice – a woman's, more controlled but still fearfully urgent – is calling out to their brothers, the same words. They crash down on her, dragging her back to horror and death.
“Lucy, wake up! It's an air-raid! Get dressed quickly! We need to get to the shelter.” Susan sounds as terrified as Lucy feels. It never gets easier. Perhaps she is a child, but she still knows what the bombs can do. She's seen the rubble and wreckage they cause, and felt the loss they leave in their wake.
The dull drum-roll of the German bombs settles in, heavy and grim behind the chuck and whine of the planes. It swells the fear in her, making it grow until it seems to blot out her heart, freezing her in place. Susan's voice is ever more urgent. Lucy feels her hands grasping at the blankets that cover her, threatening to leave her exposed, cowering in the darkness.
"Come on, Lucy! You can't hide there, you know. Here, take my hand and we'll get some clothes on you but for heaven's sake, do hurry up!"
Lucy grips tightly at the woollen roof of her shelter, safe and dark and warm. The noise of the world outside, the world in all its bleakness and filth, drifts away from her. She feels Susan's hands, touching her but for a few layers of cloth. They're still, soothing.
**
Lucy isn't afraid. She can't even remember that she had reason to be, let alone what those reasons were. She grasps at the heavy material that nearly surrounds her, steadying herself against the sill, the glass cold at her back. It is raining. Without looking at the sky, Lucy knows that it is glowering, fearful. She has forgotten what other cause for fear the sky might hold.
The sill is narrow under her. It's the perfect hiding place, too small to easily conceal anyone but her. Even Edmund, only two years older, is a lot bigger than she, and he has much larger feet. Lucy is pleased with herself. This time at least, she's bound to win. That'll stop Ed being such a pig. (She knows in her heart that it won't. She wishes she knew what would).
There is a click and the gentle fall of stockinged feet. Lucy, if possible, stands even more still, is even more silent. The corridor - long and dingy, with doors at both ends and made no less dingy by three small, curtained windows - connects two wings of the Professor's house, one of which is almost entirely unvisited. Lucy had been so sure that she wouldn't be found. She holds her breath, pouting slightly. It's an expression that Edmund often teases her for. She's glad he's not here to see.
Lucy knows the owner of the feet just by the sound. They're too hesitant and light to be Peter's, and just too quiet to be Ed's. She can't hold her breath much longer, and Susan is being so terribly slow. Lucy grits her teeth, blowing ever so softly through her nose and trying desperately to ignore the pressure in her throat, the burning in her lungs.
Susan smiles as she draws aside the curtain but says nothing. She holds a finger to her lips, steps onto the sill beside Lucy and pulls the material back into place. Lucy's lungs burn still, the light at her back grows even dimmer. Susan is silent at Lucy's side.
**
Lucy cannot say when the noise of the rain at her back stopped, when the silence became so complete. She can't hear her own heart in her ears any more, or the sound of her sister's breathing at her side. She is utterly bereft of sensation, but for the warmth at her neck, an oh-so-gentle softness. It is familiar and comforting. She leans into the warmth, feeling it envelope her. The joy that wells up in her almost overwhelms her anxiety and guilt. Almost. At the last moment she turns and, mischievously, an impish grin lighting her face, she reaches up on tiptoe and plants a kiss on the nose that she finds there. It is warm and velvety soft.
The Lion seems smaller than he once had been. She has grown, of course, and who is she to say that he has not, with a will, become smaller? Lucy is so used to this form that he chooses but she knows now that it is simply that, a choice. A few steps further and her face is in his mane, her arms stretching to encircle his neck. Smaller he may be, but her hands do not meet.
"Aslan, darling. You've been gone for so long," she says, her voice hardly more than a breath against the softness of his mane. There has never been a time when feeling him against her, all gentleness and controlled power, has not filled her with joy. Aslan doesn't speak. Deep in his throat Lucy hears the deepest, slowest vibration. Of course he is not purring. Aslan would never do something so undignified. "Are you really here, my dear? Am I dreaming?"
When he does speak, the Lion's voice is slow and rich. He sounds amused. "Lucy, my daughter, do you really believe that, if you were dreaming, I would not be here? Do you think that that would make me any less real?" He pauses, and now the vibration becomes a chuckle. "I know you better than that. You have, after all, always been a most perceptive child."
"And you, dear Aslan, have always spoken in riddles." Lucy laughs into his mane. Few others would dare tease him so but she has known him since childhood and she loves him as an old friend. His chuckle is louder now; it is nearly enough to vibrate through her skull. Finally, Lucy releases the strangle-hold she has on his neck and steps back. The warmth of him lingers against her skin, his scent - the strangest mixture of forests and flowers, and the fresh tang of the ocean, all shot through with a dark, sweet musk - is in her nostrils. She wishes she could keep it with her always.
Lucy Pevensie, sixteen years old, yellow-haired, slight and boyish, stands before the Great Lion of Narnia and looks him full in the eyes as a friend and an equal. There is the tiniest voice in the back of her mind, taunting her. This she can do, yet she cannot stand up to her own siblings? And what of the other thing? All the bravery and dignity in the world won't help her when that comes out.
"I'm not a child any longer. I wish I were," Lucy whispers. "What's wrong with me? What does all this mean? It can't be right that I feel like this, can it?" It has been months. Months of silent torment, unable to talk about her feelings, barely able to acknowledge them to herself. The trickle of words becomes a flood. She cannot stop herself. Who could?
"I dream about her. She's everywhere. Awake or asleep, it doesn't even matter any more. And oh, I want to touch her so badly, and stroke her hair and feel her lips against mine." She feels the sting of tears; she can hardly keep her voice steady. All of Shatterstaff's teachings in dignity, deportment, and all of the ways a queen should carry herself, all wasted. She is shaking, and at last her face crumples. She can look at him no longer; her knees buckle and she sinks, sobbing, to the ground. "Please don't hate me. Only make it stop. I don't want to feel like this any more. Just make it stop. Please." She speaks the last few words through gasps, sobbing so hard now that she can barely breathe.
Lucy curls in the soft, sweet grass, the great wave of her emotion drowning her, terrified that she'll be totally incapable of rebuilding the dam that has held it back. She doesn't hear him approach, merely feels the warmth of his breath on his face. A lion's kiss is a rare thing, and so often fatal. This Lion's kiss is rarer still. Lucy feels his lips on her temple; her tears subside as she feels his strength and his calmness, so close, flowing into her.
"Oh, my daughter. Do not let your tears overwhelm you. Do you truly believe that it can be wrong to love? Have I taught you so poorly?"
"But surely it must be wrong. How can it be right to feel like this?" Lucy's tears are gone, and that in itself is a miracle. It will take more than a kiss to ease her fear and guilt.
"Lucy," Aslan says softly, the humour back again, somehow lacing even that single word plainly. "I believe you may have forgotten to whom you are speaking. There are things that even I do not know, and they are many. My Father has not vouchsafed all his knowledge to me. But, dearheart, there are few mysteries so simple as love. You love her, and your love is real. I ask once again. Do you believe it is wrong to love?"
She rubs at her eyes, dashing away the tears, and sniffs loudly. She struggles to her knees also, gathering what little dignity she has left around her. "But it's not just love, is it? I know you know what I mean, you always know. Oh, the things I've dreamed about. What would she think if she knew?"
She closes her eyes, unable to bear the thought, equally unable to escape it. When she opens them again Aslan holds them with his own, dark and unblinking. "Dearheart, I know that you are not asking me that question. You know it is one that I will not answer. I may tell you your story. I may not tell you your sister's. If you wish to know that, then you must ask her.
"You will awaken soon, and perhaps you will believe that this has been a dream. Still, you will remember that we have spoken, I think. And I think, most of all, that you will remember this: that love freely given and freely received cannot be wrong." Aslan's breath swirls around her, caressing her and drawing her back towards sleep. "You know your heart, child. Follow it where you may, but be gentle with it. Be gentle also with the hearts of others, and perhaps they will follow where you lead."
Lucy awakes for a second time, into a chill autumn morning. Stretching and yawning, she scratches at a temple and feels an echoing scratch, on the edge of her consciousness. Something is different, she feels lighter, almost. She couldn't even begin to say why.
**
The kitchens of Cair Paravel are a constant bustle, even – especially – in the still of dawn. Lucy can hear the thrum and swell of voices from down the corridor, mixed with the clang of oven doors and the sound of steel on wood. The sound and heat breaks over her as she pushes at the small side entrance and she stops for a moment, regretting the heavy robe she had thrown on to ward off the chill. Her stomach grumbles as the smell of baking bread wafts around her and, giving herself a minute to become accustomed to the relative gloom, she begins to plot her way to her goal.
A long table stands against the wall opposite Lucy, made smaller by the cavernous nature of the kitchens but large enough, nevertheless. It all but creaks under its burden: fresh loaves, fish, cheese, cold meats, fruit, nuts and berries, vegetables of all sorts, and on, and on. There is an informality to the eating arrangements that would shock a more traditionally-minded potentate. Narnia's young rulers have never been able to accustom themselves to the idea of being served, waited on. It is in part, perhaps, a result of an inability to see their friends as subjects. (Susan has suggested, perfectly seriously, that the only reason they rule is that no one else is prepared to handle the paperwork). Formality and ceremony must have their moment, of course, although it amuses Peter especially to give the lesson of humility to the more presumptuous of their neighbours' ambassadors once in awhile. But, far more often, there is this.
Gruffle the dwarf – fiery of hair and warm of temperament; lord of his kitchen and subservient to no one, within it or without – is in heated discussion with Thornfoot the badger (his lifelong friend and only nominally his underling) about, well Lucy isn't too bothered with what, she just knows that it's loud and unlikely to end any time soon. Creatures of all sorts busy themselves with tasks assigned according to a rota so complex that it makes Lucy's head throb; all she knows is that, one way or another, everybody chips in something and the entire castle stays fed. Lucy has seen some genuine miracles in her short life. This daily miracle is in no way lessened because of that.
There is a single figure at the table that serves as eating place for a fair part of the castle's population at one time or another. The quickest and safest route to her breakfast planned with single-minded precision, it is only when Lucy takes her seat that her finally-accustomed eyes connect with her sleep-addled brain. It's far too late. The ledger, ink bottle and quill – pushed to one side for the moment – should have given fair warning but even that's not enough this morning.
Lucy slumps onto the bench, bleary-eyed, and attempts a smile at her breakfast companion. Susan returns the smile far more brightly, appearing almost like a figure from a thick fog, her face suddenly completely clear. It is all that Lucy can do to stop herself reeling backwards in shock. She is entirely unprepared, defenceless.
Susan's hair, midnight black and hanging half-way to her waist, is tied back, her face free of cosmetics. It makes the smudge of ink on the side of her nose all the more obvious. (Lucy pictures her, bowed over the ledger, tongue between her teeth (a habit that her siblings never tire of teasing her for); she sees her raise the almost invariably ink-stained index finger, heedlessly soothing her itching nose before lifting the quill again, scritching and correcting her working). Her simple green dress is cut square across the bodice and sets off her eyes as they meet Lucy's. The whiteness of her neckline is unadorned except for the simple silver chain that bears the key – both ceremonial and practical – of the Chatalaine of Cair Paravel and its provinces. Lucy has never seen her look more lovely. So early in the morning, and so utterly unprepared, she is greatly relieved that she is already in her seat.
Susan smiles even more broadly, dropping a chunk of bread to flitter her fingers at her. “Lucy, dear. Good morning! How delightful, and so early, too! I sometimes think that I'm the only sovereign of this fair nation who knows what morning looks like.”
Lucy smiles, mouth closed, and makes a show of chewing and swallowing the sliver of cheese that she'd helped herself to before sitting down. She watches the smudge of ink on her sister's nose, uncertain for a moment what to do or say. It seems mean not to do anything, though. She raises a hand, still silent, and, wetting the corner of her kerchief, steps around the table to cup Susan's face gently in her left hand. Her skin is warm and unbelievably soft. It is all Lucy can do not to stroke her cheek as she brings the damp cloth to bear on the stain. It is stubborn – almost as stubborn as she is, perhaps – and requires a couple of minutes of concerted effort to erase.
Susan raises her eyebrows slightly at the first assault but is uncomplaining besides, the patter of her fingernails on the table her only other movement. Lucy can't tell what that signifies and anyway, she is far more engaged in not noting the shadowed glade of skin that sits at the curve between Susan's neck and shoulder. She focuses resolutely on the job at hand, not in any way lingering on the way the quickly fading stain mars the whiteness of Susan's cheek; or on the redness of her lips (pressed into a slight line now), or the way the fullness of the bottom lip gives the impression of an almost permanent pout. She especially does not notice the way it would be so easy to lean forward and press her lips to her sister's gently, to flicker her tongue against them until they part with a sigh...
“Lucy? Really, dear, are you sure you shouldn't still be in bed? You're asleep on your feet. And have you quite finished mothering me or am I going to have to spend the next half an hour with a soggy cloth stuck to my face?” There is no irritation in her tone. Her lips curve upwards slightly as she speaks and she raises a hand to carefully tuck a stray strand of yellow hair behind Lucy's ear. It is all Lucy can do not to jolt away from her as Susan's thumb strokes her cheek a single time before she drops her hand to the table once more.
Lucy kicks herself inwardly. Her hand is unmoving against Susan's face now and she doesn't know exactly how long she's been simply staring at her mouth. The quirk of Susan's lips is the perfect companion to the slightly quizzical look that she is directing at her. Lucy raises her hand mutely, displaying the dark smudges on the previously unblemished material, as if that were all the explanation required for her behaviour. Susan takes the raised hand in her own and squeezes it.
“Thank you, dear. That's really very thoughtful of you.” She pulls Lucy close, gesturing to the bench beside her. “Now sit! Distract me from all these facts and figures! I think it's my turn to mother you, yes? And I can start by making sure that you actually eat a proper meal for once. Really Lucy, you're skin and bone. Does no one ever feed you?”
Lucy sits and takes a deep breath, feeling normality reassert itself, if only for a while. She's in two minds, unsure whether to smile or scowl. She chooses the latter, allowing her irritation free rein. The relief is overwhelming.
“Oh, stop nagging me! I eat more than enough, and I really don't need someone to feed me up, thank you! This is all part of your conspiracy with Ed, isn't it? Fatten me up so you can marry me off to some obnoxious Calormene prince. Well, it's not going to happen, you know that, don't you? Just because Ed's got it into his head that he can solve all my problems with some stupid party ...” Lucy stumbles to a halt, surprised almost by her own vehemence. She inhales slowly and continues, a little more calmly. “By the Lion, Su, do you have any idea how frustrating it is? Having the three of you always so sure you know what's best for me? And I feel horrible complaining because I know you mean well, but really, does it never occur to any of you to actually ask me what I want? You never know, I might actually have an idea!”
She stops again, suddenly overcome with guilt. She's actually out of breath, convinced that she must look like a small, golden haired bull, alternately bellowing into the gloom and blowing hard.
Susan simply waits, her chin on her palm, her face impassive and entirely unreadable. Her other hand still holds Lucy's loosely. She's making slow circling motions with her thumb against the back of Lucy's hand, so softly that she barely notices at first, is sure that she must be imagining it. Then, just as gently, Susan pinches her, and pokes out her tongue very quickly, just the tip but Lucy definitely sees it. Susan laughs.
“Well, that's more like it! I was starting to think that we'd lost you again. I can't get used to you being all silent and, and, accommodating. It just doesn't feel right.” She grins when Lucy, after the briefest pause, exactly mirrors her actions. “Lucy, you know you don't have to do anything you don't want to, but, well, even the things you don't want to do can have their purpose. We are trying to help, but you can help yourself, too, you know.” She hesitates. “Does the ball sound like such a horrible idea to you?”
Lucy clears her throat and shakes her head quickly. “Well, not horrible. I just, well Ed does have some strange ideas about what I want.”
Susan, too, shakes her head, ever so slightly. There is a look on her face that might almost be exasperation, but her lips at least suggest amusement. “Oh, give me strength! Honestly, there are times when I feel like it would do you both the world of good to spend a few days in the dungeons. They are rather underused after all, and then at least you might talk to each other, and listen, more importantly.”
“Hey, that's not fair!” Lucy knows how childish she sounds almost before the words leave her lips but she ploughs on all the same. She has little enough to lose. “You know what Ed's like. It's like talking to a very enthusiastic statue!”
Susan giggles, and it's incongruous, really. She's so often serious, so much the adult, that Lucy forgets that she is only a few years older. Susan releases her hand, only to reach out and enfold Lucy in both arms. She freezes, shocked.
“Oh Lucy, what am I going to do with you?” she says, a giggle still playing among the syllables. She shows no inclination to release her hold. Lucy is rigid, like the statue she accused her brother of resembling but without its more lively traits. Time crawls at the most agonising pace as Lucy forces her arms upwards to return the hug. She squeezes back, desperately ignoring the softness she holds against her, the flower-scent of her sister's hair.
Susan continues, entirely oblivious, “I know he has a funny way of showing it, but Edmund only wants what you want, just like I do. But we can't know what you want if you won't tell us.” She squeezes Lucy a final time and lets go, fixing her with a stern glare, the effect of which is almost immediately ruined by a grin that, well, Lucy can't think of it as anything other than wicked.
“And you're allowed to take what you want sometimes, you know. You are queen, after all.”
Lucy attempts an easy smile in response. She's certain that she comes up short.
“Well, my dear, much as I wish it weren't true and much as our dear brothers would have people believe otherwise, this castle and this country don't organise themselves. I'll let you finish your breakfast in peace.”
Hefting the ledger in both hands she stands and, bending to drop a final kiss onto Lucy's brow, she bustles away, all business now.
Lucy sinks back in her seat, watching her sister's retreating form, admiring the green of her dress, the way it contrasts with her hair, the way it flares around her hips as she walks. Lucy feels almost calm, for the first time in, well, she couldn't say how long. She had despaired of ever feeling anything but confusion and anguish, her mind always a storm of violent emotions. It's a millpond now, though, and unbidden a memory rises to its surface, words in a voice so, so familiar.
"You know your heart, child. Follow it where you may, but be gentle with it. Be gentle also with the hearts of others, and perhaps they will follow where you lead."
She smiles as she watches Susan struggle with the door, seemingly battling it open through sheer force of will, the ledger still held firmly in both hands, and as her lips curve upwards she touches a finger to them and, a little self-consciously, puckers them slightly. For a moment only, the most fleeting moment, but …
Oh, it's perfect.
She's allowed to take what she wants, sometimes. She is queen, after all.
Oh.
Lucy turns on the bench to face her breakfast. All of a sudden she is utterly ravenous. She hums quietly as she eats, feeling very, very pleased with herself.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2011-05-25 09:06 am (UTC)All in all, good chapter. It's nice to see that you're trying to flesh out the characters and the world they inhabit, because that's become a such rare occurrence in fanfiction these day.
Patiently waiting for the next chapter. =)
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Date: 2011-05-29 08:00 pm (UTC)The 'dreaminess' of the dream sequence was one of the things I really struggled on. It took me forever :/
I'm really happy you're liking this, and especially that you were interested enough to come back and read the next bit after over a month! I have the most appalling case of writer's block, so I'm afraid the next bit may take even longer, but I'll definitely get there in the end. I really hope it'll be worth the wait :D
Thank you again!
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Date: 2011-05-25 07:35 pm (UTC)Your writing is as beautiful as ever, Si. <3 I won't go into an in-depth review because you know I'd be at it for hours, but I will say that you are doing an excellent job with character development and that the interactions are spot on.
You do know I love me some Aslan/Lucy bonding. ♥
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Date: 2011-05-29 08:08 pm (UTC)I'm so happy that you enjoyed it. Every time I post a part of this, I always figure that no one could possibly be interested and really I should just enjoy writing it for myself, so whenever people actually read it and like it it always rather makes my day. Who knew that other people would enjoy reading my rather perverse form of revenge on C.S.Lewis :D.
I remembered you saying how much you liked a bit of Alan/Lucy interaction, so I was thinking of you when I wrote it. I'm glad you liked :D
I hope things are fab with you. Hopefully catch up soon!
Oh, and I finally watched Mulan, and I loved it! Thank you so much for the rec!
♥
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Date: 2011-05-30 06:07 pm (UTC)And I don't particularly no why, but when I re-read the books a couple of months back, all I could focus on was the fact that Aslan/Lucy just seemed the most real to me, when in comparison to the rest of the interactions in the novels. She never stopped believing in him and he brought out the best in the moments where they played. :D ~
Things are as fab as they can get, and I hope you're doing just as well. Glad you enjoyed Mulan, it really is one of the finest Disney has to offer ♥
no subject
Date: 2011-06-01 07:00 pm (UTC)♥ ♥ ♥
Bizarrely, it's actually a little while since I reread the Pevensie-focused Narnia books (although I reread The Silver Chair at the end of last year, and The Horse and His Boy recently, which has everyone but Peter in it, so). I'm getting a hankering to read the others again now though. In fact I think I might read Prince Caspian when I finish the current zombie-themed opus I'm on (World War Z by Max Brookes. It's fabulous!). I've alway loved Lucy though, and her and Aslan's relationship is just really special <3
So, did you reread The Last Battle too? What are your thoughts on it? I can never bring myself to read it these days, it feels so much like betrayal. Hence my revenge! ;D
There's still a lot I love about them, though, even though I differ fundamentally from Lewis as far as world-view goes xD
It was lovely to catch up with you the other day. Have a fabulous summer break, and the next time we catch up we can natter Mulan and things Disney :D (Mushu! <3<3 So cute XD)
♥
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Date: 2011-06-06 10:31 pm (UTC)There's nothing wrong with indulging in a bit of zombie love. Can't say I blame you, anyway, because they make for most fascinating reading. 8D But Lucy/Aslan is very special indeed <3
I did reread The Last Battle, actually. Seeing as it was a couple of months back, my memory's not perfect, but I definitely still felt betrayed about the fact that they left poor Susan to deal with life all on her own and how Lewis portrayed their death as the single greatest thing after destroying the original Narnia. OH IT'S OKAY YOUR TRAIN JUST CRASHED AND YOU'RE DEAD FOREVER, BUT IT'S NARNIA. NOT 1 CURR.
All things Disney are fun to discuss~ Mushu is so dorky XD
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Date: 2011-06-07 09:45 pm (UTC)The only apologists I know of for it are ardent Christians, and maybe you have to be to find anything other than vicious, life-denying cynicism in the whole thing. The whole "yippee, hurry up and die so we can go to heaven" attitude is beyond contemptible.
It's difficult, really. Basically everything Lewis intended the books to stand for I loathe with every fibre of my being, but I still can't help being inordinately fond of them. FML :D
Other fabulous Disney films: The Jungle Book. Favourite Disney EVAR. I <3 it so much :D
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Date: 2011-06-08 07:58 pm (UTC)FML indeed. I do so love to read them, though.
And the Jungle Book <3333
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Date: 2011-05-26 11:36 am (UTC)You really have a way with words and your imagery is so vivid. I just...yeah. Speechless, to be honest. :)
I also love me some Lucy/Aslan bonding. There's just something about it, you know? It was one of my favourite things in the books and the movies.
Really glad you updated this.
--
Also to be completely off-topic - and you're probably going to laugh at me for being so slow - but what the hell ever happened to
I'm sick, and a bit tipsy so I guess that doesn't help but still...
--
Anyways, can't wait for the next update.
no subject
Date: 2011-05-29 08:19 pm (UTC)I'm really happy you're enjoying it. As I was saying to Sushi, I'm always surprised when anyone's interested in this, so thank you so much for reading and commenting.
I'm afraid I'm blocked again, so the next part will be a while, but hey ho. I'll definitely update it sooner or later! I hope it'll be worth the wait!
--
So you missed the whole
I hope you're fully recovered, and that things are good with you!
♥
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Date: 2011-05-31 03:05 am (UTC)I still am loving the thought process you have for Lucy. It feels so natural.
Wonderfully done, hun. Can't wait for the next chapter!
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Date: 2011-06-01 07:09 pm (UTC)Not gonna lie, this chapter was ridiculously hard to write and it's not really getting any easier (writer's block is biting really hard right now :(). I'm happy you liked the Lucy/Susan bit at the end. I really felt like it was time to actually show them together, and to show Susan as Lucy sees her (which is obviously as being kind of bossy and irritating, but with all this other stuff just bubbling away under the surface. Confusing! :D).
Keeping Lucy consistent (my characterisations differ from Lewis's, I think, and intentionally so, but I do try to keep them internally consistent!) is key, so it's good to hear that that's working for you <3
♥♥♥
I've written about 200 words since I finished this chapter over a month ago. Gah. Fail! So I'm afraid it may be a little while till the next chapter's finished. Hopefully it won't be too long though, and I really hope it's worth the wait :D
<3