Jan. 26th, 2006

called_lioness: (Sleep)
Lucy wakes up covered in sweat and without a noise, her nightgown sticking to her back. She's just as silent as she slips out of bed, though her hands are shaking, as she strips pulls a fresh nightgown on, then grabs her robe, belting it around herself. Another moment as bare feet pad on the floor and she's out in the common area and curled on the couch, her knees tight against her chest.

(They're just dreams.)

She rests her head back and tries to relax, and knows she won't. Not now. Not for a while. So instead she thinks of Edmund, and Turkish delight.

("I say, you do look awful, Edmund. Don't you feel well?")

She should, she thinks, have known. And she knows she couldn't have, for all that.

It doesn't make her feel any better.

("You saw. You and Susan. Saw her--" "I think Susan looked away. But I've never really asked. We don't talk about it.")

She closes her eyes, and the world's white behind her lids from squeezing them so tightly.

("You can always tell them if you've lived long in Narnia; something about their eyes.")

Lucy takes several breaths, slowly, and doesn't think of bombings, doesn't think of stone tables, doesn't think of brothers or lovers under enchantments.

She doesn't.

(They're just dreams.)

Eventually she relaxes, and her breathing slows, and it's enough to let her sleep again.

And in her dreams, this time, there's no Jadis, no witch, at all.

("I loved you.")

Just gold and summer, and she knows, even sleeping, that when she wakes she'll feel better.

At least a little.

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called_lioness: (Default)
Lucy Pevensie, The Valiant

June 2008

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