Lucy Pevensie, The Valiant (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
called_lioness) wrote2007-02-15 11:38 pm
called_lioness) wrote2007-02-15 11:38 pm
and sometimes when you fall
She wakes up.
She shouldn't, really, think of it as waking up, but that's most of what it feels like.
This is real. This is her aware and the air clear and crisp and mountains, always mountains, around her.
***
Susan's there sometimes. Often. Not always.
Sometimes you have to walk alone.
Sometimes Lucy likes that. And sometimes she likes someone holding her hand.
More and more often she's one step ahead.
She hasn't really noticed.
***
"I love thee," she tells Susan, on a whim.
Susan smiles.
"And I thee."
They keep walking.
They're quieter the closer they get.
There's less that needs to be said.
***
She wakes up.
This time, Susan's not there.
She could wait.
Instead she runs.
It's not leaving anyone behind; it never is. She knows Susan could catch up, and she knows, here she knows, that she'll see her again in a time that's no time at all. All times are soon.
***
A moment can be eternity, eternity can be the tick of a clock
A very wise man said that once.
It's true.
It's a tick of the clock later when Lucy collapses--not for exhaustion, not here, never here--at the top of the mountain.
There's a gate.
She sits outside it, laughing, and looks down the cliff she thinks she's run straight up.
She doesn't remember having a compass in her hands, but now she does, and the needle's spinning round and round in a circle, like it would on the north pole.
This is right.
And there's foot(paw)steps behind her, and she smiles at the silent sound.
She shouldn't, really, think of it as waking up, but that's most of what it feels like.
This is real. This is her aware and the air clear and crisp and mountains, always mountains, around her.
Susan's there sometimes. Often. Not always.
Sometimes you have to walk alone.
Sometimes Lucy likes that. And sometimes she likes someone holding her hand.
More and more often she's one step ahead.
She hasn't really noticed.
"I love thee," she tells Susan, on a whim.
Susan smiles.
"And I thee."
They keep walking.
They're quieter the closer they get.
There's less that needs to be said.
She wakes up.
This time, Susan's not there.
She could wait.
Instead she runs.
It's not leaving anyone behind; it never is. She knows Susan could catch up, and she knows, here she knows, that she'll see her again in a time that's no time at all. All times are soon.
A moment can be eternity, eternity can be the tick of a clock
A very wise man said that once.
It's true.
It's a tick of the clock later when Lucy collapses--not for exhaustion, not here, never here--at the top of the mountain.
There's a gate.
She sits outside it, laughing, and looks down the cliff she thinks she's run straight up.
She doesn't remember having a compass in her hands, but now she does, and the needle's spinning round and round in a circle, like it would on the north pole.
This is right.
And there's foot(paw)steps behind her, and she smiles at the silent sound.
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Then soft tawny fur brushes against her arm as the Lion takes one more step forward, solemn golden eyes looking down at her.
"Dear heart, fare you well?"
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"It's beautiful."
It means everything, and not just in this country.
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""All things in my father's country are, and always shall be."
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She reaches out and rests her hand against his mane after a moment and just lets it rest there.
And for a while she says nothing at all, just sits with her Lion and looks out at it all.
"Caspian isn't ready yet."
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"There will be time."
His tail brushes against his flank, stirring up that rose-sweet smell again.
"For you and he both, there will be time."
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"But I did. And I love him, and I don't want to leave him again. I've done that enough."
"But it's hard." It's just a statement.
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His tail flicks gently against her side, almost as an afterthought.
"It is a country that makes few demands."
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"But all roads are worth it, too, I also think. If this is where they lead."
There's a compass in her lap and she slips it into her pocket again after a moment.
She doesn't really need it.
(Sometimes it's nice, though, to have something to hold on to and to tell you what you always knew.)
"Can I sit with you a while anyway?"
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His voice, when he speaks, is full of a gently rumbling purr.
"You will always be welcome, dearest."
They all are.
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And she doesn't have to, is the thing.
It's a choice; it's always a choice.
But she promised, and she'd keep it, and that's a choice, too, and one she'd make gladly, even if it hurts.
And this time when she starts to wake up (to fall asleep, to drift off against golden fur and the smell of summer) there's the sound of pages turning in a book and two hands, both pale as as moonlight, one male and one female, in front of her.
It's always a choice, and Lucy loved both her parents, but her father's voice was the one she loved best in the world.
And everything works out, all the little bits, exactly as you make it, as you want it to, in the end.
So she takes a hand.
And then
And then she wakes up, Caspian's body against hers.
And it's not that it's easy, because it's not, because she knows exactly what she's putting off, and what she's paying to do it, to distract herself and keep her mind busy and not think on where she wants to be the most.
But it's a choice.
And it's hers.
And there's a warm chest under her arms, and Lucy's content to rest her head on it after a moment and listen to his heart beat.
She can wait a while longer.