home again, home again, jiggitty-jig

[called_lioness]

Speaking with Chiara was amazing and fun and what she wanted, so badly--or one thing--since she was so much younger.

And so Lucy hestitantly--cautiously--decides as she pulls her dressing gown over her nightgown that perhaps she could try it again, what the Dream King offered.

There's just...One problem, first.

And she is, perhaps, a bit nervous as she looks over at Caspian.

Comments

Caspian

[called_lioness]

"I, um."

Stop.

Start again.

"I...thought I'd sleep in my room tonight."

Re: Caspian

[the_seafarer]

He blinks, a little sleepily, at her.

It had been a long day and Lucy's restless sleep perhaps keeps his own lighter than he is likely to admit to her, the result being that a day of labor on the Hope and in the stables, short-handed as they are, just about does him in.

"Your room?"

Re: Caspian

[called_lioness]

"I do have one," she says, gently, as she leans over to press a kiss to his hair. "Remember?"

The twins are listening with interest.

Re: Caspian

[the_seafarer]

"Well, of course, certainly I remember."

Bemused, he looks up at her as she pulls away.

"But why? Did I..." But he trails off, uncertain even of what he might have done to convince Lucy it would be better to sleep alone this night.

Re: Caspian

[called_lioness]

"No." It's firm, as she looks at him.

"I just--I can't tonight. Not with you." There's hesitation, as she thinks on how to put things and pushes hair from his face.

"You'll sleep better without me here," and it's a little resigned, "anyway."

A little resigned, and her eyes are a little troubled, too, and a little sad, as she smiles at him.

Re: Caspian

[the_seafarer]

"I shan't," he says, untruthfully, and reaches out to lace their fingers together.

"Of course you can sleep where you like, Lu, but why tonight? And why not with me?"

Re: Caspian

[called_lioness]

"You shouldn't lie, Caspian." It's gently said as she smiles again.

"You shall, and you need it, for there's no reason for the both of us to be tired. For that alone, I should sleep elsewhere. But because--" And she stops, and says, slowly, "You don't remember your parents, but you were one, so mayhap you'll understand. I--I've no shame in the fact that I share a bed with you. You know this, yes?"

Because she thinks that matters, before she tries and explains everything else.

Re: Caspian

[the_seafarer]

"Of course." But the gray eyes are puzzled.

"But, I still don't understant."

Re: Caspian

[called_lioness]

"I've no shame," she says, slowly, "but if--if we were in England, and my parents were there, they would think I should. If they were here, they would think I should. This is not how I was taught things should be done. My mother--"

That makes her stop and frown.

"She would not," carefully, "be happy with me."

Father

[called_lioness]

She opens her eyes.

It's London.

This is new, but--it makes sense, too. Her father was almost always in London, when she saw him.

It's London, and it's the park, and she sits on the bench, for a moment, and waits patiently.

Re: Father

[and-the-north.livejournal.com]

It's London, yes, but a brighter London than London itself, with green, green leaves growing from every tree.

The man approaching the bench does not appear young, but neither does he seem old; though his hair is grey and receding, he walks like a strong and healthy man.

He smiles, just at her. "Welcome, Lucy."

Re: Father

[called_lioness]

And for that matter, Lucy--though she doesn't know it, nor thinks on it--looks less and less like Lucy Pevensie and more like something he never saw, or only saw glimpses of, in London.

But she throws herself at him, all reserve forgotten, anyway, and says, "Oh, Father," and has to smile.

Re: Father

[and-the-north.livejournal.com]

John Pevensie takes his daughter in his arms. It is a loose embrace -- he was never the kind of man who hugged easily -- but clearly sincere.

Eventually he steps backward so that he can gaze at her. Whatever he sees makes him blink quickly and smile.

"You look lovely, my dear."

Re: Father

[called_lioness]

"You look well yourself, Father. Quite well, really." It's soft, but she's smiling as widely as she can while she says it, and the embrace is loose, but it's all she could ask for, still.

"I've missed you. So much."

Re: Father

[and-the-north.livejournal.com]

"We've missed you too."

John Pevensie can't wish his children in Aslan's country, however clear the air, however flavourful the fruits, if there is something left for them to do in the world.

"Won't you tell me how you are doing?"

Re: Father

[called_lioness]

"Well. Mostly," she corrects, and pushes her hair back with one hand, "well. It's--a little hard, of late." She gives him his space, but not too much, as she thinks.

"I want to tell you a lot," Lucy says slowly, "but I suppose--first, really, it should be this. I'm engaged."

Re: Father

[and-the-north.livejournal.com]

John Pevensie's youngest daughter is a woman, now, somehow, with a woman's form and a wise smile. John knows that Lucy is dead, that her arrival in this land has only been delayed. He had not imagined that she might marry.

He is blinking more rapidly, now. "How wonderful to hear that."

Mother

[called_lioness]

He holds her hand as they walk, and Lucy thinks she'll never let it go.

It's a tree they're approaching--a familiar one, she thinks, a bit wryly (for Mother often scolded her for climbing it)--as she spots the familiar, female figure she knew would have to be there.

Re: Mother

[and-the-north.livejournal.com]

Like her husband, Helen Pevensie looks neither young nor old in this country. Her hair is touched with gray, but the lines have gone from her face, and her eyes are bright and far-seeing.

She turns away from the tree, hand falling from the trunk, and smiles.

"Lucy, darling."

Re: Mother

[called_lioness]

"Oh, Mum." And it means dropping her father's hand, but still Lucy smiles back as she goes to hug her mother in turn.

Re: Mother

[and-the-north.livejournal.com]

Her mother's arms go around her, and Helen strokes her daughter's hair, just once.

"Oh, my dear," she says over her daughter's shoulder. "It's lovely to see you."

When she pulls away, it's with a small catch of a laugh. "I suppose it should sound awful, to be glad to see my daughter here. And yet I am, you know -- I don't think it's possible to be truly sad or awful, any more. Not in God's country."

Re: Mother

[called_lioness]

Once is enough.

Once is perfect, in a way.

"Not here, no," she agrees, if a bit--just a bit--softly.

She still can, a bit. She's not all the way here yet.

But it's rarer than it would be in the bar.

"I'm glad to see you too. Even here. Or especially here, mayhap."

Re: Mother

[and-the-north.livejournal.com]

In life, Helen would have blinked at the strange word, and wondered whom Lucy had adopted that slang from, and if she ought to expect to be hearing it from all the teenagers she spoke to within the month. But here, she's found that almost nothing is surprising, really.

"How have you been? Are you -- you're well?"

Re: Mother

[called_lioness]

"Not as well as you, I'd warrant," with a smile, "but I'm well, I suppose."

And it is true. Even if she won't be exactly well when she wakes up, she'll still, after this, be far more well than she was.

"Should I even ask how you are?" Still smiling.

Re: Mother

[and-the-north.livejournal.com]

And, oh, the quiet joy that sparks in her mother's face at that question: the shining contentment, bright as the sunlight on the rich green leaves.

"Very well indeed," she says, and laughs a little, looking down.

"Just as well as you'd think."

It is, after all, Heaven.