Fic: Adonai
Sep. 16th, 2009 03:32 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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narniaexchangeTitle: Adonai
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
lassiterfics
Recipient:zempasuchil
Rating: PG
Possible Spoilers/Warnings: spoilers for VotDT
Summary: Lucy knows Aslan by many names. ~3300 words
A/N: Thank you tobedlamsbard and animus_wyrmis for the beta.
This world is still strange to you, with its habit of dividing its loves to name them. It insists on the measurement of details. Here on the other side of the looking glass, things are always what they seem because they have to be labeled as such. You have to be careful, or people might talk.
“Talk is dangerous,” Susan said in a warning tone. “Some people wield words like weapons.”
“We might as well be in Calormen,” you had replied, and you smiled to show her you were joking, but that’s not enough for Susan these days. Not enough or maybe too much. She frowned at you, you who don’t know how to make your sister smile anymore.
“We’re in England.” She enunciated the word, as if enunciation were enough. Maybe it’s not. Not for you, or maybe it’s too much. You remember a time when you didn’t have to say the name of your home with such conviction just to believe it was real.
+
Edmund holds you close with one arm, and holds the umbrella steady with the other. It’s a rainy night in England, and you think of how, on the other side of the world, perhaps it is sunny and warm. Perhaps there the sky is blue and the sun gilds the earth. It’s as if there were only a finite supply of color in the world, and England has to wait until the morning to be something other than gray gray gray.
Aslan is everywhere, you’re saying to Edmund. Even here, He’s everywhere. Before you stepped through the door in the sky, He had commanded you to know Him by another name, and so you try to. You seek him out – but in which story? Jesus was nailed to the cross for your sins, but Odin was hung from the world-tree and pierced with his own spear to know the runes. Persephone consigns herself to hell for half of eternity so that you may have the springtime.
There are so many gods who have sacrificed for us all, as Aslan has.
“Lu,” Edmund says. “You see Aslan in everything. Even in the clouds in the sky.”
You retort, “Don’t talk to me like I’m some child,” and you can tell that he notices the sharpness in your voice by how his expression softens.
“Sorry,” he says, and you let him kiss the top of your head. “I forget myself, your majesty.”
You’re not sure if you’re mollified, but you swallow your pride and lift your head. Even here in England, with your somber dresses and shoes that pinch, you are still Queen Lucy of the eastern sea. Aslan named you the Valiant, just like Adam named the animals in the garden before he fell from grace.
+
Mohini, Narasimha, Vamana, Parasurama: the list goes on, and yet these are only a handful of Vishnu’s avatars. (Narasimha, the man-lion. You read of his retribution against the demon king, and you’re reminded of the first battle, the Witch’s blood on His teeth.)
The Lord Vishnu is innumerable – all over the universes constantly, writes the Bhagavad Purana, without cessation, as water flows constantly from waterfalls. He is legion, vast, and of everything, that he cannot leave himself without returning to himself at the same time. You find yourself drawn to his ubiquity because these days this is what you know: the presence of the Lion all around you, and the way His message resounds.
In Narnia, the gods walk the same earth you do. You can remember embracing Aslan, how tangible and specific He was in your arms. You remember how soft His mane was and the gold of His eyes. You realize that, more than missing your god, you miss your friend. You’re not like Susan, who has cycled one world into another within her. You’re not like Edmund, with his talent for plurality. You are not Peter – you don’t have his weather-beaten patience. As it is, here, you don’t know whom to hold. Here, sometimes everything feels like too many answers for just one question.
This is the crux of it, you say to your brother. Whose name should you call on when you ask for forgiveness?
Edmund replies, “Why do you think you need to be forgiven, Lu?”
“It’s not… Well. Just for argument’s sake, you know?”
“Yes,” he says, and leaves it at that.
+
There is something about the way the light falls upon the lamppost that makes you hum a little melody to yourself without even thinking. Your heart remembers a springtime that was bright and blessed – the swaying of tree branches had looked like dancing, and the splashes in the river sounded like a lover’s laugh.
You walk up the steps of the church, and Edmund says, “We’re here.”
You step inside.
You’ve always liked sitting near the front, but Edmund is already sidling into the last row, so you follow. The air is soothing with the weight of other people’s meditation, and smells faintly of wood polish and the morning’s incense. From the corner of your eye you see Edmund watching you, as if waiting for some cue. Watching you, and so you smile at him. You slip your hand into his and he smiles back, and then you pray the best way you know how.
+
Jesus was also a prophet in the Muslim religion. They call him Isa, and he is one of the five rasuls, the carriers of sharia. Isa was wholly human and no son of god, for there is only one god in Islam, and he cannot be divided into littler gods. You won’t find Allah in the three parts of Christian hypostases or the sanctities of saints. The faithful pray only to him and only in one direction, and this is a singularity that comforts you. A Muslim knows where to point his love and to whom he should entrust his weaknesses.
When you told your siblings this, Peter and Susan had exchanged looks and perhaps some consternation. Edmund was the only one waiting to hear more. He truly deserves his title, you think. The Just, who listens to all testimonies.
“Their religion comes from the desert,” you continued. “If there’s no water to wash themselves before prayers, the faithful wash themselves with sand.”
Edmund understands.
+
When you return home, you find Peter and Susan in the parlor talking in low tones. You can’t see Susan’s face, but Peter’s expression is weary, his mouth a thin line. They both look up when Edmund clears his throat, and Susan is quick to break away, beaming as she comes.
“You two,” she says. “Where have you been? Swimming with your clothes on from the looks of it.”
You let Edmund field Susan’s niceties as you make your way to your eldest brother. Susan gets along best with Edmund these days, and neither you nor Peter are quite sure what to make of it. In Narnia, her patience for frivolity and Edmund’s tendencies towards self-enclosure had tried each other, but here it is a different story, as it always is. Imagine how deep the scar of Edmund’s first betrayal must go that he sees himself mirrored in every wayward decision, and reaches out to those determined to be apart.
Peter smiles for you. “Hello, Lu.”
“Would you like some tea?” you ask.
“Looks like you’re the one who can use some tea.”
“Well, have some with me, then.”
“Peter, Lucy,” Susan calls out. “I’m off to see the girls.”
“It’s raining,” Peter retorts peevishly.
Susan waves her umbrella at him. “That’s why we’ve got this, hmm?”
“What if you catch cold?”
“Oh, honestly, Peter.”
“The rain’s letting up anyway,” Edmund cuts in before Peter can reply. “It’s not as strong. A nice drizzle, maybe, by now.”
Susan gives him a grateful look. “That’s good to know.”
And then she departs, leaving nothing but the look on Peter’s face, the way he frowns at Edmund. Edmund shrugs.
There’s nothing left to do but put the kettle on, so you do.
+
The bedroom you share with Susan used to feel big and lonely when it was just you alone, but now you’re used to it. Through the wall, you can hear your brothers trying not to let their argument escalate. You curl up in bed with a battered copy of The Secret Garden, reading it for the hundredth time while you wait for Edmund to knock on your door.
“What was he on about this time?” you ask, when he finally does.
Edmund rolls his eyes. “He doesn’t like me encouraging Susan. I’m not encouraging anything except some peace. I’m tired of them going at it all the time.” He sits down in his usual chair, and tips it back on two legs to rest his feet on your bed. In your head, you hear Peter and Susan’s voices telling him to stop that, he might fall.
He spots the book on your lap, and he says, “That book again? Do you never tire of it?”
“Of course not.”
“Real life is so much better than the stories that echo it, Lu.”
“Silly,” you say. “It’s real life that echoes the story.”
+
It’s real life that echoes the story, the way worshippers echo their god. In Narnia, you knew to whom to give your heart. You never had to scrabble for your place in His world because you were written to be by His side.
Now that you’ve been cast out of Narnia and commanded to search for Aslan here, you find Him everywhere. How can you not? He filled your being and crooked Himself to fit your empty spaces. You shaped yourself around His love because destiny said you would, and you believed it, you believe it still. You recognize Aslan in all the gods of this world, and you see His mercy in every balance struck between good and evil. A hundred gods, each with a hundred names, a hundred ways to sin and as many ways to be forgiven.
If you refuse to see what is everywhere, then you will end up nowhere. If you find no water in the desert, you wash yourself with sand.
You must pray with the world that is given to you.
+
You wake up in the night because someone is shaking you. No, someone is shaking Edmund, who is sleeping curled around you.
“Edmund!” says Susan’s voice in the dark. “Edmund, what are you doing?”
“Sleeping,” he murmurs, and you intertwine your hands with his and hold on tight.
“Well, sleep in your own room! Edmund!”
He complies, grumbling while Susan keeps up a quiet but steady stream of disapproval. The floor creaks under his weight, and you don’t know whether to keep your eyes closed or open them to watch your brother go.
“All right!” he hisses. “All right, I’m going!”
Susan follows him into the hall, and then you hear Peter’s bleary voice join in, then all three of them are going at it, the quietest fight in the world. You wonder what they’re telling each other on the other side of the wall. You wonder if Aslan can see you now, and what He would have to say about this. You think about this world’s impulse to identify the different shapes of love, and wonder why one simple love is no longer enough.
When your sister comes back, you are wide awake, and you softly call her name.
“Lucy?” she says. “I thought you were asleep.”
“Susan, do you ever miss Him?”
She continues puttering around the room, getting ready for bed, undoing this and unbuttoning that, slipping on this and slipping off that. She unties her hair and it falls over her shoulders, rendering her silhouette familiar to you once more. She shows no intention of answering your question, and you think maybe she’s just going to ignore it, the way she ignores all things about Narnia these days. But then she says, “I suppose.” She says, “Yes. But I suppose things must change, after all. We’re not children anymore.”
Before she can change the subject, you blurt out, “I miss talking with Him especially.”
“You? But you’ve always been close to him. You talk with him all the time.”
“Me? But… Well, but He’s not a tame Lion, and He doesn’t—”
“What?”
“Aslan.”
“Oh.”
“Who did you think?”
“I…” Susan hesitates. “I thought maybe you meant Peter. I thought maybe…”
In the dark, you can only see her silhouette as she sits straight-backed on her bed. You can only see the angle of her chin as she breathes in, out. The realization of her confession hangs in the air, and you can feel your sister retreating into herself again as if chastised.
“Never mind,” she says, her voice quite small.
So you say, “He misses you too.”
“Aslan?”
“Peter.”
She settles in under the covers, and says, “It’s late. We should sleep.” Then, under the guise of afterthought: “You know, Edmund has his own bed to sleep in. I don’t see why he needs to sleep in yours.”
You reply, “Good night, Su.”
“Good night, Lucy.”
+
You associated the sea with home. You were accustomed to finding your moments of peace with it – bits of time stolen between one royal duty and another when you could sneak down to the shore to dip your feet in the water and lift your head to the sun. You talked with the seagulls and seals, and bid the mermaids teach you their songs. When the days were not so busy, you would herd your siblings to the beach and force them into a picnic. “You’d die drafting treaties and arbitrating border disputes if you can help it,” you would say. “Thank Aslan you have me to prevent that.”
You used to wake to the susurrus of waves outside your window, but now you are accustomed to the hustle and bustle of London. It’s different, but you suppose it’s not so bad. When you live in the city, it’s easy to be awed by humanity. Your senses are constantly assaulted by the proof of all that humanity can do, all the things it has built: telegrams that convey messages faster than a falcon ever can, and streetlights that drown the light of stars.
You know that you are more than the sum total of your frailties but, here, you are surrounded by all that is human, including their flaws, so sometimes you slip into thinking that they are all that matter.
+
When your father announces a trip to the seaside, you clap your hands and cheer, and your mother smiles at the childishness of your reaction. Being the youngest child is a comforting role to fall into. You are still a queen, but much less is expected of you here, and you feel guilty for finding that liberating.
On the beach, you cajole Peter into helping you build a sandcastle, and you convince your father to let his children bury him up to his neck in sand.
“If I get an itch on my nose, you must scratch it,” he says, and you all promise you will.
The sun approaches the horizon, and you keep track of the colors in the sky: gold and blue-gray, giving way to orange and pink. You and Edmund are skipping rocks at the water’s edge when your mother asks where Peter and Susan have disappeared to. You say you don’t know.
“I think they went to get more sandwiches,” Edmund says.
“We have enough sandwiches,” your mother replies.
Edmund shrugs.
When the pinks and oranges begin to fade to a deep purple, Peter and Susan return from wherever they’ve been. Your sister’s eyes are a little puffy, but there is something calmer about her expression. When you hullo at them, Peter’s smile is brittle, but genuine.
“All right, Lu?” he says.
“Where are our sandwiches, then?” your mother asks.
Susan looks up. “What?”
“Mother, I think we’re missing a towel,” Edmund calls out.
When your mother goes to recount the towels (“Honestly! We should be more careful with our things.”), Susan turns to you and asks, “Where’s your sandcastle, Lu?”
“The waves washed it away.”
“Ah.” She nods. “Happens.”
Your father says, “Helen, I think I’ve got sand in my—”
“George!”
“Remind me to never be buried in sand ever again.” He makes a silly face at you, and you can’t help but giggle.
You all gather the umbrellas, the bags, the towels – “Where’s my book?” “Has anyone seen my hat?” “Were you even wearing a hat?” – and you begin to make your way further up and further in, away from the sea.
You and Edmund bring up the rear. “Got all the towels, then?”
He says, “Yup.”
+
The rest of your family is sleeping, but you are restless, and so you’ve made your way out of the inn and to the sea. This is where Edmund finds you.
“Can’t sleep?” he asks.
At night when the moon is the only light there is, the world is cast in black and white. You would have to lean in closer to see the color of Edmund’s eyes and the brownish tints in his hair. You rest against him and try to relax, but Edmund recognizes the tension in your body. He holds you close. He rubs your back.
“It’s just that,” you begin, and are annoyed by the tremor in your voice, “it’s just that if you’re thirsty -- if you’re in the middle of the sea and you’re thirsty, then you might as well be in the desert. What difference is there?”
He doesn’t reply, and you’re grateful for it, for the silence, and for the lack of an answer, at least for now.
Eventually, Edmund says, “Give me your hands.”
You do.
He takes a handful of sand and pours it into your open palms, and begins to rub it against your skin. When you realize what he is doing, you choke back a sob. You won’t cry, you won’t. “Edmund,” you start to say, but he doesn’t stop. The sand is rough, but his touch is gentle, his own hands warm.
“Edmund,” you repeat, and your voice cracks. You reach for him and catch his face in your hands. You can barely see his expression through your blurring vision. “Brother.”
“Sister,” he says.
You lean forward and kiss his forehead, and you rest your forehead against his, breathing wetly. He covers your hands with his, and turns to kiss first one palm, then the other.
He says, “It’s all right.”
He removes your shoes, and he rubs sand against your feet and around your ankles. You squirm when he touches your soles, and he smiles. “Tickles?”
“Don’t you dare.”
“I won’t.”
Your heart goes ta-thump ta-thump and your cheeks heat up as you are filled with the familiar feeling of being unconditionally loved, of falling into something bigger than yourself and at the same time made just for you. “Wrong will be right when Aslan comes in sight,” you begin, scrabbling for purchase in the words. “At the sound of His roar, sorrows will be no more.”
“When He bares His teeth,” Edmund continues, “winter meets its death.”
“When He shakes His mane--”
“We shall have spring again.”
The night is quiet but for the waves and the wind.
“Do you remember, Ed?” you ask. “All those hymns we used to sing?”
He chuckles. “How can I forget? We only performed at every ceremony and festival for fifteen years.”
“Come here.” You open your arms and he settles into your embrace, leaning back against your body. With the back of his head on your shoulder and your cheek against his temple, you both face the sea.
You begin the first verse, softly, and then Edmund’s deeper voice mingles with yours. You interlace your fingers with his, and together you sing Aslan’s providence into the colorless night.
Original Prompt:
What I want : Pevencest to any degree, the ocean, AU or PC or England, the question of sin and whether/how one can ever be free from it
Prompt words/objects/quotes/whatever: Matthew 18:21 - So Peter went and asked Jesus: Lord, how many times must I forgive my brother, if he does me wrong? Seven times?
Jesus answered him: I tell you not seven times, but seven times seven.
and/or
What I definitely don't want in my fic: bdsm
Author:
lassiterfics Recipient:
zempasuchil Rating: PG
Possible Spoilers/Warnings: spoilers for VotDT
Summary: Lucy knows Aslan by many names. ~3300 words
A/N: Thank you to
bedlamsbard and animus_wyrmis for the beta. This world is still strange to you, with its habit of dividing its loves to name them. It insists on the measurement of details. Here on the other side of the looking glass, things are always what they seem because they have to be labeled as such. You have to be careful, or people might talk.
“Talk is dangerous,” Susan said in a warning tone. “Some people wield words like weapons.”
“We might as well be in Calormen,” you had replied, and you smiled to show her you were joking, but that’s not enough for Susan these days. Not enough or maybe too much. She frowned at you, you who don’t know how to make your sister smile anymore.
“We’re in England.” She enunciated the word, as if enunciation were enough. Maybe it’s not. Not for you, or maybe it’s too much. You remember a time when you didn’t have to say the name of your home with such conviction just to believe it was real.
+
Edmund holds you close with one arm, and holds the umbrella steady with the other. It’s a rainy night in England, and you think of how, on the other side of the world, perhaps it is sunny and warm. Perhaps there the sky is blue and the sun gilds the earth. It’s as if there were only a finite supply of color in the world, and England has to wait until the morning to be something other than gray gray gray.
Aslan is everywhere, you’re saying to Edmund. Even here, He’s everywhere. Before you stepped through the door in the sky, He had commanded you to know Him by another name, and so you try to. You seek him out – but in which story? Jesus was nailed to the cross for your sins, but Odin was hung from the world-tree and pierced with his own spear to know the runes. Persephone consigns herself to hell for half of eternity so that you may have the springtime.
There are so many gods who have sacrificed for us all, as Aslan has.
“Lu,” Edmund says. “You see Aslan in everything. Even in the clouds in the sky.”
You retort, “Don’t talk to me like I’m some child,” and you can tell that he notices the sharpness in your voice by how his expression softens.
“Sorry,” he says, and you let him kiss the top of your head. “I forget myself, your majesty.”
You’re not sure if you’re mollified, but you swallow your pride and lift your head. Even here in England, with your somber dresses and shoes that pinch, you are still Queen Lucy of the eastern sea. Aslan named you the Valiant, just like Adam named the animals in the garden before he fell from grace.
+
Mohini, Narasimha, Vamana, Parasurama: the list goes on, and yet these are only a handful of Vishnu’s avatars. (Narasimha, the man-lion. You read of his retribution against the demon king, and you’re reminded of the first battle, the Witch’s blood on His teeth.)
The Lord Vishnu is innumerable – all over the universes constantly, writes the Bhagavad Purana, without cessation, as water flows constantly from waterfalls. He is legion, vast, and of everything, that he cannot leave himself without returning to himself at the same time. You find yourself drawn to his ubiquity because these days this is what you know: the presence of the Lion all around you, and the way His message resounds.
In Narnia, the gods walk the same earth you do. You can remember embracing Aslan, how tangible and specific He was in your arms. You remember how soft His mane was and the gold of His eyes. You realize that, more than missing your god, you miss your friend. You’re not like Susan, who has cycled one world into another within her. You’re not like Edmund, with his talent for plurality. You are not Peter – you don’t have his weather-beaten patience. As it is, here, you don’t know whom to hold. Here, sometimes everything feels like too many answers for just one question.
This is the crux of it, you say to your brother. Whose name should you call on when you ask for forgiveness?
Edmund replies, “Why do you think you need to be forgiven, Lu?”
“It’s not… Well. Just for argument’s sake, you know?”
“Yes,” he says, and leaves it at that.
+
There is something about the way the light falls upon the lamppost that makes you hum a little melody to yourself without even thinking. Your heart remembers a springtime that was bright and blessed – the swaying of tree branches had looked like dancing, and the splashes in the river sounded like a lover’s laugh.
You walk up the steps of the church, and Edmund says, “We’re here.”
You step inside.
You’ve always liked sitting near the front, but Edmund is already sidling into the last row, so you follow. The air is soothing with the weight of other people’s meditation, and smells faintly of wood polish and the morning’s incense. From the corner of your eye you see Edmund watching you, as if waiting for some cue. Watching you, and so you smile at him. You slip your hand into his and he smiles back, and then you pray the best way you know how.
+
Jesus was also a prophet in the Muslim religion. They call him Isa, and he is one of the five rasuls, the carriers of sharia. Isa was wholly human and no son of god, for there is only one god in Islam, and he cannot be divided into littler gods. You won’t find Allah in the three parts of Christian hypostases or the sanctities of saints. The faithful pray only to him and only in one direction, and this is a singularity that comforts you. A Muslim knows where to point his love and to whom he should entrust his weaknesses.
When you told your siblings this, Peter and Susan had exchanged looks and perhaps some consternation. Edmund was the only one waiting to hear more. He truly deserves his title, you think. The Just, who listens to all testimonies.
“Their religion comes from the desert,” you continued. “If there’s no water to wash themselves before prayers, the faithful wash themselves with sand.”
Edmund understands.
+
When you return home, you find Peter and Susan in the parlor talking in low tones. You can’t see Susan’s face, but Peter’s expression is weary, his mouth a thin line. They both look up when Edmund clears his throat, and Susan is quick to break away, beaming as she comes.
“You two,” she says. “Where have you been? Swimming with your clothes on from the looks of it.”
You let Edmund field Susan’s niceties as you make your way to your eldest brother. Susan gets along best with Edmund these days, and neither you nor Peter are quite sure what to make of it. In Narnia, her patience for frivolity and Edmund’s tendencies towards self-enclosure had tried each other, but here it is a different story, as it always is. Imagine how deep the scar of Edmund’s first betrayal must go that he sees himself mirrored in every wayward decision, and reaches out to those determined to be apart.
Peter smiles for you. “Hello, Lu.”
“Would you like some tea?” you ask.
“Looks like you’re the one who can use some tea.”
“Well, have some with me, then.”
“Peter, Lucy,” Susan calls out. “I’m off to see the girls.”
“It’s raining,” Peter retorts peevishly.
Susan waves her umbrella at him. “That’s why we’ve got this, hmm?”
“What if you catch cold?”
“Oh, honestly, Peter.”
“The rain’s letting up anyway,” Edmund cuts in before Peter can reply. “It’s not as strong. A nice drizzle, maybe, by now.”
Susan gives him a grateful look. “That’s good to know.”
And then she departs, leaving nothing but the look on Peter’s face, the way he frowns at Edmund. Edmund shrugs.
There’s nothing left to do but put the kettle on, so you do.
+
The bedroom you share with Susan used to feel big and lonely when it was just you alone, but now you’re used to it. Through the wall, you can hear your brothers trying not to let their argument escalate. You curl up in bed with a battered copy of The Secret Garden, reading it for the hundredth time while you wait for Edmund to knock on your door.
“What was he on about this time?” you ask, when he finally does.
Edmund rolls his eyes. “He doesn’t like me encouraging Susan. I’m not encouraging anything except some peace. I’m tired of them going at it all the time.” He sits down in his usual chair, and tips it back on two legs to rest his feet on your bed. In your head, you hear Peter and Susan’s voices telling him to stop that, he might fall.
He spots the book on your lap, and he says, “That book again? Do you never tire of it?”
“Of course not.”
“Real life is so much better than the stories that echo it, Lu.”
“Silly,” you say. “It’s real life that echoes the story.”
+
It’s real life that echoes the story, the way worshippers echo their god. In Narnia, you knew to whom to give your heart. You never had to scrabble for your place in His world because you were written to be by His side.
Now that you’ve been cast out of Narnia and commanded to search for Aslan here, you find Him everywhere. How can you not? He filled your being and crooked Himself to fit your empty spaces. You shaped yourself around His love because destiny said you would, and you believed it, you believe it still. You recognize Aslan in all the gods of this world, and you see His mercy in every balance struck between good and evil. A hundred gods, each with a hundred names, a hundred ways to sin and as many ways to be forgiven.
If you refuse to see what is everywhere, then you will end up nowhere. If you find no water in the desert, you wash yourself with sand.
You must pray with the world that is given to you.
+
You wake up in the night because someone is shaking you. No, someone is shaking Edmund, who is sleeping curled around you.
“Edmund!” says Susan’s voice in the dark. “Edmund, what are you doing?”
“Sleeping,” he murmurs, and you intertwine your hands with his and hold on tight.
“Well, sleep in your own room! Edmund!”
He complies, grumbling while Susan keeps up a quiet but steady stream of disapproval. The floor creaks under his weight, and you don’t know whether to keep your eyes closed or open them to watch your brother go.
“All right!” he hisses. “All right, I’m going!”
Susan follows him into the hall, and then you hear Peter’s bleary voice join in, then all three of them are going at it, the quietest fight in the world. You wonder what they’re telling each other on the other side of the wall. You wonder if Aslan can see you now, and what He would have to say about this. You think about this world’s impulse to identify the different shapes of love, and wonder why one simple love is no longer enough.
When your sister comes back, you are wide awake, and you softly call her name.
“Lucy?” she says. “I thought you were asleep.”
“Susan, do you ever miss Him?”
She continues puttering around the room, getting ready for bed, undoing this and unbuttoning that, slipping on this and slipping off that. She unties her hair and it falls over her shoulders, rendering her silhouette familiar to you once more. She shows no intention of answering your question, and you think maybe she’s just going to ignore it, the way she ignores all things about Narnia these days. But then she says, “I suppose.” She says, “Yes. But I suppose things must change, after all. We’re not children anymore.”
Before she can change the subject, you blurt out, “I miss talking with Him especially.”
“You? But you’ve always been close to him. You talk with him all the time.”
“Me? But… Well, but He’s not a tame Lion, and He doesn’t—”
“What?”
“Aslan.”
“Oh.”
“Who did you think?”
“I…” Susan hesitates. “I thought maybe you meant Peter. I thought maybe…”
In the dark, you can only see her silhouette as she sits straight-backed on her bed. You can only see the angle of her chin as she breathes in, out. The realization of her confession hangs in the air, and you can feel your sister retreating into herself again as if chastised.
“Never mind,” she says, her voice quite small.
So you say, “He misses you too.”
“Aslan?”
“Peter.”
She settles in under the covers, and says, “It’s late. We should sleep.” Then, under the guise of afterthought: “You know, Edmund has his own bed to sleep in. I don’t see why he needs to sleep in yours.”
You reply, “Good night, Su.”
“Good night, Lucy.”
+
You associated the sea with home. You were accustomed to finding your moments of peace with it – bits of time stolen between one royal duty and another when you could sneak down to the shore to dip your feet in the water and lift your head to the sun. You talked with the seagulls and seals, and bid the mermaids teach you their songs. When the days were not so busy, you would herd your siblings to the beach and force them into a picnic. “You’d die drafting treaties and arbitrating border disputes if you can help it,” you would say. “Thank Aslan you have me to prevent that.”
You used to wake to the susurrus of waves outside your window, but now you are accustomed to the hustle and bustle of London. It’s different, but you suppose it’s not so bad. When you live in the city, it’s easy to be awed by humanity. Your senses are constantly assaulted by the proof of all that humanity can do, all the things it has built: telegrams that convey messages faster than a falcon ever can, and streetlights that drown the light of stars.
You know that you are more than the sum total of your frailties but, here, you are surrounded by all that is human, including their flaws, so sometimes you slip into thinking that they are all that matter.
+
When your father announces a trip to the seaside, you clap your hands and cheer, and your mother smiles at the childishness of your reaction. Being the youngest child is a comforting role to fall into. You are still a queen, but much less is expected of you here, and you feel guilty for finding that liberating.
On the beach, you cajole Peter into helping you build a sandcastle, and you convince your father to let his children bury him up to his neck in sand.
“If I get an itch on my nose, you must scratch it,” he says, and you all promise you will.
The sun approaches the horizon, and you keep track of the colors in the sky: gold and blue-gray, giving way to orange and pink. You and Edmund are skipping rocks at the water’s edge when your mother asks where Peter and Susan have disappeared to. You say you don’t know.
“I think they went to get more sandwiches,” Edmund says.
“We have enough sandwiches,” your mother replies.
Edmund shrugs.
When the pinks and oranges begin to fade to a deep purple, Peter and Susan return from wherever they’ve been. Your sister’s eyes are a little puffy, but there is something calmer about her expression. When you hullo at them, Peter’s smile is brittle, but genuine.
“All right, Lu?” he says.
“Where are our sandwiches, then?” your mother asks.
Susan looks up. “What?”
“Mother, I think we’re missing a towel,” Edmund calls out.
When your mother goes to recount the towels (“Honestly! We should be more careful with our things.”), Susan turns to you and asks, “Where’s your sandcastle, Lu?”
“The waves washed it away.”
“Ah.” She nods. “Happens.”
Your father says, “Helen, I think I’ve got sand in my—”
“George!”
“Remind me to never be buried in sand ever again.” He makes a silly face at you, and you can’t help but giggle.
You all gather the umbrellas, the bags, the towels – “Where’s my book?” “Has anyone seen my hat?” “Were you even wearing a hat?” – and you begin to make your way further up and further in, away from the sea.
You and Edmund bring up the rear. “Got all the towels, then?”
He says, “Yup.”
+
The rest of your family is sleeping, but you are restless, and so you’ve made your way out of the inn and to the sea. This is where Edmund finds you.
“Can’t sleep?” he asks.
At night when the moon is the only light there is, the world is cast in black and white. You would have to lean in closer to see the color of Edmund’s eyes and the brownish tints in his hair. You rest against him and try to relax, but Edmund recognizes the tension in your body. He holds you close. He rubs your back.
“It’s just that,” you begin, and are annoyed by the tremor in your voice, “it’s just that if you’re thirsty -- if you’re in the middle of the sea and you’re thirsty, then you might as well be in the desert. What difference is there?”
He doesn’t reply, and you’re grateful for it, for the silence, and for the lack of an answer, at least for now.
Eventually, Edmund says, “Give me your hands.”
You do.
He takes a handful of sand and pours it into your open palms, and begins to rub it against your skin. When you realize what he is doing, you choke back a sob. You won’t cry, you won’t. “Edmund,” you start to say, but he doesn’t stop. The sand is rough, but his touch is gentle, his own hands warm.
“Edmund,” you repeat, and your voice cracks. You reach for him and catch his face in your hands. You can barely see his expression through your blurring vision. “Brother.”
“Sister,” he says.
You lean forward and kiss his forehead, and you rest your forehead against his, breathing wetly. He covers your hands with his, and turns to kiss first one palm, then the other.
He says, “It’s all right.”
He removes your shoes, and he rubs sand against your feet and around your ankles. You squirm when he touches your soles, and he smiles. “Tickles?”
“Don’t you dare.”
“I won’t.”
Your heart goes ta-thump ta-thump and your cheeks heat up as you are filled with the familiar feeling of being unconditionally loved, of falling into something bigger than yourself and at the same time made just for you. “Wrong will be right when Aslan comes in sight,” you begin, scrabbling for purchase in the words. “At the sound of His roar, sorrows will be no more.”
“When He bares His teeth,” Edmund continues, “winter meets its death.”
“When He shakes His mane--”
“We shall have spring again.”
The night is quiet but for the waves and the wind.
“Do you remember, Ed?” you ask. “All those hymns we used to sing?”
He chuckles. “How can I forget? We only performed at every ceremony and festival for fifteen years.”
“Come here.” You open your arms and he settles into your embrace, leaning back against your body. With the back of his head on your shoulder and your cheek against his temple, you both face the sea.
You begin the first verse, softly, and then Edmund’s deeper voice mingles with yours. You interlace your fingers with his, and together you sing Aslan’s providence into the colorless night.
Original Prompt:
What I want : Pevencest to any degree, the ocean, AU or PC or England, the question of sin and whether/how one can ever be free from it
Prompt words/objects/quotes/whatever: Matthew 18:21 - So Peter went and asked Jesus: Lord, how many times must I forgive my brother, if he does me wrong? Seven times?
Jesus answered him: I tell you not seven times, but seven times seven.
and/or
What I definitely don't want in my fic: bdsm
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Date: 2009-09-16 04:28 pm (UTC)Both “Edmund, what are you doing?” “Sleeping,” he murmurs, and you intertwine your hands with his and hold on tight. “Well, sleep in your own room! Edmund!” and She settles in under the covers, and says, “It’s late. We should sleep.” Then, under the guise of afterthought: “You know, Edmund has his own bed to sleep in. I don’t see why he needs to sleep in yours.” made me toes curl a little. OH PEVENCEST, I'VE MISSED YOU.
I've never been overly fond of second person, but it works really well here - and I really enjoy what you've done with Lucy's search for Aslan, and how cuddling Edmund (what, what?) is part of the deal.
ALSO: You’re not like Susan, who has cycled one world into another within her. You’re not like Edmund, with his talent for plurality. You are not Peter – you don’t have his weather-beaten patience THIS IS GREAT STUFF RIGHT THERE.
Beautifully done!
(no subject)
Date: 2009-09-16 07:01 pm (UTC)I HAVEN'T EVEN READ THIS YET BUT YOU USED THAT VERSE AND A HUMUMENT AND F;LFASA;FGJNBFDNOGOIDSAFSD;L ILOVEYOU
(no subject)
Date: 2009-09-16 07:03 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2009-09-16 08:22 pm (UTC)using Narnia to hash out religious questions is exactly, exactly what it was made for. and, my heart feels so happy reading this. oh lord, this is everything I could ever want in an England fic too <3333 there is not that much religious fic out there, surprisingly; I mean theological, and investigative, and hitting on the questions that Narnia hits on but with children who are growing up. This exchange broke my heart:
Edmund replies, “Why do you think you need to be forgiven, Lu?”
“It’s not… Well. Just for argument’s sake, you know?”
“Yes,” he says, and leaves it at that.
With all that's unsaid! he asks because he cares, but she needs to talk to someone bigger and this is something even they, so close, can't talk about.
And the singularity/multiplicity of gods - Edmund's talent for plurality made me laugh but it is so so wonderful - this is a fascinating, lovely Lucy. She travels a real spectrum and it's wonderful. she is so whole as a person and I think that is what people neglect about Lucy - fic tends to paint her as the one that never grows up and is the perfect youth, but that's not true and you're totally on top of that.
“Their religion comes from the desert,” you continued. “If there’s no water to wash themselves before prayers, the faithful wash themselves with sand.”
wow, wow, wow
Imagine how deep the scar of Edmund’s first betrayal must go that he sees himself mirrored in every wayward decision, and reaches out to those determined to be apart.
THIS! omg, their connection is so hard for me to put into words because it's not so very canon, but this is exactly it. Sees himself mirrored in every wayward decision. Edmund forgives and forgives because he's forgiven, and he wants to forgive infinitely which is why he asks Lucy what she needs forgiving for (because he couldn't imagine anything he couldn't forgive) but she needs something bigger.
You never had to scrabble for your place in His world because you were written to be by His side.
oh, Lucy. and this is true for all of them, she's just hit it right on the head. because she's Lucy.
You think about this world’s impulse to identify the different shapes of love, and wonder why one simple love is no longer enough.
<3333333
OH GOD BREAK MY HEART. "I thought maybe you meant Peter" OH SUSANNN and Lucy's response of "he misses you too" - she is SO SWEET. And still so adult about this, when Susan's response is to defend how she came in there and dragged Edmund out, Lucy just says goodnight. this is a really interesting way of creating distance between them. they aren't children about it at all.
When you live in the city, it’s easy to be awed by humanity.
this, this, this. *misses chicago* and then You know that you are more than the sum total of your frailties but, here, you are surrounded by all that is human, including their flaws, so sometimes you slip into thinking that they are all that matter. <333 wow
THEIR DAD IS SO ADORABLE. and Lucy's sandcastle washes awaaaaay :( Edmund's coverup is brilliant.
and OH LORD THE LAST SCENE AAAAHHH MY HEART you brought that sandwashing back! oh Edmund! and hymns at the sea - gah this is amazing - the juxtaposition of the sea and the desert is WONDERFUL. and rubbing her hands and feet with sand becomes a gesture so much more intimate than a kiss, oh my god, I love them.
I love this, so much, oh my gosh thank you lass <33333
(no subject)
Date: 2009-09-16 08:24 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2009-09-16 09:09 pm (UTC)This is amazing. There are so many things here that apply on so many layers...and on top of everything it is sucessfully second person. Wow.
(no subject)
Date: 2009-09-16 10:24 pm (UTC)You must pray with the world that is given to you. SO MUCH LOVE
(no subject)
Date: 2009-09-17 12:07 am (UTC)I can't get enough of the whole religion questions, and I love, love, love the parallels between all the religions and how they are all the same in Lucy's eyes. OH LASS.
So I am not a big fan of Edmund/Lucy (which I really, really want to call Ed/Lu, because WHY NOT?), but they are just so very, very adorable in this fic. And your multiple layers of Pevencest are just great. YES. *loves*
“Their religion comes from the desert,” you continued. “If there’s no water to wash themselves before prayers, the faithful wash themselves with sand.”
WATER/DESERT METAPHORS. OH LASS. You and your water & desert metaphors! I love the way they fit so well into each one of your fics. ABSOLUTELY AMAZING. ♥ Your water metaphors break my heart.
“Real life is so much better than the stories that echo it, Lu.”
“Silly,” you say. “It’s real life that echoes the story.”
OH LUCY. <33333333333
And, gah, Susan. Susan makes me so very sad. :( And how she's like falling out of the Pevencest because she's becoming English again and OH. It makes me so sad.
Also, Pevensies at the beach? ADORABLE! Their dad is so cute. :)
“It’s just that,” you begin, and are annoyed by the tremor in your voice, “it’s just that if you’re thirsty -- if you’re in the middle of the sea and you’re thirsty, then you might as well be in the desert. What difference is there?”
He doesn’t reply, and you’re grateful for it, for the silence, and for the lack of an answer, at least for now.
Eventually, Edmund says, “Give me your hands.”
You do.
He takes a handful of sand and pours it into your open palms, and begins to rub it against your skin. When you realize what he is doing, you choke back a sob. You won’t cry, you won’t. “Edmund,” you start to say, but he doesn’t stop. The sand is rough, but his touch is gentle, his own hands warm.
ALL OF THIS. BECAUSE OH MY GOD, THIS SLAYS ME SO MANY TIMES. Especially that there's no difference between the sea and the desert, because OH LUCY. Poor baby. The sea is home, but the sea is the desert when you're thirsty, and oh my heart.
And the hymns and reciting? THE GREATEST.
So much love for your, Lass, so much LOVE. <333333333333333333333333
(no subject)
Date: 2009-09-17 02:39 am (UTC)Cuddling Edmund should be part of most deals. XD
Thank you very much, Miss L! <33
(no subject)
Date: 2009-09-17 03:40 am (UTC)It’s real life that echoes the story, the way worshippers echo their god. In Narnia, you knew to whom to give your heart. You never had to scrabble for your place in His world because you were written to be by His side.
Oh, Lucy! :(
“It’s just that,” you begin, and are annoyed by the tremor in your voice, “it’s just that if you’re thirsty -- if you’re in the middle of the sea and you’re thirsty, then you might as well be in the desert. What difference is there?”
My heart, in pieces all over the floor. I love this Lass, I am bookmarking it and everything.
(no subject)
Date: 2009-09-17 03:56 am (UTC)Oh man, this fic is so custom-made for you, you have no idea. Well, I guess you do. I guess that's the idea! But if I were writing the same prompt for a different person, it would not be the same fic. Then again, the prompt is so ridiculously YOU to begin with! TRUTH BE TOLD, I was kind of D: when I found out I was writing for you because oh man, you know like all my tricks! What new thing can I possibly tell you?! I was all set to type an email to Wyrm whining like, "What should I wriiiiiiiiite?!" but instead started handwriting Lucy fic. AND HERE IT IS. I've never written Lucy, I've never particularly shipped Edmund/Lucy, but I think that's why it was a nice change from Susan(/Peter)-ing. But of COURSE Peter/Susan makes it in anyway, because they are my troo OTP, even if sometimes we need some time apart. Peter/Susan, so unavoidable. XD
Man, I had most of the fic written by the time I even wrote my Remix Redux fic. That's why that fic is written in 2nd person too! It's bleedover from this one. Variations on the phrase 'fits into your empty spaces' can also be found in both fics, except one talks about a god and the other talks about a lover. XD Kind of like that quote from "Abandon" by Pico Iyer: "All religious verse speaks to us in a language we can understand. To those with eyes and ears the poems are a kind of holy come-on; to those without, they appear as love songs, emblems of profanity." I think that book subconsciously informed this fic. Love and faith and devotion. \o/
And you know how I was telling you in the email how I was meeting my friend for Bible and Narnia talk? She totally referenced your prompt quote and that filled me with SUCH GLEE, I wanted to tell you about it but ALAS I COULDN'T because it wasn't even anywhere CLOSE to Narnia Exchange deadline.
"All the time, Pete," my friend said. "You gotta forgive them all the time."
The fic/stories I tend to find about religion are usually critical of religion, or at least deconstructive. Like, it tends to treat faith as a social construct or something instead of something more substantial and valid. And if it does treat faith as something more substantial and valid, it tends to be in the specialty religious section. Is it just something about the times we live in? Is it possible to talk about the validity of faith without preaching the validity of religion? It should be! I guess the religion shapes the faith though. But I dunno, so many things shape faith!
Also, sandwashing isn't just for prayers. For example, dog saliva is way dirty in Islam, so if you touch it, then you must wash it away seven times with water and seven times with sand/dirt. I think it's to do with like... the exfoliation, also?
Edmund is like a good bra. He gives great support.
"I thought maybe you meant Peter" OH SUSANNN and Lucy's response of "he misses you too"
Yaaaay, that whole section from Lucy and Ed waking up to "Good night" is actually my personal favorite. I really enjoyed writing Peter/Susan from the periphery. This fic is one that maybe once upon a time in the far future will get remixed. There's a lot going on off-screen. What were Peter and Susan talking about before Edmund and Lucy came in? What about all those arguments Lucy had to pretend not to hear? And what were Susan and Peter doing when they disappeared from the beach? HMMMM.
When you live in the city, it’s easy to be awed by humanity.
I remember being in the middle of the woods in New Jersey and having the inverse thought: it's easier to believe in god if you're not completely surrounded by man-made things. Manufacturing and urban spaces: the death of god?! Probably not, probably Weber would smack me upside the head for that one. But uh, yeah! Our flaws are important but we are more than our flaws. We are more than our strange habit of relating to broken things.
the juxtaposition of the sea and the desert is WONDERFUL.
The juxtaposition of the sea and the desert is pretty much just me proposing to you. You and your ocean. Me and my desert. Let's be surrounded on all sides by endless things!
I am superthrilled you like this fic and you are absolutely welcome. TE QUIERO, DON DIEGO DE LA VEGAAAAAAAAAAAAA
(no subject)
Date: 2009-09-17 04:10 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2009-09-17 04:16 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2009-09-17 07:22 am (UTC)THIS IS THE GREATEST I LOVE IT.
Edmund and Lucy are my faaaavourite, and Lucy you have captured her, this exploration as she is cast out and she is confused but not sad and she is Luuucy.
I love the way you've brought it back to the sand-washing, the gods you've interwoven (and, interestingly, the gods you've left out)
And the way Edmund is all “You see Aslan in everything. Even in the clouds in the sky” and her guilt at not being so duty-bound and OH MY WORD
<33333333333
(no subject)
Date: 2009-09-17 08:24 am (UTC)I still need to read Abandon, grah. I kind of failed my self-assigned summer reading list.
ahhhh my quote showed up in rl? if only I could've been there! man that is so exciting!!!
I am all for deconstructing religion but you have to reconstruct it too. I mean sure sometimes it falls down but for Lucy, for example, it does not fall down. It's strong and you have to remember that religion isn't something that stands up against real life, it's something that IS real life because it's people, and genuine, and important to them and their lives. you can't just criticize that. Unfortunately I think faith has a hard time surviving outside of religion; faith has to be in something and that something is defined in religion. And religion is far easier to attack than faith, I guess. I don't know, though, if nature makes me feel like believing in God and cities make me not feel like it. I was out in the boonies on a dirt road and suddenly the power of man struck me. I mean, a dirt road. it seems like man's shaped everything. Maybe it's because I already gave up on contemplating infinity and take it for granted. or maybe because it's been a while since I saw the ocean or Lake Michigan. large bodies of water make me feel a shot of the divine. But yeah, I think Weber would smack you upside the head, haha. After all, think of contemporary Christian youth! their religion is far from dead and they live with cell phones and tv. man's world is after all god's world, because man is god's. I'm just thinking of prayers I've heard.
Sand is very scrubby. This makes sense to me. like using Comet or steel wool: you will get very clean.
HAHA EDMUND A BRA. OT but this reminds me of the phrase "big girl's blouse" which I totally forget what it means, but I think it was something like wet blanket. anyway, Edmund is not a wet blanket. he is a bra.
We are more than our strange habit of relating to broken things.
oh, wow. yeah. this. <3
If that is a proposal then all this fic etc has been courtship? baby you've snared my heart! ENDLESS VISTAS FOR ENDLESS LOVE <333333333 te quierooooo :D
(no subject)
Date: 2009-09-17 08:32 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2009-09-17 09:01 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2009-09-17 10:50 am (UTC)religion isn't something that stands up against real life, it's something that IS real life
AUGH THIS. Yes. Which reminds me, I have to write Aladdin fic before Ramadhan is over.
I think the shape of faith exists outside of religion, but it's not called faith. Like, it can be love. Some people love god the way other people love their spouse or their family or their art, a deep devoted thing that shapes and centers you. Like when bad things happen, you can say, "At least I still have this," even if sometimes the sentiment doesn't really make outward sense, but you say it anyway, because somehow it's still true.
OH MAN YOU SHOULD COME SEE THE PACIFIC FROM THE OTHER SIDE. We got white sand!
Haha, SORRY WEBER. DUde, so I just finished watching the first two seasons of The Tudors and that shit's crazy. It's good, but man it's weird seeing it through the fandom lens. Like, "A rape scene? They didn't warn for that!" "Oh shit, more dead gays!" "What's up with the gay love being kept PG but the straight love is practically softcore porn?" And things of that nature. I think I was giong to say something about Lutherans but then I got distracted and now I forget. Peter O'Toole = badassest pope ever! Excepting that one pope who was a former pirate lolol
their religion is far from dead and they live with cell phones and tv. man's world is after all god's world, because man is god's.
True! Shit gets fancy. The huge mosque in Brunei has like, a gold dome, and escalators on the inside. A HUGE chandelier. And some church services use powerpoint and flash or whatever now. God has to get with the times if he wants to remain omnipresent!
All this fic is pretty much my love letter.
sprayed with lavender and sealed with a kiss.
(no subject)
Date: 2009-09-17 05:26 pm (UTC)I loved reading this. You don't see many fics were Lucy struggles in England. In most fics she's so very sure of her faith and it's nice to see her struggle too. (Also, that her struggle is not the same as her siblings.) Loved all the different religions. There should be more religion in Narnia fics. I escpecially liked: It’s real life that echoes the story, the way worshippers echo their god. In Narnia, you knew to whom to give your heart. You never had to scrabble for your place in His world because you were written to be by His side. This is brilliant!
Really really great work!
(no subject)
Date: 2009-09-17 11:39 pm (UTC)BUT
I wanted to let you know that this is SO EFFING FABULOUS. *dies*
In a few days, hopefully, I shall review actually!
(no subject)
Date: 2009-09-18 01:39 am (UTC)yes, yes! what insight! Susan is very concerned with strength, defensive and offensive, but Lucy is about the heart in the right place. which is odd, considering the Gentle and the Valiant, but, eh, Lewis can't capture every facet of them in an epithet.
yeah you're right, I wasn't thinking about faith in a more general sense. which is weird, since I've been watching Bones and that is like Major Series Theme and shows up in many a deep, intimate discussion. That's a really good way of putting it - At least I still have this. That makes me feel better about faith (I struggle with it, I think my family has raised me with a pretty closed definition of faith. they are baptist and christian reform and christianity is their life, so when they talk about faith they talk specifically about believing that Christ died for our sins. that's the thing, the irreducible article of faith, for them.)
oh the Pacific <333 I can't even imagine white sandy beaches, wow. which do you like better, Pacific or Atlantic? I have a pacific bias.
My dad complains, and I complain, about how techy and gadgety church is getting. Part of it is the nostalgia of religion and wanting to see it as an unchanging thing, and part of it is with those sentiments of Jesus throwing the moneylenders out of the temple, and part of it is conspicuous consumption. But there is a balance to strike; it wouldn't make sense to keep church buildings and practices utterly separate from real life and in the dark age. God has to get with the times if he wants to remain omnipresent! - hee! yes!
(no subject)
Date: 2009-09-18 10:04 pm (UTC)And there's something about the beach, being the place where two worlds meet. That, in addition to my associating beaches with vacations, makes me associate the beach with in-betweens. It can take on this ephemeral quality, but at the same time it can be the site/inspiration of epiphany.
My parents are the same. They're very staunch Muslims, but my brother and I are less so. I guess I'm agnostic, but in truth I've just been avoiding tackling the question of faith and god head-on, so who knows what my conclusion would be once I start that journey.
Ya ya, sometimes you have to change the story so the meaning will stay the same.
(no subject)
Date: 2009-09-18 10:46 pm (UTC)Jesus was nailed to the cross for your sins, but Odin was hung from the world-tree and pierced with his own spear to know the runes. Persephone consigns herself to hell for half of eternity so that you may have the springtime.
YOU MADE LUCY READ NORSE AND GREEK MYTHOLOGY I LOVE YOU FOREVER AND EVER.
It’s as if there were only a finite supply of color in the world, and England has to wait until the morning to be something other than gray gray gray.
ahglskdjgh a finite supply of color! oh, Lucy in England!
You’re not like Susan, who has cycled one world into another within her. You’re not like Edmund, with his talent for plurality. You are not Peter – you don’t have his weather-beaten patience.
hoowwwwwww do you do it? this is like, the Pevensies! in and of themselves! oh, my Pevensies, how lovely you are!
omg, Lucy looking up Islam and Hinduism and all these other religions! I love that you address the issue that apparently she was just supposed to automatically recognize him as Jesus, but Lucy wouldn't do that! Lucy knows better than to simply expect the obvious to be true! she has had years of experience with her siblings - Susan's half-courtesies and obfuscations of the truth, Edmund's spies and diplomacy - to know that you must be certain that you know the truth before you just believe. Aslan was real enough, she knew that, but there is no lion here to tell her where to pray. OH LUCY. <333
If you find no water in the desert, you wash yourself with sand.
You must pray with the world that is given to you.
the fundamental differences between Susan and Lucy! Susan says 'You must live with the world that is given to you' and Lucy says 'You must pray with the world that is given you. (Peter's all 'FUCK THIS WORLD' and Edmund just smiles.)
SUSAN AND PETER ON THE PERIPHERY, FALLING APART AND GETTING SANDWICHES (having sex, naturally). I don't even have to mention how COMPLETELY AND TOTALLY AWESOME IT IS? I love how even when you're concentrating on Edmund and Lucy (who are surprisingly lovely together!) Peter and Susan still creep in, because they are the Pevensies. they come together, even when they're fighting. this is what Pevensies do. (also, AHAHA Edmund's quiet distractions! he is so FABULOUS.)
HE WASHED HER HANDS WITH SAND *ded*
<33333333333333333333333
(no subject)
Date: 2009-09-19 02:31 am (UTC)Same here. I was into exploring religion and rebelling against my family when I was 13, never came to any conclusions, and ever since then the idea of looking into my spirituality and developing it seems, well, exhausting. So I avoid it. And I'll probably do that until I've been moved out for a while.
(no subject)
Date: 2009-09-20 01:24 am (UTC)I've always been fascinated with deserts and I haven't ever been anywhere near one, so I sublimate it into fic. XD Inundations of vastness!
Hee, I have a soft spot for their father also.
love for you toooooooo \o/ <333