Fic: The Art of Losing
Dec. 9th, 2008 12:17 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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narniaexchangeTitle: The Art of Losing
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
penguingeek
Recipient:turkeyish
Rating: PG
Possible Spoilers/Warnings: Vague spoilers through Voyage.
Summary: He searched all the wardrobes of the world. He finally found it.
Original Prompt: Edmund-centric is all I ask. :) // "Politics is not a science...but an art." -Otto von Bismarck
Science was a simple thing to Edmund. All he needed were his chemicals and his formulae and he could make things explode or contract. Give him an animal and he could name it, kingdom, phylum, class, order, family, genus, and species. It simply came in this way to him, as if he were the bright bloom to which the bee flew in natural instinct.
***
“I want to be young again,” Edmund groaned aloud amidst the shouting and the dying men. What Edmund had regretted to say (because he’d said it plenty before) was that he wanted to forget it, he wanted to forget it all. He wondered how Aslan could ever have let him know this. He would only be turning sixteen in a month’s time.
If Peter agreed he didn’t ever show it, though perhaps as High King he mustn’t have shown it. He only stared down worriedly at the body of their friend, Susan’s fiancé, wiping his forehead with his sleeve. Blood stained his eyebrows, but Edmund never told him this. They’d agreed that things like these were never to be spoken of.
***
The way Edmund had learned to plan battle lines was by studying art, his men always following the Divine Proportion, creating lines and patterns, the approximate portrait of a girl with a pearl earring. Not so much that it was ever scientific, nor that it was painstaking to put together, but just enough that when the enemy saw them approach and when Peter looked upon them from his place atop the capitoline hill, gasps sounded in waves through the oceans of soldiers and Peter looked at him reverently. Nearly speechless, all he ever said was this: “It is so beautiful, Ed. Just as Aslan would wish it.”
Edmund had matched his pigments to Aslan’s tones -- or what he remembered of them -- and had no doubt that Peter was right.
***
As hard as it was for Edmund to adjust to the battle-sore muscles and the treaties, he grew into it. For fifteen years it was normal, and his life was sane, it was right.
Though this be true, Edmund’s life was difficult. He suffered through puberty amidst the gawking stares of fellow countrymen, soldiers, ambassadors from other countries who all expected something more of a Son of Adam.
That made it all the harder to convince them he was right for his throne. That was good, though, because crafting a maze of clever clues was exactly what Edmund did best. He dazzled them with mirrors and smoke and never once let his guard down, but always watched as they tried to find the reality of the beauty in the crafting of hideous shrubs.
***
Edmund tried to ask him, once, dazed and half-drunk in their study amidst books that may have had the answer.
“Do you remember --?”
“Hm, Ed?” Peter turned his head slightly to find Edmund hiding behind a stack of books.
“Do you remember something -- beyond what we know now? Beyond Narnia?”
“Like the far north? Or the Islands?”
“Nay, brother. Something like another world altogether, one far different from our own. Do you remember it, Peter?”
“Ed, you’re tired. ‘Tis but a dream come early. You’ve had too much wine; to bed, brother.”
Peter half-carried Edmund to his chambers, arms slumped over shoulders and feet just barely moving over stone and rug. Peter left Edmund in the doorway, making sure to paste him to something stable. He chuckled slightly. “Goodnight, Ed. Perhaps we can discuss your world beyond Narnia in the morrow. For now, rest.”
Edmund slid over to his bed and barely had time to take his crown off before collapsing atop it, and just before he fell into slumber he remembered it --
“England.”
***
However hard it had been growing old, it was much, much more difficult growing young. It was a terrible task to pretend to be dumb when one was not, to pretend to be interested when one was not, to pretend to be an Englishman when one had never been.
The children did not speak of it openly, not at first. It took time to adjust to the new bodies; new for they had been hidden in the back of a wardrobe for so many years. They were cold to the touch and unfamiliar. Edmund foresaw that in a good few years’ time his would grow pimply and gangly and awkward -- once more.
But no, the first day was spent in separate corners of the world, each Pevensie to sort out his or her own demons. Edmund occupied the lavatory, retching into the degrading porcelain bowl. Though the process from Narnia to wardrobe to England took but a few moments, the process from Narnian to Englander took no time at all; no time at all because it took such a large amount of time of their small lives that it really was indefinable as time at all. It was invisible and so troublesome that it was soon unseen by anyone, especially the children.
When Edmund chanced to leave the loo, he ran into Lucy in the corridor. She had been trying to turn her dolls into living things by placing them in lines and leading them. They never followed, but she’d thought perhaps it was because, like Narnian creatures, they were not tame. They were not meant to follow, they were meant to lead.
“Lu?” She turned to him with downcast eyes and a frown like he’d only seen in dire places.
“Such bland adventures, Ed. I wonder if it really was a dream; if Narnia really existed at some time.”
“Of course it did, Lu. It still does.” He wondered at that, though, because he worried that as they had ceased to exist to Narnia, so Narnia had ceased to exist for them.
“Then why aren’t the animals talking?”
He had been searching for that answer himself, in some way.
***
Edmund was made to learn to govern his thoughts and emotions by imagining the lines of proportions divine and paintings of vases and vines. He learned not to let them run amuck, no, but to contain them as in a bell jar. He could scream all he liked on the inside for the unfairness of it but no matter how hard he tried, no one would ever hear him. And no one could read lips.
***
It was a craft, to do this. It was like Christopher Columbus discovering America only to keep it a big secret. While some secrets could be fun, and this one could be shared with his siblings (and now Eustace), he hardly had time anymore, with his studies draining his life of its blood. Peter was even busier, and took to hiding away when Edmund needed him most; or so it seemed.
***
Edmund remembered to keep his face straight and sipped his tea through slits of lips. What this girl was talking about was completely irrelevant and totally mundane. He couldn’t really have cared less, but she reminded him of a princess he thought he’d once known, and he only ever talked with her to look at her -- so that he could remember.
He was finished with school and his parents expected him to settle down. As if he could have done anything else; the alternative running-amuck was simply preposterous, now that he knew he had nothing left but England and all the world.
***
Cold hands flew across the canvas blindly. He’d done this before, he just didn’t know where. He dabbed his brush into a pigment and tested it like a virgin’s caress on the canvas. He picked another tone and splashed it over the first.
It was wrong. He had picked two colors from nowhere and was wrong.
He ripped the canvas off the easel and tried again.
He closed his eyes, breathed deeply in, out, in -- and that was it. He smelled the sea and fields and the thin coolness of castle air.
This time when he opened his eyes, the pigments looked right. He knew to blend the white and blue and green in such a way as to make ocean foam. He knew the exact greenness of the fields. Of her fields.
He knew he was right, because it felt that way. Because he had wracked his brains for the answer, but when he had found it, it had come to him like a lost child. He couldn’t put things together easily and expect it; he just had to search himself. He just had to search all the wardrobes of the world.
***
Art, of course, was not science. Edmund was good at it, but he had to work to get there. It was all in his mind, all perfectly calculated and formulated, yet only certain triggers held the key to let it all out.
When they did, it was beautiful.
Author:
penguingeekRecipient:
turkeyishRating: PG
Possible Spoilers/Warnings: Vague spoilers through Voyage.
Summary: He searched all the wardrobes of the world. He finally found it.
Original Prompt: Edmund-centric is all I ask. :) // "Politics is not a science...but an art." -Otto von Bismarck
Art: n. the principles or methods governing any craft or branch of learning
- Dictionary.com
Science was a simple thing to Edmund. All he needed were his chemicals and his formulae and he could make things explode or contract. Give him an animal and he could name it, kingdom, phylum, class, order, family, genus, and species. It simply came in this way to him, as if he were the bright bloom to which the bee flew in natural instinct.
“I want to be young again,” Edmund groaned aloud amidst the shouting and the dying men. What Edmund had regretted to say (because he’d said it plenty before) was that he wanted to forget it, he wanted to forget it all. He wondered how Aslan could ever have let him know this. He would only be turning sixteen in a month’s time.
If Peter agreed he didn’t ever show it, though perhaps as High King he mustn’t have shown it. He only stared down worriedly at the body of their friend, Susan’s fiancé, wiping his forehead with his sleeve. Blood stained his eyebrows, but Edmund never told him this. They’d agreed that things like these were never to be spoken of.
The way Edmund had learned to plan battle lines was by studying art, his men always following the Divine Proportion, creating lines and patterns, the approximate portrait of a girl with a pearl earring. Not so much that it was ever scientific, nor that it was painstaking to put together, but just enough that when the enemy saw them approach and when Peter looked upon them from his place atop the capitoline hill, gasps sounded in waves through the oceans of soldiers and Peter looked at him reverently. Nearly speechless, all he ever said was this: “It is so beautiful, Ed. Just as Aslan would wish it.”
Edmund had matched his pigments to Aslan’s tones -- or what he remembered of them -- and had no doubt that Peter was right.
As hard as it was for Edmund to adjust to the battle-sore muscles and the treaties, he grew into it. For fifteen years it was normal, and his life was sane, it was right.
Though this be true, Edmund’s life was difficult. He suffered through puberty amidst the gawking stares of fellow countrymen, soldiers, ambassadors from other countries who all expected something more of a Son of Adam.
That made it all the harder to convince them he was right for his throne. That was good, though, because crafting a maze of clever clues was exactly what Edmund did best. He dazzled them with mirrors and smoke and never once let his guard down, but always watched as they tried to find the reality of the beauty in the crafting of hideous shrubs.
Edmund tried to ask him, once, dazed and half-drunk in their study amidst books that may have had the answer.
“Do you remember --?”
“Hm, Ed?” Peter turned his head slightly to find Edmund hiding behind a stack of books.
“Do you remember something -- beyond what we know now? Beyond Narnia?”
“Like the far north? Or the Islands?”
“Nay, brother. Something like another world altogether, one far different from our own. Do you remember it, Peter?”
“Ed, you’re tired. ‘Tis but a dream come early. You’ve had too much wine; to bed, brother.”
Peter half-carried Edmund to his chambers, arms slumped over shoulders and feet just barely moving over stone and rug. Peter left Edmund in the doorway, making sure to paste him to something stable. He chuckled slightly. “Goodnight, Ed. Perhaps we can discuss your world beyond Narnia in the morrow. For now, rest.”
Edmund slid over to his bed and barely had time to take his crown off before collapsing atop it, and just before he fell into slumber he remembered it --
“England.”
However hard it had been growing old, it was much, much more difficult growing young. It was a terrible task to pretend to be dumb when one was not, to pretend to be interested when one was not, to pretend to be an Englishman when one had never been.
The children did not speak of it openly, not at first. It took time to adjust to the new bodies; new for they had been hidden in the back of a wardrobe for so many years. They were cold to the touch and unfamiliar. Edmund foresaw that in a good few years’ time his would grow pimply and gangly and awkward -- once more.
But no, the first day was spent in separate corners of the world, each Pevensie to sort out his or her own demons. Edmund occupied the lavatory, retching into the degrading porcelain bowl. Though the process from Narnia to wardrobe to England took but a few moments, the process from Narnian to Englander took no time at all; no time at all because it took such a large amount of time of their small lives that it really was indefinable as time at all. It was invisible and so troublesome that it was soon unseen by anyone, especially the children.
When Edmund chanced to leave the loo, he ran into Lucy in the corridor. She had been trying to turn her dolls into living things by placing them in lines and leading them. They never followed, but she’d thought perhaps it was because, like Narnian creatures, they were not tame. They were not meant to follow, they were meant to lead.
“Lu?” She turned to him with downcast eyes and a frown like he’d only seen in dire places.
“Such bland adventures, Ed. I wonder if it really was a dream; if Narnia really existed at some time.”
“Of course it did, Lu. It still does.” He wondered at that, though, because he worried that as they had ceased to exist to Narnia, so Narnia had ceased to exist for them.
“Then why aren’t the animals talking?”
He had been searching for that answer himself, in some way.
Edmund was made to learn to govern his thoughts and emotions by imagining the lines of proportions divine and paintings of vases and vines. He learned not to let them run amuck, no, but to contain them as in a bell jar. He could scream all he liked on the inside for the unfairness of it but no matter how hard he tried, no one would ever hear him. And no one could read lips.
It was a craft, to do this. It was like Christopher Columbus discovering America only to keep it a big secret. While some secrets could be fun, and this one could be shared with his siblings (and now Eustace), he hardly had time anymore, with his studies draining his life of its blood. Peter was even busier, and took to hiding away when Edmund needed him most; or so it seemed.
Edmund remembered to keep his face straight and sipped his tea through slits of lips. What this girl was talking about was completely irrelevant and totally mundane. He couldn’t really have cared less, but she reminded him of a princess he thought he’d once known, and he only ever talked with her to look at her -- so that he could remember.
He was finished with school and his parents expected him to settle down. As if he could have done anything else; the alternative running-amuck was simply preposterous, now that he knew he had nothing left but England and all the world.
Cold hands flew across the canvas blindly. He’d done this before, he just didn’t know where. He dabbed his brush into a pigment and tested it like a virgin’s caress on the canvas. He picked another tone and splashed it over the first.
It was wrong. He had picked two colors from nowhere and was wrong.
He ripped the canvas off the easel and tried again.
He closed his eyes, breathed deeply in, out, in -- and that was it. He smelled the sea and fields and the thin coolness of castle air.
This time when he opened his eyes, the pigments looked right. He knew to blend the white and blue and green in such a way as to make ocean foam. He knew the exact greenness of the fields. Of her fields.
He knew he was right, because it felt that way. Because he had wracked his brains for the answer, but when he had found it, it had come to him like a lost child. He couldn’t put things together easily and expect it; he just had to search himself. He just had to search all the wardrobes of the world.
Art, of course, was not science. Edmund was good at it, but he had to work to get there. It was all in his mind, all perfectly calculated and formulated, yet only certain triggers held the key to let it all out.
When they did, it was beautiful.
Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.
Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
places, and names, and where it was you meant
to travel. None of these will bring disaster.
- “One Art” by Elizabeth Bishop
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