(no subject)
Sometimes, dreams are just dreams.
This is the end.
There's something she's cradling between her palms that tells her that, and when she looks up she knows it's true.
If Susan's here, she can't look to the side to see it, only ahead and at the two paths before her, in a "v" shape.
One goes North, one goes East.
This is the end, and her heart's in her throat, because she suddenly knows, in this dream, exactly how things should turn out, how they must
(ka like the wind)
and she doesn't want this to be it at all.
There's North, and a man--or something like one--at the path, and there's East, and a woman--or something like one--there, with another man slightly in front of her.
The man at the East is robed and she can't see his eyes, only the book he holds, and she knows him well as he says, "Take a hand, Lucy Pevensie."
Two white hands with long, slender fingers reached out, one masculine, one feminine, and there's a smile like she's utterly, utterly loved from the woman, and stars for eyes from the man, and Lucy knows there's only one hand she can take, and knows there's only one choice, really, there.
And so she reaches out and grabs a hand and feels the world slip away, and knows there wasn't, really, ever any other choice that she could have made.
Sometimes, dreams are just dreams.
But when Lucy wakes up, and pushes herself into sitting, knees pulled against her chest as she looks straight ahead--when Lucy does that, she knows that sometimes, dreams are just dreams, but there's still truth in them.
This is the end.
There's something she's cradling between her palms that tells her that, and when she looks up she knows it's true.
If Susan's here, she can't look to the side to see it, only ahead and at the two paths before her, in a "v" shape.
One goes North, one goes East.
This is the end, and her heart's in her throat, because she suddenly knows, in this dream, exactly how things should turn out, how they must
(ka like the wind)
and she doesn't want this to be it at all.
There's North, and a man--or something like one--at the path, and there's East, and a woman--or something like one--there, with another man slightly in front of her.
The man at the East is robed and she can't see his eyes, only the book he holds, and she knows him well as he says, "Take a hand, Lucy Pevensie."
Two white hands with long, slender fingers reached out, one masculine, one feminine, and there's a smile like she's utterly, utterly loved from the woman, and stars for eyes from the man, and Lucy knows there's only one hand she can take, and knows there's only one choice, really, there.
And so she reaches out and grabs a hand and feels the world slip away, and knows there wasn't, really, ever any other choice that she could have made.
Sometimes, dreams are just dreams.
But when Lucy wakes up, and pushes herself into sitting, knees pulled against her chest as she looks straight ahead--when Lucy does that, she knows that sometimes, dreams are just dreams, but there's still truth in them.