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.
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.
"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.
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.
"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."
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."
"His name is Caspian. He's older than I, and I've known him for many years, though I didn't see him for several. I'm rather mad for him. What details would you like, Father?"
Something about Lucy's phrasing catches her father's attention. John Pevensie does not know anyone by the name of Caspian, and he cannot imagine where she would have met an older man. Not at boarding school, surely?
Lucy doesn't answer that, immediately, just looks at her father and thinks of all the things she wanted to tell him and never could and all the things she was that she never could show him, before saying, "Do you remember, Father, when you came home from war and saw us? I heard you tell Mother you didn't recognize us, not really."
In the pause that follows, a wren sings from a branch.
John says heavily, at last, "Yes. I remember that."
If this were not God's country, if they had been on Earth, alive, John Pevensie would have stopped then. But there are some things that can be said in this land, under this perfect sun, that cannot be spoken elsewhere.
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.
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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."
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But she throws herself at him, all reserve forgotten, anyway, and says, "Oh, Father," and has to smile.
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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."
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"I've missed you. So much."
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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?"
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"I want to tell you a lot," Lucy says slowly, "but I suppose--first, really, it should be this. I'm engaged."
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He is blinking more rapidly, now. "How wonderful to hear that."
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She's a little shy, in a way, as she smiles at him.
"I just...suppose I wanted to make sure I got to tell you."
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He shakes his head and looks at the bench. "Shall we sit down, so you can tell me all about this fiancé of yours?"
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She sits with him and looks out at the grass and trees and just smiles, for a moment, before looking over at him.
"I think you'd like him, Father. I really do."
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Lucy laughs, a little, and rubs at her neck.
"His name is Caspian. He's older than I, and I've known him for many years, though I didn't see him for several. I'm rather mad for him. What details would you like, Father?"
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His gaze narrows. "How did you meet this man?"
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John says heavily, at last, "Yes. I remember that."
If this were not God's country, if they had been on Earth, alive, John Pevensie would have stopped then. But there are some things that can be said in this land, under this perfect sun, that cannot be spoken elsewhere.
"I thought I was the one who had changed."
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