(no subject)
Lucy's younger in her dreams, she thinks, sometimes, and sometimes she's older. And she's 9 and she's almost 19 and she's 35 all at once. All the ages she is and should be and some she'll never be.
She's still Lucy.
That's the only thing that matters.
She doesn't understand. Is the thing.
It's the thing that bothers her the most when she climbs into bed with her husband.
Because he is her husband, and she loves him with all her heart, and the thing is--
She thinks he's mad. In a way. A big way, admittedly. Mad for ever leaving Aslan's Country when he didn't have to. Mad for coming here. Truly mad for going there and back here again.
It's not something she can understand at all, and she admits it to herself when she brushes his hair back with her hand as he sleeps.
She doesn't understand not wanting to be there. She doesn't understand leaving there and coming back, and it's not that she thinks he was wrong, but it's not something that fits in her world-view, either.
It's beyond her.
(On one level, of course she thinks it's wrong. Horribly wrong, in a way that makes her stomach clench and in a way that just doesn't process. The way it's wrong if you were told the world were flat.
It's just that sometimes that's how it is.)
And if he hadn't, she'd never have wed him, and the thing is--
The thing is, even with that, she still cannot understand.
She wishes she could.
It's not any easier to stay. She doesn't want to go any less.
It's just--
There's something to do, really, and her dreams are a sort now where her sleeping mind doesn't yearn the way it did, and she's rested when she wakes.
That's all.
But it's something.
In her dreams, there is tea, and a man who's a bit like her father and a bit like the professor.
She calls him Jack.
And she tells him stories, and laughs when he sometimes tells her things in return.
"I was a very small girl, you know," she tells him one night, resting her chin on one hand. "All of nine. And I thought I could save the world."
"The Valiant."
"Aye, so they said. Do you know, I think in a way that was more me than Pevensie would have been."
"Is it still?"
Lucy stops and sips her tea and thinks.
"Yes. But now I must be the Patient, too."
"For what?"
"Oh," and her smile's a bit vague and she shrugs and pours more tea into his cup. "For someone else, I think. And in the meantime, I've you to speak with."
It's something to do.
It helps her not think.
She misses, in a way, being just Lucy. And not this little-more-a-dream Lucy she is now.
Everything in the Shadowlands is temporary, though.
Lucy can wait for a while, if she need be. But only for a while.
She's still Lucy.
That's the only thing that matters.
She doesn't understand. Is the thing.
It's the thing that bothers her the most when she climbs into bed with her husband.
Because he is her husband, and she loves him with all her heart, and the thing is--
She thinks he's mad. In a way. A big way, admittedly. Mad for ever leaving Aslan's Country when he didn't have to. Mad for coming here. Truly mad for going there and back here again.
It's not something she can understand at all, and she admits it to herself when she brushes his hair back with her hand as he sleeps.
She doesn't understand not wanting to be there. She doesn't understand leaving there and coming back, and it's not that she thinks he was wrong, but it's not something that fits in her world-view, either.
It's beyond her.
(On one level, of course she thinks it's wrong. Horribly wrong, in a way that makes her stomach clench and in a way that just doesn't process. The way it's wrong if you were told the world were flat.
It's just that sometimes that's how it is.)
And if he hadn't, she'd never have wed him, and the thing is--
The thing is, even with that, she still cannot understand.
She wishes she could.
It's not any easier to stay. She doesn't want to go any less.
It's just--
There's something to do, really, and her dreams are a sort now where her sleeping mind doesn't yearn the way it did, and she's rested when she wakes.
That's all.
But it's something.
In her dreams, there is tea, and a man who's a bit like her father and a bit like the professor.
She calls him Jack.
And she tells him stories, and laughs when he sometimes tells her things in return.
"I was a very small girl, you know," she tells him one night, resting her chin on one hand. "All of nine. And I thought I could save the world."
"The Valiant."
"Aye, so they said. Do you know, I think in a way that was more me than Pevensie would have been."
"Is it still?"
Lucy stops and sips her tea and thinks.
"Yes. But now I must be the Patient, too."
"For what?"
"Oh," and her smile's a bit vague and she shrugs and pours more tea into his cup. "For someone else, I think. And in the meantime, I've you to speak with."
It's something to do.
It helps her not think.
She misses, in a way, being just Lucy. And not this little-more-a-dream Lucy she is now.
Everything in the Shadowlands is temporary, though.
Lucy can wait for a while, if she need be. But only for a while.