(Untitled)
It is a quiet evening, the air still warm with the heat of the day despite the cool breeze blowing over the lake.
And into that quiet steps a tawny-furred figure, mane limned in gold by the fading sunlight.
The Lion is here.
He has always been here.
Some, however, will not be. And it is one such daughter of Eve that Aslan is waiting for now.
And into that quiet steps a tawny-furred figure, mane limned in gold by the fading sunlight.
The Lion is here.
He has always been here.
Some, however, will not be. And it is one such daughter of Eve that Aslan is waiting for now.
Sometimes in different ways than others, but still always here.
Lucy is grateful for that fact, as ready as she is for it to always be like this, or better.
For the moment, though, she's content to walk across sand and bury her face in his mane upon reaching him, fingers stroking at gold fur automatically and lovingly.
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His voice, when he speaks at last, is the softest of rumbles.
"Hello, dear one."
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Soft and a bit muffled by fur, but it's full of love.
"I missed you." That's always there, and automatic.
Lucy always misses him, even when she hears him. She misses this.
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Not truly.
"I am here now, daughter of Eve. Shall you walk with me?"
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He takes a slow step, waiting for her to choose whether to hold fast to him or walk unaided.
Though he will be by her side, regardless.
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"Aslan?"
It's soft when she speaks.
"I've a question. I think. I'm not sure if it's truly that or just that I don't understand and wish you'd help me. May I ask?"
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There may be no answer he can give her (or will give her), but none need fear questioning.
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She's speaking softly as she leans against him.
"I love her so, Aslan, I do, and I don't--I don't want to leave her. Everyone leaves her, and I know I have to go now anyway. But she says she can't see the door yet, and--oh, isn't there anything you could do? Or I? Anything at all to make it easier for her or let her come now?"
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Then he turns his great head, looking out at her with solemn golden eyes.
"She has chosen her own path as much as any man or woman born, daughter of Eve. And the answers you would have of me belong to her more than to you, or to any."
There is no chiding in his voice, only simple truth.
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It's not a protest.
It's just pleading.
"She aches, Aslan. I just wish--I wish I could--"
There aren't words, and when Lucy presses her face to his mane again--
Well.
The fur's a bit damp.
"Would you answer her, if she asked?"
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"That answer, too, is more a part of her story than your own."
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Because it's right to go, and she's glad to go.
And this part still hurts.
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That sorrow remains, even as he lowers his head, rough tongue flicking out to touch her forehead so very lightly.
But he says nothing.
Here and now, it seems, there is nothing to say.
Lucy knows it all already.
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Because she's Lucy.
But she can't do anything about it, and she's not asking any more questions.
And then for a while, she says nothing.
When she does again, it's just to ask, "May I sit with you, Aslan?"
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"Always, dear heart."
And that will be true even when she leaves this country for his.
It will not be long, now.
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