narnia fic: kingdom of the mad (edmund)
Written for and cross-posted to 31_days.
KINGDOM OF THE MAD.
The Chronicles of Narnia copyright Clive Staples Lewis.
Like all things in Narnia, even the chocolate there is white, as Edmund knows. Turkish Delight tastes as sweet and delicious as might powdered snow, and even now, lost in the pull of its memory, he hungers for it excruciatingly, lingering fingers, ice-tipped and breathtakingly cold, across the edges of his aching mouth. The cruel White Witch, with her slow blood-curdling smile, has, time and time again, refused to satiate him. Her chilling blue eyes, pale in tint and almost a disquieting white, and the tracks of veins etched beneath her lengthy skeletal limbs, are the only exhibition in her physical appearance that can flaunt of color.
He wants to ask, How could he have yearned so much for something he had never even known existed before? Why was it that he can never again be completely satisfied without gorging on something so seemingly inconsequential?
And when they used to walk in the snow together, how often had he turned his head for but a moment to catch a view of the freshly fallen snow, with its stilling whiteness withering away, downtrodden under their feet, into the unfortunate color of old gray bones. The White Witch is the only other human in that place Edmund can think of besides his siblings and himself, and although so many of the animals there are the noblest he's ever seen, Edmund cannot help but think that, yes, the inversion is clear. Humans are animals and animals are human.
There is a heart lodged somewhere deep in his throat. Alone, he starves; alone, he chokes.
END.
Er, seeing as I haven't read this book in seven years, please tell if I happened to get some facts wrong, etc. ^^;; Eheheh.
KINGDOM OF THE MAD.
The Chronicles of Narnia copyright Clive Staples Lewis.
Like all things in Narnia, even the chocolate there is white, as Edmund knows. Turkish Delight tastes as sweet and delicious as might powdered snow, and even now, lost in the pull of its memory, he hungers for it excruciatingly, lingering fingers, ice-tipped and breathtakingly cold, across the edges of his aching mouth. The cruel White Witch, with her slow blood-curdling smile, has, time and time again, refused to satiate him. Her chilling blue eyes, pale in tint and almost a disquieting white, and the tracks of veins etched beneath her lengthy skeletal limbs, are the only exhibition in her physical appearance that can flaunt of color.
He wants to ask, How could he have yearned so much for something he had never even known existed before? Why was it that he can never again be completely satisfied without gorging on something so seemingly inconsequential?
And when they used to walk in the snow together, how often had he turned his head for but a moment to catch a view of the freshly fallen snow, with its stilling whiteness withering away, downtrodden under their feet, into the unfortunate color of old gray bones. The White Witch is the only other human in that place Edmund can think of besides his siblings and himself, and although so many of the animals there are the noblest he's ever seen, Edmund cannot help but think that, yes, the inversion is clear. Humans are animals and animals are human.
There is a heart lodged somewhere deep in his throat. Alone, he starves; alone, he chokes.
END.
Er, seeing as I haven't read this book in seven years, please tell if I happened to get some facts wrong, etc. ^^;; Eheheh.