Fic: Like Strawberries in Summertime (Chronicles of Narnia, Lucy & Edmund, PG)
Title: Like Strawberries in Summertime
Rating: PG
Words: 477
Characters: Lucy, Edmund, Susan, Peter
Timeline: Early Golden Age
Summary: The first winter as monarchs makes Narnia and Edmund both grow pale and cold, and Lucy refuses to accept this.
Notes: From a comment_fic prompt, any, any, with scarves of red tied round their throats to keep their little heads from falling in the snow.
The prompt and my title are both from White Winter Hymnal, by Fleet Foxes.
Like Strawberries in Summertime
The first winter creeps upon them, slowly; colors blossom and fade by degrees, flaring bright through the branches, the dryads delighting in their first autumn within memory.
“They're the best of jewels,” Lucy says, making crowns of fallen leaves, red and gold. “At least until the flowers return.”
By the next morning, the frost descends, sharp and cutting, carving its patterns across the glass, leeching brightness from the leaves.
Edmund huddles by the fire, surrounding himself with blankets and books.
“I think he hates the winter,” Lucy says, breath fogging over the window, blurring the world outside.
“Of course he does.” Susan wipes the glass clear, impatient, staring down on a world gone silvery. “It turns everything to white; how could he not?”
Turning from the window, Lucy fixes a determined stare on her brother. “Well then, we simply won't let it.”
They do their best to keep color alive inside, with evergreen branches and berries, tapestries and rugs splashing patches of summer light over walls and floors.
Still, Edmund remains at the fireside, his face blanched and set as though the cold winds pain him, as if the feathers of frost on the windows crawl along his spine. It seems to Lucy, watching and worrying, that more and more, he is made of only black and white, color fading from his skin until he looks sculpted from marble, brittle as ice.
Susan and Peter agree, and the next day they descend on him, all three at once, wrapped snug in heavy coats and fur-lined hats, sporting knitted scarves at their throats, brave and red.
“We are going out,” Peter announces, using the High King voice which, though it's had only a year to develop, does not permit refusal.
Still, Edmund does his best. “I don't want to. I'm perfectly happy here.”
“But see, Edmund,” Lucy says, holding out a wooly bundle, “Mr Tumnus has made these for us. He's quite good at knitting, as it turns out.”
“You wouldn't want to disappoint him by not using his gift,” Susan points out. “It would be awfully rude.”
There's a good deal more grumbling from Edmund, and then a frantic search for a coat that fits, once it becomes clear he's outgrown last year's, but in the end Lucy leads them out through new-fallen snow, glittering bright under a pale blue sky.
It's Susan who throws the first snowball (she denies it, of course, but Lucy saw quite clearly), and though they all end up wet and cold, and Lucy has snow down her back and hair hanging in her eyes, she doesn't mind a bit. To her, their laughter's a sound rich enough to be a color itself, and Edmund's cheeks are nearly bright enough to match his scarf, streaming out in the winter wind.
Rating: PG
Words: 477
Characters: Lucy, Edmund, Susan, Peter
Timeline: Early Golden Age
Summary: The first winter as monarchs makes Narnia and Edmund both grow pale and cold, and Lucy refuses to accept this.
Notes: From a comment_fic prompt, any, any, with scarves of red tied round their throats to keep their little heads from falling in the snow.
The prompt and my title are both from White Winter Hymnal, by Fleet Foxes.
Like Strawberries in Summertime
The first winter creeps upon them, slowly; colors blossom and fade by degrees, flaring bright through the branches, the dryads delighting in their first autumn within memory.
“They're the best of jewels,” Lucy says, making crowns of fallen leaves, red and gold. “At least until the flowers return.”
By the next morning, the frost descends, sharp and cutting, carving its patterns across the glass, leeching brightness from the leaves.
Edmund huddles by the fire, surrounding himself with blankets and books.
“I think he hates the winter,” Lucy says, breath fogging over the window, blurring the world outside.
“Of course he does.” Susan wipes the glass clear, impatient, staring down on a world gone silvery. “It turns everything to white; how could he not?”
Turning from the window, Lucy fixes a determined stare on her brother. “Well then, we simply won't let it.”
They do their best to keep color alive inside, with evergreen branches and berries, tapestries and rugs splashing patches of summer light over walls and floors.
Still, Edmund remains at the fireside, his face blanched and set as though the cold winds pain him, as if the feathers of frost on the windows crawl along his spine. It seems to Lucy, watching and worrying, that more and more, he is made of only black and white, color fading from his skin until he looks sculpted from marble, brittle as ice.
Susan and Peter agree, and the next day they descend on him, all three at once, wrapped snug in heavy coats and fur-lined hats, sporting knitted scarves at their throats, brave and red.
“We are going out,” Peter announces, using the High King voice which, though it's had only a year to develop, does not permit refusal.
Still, Edmund does his best. “I don't want to. I'm perfectly happy here.”
“But see, Edmund,” Lucy says, holding out a wooly bundle, “Mr Tumnus has made these for us. He's quite good at knitting, as it turns out.”
“You wouldn't want to disappoint him by not using his gift,” Susan points out. “It would be awfully rude.”
There's a good deal more grumbling from Edmund, and then a frantic search for a coat that fits, once it becomes clear he's outgrown last year's, but in the end Lucy leads them out through new-fallen snow, glittering bright under a pale blue sky.
It's Susan who throws the first snowball (she denies it, of course, but Lucy saw quite clearly), and though they all end up wet and cold, and Lucy has snow down her back and hair hanging in her eyes, she doesn't mind a bit. To her, their laughter's a sound rich enough to be a color itself, and Edmund's cheeks are nearly bright enough to match his scarf, streaming out in the winter wind.