Re: Caspianthe_seafarerAugust 22 2006, 04:43:06 UTC
He blinks, a little sleepily, at her.
It had been a long day and Lucy's restless sleep perhaps keeps his own lighter than he is likely to admit to her, the result being that a day of labor on the Hope and in the stables, short-handed as they are, just about does him in.
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.
He holds her hand as they walk, and Lucy thinks she'll never let it go.
It's a tree they're approaching--a familiar one, she thinks, a bit wryly (for Mother often scolded her for climbing it)--as she spots the familiar, female figure she knew would have to be there.
Like her husband, Helen Pevensie looks neither young nor old in this country. Her hair is touched with gray, but the lines have gone from her face, and her eyes are bright and far-seeing.
She turns away from the tree, hand falling from the trunk, and smiles.
Her mother's arms go around her, and Helen strokes her daughter's hair, just once.
"Oh, my dear," she says over her daughter's shoulder. "It's lovely to see you."
When she pulls away, it's with a small catch of a laugh. "I suppose it should sound awful, to be glad to see my daughter here. And yet I am, you know -- I don't think it's possible to be truly sad or awful, any more. Not in God's country."
Comments 98
Stop.
Start again.
"I...thought I'd sleep in my room tonight."
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It had been a long day and Lucy's restless sleep perhaps keeps his own lighter than he is likely to admit to her, the result being that a day of labor on the Hope and in the stables, short-handed as they are, just about does him in.
"Your room?"
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The twins are listening with interest.
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Bemused, he looks up at her as she pulls away.
"But why? Did I..." But he trails off, uncertain even of what he might have done to convince Lucy it would be better to sleep alone this night.
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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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It's a tree they're approaching--a familiar one, she thinks, a bit wryly (for Mother often scolded her for climbing it)--as she spots the familiar, female figure she knew would have to be there.
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She turns away from the tree, hand falling from the trunk, and smiles.
"Lucy, darling."
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"Oh, my dear," she says over her daughter's shoulder. "It's lovely to see you."
When she pulls away, it's with a small catch of a laugh. "I suppose it should sound awful, to be glad to see my daughter here. And yet I am, you know -- I don't think it's possible to be truly sad or awful, any more. Not in God's country."
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