Fic: The Coin's Tarnished Face [Chronicles of Narnia]
Fic: The Coin's Tarnished Face
Fandom: The Chronicles of Narnia
Summary: No bright place, no matter how magical, can exist without its dark.
Notes: I'm doing a bit of housecleaning/spelunking in my fic notebooks and found this. It wanted release into the greater world, so I obliged. Unbeta'ed. Concrit is, as always, appreciated.
~~~
The witch came from some place else.
We did not.
This is our home, as much as it belongs to those who bask in sunlight. We stay in the needle-edged shadows, deep in the dark woods. The trees still speak there, though fauns teach their sons otherwise. The whispers still when upright hooves walk by; but the rest of the forest can hear. That silbant undercurrent is why the aspen trembles so in the wind. The shining groves know the truth, but they keep their secrets well. They remember that all rooted ones are kin, something that the hot-blooded - our own cousins - forgot.
Did you ever wonder why knocking on wood wakes luck?
It doesn't.
The sound of your knuckles on culled timber calls up ancient oaths, the long memory of pacts made between Man and Wood. Trees have memories longer than stone. Or perhaps they are simply a richer pool, ever in flux, raising and falling as saplings reach up, dig down and connect with the rooted history of their kind. The dark woods don't dance. They have settled into their span of earth, giving up mobility for thorough knowledge of their land. They might not circle and lift branches in time with us, when the horn and bone drums are played, but they know. They remember the shape of each rock, the curve of every trail that ever cut across root gnarl. They delved deep, became scholars of the Under, as they learned the language of worm and weevil.
The witch's mistake was to wear His Mane into battle. Her greatest power has always been cold, the chill of light's absence. She, in the end, proved equally suspectible to fire. The adlers were not surprised by this; they remember when she first appeared in the North, when she still dreamed and muttered in her sleep. It took centuries for the red to fall from her shadow, that deep terrible light of a dying sun.
We found hope in that light. It proved to us that suns could die. Our world was young and we were young too. All we knew was fear, cowering in the deepest darkness we could find. At the time the shadows were still fragile, delicate traceries prone to tearing. We had to be so careful, flattening ourselves into the cup of half-formed sulphurous caves, tangling the bramble patches above our boltholes with a grim desperation.
What the trees remember when we cannot: this world was darkness first. Light came after. And it was not welcomed everywhere, despite the histories passed by dwarven storytellers.
Histories are proclaimed loudest by the victorious. But there's always a muttering contrary, a subterranean underbelly gleaming pale beneath the agreed-on words. The dark woods remember this. They share what they know, a slow poisonous drip that corrodes brightness, granting us more breathing room in our own world. The trees are our memory.
I can see that you don't believe me. I understand. You aren't accustomed to this half light. I can tell the scent of mildew and must is still thick in your nose. You expect water to be free of clay, to carry no metallic taint. It won't be so forever. The wound in your chest needs time to scar over into something thick, knotted well around that fresh rage. Keep your anger close, nestle it deep in your chest. It will be better than armor in the long run. And trust me, you will run far in your time.
This is our home, as much as it belongs to those who set their foot steps so carefully in the impressions left by the Lion. You have birthright as true as any unicorn. Never doubt otherwise. Carry this truth deep and plant it next to your rage. Twine the two, and they will support you through all the battles to come. For there will be battles, have no fear. There will be ample opportunity to sharpen your fangs on bright bones.
We have lost the Witch to her own pride. We have lost many of our number to the swords of the pretender king and his troops. But our strength is in this: the brighter the Light, the darker the Shadows it casts. And that is where we thrive.
~~~
This entry was originally posted at http://teigh-corvus.dreamwidth.org/783013.html. If possible, I prefer comments there.
Fandom: The Chronicles of Narnia
Summary: No bright place, no matter how magical, can exist without its dark.
Notes: I'm doing a bit of housecleaning/spelunking in my fic notebooks and found this. It wanted release into the greater world, so I obliged. Unbeta'ed. Concrit is, as always, appreciated.
~~~
The witch came from some place else.
We did not.
This is our home, as much as it belongs to those who bask in sunlight. We stay in the needle-edged shadows, deep in the dark woods. The trees still speak there, though fauns teach their sons otherwise. The whispers still when upright hooves walk by; but the rest of the forest can hear. That silbant undercurrent is why the aspen trembles so in the wind. The shining groves know the truth, but they keep their secrets well. They remember that all rooted ones are kin, something that the hot-blooded - our own cousins - forgot.
Did you ever wonder why knocking on wood wakes luck?
It doesn't.
The sound of your knuckles on culled timber calls up ancient oaths, the long memory of pacts made between Man and Wood. Trees have memories longer than stone. Or perhaps they are simply a richer pool, ever in flux, raising and falling as saplings reach up, dig down and connect with the rooted history of their kind. The dark woods don't dance. They have settled into their span of earth, giving up mobility for thorough knowledge of their land. They might not circle and lift branches in time with us, when the horn and bone drums are played, but they know. They remember the shape of each rock, the curve of every trail that ever cut across root gnarl. They delved deep, became scholars of the Under, as they learned the language of worm and weevil.
The witch's mistake was to wear His Mane into battle. Her greatest power has always been cold, the chill of light's absence. She, in the end, proved equally suspectible to fire. The adlers were not surprised by this; they remember when she first appeared in the North, when she still dreamed and muttered in her sleep. It took centuries for the red to fall from her shadow, that deep terrible light of a dying sun.
We found hope in that light. It proved to us that suns could die. Our world was young and we were young too. All we knew was fear, cowering in the deepest darkness we could find. At the time the shadows were still fragile, delicate traceries prone to tearing. We had to be so careful, flattening ourselves into the cup of half-formed sulphurous caves, tangling the bramble patches above our boltholes with a grim desperation.
What the trees remember when we cannot: this world was darkness first. Light came after. And it was not welcomed everywhere, despite the histories passed by dwarven storytellers.
Histories are proclaimed loudest by the victorious. But there's always a muttering contrary, a subterranean underbelly gleaming pale beneath the agreed-on words. The dark woods remember this. They share what they know, a slow poisonous drip that corrodes brightness, granting us more breathing room in our own world. The trees are our memory.
I can see that you don't believe me. I understand. You aren't accustomed to this half light. I can tell the scent of mildew and must is still thick in your nose. You expect water to be free of clay, to carry no metallic taint. It won't be so forever. The wound in your chest needs time to scar over into something thick, knotted well around that fresh rage. Keep your anger close, nestle it deep in your chest. It will be better than armor in the long run. And trust me, you will run far in your time.
This is our home, as much as it belongs to those who set their foot steps so carefully in the impressions left by the Lion. You have birthright as true as any unicorn. Never doubt otherwise. Carry this truth deep and plant it next to your rage. Twine the two, and they will support you through all the battles to come. For there will be battles, have no fear. There will be ample opportunity to sharpen your fangs on bright bones.
We have lost the Witch to her own pride. We have lost many of our number to the swords of the pretender king and his troops. But our strength is in this: the brighter the Light, the darker the Shadows it casts. And that is where we thrive.
~~~
This entry was originally posted at http://teigh-corvus.dreamwidth.org/783013.html. If possible, I prefer comments there.