(no subject)
Edmund had made a stalwart attempt to ignore it, but there really wasn't much for that plan when he got down to it.
His life was a children's story.
When people had mentioned reading about their adventures, had referred to The Chronicles of Narnia, Edmund had exercised a kind of active ignorance. No, at first perhaps he genuinely believed they had read some kind of history book while on the island. He remembered carvings on stone walls, painted in rough colors and flickering firelight. He remembered the yearning to believe in the faces of Talking Beasts and creatures. He remembered that he had been part of a Golden Age, had a legacy that stretched beyond himself. But at some point his mind told him that this wasn't the same thing at all. And he had ignored it.
He had ignored it for a good, long time. You might even call it a "respectable" amount of time, if what he had been doing could be called "respectable." (Not that it was disreputable either, we would like to point out, but not something to be particularly admired either way.) But his conversation with Claire only a few weeks ago had made it very clear that the little lies he told himself could not hold up to the truth anymore and that he could not ignore it as he had before. He needed to know, not only for himself but for the rest of his family. How much did it say about them, what they had done? Did it tell their thoughts, their hopes, their dreams and nightmares? Did it detail every spat, every evil word they had ever said to one another but never meant? But a large part of his curiosity was centered squarely on its telling of his story. Of ice and snow and Turkish Delight.
Even when everyone else who matters has forgiven you, it can be quite difficult to forgive yourself.
So Edmund had approached the bookshelf that evening with one request and stood waiting for its answer. It gave up the first book (for it was part of a series, he noted) with something like ease, and Ed did not know whether to be relieved or disappointed by the thinness of it. But then he had turned back the cover to see the title page, and the hesistance and fear dropped from his expression.
"'A story for children'?" he read aloud, then quickly (and a bit roughly) turned to the next page so as to skim over the dedication. "Fairy tales?!" he cried indignantly.
He had nearly died in that fairy tale, several times over. And there had been absolutely no fairies.
[[The time has finally come. Late and slow tags welcome as I probably won't be able to get to this at work tomorrow.]]
His life was a children's story.
When people had mentioned reading about their adventures, had referred to The Chronicles of Narnia, Edmund had exercised a kind of active ignorance. No, at first perhaps he genuinely believed they had read some kind of history book while on the island. He remembered carvings on stone walls, painted in rough colors and flickering firelight. He remembered the yearning to believe in the faces of Talking Beasts and creatures. He remembered that he had been part of a Golden Age, had a legacy that stretched beyond himself. But at some point his mind told him that this wasn't the same thing at all. And he had ignored it.
He had ignored it for a good, long time. You might even call it a "respectable" amount of time, if what he had been doing could be called "respectable." (Not that it was disreputable either, we would like to point out, but not something to be particularly admired either way.) But his conversation with Claire only a few weeks ago had made it very clear that the little lies he told himself could not hold up to the truth anymore and that he could not ignore it as he had before. He needed to know, not only for himself but for the rest of his family. How much did it say about them, what they had done? Did it tell their thoughts, their hopes, their dreams and nightmares? Did it detail every spat, every evil word they had ever said to one another but never meant? But a large part of his curiosity was centered squarely on its telling of his story. Of ice and snow and Turkish Delight.
Even when everyone else who matters has forgiven you, it can be quite difficult to forgive yourself.
So Edmund had approached the bookshelf that evening with one request and stood waiting for its answer. It gave up the first book (for it was part of a series, he noted) with something like ease, and Ed did not know whether to be relieved or disappointed by the thinness of it. But then he had turned back the cover to see the title page, and the hesistance and fear dropped from his expression.
"'A story for children'?" he read aloud, then quickly (and a bit roughly) turned to the next page so as to skim over the dedication. "Fairy tales?!" he cried indignantly.
He had nearly died in that fairy tale, several times over. And there had been absolutely no fairies.
[[The time has finally come. Late and slow tags welcome as I probably won't be able to get to this at work tomorrow.]]