Narnia fic: "Dust in the Air" (Interlude)
Nov. 7th, 2009 11:11 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
bedlamsbardHey, remember those days when I used to write fic? And there was this 150K WIP called Dust in the Air, wherein Aslan didn't end the world in The Last Battle and five years later Tirian, Jill, and Eustace were ekeing out an existence as resistance fighters on the edge of a Calormene-occupied Narnia when all of a sudden up pop the Pevensies, who -- surprise, surprise -- are now being worshipped as gods and goddesses in Narnia?
This is not about them. (Except in how it is.)
I had a sudden urge to write about the post-Dying Times + post-Calormene occupation Narnian diasporas (whoever said my Arab-Israeli Conflict class was most likely to make me write Narnia fic when I was picking classes last semester wins some sort of prize) and this is what came out.
Next year in Cair Paravel! That age-old cry. It rings out from the dining table, after Mistress Chloe has cleared away the dishes and left only the wine and cigars, sending the children outside to play. Lorcis, only this year promoted to the ranks of his seniors, looks around with wide eyes and quaffs his watered wine, uttering the lament.
Next year in Cair Paravel! Springthassa, for whom Cair Paravel is a living memory, shakes his head in dismay. Even in that pale shadow of the city he knows, some still murmur the plea. He and his neighbors have something in common now – the loss. He will not keep his family in what is fast becoming enemy territory.
Next year in Cair Paravel! Winter’s End day, and once the holiday would have been occupied by feasts and dancing, festivals and sacrifices. Perhaps it still is in Narnia, even Calormen-occupied Narnia, and earlier Springthassa had painted memories for the children with voice and pipes, dancing pictures in the flames. Such celebration in Narnia; only its muted cousin in Archenland.
Next year in Cair Paravel! “Fools,” sighs an Archenlander neighbor. “Poor deluded fools.” Still, even she sets out bread and milk for the hob (or the family cat) and leaves an empty chair at the dinner table. Aslan’s will takes many forms; ‘tis best to be ready just in case. Sometimes the ragged Calormene runaway slave is really a long-missing crown prince.
Next year in Cair Paravel! The adults are deep in their cups now, the bones of the sacrificed hog fed to the (dumb) dog, who sucks out the marrow, no mind that it should be owed to a quartet of kings and queens. Outside, the children splash about in the spring mud, building their own Cair Paravel and resurrecting long-dead foes. Lorcis watches through the window and wishes he could join them.
Next year in Cair Paravel! Daphne comes dashing in, interrupting the sacred conference of her elders. “Mama, mama!” she cries, while the adults look askance at the invasion. “There’s Queen Susan riding up the road, an’ there is!” No, no, her mother tries to tell her, for this kind of talk is wishful nonsense, but Daphne catches Chloe’s hand and drags her out to see.
Next year in Cair Paravel! And who is it but Queen Susan the Gentle herself on the muddy road, with her hair black as pitch spilling over her shoulders, bow across her back and horn on her hip. And there, banners not seen in sixteen hundred years, the golden lion on a field of bloody crimson. The crown of flowers on her brow promises spring beginning and winter’s end.
Next year in Cair Paravel! No longer a vain hope, but a true promise, for here is the Queen of Spring, and where she walks her brother the High King Peter and the great lion Aslan cannot be far behind. Lorcis picks up his sisters so that she can stretch out a hand to the Queen, one small chubby hand amongst so many others, all clamoring to touch their queen, and Susan of Narnia smiles and plucks a flower from her crown, passing it to little Daphne.
Next year in Cair Paravel! Strong minotaurs and gray-bearded dwarves weep at her step. Never did any think to see this day. New bottles of wine are opened, toasts to her glory made, old songs made fresh. And everywhere, the cry, even after she passes into the night, leaving only shadow and memory behind.
Next year in Cair Paravel!
Part One 0 | 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17
Part Two 00 | 000 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | 23 | 24 | Interlude | 25 | 26 | 27 | 28 | 29 | 30 | 31
This is not about them. (Except in how it is.)
I had a sudden urge to write about the post-Dying Times + post-Calormene occupation Narnian diasporas (whoever said my Arab-Israeli Conflict class was most likely to make me write Narnia fic when I was picking classes last semester wins some sort of prize) and this is what came out.
Next year in Cair Paravel! That age-old cry. It rings out from the dining table, after Mistress Chloe has cleared away the dishes and left only the wine and cigars, sending the children outside to play. Lorcis, only this year promoted to the ranks of his seniors, looks around with wide eyes and quaffs his watered wine, uttering the lament.
Next year in Cair Paravel! Springthassa, for whom Cair Paravel is a living memory, shakes his head in dismay. Even in that pale shadow of the city he knows, some still murmur the plea. He and his neighbors have something in common now – the loss. He will not keep his family in what is fast becoming enemy territory.
Next year in Cair Paravel! Winter’s End day, and once the holiday would have been occupied by feasts and dancing, festivals and sacrifices. Perhaps it still is in Narnia, even Calormen-occupied Narnia, and earlier Springthassa had painted memories for the children with voice and pipes, dancing pictures in the flames. Such celebration in Narnia; only its muted cousin in Archenland.
Next year in Cair Paravel! “Fools,” sighs an Archenlander neighbor. “Poor deluded fools.” Still, even she sets out bread and milk for the hob (or the family cat) and leaves an empty chair at the dinner table. Aslan’s will takes many forms; ‘tis best to be ready just in case. Sometimes the ragged Calormene runaway slave is really a long-missing crown prince.
Next year in Cair Paravel! The adults are deep in their cups now, the bones of the sacrificed hog fed to the (dumb) dog, who sucks out the marrow, no mind that it should be owed to a quartet of kings and queens. Outside, the children splash about in the spring mud, building their own Cair Paravel and resurrecting long-dead foes. Lorcis watches through the window and wishes he could join them.
Next year in Cair Paravel! Daphne comes dashing in, interrupting the sacred conference of her elders. “Mama, mama!” she cries, while the adults look askance at the invasion. “There’s Queen Susan riding up the road, an’ there is!” No, no, her mother tries to tell her, for this kind of talk is wishful nonsense, but Daphne catches Chloe’s hand and drags her out to see.
Next year in Cair Paravel! And who is it but Queen Susan the Gentle herself on the muddy road, with her hair black as pitch spilling over her shoulders, bow across her back and horn on her hip. And there, banners not seen in sixteen hundred years, the golden lion on a field of bloody crimson. The crown of flowers on her brow promises spring beginning and winter’s end.
Next year in Cair Paravel! No longer a vain hope, but a true promise, for here is the Queen of Spring, and where she walks her brother the High King Peter and the great lion Aslan cannot be far behind. Lorcis picks up his sisters so that she can stretch out a hand to the Queen, one small chubby hand amongst so many others, all clamoring to touch their queen, and Susan of Narnia smiles and plucks a flower from her crown, passing it to little Daphne.
Next year in Cair Paravel! Strong minotaurs and gray-bearded dwarves weep at her step. Never did any think to see this day. New bottles of wine are opened, toasts to her glory made, old songs made fresh. And everywhere, the cry, even after she passes into the night, leaving only shadow and memory behind.
Next year in Cair Paravel!
Part One 0 | 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17
Part Two 00 | 000 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | 23 | 24 | Interlude | 25 | 26 | 27 | 28 | 29 | 30 | 31
(no subject)
Date: 2009-11-10 03:37 pm (UTC)Thanks for sharing it.
(no subject)
Date: 2009-11-11 10:18 pm (UTC)I'm glad you liked it!