Secret Santa: Day 9
Jan. 1st, 2011 10:38 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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nffr_partyOkay, so, it's an uneven number. But today is an uneven day! It's January 1! HAPPY NEW YEAR!!!
In celebration of the new year, I give you the last three fics of this Secret Santa. Guys, this has been a blast. I know I probably sound like a broken record, but you guys are really the best. Big thank yous to all of the staff, all of my NFFR buds who I've complained to on Skype (although I swear ya'll are nothing to complain about!), and all of our participants. You've made this an absolutely wonderful holiday season for Meto and I!
A fic for Qween of the Damned
It was 1933. Edmund and Lucy were in the playroom.
Edmund was bored. He sat on the floor, pushing the little wooden train he’d gotten for his third birthday the day prior backwards and forwards. Looking up, he could see his little sister sitting happily in her high chair, contently sucking on her pacifier. Edmund wanted that pacifier. He wanted to suck his thumb, too, but that was boring. He was bored with being bored.
Lucy was old enough that she could tell something was amiss when Edmund started climbing his own highchair. She knew Edmund, and she knew that when Edmund had that look on his face, someone was going to end up unhappy.
Edmund reached the top with ease – he’d been climbing things since before he could remember: Edmund had climbed a tree in the backyard once, and had hidden in it for an hour before he was found. He sat there, trying to act nonchalant, looking at Lucy out of the corner of his eyes. Slowly and carefully, one small chubby arm began to move towards the coveted pacifier. Lucy, with the ease of experience, whipped it out of her mouth and sat on it.
Edmund folded his arms and started sulking. Lucy slowly put the pacifier back in her mouth warily, eyes fixed on her older brother. Edmund did nothing, and slowly Lucy relaxed. Then, quick as a flash, Edmund reached over and snatched the pacifier. Jumping out of the highchair, Edmund gleefully toddled away. Lucy, who was used to this, screwed her face up and stuck her thumb in her mouth. (She thought thumbs tasted better anyway. She hid the pacifier from Edmund out of principle)
With the pacifier now clenched firmly between his teeth, Edmund was moving down the hallway as fast as his little legs could carry him. Peter stepped out of his bedroom just in time to bump into Edmund as he toddled past.
CRASH.
The brothers crashed to the floor with a bang. Edmund had collided with a lovely soft part of Peter’s stomach. Peter’s stomach had collided with Edmund’s head. Edmund giggled, and bounced back up on his feet before continuing running down the hall. Peter, left in his little brother’s wake, sat there dazedly until Nurse Susan found him (Susan had tied a white handkerchief to her head and drawn a cross on it with red lipstick) and nursed him back to health.
Edmund stopped when he reached the living room; Mr. Pevensie was standing in the middle of it. Using the rest of his momentum, he jumped into his father’s arms. Mr Pevensie swung him round a couple of times and then Edmund clambered onto his shoulders, laughing delightedly.
When Peter and Susan came hurrying in to see their father, Edmund threw the mostly forgotten
pacifier at them. His aim wasn't very good, and it fell a few feet short. He didn't mind mind.
(When Edmund is older, and a king, he will throw other things at Peter, including a sword in fits of
temper. He always misses, too. His aim is never any good.)
A fic for EWCOM
Note: This was a little more Jill-centric than I think you wanted (and certainly more than I expected), but
I hope you like it anyhow! Happy holidays, and thank you for all the lovely reviews you’ve left. :)
A Meeting of the Daughters of Eve
"Chin up, Jill," Eustace said cheerfully as the train pulled out of the station at Mt. Pleasant.
"You put your chin up," Jill retorted, which even she realized was a rather silly thing to say. But Eustace,
who might have said something cruel only a few months ago, only coughed a little and said that there
was sure to be a nice dinner when they got to Miss Plummer's, and did she want a peppermint? It was
all right for him, Jill thought savagely, they were all his cousins and they had had to like
him even when he was the worst sort of errand-boy for Them. But none of them had any reason to like
Jill, even if she had gone to Narnia and had a grand adventure and saved Prince Rilian, because she had
only managed to get Aslan's words twisted in her mind and made it much harder than it had to be for all
four of them. And it was their country she had nearly ruined.
Jill accepted the peppermint with a muffled thanks and thought to herself that the Pevensies couldn't
really be so bad as she thought. She had even met two of them: Peter had come to Cambridge
and taken her and Eustace out to tea. The tea had been very nice and Peter, although old enough and
handsome enough to be quite intimidating, had asked very pointed and interesting questions about
Narnia and then (after the story had come out) about Experiment House, and given them his address at
University and said they should feel free to write him (Jill hadn't). And she had met Susan very briefly
(although perhaps "met" was too strong a word: she and Eustace had been studying trig, which was
enough to infuriate them both, when a girl several years older than Jill had dashed into the study,
dropped a box, sprinted up the stairs, come back down with a different blouse and a new set of shoes,
picked up the box again, scrawled something on it, thrust it at Eustace, and said, "Eustace, that's for
your mum, it's lovely to see you, I wish I could stay and chat, your answer on number three's wrong,
darling," and dashed back out the door. "That's Susan," Eustace had said mournfully. "She's beautiful!"
Jill had cried. And that was the end of it). But she had never met Lucy or Edmund, or Professor Kirke or
Miss Plummer. And she had heard so much about all of them, because Puddleglum, very grudgingly, had
told her stories of the two humans who came into Narnia at the very start, and Prince Rilian had told her
wonderful stories about King Edmund and Queen Lucy when they sailed with his father to the end of
the world. If we are to be perfectly honest, Jill was feeling quite anxious. If you have ever gone to meet
a number of strangers, all of whom are people you would very much like to impress but know you have
no hope of doing so, then you will know how she felt. For Jill faced meeting people who had seen the
beginnings of Narnia, and the wave at its borders, and its Golden Age, and she was feeling rather like
nothing she had done with Puddleglum could measure up to that. It was all right for Eustace; he was
family, and he had gone to the end of the world besides.
Miss Plummer lived in a small house in the middle of the country, about a mile from the little station
where the train dropped them off. Eustace, who had been there before, led the way, and they took
turns carrying the loaf of bread for Miss Plummer. "What if they don't like me?" Jill asked finally, when
they were coming into sight of her cottage. "What if they think I'm useless?"
"Prince Rilian didn't think you were useless," Eustace said. "And neither did Aslan and neither do I.
They'll think you're excellent. I've told them all about--you know--what we did," he said, and his ears got
rather red.
"Oh," said Jill, and then, "Well."
Luckily, they were spared from further conversation by the barking of a large Newfoundland puppy,
who came bounding out from behind the cottage and tried to get at the loaf. Eustace held it above his
head, saying "Stop it!" and "I say!" (Eustace was not very good with dogs), while Jill distracted it with her
sweater and finally scooped it into her arms.
"Oh, I see you found Mildred," said a woman's voice from the cottage door. Jill knew at once that she
must be Miss Plummer. She was tall and stood up very straight, and her grey hair was streaked with
white. "Eustace, don't jump like that, you'll only excite her. And you must be Jill, of course. Do come in."
"Hello, Miss Plummer," said Jill politely, while Eustace thrust the loaf of bread at her and ducked his
head.
“Digory will be late,” Miss Plummer said. “He always is. The others are coming down with him. Go set
the table, Eustace, and let Jill calm Mildred down. You have to be firm with her,” she added to Jill. “She’ll
chew your hair off if you let her.”
Miss Plummer’s house was too small for a proper dining room, but the kitchen table was large enough
for eight. Jill sat in the corner with Mildred on her lap and watched as Eustace laid the silver and the
napkins out and Miss Plummer put the kettle on and fixed a pot of tea. “That’s a very pretty teapot,” she
said.
“Thank you,” said Miss Plummer. “I won it in checkers with Death when I was fifteen. It never needs a
tea cozy.”
Jill snuck a look at Eustace, wondering if she was being made fun of. But Eustace only shrugged, and it
was a very pretty teapot. “Did you play checkers with Death frequently?” she asked instead.
“No,” Miss Plummer answered. “Only the once. But I played with Miss Ketterley a great deal. This was
back before I retired, of course.”
Jill desperately wanted to ask just what she had retired from, but decided it wouldn’t be polite.
Miss Plummer handed her a cup of tea (Eustace passed the milk and sugar), and took a long sip from
her own cup. “Heavenly,” she said. “You can wait to talk about Narnia until the others get here. What I
chiefly want to know about is this school of yours, you two. It sounds beastly.”
+
Eustace and Jill had finished nearly explaining all the changes to Experiment House over the past year
when the Professor’s car drove up the drive and came to a rather unsteady halt outside the kitchen
window. Miss Plummer sniffed and said, “Keep that dog down, Jill, and I’ll go get the door.”
I don’t know (and Jill didn’t either) if she said this to make Jill feel more comfortable, but it was certainly
easier for Jill to sit in the kitchen while everyone else exchanged hellos by the door and took off their
coats.
“I do think one of these days you might manage to arrive on time,” Miss Plummer was saying as she
ushered the Professor and the Pevensies in through the door. “No, don’t get up, Jill, otherwise Mildred
will be up too. Digory, this is Jill, of course, don’t tell me you’ve forgotten. And Jill, you know Peter and
Susan, of course, and the two little ones—”
“I’ve grown six inches and I’m still a king, Aunt Polly!”
“The two little ones are Edmund and Lucy, of course. Lu, would you slice the bread? And Susan, give the
pot a stir, would you?” In a minute, the girls were ladling soup into bowls and handing them to Eustace
and Edmund to put on the table, and Peter was uncorking a bottle of wine (“Closest to Faun-made you
can find in England,” he said) and pouring some for everyone. Jill shooed Mildred off her lap and washed
the doggy smell from her hands, and then everyone sat down around the table.
“Why don’t you tell us about Narnia?” Susan said after everyone had had tasted their soup. “Except for
Peter, we’ve only heard it third-hand. Eustace never has the time to tell anything properly.”
“Uh, sure,” Jill said, shooting Eustace an anxious glance. He just grinned back at her and took a bite of
his bread. “Well, it started at school…”
The Pevensies, and Miss Plummer and the Professor, made a very good audience. They gasped in all
the right places and asked the sorts of questions you always want to be asked. “I think we should toast
Caspian,” Lucy said when she finally finished.
“Yes,” Peter said. “I should think that would be appropriate. You do it, Lu, you knew him best.”
Lucy hesitated a moment, licked her lips, and then raised her glass. “To Caspian,” she said. “Who made it
to Aslan’s Country after all.”
“To Caspian,” they all echoed.
“It’s hard to believe his son is on the throne,” Susan said after a moment, looking as if she rather wanted
to cry.
“No kidding,” Edmund said. “I thought for sure humans and stars would be like horses and donkeys.
You’d get a mule but it’d be sterile.”
“Thank you, Edmund,” Susan said. “Miss Plummer, can I take your plate in?”
“Let the boys clear the table,” Miss Plummer told her. “It’s good for them. Builds moral fiber and an
appreciation for the work women do. You three take Mildred outside and let her run around before it
gets dark.”
“Sure,” Lucy said, jumping to her feet and draining her glass. “I love dogs. Come on, Mils!” Susan and Jill
followed her outside (Jill made sure not to let the door slam). For a few minutes they watched Mildred
chase squirrels, and then Lucy caught her collar and made her sit down on the grass. “You want to do it,
then, Su?”
“Do what?” Jill asked.
“We thought we should teach you a few things,” Susan said. “Aslan told all of us when it was our last
time, so it stands to reason that you’re going to go back sometime. You can ride, you said, and that’s
important, and Eustace is passable with a sword, but one of you should know how to shoot and you
should be able to use a dagger.”
“Tracking, too,” Lucy put in. “That’s important. And Narnian stars, if you can remember well enough to
help all of us put a map together. You’ll remember the things you know here when you’re back there,
but it’s no good relying on the things you learned there. You forget them here soon enough and they
don’t always come back.” She rubbed at Mildred’s ears and added, “We want you to be prepared.”
Susan pulled two bows from the porch and handed one to Jill. “Here,” she said. “Like this. Narnian bows
aren’t like English bows, you know, Lu and I made these specially. Plant your feet and turn your body.
You pull the string like this, past your ear.”
Jill tried once, and then again, and Susan corrected her stance. “Does it always take this much effort?”
Jill asked, shaking her arm out. “These are heavy and the string doesn’t want to be pulled.”
“You get used to it,” Lucy said merrily from the grass. “I’ve got her collar, Su. Go on and try an arrow.”
Susan pulled an arrow from the quiver on her back and showed it to Jill: head, shaft, fletching,
nock. “Remember that it’s best to get them back after you’ve shot them, if you can. An empty quiver is
useless. Lu can teach you how to repair them.” She hesitated, and then said, “In Narnia, it’s always best
to befriend the dryads before you ask for wood. They can make the arrows fly a little straighter if they
know that’s what you need.”
“And they curse wood taken without leave,” Lucy added. “So be polite.”
“Hold it like this,” Susan said, and Jill mimicked the positions of her fingers. “And then pull back, like so,
and release, like that.” The arrow flew through the air and landed in the knot of an oak. Lucy clapped
and Mildred barked, and Jill whistled softly. “Now you try,” Susan said.
Jill’s first arrow went straight for a foot, and then dipped and stuck in the ground. Susan tsked and
corrected her posture and her grip. The second went farther, but veered off to the left. This time Lucy
called out the correction from her place on the grass.
The third and fourth arrows were better, but it took a good dozen before Jill was able to get an arrow
near the tree they were using as a target.
“Not bad,” Susan said finally. “I’ve certainly seen worse.” You might have thought Susan’s faint praise
would feel damning, but Jill had realized as soon as she saw Susan shoot that she was learning from a
real archer, and Susan’s “Not bad” meant as much as a ribbon would have meant at Experiment House.
Lucy said, “I’m going to let Mildred loose while we get the arrows. That was jolly good, Jill. My first time I
couldn’t even hold the bow steady.”
“Because you were using a centaur’s bow,” Susan said. “Not that it stopped you from doing battle with a
pack of wolves, as I recall.”
“And winning,” Lucy said happily. Jill looked at her with wide eyes. She couldn’t imagine fighting a whole
pack of wolves, especially since she was sure Lucy had been just a little girl at the time. She picked an
arrow out of the underbrush with a sigh.
“We’re a little jealous of you, to be honest,” Susan said after a moment, her fingers moving over the
fletching of an arrow. “We do miss it.”
“I miss the air the most,” Lucy said. “It was so clear there.”
“Everything was clearer there,” Susan sighed.
“Of course it hit Susan the hardest,” Lucy said, her tone confidential. “She’s sensitive, you see.
That’s what Mother always says.”
For a moment Jill thought Susan would take offense (and with a bow at her hip!), but Susan threw back
her head and laughed. “Oh, you!” she said. “That’s because Mother thinks no one who gets mud all over
her skirts in the middle of a drought can be sensitive. How many arrows do you have, then? I’ve got
eight and there should be seven more.”
“I have three,” Lucy said.
“I have four,” Jill said. “I wish you two could come with us next time.”
“We do too,” Lucy said. “But that part of our life is over.”
“We have to live here now,” Susan agreed. “Or be like Aunt Polly and find other worlds to visit. But you
still have business in Narnia, and we’re going to see to it that you have all the skills you need.”
Jill’s next arrow flew as straight as Susan’s.
A fic for Lesa
Something Borrowed
a/n: Hope you enjoy this as well as we enjoyed writing!! :D
A February chill hung heavily in the air as Susan, Peter, Lucy, and Edmund Pevensie made their way down the walk towards St. Agnes’ Chapel. Susan huddled miserably in her second-hand coat, an old one of Peter’s that she had tried her best to re-make into something halfway fashionable. Even with its useless fashion qualities, the itchy wool coat was warm, and Susan dug deeper into it, trying to protect a halfway wilted snowdrop pinned to her lapel. Her mother had been so eager when she jabbed the poor thing with an old corsage pin, Susan hadn’t had the heart to tell her mother that it was unlikely to last the way there.
“Remind me again why we’re going to this?” Edmund grumbled from his place beside Lucy, scuffing through the brown slush that had accumulated on the sidewalk.
Susan sighed. “Martha’s our cousin, Ed, and she asked me to be a bridesmaid…”
“Well that’s jolly for you, Susan. I just don’t see why it is Lu and I should go…” he grumbled. Lucy just chattered, the cold getting the better of her.
Peter just strode stoically along, his hands plunged deep into the pockets of his too-large overcoat.
“Peter, couldn’t you say something?” Susan hissed, rubbing her hands together to keep them from getting too cold.
Her older brother just sighed a little bit, kicking a rock. “It’s for family,” he said shortly. The tone in his voice made it clear that he was in no mood to broach the subject further: all of his siblings knew him too well to say much more of anything to him, so they simply hurried along in their shabby best towards the small chapel.
As they neared the site, the signs of the recent war could not be ignored. Although peace had been declared almost six months past, things were far from normal. Rations were still very much in effect, and petrol was so tightly rationed that some desperate folks in London had brought out their grandparents’ handsome cabs to try and make an extra shilling so they could purchase black-market rations for petrol to fill their taxi cab. Lucy had long since given up her hopes for finding any sort of traditional sweets, and Edmund was despairing over the lack of pork at the market. Peter had a sort of hard glint in his eye, resentment at being kept from enlisting after the sudden disappearance of their father at war. Susan sighed: the war had not been easy on any of them.
When they reached the doors of the chapel, Peter ushered them in quickly, taking both Susan and Lucy’s coats to hang in the coatroom, with Edmund following him quietly. Leaving Lucy to mutter about the tragedy of all the missing paintings inside the chapel (and probably, Lucy grumbled, in some rich widow’s cellar), Susan made her way to the back of the church, to the pastor’s office. Martha and her mother, Mary, had taken over the small back room in fits of girlish pleasure for the wedding.
Susan was all smiles, albeit empty ones, when she entered the room. Martha looked well, if a bit disappointed, in her mother’s old gown. Reuse, re-wear, after all. There had been no time (or money) for Martha to do much of any shopping for her wedding, so she settled for her mother’s gown in its old-fashioned style with a drop waist and high neck. Aunt Mary looked pleased at the effect of her only daughter wearing her old dress, and anxiously fussed with the collar, to Martha’s obvious consternation.
Susan let a little sigh escape her lips as she sat on an old kneeler in the corner of the room. In Narnia, there was hardly this much fuss about a wedding. No bride fussing about a white dress and something old, something new, much less anything blue. Why, many of the brides of Narnia were blue! Susan had to stifle a giggle at that thought. Her thoughts drifted as she went through the motions of a bridesmaid: holding the dress, gathering simple bouquets of evergreen and snowdrops, the only flower to be found in the midst of this harsh winter, finding the groom and his attendants. Aunt Mary did make a fuss over Susan’s blue dress, which she had, with some Narnian ingenuity, managed to make into something close to the fashions published in high London society, and even exclaimed at Susan’s new stockings, which had cost Susan a small fortune at the black market. Shoes old and scuffed were hidden, just like the other injustices of war, and Martha eagerly patted her hair in anticipation.
As Susan waited at the inner doors of the chapel, listening to a wheezy organ played by an equally decrepit church widow, she could not help but yearn for the beauty of a Narnian joining ceremony. They had been common enough in the Golden Age. All the citizens of Narnia wished to celebrate, and there was an overwhelming amount of petitions and celebrations within the first year of the siblings’ rule. The joining ceremonies blurred together, but certain ones, like Tumnus’, stood out fresh as the day before her in Susan’s mind.
Tumnus’ had not been the first, but it was what Lucy always called the first real joining ceremony. The trade routes had been reopened, and as Tumnus and Antheia were both part of the court, the ambassadors from the surrounding countries had made it a point to come.
“
Perhaps they’re only here for the wine,” Antheia said hopefully. “I do want to think of other things at my wedding than making nice with the ]Calormene ambassador.”
“That’s where I come in, my lady!” Bacchus cried with his usual merriment. “Believe me, in the morning the only name anyone will remember will be mine. Ho!” he said, twirling the bride around so swiftly that moss flew out of her hair and fell onto Susan’s dress. “Congratulations, my dear,” he added to Antheia, and tucked a spring of Helenum into her hair. The white stood out against the night and Antheia smiled and kissed him softly. It had been a tradition in Narnia for many years, carried over from the first Queen Helen, and Susan was glad to see that the plant hadn’t entirely died out under the witch.
“And don’t think you can escape me either, Your Majesty,” Bacchus added, presenting her with a bouquet of grape blossoms. “I have a special new brew just for you.”
“I’m sure you do, Bacchus,” Susan said with a smile. “I shall be honored to try some.” It never did to insult Bacchus; the lesser divinities in Narnia were no safer than Aslan. But for all that, she was always glad of his company, and she knew that he and Antheia had been friends since she was a sapling (and, Susan had always suspected, lovers before the Witch).
The first stars twinkled over the horizon as the sun set, and a hush fell over the crowd; everyone knew that the ceremony would start as soon as the sun sank below the horizon completely. Then Antheia, more cherry tree than woman, drifted toward the center of the lawn and Tumnus came dancing toward her, carrying a lit torch. Tumnus was wearing the scarf Lucy had knit for him when she gave him permission to wed, and the greens and red-browns matched his lover’s leaves and bark. Antheia snapped off several branchy strands of her hair and threw them on top of the tiny pile of wood, and then Tumnus lit the fire. “The solstice!” he cried.
“The solstice!” Antheia echoed, suddenly a woman again, and the crowd cheered with her. Susan inhaled the smell of wood smoke and felt the heat flicker toward her.
“I think they’re ready,” Lucy whispered on her left, and she saw with a smile that Antheia and Tumnus were holding hands in front of the fire.
“Yes, let’s do it,” she said, and they crossed the lawn. Peter and Edmund were already next to Antheia, each holding an arm, and Lucy and
Susan took Tumnus’. “She looks radiant,” Susan whispered to Tumnus.
“I’m so glad for you,” Lucy added.
Other joining ceremonies stood out clearly in Susan’s mind, afterward, but this one always replayed like a dream. She held Tumnus’ left arm, and Lucy his right, and he clasped Antheia’s hands over the tiny fire. Tumnus and Antheia said their vows, promising to love and cherish and protect, to respect each other’s silences and spaces, not to shut each other out, not to lie, and to enjoy the merry times and the sad times in good step.
Then Peter stepped forward and said, in a clear voice that reached over the entire field, “May the lion shower you with his love and kindness, and bless your union with both the bitter and the sweet.”
“May the lion give you the courage to go on when hope seems lost, and give you both strength of heart and spirit in each other’s love,” Lucy said.
“May the lion guard your steps and guide your lives in his way, giving you wisdom and guidance through all your lives,” Edmund said.
“And may the lion give you the strength to forgive and to put aside your anger for the love of your mate, emptying your hearts of anger and filling them with love and joy in each other,” Susan finished. “My dear friends, congratulations!”
At this, the whole crowd let out a cheer and surged forward to meet the new couple. Each person carried a piece of dry wood to lay on the fire, so by the time all of Tumnus and Antheia’s families, and their friends, and their friends had come forward the fire was a raging bonfire.
“With me!” Bacchus cried, throwing grape vines to the winds. The flowers Susan had tucked into her belt began to grow into vines and wrap around her and Lucy, and wine poured into cups all over the lawn. Antheia and Tumnus kissed, and Tumnus’s youngest cousin started a line of people and animals surging to jump over the fire.
Of course, there would be no fires here, no great party. The cake was a single tier, made with what was certainly a year’s rations of sugar (and some of Lieutenant Barlow’s besides). Susan shifted anxiously from foot to foot, looking out the frosty window out to a garden nearly choked out by weeds. Outside, she could see the faintest glimmer of a white spray. It was not snow, to be certain: the snow had turned to muddy slush and left the glistening white to frost it over with its next snowfall. Without heed to her aunt’s exclamations, Susan anxiously hurried outside, the cold taking her breath away, and plucked the smallest bunch of Queen Anne’s Lace from the garden. It reminded her so of Helenum, she began to wonder if the first Queen hadn’t borne this in mind when she placed it in the hair of the first bride of Narnia.
“Susan, whatever are you doing?!” cried Aunt Mary, wringing her hands. “Oh, your lovely dress is all wet at the bottom…”
“Never mind it, Aunt Mary,” Susan said somewhat impatiently. “It’ll dry out during the ceremony,” she added, though she had her doubts.
“Martha, wait,” she said, beckoning her cousin over from her spot near the window.
Martha raised an eyebrow and with a rather agitated flick of her wrist tried to wrestle the cumbersome gown out of the way. “What, Susan? I don’t suppose you have anything new for me to wear…” she said rather dourly.
“These,” Susan said, proffering the blossoms. “Here, turn around,” she said, and lifting up the gauzy veil, Susan carefully tucked the flowers into her cousin’s wheat blonde hair.
“Ah, a gift from nature, how lovely!” sighed one of the other bridesmaids. “Why, you do come up with the nicest notions sometimes, Susan.”
Susan just smiled, giving her cousin a gentle squeeze. “You’ll be wonderful,” she said gently. With a deep breath, she took a small carving of a lion that Edmund had whittled for her upon their first return from Narnia, and carefully tucked it into her cousin’s bouquet. “For strength,” she whispered with a smile, leaving her cousin speechless as Susan took her place in the line of sauntering bridesmaids.
One by one they trotted out, up the aisle in a procession not of splendor, but of bravery, representing the woman who would become the wife of Lt. Aaron Barlow. When Martha came out of the doors, she looked radiant. Even overly trussed up as she was, there was a different light in her eyes, something almost other-worldly there. Susan knew that the lion was with her.
From the corner of her eye, Susan could see her brother begin to whisper under his breath, followed by Lucy, and then Edmund as they watched their cousin and her Lieutenant make their formal vows to family, friends, and God of their commitment to each other.
Closing her eyes, Susan could almost smell Bacchus’ vintage and the fresh summer air of Narnia. “And may the lion give you the strength to forgive and to put aside your anger for the love of your mate, emptying your hearts of anger and filling them with love and joy in each other,” she whispered silently as the priest gave his blessing.
The organ blew raucously as the ceremony ended, blaring into a din, but to Susan, the wheezy organ sounded like the gentle purr of a lion, calling her name.
“Something borrowed, indeed.”
In celebration of the new year, I give you the last three fics of this Secret Santa. Guys, this has been a blast. I know I probably sound like a broken record, but you guys are really the best. Big thank yous to all of the staff, all of my NFFR buds who I've complained to on Skype (although I swear ya'll are nothing to complain about!), and all of our participants. You've made this an absolutely wonderful holiday season for Meto and I!
A fic for Qween of the Damned
It was 1933. Edmund and Lucy were in the playroom.
Edmund was bored. He sat on the floor, pushing the little wooden train he’d gotten for his third birthday the day prior backwards and forwards. Looking up, he could see his little sister sitting happily in her high chair, contently sucking on her pacifier. Edmund wanted that pacifier. He wanted to suck his thumb, too, but that was boring. He was bored with being bored.
Lucy was old enough that she could tell something was amiss when Edmund started climbing his own highchair. She knew Edmund, and she knew that when Edmund had that look on his face, someone was going to end up unhappy.
Edmund reached the top with ease – he’d been climbing things since before he could remember: Edmund had climbed a tree in the backyard once, and had hidden in it for an hour before he was found. He sat there, trying to act nonchalant, looking at Lucy out of the corner of his eyes. Slowly and carefully, one small chubby arm began to move towards the coveted pacifier. Lucy, with the ease of experience, whipped it out of her mouth and sat on it.
Edmund folded his arms and started sulking. Lucy slowly put the pacifier back in her mouth warily, eyes fixed on her older brother. Edmund did nothing, and slowly Lucy relaxed. Then, quick as a flash, Edmund reached over and snatched the pacifier. Jumping out of the highchair, Edmund gleefully toddled away. Lucy, who was used to this, screwed her face up and stuck her thumb in her mouth. (She thought thumbs tasted better anyway. She hid the pacifier from Edmund out of principle)
With the pacifier now clenched firmly between his teeth, Edmund was moving down the hallway as fast as his little legs could carry him. Peter stepped out of his bedroom just in time to bump into Edmund as he toddled past.
CRASH.
The brothers crashed to the floor with a bang. Edmund had collided with a lovely soft part of Peter’s stomach. Peter’s stomach had collided with Edmund’s head. Edmund giggled, and bounced back up on his feet before continuing running down the hall. Peter, left in his little brother’s wake, sat there dazedly until Nurse Susan found him (Susan had tied a white handkerchief to her head and drawn a cross on it with red lipstick) and nursed him back to health.
Edmund stopped when he reached the living room; Mr. Pevensie was standing in the middle of it. Using the rest of his momentum, he jumped into his father’s arms. Mr Pevensie swung him round a couple of times and then Edmund clambered onto his shoulders, laughing delightedly.
When Peter and Susan came hurrying in to see their father, Edmund threw the mostly forgotten
pacifier at them. His aim wasn't very good, and it fell a few feet short. He didn't mind mind.
(When Edmund is older, and a king, he will throw other things at Peter, including a sword in fits of
temper. He always misses, too. His aim is never any good.)
A fic for EWCOM
Note: This was a little more Jill-centric than I think you wanted (and certainly more than I expected), but
I hope you like it anyhow! Happy holidays, and thank you for all the lovely reviews you’ve left. :)
A Meeting of the Daughters of Eve
"Chin up, Jill," Eustace said cheerfully as the train pulled out of the station at Mt. Pleasant.
"You put your chin up," Jill retorted, which even she realized was a rather silly thing to say. But Eustace,
who might have said something cruel only a few months ago, only coughed a little and said that there
was sure to be a nice dinner when they got to Miss Plummer's, and did she want a peppermint? It was
all right for him, Jill thought savagely, they were all his cousins and they had had to like
him even when he was the worst sort of errand-boy for Them. But none of them had any reason to like
Jill, even if she had gone to Narnia and had a grand adventure and saved Prince Rilian, because she had
only managed to get Aslan's words twisted in her mind and made it much harder than it had to be for all
four of them. And it was their country she had nearly ruined.
Jill accepted the peppermint with a muffled thanks and thought to herself that the Pevensies couldn't
really be so bad as she thought. She had even met two of them: Peter had come to Cambridge
and taken her and Eustace out to tea. The tea had been very nice and Peter, although old enough and
handsome enough to be quite intimidating, had asked very pointed and interesting questions about
Narnia and then (after the story had come out) about Experiment House, and given them his address at
University and said they should feel free to write him (Jill hadn't). And she had met Susan very briefly
(although perhaps "met" was too strong a word: she and Eustace had been studying trig, which was
enough to infuriate them both, when a girl several years older than Jill had dashed into the study,
dropped a box, sprinted up the stairs, come back down with a different blouse and a new set of shoes,
picked up the box again, scrawled something on it, thrust it at Eustace, and said, "Eustace, that's for
your mum, it's lovely to see you, I wish I could stay and chat, your answer on number three's wrong,
darling," and dashed back out the door. "That's Susan," Eustace had said mournfully. "She's beautiful!"
Jill had cried. And that was the end of it). But she had never met Lucy or Edmund, or Professor Kirke or
Miss Plummer. And she had heard so much about all of them, because Puddleglum, very grudgingly, had
told her stories of the two humans who came into Narnia at the very start, and Prince Rilian had told her
wonderful stories about King Edmund and Queen Lucy when they sailed with his father to the end of
the world. If we are to be perfectly honest, Jill was feeling quite anxious. If you have ever gone to meet
a number of strangers, all of whom are people you would very much like to impress but know you have
no hope of doing so, then you will know how she felt. For Jill faced meeting people who had seen the
beginnings of Narnia, and the wave at its borders, and its Golden Age, and she was feeling rather like
nothing she had done with Puddleglum could measure up to that. It was all right for Eustace; he was
family, and he had gone to the end of the world besides.
Miss Plummer lived in a small house in the middle of the country, about a mile from the little station
where the train dropped them off. Eustace, who had been there before, led the way, and they took
turns carrying the loaf of bread for Miss Plummer. "What if they don't like me?" Jill asked finally, when
they were coming into sight of her cottage. "What if they think I'm useless?"
"Prince Rilian didn't think you were useless," Eustace said. "And neither did Aslan and neither do I.
They'll think you're excellent. I've told them all about--you know--what we did," he said, and his ears got
rather red.
"Oh," said Jill, and then, "Well."
Luckily, they were spared from further conversation by the barking of a large Newfoundland puppy,
who came bounding out from behind the cottage and tried to get at the loaf. Eustace held it above his
head, saying "Stop it!" and "I say!" (Eustace was not very good with dogs), while Jill distracted it with her
sweater and finally scooped it into her arms.
"Oh, I see you found Mildred," said a woman's voice from the cottage door. Jill knew at once that she
must be Miss Plummer. She was tall and stood up very straight, and her grey hair was streaked with
white. "Eustace, don't jump like that, you'll only excite her. And you must be Jill, of course. Do come in."
"Hello, Miss Plummer," said Jill politely, while Eustace thrust the loaf of bread at her and ducked his
head.
“Digory will be late,” Miss Plummer said. “He always is. The others are coming down with him. Go set
the table, Eustace, and let Jill calm Mildred down. You have to be firm with her,” she added to Jill. “She’ll
chew your hair off if you let her.”
Miss Plummer’s house was too small for a proper dining room, but the kitchen table was large enough
for eight. Jill sat in the corner with Mildred on her lap and watched as Eustace laid the silver and the
napkins out and Miss Plummer put the kettle on and fixed a pot of tea. “That’s a very pretty teapot,” she
said.
“Thank you,” said Miss Plummer. “I won it in checkers with Death when I was fifteen. It never needs a
tea cozy.”
Jill snuck a look at Eustace, wondering if she was being made fun of. But Eustace only shrugged, and it
was a very pretty teapot. “Did you play checkers with Death frequently?” she asked instead.
“No,” Miss Plummer answered. “Only the once. But I played with Miss Ketterley a great deal. This was
back before I retired, of course.”
Jill desperately wanted to ask just what she had retired from, but decided it wouldn’t be polite.
Miss Plummer handed her a cup of tea (Eustace passed the milk and sugar), and took a long sip from
her own cup. “Heavenly,” she said. “You can wait to talk about Narnia until the others get here. What I
chiefly want to know about is this school of yours, you two. It sounds beastly.”
+
Eustace and Jill had finished nearly explaining all the changes to Experiment House over the past year
when the Professor’s car drove up the drive and came to a rather unsteady halt outside the kitchen
window. Miss Plummer sniffed and said, “Keep that dog down, Jill, and I’ll go get the door.”
I don’t know (and Jill didn’t either) if she said this to make Jill feel more comfortable, but it was certainly
easier for Jill to sit in the kitchen while everyone else exchanged hellos by the door and took off their
coats.
“I do think one of these days you might manage to arrive on time,” Miss Plummer was saying as she
ushered the Professor and the Pevensies in through the door. “No, don’t get up, Jill, otherwise Mildred
will be up too. Digory, this is Jill, of course, don’t tell me you’ve forgotten. And Jill, you know Peter and
Susan, of course, and the two little ones—”
“I’ve grown six inches and I’m still a king, Aunt Polly!”
“The two little ones are Edmund and Lucy, of course. Lu, would you slice the bread? And Susan, give the
pot a stir, would you?” In a minute, the girls were ladling soup into bowls and handing them to Eustace
and Edmund to put on the table, and Peter was uncorking a bottle of wine (“Closest to Faun-made you
can find in England,” he said) and pouring some for everyone. Jill shooed Mildred off her lap and washed
the doggy smell from her hands, and then everyone sat down around the table.
“Why don’t you tell us about Narnia?” Susan said after everyone had had tasted their soup. “Except for
Peter, we’ve only heard it third-hand. Eustace never has the time to tell anything properly.”
“Uh, sure,” Jill said, shooting Eustace an anxious glance. He just grinned back at her and took a bite of
his bread. “Well, it started at school…”
The Pevensies, and Miss Plummer and the Professor, made a very good audience. They gasped in all
the right places and asked the sorts of questions you always want to be asked. “I think we should toast
Caspian,” Lucy said when she finally finished.
“Yes,” Peter said. “I should think that would be appropriate. You do it, Lu, you knew him best.”
Lucy hesitated a moment, licked her lips, and then raised her glass. “To Caspian,” she said. “Who made it
to Aslan’s Country after all.”
“To Caspian,” they all echoed.
“It’s hard to believe his son is on the throne,” Susan said after a moment, looking as if she rather wanted
to cry.
“No kidding,” Edmund said. “I thought for sure humans and stars would be like horses and donkeys.
You’d get a mule but it’d be sterile.”
“Thank you, Edmund,” Susan said. “Miss Plummer, can I take your plate in?”
“Let the boys clear the table,” Miss Plummer told her. “It’s good for them. Builds moral fiber and an
appreciation for the work women do. You three take Mildred outside and let her run around before it
gets dark.”
“Sure,” Lucy said, jumping to her feet and draining her glass. “I love dogs. Come on, Mils!” Susan and Jill
followed her outside (Jill made sure not to let the door slam). For a few minutes they watched Mildred
chase squirrels, and then Lucy caught her collar and made her sit down on the grass. “You want to do it,
then, Su?”
“Do what?” Jill asked.
“We thought we should teach you a few things,” Susan said. “Aslan told all of us when it was our last
time, so it stands to reason that you’re going to go back sometime. You can ride, you said, and that’s
important, and Eustace is passable with a sword, but one of you should know how to shoot and you
should be able to use a dagger.”
“Tracking, too,” Lucy put in. “That’s important. And Narnian stars, if you can remember well enough to
help all of us put a map together. You’ll remember the things you know here when you’re back there,
but it’s no good relying on the things you learned there. You forget them here soon enough and they
don’t always come back.” She rubbed at Mildred’s ears and added, “We want you to be prepared.”
Susan pulled two bows from the porch and handed one to Jill. “Here,” she said. “Like this. Narnian bows
aren’t like English bows, you know, Lu and I made these specially. Plant your feet and turn your body.
You pull the string like this, past your ear.”
Jill tried once, and then again, and Susan corrected her stance. “Does it always take this much effort?”
Jill asked, shaking her arm out. “These are heavy and the string doesn’t want to be pulled.”
“You get used to it,” Lucy said merrily from the grass. “I’ve got her collar, Su. Go on and try an arrow.”
Susan pulled an arrow from the quiver on her back and showed it to Jill: head, shaft, fletching,
nock. “Remember that it’s best to get them back after you’ve shot them, if you can. An empty quiver is
useless. Lu can teach you how to repair them.” She hesitated, and then said, “In Narnia, it’s always best
to befriend the dryads before you ask for wood. They can make the arrows fly a little straighter if they
know that’s what you need.”
“And they curse wood taken without leave,” Lucy added. “So be polite.”
“Hold it like this,” Susan said, and Jill mimicked the positions of her fingers. “And then pull back, like so,
and release, like that.” The arrow flew through the air and landed in the knot of an oak. Lucy clapped
and Mildred barked, and Jill whistled softly. “Now you try,” Susan said.
Jill’s first arrow went straight for a foot, and then dipped and stuck in the ground. Susan tsked and
corrected her posture and her grip. The second went farther, but veered off to the left. This time Lucy
called out the correction from her place on the grass.
The third and fourth arrows were better, but it took a good dozen before Jill was able to get an arrow
near the tree they were using as a target.
“Not bad,” Susan said finally. “I’ve certainly seen worse.” You might have thought Susan’s faint praise
would feel damning, but Jill had realized as soon as she saw Susan shoot that she was learning from a
real archer, and Susan’s “Not bad” meant as much as a ribbon would have meant at Experiment House.
Lucy said, “I’m going to let Mildred loose while we get the arrows. That was jolly good, Jill. My first time I
couldn’t even hold the bow steady.”
“Because you were using a centaur’s bow,” Susan said. “Not that it stopped you from doing battle with a
pack of wolves, as I recall.”
“And winning,” Lucy said happily. Jill looked at her with wide eyes. She couldn’t imagine fighting a whole
pack of wolves, especially since she was sure Lucy had been just a little girl at the time. She picked an
arrow out of the underbrush with a sigh.
“We’re a little jealous of you, to be honest,” Susan said after a moment, her fingers moving over the
fletching of an arrow. “We do miss it.”
“I miss the air the most,” Lucy said. “It was so clear there.”
“Everything was clearer there,” Susan sighed.
“Of course it hit Susan the hardest,” Lucy said, her tone confidential. “She’s sensitive, you see.
That’s what Mother always says.”
For a moment Jill thought Susan would take offense (and with a bow at her hip!), but Susan threw back
her head and laughed. “Oh, you!” she said. “That’s because Mother thinks no one who gets mud all over
her skirts in the middle of a drought can be sensitive. How many arrows do you have, then? I’ve got
eight and there should be seven more.”
“I have three,” Lucy said.
“I have four,” Jill said. “I wish you two could come with us next time.”
“We do too,” Lucy said. “But that part of our life is over.”
“We have to live here now,” Susan agreed. “Or be like Aunt Polly and find other worlds to visit. But you
still have business in Narnia, and we’re going to see to it that you have all the skills you need.”
Jill’s next arrow flew as straight as Susan’s.
A fic for Lesa
Something Borrowed
a/n: Hope you enjoy this as well as we enjoyed writing!! :D
A February chill hung heavily in the air as Susan, Peter, Lucy, and Edmund Pevensie made their way down the walk towards St. Agnes’ Chapel. Susan huddled miserably in her second-hand coat, an old one of Peter’s that she had tried her best to re-make into something halfway fashionable. Even with its useless fashion qualities, the itchy wool coat was warm, and Susan dug deeper into it, trying to protect a halfway wilted snowdrop pinned to her lapel. Her mother had been so eager when she jabbed the poor thing with an old corsage pin, Susan hadn’t had the heart to tell her mother that it was unlikely to last the way there.
“Remind me again why we’re going to this?” Edmund grumbled from his place beside Lucy, scuffing through the brown slush that had accumulated on the sidewalk.
Susan sighed. “Martha’s our cousin, Ed, and she asked me to be a bridesmaid…”
“Well that’s jolly for you, Susan. I just don’t see why it is Lu and I should go…” he grumbled. Lucy just chattered, the cold getting the better of her.
Peter just strode stoically along, his hands plunged deep into the pockets of his too-large overcoat.
“Peter, couldn’t you say something?” Susan hissed, rubbing her hands together to keep them from getting too cold.
Her older brother just sighed a little bit, kicking a rock. “It’s for family,” he said shortly. The tone in his voice made it clear that he was in no mood to broach the subject further: all of his siblings knew him too well to say much more of anything to him, so they simply hurried along in their shabby best towards the small chapel.
As they neared the site, the signs of the recent war could not be ignored. Although peace had been declared almost six months past, things were far from normal. Rations were still very much in effect, and petrol was so tightly rationed that some desperate folks in London had brought out their grandparents’ handsome cabs to try and make an extra shilling so they could purchase black-market rations for petrol to fill their taxi cab. Lucy had long since given up her hopes for finding any sort of traditional sweets, and Edmund was despairing over the lack of pork at the market. Peter had a sort of hard glint in his eye, resentment at being kept from enlisting after the sudden disappearance of their father at war. Susan sighed: the war had not been easy on any of them.
When they reached the doors of the chapel, Peter ushered them in quickly, taking both Susan and Lucy’s coats to hang in the coatroom, with Edmund following him quietly. Leaving Lucy to mutter about the tragedy of all the missing paintings inside the chapel (and probably, Lucy grumbled, in some rich widow’s cellar), Susan made her way to the back of the church, to the pastor’s office. Martha and her mother, Mary, had taken over the small back room in fits of girlish pleasure for the wedding.
Susan was all smiles, albeit empty ones, when she entered the room. Martha looked well, if a bit disappointed, in her mother’s old gown. Reuse, re-wear, after all. There had been no time (or money) for Martha to do much of any shopping for her wedding, so she settled for her mother’s gown in its old-fashioned style with a drop waist and high neck. Aunt Mary looked pleased at the effect of her only daughter wearing her old dress, and anxiously fussed with the collar, to Martha’s obvious consternation.
Susan let a little sigh escape her lips as she sat on an old kneeler in the corner of the room. In Narnia, there was hardly this much fuss about a wedding. No bride fussing about a white dress and something old, something new, much less anything blue. Why, many of the brides of Narnia were blue! Susan had to stifle a giggle at that thought. Her thoughts drifted as she went through the motions of a bridesmaid: holding the dress, gathering simple bouquets of evergreen and snowdrops, the only flower to be found in the midst of this harsh winter, finding the groom and his attendants. Aunt Mary did make a fuss over Susan’s blue dress, which she had, with some Narnian ingenuity, managed to make into something close to the fashions published in high London society, and even exclaimed at Susan’s new stockings, which had cost Susan a small fortune at the black market. Shoes old and scuffed were hidden, just like the other injustices of war, and Martha eagerly patted her hair in anticipation.
As Susan waited at the inner doors of the chapel, listening to a wheezy organ played by an equally decrepit church widow, she could not help but yearn for the beauty of a Narnian joining ceremony. They had been common enough in the Golden Age. All the citizens of Narnia wished to celebrate, and there was an overwhelming amount of petitions and celebrations within the first year of the siblings’ rule. The joining ceremonies blurred together, but certain ones, like Tumnus’, stood out fresh as the day before her in Susan’s mind.
Tumnus’ had not been the first, but it was what Lucy always called the first real joining ceremony. The trade routes had been reopened, and as Tumnus and Antheia were both part of the court, the ambassadors from the surrounding countries had made it a point to come.
“
Perhaps they’re only here for the wine,” Antheia said hopefully. “I do want to think of other things at my wedding than making nice with the ]Calormene ambassador.”
“That’s where I come in, my lady!” Bacchus cried with his usual merriment. “Believe me, in the morning the only name anyone will remember will be mine. Ho!” he said, twirling the bride around so swiftly that moss flew out of her hair and fell onto Susan’s dress. “Congratulations, my dear,” he added to Antheia, and tucked a spring of Helenum into her hair. The white stood out against the night and Antheia smiled and kissed him softly. It had been a tradition in Narnia for many years, carried over from the first Queen Helen, and Susan was glad to see that the plant hadn’t entirely died out under the witch.
“And don’t think you can escape me either, Your Majesty,” Bacchus added, presenting her with a bouquet of grape blossoms. “I have a special new brew just for you.”
“I’m sure you do, Bacchus,” Susan said with a smile. “I shall be honored to try some.” It never did to insult Bacchus; the lesser divinities in Narnia were no safer than Aslan. But for all that, she was always glad of his company, and she knew that he and Antheia had been friends since she was a sapling (and, Susan had always suspected, lovers before the Witch).
The first stars twinkled over the horizon as the sun set, and a hush fell over the crowd; everyone knew that the ceremony would start as soon as the sun sank below the horizon completely. Then Antheia, more cherry tree than woman, drifted toward the center of the lawn and Tumnus came dancing toward her, carrying a lit torch. Tumnus was wearing the scarf Lucy had knit for him when she gave him permission to wed, and the greens and red-browns matched his lover’s leaves and bark. Antheia snapped off several branchy strands of her hair and threw them on top of the tiny pile of wood, and then Tumnus lit the fire. “The solstice!” he cried.
“The solstice!” Antheia echoed, suddenly a woman again, and the crowd cheered with her. Susan inhaled the smell of wood smoke and felt the heat flicker toward her.
“I think they’re ready,” Lucy whispered on her left, and she saw with a smile that Antheia and Tumnus were holding hands in front of the fire.
“Yes, let’s do it,” she said, and they crossed the lawn. Peter and Edmund were already next to Antheia, each holding an arm, and Lucy and
Susan took Tumnus’. “She looks radiant,” Susan whispered to Tumnus.
“I’m so glad for you,” Lucy added.
Other joining ceremonies stood out clearly in Susan’s mind, afterward, but this one always replayed like a dream. She held Tumnus’ left arm, and Lucy his right, and he clasped Antheia’s hands over the tiny fire. Tumnus and Antheia said their vows, promising to love and cherish and protect, to respect each other’s silences and spaces, not to shut each other out, not to lie, and to enjoy the merry times and the sad times in good step.
Then Peter stepped forward and said, in a clear voice that reached over the entire field, “May the lion shower you with his love and kindness, and bless your union with both the bitter and the sweet.”
“May the lion give you the courage to go on when hope seems lost, and give you both strength of heart and spirit in each other’s love,” Lucy said.
“May the lion guard your steps and guide your lives in his way, giving you wisdom and guidance through all your lives,” Edmund said.
“And may the lion give you the strength to forgive and to put aside your anger for the love of your mate, emptying your hearts of anger and filling them with love and joy in each other,” Susan finished. “My dear friends, congratulations!”
At this, the whole crowd let out a cheer and surged forward to meet the new couple. Each person carried a piece of dry wood to lay on the fire, so by the time all of Tumnus and Antheia’s families, and their friends, and their friends had come forward the fire was a raging bonfire.
“With me!” Bacchus cried, throwing grape vines to the winds. The flowers Susan had tucked into her belt began to grow into vines and wrap around her and Lucy, and wine poured into cups all over the lawn. Antheia and Tumnus kissed, and Tumnus’s youngest cousin started a line of people and animals surging to jump over the fire.
Of course, there would be no fires here, no great party. The cake was a single tier, made with what was certainly a year’s rations of sugar (and some of Lieutenant Barlow’s besides). Susan shifted anxiously from foot to foot, looking out the frosty window out to a garden nearly choked out by weeds. Outside, she could see the faintest glimmer of a white spray. It was not snow, to be certain: the snow had turned to muddy slush and left the glistening white to frost it over with its next snowfall. Without heed to her aunt’s exclamations, Susan anxiously hurried outside, the cold taking her breath away, and plucked the smallest bunch of Queen Anne’s Lace from the garden. It reminded her so of Helenum, she began to wonder if the first Queen hadn’t borne this in mind when she placed it in the hair of the first bride of Narnia.
“Susan, whatever are you doing?!” cried Aunt Mary, wringing her hands. “Oh, your lovely dress is all wet at the bottom…”
“Never mind it, Aunt Mary,” Susan said somewhat impatiently. “It’ll dry out during the ceremony,” she added, though she had her doubts.
“Martha, wait,” she said, beckoning her cousin over from her spot near the window.
Martha raised an eyebrow and with a rather agitated flick of her wrist tried to wrestle the cumbersome gown out of the way. “What, Susan? I don’t suppose you have anything new for me to wear…” she said rather dourly.
“These,” Susan said, proffering the blossoms. “Here, turn around,” she said, and lifting up the gauzy veil, Susan carefully tucked the flowers into her cousin’s wheat blonde hair.
“Ah, a gift from nature, how lovely!” sighed one of the other bridesmaids. “Why, you do come up with the nicest notions sometimes, Susan.”
Susan just smiled, giving her cousin a gentle squeeze. “You’ll be wonderful,” she said gently. With a deep breath, she took a small carving of a lion that Edmund had whittled for her upon their first return from Narnia, and carefully tucked it into her cousin’s bouquet. “For strength,” she whispered with a smile, leaving her cousin speechless as Susan took her place in the line of sauntering bridesmaids.
One by one they trotted out, up the aisle in a procession not of splendor, but of bravery, representing the woman who would become the wife of Lt. Aaron Barlow. When Martha came out of the doors, she looked radiant. Even overly trussed up as she was, there was a different light in her eyes, something almost other-worldly there. Susan knew that the lion was with her.
From the corner of her eye, Susan could see her brother begin to whisper under his breath, followed by Lucy, and then Edmund as they watched their cousin and her Lieutenant make their formal vows to family, friends, and God of their commitment to each other.
Closing her eyes, Susan could almost smell Bacchus’ vintage and the fresh summer air of Narnia. “And may the lion give you the strength to forgive and to put aside your anger for the love of your mate, emptying your hearts of anger and filling them with love and joy in each other,” she whispered silently as the priest gave his blessing.
The organ blew raucously as the ceremony ended, blaring into a din, but to Susan, the wheezy organ sounded like the gentle purr of a lion, calling her name.
“Something borrowed, indeed.”
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Date: 2011-01-02 08:52 pm (UTC)