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( burn it backwards, kill this history )
Jan. 2nd, 2013 08:43 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
thirtycoins[ A gooseberry bush grows outside of Edmund's window. Its vines have crept about the wooden frame, like a great green set of parenthesis heavy with a multitude of gooseberries.
The radio, perched atop the bookshelf in the corner, is playing a jaunty little American jazz tune, and Edmund finds himself whistling along.
(He has never been particularly fond of gooseberries, admittedly. He has had a terrible sweet tooth ever since the sugar ration during the war, and the tartness of the berries only reawakens that hunger.)
Now, it's just past ten o'clock in the morning, and Edmund sits in the wide frame of his window, idly plucking gooseberries and flicking them out into the garden. He's reading an almanac written by the founder of the village in which their tiny cottage sits, and amusing himself by picking out all the ridiculous quasi-scientific notions that even the most learned of village people seem to have cultivated.
He's not thinking about Lucy sitting under a thatched roof on the southern border of Narnia, eating gooseberry pie prepared by a flaxen-haired minor lady under King Lune's dominion. He's not thinking about how he'd stolen half the pie and offended poor Lady Kettleburg with his inability to swallow the damnably tart pie. He's not thinking how Lucy and Peter and even Susan had laughed at him and forced him to reacquaint himself with the etiquette lessons under the grand old lady partridge that had been in charge of such things.
He's not thinking about how Peter's body had shielded him from the worst of the impact, nor how Lucy had looked strewn upon the floor of their compartment, blood staining her lips.
(One year ago, now.)
No, Edmund is simply laughing to himself about how the village elders seem to think that myrrh and frankincense were brought by the Three Kings to the Holy Family to ward off Satan, and how the village townspeople should do the same. ]
—Su!
[ he calls, when his vision has grown so blurry with tears that he cannot read the next words. He wipes an arm carelessly across his face.
He just wants to read her this passage so she can laugh about it, too. That's all. ]
Where in God's name have you gone?
The radio, perched atop the bookshelf in the corner, is playing a jaunty little American jazz tune, and Edmund finds himself whistling along.
(He has never been particularly fond of gooseberries, admittedly. He has had a terrible sweet tooth ever since the sugar ration during the war, and the tartness of the berries only reawakens that hunger.)
Now, it's just past ten o'clock in the morning, and Edmund sits in the wide frame of his window, idly plucking gooseberries and flicking them out into the garden. He's reading an almanac written by the founder of the village in which their tiny cottage sits, and amusing himself by picking out all the ridiculous quasi-scientific notions that even the most learned of village people seem to have cultivated.
He's not thinking about Lucy sitting under a thatched roof on the southern border of Narnia, eating gooseberry pie prepared by a flaxen-haired minor lady under King Lune's dominion. He's not thinking about how he'd stolen half the pie and offended poor Lady Kettleburg with his inability to swallow the damnably tart pie. He's not thinking how Lucy and Peter and even Susan had laughed at him and forced him to reacquaint himself with the etiquette lessons under the grand old lady partridge that had been in charge of such things.
He's not thinking about how Peter's body had shielded him from the worst of the impact, nor how Lucy had looked strewn upon the floor of their compartment, blood staining her lips.
(One year ago, now.)
No, Edmund is simply laughing to himself about how the village elders seem to think that myrrh and frankincense were brought by the Three Kings to the Holy Family to ward off Satan, and how the village townspeople should do the same. ]
—Su!
[ he calls, when his vision has grown so blurry with tears that he cannot read the next words. He wipes an arm carelessly across his face.
He just wants to read her this passage so she can laugh about it, too. That's all. ]
Where in God's name have you gone?
