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"The Light of a Different Sun." Narnia. Glozelle. PG.
I have been meaning to write about Glozelle's new life in the south seas since, like, forever. Movieverse!Glozelle intrigued me, and also I just wanted to write about the tropics. In the end, it's about a little of both, but mostly about the Telmarines. Part two of the unofficial "Lassiter waxes pseudo-ethnographic about Narnia's enemies" series.
I have also completed my Secret Garden fic because finals week is obviously the best time to be fanfictionally productive. I still need to finalize it but, yeah, there will be Colin/Mary/Dickon shenanigans in the near future.
The Light of a Different Sun
Narnia. Glozelle, with blink-and-you-'ll-miss-it Glozelle/Prunaprismia. With kisses to Z, for the bugambilias.
The new world.
ETA:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
sgrio did a lovely erasure of this fic, which you can read here: parádeisos.
Glozelle emerges from Telmar's temperate climes and black mountains into the vivid brilliance of the tropics: a riot of colors, as merciless on his eyes as the sun is on his skin, from the flowers to the fruits to the insects and the birds. The beach, with its soft fine sand like gold dust; he scoops up a handful and lets it fall through his fingers, and the breeze carries it to the sea.
He walks into the water until the waves lap at his waist, and he can still see his feet distorted through the surface as little fishes dart unafraid around his legs. Glozelle ignores the Telmarines on the shore who watch him with amusement, the general of Miraz's armies splashing around in the ocean. Miraz is dead, after all, and they are in a new world.
Glozelle washes himself in the ocean that day, and the salt stings his eyes and it is a fine thing indeed.
+
There is no fall or winter here, and barely a spring: this island is of endless summer, and the Telmarines learn to divide the year by the coming of the rains.
There are soft and pleasant rains, cool to the skin and a welcome respite from the heat of the sun. There are also rains that are merciless and wild, bringing with them winds that fell trees and tumble boats. The first time these cyclones arrive, they lose half their stores and much of their supplies. Most of their homes, knocked down like matchsticks.
“We must not underestimate this new world,” Prunaprismia tells them, the set of her chin proud, her voice strong.
They learn, and they cope, and they move on.
In the first year nine people die, four of them children, from drowning, infected wounds, sickness, snakebite, eating the wrong plants. They bury their dead as an old man who had been a priest in Telmar recites litanies and adorations in a tremulous voice. His beard is as gray as his eyes, and he has a curious manner of raising his head as if straining to hear some distant chorus.
“Until this ceremony, I have not said a prayer since arriving in this new land,” the priest confesses to them, at the first funeral. “It does strange things to one’s faith to look upon a forgotten country’s god and to be under the mercy of its power. To realize that it is a very real power that it holds, and that it is forgotten no longer. We Telmarines are children of the heavens, and they love us as mothers and fathers do. In this way, we belong to the sun and the sky and the wind. We belong to the stars and the moon, those distant entities beyond our reach but whose blessings we are granted. Now we are in another world, given to us by another god.” He hesitates. “And, I do not know how to worship the gods of this new place, but it would only be right to start by honoring their earth, which now holds our dead. Through this burial, we entrust our own to its care. With our brother in this earth, we are bound to this earth.” The old priest lays a sprig of jasmine on the fresh grave, the best they can do in the absence of the traditional gardenia. “Love each other and love this land and its waters, for we know not the hearts of their gods. May our brother’s rest be blessed, for the earth has claimed him. May this earth be blessed, for it has claimed us.”
It is a strange conclusion to a funeral, but his words ring true and the man is old and beset by memories, so they let it pass. (In the coming weeks Glozelle would often find the old priest walking by himself along the shoreline, his eyes on the horizon seeking out what, he doesn’t know.)
And they learn. They cope. After all, death calls in all the worlds, and the passage of time will bring not just weeping for the dead, but also the cries of infants for whom this world will be the only home they know.
+
He appreciates the honest silence of the earth.
When birds open their beaks here, it is only birdsong. The monkeys chitter and grin, but not at any human joke. One time, Glozelle looked around to make sure he was alone, then spoke to a finch, feeling silly as he did so, but apparently you never know. The finch only cheeped back at him, turned its head to the side to regard him with one beady eye and cheeped again. And Glozelle, for his part, was relieved.
The sun browns their skins and burns their shoulders, the back of their necks. The jungle and the sea do not easily give up their bounty, but this suits him. A Telmarine needs no magic to ease his struggle, to tame the land or to shape himself. He wonders if this new peace in him is the blood of his ancestors singing the song of homecoming, or if it is just the intoxication of tabula rasa.
"Some combination of the two," Prunaprismia suggests.
"Yes," he replies, "or perhaps something else altogether."
"Perhaps," she agrees, smiling a secret smile, and Glozelle finds himself smiling back with affection.
In the distance they can see the fishermen's boats returning for the day, and he excuses himself. "They always need extra hands to pull the boats above the tide line," he explains.
The lady nods. "Do what you must."
And he makes his way down to his people, to the sea.
I have also completed my Secret Garden fic because finals week is obviously the best time to be fanfictionally productive. I still need to finalize it but, yeah, there will be Colin/Mary/Dickon shenanigans in the near future.
The Light of a Different Sun
Narnia. Glozelle, with blink-and-you-'ll-miss-it Glozelle/Prunaprismia. With kisses to Z, for the bugambilias.
The new world.
ETA:
sgrio did a lovely erasure of this fic, which you can read here: parádeisos.Glozelle emerges from Telmar's temperate climes and black mountains into the vivid brilliance of the tropics: a riot of colors, as merciless on his eyes as the sun is on his skin, from the flowers to the fruits to the insects and the birds. The beach, with its soft fine sand like gold dust; he scoops up a handful and lets it fall through his fingers, and the breeze carries it to the sea.
He walks into the water until the waves lap at his waist, and he can still see his feet distorted through the surface as little fishes dart unafraid around his legs. Glozelle ignores the Telmarines on the shore who watch him with amusement, the general of Miraz's armies splashing around in the ocean. Miraz is dead, after all, and they are in a new world.
Glozelle washes himself in the ocean that day, and the salt stings his eyes and it is a fine thing indeed.
+
There is no fall or winter here, and barely a spring: this island is of endless summer, and the Telmarines learn to divide the year by the coming of the rains.
There are soft and pleasant rains, cool to the skin and a welcome respite from the heat of the sun. There are also rains that are merciless and wild, bringing with them winds that fell trees and tumble boats. The first time these cyclones arrive, they lose half their stores and much of their supplies. Most of their homes, knocked down like matchsticks.
“We must not underestimate this new world,” Prunaprismia tells them, the set of her chin proud, her voice strong.
They learn, and they cope, and they move on.
In the first year nine people die, four of them children, from drowning, infected wounds, sickness, snakebite, eating the wrong plants. They bury their dead as an old man who had been a priest in Telmar recites litanies and adorations in a tremulous voice. His beard is as gray as his eyes, and he has a curious manner of raising his head as if straining to hear some distant chorus.
“Until this ceremony, I have not said a prayer since arriving in this new land,” the priest confesses to them, at the first funeral. “It does strange things to one’s faith to look upon a forgotten country’s god and to be under the mercy of its power. To realize that it is a very real power that it holds, and that it is forgotten no longer. We Telmarines are children of the heavens, and they love us as mothers and fathers do. In this way, we belong to the sun and the sky and the wind. We belong to the stars and the moon, those distant entities beyond our reach but whose blessings we are granted. Now we are in another world, given to us by another god.” He hesitates. “And, I do not know how to worship the gods of this new place, but it would only be right to start by honoring their earth, which now holds our dead. Through this burial, we entrust our own to its care. With our brother in this earth, we are bound to this earth.” The old priest lays a sprig of jasmine on the fresh grave, the best they can do in the absence of the traditional gardenia. “Love each other and love this land and its waters, for we know not the hearts of their gods. May our brother’s rest be blessed, for the earth has claimed him. May this earth be blessed, for it has claimed us.”
It is a strange conclusion to a funeral, but his words ring true and the man is old and beset by memories, so they let it pass. (In the coming weeks Glozelle would often find the old priest walking by himself along the shoreline, his eyes on the horizon seeking out what, he doesn’t know.)
And they learn. They cope. After all, death calls in all the worlds, and the passage of time will bring not just weeping for the dead, but also the cries of infants for whom this world will be the only home they know.
+
He appreciates the honest silence of the earth.
When birds open their beaks here, it is only birdsong. The monkeys chitter and grin, but not at any human joke. One time, Glozelle looked around to make sure he was alone, then spoke to a finch, feeling silly as he did so, but apparently you never know. The finch only cheeped back at him, turned its head to the side to regard him with one beady eye and cheeped again. And Glozelle, for his part, was relieved.
The sun browns their skins and burns their shoulders, the back of their necks. The jungle and the sea do not easily give up their bounty, but this suits him. A Telmarine needs no magic to ease his struggle, to tame the land or to shape himself. He wonders if this new peace in him is the blood of his ancestors singing the song of homecoming, or if it is just the intoxication of tabula rasa.
"Some combination of the two," Prunaprismia suggests.
"Yes," he replies, "or perhaps something else altogether."
"Perhaps," she agrees, smiling a secret smile, and Glozelle finds himself smiling back with affection.
In the distance they can see the fishermen's boats returning for the day, and he excuses himself. "They always need extra hands to pull the boats above the tide line," he explains.
The lady nods. "Do what you must."
And he makes his way down to his people, to the sea.