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I wrote all of "Hidden Pictures' in the space of a few days. It is the fic that threw off my sleep schedule, and maybe it won't surprise you to know that the scene with Peter and the Gryphon was written at 4 AM when there was more caffeine than blood in my system. I wonder sometimes whether I should've posted 'Hidden Pictures' all up in one go instead of doing this serial business but EH WELL. TOO LATE. For it is the end! Title is from 'Different Ways To Pray' by Naomi Shihab Nye.
they would bend to kiss the earth/and return, their lean faces housing mystery.
Chronicles of Narnia. PG. Peter, Susan, & Edmund. Thank you to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
boogalooed, girlgroovy3, and bantha_fodder, for what you do.
Post-PC. Peter's return to England, the second time around.
It’s not as bad as the first time, because this time they didn’t grow up first. There’s less forgetting to be done.
“You shouldn’t think about it like that,” scolds Lucy. “It’s not about forgetting.”
But Aslan was right: things never happen the same way twice. Narnia this time wasn’t at all like Narnia the first time, and Peter’s still not sure how he feels about that.
He’s stopped fighting, at least for the most part, and he’s learned the proper weight of an épée. Peter’s teachers remark on his improved behavior, are glad that he’s getting rid of his antisocial tendencies. The tendencies are still there, though; he’s just subtler about them.
As autumn turns to winter, visits become fewer and farther between. When the girls do come, Peter and Susan still sit on the bench near the servant’s entrance of the dormitory, braving the winds for the sake of familiarity. They discuss school, their siblings, books, the news. When they can stand it, they talk about the vagaries of experiencing adolescence a second time, concluding in the way adolescents do that dreams are everything and love is hard.
“Do you ever wish we had never gone into Narnia in the first place?” Susan asks, leaning her head back against the wall.
To Peter’s surprise, he has to think before answering. Still, something unclenches in him when he realizes the answer is, even now, “No. Do you?”
Susan shrugs, a gesture more girl than queen.
They slip into one of their silences, each lost in their own thoughts. Peter’s are about his half-finished essay about Napoleon and his overdue library books, also about Napoleon. His mind drifts to whether the boys can squeeze in a quick game of cricket before dark, and whether John Rogan is going to ask to copy Peter’s algebra assignment again, even though Peter has told him no several times before. Peter notices when Susan starts to cry, but he doesn’t show it. He doesn’t ask her what is wrong because she’s pretending she is fine. Susan has her face turned away from him – to look at the garden, ostensibly – and takes slow deep breaths that don’t quite shake and runs her hand through her hair. She isn’t sobbing, and there are probably only a few tears, so she thinks it would be easy to fool him.
She thinks he can’t tell. He can always tell.
Susan visits him less often after that. By the end of term she’s ceased to visit at all. He writes her letters when he remembers to and she replies to every one, responding to his every thought, except the ones about Narnia, as if thoroughness would make up for her distance. It doesn’t really, but Peter takes it in a stride. He doesn’t keep track of things he’s lost anymore like he suspects Susan still does. Still, Peter wishes his cuts and bruises, his war wounds, hadn’t disappeared when they returned to England. They would’ve been difficult to explain, yes, but they would’ve been something. To look at his skin now – pale and smooth and soft – you’d think nothing has happened. That for the past many days he has been conjugating Latin and memorizing the capitals of South America, here, in this gray little school with its gray little people and their gray little minds.
One night, around midnight, Peter throws back his blankets. He is already dressed.
When he gets to the statue of Apollo, Edmund is already waiting for him. “What, did you oversleep,” quips Edmund. Peter calls him an idiot, so Edmund calls him a bastard, but they’re brothers, so it doesn’t matter.
They slip into the night.
The gymnasium is secured only by a rusting padlock, and Peter keeps watch as Edmund picks it with a nail. He turns around when he hears the telling click and sees Edmund grinning in the moonlight, waving the padlock at him.
The fencing equipment is locked in a closet at the back of the large court. Peter has the key; he pocketed it when his instructor was too busy yelling at the younger boys for being careless.
Peter and Edmund take only the épées.
They are meters apart, in the ready position taught to them by a gruff Faun who had no qualms about hurling invectives at young kings for bad form. The moonlight streams in through the high windows and silvers the air – it looks almost like magic, but the gymnasium smells of mildew and old shoes, and Peter harbors no illusion.
They charge at the same time, as if on a silent signal. His hands are smaller but his grip is sure, and their blades flash in the moonlight as they strike.
[END.]
they would bend to kiss the earth/and return, their lean faces housing mystery.
Chronicles of Narnia. PG. Peter, Susan, & Edmund. Thank you to
boogalooed, girlgroovy3, and bantha_fodder, for what you do.Post-PC. Peter's return to England, the second time around.
It’s not as bad as the first time, because this time they didn’t grow up first. There’s less forgetting to be done.
“You shouldn’t think about it like that,” scolds Lucy. “It’s not about forgetting.”
But Aslan was right: things never happen the same way twice. Narnia this time wasn’t at all like Narnia the first time, and Peter’s still not sure how he feels about that.
He’s stopped fighting, at least for the most part, and he’s learned the proper weight of an épée. Peter’s teachers remark on his improved behavior, are glad that he’s getting rid of his antisocial tendencies. The tendencies are still there, though; he’s just subtler about them.
As autumn turns to winter, visits become fewer and farther between. When the girls do come, Peter and Susan still sit on the bench near the servant’s entrance of the dormitory, braving the winds for the sake of familiarity. They discuss school, their siblings, books, the news. When they can stand it, they talk about the vagaries of experiencing adolescence a second time, concluding in the way adolescents do that dreams are everything and love is hard.
“Do you ever wish we had never gone into Narnia in the first place?” Susan asks, leaning her head back against the wall.
To Peter’s surprise, he has to think before answering. Still, something unclenches in him when he realizes the answer is, even now, “No. Do you?”
Susan shrugs, a gesture more girl than queen.
They slip into one of their silences, each lost in their own thoughts. Peter’s are about his half-finished essay about Napoleon and his overdue library books, also about Napoleon. His mind drifts to whether the boys can squeeze in a quick game of cricket before dark, and whether John Rogan is going to ask to copy Peter’s algebra assignment again, even though Peter has told him no several times before. Peter notices when Susan starts to cry, but he doesn’t show it. He doesn’t ask her what is wrong because she’s pretending she is fine. Susan has her face turned away from him – to look at the garden, ostensibly – and takes slow deep breaths that don’t quite shake and runs her hand through her hair. She isn’t sobbing, and there are probably only a few tears, so she thinks it would be easy to fool him.
She thinks he can’t tell. He can always tell.
Susan visits him less often after that. By the end of term she’s ceased to visit at all. He writes her letters when he remembers to and she replies to every one, responding to his every thought, except the ones about Narnia, as if thoroughness would make up for her distance. It doesn’t really, but Peter takes it in a stride. He doesn’t keep track of things he’s lost anymore like he suspects Susan still does. Still, Peter wishes his cuts and bruises, his war wounds, hadn’t disappeared when they returned to England. They would’ve been difficult to explain, yes, but they would’ve been something. To look at his skin now – pale and smooth and soft – you’d think nothing has happened. That for the past many days he has been conjugating Latin and memorizing the capitals of South America, here, in this gray little school with its gray little people and their gray little minds.
One night, around midnight, Peter throws back his blankets. He is already dressed.
When he gets to the statue of Apollo, Edmund is already waiting for him. “What, did you oversleep,” quips Edmund. Peter calls him an idiot, so Edmund calls him a bastard, but they’re brothers, so it doesn’t matter.
They slip into the night.
The gymnasium is secured only by a rusting padlock, and Peter keeps watch as Edmund picks it with a nail. He turns around when he hears the telling click and sees Edmund grinning in the moonlight, waving the padlock at him.
The fencing equipment is locked in a closet at the back of the large court. Peter has the key; he pocketed it when his instructor was too busy yelling at the younger boys for being careless.
Peter and Edmund take only the épées.
They are meters apart, in the ready position taught to them by a gruff Faun who had no qualms about hurling invectives at young kings for bad form. The moonlight streams in through the high windows and silvers the air – it looks almost like magic, but the gymnasium smells of mildew and old shoes, and Peter harbors no illusion.
They charge at the same time, as if on a silent signal. His hands are smaller but his grip is sure, and their blades flash in the moonlight as they strike.
[END.]