lady_songsmith: owl (golden1)
In between trying to sleep off my cold today I wrote this. Why? I don't know, it was just there. Unbetaed.

Need to Hear

He knows, from the moment he sees them crumpled before the wardrobe, with a look in their eyes that any soldier, doctor, or priest would know. There is a look people have when their world has been shaken to its root and all they knew has to be reordered. And perhaps the children of bombed London know that look, but Digory does not think anything so mundane has disordered his houseguests.

He offers his hand to the girls with a slight bow, the old Victorian courtesy that he hardly uses anymore, except with the grand old dames of Society, and then only when the university or Polly’s beloved zoo needs funding. He escorts them all to his study, nevermind how it will shock Mrs. Macready, and sends Margaret for a tea tray, with the good china. “Five cups?” she asks dubiously, eyeing the littlest ones, and “Five,” he replies, firmly.

He pours them tea and makes no demands of speech beyond the polite murmurs of ‘cream?’ and ‘sugar?’ — there are times to ignore rationing, and this is one of them — and sits quietly, waiting for them to come back to the here and now as gently as they can.

They look to him for answers, and what is he to tell them? His own adventure was a brief candle, a weekend’s outing. What gives him the right to counsel men and women who have lived a lifetime and been returned to childhood? Fumbling for words, he tells them the best things he can think of, half comforting platitude and half advice for a world that he knows is not kind to the exceptional ones. Of course you will go back. Of course there is a reason. But you must not dwell on it. You must live in the now.

It is what they need to hear, he tells himself, and wonders if he believes it any more than they do.
lady_songsmith: owl (golden1)
In between trying to sleep off my cold today I wrote this. Why? I don't know, it was just there. Unbetaed.

Need to Hear

He knows, from the moment he sees them crumpled before the wardrobe, with a look in their eyes that any soldier, doctor, or priest would know. There is a look people have when their world has been shaken to its root and all they knew has to be reordered. And perhaps the children of bombed London know that look, but Digory does not think anything so mundane has disordered his houseguests.

He offers his hand to the girls with a slight bow, the old Victorian courtesy that he hardly uses anymore, except with the grand old dames of Society, and then only when the university or Polly’s beloved zoo needs funding. He escorts them all to his study, nevermind how it will shock Mrs. Macready, and sends Margaret for a tea tray, with the good china. “Five cups?” she asks dubiously, eyeing the littlest ones, and “Five,” he replies, firmly.

He pours them tea and makes no demands of speech beyond the polite murmurs of ‘cream?’ and ‘sugar?’ — there are times to ignore rationing, and this is one of them — and sits quietly, waiting for them to come back to the here and now as gently as they can.

They look to him for answers, and what is he to tell them? His own adventure was a brief candle, a weekend’s outing. What gives him the right to counsel men and women who have lived a lifetime and been returned to childhood? Fumbling for words, he tells them the best things he can think of, half comforting platitude and half advice for a world that he knows is not kind to the exceptional ones. Of course you will go back. Of course there is a reason. But you must not dwell on it. You must live in the now.

It is what they need to hear, he tells himself, and wonders if he believes it any more than they do.
lady_songsmith: owl (Default)
For remix, here's a list of the fic I'm willing to admit to owning:

Narnia
To Speak and To Keep Silent
Winterfall
In Stony Places
As I Love the Mouse
Dancing at the Precipice collection (or here)
Last Dance - drabble
Lipstick and Stockings - drabble
Golden Lads and Girls - collected fic-bits

Other
Come Not Yet... (Dark is Rising, drabble)
All I Ask... (Dark is Rising, drabble)
lady_songsmith: owl (Default)
For remix, here's a list of the fic I'm willing to admit to owning:

Narnia
To Speak and To Keep Silent
Winterfall
In Stony Places
As I Love the Mouse
Dancing at the Precipice collection (or here)
Last Dance - drabble
Lipstick and Stockings - drabble
Golden Lads and Girls - collected fic-bits

Other
Come Not Yet... (Dark is Rising, drabble)
All I Ask... (Dark is Rising, drabble)
lady_songsmith: owl (narnia)
"Edmund, you'll land on this tower, take out the guard, then signal the others in when it's clear below. We'll land on the wall here, ideally, allowing some error for the guard patrols, then proceed to enter the castle proper here at Dr. Cornelius's window." Edmund was frowning slightly as he listened, thinking there were better ways to arrange their forces. But Peter carried straight on with barely a glance at him, and Edmund hesitated to argue. The situation with the Narnians was delicate and Peter was understandably touchy about his authority. Better they presented a united front whenever possible.

The moment passed. Edmund kept silent. But if he had not…

Read it on AO3

Read it on ff.net

To Speak and To Keep Silent )
lady_songsmith: owl (narnia)
"Edmund, you'll land on this tower, take out the guard, then signal the others in when it's clear below. We'll land on the wall here, ideally, allowing some error for the guard patrols, then proceed to enter the castle proper here at Dr. Cornelius's window." Edmund was frowning slightly as he listened, thinking there were better ways to arrange their forces. But Peter carried straight on with barely a glance at him, and Edmund hesitated to argue. The situation with the Narnians was delicate and Peter was understandably touchy about his authority. Better they presented a united front whenever possible.

The moment passed. Edmund kept silent. But if he had not…

Read it on AO3

Read it on ff.net

To Speak and To Keep Silent )
lady_songsmith: owl (golden1)
At first, they hardly notice. The mountains between Archenland and Narnia are high and even the easiest passes can be blocked in a hard winter. When no word comes from Narnia after the first snows, everyone simply assumes the weather is to blame, and settles in to wait for spring.

Read it on AO3
Read it on ff.net
Winterfall )

 

lady_songsmith: owl (golden1)
At first, they hardly notice. The mountains between Archenland and Narnia are high and even the easiest passes can be blocked in a hard winter. When no word comes from Narnia after the first snows, everyone simply assumes the weather is to blame, and settles in to wait for spring.

Read it on AO3
Read it on ff.net
Winterfall )

 

lady_songsmith: owl (Default)
When they exit the cinema, Susan is smiling and Edmund feels a flash of smugness. He had to coax his sister out, luring her with Dean Farrell and promises that it would be his treat, but the results were worth it. By the time the feature started, she'd relaxed. He had whispered commentary in her ear, and she had curled close to him in the theatre seats, their hands dueling in the popcorn bucket. Now he regrets not choosing a double feature, although the walk home stretches before them and it will be coming on dark soon enough. Winter has barely taken hold, but night still comes quickly.

Read it on AO3
Read it on ff.net
lady_songsmith: owl (Default)
When they exit the cinema, Susan is smiling and Edmund feels a flash of smugness. He had to coax his sister out, luring her with Dean Farrell and promises that it would be his treat, but the results were worth it. By the time the feature started, she'd relaxed. He had whispered commentary in her ear, and she had curled close to him in the theatre seats, their hands dueling in the popcorn bucket. Now he regrets not choosing a double feature, although the walk home stretches before them and it will be coming on dark soon enough. Winter has barely taken hold, but night still comes quickly.

Read it on AO3
Read it on ff.net
lady_songsmith: owl (golden1)
Title: golden lads and girls
Rating: PG
Notes: Golden Age, canon-fitting but meant for my Nightmare Queen-verse.

Oreius is supervising a session in the training yard )
lady_songsmith: owl (golden1)
Title: golden lads and girls
Rating: PG
Notes: Golden Age, canon-fitting but meant for my Nightmare Queen-verse.

Oreius is supervising a session in the training yard )

Drabbles

Jun. 5th, 2010 11:26 pm
lady_songsmith: owl (writing)
One from last night, one I've been sitting on for ages, since I first started trying to figure out Susan.

Last Dance -- Peter, Jadis, LWW )

Lipstick and Stockings -- Susan, post-PC/pre-LB )

Drabbles

Jun. 5th, 2010 11:26 pm
lady_songsmith: owl (writing)
One from last night, one I've been sitting on for ages, since I first started trying to figure out Susan.

Last Dance -- Peter, Jadis, LWW )

Lipstick and Stockings -- Susan, post-PC/pre-LB )
lady_songsmith: owl (Default)

3: The Empress

Lucy is thrilled by this adventure. Everything about it is new, except the sea - and she has always loved the sea. Every morning she wakes up to the sound of the sails flapping and ropes creaking, the slap of waves against the hull. She has fallen asleep to those same sounds, of course, and they fill her dreams as well, but they ring differently in the morning light. At least, she thinks so. There's a damp scent in the mornings a little like the smell of fresh turned earth but fiercer, and it lies over the ship, muffling the wind and waves but making the snap of ropes sharper. Lucy thinks the ocean, too, prefers to wake gently, relishing the dawn in silence.

Afternoons are brighter, even on cloudy days. Dawn Treader's golden prow competes with the waves for sparkles, together throwing reflections so many ways that the ship sails in a cloud of light. The sailors go about their work singing, or tell stories. These are always of adventures, at least half tall tale, each man trying to outdo the last, and their endings are often lost in shouts of laughter. Lucy climbs all over the ship, scrambling up the rigging as easily as the sailors, for the sheer joy of it, and no one tells her no. (Though Caspian cringes when she balances on the yard, and Drinian asks her to please not chat with the man on duty in the top.)

Evening smells of smoke, the rich full scent of the galley mingling with the tongue-coating sizzle of the oil lamps and the sweet-sharpness of the men's tobacco. Lucy goes about with the life of the ship in her throat and her mouth and her nose while the sun dips toward the horizon, sinking down onto Narnia in a glory of fire. The winds calm - Drinian tells her she imagines this, but she is certain of it - to farewell the day in proper splendor. On cloudy days the pressure of smoke is so great she climbs the rigging to escape it; watches the sunset cradled by the ropes and rocked by the sea.

Even the storm does not bother her overmuch, though she is as sick as anyone of the relentless rain and of being ordered to keep to her cabin whenever possible (for even a queen must obey a captain on his own ship, she knows). She interprets the order to mean she should stay off the deck, and so twice daily makes the pilgrimage through the fury: from her cabin to the galley, where at least she has company, and back again. She does what she can to cheer the company, for she has little else to offer, and even manages to coax her brother out of ill humor one evening when Edmund comes belowdeck questing for a dry shirt and quips that it's 'a jolly adventure, eh?' She replies that the storm can't be that bad if his sense of humor is still dry, and he laughs and leaves without the mythical dry shirt.


"Mother Nature shows herself in her original wildness" - Banzhaf, 41

lady_songsmith: owl (Default)

3: The Empress

Lucy is thrilled by this adventure. Everything about it is new, except the sea - and she has always loved the sea. Every morning she wakes up to the sound of the sails flapping and ropes creaking, the slap of waves against the hull. She has fallen asleep to those same sounds, of course, and they fill her dreams as well, but they ring differently in the morning light. At least, she thinks so. There's a damp scent in the mornings a little like the smell of fresh turned earth but fiercer, and it lies over the ship, muffling the wind and waves but making the snap of ropes sharper. Lucy thinks the ocean, too, prefers to wake gently, relishing the dawn in silence.

Afternoons are brighter, even on cloudy days. Dawn Treader's golden prow competes with the waves for sparkles, together throwing reflections so many ways that the ship sails in a cloud of light. The sailors go about their work singing, or tell stories. These are always of adventures, at least half tall tale, each man trying to outdo the last, and their endings are often lost in shouts of laughter. Lucy climbs all over the ship, scrambling up the rigging as easily as the sailors, for the sheer joy of it, and no one tells her no. (Though Caspian cringes when she balances on the yard, and Drinian asks her to please not chat with the man on duty in the top.)

Evening smells of smoke, the rich full scent of the galley mingling with the tongue-coating sizzle of the oil lamps and the sweet-sharpness of the men's tobacco. Lucy goes about with the life of the ship in her throat and her mouth and her nose while the sun dips toward the horizon, sinking down onto Narnia in a glory of fire. The winds calm - Drinian tells her she imagines this, but she is certain of it - to farewell the day in proper splendor. On cloudy days the pressure of smoke is so great she climbs the rigging to escape it; watches the sunset cradled by the ropes and rocked by the sea.

Even the storm does not bother her overmuch, though she is as sick as anyone of the relentless rain and of being ordered to keep to her cabin whenever possible (for even a queen must obey a captain on his own ship, she knows). She interprets the order to mean she should stay off the deck, and so twice daily makes the pilgrimage through the fury: from her cabin to the galley, where at least she has company, and back again. She does what she can to cheer the company, for she has little else to offer, and even manages to coax her brother out of ill humor one evening when Edmund comes belowdeck questing for a dry shirt and quips that it's 'a jolly adventure, eh?' She replies that the storm can't be that bad if his sense of humor is still dry, and he laughs and leaves without the mythical dry shirt.


"Mother Nature shows herself in her original wildness" - Banzhaf, 41

lady_songsmith: owl (Default)

2: The High Priestess

Watching Caspian led away by the nobleman, Edmund stills the first bloom of irritation. It wasn't as if the young king could have refused to go, though he might at least have supported Lucy, or even suggested that the noble take her instead. If Caspian found an opportunity to help them, he would. In the meantime, undoubtedly some other chance would present itself, and he would have to be ready for it. Eustace was certainly not going to be any help, and Reepicheep was all too likely to leap without looking and land them all in worse trouble still.

Lucy he might depend on, of course, but he wants to protect her. She would undoubtedly be furious to know he was sheltering her, but the habits of a lifetime aren't easily set aside. She is no damsel in distress, waiting to be rescued, but she is his sister - his little sister - and he does not like Pug's insinuations at all.

The slavers' ship is dark and stuffy, and closes in around him until he gasps for breath. He wants out, now - but it isn't time. There's a rhythm to these things, a rise and fall, and though his fingers itch for a blade he knows the moment isn't right. That it will be right, he has no doubt. They don't end here. There is far too much to do, the end of the world to find, and anyway he'll be damned if they've survived the White Witch and the Ettins and Miraz to be bested by a stupid brute of a slaver. It's just a matter of waiting.

He learned a long time ago that a good storyteller was not to be rushed. Their tale isn't over yet, and it is told by the greatest of all tellers.


"This card is an expression of trust in our inner voice that shows us a specific path and reliably tells us time and again whether we should take action and when, where, and how this should be done." - Banzhaf, 37

lady_songsmith: owl (Default)

2: The High Priestess

Watching Caspian led away by the nobleman, Edmund stills the first bloom of irritation. It wasn't as if the young king could have refused to go, though he might at least have supported Lucy, or even suggested that the noble take her instead. If Caspian found an opportunity to help them, he would. In the meantime, undoubtedly some other chance would present itself, and he would have to be ready for it. Eustace was certainly not going to be any help, and Reepicheep was all too likely to leap without looking and land them all in worse trouble still.

Lucy he might depend on, of course, but he wants to protect her. She would undoubtedly be furious to know he was sheltering her, but the habits of a lifetime aren't easily set aside. She is no damsel in distress, waiting to be rescued, but she is his sister - his little sister - and he does not like Pug's insinuations at all.

The slavers' ship is dark and stuffy, and closes in around him until he gasps for breath. He wants out, now - but it isn't time. There's a rhythm to these things, a rise and fall, and though his fingers itch for a blade he knows the moment isn't right. That it will be right, he has no doubt. They don't end here. There is far too much to do, the end of the world to find, and anyway he'll be damned if they've survived the White Witch and the Ettins and Miraz to be bested by a stupid brute of a slaver. It's just a matter of waiting.

He learned a long time ago that a good storyteller was not to be rushed. Their tale isn't over yet, and it is told by the greatest of all tellers.


"This card is an expression of trust in our inner voice that shows us a specific path and reliably tells us time and again whether we should take action and when, where, and how this should be done." - Banzhaf, 37

lady_songsmith: owl (Default)

1: The Magician

Caspian calls himself nine kinds of an idiot for letting it come to this.

He didn't think that the situation in the Lone Islands might have changed. He didn't think that it was foolish to go strolling about without soldiers. He didn't think that those thugs might be slavers. He didn't think what might happen to Lucy, a lady and a queen to whom he owes allegiance, in the hands of those slavers.

He doesn't have much to do but think, now.

Uncomfortably aware of the sinking feeling of failure twining in his gut, he knows he has to do something to correct his cascade of errors. But what? He can hardly overpower this lord and Pug and whatever guards are called to subdue an 'escaped slave.' He has nothing but his wits now - and his face.

He seizes chance with both hands.


"This card represents intelligence and skill, as well as the will and the power to master the tasks that are given to us in life" - Banzhaf, 36

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