Sunrise
New member
Ok, this was inspired by a recent dream, one of those things where this whole long, symbolic, profound conversation occurs and then when you wake up you can only remember a line or two, and suddenly they seem ridiculous rather than profound! 
However, the dream itself was so moving - I've never had Aslan show up in a dream before - that I was compelled to at least TRY to capture some of it. So, this is a little rough, but it's my first attempt to get down the basics of what transpired (with some fleshing out - not everything here was actually in the dream, which lacked coherency.)
It could be argued that the whole premise is implausible, and that canon Jadis is far beyond an offer of redemption. Anyway, read this for whatever it's worth. I'd love some critique.
The sleeping camp lay in a bowl of shadow, a hollowed-out clearing ringed by silent trees. Moonlight gilded silver its tents, the banners lifeless now in the still night air. The white figure on the edge of the trees paused momentarily, appreciating the contrast of its current condition over the vibrant colors, the snapping flags, the chaos of flashing armor and glowing fur, the cacophony of inhuman voices that imbued it by day. For one unguarded moment, the witch allowed herself a theatrical lifting of one blood-red lip in a gloating sneer, then, catching herself, frowned. This melodramatic self-consciousness seemed always to lie in wait, a shadowy presence that slid in unannounced to hold up a mirror for her to admire herself, exulting in the distraction until cold reason pushed it away. She strove against it, hating it; hating herself for allowing it, but it had been a constant companion for further back then she cared to remember.
Silently she skirted the camp, sliding between the shadows like a restless moonbeam, her white hands clenching and flexing alternately as her mind battled with whatever primitive instinct drove her to her destination. She did not know why she came this way. There was no reason for it; all was in order, the engine of her final triumph waited only for the last cog to fall into place, and it was coming; most assuredly it was coming - even now, the ecstatic glee at this certainty welled within her heart and fired her veins like the heady rush of strong wine. She did not dare to doubt it, although the sheer mad implausibility that she should triumph so completely tempted her to disbelief. But somehow her joy was tempered, just now; her mind, that wished to dwell in glutted satisfaction upon the next few hours, instead was torn and tormented, and her very being driven like an unwilling sheep toward the thing she hated and feared most.
The Lion.
She did not need to search for him; the internal goad drove her onward as deliberately as if this had been an arranged rendezvous. Emerging from the line of trees north of the camp, she stepped out onto a narrow tongue of high land, a grassy cliff that overlooked the broad plains of the Beruna valley. And there he sat, at the very edge, a bulky mass of muscle and fur pillowed in the lush grass, his great head turned from her and his eyes on the plain.
She knew better than to believe he was unaware of her arrival.
For long moments she stood, wavering uncertainly; the goad that had driven her here had suddenly fled, leaving her helpless; without its driving sting she had nothing on which to blame her presence. This was some trick of his, no doubt, some game or play of power meant to tease and torment her on the very night of her victory. Did he mean to cow her, to frighten her into relenting, into setting him free of their bargain? She would see her own life’s blood run red on the table before she would release him from his word. She stood still, wanting to run, loathing him, and loathing, too, that tiny, weak, traitorous part of herself that still longed to fling itself at his feet.
He turned his head at last and gazed upon her without expression. His eyes struck her afresh with new irritation. Night was her domain, moonlight her solace; it sapped the color from the landscape and from the faces of those it fell upon, a likeness of wintry death that reminded her comfortingly of her lately-lost, and soon-to-be-regained realm. So it was unfair…a trick of a universe massed against her…that even in this pale colorless night-world, the Lion’s eyes should shine golden, lit with an inner amber fire, like shafts of sunlight shot through crystal water. She scowled, fury settling on her brow. Let him lie there, with his golden eyes and his golden Spring! Later tonight, it would all be for nothing, and he knew it as well as she.
“Your hour has not yet come,” he said finally. His voice was deep and wild, and as always it occurred to her unwillingly that after he spoke, all other sounds were flat and tinny for a time. A tremor went through her; she felt the very ground vibrate slightly, resonating with his words. “Why are you here?”
Gods, how she hated his questions. And he always asked them…asked them with the deliberate patience of a parent catching a child in a lie. She could never shake the sensation that he already knew all the answers, and asked only to have the satisfaction of forcing a confession. It was impossible to refuse to answer. His words always hung in the air, demanding, compelling a response.
The bravado she had relied upon that day in camp, surrounded by native Narnians whose palpable fear had borne her up in pulsing, intoxicating waves, had no foundation here on this naked hilltop. It tried to surface, tried to push out haughty words of explanation and defense, tried even to taunt him over his impending doom, but it quailed and died before bringing a single phrase to her lips. That maddening implacability, that infuriating calm upon his face, would brook nothing but the vulnerable truth. She hissed, inhaling a long breath. “I do not know.”
He did not seem surprised, but his expression changed, and his gaze upon her held a hint of sadness, of compassion, somehow infuriating her more than the calmness had. She needed none of his pity.
“You have never known,” he said simply, turning his head away. The tip of his tail twitched slightly, a reflex so normal, so animal, that she felt a sudden rush of boldness.
“Known!” she scoffed, stepping forward to stand on the very edge of the cliff, and following his gaze plains-ward. “I have known all that I have need of! I know fear, and I know power…power such as you have never made use of, and I will know more of it…”
“You have no power,” he interrupted placidly, “but that which has been given you.”
However, the dream itself was so moving - I've never had Aslan show up in a dream before - that I was compelled to at least TRY to capture some of it. So, this is a little rough, but it's my first attempt to get down the basics of what transpired (with some fleshing out - not everything here was actually in the dream, which lacked coherency.)
It could be argued that the whole premise is implausible, and that canon Jadis is far beyond an offer of redemption. Anyway, read this for whatever it's worth. I'd love some critique.
The sleeping camp lay in a bowl of shadow, a hollowed-out clearing ringed by silent trees. Moonlight gilded silver its tents, the banners lifeless now in the still night air. The white figure on the edge of the trees paused momentarily, appreciating the contrast of its current condition over the vibrant colors, the snapping flags, the chaos of flashing armor and glowing fur, the cacophony of inhuman voices that imbued it by day. For one unguarded moment, the witch allowed herself a theatrical lifting of one blood-red lip in a gloating sneer, then, catching herself, frowned. This melodramatic self-consciousness seemed always to lie in wait, a shadowy presence that slid in unannounced to hold up a mirror for her to admire herself, exulting in the distraction until cold reason pushed it away. She strove against it, hating it; hating herself for allowing it, but it had been a constant companion for further back then she cared to remember.
Silently she skirted the camp, sliding between the shadows like a restless moonbeam, her white hands clenching and flexing alternately as her mind battled with whatever primitive instinct drove her to her destination. She did not know why she came this way. There was no reason for it; all was in order, the engine of her final triumph waited only for the last cog to fall into place, and it was coming; most assuredly it was coming - even now, the ecstatic glee at this certainty welled within her heart and fired her veins like the heady rush of strong wine. She did not dare to doubt it, although the sheer mad implausibility that she should triumph so completely tempted her to disbelief. But somehow her joy was tempered, just now; her mind, that wished to dwell in glutted satisfaction upon the next few hours, instead was torn and tormented, and her very being driven like an unwilling sheep toward the thing she hated and feared most.
The Lion.
She did not need to search for him; the internal goad drove her onward as deliberately as if this had been an arranged rendezvous. Emerging from the line of trees north of the camp, she stepped out onto a narrow tongue of high land, a grassy cliff that overlooked the broad plains of the Beruna valley. And there he sat, at the very edge, a bulky mass of muscle and fur pillowed in the lush grass, his great head turned from her and his eyes on the plain.
She knew better than to believe he was unaware of her arrival.
For long moments she stood, wavering uncertainly; the goad that had driven her here had suddenly fled, leaving her helpless; without its driving sting she had nothing on which to blame her presence. This was some trick of his, no doubt, some game or play of power meant to tease and torment her on the very night of her victory. Did he mean to cow her, to frighten her into relenting, into setting him free of their bargain? She would see her own life’s blood run red on the table before she would release him from his word. She stood still, wanting to run, loathing him, and loathing, too, that tiny, weak, traitorous part of herself that still longed to fling itself at his feet.
He turned his head at last and gazed upon her without expression. His eyes struck her afresh with new irritation. Night was her domain, moonlight her solace; it sapped the color from the landscape and from the faces of those it fell upon, a likeness of wintry death that reminded her comfortingly of her lately-lost, and soon-to-be-regained realm. So it was unfair…a trick of a universe massed against her…that even in this pale colorless night-world, the Lion’s eyes should shine golden, lit with an inner amber fire, like shafts of sunlight shot through crystal water. She scowled, fury settling on her brow. Let him lie there, with his golden eyes and his golden Spring! Later tonight, it would all be for nothing, and he knew it as well as she.
“Your hour has not yet come,” he said finally. His voice was deep and wild, and as always it occurred to her unwillingly that after he spoke, all other sounds were flat and tinny for a time. A tremor went through her; she felt the very ground vibrate slightly, resonating with his words. “Why are you here?”
Gods, how she hated his questions. And he always asked them…asked them with the deliberate patience of a parent catching a child in a lie. She could never shake the sensation that he already knew all the answers, and asked only to have the satisfaction of forcing a confession. It was impossible to refuse to answer. His words always hung in the air, demanding, compelling a response.
The bravado she had relied upon that day in camp, surrounded by native Narnians whose palpable fear had borne her up in pulsing, intoxicating waves, had no foundation here on this naked hilltop. It tried to surface, tried to push out haughty words of explanation and defense, tried even to taunt him over his impending doom, but it quailed and died before bringing a single phrase to her lips. That maddening implacability, that infuriating calm upon his face, would brook nothing but the vulnerable truth. She hissed, inhaling a long breath. “I do not know.”
He did not seem surprised, but his expression changed, and his gaze upon her held a hint of sadness, of compassion, somehow infuriating her more than the calmness had. She needed none of his pity.
“You have never known,” he said simply, turning his head away. The tip of his tail twitched slightly, a reflex so normal, so animal, that she felt a sudden rush of boldness.
“Known!” she scoffed, stepping forward to stand on the very edge of the cliff, and following his gaze plains-ward. “I have known all that I have need of! I know fear, and I know power…power such as you have never made use of, and I will know more of it…”
“You have no power,” he interrupted placidly, “but that which has been given you.”
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