#reepicheep

faramir-stan:

                      THE WINTER NARNIAN GIFT EXCHANGE.

              for: @jaydotwhyfrom@quecksilvereyes.

there is a saying, woven into Narnia’s sea, and washing into her shores. it drips from a dragon’s maw and a mermaid’s teeth; a mouse’s fur. it glints in the sinking evening sun, heavy and fat on the horizon, a glow even as it dies. from the ache of a suffocating tree, it is woven into nursery rhymes and into the wind that blows east.

I love you. let me be the thing that buries you. let me be the thing that sees your last breath suspended in starlight. let me make a grave for you so peaceful that even the soil forgets to breathe.

-

“They sound like vows”, says Eustace, with soft hands and soft teeth and a spilling, trembling voice. Underneath his hands, Reepicheep shifts. His ear flicks.

“They might have been”, he says. He doesn’t reach for Eustace’ tears. He doesn’t grip his sword. “A long time ago, perhaps they were vows. We don’t know, now. I fear we’ve quite forgotten.” Eustace’s hands are wet and sticky with the juice of a peach, his trousers and his shirt stiff and rough with salt. Reephicheep looks at him, with big, black eyes. “I thought they might know, when Narnia first called them home. But it is older than them, too.”

Behind Reepicheep, the sea is still and clear as glass, blooming in the light of the eastern sun, and if Eustace leans forward enough, he can see the bottom of it lined with pearls. Next to him, Lucy is crying. Big, fat tears that leave angry red marks on her cheeks, her freckles already fading even under this sun, she buries her face in Edmund’s tunic and Edmund-

Edmund looks like he might be sick.

With trembling hands, he holds onto Lucy. With his pale skin and his back hunched and the world on a needle’s point, he looks at Eustace.

Eustace looks at Reepicheep. Beneath their little boat, something moves. Eustace’ skin aches. It’s soft and smooth and raw and-

 -

          where is your scream, Son of Adam?
          where is your voice?
          don’t tell me it’s still drowned in these waters
          fashioned from paint
          fashioned from want

          open your mouth
          is it not your mother’s voice nestled within it?
          is it not your father’s chill
          all the way within your hollowed bones?

     we are both
     half Beast, half hope.

where is your fight, Talking Mouse?
can you still feel the rope on your teeth?
there is a table beneath your feet -
it’s cracking, see?
does not the cavity within you still taste like hemp?

open your eyes
is it not a human pup, with human terror
and human aches
holding you so gently
as though you might break?

the sun catches in his hair, see.
it’s in the tears on his cheeks.

 -

my sweet. my dear thing. the sea is so quiet now. so still as though it does not fall off the edges of this world in front of your disbelieving eyes. your friend’s fur is soft against your skin. his eyes are a starless night, as is the sky stretched above you. the stars have not yet reached this corner of me, you know. they are not yet enough to fill me whole. this mouse wasn’t born Speaking. you were not born with heat in your guts and tears in your eyes. if you tilt your head, can you see yourself in his eyes? do you think he can see himself in yours?

it isn’t enough to love him. it isn’t enough to hold him. you, undragoned and afraid, must be that which buries him. with human hands that have once known divinity you must send him East. do this, not for a lion or a cousin with a dripping tunic. not for a Star so hungry for the world she took herself out of it. do this, wailing, with the earth moving beneath you, because there has never been a Talking Mouse this far East.

do this for love, child. place him in his boat, and bury him as far East as you can go. with your hands upon me, I will hold my breath and all that moves this world, for a mouse.

Imagine Rocket Raccoon meeting Reepicheep.