Postcards from the Subconscious
that's what dreams are
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Story Notes:
For John.

***

Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author--in this case, Rose. No money is being made from this work. No copyright infringement is intended.
Lucy attends church. Because she likes the way the cathedral looks, and she likes the silence, and she likes the stories.

Lucy doesn't go to worship. She's not used to temples or churches, not really, after fifteen years without them, not used to making one day holy instead of every, and she can't live her life that way, not really. Worship is like breathing, and your heart beating, and having joy in life and knowing why, for Lucy, and the buildings are too much and too staged for her comfort.

But Lucy attends church, smoothing her skirt as she sits, crossing her ankles neatly. She goes with her mother and father and Peter, if he's home. Edmund doesn't go often, and Lucy thinks he'd be a hermit if he could, practically.

Susan doesn't go at all any longer, but Susan also reads her Bible every night, Lucy knows, and Susan was ever like Edmund in some ways, and privacy is one.




Our Father, who art in Heaven, across the glistening eastern sea, she whispers in her mind, and wonders if she's blaspheming.

The problem, she thinks, with being a good Christian girl is that you're probably not supposed to believe other gods exist, and if you've had wine with them and laughed with them and learned to be wary of them--and for all she would not fear or bow to Tash or think him a match for the Lion, she was never so foolish as to not be wary of the southern god--you find it hard to not believe they exist.

You can't live it and miss it. Mary and Mary at the tomb, Lucy and Susan at the table. Betrayal. Death. Resurrection. Life. She gets it. She knows. You can't miss it, not really, and she knows his other name he sent her back here to learn. She knows of the Man.

But it's the Lion that saved her, and it's the Lion she swore an oath to. The essence is the same, she knows, but she doesn't think she could die in the Man's name like she knows she could in the Lion's.

She doesn't know what that means, and she wonders, a little, if she failed what he wanted her to do here, because of that.

She hopes not.

It's not that it doesn't matter. It does. It's not that she doubts it's real.

But it's not personal.




When she dies, Susan refuses to put a line from scripture on the tombstone, or a cross, though she buries Lucy wearing one.

Susan understood her sister better than most thought, and puts only, for once and for always beneath the name, and doesn't tell anyone who asks why.




In that other land, nothing good is lost, and in the real and true London, which Lucy sometimes goes to, there is a church.

And Lucy goes to it, sometimes, and sits in the cool building, and smells old incense and wood oil and to smile at memories. She still doesn't worship there. Not the way one was supposed to in England, anyway. What she does is no different than what she she does every moment, now, but there's peace and value in doing it here as much as doing it elsewhere.

And then she walks out, and into the sun that's always bright, and the person who greets her isn't a Man and isn't a Lion and is both, and it makes her laugh for joy.


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