This is for those whose hearts are moved by art.
For those who, in a frenzy and with fervor,
Through a thousand unnameable emotions,
Create art
to feel a little closer to Heaven…
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The young Queen's chamber would often be littered with parchment, ink and paint staining the tapestries and bedclothes. Candlewax would stick to her mahogany desk, and her brushes and quills would be found lying around.
The mess was rather common in these chambers.
Queen Lucy liked to paint, sketch, and draw – that was well known. She would lock herself in her room and create a breathtaking painting, or become distracted and draw a mandala during a council, or be found in a random corner of the Castle sketching raindrops or sunbeams.
Obviously, the Queen has had several restless nights. There are drawings of nymphs, their hair melting with the river. Bears, also, and a family of rabbits. There is Cair Paravel, seen from Aslan's Hill, tall and gleaming with the rosy sunset light. There is a large painting of Beaver Dam, covered in the Long Winter's snow, with a single purple flower blooming near the door. There is a sketch of a lamppost, slender and bright, and a long red scarf. There's an oversized coat and a grotesque stone blade covered in blood.
The Queen paints with religious fervor.
There were several sketches of the Lion rendered in dark ink. His eyes are deep and loving, almost terrifying: if you stare at them long enough, they stare back at you.
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King Edmund, as his youngest sister, would use overwhelming amounts of parchment. And ink.
Sometimes, in the middle of the night, inspiration would strike him, emotion would overtake him, and he would wake up, light a candle, and write in a frenzy. His handwriting -spidery, cursive, long- would slowly shape a world or sculpt a poem. He would scratch his words, make notes, and stare wordlessly at what he had written. Then he would start over.
His hands are usually stained with ink. His desk is messy; he falls sleep there often enough. He is terrified of ink spills. He spends much time in the Library, reading. There are loads of books and shelves in his chambers, pieces of parchment delicately bound together by his own hands.
Once, he slipped a book of his own -by Anonymous, of course- among the books of the Cair.
He writes about the love he has not yet had, about Peace, War, Death… about a King's nightmares, about the fascinating green of the West Forest, about the frozen Peaks of the North, about the ship-rocking Eastern Sea, about sunrise. About golden-haired Kings, and lovely sisters and fallen warriors.
He writes about his past, about the lives he will never live, about Aslan and Love.
And he feels that, when he writes, he gets a little closer to Heaven.
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A/N: Penny for your thoughts? Please review