Disclaimer: I do not own the Chronicles of Narnia.
A/N: This was a plot bunny that has been lurking in a little orange notebook for months. I discovered it very recently and was shocked and inspired. This may also have been due to the fact that I spent the best part of the day reading several of my favorite books, one of which was particularly inspirational. Therefore, behold this fic. ;) It takes place after MN (probably quite a few years after) and is probably the most drabblish thing I've done since Peter, Please? , but I hope you'll enjoy it anyway. Cheers!
Dreaming of Lions
When Uncle Andrew sleeps, sometimes he dreams of lions.
Those dreams are never good ones, and more often than not he awakens from such a dream with a scream on his lips and a roar ringing in his ears. And then his is puzzled, not frightened. Why should he dream of lions? And why should the sight of one in his dreams fill his heart with immeasurable dread? Andrew doesn't know why, and usually manages to convince himself otherwise after a glass or two of brandy and telling himself it's nonsense. But when he first awakens after such a dream and the gold and glory and terror and majesty are still fresh in his mind, he feels an ache somewhere in his calloused heart—an ache of longing, like a memory long forgotten, that begs to be remembered—to go along with the icy chill of fright.
He feels himself, as he reluctantly returns to the waking world, reach for something—a ring, his mind tells him, though he can't imagine why. He licks his lips greedily, expecting—for what afterward seems the queerest of reasons—to taste the seductive sweetness of honey on them. And sometimes, especially on cool, damp nights in early spring before the icicles on the lampposts in the street are quite melted, he awakens with a start, yanking his feet away from a red hot fire at the foot of his bed only to find that they are ice cold.
If you were to ask him, of course, Andrew would deny being haunted by ghosts of the past.
"Lions?" he would roar—no pun intended—with amusement. "I'm not afraid of any such beast, my dear gel, my boy." He remembers exactly what he wants to remember about everything; and something, some ancient fear of ignorance inside him, has buried deeply the memory of the one time he met a lion and really was afraid.
"I don't care for honey," he'll tell you, staring at the pot with a disdain that surprises even him, because he liked honey just as well as anyone else before…something. He does not remember the sting of thistles or stickiness of the bee's brew or the horror that came with not understanding.
"She was a superb creature, she was," he mutters to himself, recalling only the long, lustrous raven locks and the proud beauty of her smile. His mind has conveniently forgotten the dazzling, terrifying flash of her eyes and how the smile could turn to a snarl in less time than it took to blink.
But even as he disowns the memories that return occasionally to his mind, even as he casts off those things which he does not desire, Andrew feels a slight pang of regret. He feels—though reluctantly, and with ample fear as well as excitement—a warm breath on his face; a wild, strong, serious, sweet, intoxicating thing that makes his head spin more than any amount of brandy, but in a way that won't leave him with a headache on waking.
It is that wild breath that caresses his face in the last moments before dawn, in the final slumbering hours of the night, that gives him a lingering, wistful sort peace, even though he refuses to question why or how such a thing could be.
Because, of course, Andrew Ketterley is far too clever a man to let dreams of lions mold his future.
Or so he would tell you.
Finis