A/N: Okay, we're going to sort everything in out in a list-y order
I have not read The Last Battle, therefore, I know something, but not yet what, happens to dear Polly Plummer, and I would like to keep it that way. I am in the midst of the Silver Chair, and The Last Battle comes after. What I'm trying to get as is this: I don't how/if Polly dies, but this is just something that I imagined while on a Narnia fansite today.
I know I have not updated "Not Always Golden" if a few days, and I can't promise an update any time soon. You see, (if you have not read my profile page, which I doubt you have! :D) I will not have access to a computer for the next week and a half or so, but I promise to write a chapter or so long hand, so expect an update in the next two weeks.
I hope you enjoy!!
DISCLAIMER: I own not Narnia and Polly Plummer, though I do claim Jane as my own!
GRANDMA POLLY
A pale face, forever creased with age, seemed to blend in with the stark, paper-like sheets on a hospital bed. A pair of withered, shrunken hands rested on the thin mattress. All was still, silent, excluding a chest that faintly, slowly rose, faintly, slowly fell.
"Grandmother? Grandmother Polly?"
Wrinkled eyelids gradually blinked open, revealing a pair of eyes of indescribable hue. Referring to them as "blue" would be too vague. Nay, these eyes were deeper than the seas, darker than the skies. They managed to be cold and stern, yet warm and loving at the same time. Though the rest of this aging body seemed dull and gray, these eyes were bright, knowing.
"Polly?" A young, vibrant woman repeated. She smoothed the elderly woman's pepper white hair. "How are you feeling?"
"Is that you, Helen?" a raspy voice croaked. The words, as was everything, came gradually and were measured. "Or, Queen Helen, I should say. I'm feeling quite better, thank you for asking. You were right; I shouldn't have eaten all those toffee fruits."
"No, Grandmother," the woman said anxiously, a bit concerned. "I'm Jane, your granddaughter. Don't you remember, Grandmother? I'm Eleanor's daughter."
The rant on toffee fruit trees continued. Jane, now completely alarmed, called for the doctor.
"It is natural for someone of your grandmother's age to undergo this disorientation, called dementia. Though this disease is fairly common, there is no cure."
"Are you sure this is lasting? Are you sure this isn't just delirium?"
"I'm afraid not, miss." The doctor was trying to sound sympathetic and comforting for Jane's undoubtedly grieved sake. He soon, however, made his exit.
"Jane?" The voice was now weaker, hoarser.
"Yes, Grandmother?" Jane smiled in spite of herself.
"Jane, dear," there was a pause every few words. "Have I ever told you of Narnia?"
"Narnia?" The heat of unease rose up Jane's arms. "Grandmother, what on earth are you talking about?"
"When I was eleven years old, Narnia found me, changed me. London cannot be compared to the splendor of that land. Oh, how beautiful, how breathtaking it was. There were even Talking Beasts! Oh, and then there was the Lion!" Polly closed her eyes, reminiscing. "Aslan, they called him. He was so golden, so bright and shaggy, so indescribable. Oh, how I longed to touch the Lion's mane…"
Polly continued her Narnian testimony. Jane, though she thought her grandmother had lost it, for this tale was anything but realistic, allowed Grandmother Polly her story. For, as she talked about this Place, though as idealistic it was, her grandmother seemed younger, more alive, then she had in years. Jane thought that this Place, this Narnia, must hold some magic, even if it was only to Grandmother Polly.
But, all good things always come to an end. Grandmother Polly talked rapidly slower, rapidly softer. Her breathing, though raspy before, became laborious.
"Grandmother?" Jane whispered, afraid.
Polly gave no response, unable to respond. All she managed to offer was a small smile to her favorite granddaughter.
The young and old sat together in quiet safety for several, countless minutes, each to their own unspoken thoughts.
A small shift in the bed and a contented sigh startled Jane into full alertness.
"Aslan?" Polly, eyes closed; inquired to a visitor Jane could not see. "Have you come to take me home?"
Though Jane saw no one, nor heard anything, she felt the response, deep, deep inside her inner core.
Yes, my child. It is time for the long journey. Are you ready, Daughter of Eve?
"Yes, Aslan," Polly answered, still in that soft, gasping voice.
And, then, Polly Plummer exhaled deeply. And with that gradual breath, she smiled and her head sank back on the pillow, in an everlasting sleep. Her fingers relaxed, her eyes mercilessly and forever closed. A look of pure satisfaction, pure comfort, pure joy shone on her face.
Polly Plummer
May Her Soul Rest In Peace
Beloved Mother and Grandmother