The Pevensies
Lucy, like the earth, is solid.
She will stand in stony halls and stifling offices, arms held in a determined entanglement and her teeth pulling in the sides of her mouth, biting the flesh. A countenance of many hard and jagged fragments, shattered and broken and insignificant when apart; but like an army they surround her, and she wears them like a coat of mail.
Land cannot move on its own.
Edmund, like the water, is slick.
He will roll about in grassy hills and stroll down winding lanes, whistling to himself, pretending to know the way, always. A dashing streak of momentary confidence, of glittering sheath and of elaborate belt; and then with a roar plunges over the edge, sliding into the passages that offer the least resistance, streaming down, down, down into jagged rocks, unpredicted.
Slick is uncertain.
Susan, like the air, is free.
She will come like a dream that by the end is forgotten; And the breeze of a smile and the whispering of full lips and the tender tips of compassion will be felt in the hearts of men, but will, fleetingly, lie just behind the eyes, unseen. An intangible print of ease, untraceable in its amiable gestures – but once there, cannot be taken away.
Freedom asks for no gratitude.
Peter, like the fire, leaves shadows.
He will mull by windows and across sunny fields, with his hair falling lightly in his face and his head in one hand, and all the while, a cloud of prudence cloaks his thoughts from the sun. A burning core, a strong core, a golden core – yet the outsides will flicker and shudder and twist even in the slightest of winds.
Fire is quenchable.