Trying Not to Remember, But Not Wanting to Forget
Andrew Ketterly didn't mean to send Digory and Polly into the Other World. He really didn't
That's what he told himself. That's what he told himself when he even thought of the Wood Between the Worlds, though he didn't know it was called that. He had done his best to forget Narnia, and he had almost succeeded.
Almost.
He often woke, a scream nearly escaping his lips, his dreams haunted by a Lion's roar. The Lion's roar that he hated, that he despised, that he feared with an awe, with a reverence, the reverence of one who doesn't understand the power and majesty of that which they fear, and need, the most.
He would shrink away from a sudden heat, a searing heat, at the foot of his bed, only to feel a sudden frostiness, around his feet, like blocks of ice.
He would feel the unexpected sweetness of honey on his lips when he licked them, and would remember the haunting Song of Creation which he loathed and craved for.
"A dem fine woman, a dem fine woman," he would often mutter to himself. He only remembered the lustrous, black locks, and the proud smile. But he would forget the cruel, flashing eyes, and the smile that would turn to a snarl more often than not. He would forget her threats and her anger, and only remember her tallness and her pale skin.
Andrew Ketterly didn't mean to.
He really didn't.