Singing Paeans to the Stars

by ilysia

A repository of small tales that span the entirety of Narnia's history, in no chronological order. Twenty-four: Narnia loses many things in its hundred years of sleep, and she is one of them.

17. Jagged Bits

Sometimes she almost cannot bear how good Cor is. How thoughtful, how genuinely kind. She loves him, yes, oh Ta- Aslan, how she loves him, but there are times when cannot bear being near him.

The littlest, kindest thing sparks it: a flower on her pillow when she wakes, its barely unfolded bloom still wet with mountain dew; a gloriously formed bottle that she'd mentioned only in passing, and days ago, at that; his early escape from a trade meeting to take light lunch with her. Such things as lives are made better by, such things as are more oft forgotten with the passage of time than not. Sometimes, she cannot bear them.

His kindnesses run contrary to all her instincts; she would stare where he smiles gently; she would brush past where he speaks a soft word. Such little things are foreign to her. She is a woman of heat and passion and grand events. For her, such small gentilities should not be of import. And yet, when Cor performs them, they are the most important things in the world.

And on these days, when every haughtiness in her flares like a storm, she cannot help but see how they oppose each other; his warm strength, veiled in softness. Her jagged edges, barely concealing heat and temper and fierce pride. And, on these days, they clash.

She rants and raves, throwing all her jaggedness into him, hoping to crack his kindness. She screams and storms and insults- and he argues, oh, yes, but never with her passion. And, somehow, it is always she who leaves, she who leaves him standing there, with her jagged bits eaten up by his strength.

But, later, when her heat has subsided and, not uncommonly, when the night has fallen, she goes back. Most nights, he is asleep- he knows better than to wait up for her. On these nights, she stands by his side and watches him breathe.

And before dawn, she rouses him and speaks nary a word, pulling him behind her to the stables, onto a horse, up treacherous mountain paths that she has finally learned to follow, and out into a clearing on the high peaks to catch the sun's first rays.

And there, in the clear dawn light that is almost as bright as that of the desert, all their jagged bits and strengths are not opposed.

(You are desert night and desert day, Aravis, my love. Never in between.

And tell me, Cor, could you love me were I any thing save for what I am?)