Disclaimer: If I owned Narnia, I would be there right now. Obviously, I'm here, so unfortunately, I don't.

Note: Reviews are love, reviewers are lovely, thank you. This is set after The Voyage of the Dawn Treader, so Lucy's just been told she will not return to Narnia. I would be sad, too.

Music listened to while writing: both Narnia soundtracks, and "Prelude to the Afternoon of a Faun," by Debussy. Give it a listen, if you ever come across the work.

—viennacantabile

meditations

four – stargazer

.

Lucy has changed so much.

This is not the first time this has happened, thinks Mr. Pevensie. There was once before, when he was sent back from the war to find that his Lucy had become a little girl with foreign stars in her eyes and a look as if she was always brimming with a delightful secret that was hers and hers alone.

But this time is different. This time, there is only a heavy sorrow that clings to her body like a shadow. There is a soundless mourning in her eyes that he has never seen before. And she is older—so much older—than she ever used to be.

And tonight, she is silent.

After a late supper, Lucy slips out of the country cottage they are living in for the summer. Mrs. Pevensie sees her go.

"Dear, won't you please go talk to her?" she says worriedly, motioning to the door. "You—she always opened up to you, more than anyone."

After a few moments of indecision, he nods, and kisses her lightly. Mrs. Pevensie anxiously watches him go.

Mr. Pevensie finds his youngest daughter lying in the grass behind the cottage. He gingerly sits down next to her, carefully settling his stiff right leg on the ground.

They sit in companionable silence for a time, until Lucy gives a small sigh.

"Lucy, dear," Mr. Pevensie says now, "what are you doing out here at this time of the night?"

"I'm watching the stars come out," she says, so quietly that Mr. Pevensie must strain to hear her. "And—I'm looking for the Leopard. He's late tonight."

"The Leopard," repeats Mr. Pevensie. "Now, that's one I haven't heard of." He lies down on the grass next to her and stares up at the sky. "Do show it to me when you see it, won't you, Lu?"

"Of course, Father," she says. Lucy's clear voice now carries easily over to him in the silence. "But—I'm afraid you won't be able to see him. Even if I show him to you."

"Really now," smiles Mr. Pevensie, playing along with what he supposes is a game. "Whyever not?"

She looks at him and he is startled, because she does not possess the eyes of a child anymore.

"Because you haven't been to Narnia."

At the mention of this name he has not heard for years, Mr. Pevensie feels a strange, but lovely shiver pass through his body. And for a moment, his leg is free of the pain that has dogged him since his return from the battlefield. "Narnia, did you say?" he repeats slowly. "Where's that?"

Lucy heaves a great sigh that seems to contain all of the heartbreak and loneliness in the world. She doesn't answer for awhile.

"Nowhere on Earth, Father," she finally says. "And nowhere I may go again."

They lie in silence. At last, Lucy lifts her hand to the night sky.

"There he is," she says simply.

Mr. Pevensie follows the direction she is pointing to and sees nothing but a great black expanse of sky. "Lucy," he says, puzzled, "Lucy, there's nothing there."

Again she glances at him, and Mr. Pevensie is shocked because she looks so very young and old at the same time.

"He's there," she says, staring straight up at the sky, "but you have to know how to look at the right place, at the right time."

Mr. Pevensie digests this.

"Lucy, I think we'd better be heading inside," he says quietly. "It's getting late."

"You go, Father," she says calmly. "I'm fine, really. Tell Mother it's all right, will you?"

Mr. Pevensie blinks in surprise, and wonders how she knows. He gets up to leave.

"Because I know you and Mother," he hears from the ground. Lucy rolls over and gives him a slight smile so reminiscent of her infant self that the corners of his mouth tug up, in spite of himself. "And I want you to know it's all right."

Mr. Pevensie crouches and pats her tentatively on her golden head. "Right, then," he says, then rises once again to leave. "And—Lucy," he says awkwardly. "I know you're growing up, and, well—your mum and I are always here for you, if you need to talk."

Lucy smiles faintly. "I know, Father."

As Mr. Pevensie opens the door of the cottage, he can't help turning to scan the night for the elusive Leopard, just in case. There is nothing. He sighs, and starts to close the door. And suddenly, for one brief moment, the night is alive with stars—and Mr. Pevensie glimpses the outline of a sinuous feline in their midst. He blinks, and the vision is gone. But for that one moment, Mr. Pevensie believes. And for that one moment, he understands his grown-up child and her unshakable faith, how so much has come to pass in so short a time, and how four such extraordinary children reached the end of their childhood in a single year.

He shuts the door, and Mrs. Pevensie hurries over. "Well?" she asks anxiously.

Mr. Pevensie embraces his wife, feeling an odd sense of lightness. "She's all right, dear," he says quietly. "They all are. Just—a bit worn out, I think. It's the times."

He glances outside. To his surprise, Edmund is now lying next to Lucy. Edmund, too, is different since his stay with the Scrubbs, and for perhaps the same reason as his sister.

"I know, I know," Mrs. Pevensie says fretfully. "But I can't help but wonder what effect that horrid business had on them. They're strong, but—they're still just children, you know."

"No," he says, as Peter takes Lucy's other side. His eldest is nearly a man now, Mr. Pevensie notes with some surprise, and no small amount of regret. "I don't believe Peter, Susan, Edmund, and Lucy have been children for a very long time now."

Mrs. Pevensie sighs. "No, I don't suppose they have. They were robbed of that the moment the war began."

Mr. Pevensie embraces her once again, stroking her hair. "They'll be fine," he says quietly. "I know they will."

Susan—dear, lady-child Susan—joins her siblings last of all, and Mr. Pevensie smiles to see the four huddled together.

"Yes," he says, watching his children soak in the pale, silvery light of stars not of this world. "They'll be just fine."

.

.end.

I've never actually finished a non-oneshot before (albeit a very small one), so this is rather momentous. That being said, thanks for sticking around to the end.

—viennacantabile

P.S. Reviews are most ardently appreciated. :)