dear_of_heart | Recent Entries

The woman who walks out of the woods, 19th century backpack slung over her shoulders, hasn't been here in a long time. One might be forgiven for not noticing -- though she's a couple years older in appearance than she was last, she's much less stressed or worried than she ever was before.

"Oh!" she says, turning in a circle. Then she smiles, bright. "It really is Milliways."

She settles on a boulder by the lake, and takes out some cheese and bread. She'll head indoors in due time.

Cora, perhaps, does not live happily ever after—but she certainly lives mostly content until her death, and fully in joy after that.

In the years between canon and Aslan’s Country, Cora:

· Loses much of her family when they leave for Earth after Aslan’s offer to let them go there instead of staying in a Narnia no longer under Telmarine power

· Moves to Cair Paravel, the capital city of Narnia

· Is mentored by Doctor Cornelius, Royal Tutor and good friend of any one of the good folk of Narnia

· Starts a children’s school in Caer Paravel

· After Doctor Cornelius’s passing in some twenty years and knowing her school to be well-established, moves back to Beruna

· Spends her last years as the headmistress of what used to be the Bridge School and is now the River Academy

· Dies in her mid-sixties, which is a fair age in her world, before Prince Rilian is kidnapped or the Queen killed.

After that she goes to Aslan’s Country and finds her heart‘s hopes, realized in Milliways and during canon, truly fulfilled in that land.

She does miss her friends in Milliways, but by the time canon comes it has been months since the pantry door has shown anything but the pantry beyond; and though she has checked the door in the Chipstede schoolhouse several times (earlier, rather than later—the town has been mostly abandoned and the schoolhouse is eventually lost in the tangle of the forest) she has never found it to show differently. This is one of her few refrets--that she lost it, not that she found it in the first place.

When they meet the soldiers, and those of the Telmarine army held captive, Cora feels a worry sweep her. There are so many, and she does not see Miles anywhere among them. She begins to ask men, here and there, if they have seen him.

“You must have,” she tells the man who led many men, including those of Chipstede. “He has brown hair—he’s only just turned sixteen,” and her voice breaks, slightly.

The man sighs, and looks at her. “Tall boy, was he?” he asks, softly, as Cora nods. “I thought that was the Miles you meant.” He watches her as the realization dawns and she begins to shake her head. “He has been dead this past week, miss. We do not have Narnian sorcery, to heal gut wounds.”

Cora murmurs a broken thank you, and flees back to the Narnian camp. She cannot find it in herself to be glad, even when she catches sight of the blond hair of Prince—King Caspian, unharmed and noble. Miles had been young, so young; that he died fighting for the wrong king seems an injustice to her beyond reparation.

That night, as she sits and mourns, a boy—young man—comes up to her. “Is aught amiss, my lady?” he asks, with a formality she is unused to.

She looks over, and stops a moment. He is dressed well, and with a sword at his side, and he is so very young. But she knows him. “A friend of mine is dead,” she tells him, more bluntly than she would if he wasn’t Edmund. And she takes a shaky breath, and tries to smile for his sake. “But thank you, your majesty.”

There is almost a noble grief to his bearing, at that, and he offers her a handkerchief; not the cleanest in the world, he tells her sheepishly, but she accepts it and uses it to wipe the tears off of her cheeks. They sit there together for maybe a quarter of an hour, and she takes comfort in the quiet companionship, before he is called by one of his sisters—Susan, Cora thinks. She forgets to give him back his handkerchief, and he doesn’t ask for it.

Later that night, when Doctor Cornelius finds out, he puts an arm around her shoulders and speaks kind words that make her weep. She is glad for the handkerchief, then.

When they stop for the night, Cora is lost in a sort of bemused joy. There is Queen Susan, younger than Cora knows her, and another younger girl who must be Queen Lucy. There are creatures—Talking Animals, she reminds herself sternly, and fauns, and tree-people, but she finds herself nearly too shy to speak with them, too uncertain of what to say. And then there is Him, and Cora cannot even think of how one would speak to Him though some do; he puts her in awe beyond words.

During the dancing, Cora seats herself primly beyond it, though she laughs occasionally at some of the people’s antics.

"Tired?" asks an old man…or dwarf, she’s uncertain, from beside her. "Dancing is an exhausting business."

She laughs, slightly embarrassed, tucking a piece of hair behind her ear. "I...don’t, usually," she admits. "I’m Cora—of Beruna, or Chipstede, most recently."

"Doctor Cornelius," the man replies, the skin by his eyes wrinkling with a smile. "It is a pleasure, Miss Cora."

There’s music outside the window.

It’s loud, and clamorous, and joyful, and Cora—in the middle of writing an equation on the blackboard—can’t help but set down her chalk and look out, curious and wistful and somewhat nettled (how are the students supposed to concentrate with the ruckus, after all?).

There are revelers coming, and there’s not better word for it—dancing, and glad, and at the front of them…a lion?

She has to grasp the frame of the window to stay standing, heart painful with confused hope.

He stops right under the window, and he looks up at her, and her head starts shaking back and forth before she can even speak. “Oh,” she says, unhappily, “don’t, don’t. I’d love to. But I mustn’t, I must stick to my work. And…the children would be frightened, if they saw you.”

"Frightened?" comes Linus’s voice, sneering, from behind. Cora bites her lip, but she can’t look away from the Lion’s eyes. “Who’s she talking to out of the window? Let’s tell the inspector she talks to people out of the window when she ought to be teaching us.”

They boys come crowding, and push her out of the way—but there’s a ululating cry, and Cora isn’t quite sure what’s happening as the boys shriek and flee and she’s left there staring down at him.

“Now, Dear Heart,” says the lion (Aslan, her mind tells her, still not utterly believing), and she leaps down to join them.

Two weeks of civil war, with the town slowly collapsing inwards as the “easy battle” does not cease. Her students grow nastier with each passing day—either trying to shield themselves from the rest of the town’s pain, or taking advantage of it. She can no longer tell. Cora can feel her heart hurting. She does not have the strength necessary to endure war.

When she finds herself in the woods, that afternoon, she begs whoever she is listening to just let it stop. That someone wins—Caspian, her sensible side reminds her, you want Caspian to win—but ever more she doesn’t care who does. Just that the death will stop; even if her people win it will be a reprieve.

As long as the war is finished.

Three days pass, and a swell of new soldiers come into town. They call all young men between sixteen and thirty to be foot soldiers, claiming that they need men to fight this "easy war" against the rebels they say Caspian is gathering. They offer to pay more money than most of the young men, farmers and apprentices, expect to see in a year.

Cora can’t help but wish that this had all happened three, four months ago—back when Miles (oh, young Miles the dreamer, who thought only of glory and defending his country against invaders—he had been pinning his dreams on the north against the giants, but this opportunity is much closer on hand) would not be accepted into their band.

He visits hurriedly, to apologize for missing the lesson they were to going to have that day and to say goodbye.

She grasps his shoulder, and chokes back tears.

“Don’t worry, Miss Cora,” he says, awkwardly. “I’ll take care of myself.”

She forces a smile, says “Of course you will,” and lets him go.

***

Not much later, the Inspector’s sister-in-law (a tall, lean woman, with a hungry air about her) finally speaks out loud what near the whole town has been muttering.

Cora is with the rest of the women, washing clothes by the side of the river.

“How ungrateful that wretched little boy is, when his uncle took care of him as a son.”

There is a murmur of agreement, and Cora feels the protective anger well up in her. “And what need does he have now for the prince, with a son of his own?”

After that, life gets worse.

Cora is worried.

Not just worried, but jittery—anxious. She has trouble paying attention to her ever-restless students, to the mathematics she’s teaching them, as her eyes keep wandering to the window.

The messenger arrived the night before, bringing the news of the new heir, and advising the residents to report any sighting of a young, blond stranger to the small group of soldiers now billeted in the town—they didn’t say why they were on the lookout for him, or who he was, but they didn’t have to.

The prince had run away.

Things tended to happen, to those ill-favored by the king.

She knows (and this is the only thing that comforts her), that he lives—she’s met him, some years older, in Milliways, hasn’t she?

But life in the wild could do any sort of harm to a young boy, and still leave him alive.

She finds herself drawn to the edges of the forest, walking deeper as the days wear on, pleading aloud with someone—maybe the forest spirits, maybe Bacchus of lore, maybe Him—that young Caspian will be protected.

Cora’s standing inside of her (grandparents’) house, a hot cup of tea in hand as she thinks.

There are positions available—a math teacher, in particular. That’s what she’s always been, really. She’s gotten through teaching grammar to the boys and history and geography and reading—they’re all subjects she understands, at least enough to impart some knowledge on.

But math is is not merely something she understands, it is something that she knows like a friend dearer than any other. She loves the intricacies and the numbers and the way everything fits together all orderly and neat and beautiful (it’s something most people wouldn’t expect from a dreamy, romantic, disorganized wisp of a girl—a love of logic, and sense, to go with her myths and her picnics and her tea). She was first in her class all of her years at the Bridge School, after all.

For one year, before she came to care for her grandparents (gone now from this home, and to Beruna where they belong), she was their Junior Maths Instructor. There’s nothing tying her to Chipstede now that her grandparents don't need her anymore except the boys and their education, and Miles; once there’s a replacement for her, she will wish them all good-bye, instruct the teacher firmly to continue on with Miles’ lessons (though he’s nearly finished with them, he’s intelligent) and give the awkward teenager a hug before she heads back to her school (her home) in Beruna.

Wanted: Teaching Staff for the House of Arch Academy

Her thoughtful look turned to a frown. She wants to apply, she does. But once she’s gone from here, from her door in the schoolroom—who knows if she’ll ever find a way back to Milliways? She will not find a job when she knows she might soon enough leave it.

Cora finishes her tea and goes to lay her cup carefully in the basin.

If she sees this Lord Ostium or his Lady Door, however, she will ask, just to make certain that Edmund’s students are in good hands.

Cora’s tried the door every day since she spoke with Edmund. She found her way in once, and spoke with Peter (the Magnificent) and Tirian—who is from the future and already dead and leaving as well, and she doesn’t pretend to understand how that works.

But she hasn’t seen Edmund again, and she hasn’t gone looking for him. He has other friends to say good-bye to, after all, and she does not want to impose. (And she does not want to think this is the last time I am going to speak to you because as long as she hasn’t spoken to him she can pretend that she will the next day. Cora has never professed to be brave, especially when it comes to losing friends.)

On Sunday, she goes to the school house in the early morning and tries the door. For three hours she sits and knits, or cleans chalk dust from the desks, and in what she thinks are fifteen minute intervals tries the door (it would not do to try it too often. The bar might not care for her impoliteness). After this, though, she does not think it will open at all, so Cora gathers her knitting and leaves for home.

And she makes a cup of tea, and tries not to think that she has lost a friend.

(Tries not to hope too much that Aslan’s Country is real and she will see him again.)

Ask Cora, Finn, or Filif anything and/or, tell me something I don't know about them, ^^!

Current Mood: chipper

It’s not like Cora hadn’t realized that Christmas was coming—she’d spent her days knitting presents, and scrounging the shops for gifts (she was particularly fond of a small carving knife she’d found for Miles, a young man she tutored from time to time).

The home had been decorated with decorations and small wardings against calikents, who were said to run wild this time of year--Cora wasn’t certain if they were just superstitions, or as real as the Talking Animals, so she’d helped her grandfather block up all the cracks they could find. In the old days, it was said, there were calikents large enough only find their way in through fireplaces, and would bring gifts to distract those they were invading. Needless to say, everyone in town kept their fires roaring until New Year’s.

But even with preparations, Cora was still startled when she woke up to realize she could smell honey cookies baking, and saw several new hair ribbons on her bedside table—probably from her grandfather, who still gave gifts on Christmas as well as the end of the year, but was never around to thank.

Getting up and dressing hurriedly, Cora tied her hair back with one of them—-a bright, vibrant green—-neatly, before heading out to thank them and help her grandmother, a smile on her face.

It was winter, after all, in Narnia—-and it was Christmas.

It was a good plan, really.

She'd rehearsed it to herself so often that she probably was reciting it in her sleep, and had spent hours writing and erasing logical, compelling speeches. She had spoken variations of these, from down-right imploring to pure logic, nearly a dozen times to her grandparents--while washing dishes, cooking, and folding laundry while her grandfather watched, smoking his pipe.

Her grandmother never did much more than make encouraging noises (though she had agreed with Cora that her second speech was too emotional).

Her grandfather just watched her, quietly puffing away.

One day, however, he let the silence stretch out after one of her speeches, watching as she continued sweeping up his work area (hair tied back messily with a spare ribbon), and removed his pipe, saying:

"It sounds fine, girl. Has for days. What are you so scared about--weren't you the pride of that school in Beruna?"

Even if it had been for mathematics instead of rhetoric, after that there was really nothing to do but schedule an appointment with the Inspector's for the next day.

Cora is hurriedly cleaning up her classroom when the pantry door opens into Milliways, disconcerting her.

She stares into the bar grumpily (doesn't the door realize she's in a hurry?) before a quiet little voice says you can use this. Time stops while you're there--you can practice and make sure you have it right. Maybe...oh, Yrael, would give you advice about convincing people? before she shakes her self and remembers that no, her grandfather was right, and closes the door.

It hasn't turned back into the pantry when she opens it to check, so she closes it again and neatly stacks up slates on a near-by desk. She'll finish cleaning up after her appointment.

***

After returning to her grandparents house to re-braid her hair, wash her face, and change into her best dress (not her fanciest, but her best)--it's a demure cut in a solemn blue wool that her family had sent her for Christmas the year before (her sister had obviously helped--all of the stitching was good, but on the sleeves and accustomed eye could easily pick out where the stitching stopped being in her mother's near-invisible hand).

She walks at a brisk clip, in her practical black boots, to the instructor's door, courage bulstered by her grandmother's last-minute encouragement of you'll convince him to buy a dozen textbooks, and the small piece of paper with the list of recommended books from the bookseller (Cora had made it clear she expected them to be sensible) Miss Agatha had referred her to, all written in a business-like script with their prices beside them.

Cora arrives at the house on time and smiles at the housekeeper who says that Mister Gregory is finishing up some business and will be by in five minutes, as she escorts her to the sitting room. She thanks her, secretly glad that she doesn't have to be confronted immediately, taking solace in the provided tea (with a bowl of sugar! It's something she's grown used to in Milliways, but she's in Narnia--sugar is frivolous and decadent, here).

Her nerves have returned full force, though, by the time the Instructor (a neat man, with gray hair and crisp clothing that she's seen a hundred times but still wonders how he can stand the itch of the starch) strides in twenty minutes later.

She stands, hurriedly, and curtsies.

"So," he says brusquely, "what have you come to discuss?"

Cora is surprised, at first, by the lack of small talk but quickly starts to outline the benefits of buying a grammar book for the school. She thinks she sounds reasonable (she probably doesn't, she probably sounds pathetic, what if he thinks she sounds pathetic?), and suppresses her worries, hoping he's at least open to the idea.

But before she can tell him about the list and Harry's way of viewing the pricing (which is simply genius, looking at things like that), he cuts her off.

"I don't see why we need a grammar book, Miss Cora," he says, pausing long enough for Cora to think he's finished and open her mouth to reply, "that wasn't an invitation to speak. The Bridge School for Girls might have used them, but Bridge's is much wealthier than we are. I had been under the impression that you would be able to teach our boys grammar without a prop. Furthermore, the status of our finances and what the school needs to be furnished with is not for you to worry about. Good-day, Miss Cora," he ends, with not so much as a nod, and swings back out of the room.

Cora stares after him, stunned, until the housekeeper guides her to the door. She very nearly has to guide Cora out of it, as distracted as she is.

It isn't until she's out on the cobblestoned, chilly street, with the late afternoon sun in her eyes that Cora even begins to realize what happened.

He said no, you idiot. He said no. Of course he said no, why would he listen to you? He could have given it a chance. He said no.

She realizes she's walking back in the direction of her grandparents' house, dazedly, before she stops.

You'll convince him to buy a dozen textbooks.

Weren't you the pride of that school in Beruna?

She can half-convince herself that the tears welling up are only from the brisk wind, but she brushes at them savagely with her handkerchief and lets her feet take her, instead, to her school--and with any luck, the relative sanctuary of Milliways.

When Cora was young, she’d pretend that the shop cat was a Talking Animal disguising her identity.

“Well, Mistress Cat,” she’d say sociably, “your coat is looking lovely today.” To which the cat would mrow happily and submit to having her ears scritched.

Even as she grew older, when she knew all of the Talking Animals were gone, she’d ask the cat how she felt about the mouse population, and whether she would deign to join Cora as she balanced her father’s ledger.

The cat never declined.

Shop cats weren’t pets, but when the cat in her advancing age was caught beneath the hooves of horses, and Cora’s father found her corpse in the street, she was inconsolable for days.

Cora wrings out a shirt, surrounded by the other women of the village for safety from the river. No one goes there alone.

And maybe, Cora thinks, they’re right not to.

They haven't died off, I can tell you that. At least, not all of them.

If Talking Animals are still alive, why can’t vengeful river gods be?

At least she knows what she could expect from a shop cat—a friend, and loyal mouser.

It seems almost like betrayal that her dear friends from myth would be known by everyone, in the future.

She hopes it to be a betrayal she will live to witness.

---

Cora’s been quiet ever since she returned home from the bar. After two days of near-silence, her grandfather finally finds it in himself to ask in his rusty voice if anything is wrong.

He’s cornered her while she’s unpinning the clothes that had been hung up to dry, smoking his well-loved pipe with the dearly-bought tobacco from Archenland.

She doesn’t know what to say—actually considering, for a long moment, telling him about Milliways, about what she’d learned from the future Narnian—Tirian.

Finally, she looks back up at him and smiles. “There’s nothing wrong, Grandfather. Things have just been…busy.”

Cora has never been known for lying, so her grandfather just looks at her for a long moment before patting her on the shoulder, harrumphing.

Her smile turns softer as she watches him stump back into the house.

I cannot imagine Narnia without Talking Animals in it.

She sighs and continues to unpin the clothing.

     Cora is plotting.
     First of all, there is the handkerchief that she just finished embroidering last night at Milliways (a young lady can never have too many of those), with a fancy 'I' in light blue thread, and trailing flowers around the edges. She doubts her grandmother will notice that she has filched the thread (and perhaps "filching" is too strong a word--she did buy the spool herself), and hopes that her grandfather would likewise not notice the missing canvas she's used to wrap it.
     She considered just tying it up in a hair-ribbon, but that seemed a little underdone.
     It is the work of a moment to carefully tuck her best dress into the satchel, but thinking of a good reason to go to the schoolhouse on a Saturday is a bit more difficult.
     "Grandmother? I think I left some embroidery at the schoolhouse yesterday, I'll be back in just a few moments," she calls into the kitchen.
     "That's fine, dear, but be quick about it--I'll need some help with supper."
     Cora smiles, ducking out of the house, glad that time never seems to pass while she is at Milliways.

Cora sighed contentedly at the deserted school room. Her students were good boys, but very energetic—which was to be expected, at their age. At the end of the day, she loved the abandoned silence as she started to clean the school room. She gathered the boys’ chalkboards, wiping them clean of their remnant equations with a rag cloth and bucket of water that’d been brought in from the pump that morning.

After carefully stacking them, Cora opened the small school room pantry door and balanced the chalkboards precariously on their shelf. Closing the door, she returned to her task, picking up the various chalk pieces and putting them into their box, occasionally having to hitch up her skirt and wrestle the pieces from under chairs. As was common, a large number had broken into smaller halves (she’d have to enter that into the inventory: 1 batch new chalk pieces, Friday the 12th)

Satisfied that she had collected the last pieces, Cora stood and dusted her dress off, somewhat ineffectively, with a triumphant smile. She quickly neatened the chalk pieces in their little wooden box, and latched it (she had asked Miles to fashion a simple leather clasp after the box had been accidentally knocked over, spilling its contents, one too many times).

Exhausted from her duties and not paying much attention, Cora opened the pantry door and shoved the box in absentmindedly—the shelf was at shoulder height and impossible to miss. However, instead of the solid sliding noise of the box landing on its shelf, there was a moment of silence before a loud clatter.

Startled, Cora looked back through the door.