rosa_cotton (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
rosa_cotton) wrote2012-10-22 01:57 pm
rosa_cotton) wrote2012-10-22 01:57 pm
Entry tags:
chronicles of narnia fanfiction
Title: This Is (Not) My Idea
Rating: PG (K+)
Disclaimer: The Chronicles of Narnia, all characters, places, and related terms belong to C.S. Lewis.
Summary: …Or how the ending that was but which really was not supposed to be, was.
~~~
“Mr. Kirke and Miss Plummer, sir.”
The secretary either completely misses or tactfully ignores how the gentleman jumps a foot in the air in surprise, slams a drawer in his desk shut with a rather guilty expression, and a suspicious blur of fur jumps off the desk and disappears into a dark corner. She only opens the door wider to admit the young people into the office before promptly returning to her typewriter.
“Ah, good day, Digory, Polly,” the man stands up to greet them, motioning to the two cushioned chairs in front of his desk. “Come in, come in. Thank you for responding to my message so quickly.”
Digory and Polly come reluctantly forward, jerking away from each other when their shoulders accidentally bump, and slowly sit down, their greetings in return soft and almost inaudible.
The gentleman retakes his seat and peers at his visitors over his large spectacles.
Digory slouches in his chair, arms folded across his chest, his expression an unusual mixture of stubbornness, displeasure, and unease, gaze focused straight ahead. He taps one foot impatiently. The man’s gaze shifts to Polly. She sits up straight on the edge of her chair, expression uncertain, her gaze often darting nervously towards the boy. Both young people – intentionally or unintentionally, he cannot be sure – are turned slightly away from one another, pressed to the side of their chairs farthest from each other.
“You are welcome, sir,” Digory breaks into his thoughts. “I—” he glances at Polly only to sharply look away when his eyes meet hers. “We actually were hoping to see you.” He lifts his chin in that familiar sign of preparing for an argument. “There is something we wish to discu—”
The man straightens in his chair, a brief flash of panic in his eyes, and interrupts Digory. “There is something very important I need to tell both of you,” he says loudly in a very stern tone.
The two young people’s gazes snap to him. They have never heard him speak like this before. They are so surprised that the girl does not point out his rudeness, and the boy makes no attempt to finish what he intended to say.
The gentleman lifts up a thick stack of papers off the top of his desk for a moment. He levels a glare at the two.
“You know how all chaos breaks loose when authors’ characters do not find out about changes to their storyline until it happens to them in the book. They threaten not to appear in the sequel. The authors suffer sleepless nights.” He winces. “And because I have no desire to go through that, I am telling you now before I send this” (he waves the papers in the air and slaps them down on his desk) “to my publisher. It is done and cannot be undone!” he cries.
Digory and Polly stare at the gentleman open-mouthed, floored by how this interview is going.
“What is?!” Polly stammers, bewildered.
“Your ending, that’s what! I have rewritten your ending so that you two are not married at the end,” he announces firmly. “And I will not hear any buts about it!”
Polly’s eyebrows shoot up, her stunned expression gradually changing to something akin to resignation. She glances at Digory before staring at the floor, her shoulders slumping.
“But—” Digory starts automatically, completely thrown off balance.
“I just said no buts!” the gentleman’s voice is a high pitch as he wags a finger violently in the air. “It is for the best, I assure you. That is what revisions are for, to make the story better. So, in your best interests, and those of my readers, you two shall have nothing to do with each in the other books. I want both of you to forget everything I said in the past about your original ending, and not to think about it, or each other in that way, anymore,” he orders.
“You liked our ending, though,” Polly claims after a moment, puzzled.
Digory nods, mutely.
“Authors can be mistaken. You two are very good friends, have been for a long time – you’re now eighteen, nineteen? – yet it will not do. Friendship does not always change to love. And in this case there has been too much strain and conflict between you two. Both in the story and off the page; yes, stories have trickled back down to me…,” the gentleman shakes his head in disapproval.
His visitors have the grace to blush guiltily and shift uncomfortably in their chairs.
Digory gathers the courage to point out, “All friends go through rough patches.”
“Does not matter, Digory, my lad. There is too much a difference between how mature you both are.”
The young people process this information, eyes moving from the gentleman to their feet to the grandfather clock against the wall, anywhere but to the other.
“We, we are not, would never be on same plane?” The question comes from Polly. “Even with Narnia, Aslan, and everything, we would never get to the same place to work out?”
“Yes, that is putting it exactly,” the man acknowledges, thankful he seems to be getting his point across.
Digory glances over at his friend with a frown. She sighs deeply and begins tracing the patterns on the right arm of the chair with her finger.
“Your behavior is very disappointing in Charn, Digory.”
“I was ten years old!” he protests.
“Either way—”
It is polite, well-mannered Polly who interrupts this time to defend her friend. “Digory has changed since then! Boys do not mature at the same rate as girls, sir! Boys take longer to grow up. If girls were willing to give them more time and be patient, perhaps it would be possible…,” she trails off, glancing to her right.
Digory looks at her gratefully. This time when their eyes meet, the look stretches out between them.
“No, no, no! Stop it!” the gentleman breaks the moment, drawing the boy’s and girl’s attention back to him. “I said not to think about that anymore; were you not listening?!”
He receives a dark scowl from the former and an apologetic look from the latter.
“Moving on,” he huffs, shifting through the papers on his desk, “I am still considering who I will put each of you with instead. There is no need to be panicking about this, maybe once I eventually have a manuscript of the second or third book. Now…Polly.”
“You do not have to do anything,” the girl replies swiftly, eying him warily, blushing furiously. “I am willing to become an old maid.” She misses Digory shaking his head vigorously.
“Nonsense!” The gentleman brings forth a paper from the pile. “I have three possibilities. First there is Eustace Scrubb—”
“Who?” Digory and Polly demand in unison.
“You do not know him. Will not for a while. Actually, I thought of him and Jill because of you two, your argument in the Hall of Figures. Eustace will be very good at arguing. But, considering when he will appear later in the story, you may be too old for him, Polly. And I really had my heart set on him and Jill…”
“Then in that case—”
“But, sir—!”
“So then!” he ignores the protests, reaches for a new paper. “Maybe Edmund Pevensie would be possible. He and you, Digory, are quite similar in some ways. But perhaps he would not quite be suitable. And last but not least to consider,” he turns to yet another paper, “and I have mentioned him to you at a previous meeting, is Caspian X.”
“Is he the one who will catch the fancy of three or four girls?” Digory asks with horror. He shifts closer to Polly protectively who now nervously taps her fingers on the arm of her chair.
The gentleman frowns. “Not with how I am going to write the stories, of course not! But readers may misinterpret it, unfortunately, and if down the road a filmmaker wants to make a film adaptation, well then…,” he trails off, highly offended.
“I’m sorry, sir,” the boy apologizes, his face sheepish.
The man nods in acceptance. His frown deepens before he rouses himself with a shake of the head and searches again through the papers, tossing unwanted sheets into the air.
“On the other hand, it will be trickier finding someone for you, my boy—”
“No!” the shout bounces about the office.
The gentleman pauses in his task and peers over his spectacles. Apparently the shout does not seem to have been directed at him as his two visitors are turned to each other rather than to him. The girl’s eyes are wide as saucers, her body frozen, and the boy breathes heavily, his eyes flashing.
“No,” Digory repeats more quietly. “I, I will do it. It will have to be us. None of these boys knows you. And, apparently, I am…,” a light humorless chuckle escapes him. “I’m willing for us to keep our ending.”
Polly turns to stare at the small lion figurine resting on a corner of the desk. She suddenly looks so defeated, like she is about to burst into tears. She slowly faces Digory once more.
She answers in a wavering yet firm voice. “I will not force you into something you do not want to do, Digory. The ending, our new endings will work out somehow. Remember, this is why you wanted us to come here in the first place. To ask for our ending to be changed. Do not do this because you now feel guilty, or pity me. I will not let you.
“You, you were right about some of the things you said three days ago. I do not want you to be miserable in this ending if you will be more content not being stuck with me, little miss wise-and-perfect, and instead be off adventuring, or, or, or with someone like Courtney Cornwallis,” she breaks off and lowers her head.
The gentleman who has been following everything closely shudders violently and retreats hastily behind his papers.
Digory reaches out and grips Polly’s hand tightly. His action causes her to gasp in surprise and bring her gaze up to his face. His eyes steadily hold hers.
“No, I— I’ve made a mess of things again as I am oft.” He runs his free hand through his hair in frustration. “I did not mean any of it, truly. With you I could never be ‘stuck.’ If anything, it is the other way around. You are the one who have put up with me and everything. For years it has been us. You are my dearest friend, Polly, and much more,” he confesses shyly, gently squeezing her hand.
Polly’s heartbeat quickens, and color floods her cheeks as she looks at him searchingly.
“And Courtney,” a flush runs up Digory’s neck and he shifts uncomfortably, “she is…”
“Not me,” Polly offers quietly. She shoulders sag at Digory’s guilty nod.
He presses on urgently, “But nor is she you. Only, it has taken me a long time to see. It always was you, with your faith, encouragement, support. I am sorry I did not realize sooner. I will make mistakes. We will not ever fight again. I can’t promise that. But, Polly, what you said earlier about being patient and waiting...were you referring to…I mean, could, would you be willing to… please?” He looks like he is ten again, when he stood before Aslan and made his request concerning his ill mother. His brow furrows with uncertainty, dark eyes hardly daring to hope. He waits, holding his breath.
Solemnly for a long moment Polly studies him, her eyes sweeping over his features. Tentatively she brings up her left hand to his cheek.
“Oh, Digory. Yes, I was referring to us. I love you the way you are, faults and all.” Her confession causes him to reel back, shocked. She laughs quietly and drops her hand to cover his. “Did you truly not know? That is why I have watched and waited, not wanting to walk away,” she explains softly.
A joyful, awed smile lights Digory’s face. “And I love you,” he admits. Butterflies flutter in his stomach as a genuine smile, free of shadows and doubts, spreads across Polly’s face. His cups her cheek and gently draws her towards him.
“Ahem!”
The loud cough stops the two young people inches from each other, reminding them where they are. Embarrassed, they pull back. Digory drops his hand to his side, but squeezes her hand. They turn to the gentleman, still busy with his papers.
“Sir,” Digory calls.
The man lowers his papers and blinks at them.
“Would it be possible not to change the ending of our story, please?”
He strokes his beard thoughtfully. “You really are not kin to changing it?”
“No, sir,” Polly assures, the hints of a smile tugging on her lips.
“I will have to think about it,” he frowns for good measure.
“Just, sir,” puts in Digory, “may our ending happen off the page?” He shares a glance with Polly.
“Eh? Simply inform the reader but not show them how?”
“Exactly.”
“Why that was my first intention for the ending!” he exclaims. He sighs. “I shall see what is possible,” he hedges.
The young people smile gratefully. They stand along with the gentleman.
“Thank you for your time,” he says, shaking each one by the hand.
“Thank you, sir.”
“Goodbye, sir.”
As they leave the office, Digory draws Polly’s arm through his, and she gives him a shy, sweet smile. They give the gentleman a final wave before the door closes behind them.
A huge sigh escapes the man as he collapses into his chair. Feeling like he has just taken part in a tense battle, he mops his forehead with his pocket handkerchief. For several minutes he shuts his eyes, recovering.
“Thank you, Mr. Lewis,” a squeaky voice calls out.
He discovers the little mouse gazing at him from the edge of the desk. The mouse sweeps off his cap and bows deeply.
“Thank the Lord,” Mr. Lewis smiles with vast relief. “We grabbed the bull by the horns and ended up where we began. Hallelujah!”
THE END
Rating: PG (K+)
Disclaimer: The Chronicles of Narnia, all characters, places, and related terms belong to C.S. Lewis.
Summary: …Or how the ending that was but which really was not supposed to be, was.
~~~
“Mr. Kirke and Miss Plummer, sir.”
The secretary either completely misses or tactfully ignores how the gentleman jumps a foot in the air in surprise, slams a drawer in his desk shut with a rather guilty expression, and a suspicious blur of fur jumps off the desk and disappears into a dark corner. She only opens the door wider to admit the young people into the office before promptly returning to her typewriter.
“Ah, good day, Digory, Polly,” the man stands up to greet them, motioning to the two cushioned chairs in front of his desk. “Come in, come in. Thank you for responding to my message so quickly.”
Digory and Polly come reluctantly forward, jerking away from each other when their shoulders accidentally bump, and slowly sit down, their greetings in return soft and almost inaudible.
The gentleman retakes his seat and peers at his visitors over his large spectacles.
Digory slouches in his chair, arms folded across his chest, his expression an unusual mixture of stubbornness, displeasure, and unease, gaze focused straight ahead. He taps one foot impatiently. The man’s gaze shifts to Polly. She sits up straight on the edge of her chair, expression uncertain, her gaze often darting nervously towards the boy. Both young people – intentionally or unintentionally, he cannot be sure – are turned slightly away from one another, pressed to the side of their chairs farthest from each other.
“You are welcome, sir,” Digory breaks into his thoughts. “I—” he glances at Polly only to sharply look away when his eyes meet hers. “We actually were hoping to see you.” He lifts his chin in that familiar sign of preparing for an argument. “There is something we wish to discu—”
The man straightens in his chair, a brief flash of panic in his eyes, and interrupts Digory. “There is something very important I need to tell both of you,” he says loudly in a very stern tone.
The two young people’s gazes snap to him. They have never heard him speak like this before. They are so surprised that the girl does not point out his rudeness, and the boy makes no attempt to finish what he intended to say.
The gentleman lifts up a thick stack of papers off the top of his desk for a moment. He levels a glare at the two.
“You know how all chaos breaks loose when authors’ characters do not find out about changes to their storyline until it happens to them in the book. They threaten not to appear in the sequel. The authors suffer sleepless nights.” He winces. “And because I have no desire to go through that, I am telling you now before I send this” (he waves the papers in the air and slaps them down on his desk) “to my publisher. It is done and cannot be undone!” he cries.
Digory and Polly stare at the gentleman open-mouthed, floored by how this interview is going.
“What is?!” Polly stammers, bewildered.
“Your ending, that’s what! I have rewritten your ending so that you two are not married at the end,” he announces firmly. “And I will not hear any buts about it!”
Polly’s eyebrows shoot up, her stunned expression gradually changing to something akin to resignation. She glances at Digory before staring at the floor, her shoulders slumping.
“But—” Digory starts automatically, completely thrown off balance.
“I just said no buts!” the gentleman’s voice is a high pitch as he wags a finger violently in the air. “It is for the best, I assure you. That is what revisions are for, to make the story better. So, in your best interests, and those of my readers, you two shall have nothing to do with each in the other books. I want both of you to forget everything I said in the past about your original ending, and not to think about it, or each other in that way, anymore,” he orders.
“You liked our ending, though,” Polly claims after a moment, puzzled.
Digory nods, mutely.
“Authors can be mistaken. You two are very good friends, have been for a long time – you’re now eighteen, nineteen? – yet it will not do. Friendship does not always change to love. And in this case there has been too much strain and conflict between you two. Both in the story and off the page; yes, stories have trickled back down to me…,” the gentleman shakes his head in disapproval.
His visitors have the grace to blush guiltily and shift uncomfortably in their chairs.
Digory gathers the courage to point out, “All friends go through rough patches.”
“Does not matter, Digory, my lad. There is too much a difference between how mature you both are.”
The young people process this information, eyes moving from the gentleman to their feet to the grandfather clock against the wall, anywhere but to the other.
“We, we are not, would never be on same plane?” The question comes from Polly. “Even with Narnia, Aslan, and everything, we would never get to the same place to work out?”
“Yes, that is putting it exactly,” the man acknowledges, thankful he seems to be getting his point across.
Digory glances over at his friend with a frown. She sighs deeply and begins tracing the patterns on the right arm of the chair with her finger.
“Your behavior is very disappointing in Charn, Digory.”
“I was ten years old!” he protests.
“Either way—”
It is polite, well-mannered Polly who interrupts this time to defend her friend. “Digory has changed since then! Boys do not mature at the same rate as girls, sir! Boys take longer to grow up. If girls were willing to give them more time and be patient, perhaps it would be possible…,” she trails off, glancing to her right.
Digory looks at her gratefully. This time when their eyes meet, the look stretches out between them.
“No, no, no! Stop it!” the gentleman breaks the moment, drawing the boy’s and girl’s attention back to him. “I said not to think about that anymore; were you not listening?!”
He receives a dark scowl from the former and an apologetic look from the latter.
“Moving on,” he huffs, shifting through the papers on his desk, “I am still considering who I will put each of you with instead. There is no need to be panicking about this, maybe once I eventually have a manuscript of the second or third book. Now…Polly.”
“You do not have to do anything,” the girl replies swiftly, eying him warily, blushing furiously. “I am willing to become an old maid.” She misses Digory shaking his head vigorously.
“Nonsense!” The gentleman brings forth a paper from the pile. “I have three possibilities. First there is Eustace Scrubb—”
“Who?” Digory and Polly demand in unison.
“You do not know him. Will not for a while. Actually, I thought of him and Jill because of you two, your argument in the Hall of Figures. Eustace will be very good at arguing. But, considering when he will appear later in the story, you may be too old for him, Polly. And I really had my heart set on him and Jill…”
“Then in that case—”
“But, sir—!”
“So then!” he ignores the protests, reaches for a new paper. “Maybe Edmund Pevensie would be possible. He and you, Digory, are quite similar in some ways. But perhaps he would not quite be suitable. And last but not least to consider,” he turns to yet another paper, “and I have mentioned him to you at a previous meeting, is Caspian X.”
“Is he the one who will catch the fancy of three or four girls?” Digory asks with horror. He shifts closer to Polly protectively who now nervously taps her fingers on the arm of her chair.
The gentleman frowns. “Not with how I am going to write the stories, of course not! But readers may misinterpret it, unfortunately, and if down the road a filmmaker wants to make a film adaptation, well then…,” he trails off, highly offended.
“I’m sorry, sir,” the boy apologizes, his face sheepish.
The man nods in acceptance. His frown deepens before he rouses himself with a shake of the head and searches again through the papers, tossing unwanted sheets into the air.
“On the other hand, it will be trickier finding someone for you, my boy—”
“No!” the shout bounces about the office.
The gentleman pauses in his task and peers over his spectacles. Apparently the shout does not seem to have been directed at him as his two visitors are turned to each other rather than to him. The girl’s eyes are wide as saucers, her body frozen, and the boy breathes heavily, his eyes flashing.
“No,” Digory repeats more quietly. “I, I will do it. It will have to be us. None of these boys knows you. And, apparently, I am…,” a light humorless chuckle escapes him. “I’m willing for us to keep our ending.”
Polly turns to stare at the small lion figurine resting on a corner of the desk. She suddenly looks so defeated, like she is about to burst into tears. She slowly faces Digory once more.
She answers in a wavering yet firm voice. “I will not force you into something you do not want to do, Digory. The ending, our new endings will work out somehow. Remember, this is why you wanted us to come here in the first place. To ask for our ending to be changed. Do not do this because you now feel guilty, or pity me. I will not let you.
“You, you were right about some of the things you said three days ago. I do not want you to be miserable in this ending if you will be more content not being stuck with me, little miss wise-and-perfect, and instead be off adventuring, or, or, or with someone like Courtney Cornwallis,” she breaks off and lowers her head.
The gentleman who has been following everything closely shudders violently and retreats hastily behind his papers.
Digory reaches out and grips Polly’s hand tightly. His action causes her to gasp in surprise and bring her gaze up to his face. His eyes steadily hold hers.
“No, I— I’ve made a mess of things again as I am oft.” He runs his free hand through his hair in frustration. “I did not mean any of it, truly. With you I could never be ‘stuck.’ If anything, it is the other way around. You are the one who have put up with me and everything. For years it has been us. You are my dearest friend, Polly, and much more,” he confesses shyly, gently squeezing her hand.
Polly’s heartbeat quickens, and color floods her cheeks as she looks at him searchingly.
“And Courtney,” a flush runs up Digory’s neck and he shifts uncomfortably, “she is…”
“Not me,” Polly offers quietly. She shoulders sag at Digory’s guilty nod.
He presses on urgently, “But nor is she you. Only, it has taken me a long time to see. It always was you, with your faith, encouragement, support. I am sorry I did not realize sooner. I will make mistakes. We will not ever fight again. I can’t promise that. But, Polly, what you said earlier about being patient and waiting...were you referring to…I mean, could, would you be willing to… please?” He looks like he is ten again, when he stood before Aslan and made his request concerning his ill mother. His brow furrows with uncertainty, dark eyes hardly daring to hope. He waits, holding his breath.
Solemnly for a long moment Polly studies him, her eyes sweeping over his features. Tentatively she brings up her left hand to his cheek.
“Oh, Digory. Yes, I was referring to us. I love you the way you are, faults and all.” Her confession causes him to reel back, shocked. She laughs quietly and drops her hand to cover his. “Did you truly not know? That is why I have watched and waited, not wanting to walk away,” she explains softly.
A joyful, awed smile lights Digory’s face. “And I love you,” he admits. Butterflies flutter in his stomach as a genuine smile, free of shadows and doubts, spreads across Polly’s face. His cups her cheek and gently draws her towards him.
“Ahem!”
The loud cough stops the two young people inches from each other, reminding them where they are. Embarrassed, they pull back. Digory drops his hand to his side, but squeezes her hand. They turn to the gentleman, still busy with his papers.
“Sir,” Digory calls.
The man lowers his papers and blinks at them.
“Would it be possible not to change the ending of our story, please?”
He strokes his beard thoughtfully. “You really are not kin to changing it?”
“No, sir,” Polly assures, the hints of a smile tugging on her lips.
“I will have to think about it,” he frowns for good measure.
“Just, sir,” puts in Digory, “may our ending happen off the page?” He shares a glance with Polly.
“Eh? Simply inform the reader but not show them how?”
“Exactly.”
“Why that was my first intention for the ending!” he exclaims. He sighs. “I shall see what is possible,” he hedges.
The young people smile gratefully. They stand along with the gentleman.
“Thank you for your time,” he says, shaking each one by the hand.
“Thank you, sir.”
“Goodbye, sir.”
As they leave the office, Digory draws Polly’s arm through his, and she gives him a shy, sweet smile. They give the gentleman a final wave before the door closes behind them.
A huge sigh escapes the man as he collapses into his chair. Feeling like he has just taken part in a tense battle, he mops his forehead with his pocket handkerchief. For several minutes he shuts his eyes, recovering.
“Thank you, Mr. Lewis,” a squeaky voice calls out.
He discovers the little mouse gazing at him from the edge of the desk. The mouse sweeps off his cap and bows deeply.
“Thank the Lord,” Mr. Lewis smiles with vast relief. “We grabbed the bull by the horns and ended up where we began. Hallelujah!”
THE END