|The Golden Age
Author: greaves PM
"And we beasts remember, even if Dwarfs forget, that Narnia was never right except when a Son of Adam was King..." Because it doesn't follow that they would lead Narnia into its Golden Age and then it could all just fall away.Rated: Fiction T - English - Peter Pevensie - Chapters: 8 - Words: 27,918 - Reviews: 48 - Favs: 11 - Follows: 25 - Updated: 03-25-13 - Published: 01-10-12 - id: 7730569
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
Warning: There is some very naughty language here. Also, prepare yourself for the cliche.
She supposed she should have suspected her friends would do this to her.
She pushed herself up into a kneeling position, adjusting with a wince the glasses that had been crushed into her face, then removing them entirely to rub at her eyes. Her hand returned smudged with glitter and mascara, and she sighed. She wiped the offending matter onto her jeans and scrubbed about her eyes some more, hoping that she wouldn't too closely resemble a raccoon at the end.
She ran her fingers through her hair slowly, more to make sure that there wasn't any debris caught in it as opposed to actually "combing" it. Her hair was always full of tangles no matter what. And then, glasses restored and all available methods of grooming performed, she started looking around for her friends.
She didn't see anyone.
She was in a sort of clearing—meadow? her vocabulary tried to supply, but it was stuttering still from the effects of the night before—and a small one at that. There was maybe a ten foot radius of grass surrounding her before the trees started. She didn't recognize the area at all, and in any case, she was pretty certain that the wood behind Chase's property didn't contain anything other than oaks and a few maples.
She didn't know what kinds of trees these were, as oaks and maples were the only trees she trusted herself to properly identify, but they weren't oaks or maples. (Beech, maybe? Ash?)
"Hello?" she called out loudly. "Chase? Lily?"
Nothing answered her, and she started to realize how abominably quiet it was. If there was a roadway near here, it wasn't a busy one. And if there were any people, they were doing a remarkable job at being silent.
Marcie stood and staggered a bit. Her foot was starting to fall asleep and she was hung-over. Water and an aspirin sounded wonderful. A toilet, as well.
She walked to the edge of the clearing, then, feeling nervous about actually going into the trees somewhere and getting lost, stopped.
"Deirdre?" she yelled out desperately. If this was just a trick, Deirdre would be the first to give it all up. She always felt too badly about pranks to let them go too far.
Deirdre didn't answer.
Marcie felt a curdling of fear and anger begin in her, combining with her already present headache and forming a truly foul mood. Chase, Jason, Lily, Ryan, Deirdre—she was going to murder them all. Dumping her—still drunk!—in a wood that she didn't know, with no cell phone on her or water or food or anything. Pranks were one thing, and that they all enjoyed. But this was just cruel!
"You fucktards, I'm going to kill you all!" she shouted.
The only reply was some birds chattering in a nearby tree.
Marcie wanted nothing more than to curl back up and fall asleep, wake up, and find out that she was really on the floor of Chase's kitchen and that this whole bit with the trees and clearing was just a dream. It was, even, tempting.
But Marcie's dreams were never very vivid, particularly not when she'd been drinking. And this damned clearing, empty as it was of all signs of civilization, was vivid.
So she did not curl up into a ball. This was in part due to her desperate need to find a toilet and in part a refusal to sit put and get rescued, even if it may have been the more logical course of action. (Inaction?)
Deciding that any direction was as good as any other, Marcie walked forward, glad that her usual habit of losing her shoes when drunk was not in evidence.
Her riding boots, so very in vogue in America, were less so in England, but she'd figured that shoes were shoes and at least she wasn't being bluntly American by wearing sneakers everywhere. At least boots were practical for walking around in the wilderness. Not that she'd intended to wear them in the wilderness, or wilderness any more wild than the acre or so of land behind Chase's house.
Chase had invited her and Deirdre, Jason, Ryan, and Lily to his absurdly nice, parent-free home to celebrate the end of Hilary term, as they were all in the same residential college, shared a number of classes, and had done some bonding over Professor Milligan's dry lecture style.
Unfortunately, neither Professor Milligan nor any other professor had instructed her on what to do if she woke up in the middle of nowhere without any means of contacting the outside world (and probably no satellite connections even if she did have those means). And because Marcie had had no such lectures, was victim to a vicious hangover—she didn't think that any of them would put something in her drink, even for a joke—and was stumbling despite her best efforts to place her feet carefully, Marcie was swearing freely in a sort of half-mumble, adding in bits of British cursing whenever it sounded good.
Another thing her friends were good for was swearing. They pretended to intellectualism and being beyond such tawdry nonsense for of course they could express their displeasure perfectly well without profanity, but none of them besides, occasionally, Jason, was actually above it. "Bloody" and "blast" didn't sound as good in her American accent—and oh, how they had insisted that it was she with the accent—but they were wonderful as curse words.
Marcie wasn't sure how long she'd been walking after a while, besides "a while" and a guess at fifteen minutes. So probably a half mile at the pace she was going. Maybe. In any case, she hadn't seen anyone for "a while" and had to pee as was only possible after lots of alcohol, first thing in the morning.
Well. She thought it was morning. The sun was out.
So, not seeing anyone and dismissing modesty as ridiculous at this point, Marcie found a patch of grass and made do without toilet paper or toilet.
She continued walking, still swearing, but more wearily now. Eventually she stopped altogether and proceeded with only a huff every now and then. She'd noticed that there had been an awful lot of birds about, flying overhead, perching on trees, flying in a sort of hop from tree to tree after her. Crows, she thought the majority of them were, though there were a fair amount of songbirds, too, all of them chirping and cawing at one another quietly.
She shook herself. Birds are not following you, Marcie. Nor are they talking. You're hung-over and delusional.
But the trees, now those were rustling quite a bit and Marcie didn't feel much of a breeze. And, well, it was strange, but it didn't seem to be March anymore. Spring was in full swing if the pollen floating about, the leaves, the color was anything to go by. She couldn't believe that she hadn't noticed it before, but supposed it was just as well since she wasn't dressed for March with nothing more than jeans and a sweater—It's called a jumper, Marcie, she could practically hear Chase saying, with mock-exasperation—which she was actually a bit warm in. And she couldn't recall why she would have been outside last night, even with drinking, without a coat. She always lost her shoes, but remembered her coat.
Marcie's bad mood wore off and was replaced with a growing sense of uneasiness. There were too many strange things going on to be simply mad. She'd called out multiple times on what was now a very long walk to no avail. And, dear god, she was starving. Certainly that explained some of the roiling in her gut?
It was another half hour or so before she saw the beginning of a break in the trees.
She was covered in scratches and detritus by now. She'd shifted away from a particularly forward crow zooming ever closer around her face, only to then careen sideways into a very thorny bush. Hardly ideal. Some fluffy bits of her sweater—jumper—had been claimed by that bush, as well as a small tangle of her hair. Only vociferous swearing and a short breathing exercise had calmed her. And she was pretty sure that she'd seen that bloody crow make off with some of her hair. She was certain that it was a crow, now.
But sure enough, after passing through the final bunch of trees, Marcie was greeted by a prairie. What she thought was a prairie. She hadn't had geography since fifth grade. There were some small hills, the occasional tree, and the whole of it was covered with tall grasses. (Not the trees. The trees were normal and grass-free and, she identified delightedly, oak.) It was really very pretty how it was blowing in the wind, she reflected.
Unfortunately, there were no longer trees to shade her eyes from the sun, and the light provoked her headache. Blinking excessively, Marcie scanned the land before her, hoping to spy some sort of building or road. She'd settle for a hiking trail, even, or a river, because she was dreadfully thirsty besides being hungry and having a headache. She didn't even care if the water had parasites in it by now.
Marcie noticed a rather large blob in the distance with something detestably shiny at the center. She rubbed her eyes with a growl then looked again, shading her vision with a hand.
Well. It certainly wasn't a car.
AN: So. Here it is. My utterly original take on the "girl falls into Narnia" story. Shocking, I know. But I would like to know what you think, so please leave a review.