Autumn Nights - A Narnia Oneshot Challenge

A Rose for A Prayer

TW: Mention of terminal illness

Prompt: Leaves

The mist fell thick over the cemetery, creating a blanket for its sleeping inhabitants. She carefully chose her steps, the soggy leaves clinging to her boots. The morning silence and unnerving cry of crows sent a shiver down her spine.

She never visited cemeteries. They were beastly places.

Walking up to a row of three headstones, she knelt.

Lucy Pevensie

Oct. 19, 1932 - November 13, 1949

May the Angels Lead You Into Paradise

Lucy's grave was the middle one, tucked snuggly between her brothers, where nothing could hurt her anymore.

"Not even me," she thought.

Marjorie Preston laid a red rose on the headstone.

"Happy birthday, Lu. I hope it's a good one."

They all had said that 17 was too young to die.

A fledgling plummeting to the frozen ground.

A rose plucked too soon.

A half-formed butterfly torn from its chrysalis.

Marjorie wasn't sure she agreed. It was a poetic thought, but it wasn't Lucy. Lucy wasn't a fledgling, she was an eagle. She wasn't a bud, she was the whole rose bush. She wasn't a metamorphizing caterpillar, she was the queen of all monarchs. She'd always lived like she knew where she was going, even when she didn't.

It had been years since they were close. Years since they had a meaningful conversation about anything worthwhile. Years since Lucy somehow found out the things Marjorie had been saying behind her back.

Anne Featherston swore it wasn't her, but Marjorie still wondered.

She'd often thought about making up, but how? How, after so much time had passed? After she had chosen the other girls over Lucy time and time again? After she had said the things she did—it was too broken to be mended.

And if it wasn't then, it sure was now.

"Lucy," she whispered. "I know we haven't talked in a while, and I'm probably the last person you want to hear from right now—you're probably thinking I got what I deserved and honestly, you're probably right—" she stopped for a second, looking around. What was she doing, talking to a grave? If anyone walked in they'd think she was a lunatic. Or deeply religious. Or both. Who was she to plead for divine intervention? "Lu, I'm sick." Her voice cracked, tears rolling down her cheeks. "Really sick. And I'm scared, and I don't know what to do—I don't know if you can hear me, and I don't even know if heaven exists—but if it does, you're the only person I know to ask about it—I don't think God wants to hear from me." She rubbed her eyes with the heel of her hand. A tear dropped onto her coat, soaking into the black wool.

Taking a deep breath, she raised her swollen eyes to the world around her. It looked like a gothic painting, the bare trees creating a canopy over a meadow full of headstones varying in style, devotional statues cracking with years of exposure to the elements. Two rows back from the Pevensies was a statue of what could only be Jesus, pointing to His own heart, atop His chest. A crack in the stone fissured His heart.

She glanced back down at the headstones in front of her. Peter Pevensie. Lucy Pevensie. Edmund Pevensie. Beside them, the shared headstone of their parents, John and Anne. An entire family in one fell swoop. Everyone but Susan—

If there was a God, where was He in that?

Marjorie took a deep breath. "The doctors say I probably want make it another year...Mother refuses to believe them," she sniffed. "I don't know what she'll do when I'm gone." she thought for a moment. "Do you think...do you think perhaps you could talk to God for me? I don't know, maybe asking for healing is too bold...but perhaps...could you ask Him to send me a friend?"

"You a'right, miss?"

Marjorie sprung to her feet, whipping around. "Oh—" she said, seeing an old, pudgy groundskeeper. She cleared her face of the wild strands of auburn hair. "I'm fine, sir. Is there a problem?"

"No'm," he said doffing his cap. "I'm sorry to 'nterrupt you. We just don't usually have visitors at this hour of the morning."

Marjorie blushed, averting her eyes. "Well, I did hope it would be empty."

He glanced at the headstones behind her, understanding softening his expression. "Visiting a friend?"

Marjorie nodded.

"For her birthday, like as not."

"How do you know that?" Marjorie asked, eyebrows knitting together.

He nodded towards the headstone. Marjorie looked down. Oct. 19th, 1932.

"Oh." She almost whispered.

"I know 'em all. All the youngins, at least."

Marjorie studied the old man's face, drawn with years of compassion for the families he watched weep at gravesides. She wondered how many stories he knew, the man who kept this sacred ground. Did it weigh him down?

"She was a special one, wasn't she?" He asked.

"Hmm? Oh, yes—she was. How did you know her?"

"Who didn't?" He asked.

Marjorie nodded. "Well, I'll let you get back to your groundskeeping," she said, making ready to leave. As she walked away, she heard him call out—

"Ma'am?"

She turned around. "Yes sir?"

"Have you had breakfast yet?"

She shook her head.

He bit his lip, bashful. "My wife makes a mighty good breakfast on Saturday mornin's. If you haven't a place to go—well, we could use the company." Marjorie hesitated. "Only if you want–" He amended quickly.

Marjorie smiled. "I'd love to come. Mother's away this weekend. A home-cooked meal might be nice."

A smile broke across the old groundskeeper's face, deepening the crow's feet in the corner of his eyes. "The wife'll be thrilled. She hasn't had a young person around since we lost our daughter."

"Well—I'm glad I can be of use to someone," she said. "I don't think I've done enough of that sort of thing in my 17 years."

"Ah," he shook his head, a twinkle in his eye. "Something makes me doubt that, Missy."

"Well, thank you, I appreciate it."

"Shall we off? I can see the smoke from the kitchen stove already—" he pointed to a little cottage, just off the edge of the cemetery. "Looks like the Missus 'as already started."

"Yes," Marjorie said. "I'd like that very much."

The cottage windows flickered faintly in the dull morning light, a beacon of hope piercing through the morning fog. No one ever came near the cottage, but if they had, this day they would have heard laughter. In the cemetery below, a red rose sat on the headstone of a young girl, a token in exchange for a prayer. Facing the cottage, the grave of Lucy Pevensie watched: watched as the unlikely duo walked in together, listened to the merriment ringing from the house, watched as a ruby-cheeked maiden left, hours later, more beautiful than she had ever looked before. The grave of Lucy Pevensie looked on.

And someplace, far, far away, she smiled.