The librarian has only just taken away the last of the correspondence, and the settled hush of the shelves closes over the boys again. Lewis stands near Parsley’s corner, the paper still warm in his mind, as if the conversation has not quite finished with him.
C. S. Lewis
Smewgy counted them honestly.
Parsley looks up from his pressed leaves and closes his book with care. The small pile of green scraps by his elbow seems absurdly delicate in the great dim room.
Parsley
It sounds better than I expected, Lewis. When things are counted fairly, they seem less like a sentence.
Parsley
He keeps his voice low, but he is watching Lewis closely, wanting to know whether the answer has hurt.
C. S. Lewis
My father does not write much. I keep thinking that means something, though I do not know what.
Parsley
It may mean he is careless, or afraid, or simply incapable. None of those are your fault.
A page turns somewhere down the aisle. Dust floats in the lamp glow. Parsley nudges one pressed leaf toward Lewis, as though offering a fragment of his own steadiness.
Parsley
Stay a little. Tell me what you think a man ought to do when he is shut out.
“Lewis takes the pressed leaf and adds it to his notebook. Offhand, he says he should find something pretty to give Parsley in return soon. He sighs and then says he is not sure what a man ought do, but he knows what he wants to do. Write his father directly and ask for the truth. But he isn't sure he has the nerve.”
Lewis takes the pressed leaf and slips it into his notebook. Then he exhales, half a sigh, and glances down at the page as if it might answer him first.
C. S. Lewis
I ought to find something pretty for you in return. I am not sure what a man ought to do, but I know what I mean to do. I will write my father and ask for the truth, though I do not know if I have the nerve.
Parsley
Parsley’s mouth softens at that. Then ask it plainly, Lewis. Truth is at least better company than guessing.
“Lewis asks Parsley quietly of he thinks Lewis is right about his father and being sent to Malvern? Lewis knows his mother loves him. But he is still very frightened of the answer he could receive from his father.”
SUCCESS (Superb Willpower, rolled +1)
C. S. Lewis
Do you think I am right about my father, about why he sent me here? I know my mother loves me, but I am frightened of what I may hear from him.
Parsley
I think you are right to ask. A man can be cruel in one place and not in another. That does not make the wound less real.
Parsley folds his hands on the table, his voice low in the green lamp glow. The pressed leaf sits between Lewis’s notebook pages like a small, quiet witness.
Parsley
If your father is cold, that is his coldness. It is not a verdict on you.
C. S. Lewis
The answer is kinder than the question deserves.
At the far end of the room, the broad-faced junior by the notice board shifts his weight and turns a page with unnecessary care. The library remains hushed, but the silence feels inhabited now.
Parsley
Write him if you mean to. Not to please him, just to know. Whatever comes back, you will not be alone in waiting for it.
“Lewis looks up at him with that. His breath hitches once before he brings it back under control. He nods, thanking Parsley for supporting him.”
Lewis lifts his face toward Parsley and steadies himself, the small hitch in his breathing settling as he nods once. The leaf stays safe in his notebook, and the quiet between them feels warm rather than empty.
C. S. Lewis
Thank you.
“He pulls out a piece of parchment and starts to draft a letter. Softly he says that he is grateful they are friends now. Something about Parsley makes him braver than he ought be.”
SUCCESS (Legendary Reasoning, rolled +1)
Lewis draws a sheet of parchment from his books and lays it flat beside the notebook. The nib hovers, then scratches down a date and the first blunt line, while the leaf stays pressed between the pages like a vow kept quiet.
C. S. Lewis
He says, very softly, that he is glad they are friends now.
C. S. Lewis
Then he adds, in the same low voice, that Parsley makes him braver than he ought to be.
Parsley
Parsley gives a small, surprised smile. "Then I am glad of it," he says. "You ought not be brave alone."
The broad-faced junior at the notice board turns another sheet with one finger, still only a presence at the edge of things. The library remains hushed, but the silence now feels shared, not empty.
Parsley
He glances at the half-written letter and asks, gently, whether Lewis will tell his father the plain truth, or keep the rest for himself.
“Lewis looks at Parsley and quietly takes his hand. He squeezes it and steels himself. "The plain truth, he says."”
SUCCESS (Superb Willpower, rolled -1)
Lewis reaches across the table, and Parsley lets his hand be taken without a word. Their fingers close in the hush, small and steady between the parchment and the notebook.
C. S. Lewis
The plain truth, he says.
Parsley’s thumb shifts once over Lewis’s knuckles, a simple squeeze answering the vow. The leaf in the notebook stays hidden, the letter still open to its first hard line.
Parsley
Then write it that way. Plain truth is hard, but it does not wander.
At the notice board, the broad-faced junior turns another pinned sheet and keeps his back to them. The library’s stillness seems to draw a little nearer, as if listening.
Parsley
If your father answers it, let him answer the real you, not the boy he imagined.
Lewis’s hand remains in Parsley’s, and the two boys sit over the half-written letter as though it has become a shared thing.
“Lewis holds Parsley's hand as he finishes writing. It takes 2 or 3 attempts before he is satisfied with the result.”
Lewis keeps Parsley’s hand in his own and scratches out the line again, then once more. At last he sets the pen down, satisfied, their joined hands resting beside the fresh ink.
The broad-faced junior is still at the notice board, but the library stays hushed. The little knot of warmth between the boys holds steady over the page.
“Lewis passes the letter to Parsley to read. In all its brutal honesty about Lewis's fears that his father hates him or that he sent Lewis here to break him. About not being able to help who he is, even if he wished he could help it. And in just wanting to know if his father has abandoned him, instead of waiting in the dark for the blow to land.”
SUCCESS (Legendary Reasoning, rolled -2)
Lewis lifts the sheet and slides it across the table into Parsley’s waiting hands. The pen scratch stops, and the page turns from confession to sharing.
C. S. Lewis
He has it now.
Parsley bends over the letter at once, his shoulders drawing in as he reads the hard parts in silence.
Parsley
He says it plain. That is brave.
Lewis’s wet cuff leaves a dark smear on the table edge as he shifts his arm back, but he does not take the page away.
Parsley
You are not foolish for asking. You ought to know.
At the notice board, the broad-faced junior folds his pinned paper and steps away. The library stays quiet, but the shared space feels narrower, more serious, as if the truth has made a room of its own.
“Lewis nods and then looks around to make sure no-one is watching before pulling him into a hug and giving him one quick kiss in the cheek. "Thank you, for helping me." He whispers.”
SUCCESS (Fair Agility, rolled +0)
Lewis gives Parsley a quick nod, then glances toward the shelves and the aisle before leaning in.
He folds an arm around Parsley in a brief, careful hug, keeping the letter between them and the table behind.
Lewis turns his face and touches one quick kiss to Parsley’s cheek.
C. S. Lewis
Thank you, for helping me.
Parsley
He goes still, then softens at once.
Parsley
You do not need to thank me for that.
Parsley’s hands close lightly at Lewis’s back, and the pressed leaf in the notebook peeks from the paper edge beside the dark smear on the cuff.
“Lewis folds up the letter and seals it with wax. He glances shyly at Parsley as he works. Hoping he didn't cross a line or tip his hand too much.”
SUCCESS (Fair Agility, rolled +2)
Lewis lowers the letter onto the table and folds it inward with quick, neat fingers. The paper vanishes into a square, the pressed leaf and notebook just beyond it, and the dark smear at the edge of the wood holds the eye like a bruise.
He draws the folded paper to the candle stub and sets wax to melt. The flame wobbles, catching on the seal as he works with careful patience.
Lewis glances shyly toward Parsley while he presses the seal flat. Parsley does not speak, only watches with a small, steady softness in his face.
The wax takes hold. The letter is shut now, settled and finished, no longer loose between them.
Parsley’s hand shifts beside the notebook, his fingertips resting near the pressed leaf as if guarding the thing without touching it.
Parsley
There. That looks final enough.
“Lewis smiles and nods with a slight blush. "I'll send it first thing in the morning. If I'm lucky, I'll hear back in a week or two."”
C. S. Lewis
I’ll send it first thing in the morning. If I’m lucky, I’ll hear back in a week or two.
Lewis smiles and gives a small blush, his shoulders easing as the answer leaves him. Parsley’s steady look softens into approval, and the sealed letter sits finished beside the notebook.