𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐑𝐎𝐏𝐘 || A Narnian Autumn Writing Challenge (Oneshot Book)

1. Metamorphosis

𝐄𝐧𝐭𝐫𝐨𝐩𝐲
(n.) a process of degradation, running down, or a gradual decline into disorder

"𝕴𝖋 𝕴 𝖋𝖎𝖓𝖉 𝖎𝖓 𝖒𝖞𝖘𝖊𝖑𝖋 𝖆 𝖉𝖊𝖘𝖎𝖗𝖊 𝖜𝖍𝖎𝖈𝖍 𝖓𝖔 𝖊𝖝𝖕𝖊𝖗𝖎𝖊𝖓𝖈𝖊 𝖎𝖓 𝖙𝖍𝖎𝖘 𝖜𝖔𝖗𝖑𝖉 𝖈𝖆𝖓 𝖘𝖆𝖙𝖎𝖘𝖋𝖞, 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖒𝖔𝖘𝖙 𝖕𝖗𝖔𝖇𝖆𝖇𝖑𝖊 𝖊𝖝𝖕𝖑𝖆𝖓𝖆𝖙𝖎𝖔𝖓 𝖎𝖘 𝖙𝖍𝖆𝖙 𝕴 𝖜𝖆𝖘 𝖒𝖆𝖉𝖊 𝖋𝖔𝖗 𝖆𝖓𝖔𝖙𝖍𝖊𝖗 𝖜𝖔𝖗𝖑𝖉." -ℭ 𝔖 𝔏𝔢𝔴𝔦𝔰

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england // september 14, 1948
prompt: "change"
word count: 1,331

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Eustace wasn't in his room.

Edmund poked his head in after his second knock went unanswered, only to find the bedclothes tossed aside and the desk empty, curtains open wide into the peachy morning light pouring through an eastward window.

"Bit early for you, isn't it?" he asked as he descended the stairs and finally spotted his cousin hunched over a notebook at the kitchen table.

Eustace looked up, a lock of sandy hair slipping out from behind his ear. "Habit." He cocked his head in an offhanded shrug. "I like taking a walk before the rest of the world gets up to bother me."

Edmund raised a brow, and Eustace cracked a grin.

"Don't worry, it's not you I'm avoiding."

"I should hope not," said Edmund. He took the seat next to his cousin and scooted it closer, shirt still half unbuttoned and hair unbrushed. In comparison, Eustace looked like he'd been up for an hour at least. "I'm certainly not here for the accommodations."

"Ah, enjoying your old room, then?"

Edmund breathed out sharply through his nose. He couldn't say he particularly loved the Scrubbs' spare bedroom, however many adventures had come out of it, though it still held one thing worth noticing. "The art's not bad."

Eustace's grin spread into a smile as he turned back to his work, spinning a pencil between pale, bony fingers, and Edmund glanced over to where a small glass case lay open beside the notebook, the delicate black wings of a large butterfly resting on its edges.

"What have you got there?"

His cousin's grey eyes flicked to the insect. "Found it on the edge of the sidewalk this morning. Already dead, you know, I think the early frost did it in. Good specimen."

"I didn't know you still collected things like that."

Eustace laid his pencil down and picked up a delicate pair of tweezers, gently lifting the butterfly and turning it so that the light from the windows glinted almost blue on its wings. "I just find them fascinating, I suppose."

Edmund gazed at its velvety black feather-dust, resisting the childish temptation to touch it by its paper-thin wings, perfectly rounded and tapering into soft points.

"You know... when caterpillars form their cocoons," said Eustace, "they don't just grow wings and crawl out again. They fall apart, essentially melt into a sack of pulp, and all that matter reforms into a completely new organism. It's incredible. It's... almost like magic, really."

Edmund glanced at him. "I'm not sure I've ever heard pulp and magic in the same sentence before."

Eustace scoffed. "Oh, shut up, you know what I mean."