#dimension 20 cloudward

Maxwell grew up with the stories of Narnia. Cadswitch liked to tell those fantastical tales almost every night he'd been permitted to stay at his grandfather's countryside estate during the holidays. When he was young, Maxwell would hang onto every lilting syllable and bursting exclamation illustrating the wonders of his grandfather's stories. He'd gawk at the descriptions of men with the lower halves of a goat, giggle at the miming of the old man teetering this way and that with his hand held aloft like a sword, and fall into revered silence as Cadswitch described the power of the mighty lion.

"Aslan," He'd say, jovial voice lowered so deep and soft that Maxwell had to strain to hear him over the cracking embers in the hearth. "He is all types of wonders fleshed into one singular form of magic, my boy. Larger than a normal lion, you see, with eyes so human and kind it is hard to meet them and not speak the truth in our mortal souls. It has been one of my greatest honors in life to have met him and walked beside his grand paws, Maxwell."

Maxwell, back then, hung onto every sentence of his grandfather's like a lifeline into the mystical. Those nights, when his older brothers were off either in some other place of the estate or even still in London having scoffed at the idea of spending time with the 'loon' of a old man, were some of the best nights of Maxwell's childhood.

Sometimes Wealwell stood with them, and laughed when Maxwell would laugh or laugh even when his younger brother didn't seem to understand what he found so amusing. Wealwell was solid, and loved a good fairytale as much as Maxwell did at the time— even if he did consider Narnia just a fairytale no matter what Cadswitch would say or how Maxwell would protest.

Rarer, but on a handful of occasions, Samwell would come and sit and listen too. His reactions were tamer than his two younger brothers— as a young man being far less likely to believe any of the great stories of whimsy his grandfather told to be anything more than fantastical fiction— but he enjoyed watching the way his grandfather bounced around the room and how his two younger brothers drank in the stories in rapt fascination. In a lot of ways, it reminded him of his own youth and, as a young adult months before being sent off to University for the first time, it was comforting.

Maxwell could count on one hand when his other brothers would all visit at the same time and Cadswitch would tell the stories. Not all seven of them were as patient as the eldest and two youngers (though, Maxwell could hardly be described as patient, he was able to settle himself down when his grandfather promised a tale).

In fact, one of the only times Maxwell could remember them all being there (and, looking back on it, certainly the last time too) ended with such a fight that Hatwell's broken nose and Maxwell's bloody fist had forced their into father forbidding them all from going back to the countryside for at least a year— and Maxwell, for the first time feeling the adrenaline and rush of winning when he fought back, had been punished most severely because of it.

It started, like it always did where Hatwell and Maxwell were concerned, in a fight. Or, maybe, it started before that: During Cadswitch's nightly tales in front of the fireplace with all seven of the boys piled up in the coziest of the estates drawing rooms.

Samwell, back from his first year at University on holiday, was sat on the couch, chin propped up by his hand as he listened goodnaturedly to his grandfather's stories. Blanewell lounged beside him and took the rest of the space on the cushions. Their legs were propped in their older brothers lap, and, though they kept an ear up listening to the tales halfheartedly, their eyes and nose were buried in whatever rare book of nonfiction they'd gotten their hands on from Cadswitch's personal library.

Johnwell sat in the comfy blue armchair to the side of the couch. He was half asleep listening to their grandfather with a woven blanket covering him and Cadswitch's elderly cat (Cogsworth) curled up and purring in his lap. Wealwell (who had to be convinced to sit rather than stand) lounged in a way that just had to be uncomfortable yet seemed fine by him over the armchair on the other side of the sofa. He was listening with just as much rapt attention as Maxwell himself.

Maxwell sat curled up on the floor with his back pressed against his oldest brother's legs. His own knees were drawn up to his chest with his arms wrapped loosely around them. His eyes were large and round and focused solely on his grandfather.

She drives forward aspiring to be like an important woman in her life, and her arc throughout of struggling with the image of adventure vs the reality feels to me like it could absolutely have a trans reading to it. In my life, my transition is an adventure, in my mind it’s glamorous and perfect and beautiful and in reality it can really suck sometimes, but when I think about it so far I don’t think about the hard times, I think about the days where it introduced me to aspects of the world and life that were unknown to me that I would never have experienced had I not braved the unknown and kept pushing forward even when the hard parts beat me down. My transition is an adventure, and one I’m grateful everyday that i push onward, past beyond with. Olethra is brave, curious, strong, and sky eyed, and I can’t help but feel that she is the most perfect character to be unabashedly and unapologetically trans.