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prunesquallormdTitle: With A Clouded View (Part 9 of 9, and Epilogue)
Fandom: Chronicles of Narnia
Pairing(s): Lucy/Susan
Rating: PG for this part, NC-17 overall.
Summary: In which there is, finally, a happily ever after.
Word count: ~7000
Warnings: Sibling (sister/sister) incest. Don't like? Don't read.
A/N: Chapter 1 and initial notes are here, and Chapter 2 is here. Other parts can be found on the "fic: with a clouded view" tag.
I recently found a document on my laptop entitled 'Untitled Narnia' dating from May 22 2010 that contained the first few paragraphs of this. Which is to say, from first words to final full stop, this story has taken me almost four years to write. It's the longest thing I've ever written and, while I can't really say that there was ever any doubt that I'd finish, I really didn't expect it to take this long. Regardless of how many people read it, I have to admit to being pretty proud of myself right now.
A lot happens in 4 years, and this particular 4 years has seen all sorts of ups and downs. This ridiculous little story has never been far from my mind, one way or another, however much I've failed at speedy or consistent writing. I'll miss it, but hey, now there's time for the next thing, so that's nice.
While this is written from Lucy's point of view, and while I've grown to love her more than I ever thought possible, I wrote it, in a very real sense, for Susan. I've never come to terms with Lewis's treatment of her, and this is my response. To say that Lewis wouldn't have approved is something of an understatement, but isn't that one of the joys of fan-fiction?
As always, I want to thank likecharity, for her betaing and general wonderfulness. Thank you! ♥♥♥
Dedication: And finally, this is for all the people I've ever met online, in one fandom or another, or just on the wild and woolly highways and byways of the internet. This is for the love, the friends and the friendships, however lasting or fleeting. This is for zagury, my first fandom friend who, I'm happy to say, I'm still in touch with, and smeetie, with whom I was so close for a short time at the end of 2009 and whom I still remember with fondness and sadness, 4 years after she vanished from the internet. And this is for perverbially, whom I miss more than I can say, and sushizuzoru too, and jules2112, despite the fact that we appear to have fallen out over a ridiculous political disagreement. And this is for Shan, and Sivi, and Morgan, and Graham, and Jack, and Anna, and Flis, and Helen, and all the guys from the heady, if slightly stressful days, of Skins. And for lash_larue and lokifan too, and all you others I met through Harry Potter :)
And this is for Jules, and Kati, and Hannii, and most especially, Briella <3
And yes, I'm going a bit over the top, but did I mention 4 years? I hope it's not that surprising that I'm a little bit emotional XD
Anyway, rambling over. If you're reading this on LJ, feel free to check out the last chapter, and if you're reading on AO3, it's possible that you've already read it. I hope you enjoyed. <3
Disclaimer: Obviously all the characters and pretty much everything else belong to the estate of C.S. Lewis, and Walden Media. This is just for fun!
Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4
Part 5
Part 6
Part 7
Part 8
Appendix (Various Interludes)
(For those of you who find white on black annoying, there are also copies at my Archive of Our Own page).
Part 9
Sleep takes her quickly.
In the darkness (and when did it become so dark?) she can hear the quietest of breaths, a gentle, rumbling purr. And now she feels it, soft lips at her temple, a warm breath; the smell of spring flowers, fresh hay, a sweet, dark musk. She wants to reach out, throw her arms around him, bury her face face in his neck, feel the power and vitality of him, the silkiness of a mane the colour of sunlight on a summer's morning. She wants to say how much she loves him, how blessed she feels to have found him.
She can't move, or speak. It doesn't matter. He knows all these things, and so much more.
She sleeps on; the warmth of his kiss feels like a blessing.
**
She groans and wriggles luxuriously, fighting full wakefulness. It's warm, even though that one thin blanket has mostly stopped being any sort of covering. It's a bundle now, she's hugging it so tightly, but it barely distracts from the hard, uneven ground. The blanket beneath her is damp against her skin. She's still naked. It's a wonder she hasn't frozen to death. Still, she's reluctant to move. She drifts comfortably, the warmth of the day more than rival to the leeching chill of the earth.
Groaning again, mostly for the satisfaction of hearing her own voice break the stillness, she rolls over onto her other side, pulling the tangle of blankets around herself more completely. It may be unseasonably warm but there is no time of year that it is particularly enjoyable to awaken, naked, with nothing for ceiling but sky and a dark canopy of branches. She stretches out a hand, questing. There's something missing. What? Who? Ah, of course. Who?
Opening her eyes, Lucy finds herself squinting against an entirely surprising brightness. The sun is high, much higher than she'd expected. How long has she slept?
A warm breeze kisses her face, awakening the memory of that other kiss, a little touch of love, acceptance, benediction even. And other kisses still, earthier (more earthly) yet no less miraculous. A sound other than her own breathing finally reaches her ears. Birds singing, such a sweet and joyous noise that Lucy cannot help smiling. Yet, despite the chirrups and chirps, the gentlest whistling and the most insistent cark, there is a tranquility in this place, there probably always will be. Lucy can't imagine being sad or afraid, or even lonely, here.
Rolling onto her back she stretches so far that she feels her joints crack, and, finally acclimatised to the dazzle of sunlight, she begins to make out the outline of someone beside her. And there, there is the whickering she has been waiting for. Velvet lips nuzzle her face, a wet tongue. She sputters.
“Oof. Holly, stop that. I'm already awake, thank you.”
Holly whiffles back at her, her lips still so close to Lucy's face that she can feel the breath against her cheek. “Well I'm sure I'm very sorry,” says Holly, though she's laughing in that uniquely horsey way as she says it. “Susan asked me to be sure that you didn't sleep too long, but you looked so peaceful, I didn't have the heart to wake you.”
Shivering slightly, Lucy sits up to look properly around the glade and smiles. She can't help herself. She can't even be too bothered that Susan left her sleeping. With the memory of the previous day to sustain her she's fairly sure that nothing will bother her ever again.
Her clothes are neatly folded and piled beside her (and of course they are. Trust Susan to do that). She dresses quickly, the shivering getting more intense.
“So, when did she walk out on me?” she asks Holly over her shoulder as she struggles, chill-fingered, with the laces of her jerkin and hose.
“Well, I wouldn’t say she walked out on you,” Holly says, sounding a little uncomfortable. “Well, she didn’t.” Lucy’s raised eyebrows and decidedly doubtful expression have her flustered, it seems. “It’s just that she was very busy, and she was worried that everyone would be looking for you.”
“And she was in such a blazing hurry that she couldn’t spare the time to wake me?” Lucy knows that she’s being mean, putting Holly on the spot so, but however content she feels right now (happy even, and that’s not a word she’s been able to lay claim to in a long time) she can’t help but feel a little exasperated. She would have hoped Susan would want to talk to her.
Her attention back on her lacings, from the corner of her eye she catches a glimpse of ... something. Something that moves of its own volition, not driven by any wind (and there’s barely a breath of that today, this far into the forest). Someone, not something. Turning her head just far enough to properly look, Lucy is unsurprised to see her: a face of silver-white peering from behind a fall of dark green hair, eyes wide, mouth a silent ‘oh’.
The dryad smiles shyly; Lucy returns it, warm and open, a hand raised in welcome and beckoning. She can’t recall if this dryad is one of the ones she saw all those months ago, but still, Lucy feels she should thank her, for so much.
Slight and lithe, the dryad cocks her head - quizzical, nervous, Lucy can’t tell which - and raises a finger to her lips. Well, that gesture is easy enough to grasp. Lucy smiles again, in what she hopes is an apologetic fashion, though she remembers far too vividly the last time she was here, what she witnessed. She’s a little concerned that her smile might be more of a leer.
Far above, a cloud like a white fleece passes across the sun. Its shadow keeps pace below, shifting, dappled, shot through with white and green. The birches dance to their own music. It’s a brief interlude, the sun returns in moments, as dazzling as before. Blinking in the glare once more, it takes Lucy a while to realise that the dryad is gone. She and Holly are alone.
**
They get a surprise on the journey back to Cair Paravel.
Picking through the forest, they are silent, companionable. Every so often, Holly pauses to nibble on a little moss or crop the lush, green grass that, in places, seems so intent on flouting the strictures of the season. Lucy, tummy rumbling, wishes she could partake. (She learned her lesson the first time Holly had proffered the invitation. The first blade had gone down sweet and easy, the mouthful after had left her spitting and sputtering, Holly – barely more than a foal – laughing that whinnying laugh. She had never tried the moss after that, though she has been frequently informed of how uncommonly good the moss around Cair Paravel tastes). She decides to hold out for a proper breakfast, though lunch would be more accurate. Why ever had Susan let her sleep?
Up, dressed, and on the move, the chill soon dissipates from Lucy's bones. Among the trees it is almost oppressively warm. It makes it all the more of a shock when, finally clear of the forest and in full, glorious gallop, the air around them turns white.
Glowering, angry skies above, the air a pallid kaleidoscope, Lucy, suddenly shivering uncontrollably and close to blind, is uncertain what direction Cair Paravel is even in. She's completely certain that she wouldn't have the energy to get there. It's another thing that she has to be grateful to her friend for. Ears back, whinnying delightedly, it seems to Lucy that Holly has never enjoyed a gallop quite so much as she's enjoying this one. Lucy almost feels sorry – for Holly's sake, if not her own – that it comes to an end so quickly.
She leaves Holly munching contentedly in the stables, though not before hugging her fiercely, her arms barely circling her neck she's grown so much. The quickest route to shelter takes her past the walled garden to the Small Door of the Great Hall – head down, shoulders hunched, teeth chattering, she's so intent on getting out of this damnable cold that she has no eyes for her surroundings. She doesn't even spare a thought for the garden. She has happier, more recent, memories than that to hold on to.
The snowball takes her in the back of the head, more of a shock than anything. It's small and wet, positioned just perfectly to soak her collar and drip down the back of her neck before she can do a single thing about it. She's not at all surprised to see Derren, flushed and laughing, standing at the garden gate, making not the slightest attempt to defend himself.
Sputtering, swearing, yet invigorated (she's in a good mood; she has reason to be, after all) she crouches down to arm herself in kind. Derren stands firm.
“A very good day to you, Your Majesty,” he says, grinning broadly. “You look to have had a most enjoyable morning.”
He avoids Lucy's response (white, wet, and very cold) with ease. His playfully mocking, “You'll have to do better than ...” is brought short in a sputtering curse as, from either side, their origins hidden behind the garden wall, simultaneous snowballs strike him. Lucy winces in sympathy.
“Hey, not fair.” Derren has turned and is yelling back into the garden. “I wasn't ready.”
Rhiannon's voice (breathless, laughing) reaches her on the frigid air, “What does fair have to do with it, my lord? This is war. And I suspect Lucy would give you that for fair.”
Derren has made a fatal error. Turning to face Rhiannon's voice, he has neglected to keep his attention on her partner in crime or, for that matter, his queen. Lucy doesn't waste her opportunity this time, her attack hitting him in the back of the head in perfect retaliation for her own indignity at the exact same moment that a second missile strikes his ear. Crouching down in defence, he does his best to wipe away the remains of the snow while he tries at the same time to shelter himself from further assault. He looks so pitiful, Lucy can't help feeling at least a little bad for the laughter that bubbles out of her. One arm thrown around his head, he raises the other in what Lucy can only imagine is a signal of submission.
“I surrender, all right? Three against one is really quite dishonourable, you know.” He quails further as he says it. Lucy can't see Rhee but she's clearly done something less than reassuring. “Lucy, allow me to escort you inside. My charming companions are far too boisterous for my liking.”
Apparently he's wilfully forgotten who first attacked whom.
Lucy shakes her head with a smile, “Oh Derren. Always underestimating you opponents. Come on, then. I'll shelter your retreat.”
“Your Majesty,” he says, a twinkle in his eye and a spring in his step as he approaches her that belies his bedraggled state. “You are always and forever my hero.”
Derren takes her proffered arm with a flourish as the two twins finally allow themselves to be seen, side by side in the gateway of the garden where Derren had been moments before. Each looks as unruly as the other, flushed and breathless. They throw a playful salute.
“Lucy, dear. A very good morning to you,” Rhiannon says, sounding amused. “We were wondering where you were. Susan returned a while ago.”
From the prickling of her ears, the heat rising in her cheeks, Lucy knows she's gone bright red. She's thankful for the sudden snow now, though she's unsure that even that will save her for long. Her tongue feels too big for her mouth. Everywhere she looks it seems that there are eyes looking back at her, curious, questioning, amused. She shivers in the most exaggerated fashion, pairing it with a loud 'brrrr'.
“I'm sorry,” she says and hugs herself with the arm that isn't in Derren's possession. “I'd stop and talk but it's just so cold. I really should know better than to go riding so completely unprepared at this time of year.”
Derren snorts. He is wearing little more than Lucy and looking none the worse for it. He's positively aglow.
“Well then, allow me to escort you inside. We wouldn't want our beloved queen to catch a chill,” he says. For all the lightness of his words Lucy can't help but worry. Since her birthday she's found it near impossible not to pick apart his every utterance for some hidden meaning. Still, she allows him to drag her towards the Small Door.
The twins return her parting wave. Rhiannon's smile is broad, all teeth; Harry's is more reserved but just as warm. And as Harry waves with her right hand, her left, snowball and all, is moving out of sight behind Rhee's back. Rhiannon's outraged yelp comes mere moments before Harry turns tail, retreating with all haste into the garden.
“You utter cow.” Rhee's voice is at a pitch just short of painful. “Oh yes, run if you like, I'm going to get you for that.” She bends quickly to scoop up the means of her revenge. “It's no good, you know. There's no escape.”
Lucy makes her own retreat into the relative warmth of the castle. She wants no part in this particular war.
**
In a week it will be Christmas. Lucy barely has the luxury to worry that Susan is never, ever quite where she looks for her, or if she is, that there is always somewhere else she must be, something else she just has to be doing, organising, overseeing; taking her leave, sometimes with a tight, fierce hug, more often with only a rueful shrug and a smile. Beyond pleasantries, they don't talk. There are always far too many people around for Lucy to be able to say any of the things that she'd like to anyway.
(And still she can feel the softness and warmth of her, the silk of her hair. Asleep or awake, eyes open or closed, all of Lucy's senses vibrate with her, the memory and the fact of her.)
So slow to come, winter is finally here with a vengeance. A full week of snow storms, winds that cut to the bone, skies the colour of lead. Day after day, the sun struggles to break through the clouds, if not to shed any sort of warmth, at least to illuminate the day past the point of perpetual twilight.
**
And the life of the castle rolls on, as oblivious to her joy as it ever was to her sadness. That, at least, is something to be grateful for.
**
She's always, always loved Christmas Eve. All the anticipation, all those possibilities. And her family too, by blood and circumstance. She has so much to be thankful for.
Sometimes she just forgets, that's all.
She weaves her way back to her rooms at some point close to midnight, singing quietly to herself, just a little too much hot, spiced wine inside her, to chase away the cold. Not so much that she'll be unfit for tomorrow's festivities, she hopes, but really, she much prefers the simple songs and conviviality of this night to all the hustle and bustle of the big day.
More than ready to fall into bed, Lucy almost misses the note on her pillow. A scrap of parchment with a single sentence in an elegant hand that, even in her current state, she recognises immediately. Whatever could Shatterstaff be wanting at this time of night?
The temptation to ignore it and just sleep is almost irresistible yet resist it she does, finally. She feels that, as far as her dealings with Shatterstaff are concerned, the past year has been one brattish display after another. The fact that he's still willing to talk to her at all is a wonder, and yet another thing to be grateful for.
**
Oh, good grief. He couldn't have chosen somewhere indoors for a midnight assignation? Honestly.
Not for the first time in her life, Lucy has reason to curse a centaur's lack of facility with stairs. At least it hasn't snowed for a few days, and the walled garden offers some shelter from the bitter wind (besides stirring up memories that bring a warm flush to her skin) but even so her warmest clothing barely lessens the shivering.
Shatterstaff isn't alone. Even in the light of the half moon she can easily recognise Merrymeet, only a sliver shorter than her mate but somehow so much more graceful. Lucy raises a hand, forces some of the seasonal cheer into her voice that the chill has chased away.
“Well met and Merry Christmas to you.” The bells have yet to greet the new day, but still.
The two centaurs raise their hands in silent welcome.
“Merry Christmas, Lucy.” She almost jumps out of her skin. Susan, there in Merrymeet's shadow. She steps towards Lucy, pulls her into a tight hug, kisses her awkwardly on the cheek, all before Lucy's heart stops pounding. She barely composes herself sufficiently to return the embrace, fierce and equally tight, before Susan breaks away and steps back to stand beside Merrymeet once more.
Shatterstaff coughs, that studied, entirely artificial clearing of the throat with which Lucy is so very familiar. Ah. Clearly some sort of lesson is about to be imparted. Lucy smiles to herself. Some things never change.
Before Shatterstaff can speak, however, Merrymeet jumps in.
“Your Majesties,” she says, an entirely undeferential giggle in her voice.”We apologise most sincerely for dragging you out into such a bitter night but we thought you might like to see this, and you won’t get the chance again. Perhaps it can be our Christmas gift to you both.” She sounds more than a little tipsy.
Lucy listens as she continues, the words falling from her lips, a tinkling river of erudition, and it is all Shatterstaff can do to intersperse his own commentary into that of this mate. Lucy thinks they’re having so much fun in their intellectual sparring that whether or not their intended audience has become entirely overwhelmed by the flood of their words is something of secondary concern.
“And there.” Shatterstaff’s arm sweeps up, taking in the whole of the night sky at first. The darkness seems almost soft to Lucy, rich, welcoming sable brushed with flecks of white, stains of the faintest silvering just visible from the corner of her eye. For the briefest moment a flicker of another sky overlays her vision: paler, somehow less comforting, more dangerous. It passes quickly.The sweep of Shatterstaff’s arm becomes quickly less extravagant, drawing Lucy’s vision downwards just a little, and .. there. “As you see, our most beloved constellation, the Lion, brightest on this one night of the year. And if you will look just a little to the side of the Lion’s head, I believe you will see, in just a few moments …”
As she looks she can almost see her Aslan amongst the stars, all softness and strength and sinuous grace. A brightness, a flare of flame where there had been darkness. Not a pin-prick of starlight but an off-oval, golden smudge. To Lucy’s delight, it is almost as if the Lion is winking at her.
“The Great Comet,” Merrymeet says. “Sometimes called the Lion’s Eye. But that’s not the best of it. Look.” Lucy has paid close enough attention to her astronomy lessons to know that the evanescent threads of fire, appearing and vanishing again almost before she can register their existence, are much closer to them than the constellation from whose lips they appear to emanate, and yet. “The Lion’s Breath,” Shatterstaff and Merrymeet say in unison, Shatterstaff grave, Merrymeet, her voice full of joy, trailing off into a sigh.
They stand and watch, silent now. Lucy makes no attempt to count them, it would be impossible. Achingly brief, slashes in the covering of night, she does not question the name for a moment. Aslan’s Beath and Aslan’s Eye. She can almost hear the low rumble of his voice, see the gentleness in his gaze. For a few brief moments she forgets even to be aware of her sister, bare feet away, yet she doesn’t flinch when Susan takes her hand and, when she squeezes for one brief moment, Lucy squeezes back.
“Merry Christmas, Sue,” she says.
**
The noise, the heat, the spectacle, they're very nearly overwhelming.
The ball has been at full tilt for – well, honestly, Lucy isn't entirely certain how long. Long enough for her imbibe far more of her beloved spiced wine than is sensible, certainly. Her head is just a little aspin, and not only as a result of her current, highly unusual (for her) inability to remove herself from the floor. The offers have been coming thick and fast all night. She's certain she is still able to demure as graciously as anyone, she just doesn't have the heart, not tonight. Besides, if anyone were to press her on it, she'd be forced to admit that she's hardly having the least enjoyable night she's ever had. (There is another reason, from which she's doing her very best to distract herself. A niggling worry that she's trying very hard not to think about.)
Christmas has ever been the least formal of festivals, and it is Lucy's favourite because of it. This year, though, this year, it feels lighter, brighter, more care free, than she can ever remember. It can't just be her own good mood. Can it?
Perhaps it's just the relief of having everyone home, after so many weeks of doubting, hoping against hope. The Lion knows, they'd cut it close enough. When the delegation to Underland had returned with less than a week to Christmas, it had seemed too good to be true. They hadn't dared hoped for more. Edmund's return had seemed a miracle (though Peter had chided him with some vigour on his rash decision to make the journey from Anvard in the depths of winter. Edmund had laughed that off easily enough, reminding his brother that his little entourage of dwarfs and fauns were well able to cope with a “little bit of snow”).
Lucy can't help be sad that Lune had felt it necessary to remain in his castle, though she can hardly begrudge him that. He had been absent for long enough. And anyway, he had absolutely insisted on her presence at Corin's birthday celebration and that isn't too many months away.
Derren spins her almost without warning, forcing her to actually pay attention to what she’s doing, for the moment at least. For all that he can be the most infuriating person imaginable, he is certainly a charming and entertaining dancing partner, and accomplished enough to save her poor toes too, which is certainly nothing to be sniffed at. She'd already had more than enough reason to curse her flimsy slippers. Rhee had been annoyingly insistent that riding boots wouldn't go with this dress.
She twirls back into the compass of his arms, giggling breathlessly. Derren grins. For a moment his eyes flicker away from hers, over her shoulder. The grin is joined by an entirely too expressive roll of his eyes.
“I really don’t know what’s wrong with everyone.” His mouth not far from her ear, still he has to shout to be heard. “Everywhere I look, people seem intent on falling in love.” The way he says it, it’s like he has a bad taste in his mouth that not even the wine can banish.
“Oh Derren, they’re not doing it just to annoy you, you know.” She kisses him quickly on the cheek, butts her own cheek softly against him. “You’re not jealous, are you?”
He snorts. “Of course I’m not jealous. I’m happy. Of course I’m happy. It is the season of love and happiness and good will to all creatures, after all. And the Lion knows, some people have been waiting longer than others”.
It’s Lucy’s turn to snort now. As Derren spins her again, it is impossible not to see his point. Rhee flitters across her field of vision, arm in arm with Edmund. She’s been looking quite indecently pleased with herself all night and has appeared decidedly reluctant to accept any other partners. Edmund has the grace to look a little embarrassed at the breach of etiquette. Rhiannon, on the other hand, clearly couldn’t give two hoots.
At least they’re present though. Harry and Rhyddion have been noticeable by their absence for most of the evening. It’s proving to be quite the scandal.
Even as she tries to discreetly crane her neck to keep Rhiannon and Edmund in view, she feels Derren stiffen slightly, become just that little less responsive. She sighs, waiting for the inevitable. She doesn’t wait long.
“Well, I think I’ve commanded far more of your attention than is fair this evening. And dear old Tumnus has been waiting to dance with you all night. It’s unfair of me to make him wait any longer.”
She turns to face him, eyebrows climbing towards her hairline.
“Really, Derren?” she says with a snort. “You’re sure you don’t just want a chance to woo that pretty little Terebinthian? What’s her name again?”
“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.” As Lucy watches, his eyes, previously fixed on the woman in question (currently unescorted, as luck would have it) slide casually away from her. “Though she does look rather lonely, don’t you think?”
“Have a care, my dear,” Lucy says lightly. “Her brother, I am told, is both protective and ill-humoured. I’d hate for you to be, ah, inconvenienced.”
The Terebinthian Delegate (thoroughly full of himself, though known to be charming enough when the mood strikes him, and when his sister’s virtue is not threatened) is mere feet away, glowering, lips pursed. Lucy feels fleeting sympathy for his dance partner.
Derren doesn’t answer, merely lifts his arm, flicks his wrist. Having no particular urge to be stubborn, she complies, spinning, laughing delightedly, into Tumnus’s outstretched arms, stumbling only a little.
Tumnus's touch is delicate yet sure, steadying her.
“Perhaps a few moments to catch your breath, my dear,” Tumnus says, concern overriding conviviality. She can barely hear him, but nods, grateful. It's all become just a little too much, of a sudden. Perhaps it's the wine.
Her hand on his arms, Lucy allows herself to be threaded through the press. There, on her left hand, is Gruffle, looking happier and more proud than she's ever seen him. His impending fatherhood, so recently announced, clearly agrees with him. Lucy wonders where his good lady is. Daff does so love Christmas, and the little one isn't due for months yet.
Ah, there, in Thornfoot's shadow, laughing hard at some joke or other. The prospect of motherhood is just as agreeable, apparently. She's positively glowing.
Tumnus deposits her on the edge of the surging mass of bodies, turning solicitous eyes on her. She ushers him on his way with gracious thanks, her heart overbrimming with love as she watches as his retreating form is quickly engulfed. Suddenly free of less immediate distractions, she returns to the one thing that’s almost constantly on her mind. She does it almost unconsciously, casting around for the long black hair, the familiar green dress, but her sister remains elusive, has been all day. It doesn’t seem possible, she must be here somewhere, and yet.
At rest now, only her eyes in motion, darting from face to face, seeking the only face that just doesn’t want to be found, the spinning becomes intense. Out of nowhere a wave of nausea hits; swaying disturbingly, it is all she can do to stay on her feet. It is simply too much, she wishes she could just step out of her dress, escape the press, the noise, the smell of food, perfume, musk. It chases all other thoughts before it and that, in itself, is a miracle.
**
The minstrel’s gallery, not much more than a box on one side of, and overlooking, the Great Hall, isn’t much cooler than the hall itself. Lucy finds it empty though, as she knew she would - Cair Paravel’s musicians much prefer to be down amongst their audience, and as close to the refreshments as possible. There’s a thin curtain that blocks at least some of the light. It’s something, at least, some escape from the sheer sensory assault. The chair she lowers herself into is hardly comfortable but, with the relief it gives her protesting feet, she doesn't care. She slumps a little to one side, rests a shoulder, her left, on the wall beside her, her temple following gently. The stone is cool. She sighs.
Thinking back, in the months and years to come, she will laughingly wonder why she should ever have been surprised when the knock comes, the door swinging to, near silent on its hinges, mere moments later. It seems they always meet this way, or in some way much like it. Coming unawares, following unasked; silent places, secret places, private yet so very much not. Still, she jumps near out of her skin, curses more loudly than she means to, when Susan speaks, even if it is only a tentative, “Hello?”
Her pounding heart doing little to help her still spinning head, Lucy does her best to compose herself. She keeps her eyes closed.
“You’ve been avoiding me.” She hates that it’s so harsh, so accusing, but she’s sure of it, as sure as she can be of anything.
Susan doesn’t answer for a few moments. Lucy hears her take a few steps into the gallery, shutting the door behind her. Even when she does respond, she’s hesitant, stumbling.
“I … Not avoiding you. We’ve seen each other lots.” If she’d deliberately meant to confirm Lucy’s suspicions she couldn’t have been more clear.
“Oh, of course. We’ve seen each other every day for the past week.” Lucy’s annoyance is bubbling away nicely now. “In Council, at meals, all the other places. You know, the places where you never actually have to talk to me. Where there’s no risk of ever actually being alone together. Because that would be just terrible, wouldn’t it?”
She doesn’t sound angry, not to her own ears, just petulant, and tired. It’s the drink, she tells herself, it must be.
“Well, we’re alone now,” Susan says, her voice gentle, conciliatory. Lucy, eyes still closed, can only imagine her expression. “What would you like to talk about?”
And now she does open her eyes; stands, too quick, a little shaky, and turns a disbelieving scowl on her sister. Susan looks back calmly. Lucy wants to say so much, ask so many questions. She hasn’t the first idea where to begin. She returns Susan’s calm, questioning gaze with a glare, her eyes stinging with furious tears.
Moments lengthen. The roll and crash from the hall below does nothing to make the wordlessness, the silent reproach, less painful, less bitter. (Or perhaps it’s all in Lucy’s head. Perhaps her sister doesn’t care at all.) It seems like forever but Susan’s gaze falls first. To the stones at their feet, the chairs, her hands. She’s playing with her fingers. Her eyes stop there.
“Do you think I didn’t want to talk to you? Of course I did. But how could I when I didn’t even know what I thought? Think. And I could hardly talk about it to anyone else, now could I? Can you imagine it? ‘Oh, I think my sister’s in love with me. And I feel the same way.’ ‘Well of course you love each other’”. (Lucy can’t help but smile. Susan’s impression of Shatterstaff has always been pitch-perfect, if just a little cruel.) “‘Not love, in love. Romantic love. Kissing love.’ ‘Oh, ah, well, yes. Um.’” She snorts, an angry, bitter sound. “There’s no one I could talk to. No one.”
All of the reproach, all of the bitterness, has drained from her voice when she next speaks. Now she just sounds sad. “It’s wrong, Lu. You see that, don’t you?”
Lucy doesn’t answer, at least not that particular question. She barely hears it. “You love me.” She’s not sure if she means it as a question or a statement. Both. Neither. It doesn't matter.
“Could you listen to me for once?” Susan sounds tired. “It’s wrong.”
“Why is it wrong?” Lucy’s voice in her own ears sounds tiny.
And now it is Susan’s turn to glare. It’s a poor effort; it really doesn’t seem like her heart is in it. She shakes her head slowly, her shoulders slumping. She doesn’t answer.
“No, really, tell me,” Lucy says. She wills herself not to cry. If she starts she knows she won't be able to stop.
They’re a few feet apart, no more. A handful of steps. Susan covers the distance in one, two, three strides, arms spreading wide, and catches Lucy in a fierce hug. The kiss, when it comes, is the slightest whisper of sensation against Lucy’s lips, a firmer, more lingering touch to her forehead. Susan pulls her closer, her hand in Lucy’s hair pressing her gently into the curve of her neck. Lucy can’t restrain a contented sigh.
“You ridiculous, infuriating girl,” Susan says, but there’s no bite to her words. “You really don’t have any idea, do you? Well, I hope you’re happy.” Susan’s own sigh is barely audible but Lucy can feel it through her whole body. They’re clinging so tightly to one another now that neither one could easily untangle herself.
“Of course I’m happy. I have you.” Moving her face from the hollow of Susan’s throat, she deliberately brushes her lips in a line across her cheek towards the curve of her lips. And now they are face to face, Lucy craning backwards just a little so she can look Susan in the eyes and still hug her with all her strength. Susan is soft and warm against her, her smile open, her eyes clear. She is only a little taller than Lucy now. Lucy hadn’t realised, wonders when it happened.
“You’re staring,” Susan whispers, reddening just a little though her smile, slow and luminous, suggests that she doesn’t really mind. Lucy grins back. It feels like her heart will burst.
Lucy dips forward to kiss her. And now, for what seems like the first time, Susan submits without demure. It's not a graceful kiss. Noses bump, teeth clash. Lucy has, frankly, very little idea of what to do with her tongue, and no more does Susan. They're clumsy, slightly drunken, giggling, idiotic. It's perfect.
Susan, pulling away, hiccoughs suddenly. Lucy giggles breathlessly, pauses for a few moments to give her sister a chance to collect herself before dipping towards her once more. And now Susan allows her the quickest peck before turning her head slightly to present a soft, smooth cheek to Lucy’s lips.
“Can you just hold me for a while? Isn't that enough?”
Lucy hasn’t felt so … so light in, well, forever. She holds on tight, kisses the proffered cheek gently.
It’s enough. For now.
**
Epilogue
Saturday 31st August 1963
London
For where your treasure is, there will your heart be also.
Matthew 6:21
She awakes, heart pounding, fear and shock clawing at her gut.
She doesn't cry out. Lying paralysed for long moments, she fights to control herself, takes long slow breaths. Sunlight is forcing its way through the gaps in the curtains. It is going to be another warm day. It's been a perfect summer, and it seems that today will be equally perfect.
Composure returns slowly. She can still taste the ghost of blood and smoke in her throat, hear the screams fighting through from her sleeping mind. The nightmares are less and less frequent but they're no less awful when they do come. She wonders how much worse they would be if every person on that train hadn't walked away from it. Not unscathed, perhaps, but - a few cuts, bruises, a broken arm for one poor unfortunate, it could have been so much worse. Lucy herself had escaped with a split lip and a badly bitten tongue. She had found it difficult to talk properly for days after.
She reaches out tentatively, breathes more easily finally as she lets herself stroke Susan's hair. She has always found it calming and Susan never stops her, says she likes it. The steady rhythm of of her sleeping breath is almost as soothing.
Contentment washes over Lucy, washing away the after-effects of her nightmare. Slipping as carefully and quickly as she can from under the covers, she picks her way to the door, trying at the very least not to walk all over her entire wardrobe. (Susan's side of the bed is immaculate. Lucy always complains that she has the advantage. They hardly ever use Susan's room. If they're honest – which they can never, ever, be – it's only for show. Lucy is sometimes rather offended that the perfectly arranged wardrobes, the spotless carpet, the always made bed, don't strike anyone as suspicious, especially beside the cheerful catastrophe that is Lucy's room). Her hand on the door-knob, Lucy freezes as Susan murmurs to herself, turning fitfully in her sleep. Lucy stays there, stock-still, longer than entirely necessary, but finally eases the door open, wincing at the resounding click as she does so. She blinks rapidly in the sudden sunlight, the curtains of the one big window in the corridor before her standing wide open. The sky is blue, the dawn chorus energetic. Yes, it's going to be a fine day.
**
The kitchen floor is cold against her bare feet, unaware as yet of the incipient glory of the coming day. Striking a match, she lights the gas under the big old kettle. It always did take a good deal longer than she'd like to boil, but soon enough she's picking her way back up the stairs, tea-tray in hand. The curtains in the upper parlour stand open also, the light rich and warm. It's a room of soft woodland colours, of pale greens, browns, and golds. Everything here is a reminder of their former home: colours, pictures, books, furniture, everything.
Lucy smiles sadly to herself, nostalgia threatening for a moment to overwhelm her contentment, but only for a moment. The radio on the sideboard – heavy black Bakelite – jumps into life at the turn the beige knob, the clipped tones of the Light Programme's morning announcer, mid-introduction, breaking the quiet. She turns down the volume just a little and makes her way, cup and saucer in hand, to the window.
For long minutes, she stands and she looks. Hampstead Heath is a brilliant green in the early morning sunshine, the sky is of a blue so clear, so flawless, it makes her heart sing to look at it. The rise and fall of the heath merges into the blue of the sky, emerald with sapphire, such colours as she rarely sees these days except in dreams, both sleeping and waking. London is harder than Narnia, louder, grimier, both more real and less, and yet she loves it too, in her own way. The pain of exile has faded, though it has been hard.
A lorry trundles along Spaniards Road, below, slowing to a halt at the old Spaniards Inn. Lucy watches as two men alight from the vehicle; they’re joined in moments by the landlord (a smiling, earthy man in late middle-age. He had taken a shine to Lucy and Susan from their first meeting, 10 years ago (more?), and is always ready with a friendly word and a grin). The landlord’s boy follows after. Even from this distance he doesn’t seem at all pleased to be awake.
There is a soft click from behind her, only audible now because the song on the radio has come to an end. In the slightest moment of silence before the announcer introduces the next song, she hears the pad of bare feet. She jumps only slightly as arms encircle her; Susan’s hands, fingers entwined, rest gently on Lucy’s belly, her chin on Lucy’s shoulder, cheek warm and soft against her ear.
“I’m sorry,” Lucy says, relaxing into Susan’s embrace. “Did I wake you?”
“It’s all right.” Susan’s voice in her ear is soft, muzzy-sounding. “Come back to bed. It’s Saturday. I want to cuddle.” Her tone is playful, with the slightest hint of something more mischievous.
With each passing minute, the sunlight intensifies; the green of the heath, the blue of the sky, and there, for the first time, a slight wisp of snowy white cloud - everything is pristine, brand new, perfect. At their backs, a raucous burst of guitar and drums and distinctly unmelodic voices.
“She loves you, yeah, yeah, yeah.”
Lucy can’t help but smile.
“Do you?” she asks.
“Do I what?”
“Love me?”
Susan’s voice is as soft as before, but not at all playful now, infused with a warmth that Lucy can never mistake. “Silly. You know I do. Always. Now come back to bed. I’m freezing out here.”
A red double decker bus moves silently along Spaniards Road. On the horizon, there might just be the slightest tinge of a black cloud. Perhaps it will rain later, but not for a while. For now, the day could not be more perfect. Lucy hugs herself, tightening Susan’s arms around her, tilts her head to rest against her sister’s cheek, and smiles happily.
Perhaps they’ll return to Narnia. She hopes so, one day. Still, England is beautiful in her own way, and it feels so very good to be alive.
End
Fandom: Chronicles of Narnia
Pairing(s): Lucy/Susan
Rating: PG for this part, NC-17 overall.
Summary: In which there is, finally, a happily ever after.
Word count: ~7000
Warnings: Sibling (sister/sister) incest. Don't like? Don't read.
A/N: Chapter 1 and initial notes are here, and Chapter 2 is here. Other parts can be found on the "fic: with a clouded view" tag.
I recently found a document on my laptop entitled 'Untitled Narnia' dating from May 22 2010 that contained the first few paragraphs of this. Which is to say, from first words to final full stop, this story has taken me almost four years to write. It's the longest thing I've ever written and, while I can't really say that there was ever any doubt that I'd finish, I really didn't expect it to take this long. Regardless of how many people read it, I have to admit to being pretty proud of myself right now.
A lot happens in 4 years, and this particular 4 years has seen all sorts of ups and downs. This ridiculous little story has never been far from my mind, one way or another, however much I've failed at speedy or consistent writing. I'll miss it, but hey, now there's time for the next thing, so that's nice.
While this is written from Lucy's point of view, and while I've grown to love her more than I ever thought possible, I wrote it, in a very real sense, for Susan. I've never come to terms with Lewis's treatment of her, and this is my response. To say that Lewis wouldn't have approved is something of an understatement, but isn't that one of the joys of fan-fiction?
As always, I want to thank likecharity, for her betaing and general wonderfulness. Thank you! ♥♥♥
Dedication: And finally, this is for all the people I've ever met online, in one fandom or another, or just on the wild and woolly highways and byways of the internet. This is for the love, the friends and the friendships, however lasting or fleeting. This is for zagury, my first fandom friend who, I'm happy to say, I'm still in touch with, and smeetie, with whom I was so close for a short time at the end of 2009 and whom I still remember with fondness and sadness, 4 years after she vanished from the internet. And this is for perverbially, whom I miss more than I can say, and sushizuzoru too, and jules2112, despite the fact that we appear to have fallen out over a ridiculous political disagreement. And this is for Shan, and Sivi, and Morgan, and Graham, and Jack, and Anna, and Flis, and Helen, and all the guys from the heady, if slightly stressful days, of Skins. And for lash_larue and lokifan too, and all you others I met through Harry Potter :)
And this is for Jules, and Kati, and Hannii, and most especially, Briella <3
And yes, I'm going a bit over the top, but did I mention 4 years? I hope it's not that surprising that I'm a little bit emotional XD
Anyway, rambling over. If you're reading this on LJ, feel free to check out the last chapter, and if you're reading on AO3, it's possible that you've already read it. I hope you enjoyed. <3
Disclaimer: Obviously all the characters and pretty much everything else belong to the estate of C.S. Lewis, and Walden Media. This is just for fun!
Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4
Part 5
Part 6
Part 7
Part 8
Appendix (Various Interludes)
(For those of you who find white on black annoying, there are also copies at my Archive of Our Own page).
Part 9
Sleep takes her quickly.
In the darkness (and when did it become so dark?) she can hear the quietest of breaths, a gentle, rumbling purr. And now she feels it, soft lips at her temple, a warm breath; the smell of spring flowers, fresh hay, a sweet, dark musk. She wants to reach out, throw her arms around him, bury her face face in his neck, feel the power and vitality of him, the silkiness of a mane the colour of sunlight on a summer's morning. She wants to say how much she loves him, how blessed she feels to have found him.
She can't move, or speak. It doesn't matter. He knows all these things, and so much more.
She sleeps on; the warmth of his kiss feels like a blessing.
**
She groans and wriggles luxuriously, fighting full wakefulness. It's warm, even though that one thin blanket has mostly stopped being any sort of covering. It's a bundle now, she's hugging it so tightly, but it barely distracts from the hard, uneven ground. The blanket beneath her is damp against her skin. She's still naked. It's a wonder she hasn't frozen to death. Still, she's reluctant to move. She drifts comfortably, the warmth of the day more than rival to the leeching chill of the earth.
Groaning again, mostly for the satisfaction of hearing her own voice break the stillness, she rolls over onto her other side, pulling the tangle of blankets around herself more completely. It may be unseasonably warm but there is no time of year that it is particularly enjoyable to awaken, naked, with nothing for ceiling but sky and a dark canopy of branches. She stretches out a hand, questing. There's something missing. What? Who? Ah, of course. Who?
Opening her eyes, Lucy finds herself squinting against an entirely surprising brightness. The sun is high, much higher than she'd expected. How long has she slept?
A warm breeze kisses her face, awakening the memory of that other kiss, a little touch of love, acceptance, benediction even. And other kisses still, earthier (more earthly) yet no less miraculous. A sound other than her own breathing finally reaches her ears. Birds singing, such a sweet and joyous noise that Lucy cannot help smiling. Yet, despite the chirrups and chirps, the gentlest whistling and the most insistent cark, there is a tranquility in this place, there probably always will be. Lucy can't imagine being sad or afraid, or even lonely, here.
Rolling onto her back she stretches so far that she feels her joints crack, and, finally acclimatised to the dazzle of sunlight, she begins to make out the outline of someone beside her. And there, there is the whickering she has been waiting for. Velvet lips nuzzle her face, a wet tongue. She sputters.
“Oof. Holly, stop that. I'm already awake, thank you.”
Holly whiffles back at her, her lips still so close to Lucy's face that she can feel the breath against her cheek. “Well I'm sure I'm very sorry,” says Holly, though she's laughing in that uniquely horsey way as she says it. “Susan asked me to be sure that you didn't sleep too long, but you looked so peaceful, I didn't have the heart to wake you.”
Shivering slightly, Lucy sits up to look properly around the glade and smiles. She can't help herself. She can't even be too bothered that Susan left her sleeping. With the memory of the previous day to sustain her she's fairly sure that nothing will bother her ever again.
Her clothes are neatly folded and piled beside her (and of course they are. Trust Susan to do that). She dresses quickly, the shivering getting more intense.
“So, when did she walk out on me?” she asks Holly over her shoulder as she struggles, chill-fingered, with the laces of her jerkin and hose.
“Well, I wouldn’t say she walked out on you,” Holly says, sounding a little uncomfortable. “Well, she didn’t.” Lucy’s raised eyebrows and decidedly doubtful expression have her flustered, it seems. “It’s just that she was very busy, and she was worried that everyone would be looking for you.”
“And she was in such a blazing hurry that she couldn’t spare the time to wake me?” Lucy knows that she’s being mean, putting Holly on the spot so, but however content she feels right now (happy even, and that’s not a word she’s been able to lay claim to in a long time) she can’t help but feel a little exasperated. She would have hoped Susan would want to talk to her.
Her attention back on her lacings, from the corner of her eye she catches a glimpse of ... something. Something that moves of its own volition, not driven by any wind (and there’s barely a breath of that today, this far into the forest). Someone, not something. Turning her head just far enough to properly look, Lucy is unsurprised to see her: a face of silver-white peering from behind a fall of dark green hair, eyes wide, mouth a silent ‘oh’.
The dryad smiles shyly; Lucy returns it, warm and open, a hand raised in welcome and beckoning. She can’t recall if this dryad is one of the ones she saw all those months ago, but still, Lucy feels she should thank her, for so much.
Slight and lithe, the dryad cocks her head - quizzical, nervous, Lucy can’t tell which - and raises a finger to her lips. Well, that gesture is easy enough to grasp. Lucy smiles again, in what she hopes is an apologetic fashion, though she remembers far too vividly the last time she was here, what she witnessed. She’s a little concerned that her smile might be more of a leer.
Far above, a cloud like a white fleece passes across the sun. Its shadow keeps pace below, shifting, dappled, shot through with white and green. The birches dance to their own music. It’s a brief interlude, the sun returns in moments, as dazzling as before. Blinking in the glare once more, it takes Lucy a while to realise that the dryad is gone. She and Holly are alone.
**
They get a surprise on the journey back to Cair Paravel.
Picking through the forest, they are silent, companionable. Every so often, Holly pauses to nibble on a little moss or crop the lush, green grass that, in places, seems so intent on flouting the strictures of the season. Lucy, tummy rumbling, wishes she could partake. (She learned her lesson the first time Holly had proffered the invitation. The first blade had gone down sweet and easy, the mouthful after had left her spitting and sputtering, Holly – barely more than a foal – laughing that whinnying laugh. She had never tried the moss after that, though she has been frequently informed of how uncommonly good the moss around Cair Paravel tastes). She decides to hold out for a proper breakfast, though lunch would be more accurate. Why ever had Susan let her sleep?
Up, dressed, and on the move, the chill soon dissipates from Lucy's bones. Among the trees it is almost oppressively warm. It makes it all the more of a shock when, finally clear of the forest and in full, glorious gallop, the air around them turns white.
Glowering, angry skies above, the air a pallid kaleidoscope, Lucy, suddenly shivering uncontrollably and close to blind, is uncertain what direction Cair Paravel is even in. She's completely certain that she wouldn't have the energy to get there. It's another thing that she has to be grateful to her friend for. Ears back, whinnying delightedly, it seems to Lucy that Holly has never enjoyed a gallop quite so much as she's enjoying this one. Lucy almost feels sorry – for Holly's sake, if not her own – that it comes to an end so quickly.
She leaves Holly munching contentedly in the stables, though not before hugging her fiercely, her arms barely circling her neck she's grown so much. The quickest route to shelter takes her past the walled garden to the Small Door of the Great Hall – head down, shoulders hunched, teeth chattering, she's so intent on getting out of this damnable cold that she has no eyes for her surroundings. She doesn't even spare a thought for the garden. She has happier, more recent, memories than that to hold on to.
The snowball takes her in the back of the head, more of a shock than anything. It's small and wet, positioned just perfectly to soak her collar and drip down the back of her neck before she can do a single thing about it. She's not at all surprised to see Derren, flushed and laughing, standing at the garden gate, making not the slightest attempt to defend himself.
Sputtering, swearing, yet invigorated (she's in a good mood; she has reason to be, after all) she crouches down to arm herself in kind. Derren stands firm.
“A very good day to you, Your Majesty,” he says, grinning broadly. “You look to have had a most enjoyable morning.”
He avoids Lucy's response (white, wet, and very cold) with ease. His playfully mocking, “You'll have to do better than ...” is brought short in a sputtering curse as, from either side, their origins hidden behind the garden wall, simultaneous snowballs strike him. Lucy winces in sympathy.
“Hey, not fair.” Derren has turned and is yelling back into the garden. “I wasn't ready.”
Rhiannon's voice (breathless, laughing) reaches her on the frigid air, “What does fair have to do with it, my lord? This is war. And I suspect Lucy would give you that for fair.”
Derren has made a fatal error. Turning to face Rhiannon's voice, he has neglected to keep his attention on her partner in crime or, for that matter, his queen. Lucy doesn't waste her opportunity this time, her attack hitting him in the back of the head in perfect retaliation for her own indignity at the exact same moment that a second missile strikes his ear. Crouching down in defence, he does his best to wipe away the remains of the snow while he tries at the same time to shelter himself from further assault. He looks so pitiful, Lucy can't help feeling at least a little bad for the laughter that bubbles out of her. One arm thrown around his head, he raises the other in what Lucy can only imagine is a signal of submission.
“I surrender, all right? Three against one is really quite dishonourable, you know.” He quails further as he says it. Lucy can't see Rhee but she's clearly done something less than reassuring. “Lucy, allow me to escort you inside. My charming companions are far too boisterous for my liking.”
Apparently he's wilfully forgotten who first attacked whom.
Lucy shakes her head with a smile, “Oh Derren. Always underestimating you opponents. Come on, then. I'll shelter your retreat.”
“Your Majesty,” he says, a twinkle in his eye and a spring in his step as he approaches her that belies his bedraggled state. “You are always and forever my hero.”
Derren takes her proffered arm with a flourish as the two twins finally allow themselves to be seen, side by side in the gateway of the garden where Derren had been moments before. Each looks as unruly as the other, flushed and breathless. They throw a playful salute.
“Lucy, dear. A very good morning to you,” Rhiannon says, sounding amused. “We were wondering where you were. Susan returned a while ago.”
From the prickling of her ears, the heat rising in her cheeks, Lucy knows she's gone bright red. She's thankful for the sudden snow now, though she's unsure that even that will save her for long. Her tongue feels too big for her mouth. Everywhere she looks it seems that there are eyes looking back at her, curious, questioning, amused. She shivers in the most exaggerated fashion, pairing it with a loud 'brrrr'.
“I'm sorry,” she says and hugs herself with the arm that isn't in Derren's possession. “I'd stop and talk but it's just so cold. I really should know better than to go riding so completely unprepared at this time of year.”
Derren snorts. He is wearing little more than Lucy and looking none the worse for it. He's positively aglow.
“Well then, allow me to escort you inside. We wouldn't want our beloved queen to catch a chill,” he says. For all the lightness of his words Lucy can't help but worry. Since her birthday she's found it near impossible not to pick apart his every utterance for some hidden meaning. Still, she allows him to drag her towards the Small Door.
The twins return her parting wave. Rhiannon's smile is broad, all teeth; Harry's is more reserved but just as warm. And as Harry waves with her right hand, her left, snowball and all, is moving out of sight behind Rhee's back. Rhiannon's outraged yelp comes mere moments before Harry turns tail, retreating with all haste into the garden.
“You utter cow.” Rhee's voice is at a pitch just short of painful. “Oh yes, run if you like, I'm going to get you for that.” She bends quickly to scoop up the means of her revenge. “It's no good, you know. There's no escape.”
Lucy makes her own retreat into the relative warmth of the castle. She wants no part in this particular war.
**
In a week it will be Christmas. Lucy barely has the luxury to worry that Susan is never, ever quite where she looks for her, or if she is, that there is always somewhere else she must be, something else she just has to be doing, organising, overseeing; taking her leave, sometimes with a tight, fierce hug, more often with only a rueful shrug and a smile. Beyond pleasantries, they don't talk. There are always far too many people around for Lucy to be able to say any of the things that she'd like to anyway.
(And still she can feel the softness and warmth of her, the silk of her hair. Asleep or awake, eyes open or closed, all of Lucy's senses vibrate with her, the memory and the fact of her.)
So slow to come, winter is finally here with a vengeance. A full week of snow storms, winds that cut to the bone, skies the colour of lead. Day after day, the sun struggles to break through the clouds, if not to shed any sort of warmth, at least to illuminate the day past the point of perpetual twilight.
**
And the life of the castle rolls on, as oblivious to her joy as it ever was to her sadness. That, at least, is something to be grateful for.
**
She's always, always loved Christmas Eve. All the anticipation, all those possibilities. And her family too, by blood and circumstance. She has so much to be thankful for.
Sometimes she just forgets, that's all.
She weaves her way back to her rooms at some point close to midnight, singing quietly to herself, just a little too much hot, spiced wine inside her, to chase away the cold. Not so much that she'll be unfit for tomorrow's festivities, she hopes, but really, she much prefers the simple songs and conviviality of this night to all the hustle and bustle of the big day.
More than ready to fall into bed, Lucy almost misses the note on her pillow. A scrap of parchment with a single sentence in an elegant hand that, even in her current state, she recognises immediately. Whatever could Shatterstaff be wanting at this time of night?
The temptation to ignore it and just sleep is almost irresistible yet resist it she does, finally. She feels that, as far as her dealings with Shatterstaff are concerned, the past year has been one brattish display after another. The fact that he's still willing to talk to her at all is a wonder, and yet another thing to be grateful for.
**
Oh, good grief. He couldn't have chosen somewhere indoors for a midnight assignation? Honestly.
Not for the first time in her life, Lucy has reason to curse a centaur's lack of facility with stairs. At least it hasn't snowed for a few days, and the walled garden offers some shelter from the bitter wind (besides stirring up memories that bring a warm flush to her skin) but even so her warmest clothing barely lessens the shivering.
Shatterstaff isn't alone. Even in the light of the half moon she can easily recognise Merrymeet, only a sliver shorter than her mate but somehow so much more graceful. Lucy raises a hand, forces some of the seasonal cheer into her voice that the chill has chased away.
“Well met and Merry Christmas to you.” The bells have yet to greet the new day, but still.
The two centaurs raise their hands in silent welcome.
“Merry Christmas, Lucy.” She almost jumps out of her skin. Susan, there in Merrymeet's shadow. She steps towards Lucy, pulls her into a tight hug, kisses her awkwardly on the cheek, all before Lucy's heart stops pounding. She barely composes herself sufficiently to return the embrace, fierce and equally tight, before Susan breaks away and steps back to stand beside Merrymeet once more.
Shatterstaff coughs, that studied, entirely artificial clearing of the throat with which Lucy is so very familiar. Ah. Clearly some sort of lesson is about to be imparted. Lucy smiles to herself. Some things never change.
Before Shatterstaff can speak, however, Merrymeet jumps in.
“Your Majesties,” she says, an entirely undeferential giggle in her voice.”We apologise most sincerely for dragging you out into such a bitter night but we thought you might like to see this, and you won’t get the chance again. Perhaps it can be our Christmas gift to you both.” She sounds more than a little tipsy.
Lucy listens as she continues, the words falling from her lips, a tinkling river of erudition, and it is all Shatterstaff can do to intersperse his own commentary into that of this mate. Lucy thinks they’re having so much fun in their intellectual sparring that whether or not their intended audience has become entirely overwhelmed by the flood of their words is something of secondary concern.
“And there.” Shatterstaff’s arm sweeps up, taking in the whole of the night sky at first. The darkness seems almost soft to Lucy, rich, welcoming sable brushed with flecks of white, stains of the faintest silvering just visible from the corner of her eye. For the briefest moment a flicker of another sky overlays her vision: paler, somehow less comforting, more dangerous. It passes quickly.The sweep of Shatterstaff’s arm becomes quickly less extravagant, drawing Lucy’s vision downwards just a little, and .. there. “As you see, our most beloved constellation, the Lion, brightest on this one night of the year. And if you will look just a little to the side of the Lion’s head, I believe you will see, in just a few moments …”
As she looks she can almost see her Aslan amongst the stars, all softness and strength and sinuous grace. A brightness, a flare of flame where there had been darkness. Not a pin-prick of starlight but an off-oval, golden smudge. To Lucy’s delight, it is almost as if the Lion is winking at her.
“The Great Comet,” Merrymeet says. “Sometimes called the Lion’s Eye. But that’s not the best of it. Look.” Lucy has paid close enough attention to her astronomy lessons to know that the evanescent threads of fire, appearing and vanishing again almost before she can register their existence, are much closer to them than the constellation from whose lips they appear to emanate, and yet. “The Lion’s Breath,” Shatterstaff and Merrymeet say in unison, Shatterstaff grave, Merrymeet, her voice full of joy, trailing off into a sigh.
They stand and watch, silent now. Lucy makes no attempt to count them, it would be impossible. Achingly brief, slashes in the covering of night, she does not question the name for a moment. Aslan’s Beath and Aslan’s Eye. She can almost hear the low rumble of his voice, see the gentleness in his gaze. For a few brief moments she forgets even to be aware of her sister, bare feet away, yet she doesn’t flinch when Susan takes her hand and, when she squeezes for one brief moment, Lucy squeezes back.
“Merry Christmas, Sue,” she says.
**
The noise, the heat, the spectacle, they're very nearly overwhelming.
The ball has been at full tilt for – well, honestly, Lucy isn't entirely certain how long. Long enough for her imbibe far more of her beloved spiced wine than is sensible, certainly. Her head is just a little aspin, and not only as a result of her current, highly unusual (for her) inability to remove herself from the floor. The offers have been coming thick and fast all night. She's certain she is still able to demure as graciously as anyone, she just doesn't have the heart, not tonight. Besides, if anyone were to press her on it, she'd be forced to admit that she's hardly having the least enjoyable night she's ever had. (There is another reason, from which she's doing her very best to distract herself. A niggling worry that she's trying very hard not to think about.)
Christmas has ever been the least formal of festivals, and it is Lucy's favourite because of it. This year, though, this year, it feels lighter, brighter, more care free, than she can ever remember. It can't just be her own good mood. Can it?
Perhaps it's just the relief of having everyone home, after so many weeks of doubting, hoping against hope. The Lion knows, they'd cut it close enough. When the delegation to Underland had returned with less than a week to Christmas, it had seemed too good to be true. They hadn't dared hoped for more. Edmund's return had seemed a miracle (though Peter had chided him with some vigour on his rash decision to make the journey from Anvard in the depths of winter. Edmund had laughed that off easily enough, reminding his brother that his little entourage of dwarfs and fauns were well able to cope with a “little bit of snow”).
Lucy can't help be sad that Lune had felt it necessary to remain in his castle, though she can hardly begrudge him that. He had been absent for long enough. And anyway, he had absolutely insisted on her presence at Corin's birthday celebration and that isn't too many months away.
Derren spins her almost without warning, forcing her to actually pay attention to what she’s doing, for the moment at least. For all that he can be the most infuriating person imaginable, he is certainly a charming and entertaining dancing partner, and accomplished enough to save her poor toes too, which is certainly nothing to be sniffed at. She'd already had more than enough reason to curse her flimsy slippers. Rhee had been annoyingly insistent that riding boots wouldn't go with this dress.
She twirls back into the compass of his arms, giggling breathlessly. Derren grins. For a moment his eyes flicker away from hers, over her shoulder. The grin is joined by an entirely too expressive roll of his eyes.
“I really don’t know what’s wrong with everyone.” His mouth not far from her ear, still he has to shout to be heard. “Everywhere I look, people seem intent on falling in love.” The way he says it, it’s like he has a bad taste in his mouth that not even the wine can banish.
“Oh Derren, they’re not doing it just to annoy you, you know.” She kisses him quickly on the cheek, butts her own cheek softly against him. “You’re not jealous, are you?”
He snorts. “Of course I’m not jealous. I’m happy. Of course I’m happy. It is the season of love and happiness and good will to all creatures, after all. And the Lion knows, some people have been waiting longer than others”.
It’s Lucy’s turn to snort now. As Derren spins her again, it is impossible not to see his point. Rhee flitters across her field of vision, arm in arm with Edmund. She’s been looking quite indecently pleased with herself all night and has appeared decidedly reluctant to accept any other partners. Edmund has the grace to look a little embarrassed at the breach of etiquette. Rhiannon, on the other hand, clearly couldn’t give two hoots.
At least they’re present though. Harry and Rhyddion have been noticeable by their absence for most of the evening. It’s proving to be quite the scandal.
Even as she tries to discreetly crane her neck to keep Rhiannon and Edmund in view, she feels Derren stiffen slightly, become just that little less responsive. She sighs, waiting for the inevitable. She doesn’t wait long.
“Well, I think I’ve commanded far more of your attention than is fair this evening. And dear old Tumnus has been waiting to dance with you all night. It’s unfair of me to make him wait any longer.”
She turns to face him, eyebrows climbing towards her hairline.
“Really, Derren?” she says with a snort. “You’re sure you don’t just want a chance to woo that pretty little Terebinthian? What’s her name again?”
“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.” As Lucy watches, his eyes, previously fixed on the woman in question (currently unescorted, as luck would have it) slide casually away from her. “Though she does look rather lonely, don’t you think?”
“Have a care, my dear,” Lucy says lightly. “Her brother, I am told, is both protective and ill-humoured. I’d hate for you to be, ah, inconvenienced.”
The Terebinthian Delegate (thoroughly full of himself, though known to be charming enough when the mood strikes him, and when his sister’s virtue is not threatened) is mere feet away, glowering, lips pursed. Lucy feels fleeting sympathy for his dance partner.
Derren doesn’t answer, merely lifts his arm, flicks his wrist. Having no particular urge to be stubborn, she complies, spinning, laughing delightedly, into Tumnus’s outstretched arms, stumbling only a little.
Tumnus's touch is delicate yet sure, steadying her.
“Perhaps a few moments to catch your breath, my dear,” Tumnus says, concern overriding conviviality. She can barely hear him, but nods, grateful. It's all become just a little too much, of a sudden. Perhaps it's the wine.
Her hand on his arms, Lucy allows herself to be threaded through the press. There, on her left hand, is Gruffle, looking happier and more proud than she's ever seen him. His impending fatherhood, so recently announced, clearly agrees with him. Lucy wonders where his good lady is. Daff does so love Christmas, and the little one isn't due for months yet.
Ah, there, in Thornfoot's shadow, laughing hard at some joke or other. The prospect of motherhood is just as agreeable, apparently. She's positively glowing.
Tumnus deposits her on the edge of the surging mass of bodies, turning solicitous eyes on her. She ushers him on his way with gracious thanks, her heart overbrimming with love as she watches as his retreating form is quickly engulfed. Suddenly free of less immediate distractions, she returns to the one thing that’s almost constantly on her mind. She does it almost unconsciously, casting around for the long black hair, the familiar green dress, but her sister remains elusive, has been all day. It doesn’t seem possible, she must be here somewhere, and yet.
At rest now, only her eyes in motion, darting from face to face, seeking the only face that just doesn’t want to be found, the spinning becomes intense. Out of nowhere a wave of nausea hits; swaying disturbingly, it is all she can do to stay on her feet. It is simply too much, she wishes she could just step out of her dress, escape the press, the noise, the smell of food, perfume, musk. It chases all other thoughts before it and that, in itself, is a miracle.
**
The minstrel’s gallery, not much more than a box on one side of, and overlooking, the Great Hall, isn’t much cooler than the hall itself. Lucy finds it empty though, as she knew she would - Cair Paravel’s musicians much prefer to be down amongst their audience, and as close to the refreshments as possible. There’s a thin curtain that blocks at least some of the light. It’s something, at least, some escape from the sheer sensory assault. The chair she lowers herself into is hardly comfortable but, with the relief it gives her protesting feet, she doesn't care. She slumps a little to one side, rests a shoulder, her left, on the wall beside her, her temple following gently. The stone is cool. She sighs.
Thinking back, in the months and years to come, she will laughingly wonder why she should ever have been surprised when the knock comes, the door swinging to, near silent on its hinges, mere moments later. It seems they always meet this way, or in some way much like it. Coming unawares, following unasked; silent places, secret places, private yet so very much not. Still, she jumps near out of her skin, curses more loudly than she means to, when Susan speaks, even if it is only a tentative, “Hello?”
Her pounding heart doing little to help her still spinning head, Lucy does her best to compose herself. She keeps her eyes closed.
“You’ve been avoiding me.” She hates that it’s so harsh, so accusing, but she’s sure of it, as sure as she can be of anything.
Susan doesn’t answer for a few moments. Lucy hears her take a few steps into the gallery, shutting the door behind her. Even when she does respond, she’s hesitant, stumbling.
“I … Not avoiding you. We’ve seen each other lots.” If she’d deliberately meant to confirm Lucy’s suspicions she couldn’t have been more clear.
“Oh, of course. We’ve seen each other every day for the past week.” Lucy’s annoyance is bubbling away nicely now. “In Council, at meals, all the other places. You know, the places where you never actually have to talk to me. Where there’s no risk of ever actually being alone together. Because that would be just terrible, wouldn’t it?”
She doesn’t sound angry, not to her own ears, just petulant, and tired. It’s the drink, she tells herself, it must be.
“Well, we’re alone now,” Susan says, her voice gentle, conciliatory. Lucy, eyes still closed, can only imagine her expression. “What would you like to talk about?”
And now she does open her eyes; stands, too quick, a little shaky, and turns a disbelieving scowl on her sister. Susan looks back calmly. Lucy wants to say so much, ask so many questions. She hasn’t the first idea where to begin. She returns Susan’s calm, questioning gaze with a glare, her eyes stinging with furious tears.
Moments lengthen. The roll and crash from the hall below does nothing to make the wordlessness, the silent reproach, less painful, less bitter. (Or perhaps it’s all in Lucy’s head. Perhaps her sister doesn’t care at all.) It seems like forever but Susan’s gaze falls first. To the stones at their feet, the chairs, her hands. She’s playing with her fingers. Her eyes stop there.
“Do you think I didn’t want to talk to you? Of course I did. But how could I when I didn’t even know what I thought? Think. And I could hardly talk about it to anyone else, now could I? Can you imagine it? ‘Oh, I think my sister’s in love with me. And I feel the same way.’ ‘Well of course you love each other’”. (Lucy can’t help but smile. Susan’s impression of Shatterstaff has always been pitch-perfect, if just a little cruel.) “‘Not love, in love. Romantic love. Kissing love.’ ‘Oh, ah, well, yes. Um.’” She snorts, an angry, bitter sound. “There’s no one I could talk to. No one.”
All of the reproach, all of the bitterness, has drained from her voice when she next speaks. Now she just sounds sad. “It’s wrong, Lu. You see that, don’t you?”
Lucy doesn’t answer, at least not that particular question. She barely hears it. “You love me.” She’s not sure if she means it as a question or a statement. Both. Neither. It doesn't matter.
“Could you listen to me for once?” Susan sounds tired. “It’s wrong.”
“Why is it wrong?” Lucy’s voice in her own ears sounds tiny.
And now it is Susan’s turn to glare. It’s a poor effort; it really doesn’t seem like her heart is in it. She shakes her head slowly, her shoulders slumping. She doesn’t answer.
“No, really, tell me,” Lucy says. She wills herself not to cry. If she starts she knows she won't be able to stop.
They’re a few feet apart, no more. A handful of steps. Susan covers the distance in one, two, three strides, arms spreading wide, and catches Lucy in a fierce hug. The kiss, when it comes, is the slightest whisper of sensation against Lucy’s lips, a firmer, more lingering touch to her forehead. Susan pulls her closer, her hand in Lucy’s hair pressing her gently into the curve of her neck. Lucy can’t restrain a contented sigh.
“You ridiculous, infuriating girl,” Susan says, but there’s no bite to her words. “You really don’t have any idea, do you? Well, I hope you’re happy.” Susan’s own sigh is barely audible but Lucy can feel it through her whole body. They’re clinging so tightly to one another now that neither one could easily untangle herself.
“Of course I’m happy. I have you.” Moving her face from the hollow of Susan’s throat, she deliberately brushes her lips in a line across her cheek towards the curve of her lips. And now they are face to face, Lucy craning backwards just a little so she can look Susan in the eyes and still hug her with all her strength. Susan is soft and warm against her, her smile open, her eyes clear. She is only a little taller than Lucy now. Lucy hadn’t realised, wonders when it happened.
“You’re staring,” Susan whispers, reddening just a little though her smile, slow and luminous, suggests that she doesn’t really mind. Lucy grins back. It feels like her heart will burst.
Lucy dips forward to kiss her. And now, for what seems like the first time, Susan submits without demure. It's not a graceful kiss. Noses bump, teeth clash. Lucy has, frankly, very little idea of what to do with her tongue, and no more does Susan. They're clumsy, slightly drunken, giggling, idiotic. It's perfect.
Susan, pulling away, hiccoughs suddenly. Lucy giggles breathlessly, pauses for a few moments to give her sister a chance to collect herself before dipping towards her once more. And now Susan allows her the quickest peck before turning her head slightly to present a soft, smooth cheek to Lucy’s lips.
“Can you just hold me for a while? Isn't that enough?”
Lucy hasn’t felt so … so light in, well, forever. She holds on tight, kisses the proffered cheek gently.
It’s enough. For now.
**
Epilogue
Saturday 31st August 1963
London
For where your treasure is, there will your heart be also.
Matthew 6:21
She awakes, heart pounding, fear and shock clawing at her gut.
She doesn't cry out. Lying paralysed for long moments, she fights to control herself, takes long slow breaths. Sunlight is forcing its way through the gaps in the curtains. It is going to be another warm day. It's been a perfect summer, and it seems that today will be equally perfect.
Composure returns slowly. She can still taste the ghost of blood and smoke in her throat, hear the screams fighting through from her sleeping mind. The nightmares are less and less frequent but they're no less awful when they do come. She wonders how much worse they would be if every person on that train hadn't walked away from it. Not unscathed, perhaps, but - a few cuts, bruises, a broken arm for one poor unfortunate, it could have been so much worse. Lucy herself had escaped with a split lip and a badly bitten tongue. She had found it difficult to talk properly for days after.
She reaches out tentatively, breathes more easily finally as she lets herself stroke Susan's hair. She has always found it calming and Susan never stops her, says she likes it. The steady rhythm of of her sleeping breath is almost as soothing.
Contentment washes over Lucy, washing away the after-effects of her nightmare. Slipping as carefully and quickly as she can from under the covers, she picks her way to the door, trying at the very least not to walk all over her entire wardrobe. (Susan's side of the bed is immaculate. Lucy always complains that she has the advantage. They hardly ever use Susan's room. If they're honest – which they can never, ever, be – it's only for show. Lucy is sometimes rather offended that the perfectly arranged wardrobes, the spotless carpet, the always made bed, don't strike anyone as suspicious, especially beside the cheerful catastrophe that is Lucy's room). Her hand on the door-knob, Lucy freezes as Susan murmurs to herself, turning fitfully in her sleep. Lucy stays there, stock-still, longer than entirely necessary, but finally eases the door open, wincing at the resounding click as she does so. She blinks rapidly in the sudden sunlight, the curtains of the one big window in the corridor before her standing wide open. The sky is blue, the dawn chorus energetic. Yes, it's going to be a fine day.
**
The kitchen floor is cold against her bare feet, unaware as yet of the incipient glory of the coming day. Striking a match, she lights the gas under the big old kettle. It always did take a good deal longer than she'd like to boil, but soon enough she's picking her way back up the stairs, tea-tray in hand. The curtains in the upper parlour stand open also, the light rich and warm. It's a room of soft woodland colours, of pale greens, browns, and golds. Everything here is a reminder of their former home: colours, pictures, books, furniture, everything.
Lucy smiles sadly to herself, nostalgia threatening for a moment to overwhelm her contentment, but only for a moment. The radio on the sideboard – heavy black Bakelite – jumps into life at the turn the beige knob, the clipped tones of the Light Programme's morning announcer, mid-introduction, breaking the quiet. She turns down the volume just a little and makes her way, cup and saucer in hand, to the window.
For long minutes, she stands and she looks. Hampstead Heath is a brilliant green in the early morning sunshine, the sky is of a blue so clear, so flawless, it makes her heart sing to look at it. The rise and fall of the heath merges into the blue of the sky, emerald with sapphire, such colours as she rarely sees these days except in dreams, both sleeping and waking. London is harder than Narnia, louder, grimier, both more real and less, and yet she loves it too, in her own way. The pain of exile has faded, though it has been hard.
A lorry trundles along Spaniards Road, below, slowing to a halt at the old Spaniards Inn. Lucy watches as two men alight from the vehicle; they’re joined in moments by the landlord (a smiling, earthy man in late middle-age. He had taken a shine to Lucy and Susan from their first meeting, 10 years ago (more?), and is always ready with a friendly word and a grin). The landlord’s boy follows after. Even from this distance he doesn’t seem at all pleased to be awake.
There is a soft click from behind her, only audible now because the song on the radio has come to an end. In the slightest moment of silence before the announcer introduces the next song, she hears the pad of bare feet. She jumps only slightly as arms encircle her; Susan’s hands, fingers entwined, rest gently on Lucy’s belly, her chin on Lucy’s shoulder, cheek warm and soft against her ear.
“I’m sorry,” Lucy says, relaxing into Susan’s embrace. “Did I wake you?”
“It’s all right.” Susan’s voice in her ear is soft, muzzy-sounding. “Come back to bed. It’s Saturday. I want to cuddle.” Her tone is playful, with the slightest hint of something more mischievous.
With each passing minute, the sunlight intensifies; the green of the heath, the blue of the sky, and there, for the first time, a slight wisp of snowy white cloud - everything is pristine, brand new, perfect. At their backs, a raucous burst of guitar and drums and distinctly unmelodic voices.
“She loves you, yeah, yeah, yeah.”
Lucy can’t help but smile.
“Do you?” she asks.
“Do I what?”
“Love me?”
Susan’s voice is as soft as before, but not at all playful now, infused with a warmth that Lucy can never mistake. “Silly. You know I do. Always. Now come back to bed. I’m freezing out here.”
A red double decker bus moves silently along Spaniards Road. On the horizon, there might just be the slightest tinge of a black cloud. Perhaps it will rain later, but not for a while. For now, the day could not be more perfect. Lucy hugs herself, tightening Susan’s arms around her, tilts her head to rest against her sister’s cheek, and smiles happily.
Perhaps they’ll return to Narnia. She hopes so, one day. Still, England is beautiful in her own way, and it feels so very good to be alive.
End
