This story is a bit of nonsense, seriously. I won't be surprised if no one gets it. But we were reading about Mythology in English, and one of the stories struck me as Susan. "The Quest of the Golden Fleece", that was it. But I don't want to give away the story, so whatever. :D
It shouldn't matter. It shouldn't matter, and it did, even though she had denied the fact endlessly. No, she had gone over it, again and again, and this was the only way. Love made things so complicated, and you simply had to make a choice—it would hurt either way you chose. She knew that. She had accepted that fact. It was simply irrational.
It was chilly tonight. She enwrapped herself tighter within her cloak, shuddering as she stared into the black night with empty eyes, trying to fight back the scream that was building in her throat. No, she couldn't turn back now. It would ruin everything. Exile was worth the prize, she was sure. She had already thought this through thoroughly enough, and he was on a tight schedule, so he had made it seem. Who had been the one to come with the idea again? She couldn't even remember. It was bad enough that she had complied, though.
It wasn't long, either. She had heard him coming and gasped in quite shock—a sound that would not be bypassed. It was dreadfully dark, black with the deep night, almost as if a blanket had smothered any sense of light and left in it's wake a fog. She couldn't see him. Not yet. But she heard the four-step beat of the horse's hooves come to a halt, and the thump as his boots hit the ground. Her heart thundered against her chest; it was a wonder that he hadn't come straight out and questioned it. But maybe he hadn't seen her. Not yet. Maybe.. she could slip away.. get him out.
"Susan?"
Too late.
"Where are you?"
She was supposed to lure him, make him come towards her by words, confirming, reassuring words that would lead him into no thoughts of concern. Instead a strange, terrified squeaking sound scratched itself from her throat as she shook on the spot. It worked well enough. She saw him now, walking quickly towards her all the while speaking, speaking she supposed to her, but nothing was coherent anymore. She stared at him, trying to brace herself, or hoping nothing would happen preferably. But that could not be avoided at this point. It was all for best interest.
It was over quickly, but it seemed like an eternity as he was suddenly brought to a halt by his own imperilment. Not a sound was made. No, even he was too noble to make a sound, even as he was struck down on the spot by his unseen attacker. Just a small, quiet gasp and the widening of his beatific, crystal blue eyes was all there was to it. They locked onto hers and she was unable to look away, her mouth forming a perfect 'o' of horror. And then just like that, he fell.
She didn't scream. The world did seem rather shaky, though, and a strange, strangled noise was drowning out any thought she was trying to process, and she wondered where it was coming from. A man stepped carefully over the body, sheathing his sword before coming to her and wrapping strong arms around her comfortingly. All she could register was the blood that had been dripping from the weapon. She also realized finally that the sound that was filling her conscious was coming from her as she sobbed beside herself, terrified and ashamed.
As she and her newfound lover fled to freedom, she knew with the echoing, terrified cry that suddenly rang through the trees, that Edmund had finally found Peter.