A/N: This is not quite the Narnia fic I always wanted to write, but I am quite fond of it anyway. Reviews are much appreciated, as always. And Narnia belongs to C.S. Lewis.
For Sara, who, when I told her my idea for this fic, laughed and said "That's awkward." Oh Sara.
xXx
Wind
Lucy considers using the cordial. It wouldn't take very much. It never does. But there will always be those who need it more, and what is one fight less, anyway, in the long run?
Lucy swings her legs out of bed, the left one stiff in its heavy bandages. Of course they don't have casts in Narnia, and even now, eight years later, it still sometimes strikes Lucy that this isn't the only world there is. This isn't only home there is. There's another beyond the wardrobe that seems to slip out of time and memory the longer she sleeps.
Susan is by her side before she can reach for her smooth wooden crutches.
"You shouldn't be out of bed, Lu."
"I just want to see the boys off."
"If you must." Susan looks disapproving.
"I must."
Peter looks magnificent as always in his bright red tunic, astride his chestnut mare. Edmund grins from beneath the hand shading his eyes as he watches her descend the stone steps of Cair Paravel.
"You'll be alright, Lu," he says, leaning down to grasp her hand as she almost stumbles into his horse's side.
"Look after Susan for us," Peter adds, smiling at both girls.
"Don't worry. I will."
Susan comes to stand at Lucy's side, hands barely grazing, as they watch the almost-men ride north, out the gates and out of sight.
One month later and Lucy's leg is almost fully healed. Word trickles down from the north, news of her brother's valor against the giants. Though the fight is hard and slow going, there have been few major losses, and both girls sigh out in relief. And there is to be a ball.
Lucy aches to join Peter and Edmund, her bones fuse together in her desire, but still she cannot go. Instead she helps Susan prepare, hanging shimmering curtains in the great throne room, bedecking the banisters with ivy, and, when she can, sneaking out into the garden to consult with Tumnus.
"She still treats me like a child! Edmund and Peter need me. I could go to them now. I should."
Tumnus watches her pace from the bench where he is seated, little goat feet neatly crossed, twining a daisy between his fingers. "Your sister does what she thinks is right." Lucy hmphs and Tumnus continues, "Besides, she needs you here as well. Suitors are coming from Archenland and the Lone Islands. You know how Queen Susan gets. She will need your support."
Lucy tosses her head. "She'll enchant them all. Susan never has any trouble with boys."
"Doesn't she?" Tumnus tilts his head to the side, a half smile lifting the corner of his mouth. "Perhaps you should look closer."
Finally the night of the ball arrives, the wind seeming to blow hard enough to push wisps of cloud and slivers of moonlight into the great hall. A choir of fauns with their flutes plays a jaunty tune and nymphs dance lightly on the floor.
The night is early yet. Susan has already greeted her suitors, with Lucy by her side to curtsey and offer words of welcome, so there is nothing more for her to do. Susan doesn't really need her, and it would be so much better for Lucy to fight right now, to defy giants, than to stand at her sister's party, growing bored.
She leans against a pillar and surveys the room, looking for her sister. Surely Susan is dancing with one of her suitors. The Archenlander, a duke, was a particularly handsome man, with blue eyes and strong features. Lucy does not like him, for surely he will take Susan away, and if he does not, someone else will. For Susan is beautiful, her hair dark and rippling down her back, her full lips and large somber eyes.
But Susan is not dancing. Instead, as Lucy watches, Susan slips out the doors and outside. Lucy follows, the wind pushing her hair back from her face, just in time to see Susan following the path down to the beach, disappearing into darkness.
She finally catches up to Susan, who stands still on the sand, arms outstretched, her shoes kicked off and the tide pulling at her toes. Lucy hangs back, silent, as Susan flings up wet sand, laughing to hear it plop back into the ocean. She turns, the smile still soft on her lips, and sees Lucy.
Her arms drop to her sides. "Lucy. What are you doing out here?"
"I followed you."
"You shouldn't tax that leg of yours."
"My leg is fine, Susan," Lucy snaps, then regrets it, for the calm on Susan's face is broken, and she turns away.
"I know it is healing," she says. "And I know you don't want to be here. But I do worry about you so. You know that."
Susan is sincere, and Lucy feels a bad sister. This is, after all, Susan's night.
"Do you fancy your suitors, Su?"
Susan sighs, and for the first time Lucy thinks to wonder what Susan is doing outside, away from her own ball.
"They're fine gentlemen," she says, but Lucy knows that doesn't mean anything.
She steps closer to Susan and places a hand on her back, resting her forehead on Susan's shoulder. "I'm sorry," she says, though what she's apologizing for she doesn't know. For everything, maybe.
Susan turns to face her, putting her hands on Lucy's shoulders. "I'm sorry you couldn't go to war with the boys, Lu."
They look at each other. There are such depths in Susan's eyes, and Lucy cups her elbows so she won't stagger.
Then Susan leans forward, still intent, a few strands of hair whipping across her cheeks, and presses a kiss to Lucy's lips.
Susan's lips are soft and fierce and loving and wonderful, mixing all the best parts of her: her gentle beauty, the care she takes of Lucy, and perhaps a wild spark that has long lain dormant, a spark that Lucy only sees when Susan practices her archery, and she thinks perhaps sometimes Susan would like to go to war too.