OK. It's been a while.
Now this, I freely admit, is entirely my fault. This story is hard to write, for a long time I didn't have an idea of where I wanted it to go. However, I am pleased to announce this story will be continuing, though not as a full-length all out story. There will be 4, possibly 5 and definitely no more than 6 chapters total.
This story is written under multiple viewpoints: Things are going to overlap. That's intentional. Hopefully it adds to the story, if you don't like it, let me know! That's what the review box is for. The chapters here are written with the intent that you can read each one separately (as a separate, complete story) and collectively (as part of the whole). Hopefully that makes sense.
This story was actually based off the most random thing possible: I was studying the 5 themes (or parts, whatever) of grief in health class and thought hey, that would make a really good story. So each chapter is also sort of a personification of a part of grief.
And... this is a sad story. No, Caspian and Susan are not going to end up together, no, Peter and Susan are not going to return to Narnia. No, Susan is not getting her memories back. In some ways this story is also about responsibility- and living with your choices.
Anyway, I am now proud to present... the second chapter. This is Peter's story.
When you face something real, something tangible, how can you not be brave? When your enemy outnumbers you, yet you have the greatest being on your side, how can you know fear? And when everything's all right, what is the cost of faith? Nothing at all.
But what happens when what you face is unknown? When it is the uncertain that scares you?
What good is bravery when you lie in bed afraid of the dark, of the choices tomorrow brings?
--
Peter would never have considered himself brave a year ago. Bravery wasn't really a concept he thought about. There had never been a need to consider it. Dad, going off to fight in a war, he was brave. But when Dad had left, Peter had filled his shoes. And suddenly, there was nothing he wouldn't sacrifice for his family. If it meant running into the house to grab Edmund during the middle of a bombing or entering a magical land through a wardrobe and fighting a war… so be it.
There are tears in her eyes, but also joy. Soon it will all be over. Soon, she will be home. She turns to face him, and in her eyes he sees the resolution. Nothing will change her mind. He sees the tortured pain and realizes his own part in this decision and in the same instant knows he cannot change it. Anything said now will sound false. He cannot apologize. He must simply watch.
The war had finished. He still didn't see himself any differently. Aslan crowned him, but inside he still felt as though he was just Peter Pevensie of Finchely. Not brave, certainly not magnificent. Every honor bestowed upon him felt false.
"Sometimes love isn't enough. Sometimes you just want the pain to go away."
But somehow over the years, being king had become as natural as breathing. He didn't think about it any more. And eventually, he thought about England less and less. The less he thought about it, the easier it was to be a king. Until, one day, he realized he had forgotten England. He hadn't thought about it in years. That was the day they all had returned.
He had been horrified. The sight of the lamppost reminded him of just how much he had left in England. His mother, father, home, Professor Kirke, even the housekeeper (now what was her name?) he had left, forgotten, all but dead to him. Indeed, they might be dead. He did not know. He only knew that if they were, it was he who must accept full responsibility for it. For it was his by his own selfishness and pride he had forgotten, he had indeed made himself forget.
He had been horrified. What a crime it was, to willfully forget your own family, your own self! And he had committed it cheerfully. He had chosen the honor and glory of the land over his family, his friends.
He had chosen to be High King Peter the Magnificent rather than to care about those whom he had loved. In his darkest moments, he wondered if he had not chosen to forget them because they reminded him he had not always been royal, not always been noble, not always been king. On the day Peter saw the lamppost, he realized what he had become- a traitor to his mother, father, friends and even himself in order to become the king Narnia had required.
She stares at him, blue eyes troubled, but she is not really looking at him. She's looking beyond him, at the land she will forget in a few precious moments. What does it matter, what does anything matter any more? he wants to scream. It's all for naught, she will forget it in a minute and she will be gone, gone, gone forever. This must be death, to watch her choose to die to herself rather than live with the pain of her actions. He is drowning in air, burning like fire, wanting to scream and tear at his head for surely if he rips his head apart the pain will go away and anything, anything must be better than this torment. He cannot watch her leave. He turns his head and silently weeps into his arm. Nothing could be more horrible.
Then they had marched through the wardrobe door, and Peter had found himself back in his young sixteen year old body. All of the awkward ganglyness he had had at that age. All the knowledge from years of governing Narnia, but none of the respect he had there. None of the scars he knew as well as his own self. None of the trust and easy self-confidence he had acquired in his years. Just the knowledge and arrogance that a king had, but a boy should not.
He hadn't realized this at first, of course. His first reaction had been an ecstatic joy. Mother and Dad hadn't died! No one was searching for them, no time had passed and it was all right, it was all good, nothing had happened. For a few days, Peter had marveled at simply being back in England. He listened to Professor Kirke's stories with amazement, not heading his warning about the wardrobe. After all, Kirke hadn't been a king. He, Peter, was High King. He could come and go as he pleased. He hardly even minded being a teenager again. In the country, he didn't see enough people to remember how boys his age were treated. But after about six days, he headed back to the wardrobe.
He had intended a short visit. Just a warning to tell Narnians of the new situation, that he and the others were fine and not kidnapped. He also planned to meet with his council and explain how there would have to be adjustments made to their jobs as advisors of the realm.
He could not get in. At first, he couldn't believe it. He put his hand on the wood, staring at it in a perplexed fashion. Then he climbed out, waited a minute, and climbed back in. This time he kept his eyes shut. He pictures the forest in his mind's eye, where he had hunted only a few days ago. He walked into the wardrobe with his eyes closed tightly.
His head had smacked the wooden backing, causing him to fall over harshly. He stared at the wood, uncomprehendingly. He placed his palms on the wood back and pushed, as if he would push away whatever blocked him. Finally he sat. Unable to think, even as his mind was racing, he stared at the doors. He didn't notice when she entered the room.
"I want to give up. I've lost hope. And I just want the pain to be gone." She can't mean that, she can't mean it! His eyes were streaming, he had lost all hope of face in front of the Telmarine people. And he didn't care because it was his sister, his beloved little sister, the little logical girl who couldn't conceive the idea of failure who was staring at him and telling him she was giving up. Because life had grown too big and too scary. Because deep down, she just wanted someone who loved her enough to notice when she was hurting and reach out and make the pain go away. But he hadn't seen, too wrapped up in himself. He had to bite his hand to keep from screaming at his selfish pride, which had already once cost him his family and would now rob him of all he held dear.
He had not even noticed her entrance. He had stared, unthinking, at the doors of the wardrobe. And amazingly, she had understood exactly what it meant. He saw it in her eyes, the last vestiges of the hope she had clung to slipping away. But she still had to see for herself. She entered the wardrobe. A scant five minutes later (or was it five hours?) she exited, wiping her eyes on her hand. Her expression had been one of utmost agony.
"It's true, then." His voice still held the question, the wish that it wasn't so. It was the thin, reedy voice of his teenage self. He hadn't noticed how weak it sounded before. Almost… pathetic.
"That we can't get in?" She tried a watery smile. "I think so. Ed told me he couldn't get in earlier. I wondered… I thought he must be joking, or have done something wrong." She stared at the doors, but he could still see the tears on her face. "What will happen now?"
He had no answer. He had simply sat by her side, staring at the doors that had once been their kingdom and now barred them from themselves. Hours later, Edmund found them there. He took one look and sat down and wept beside them. That had surprised Peter. Edmund never cried.
It was not unlike Edmund to say such a thing. He threw out accusations often, but he had been careful recently to curb his slightly untamed temper. But he was angry now. And he wanted to shame Susan to silence, so that he might bring her back to sense. Peter knew his brother well. But he knew Susan even better, and he knew that this time, it wouldn't work. He saw the true desperation behind Edmund's half-crazed eyes. He needed his sister to stay. And he would lose her. Just as Peter himself would lose her. Suddenly he felt as close to crazy as Edmund.
And now he was watching her walk up to Aslan. Surely any moment now he would withdraw his offer, surely any moment he would tell her he could make the pain go away, it didn't have to be like this.
Aslan was saying something to her; all the Telmarines and Narnians were talking, so why didn't he hear anything? His ears roared as though they were filled with water, or in the middle of a battle. Adrenaline coursed through his veins, useless, unable to help. His sense should be overly alert, yet he couldn't think. Could barely breathe. Could only watch, and maybe not even do that.
Aslan was opening his great mouth, would he swallow her? Would he simply bring about her total demise? Was that she release she sought? But no, it was simply his breath, which shone like gold thread in the early morning light. It surrounded her, covering her. She looked a little apprehensive, and Peter seized what he knew would be his last chance, if it was not already spent.
He ran to her side. A murmur from the crowd grew louder at this action. What new drama was now in store? He put his face beside her hers and whispered urgently.
"Please, Susan. Just try. Just try to live, I'll make it better, I swear I will, I'll make it not hurt any more, I'll be there but please Susan, please, you must listen to me. You must stay. Please Su, I beg you. Please don't go." His voice was little more than a desperate whisper.
She smiled. She looked utterly at peace, totally content. For a moment, Peter was relieved. More than relieved, wild hope shot through him. She would listen. He had said the words to make her stay, and stay she would. But in the next instant his hope was gone; crashing harder than if he had had no hope to begin with. She did not smile because of him. She smiled because it was over. She could no longer remember. She was free.
And then she was gone. Fading, as the light did, just faded right out as if she was no more than a shadow which disappeared when the sun came out. He stretched out his hands to try and grab her, to keep her with him, to keep her as Susan as he remembered her. He could not even touch her. He sank to his knees. A moan escaped his lips. It was the sound a dying animal might make, something that had been torn and was left for dead. He couldn't remember how to use his mouth, his hands. Tears fell from his eyes as he remained transfixed in the spot his sister had died.
For it was death, for all that she had willed it and Peter had watched it happen. She had died to herself, to Narnia. Queen Susan the Gentle was dead. No one could deny it. Like a ghost, she had simply faded out of this life. She was gone. And he had allowed it, was responsible in some way for it. He had failed. Now he did not even have the strength to stand.
A sudden movement to his left, the flash of a blade. He did not even move, except for his eyes. They watched Edmund's blade slam violently into the tree trunk, deep up to the hilt. Gasps rose from the crowd. It was a feat of almost superhuman strength. Only Peter seemed to notice Edmund leaning on the tree, hugging the hilt to him as if his life depended on it, twisting his face in anger, sorrow and loss.
Gone, his lips were saying. Gone gone gone gone. She could not be gone. He could not have let her go, only now to realize he could not live without her. Could barely breathe if he didn't know she was safe. No, no, it was too terrible to bear.
And yet… she was safe. She was at peace. Could that ever be enough for him?
It might have to be.
As if from a distance, he heard Aslan's voice. "It is time."
His mind was too worn, too tired to truly realize what Aslan was saying. It was time? How could it be time, why did time even matter anymore? He felt as though he had run many miles in a race only to lose, and now just wanted to sit down. Wanted to sleep. Wanted to forget…
His head flew up with a jolt at the words he had thought. Was that what it was like for Susan? To feel exhausted, overwhelmed- to know only three people in he world feel as you do? To feel lost at sea, and to find yourself wishing for the simplicity of earlier days?
He grimaced. Only two people now could come close to understanding how he felt.
But he understood what it had been like; at least he thought he did. It was so lonely it hurt.
But no one was truly alone. Susan had embraced her despair; it had become her companion. It had isolated her from the others. Until Caspian.
Caspian. He and Susan were so much alike, too much alike. In a different time and place, something might have come of it. But it was Narnia, he was the king without a castle and she was the queen without a horn. However sweet it might have been, loss was seeped into their life. And she was afraid, so afraid. Afraid to lose her despair, which had been her silent companion for so many years. Afraid to open up and be free, and laugh again, and let herself be drawn into heartbreak once again. So she pushed him away. Pushed them all away, and in doing so, lost herself.
Maybe he understood now. Queen Susan the Gentle was already dying, from the moment she saw the wreckage at Cair Paravel. So to her, this simply had been… release. The way to die with dignity and honor. Freedom to live again, and love again, with a full heart. The only price was giving up all she once held dear.
And he couldn't have understood this, couldn't have known that she found that a price worth paying. Not until he lost her, lost her so that she would never, ever be found again. Had she known he would find this out about her? Had she even known herself?
It was time. And finally, he rose. His heart was heavy, but it did not crush him under its weight. He understood something Susan did not. He had always been the protector of his little family. He knew something of the horror at the loss of a parent. He would not deprive his family of one person who would understand how they would feel in the next weeks and months. And slowly, once they could talk about it, talk they would. Together, they would be able to move on. They would heal the gaping hole in each others' hearts. They would be happy again.
Susan had chosen the easy way. He understood that now. She had wanted release and she got it. She had wanted happiness and now she would have it. But she would only see the world in black and white, when she might once have seen it in color. She would never be whole again.
But Peter would. And before he could move on, there was one thing left to do. He bowed, an elegant courtly bow, to the crowd. Then he walked up to Caspian.
All of them had said their goodbyes before Susan's announcement. Caspian was still standing where he had then, looking like a man who has lived a thousand years in a minute and seen much suffering. Peter pulled his sword, and scabbard, off his body. He handed it to Caspian.
The slightly older man stared as if he had never seen a sword before. Then, slowly, ever so slowly, his hand grasped the sword handle.
Peter leaned his face close to Caspian. "It's all right, Caspian," he whispered quietly. "I swear it's all right."
He stared at him with haunted eyes. His voice was a cracked whisper. "I cannot be king. I can barely even stand."
"It's all right," Peter repeated. "One day, you'll understand."
He straightened and walked away to stand by his siblings. Edmund was staring at him as if he had betrayed something. Lucy was fighting tears. But Peter had eyes only for Aslan, whose eyes were kind and soft, with just a hint of a smile. He nodded his head slightly, just enough that Peter saw the signal. He turned and bowed to the Telmarines, to the Narnians, to the land. It was a bow such as a servant might make to a king. The people were shocked into standing. Then, Caspian slid to his knees. Immediately the common people followed suit.
"Thank you." The words were soft, like leaves on a breeze. He couldn't even be sure he'd said them himself. Then he turned and walked through the arch made by the trees. He saw Edmund's sword hilt buried deep in the tree. He heard voices, but did not trouble to pick out words. He walked straight through, never looking back. He had no need to.
--
His first thought was that the train station was quite lacking in the bustle and fervor with which he had left it. In fact, it was downright empty. The porters, the students, the old ladies with knitting and the Home Guard- every one of them was gone.
But he was here. And he was not alone.
The quick gasps that he heard on his left, that was Edmund. Not quite over his anger. Not over his tears. But his breath sounded like it did after one was plunged headfirst into icy water- the first breath, you're just happy to still be able to breathe. And then it's cold. Your lungs burn while your body freezes. Gasp gasp gasp. It was your body's way of not-so-subtlety telling you this was not a good environment, to get out and get warm. Edmund couldn't get out.
Because this was reality, wasn't it? Or as close as they were likely to come to it. They just had to live. Just had to endure. One day, they wouldn't even notice it any more.
Peter's ears were roaring. Already his head was flooding with questions. Did that really happen? He saw Lucy to the left of him. It wasn't as if she appeared, it was just that… she was there. He felt as though she had always been there, he just could not see her.
But he didn't have time to even think about Lucy, because standing right in front of him was Susan.
Suddenly Peter was the one in danger of hyperventilation.
She was there. That couldn't be! He had seen her disappear, lost to him forever… He had known she could not come back. She was gone. Gone! But she was also standing there. And she was his little sister Susan, his friend and comrade at arms, for who held her head when she vomited after the torrent of war and held her hand when they had danced in victory. She was Susan who had stood down six full-blooded Telmarine warriors in full knowledge that she must lose, because she would not let them pass to follow her sister. Even when she didn't believe in her sister's quest, they would not interfere.
But this was not that Susan.
This Susan ran through bombs to keep her books from being destroyed. This Susan kept herself locked away because she was afraid of what others thought of her. This Susan did not have great secrets to hide that made her sound mad.
This Susan didn't shoot. She did school sports, of course, but she wasn't trained in archery. This Susan valued wisdom and practicality, not other worlds and cultures. This Susan hadn't learned the lessons of Narnia. She didn't know the value of childhood games. This Susan was not the sister he knew.
And yet she was. And yet she wasn't. Right and wrong all mixed together until it was indistinguishable from one to the next.
One thing was certain. Susan was very annoyed. Her cheeks were pink and her eyebrows pulled together in a knot at her forehead. She was also, well, not quite spitting but certainly hissing her words. He struggled to make out the words, rather than just sit and wallow in the pleasantry of hearing her voice again.
"Completely irresponsible, it is! And there's no excuse for it Peter, none at all, I don't care what they said! You're supposed to the one in charge here. You can't just go hit someone in the face because they bump into you. And look where it's got us now." Her voice became an almost forlorn whisper. "We missed the train, and have to wait at and empty station, the train's over a quarter of an hour late and we won't arrive at school until nearly eleven o'clock. This isn't the Dark Ages. You should know better."
Oh. Oh. His fight with the boy. It seemed a century ago. Briefly he recalled it, inwardly wincing at his horrible form. A slightly smug smile played around his lips as he imagined dueling with such a pansy.
Susan was not amused. "Look at me, Peter Pevensie. Do you think this is funny?"
But it was not funny anymore. Abruptly, nothing became funny. All because he was staring at Susan's face, and suddenly it felt like the world was ending and it was too much, much too much. Because her face had changed.
Her eyes were grey.
Not the grey-blue which were their color when she was tired, nor the pale icy grey that shone when she was being most regal. No, her eyes were a plain, unflecked grey. As if all the color had been washed out of them.
No blue spark, no bright shine of mirth, no warmth of ocean blue would shine from her eyes to his anymore. How could this be? He already knew the answer.
Susan must have registered the abrupt change in his expression, not anger but sorrow. Her voice cracked through the silence like a whip. "What is it? What's happened?"
It was Lucy, of course, who asked the unaskable question. "Su, you… do you remember Narnia? At all?"
Ah, Lucy, why did you ask? Why did you raise your hopes when we all know the answer that will hurt so much to hear?
Susan expression changed again. She seemed almost…exasperated. Good-naturedly scorning. "Lucy, you're not telling me you're still going on about that. Imagination is good, but really!" Her tone suggested it was not.
Lucy's eyes started to well with tears, Susan immediately looked concerned. "Not Mr. Tumnus or the Beavers or Reepicheep or…" Her voice faltered. No, Lucy, don't ask it. "Or Caspian?"
Susan's voice was very gentle. Peter winced at his mental use of the word. "Lucy, have you added some more to the menagerie? Last time you only talked about Mr. Tumnus and the Beavers."
Whereupon, hearing this, Lucy burst into flat-out sobs and buried her head in Susan's bewildered but comforting arms. It was impossible to distinguish a word from a sob.
Susan looked up, sending a death-glare at him and Edmund which clearly said "I will find out which one of you encouraged her and give you a lecture like you wouldn't believe or Now look what you've done!", depending on your point of view.
Whereupon which Edmund, who had obviously been clinging to the last tattered vestiges of hope, threw himself beside Lucy and it became impossible to tell if he was comforting her or weeping himself. Peter rather suspected the second.
Susan was now slightly frightened. She looked at Peter with wide eyes.
That was what did it. The eyes were the wrong color, it's true. But they were her eyes. They were still a team. They would still help each other. And she was still here, in one way or another.
Peter sent a silent prayer of thanks to Aslan for putting them in an empty train station. This would have been rather problematic in a crowed platform.
He got up and stood beside Susan. They stood, hand in hand, encircling their little family. They had lost a member. They were lost and broken.
But they were together. And that was enough.
He whispered comforting words, trying to soothe Lucy and Susan, who was by now quite frightened by her siblings descending upon her in tears. No words he could say would help Edmund. Later, there would be healing. But now he needed to grieve.
"It's all right. It's going to be all right, Lucy." He whispered. "It's going to be all right."
He knew it would be. You can't change the path you're on- you can only live with it. Move forward. No second chances. You never need look back.
Next chapter will be either Edmund or Lucy, I don't know who. And now I am leaving you, because I require more than 5 hours of sleep in a night, and that's what I'm going to get now. Please, please, please leave a review if you liked it.
Oh, and yes, I did kind of hint at a sort of Peter-Susan thing. But take that as you will.
