Hello again, my dears! Life gave me a bit of a sucker punch last semester, and my muses were too busy huddling in corners and crying over the sheer amount of work I found myself responsible for for me to get much writing done. However, one of the (admittedly few) upsides to not having passed my first semester of organic chemistry is that I suddenly found myself with much more time and energy to dedicate to other, more pleasant pursuits. Like eating, sleeping, bathing, and, of course, writing. These things happen folks, and I am proud to say that I am still stupidly optimistic enough to be planning on retaking that truly challenging class next semester, so we'll see if I manage to do better "the second time around."
See what I did there? Heheheh. Sorry, couldn't help myself . . .
Anyhoot. In this chapter we get a bit more into some issues I've hinted at regarding Alice's past and well-being, so I'm gonna go ahead and toss up some trigger warnings for those. I will say that they are fairly important to Alice's past and her development as a character, so if they make you uncomfortable, or if you think reading about them would be harmful to you in any way, this may not be the best story for you to be reading. I don't want anyone to be hurt by something they read here.
TW: comments about suicide, mentions of self harm and attempted suicide (past), suicidal thoughts, depression
That being said, I hope you all enjoy, and please let me know what you think!
We moved Ellie back to the Roberts' house the next morning, as promised. It was an uncomfortable walk from the hospital – Peter and I had barely spoken to each other the night before, both of us still fuming after our disagreement in the afternoon. Ellie tried to be cheerful, but I could tell that something was weighing on her mind. She held my hand the entire journey back to her house, while Peter pushed her wheelchair and studiously avoided making eye contact with me.
I knew that Ellie sensed the tension between us, and that it made her sad to see us not getting along. But I also knew that, out of all the people in this world, she was the one who understood my situation the best. While we had never discussed it openly, I had always gotten the feeling that she knew who I was and where I was from; as such, she was the only person with whom I was able to discuss my troubles freely and openly, and the only person who could possibly help me through my current situation.
The walk back didn't last nearly long enough. From the moment Ellie told me she was going home, a sense of dread had been brewing in the pit of my stomach. The closer we drew to her house, the worse the feeling grew. Once we had finally reached the house itself, I felt like I was moments from collapsing in a trembling heap of anxiety.
Ellie had a white-knuckled grip on my hand as we made our way through the front gate and up the path to the front door. I could feel my bones move around with each shift in pressure, but when I looked over at her, her expression was as tranquil as usual.
"Thank you, dear," she said to Peter when he had maneuvered her chair in through the door.
"You're welcome, Mrs. Roberts," he replied. "Where would you like your chair?"
"If you could just put me in the living room, that would be lovely," she answered. "Alice, could you go put on some tea, please?"
"Of course, Ellie," I replied, moving past Peter and into the kitchen. As I filled Ellie's kettle with water from the sink, I reveled in the peaceful feeling I got being away from observing eyes. I adored Ellie, of course, and was growing slightly more comfortable around Peter, but it nevertheless drained me to have to always be putting on a show for their benefit.
And, of course, the process of making tea had remained largely the same in every time and universe in which I had found myself. It was soothing to lose myself in the familiar process; it allowed me a few moments to pretend that I was home in Narnia or home in America.
While I was watching the water boil (shame on me, I know – but I had watched several pots boil in my lifetime, so I doubted that this one would be at all influenced by my observation), Peter wandered into the room. "Mrs. Roberts is asking me to set the coffee table," he said.
Without turning, I gestured vaguely to my left. "The cupboard over the sink," I told him.
I heard him thank me, and then the clanking of china as he retrieved the dishes from the cabinet. "Alice," I heard him say, "I know you're worried." I snorted, keeping my eyes focused in front of me, even as I could sense him approaching me, dishes temporarily forgotten on the counter. "But everything's going to be alright. I promise." I felt the sudden weight of his hand on my shoulder.
I sighed, watching the flames of the stove lick around the bottom of the kettle. "What have I told you about making promises you can't keep?" I replied flatly.
I felt his hand tighten briefly on my shoulder, before he sighed as well, and removed it. I listened carefully, both to the bubbling of the water inside the kettle and to the sound of footsteps and clanking dishes as Peter returned to gathering up the china.
I jumped when I felt Peter brush one of his hips against my side as he made his way out of the kitchen with the table settings. It didn't help that he did it at the same time as the kettle on the stove let out a piercing whistle, signifying that the water inside had (finally) come to a boil. It was always my least favorite part of making tea; I simply cannot stand loud noises.
I heard Peter wander back into the room. "Anything else I can help with?"
"Er-" I said, most of my focus centered on not scalding myself with any accidentally spilled water. "There should be some biscuits and things in that cupboard over there, the one under where the dishes were, could you bring those out, please?"
"Sure." He moved past me again. "Any preferences?"
"No, I'll eat just about anything," I replied, this time focused on the watch on my wrist. I didn't want to make the tea too strong – being American I'm sure I naturally have very poor taste in tea, and actually prefer it so strong it's practically bitter, but I didn't think either Peter or Ellie would appreciate being subjected to my particular taste in hot beverages.
"How's shortbread?" I heard Peter ask.
I hummed absentmindedly, studying the intricate floral pattern on Ellie's favorite tea pot. "That'll be fine," I replied.
"Will you be much longer?'
"No," I said. "Just a few more minutes."
I heard him wander back out in the living room. He greeted Ellie cheerfully, and I tried in vain to listen in as they started up a conversation. I couldn't quite get a grasp on what they were saying, which was very frustrating as I listened to the rise and fall of their voices. I resisted the urge to glare at the pot – it wasn't the poor thing's fault that I was impatient.
I checked my watch again: just another half minute to go. I was glad there was no one in the room to see me as I shifted my weight awkwardly from foot to foot.
When the tea was finally steeped and strained out, I carefully carried the pot out into the room where Ellie and Peter sat. As I walked in the room, I noticed that they both had somber expressions on their faces, and that Peter's also held traces of guilt, anxiety, and reluctance.
"Is everything alright?" I asked, gently placing the pot on the coffee table, and purposely trying to keep my voice both pleasant and neutral.
It was Ellie who answered. "Yes, dear," she said, reaching over and placing a hand on my knee in a comforting gesture. "Peter and I were just having a small discussion about current events, that's all."
And by "current events," you mean what, exactly? I pasted vague smile onto my face. "Of course." And then, just so the room didn't devolve into an awkward silence, I asked, "Have I remembered to grab everything, Ellie?"
"Oh, yes, it all looks very lovely Alice, thank you," she replied, smiling. "Don't you think so, Peter?"
"Oh, er, yes, very nice," he answered, looking briefly startled and glancing between us as if he wasn't entirely certain who to direct his answer towards.
It could have been my imagination, but I could have sworn that I saw Ellie's eyes narrow, just a little bit. "Now, you two, I'm going to give you some very serious advice, and I want you to listen carefully to it." She waited for us both to nod in acknowledgment before continuing. "I know that this is a very awkward situation, to say the least, for everyone involved – but especially for the two of you. And it can be difficult enough to lay down the foundations of a good relationship, even without that added hardship. But whatever it is that's exacerbated the tension between you – and no," she held up her hands as both Peter and I tried to protest her statement, "don't try to contradict my, I can see it plain as day. Whatever's happened to cause it, you can't wait to address it." She paused and looked at us, before reaching out and taking our hands, one in both of hers. "I'm not just giving you advice for right now, in this situation. What I'm saying applies to the rest of your marriage, and to the rest of your lives. By all means, if you have a conflict, take the time to cool off, to calm down enough to rationally react to it, and discuss it. But you can't let it sit, because if you do, if you wait on it too long, it will being to fester inside you. It will eat you up and eat you up, until one day you find yourself sitting across the table from a stranger, the both of you as hostile towards each other as the bitterest of enemies."
I swallowed, my mouth dry. I could see it in my mind's eye, Peter and I spending the rest of our lives as strangers, growing to hate and resent our bond as the years and the strain wore away at us.
I could tell the Peter was having similar thoughts. "Mrs. Roberts –" he began.
"Hush dear," she said gently. "I'm not quite finished yet." Her violet eyes rested on each of us for a second, drawing us even further into the conversation. "As I said, I know it's difficult. But this connection between the two of you is a gift, as precious as any ever given to mankind. I know you may not believe me now, but if you give time, and are sure to cherish it and nurture it, it will grow into something truly beautiful and special to you both."
"Ellie, you're scaring me," I blurted out. I hadn't intended to say it out loud, and may not have realized that I did if I didn't see the flash of hurt cross Peter's face. Damn, damn, double damn, I thought. I didn't mean it like that, you stupid boy! And also, Great, another thing for us to fight about.
A smile twitched at the corners of Ellie's lips. "You're scared because you're a smart girl, Alice. These sorts of matters are not to be trifled with. But you needn't worry," she told me, reaching her hand up to cup my cheek. "Everything happens for a reason, and that reason is created by One who will always love you, and will always act with your best interests at heart."
There a sort of serenity to her voice, and so much kindness and gentleness that I couldn't help but smile in return.
Even years later, I still think about that day, and what Ellie said. I think about it a lot.
I wonder if she knew anything about what was about to happen.
The rest of the visit took on a more cheerful note, and by the time Peter and I left for the Pevensies' house the sun was beginning to set and we were all laughing heartily.
The walk home was generally pleasant, Peter keeping his hand intertwined with mine. We weren't as openly cheerful without Ellie there to act as a buffer between us – things were still far too awkward between us for that – but we made our way along in a sort of pleasant silence which, if it wasn't exactly pleasant, was at least not obviously hostile or uncomfortable.
Neither one of us spoke, each of us content to wander down the block lost in our own thoughts.
The sunset was very beautiful, a vivid splash of oranges and reds against the re-emerging clouds.
It was a little after ten when the sirens went off. I was up in the bedroom, folding clothes, when I heard them begin wailing. I froze for a moment, terrified at the loud sound, wondering what the hell was happening. It was like something out of a movie about World War 2, like something in London during the Blitz . . .
Lion's Mane! In a burst of memory, I recalled where I was and that yes, it was perfectly feasible for those to be air raid sirens because that's what they actually were.
I dropped the stockings I'd been trying to wrangle onto the bed and sprinted out into the hallway. I made it to the stairs alright; halfway down, however, I lost my footing, stumbled, cursed, and fell headlong into Peter, who had been making his way to the stairs in more or less the same amount of hurry as I had been.
"Sorry!" I whispered. He only nodded, probably even more winded than I was – after all, he was the one who'd had another person hurtled onto him.
"Shelter," he gasped out once he'd gotten his breath back. I nodded, clambering up off of him, trying to remember if there was anything I had to grab or do or where even was their shelter . . .
Peter stood up and grabbed onto my hand (I noticed he'd been doing that a lot – poor guy, he probably was eager for any sort of affection, but even that much was almost too creepy for me to handle), dragging me in the direction of the back door. Oh, right, backyard. Duh.
He stopped suddenly when his mother called for him from the other room. "Go on, I'll be right back!" He snapped in my general direction, running back into the house.
Damnit! I lingered by the door for a moment, shifting from foot to foot. Damnit, what do I do? A strong part of me was urging me to run after him and make sure he (and everyone else) was alright. Another, equally strong part, was telling me not to be an idiot and get myself killed by charging headlong into a situation where I probably couldn't do much good anyways.
Oh screw it. The cautious part won out, and I hightailed it outside; I figured the Pevensies could figure out their own business.
Coward, an insidious and familiar voice in my head taunted. Always such a coward.
Shut up! I told it, shoving it aside.
I tripped going down the stairs into the bomb shelter, stumbling and landing hard on the concrete. I scrambled up quickly, glad that there was no one there to see – I knew the Pevensies tended to worry about me (as, admittedly, most people did) when I fell like that. I wouldn't be able to hide it for long, though – the fall had torn through my stockings and left bloody grazes on my knees, with matching red smears on the floor. Fuck.
"Alice!" Lucy very nearly pulled the same routine as me coming down the steps. I caught her as she more tumbled than ran down the stairs, staggering a little from her weight and momentum.
{Hey, Lucy} I mumbled, only half aware of what I was saying. {You alright?}
"Eh?" She blinked up at me in confusion for a moment. "What'd you say?"
I felt my cheeks reddening. I'd slipped into Narnian without realizing. Stupid as well as cowardly, my thoughts muttered. "I-I asked if you were all right."
"Oh. Yes, I'm fine. Was that French?" Lucy asked excitedly.
"Uh . . ." I blinked at her stupidly. "No." I regretted my blunt answer the moment it left my lips, and I watched as Lucy's expression fell.
"Oh. I'm sorry," she replied. She seemed to shrink back a little as her enthusiasm drained away.
"It's actual much more special than that," I babbled, unable to help myself. "It's sort of a . . . secret language, I guess. I made it up with some friends of mine, when we were younger. We used to play a game where we were in another world, and of course if you're in another world you need another language, so we made one up. I sometimes still speak in it, if I'm nervous or something. Sorry if I startled you."
"It's okay," she said, eyes wide.
I had been vaguely registering all the rest of what was going on outside. Despite that, I still startled when I heard Mrs. Pevensie yell both her sons' names in quick succession. Lucy and I both jumped, and when I caught Susan's eye it was easy to see her panic as well.
I could feel my breathing begin to pick up, a little too fast. I'd be hyperventilating soon, a reaction triggered by the combination of sirens, bomb blasts, and sheer tension and anxiety in the air. Breathe in-2-3-4, hold it-2-3-4, out-2-3-4, hold-2-3-4, I repeated to myself, doing my best to calm my nervous system. You can't feel both stressed and relaxed at the same time, so calm yourself. You'll be fine.
After what seemed like a good hour, but in reality was probably only a couple minutes at the most, Peter and Edmund came barreling down the steps. Again, a Pevensie took the less graceful route – although, to be fair to Edmund, it is tricky to keep one's balance with an older sibling adding in a shove at the top of the stairs.
"I can't believe you, you're so selfish! You never think of anyone but yourself!" Peter shouted at his younger brother. I felt like growling back at him when I saw the tears building in Edmund's eyes.
Mrs. Pevensie got to it before me, though. "Peter!" She snapped, pulling Edmund close. I watched as the poor boy tried to choke back sobs, and saw him reaching for a broken picture frame. His father. Oh, so that was why he'd run back in . . .
"Why can't you just do as you're told?" Peter asked softly. Ouch. It became even harder for me to avoid glaring at him.
He turned around and pulled the door to the shelter shut. I watched him freeze as his eyes caught the bloody stain on the floor, and saw the genuine fear and concern in his face fade to irritation as he whirled around and saw my scraped knees peeking out from beneath the hem of my skirt. "Great. First my brother tries to kill himself, and then my wife does, too. Could this night get any worse?"
I blinked, startled, my breath catching in my throat and my heart pounding. Dimly, I heard Mrs. Pevensie begin to admonish her son for that faux pas, as well. The rough patches on my wrists began to itch and burn. I blinked harder to try to clear out the tears that were building up. I turned towards the wall and lay down on my side, curling up as small as I could on the corner of the cot. I'd had years of practice crying silently; I was sure they could see my shoulders shaking, but I didn't have the energy or the willpower to care.
I was too busy trying to ignore the way my mind was tracing itself over the lines I carved into my arms when I was thirteen and still unable to put into words and make sense of the way I was sad and afraid and angry at the world, before I learned to channel the feelings into action and creation, and to hold myself together with white knuckles and wild desperate hope on the bad days that would just show up and bombard me with thoughts I couldn't control or understand. I pretended I didn't notice the way my imagination tantalized me with images of running out into the streets and dancing and laughing and waving my arms, and shouting for the planes to come and get me, to land a bomb right on top of my head and make me fly, burst me into a million pieces, burn me as bright and hot as the supernova of a dying star, flare just as brilliantly and die out just as quickly, just a moment of glory and then nothing but ash and memory and peace . . .
Instead I clung to the ache in my throat and the burning of sobs in my chest, to the wet mess of tears on my face and the steady, heavy, relentless thud-thud-thud of my heart in my chest, beating loudly in time to drown out the thoughts of worthless couldn't even do it right the first time it's okay you're older now you know better now you'll get it right this time just try it just go for it just end it end it end it end it end it end i- . . .
"Could you teach me?"
"I . . . what was that?"
"Could you teach me your secret language?"
I blinked. It had been a few hours since I had cut myself off from everyone. Peter had come over, trying to apologize. I hadn't responded – truth be told, the sound of his voice combined with the weight of his hand on my shoulder made me want to scream.
The rest of the Pevensies had avoided trying to speak with me, at least until now. I could feel my mind whirring as I tried to come up with an answer to Lucy's question. Could I teach her? No. Of course not, don't be absurd, she's not Narnian.
"Come on Lucy, don't bother her," Susan whispered from where she was also lying on a bunk, trying to sleep despite the noise.
"No, it's fine, it's really no bother at all," I replied. I turned over and sat up, meeting Lucy's eyes. Well, maybe, maybe I could. "I'd love to teach you, Lucy."
A smile spread across her face. "Really!?" She asked.
"Yes," I smiled back. I'm not Narnian, either, even if I feel that way sometimes. And why shouldn't I teach her, anyways? It's not like anyone will ever know the full story, here or there. Oooh, that was a shiver . . . I blinked, wondering where the feeling of foreshadowing came from. I wouldn't know until whatever it was had already happened, of course, but I always was a curious creature anyways. "How about tomorrow, though? I'm a little tired now."
"Oh," Lucy replied. "Alright." There was a beat of silence, then she asked, "Alice?"
"Yeah Lu?" I may not have agreed with Peter on a lot of things, but his nickname for his youngest sister was absolutely adorable.
"Peter shouldn't have said that. I'm sorry," she said softly.
"It's alright, Lu. You have nothing to be sorry for."
"You'll forgive him, right?" She asked. "I mean, he really loves you, so I'm sure he didn't mean it, and I don't want you two to fight."
I had to bite my cheek to keep from laughing, however weak that laughter would be and however unoffensively it would be meant. Lucy Pevensie, nine-year-old marriage counselor. "Sure thing, Lu," I said instead, because what else could I say? Lucy was such a bright, innocent child – I didn't want to hurt her by trying to explain why the issue was so much more complicated than she made it sound, why I wasn't sure I'd be able to forgive the brother she loved and idolized, why, even if I could, it might take a very long time, and I had no way of knowing just how long it would be. "Now let's try to get some sleep, alright?"
"Alright," she said. She sounded pretty sleepy, too. "G'night Alice."
"'Night Lucy."
Thank your for reading, and I'll see you all next time!
