Callighraphy
A/N: Set in the Golden Age of Narnia, 8 years after Jadis's defeat. So you don't have to do the math, I'll tell you that Peter is 21 and Susan, 20. I don't support slash, never have, never will. To anyone who's read and reviewed my other work: Thanks so much for your time and encouragement!
Cair Paravel, Narnian year 1008
"You bally idiot!" Susan screeched at the swiftly retreating form of her older brother. She gathered her soft red skirts in her fists and pounded after him, flinging her angry cries through the halls of Cair Paravel.
Peter flung the library door open and ducked in, striding over to the window and turning his back on Susan. She entered the library, shouting, "Why don't you just attend to your own bloody business and stop trying to run my life!"
"I'm standing right here," Peter mumbled. "I can hear you."
Involuntarily, Susan lowered her voice. "First you refused the Duke of Galma for me--and then the son of the Governor of the Lone Islands--and I put up with it. But now you're telling me you've sent Prince Roland back to the Seven Isles without even giving him a thought!"
"Of course I gave him a thought," Peter retorted. "I gave him a fortnight's worth of thought, in which he proved himself completely unfit to be your husband. He's pompous and swaggering and doesn't appear to care about anyone else's interests."
Rage tensed Susan's muscles; she threw herself down at her writing desk near the window opposite of the one Peter stood at. As she absentmindedly grabbed a quill and sheet of parchment, she snapped, "Did it ever occur to you, or were you too high and mighty, to consider that maybe I happened to like some of these suitors that you've dismissed?" She began to scratch out random letters on the parchment, careful to make them graceful and flowing.
"Oh, so you liked Prince Roland, then?" Peter demanded calmly, turning from his window to face her.
"Acutally yes," Susan replied shortly, continuing with her calligraphy. "I'll even go so far as to say I loved him."
A sarcastic smile from Peter greeted this. "You loved him, is it?" he taunted quietly. "Or did you love his looks? Or the kingdom he'll inherit?"
Susan whirled around in her chair to face him, unknowingly blotting her paper. "How dare you accuse me of such superficial--" she screamed.
"You needn't carry on like that," Peter interrupted in a sterner voice, "I can still hear. You may have loved Prince Roland while he was here, with all his gracious mannerisms and looks. But if you were to accept his offer, and he grew old and ugly and sour, never caring to speak to you--would you still love him?"
Susan fell silent and then stammered, "Well--"
"You're not ready to give someone your love unless you're ready to let them keep it--forever." Peter stated tersely.
The truth of his words humiliated Susan, and she defended herself by turning back to her calligraphy and growling, "Don't preach to me about love, Peter. What can you possibly know about love? You hate me."
A long silence followed, during which Susan dared to glance over her shoulder at her brother. Sunshine streamed into the window, making his tawny hair appear gold, illuminating his grey eyes, which stared fixedly at the sky. Guilt stabbed her; she knew by the look in his eyes and the stiff angle of his shoulders that she'd wounded him deeply. She quickly returned to her writing.
At last she broke the silence, her voice more tranquil, but still peevish. "I don't see why I have to sit here letting you arrange my life while the Galmian duchesses get to marry whomever they choose, whenever they choose." Distractedly, she pushed her slender fingers through her soft dark hair.
Peter crossed the library and stood next to her, gazing at her expertly drawn calligraphic letters. "Susan," he finally said, "You're worth more than forty of those Galmian duchesses. I only want the best for you--I'm not trying to arrange your life. But maybe," he sighed, "you know what? You're old enough to make your own decisions now. Maybe I should just back off and--"
As he spoke, Susan felt true repentance invade her heart, and tears stung inside her nose. "No, don't back off," she sobbed. "I don't know what's good for me, I'm too selfish, and I get carried away and I make mistakes."
"Don't we all?" Peter murmured, scratching the back of his neck. "I know I'm an idiot, but I do love you, Susan."
Setting her quill aside, Susan propped her elbows on the mahogany desk, placed her forehead in her hands, and wept. As she watched her tears fall on the parchment and blur the calligraphy, she felt Peter's arm go reassuringly about her shoulder. This must have been the kind of love Peter had told her about. She was acutely aware of her ridiculous nature, as was he, but he allowed her to keep his love.
"I love you, too, Peter," she whispered.