Disclaimer: If I was to claim anything, it would be the arguments—I've had them too often myself, with my siblings. But then again, even those would only be half mine. Right? The blame wouldn't be fully mine?
Beta'd by trustingHim17, again with my thanks.
"But you see, there is a graveyard in my mouth filled with words that have died on my lips."
~ Emily Palermo
"What are you doing here?" Susan asked her sister.
Lucy startled, quick eyes seeking Susan's face. Susan, standing in the doorway, felt herself stiffen at the look.
"I did not mean for you to find those," Susan excused, half as an apology, half defensively. Lucy looked puzzled, eyebrows drawing together.
"Find what?"
"The flowers," Susan said in surprise, gesturing at the vanity, and Lucy looked over at them absently.
"Oh. I went out to get a new strap for the broken suitcase; Peter might want it, when he comes home, to take more back with him to the Professor's house, and I saw them…"
Susan closed her eyes, and let go of her own building irritation. Perhaps it was not quite fair to blame Lucy that the games had come to mind for the first time in...years? And that had made her apology curt. Perhaps she owed her sister a better one. "I'm sorry," she said quietly, opening her eyes to look at Lucy.
"I thought to give them to Mum, since you didn't want them." Lucy's tone had an edge—of hurt, not of accusation, now that she'd remembered. Susan might have understood that, might have let it go—if she hadn't been so tired, with an edge of anger herself.
"They're not usually accessories at parties, Lucy! What am I supposed to do, ask the gentleman if he doesn't mind if I drop flower petals all over our joined hands while we dance? It was a nice thought, but it isn't done. I did try to drop them where you wouldn't find them."
Lucy's own temper flared. "In Narnia we held them in the crooks of our arms, or asked a friend to hold them. We lined the Great Hall with them once, vases and vases on every side, and every type of flower."
To Susan's relief, she couldn't even picture what Lucy was talking about, she must not have been there for that round of their play, and besides, "That was a game."
"No, it wasn't! It was real, Susan, these are memories, can't you see them?"
Susan drew herself up, using all her height to tower over Lucy. "Grow up," she responded coldly. She stalked past her sister, towards the bed, and began unbuttoning the dress.
"I am grown up," Lucy argued from behind her, passionate but quiet. "I grew up in another world, Susan. So did you."
Susan refused to turn, refused to look at her sister. "I just returned from an entire party of grown ups. I think I know what one looks like. A child who keeps insisting our war-time games were real isn't one of them. The war is over. Our stay in the country is over. The games are over. If you went out with grownups enough, you'd see that."
Lucy didn't say anything, and Susan felt that victory again, though bitterer than the last time, over Edmund. Edmund let pain roll through his soul and away, but Lucy…didn't.
"Why won't you believe?" It was a whisper, not asked of her. It was asked of the world, perhaps of God. A child asking why grown-ups lost faith in castles and fairy tales.
"Because I know what's real, Lucy. One day you'll learn it for yourself."
Another pause. Susan stretched, fingers reaching for the last button down her back. She couldn't quite get it—then fingers unbuttoned it for her. Then she heard footsteps walking out and the quiet click of the door latch catching.
Susan walked over to the wall and hung up the dress with careful fingers. She let one hand run down the red fabric, avoiding the stain, trying to revel in the colour, the beauty—trying to remember the pleasure of the party, the energy, the laughter, the fullness of being with friends, the sensation of gentlemen and boys waiting on her, and faces brightening.
It was all gone now, the savour faded like food left out from the night before. All she had left was a stained gown and a wilting bouquet.
She turned away from the dress and went to bed.
She did not get up in time for breakfast the next morning. That was rather a relief, since it meant she didn't see Lucy, but it also meant she had several things to do that day and less time than she would like. Taking her last few bites of oatmeal, she realised that if she wanted to get them all done, she probably wouldn't be home in time to welcome Peter.
She could ask Edmund to help her; he'd be glad to, if it meant she'd be home for their older brother's arrival. But he probably still had exams to study for. Could she ask someone else?
It wasn't like she could ask Lucy.
Oh, she could. It wasn't like Lucy wouldn't forgive her, but… Susan had been telling the truth, of course, and so she shouldn't need forgiveness. Lucy shouldn't give forgiveness when forgiveness wasn't needed; it irritated her like ill-applied make-up. A nice try, but just so jarringly wrong, obvious to everyone but the person doing it. The world of grownups was no place for fairy tales. Susan knew that; that as all shed said. Lucy would do so much better if she just saw it for the world it was. Lucy didn't even have to like it (but she would), she just had to acknowledge its worth. After all, she'd be joining it some day. Whether she liked it or not. No one, not even Lucy, could stay young forever.
Susan got up, setting her bowl by the sink and smiling as her mother thanked her.
"I'm going out. I've some errands."
"But Peter's coming back this evening," Lucy's voice objected from just outside the open window, and her face popped into view a moment later.
Bareheaded and flushed, Susan thought, torn between smiling and groaning. Still a child. "My errands can't wait," she began, but Lucy interrupted her.
"Do you think you could finish them in time if I helped? We always divided the work in—in the country," she added, with a quick glance at their mother, who smiled with that same fondness Susan felt.
None of the exasperation, though. Mother enjoys having a child still. If Lucy is to grow up, I'll probably be the only one to help her. Taking her shopping might give us time to chat. And she's offered to come help—and I do want to welcome Peter, it means so much to him.
"I'd appreciate it," Susan admitted gracefully. "Perhaps you should grab a hat before we go?"
"And shoes! I'll be right in!"
The head disappeared from the window, and their mother let out her light, cheerful laugh. (Susan loved that sound; she tried to laugh like that at tea parties.) "There she goes. Rushing to help, just like my brother used to. That's how he met Alberta, actually. He helped her out of a mud-covered situation, and fell in love with the way she indignantly described the terrible effects of mud on one's health, and the importance of cleanliness." She sighed. "The humour of a mud-spattered person lecturing on cleanliness did not seem to occur to him." She reached for Susan's bowl and plunged it into the soap suds. "Best go catch your sister before she runs your errands for you."
"We'll be back in time to welcome Peter, now that there's two of us," Susan promised, kissing her mother on the cheek.
"See that you are."
Susan paused in her lean forward to kiss her mother as she heard the warning in the tone. I just said we would be. "Love you," she said quietly, drawing back and leaving. She picked up her own hat (Nancy had given it to her, quite plain, and Susan had beribboned it and added a veil) and Lucy's (still a plain one, with a single ribbon holding three purple flowers in place).
"I'm coming," a breathless voice called. Susan held out the hat as Lucy ran down the stairs. (Lucy had brushed her hair, Susan was pleased to see. She took her sister's arm as they walked out the front door, shutting it behind them.
"Where are we going?"
"I need to get some things to remove a stain from my dress, powder—I'm almost out, a knife for the kitchen for mother, and a strap to repair the largest suitcase. It's not a long list, but it's four different shops, and walking—"
"I got the strap last night," Lucy interrupted, her tone quiet.
Susan paused, her mind unwillingly remembering, "…I went out to get a new strap for the broken suitcase; Peter might want it…" She didn't want to rehash that argument again (nor gain forgiveness for something that was not a fault), so she just said as cheerfully as she could, "That's one errand done, then! See? You're already helping," and squeezed Lucy's arm.
"So we should be in time to receive Peter. Just like when he would come riding home—I can see it so clearly, the stallion underneath him, and at his back—" She fell silent.
Susan was glad. Why are you bringing up the game so often? I thought I had taught you not to by now! But Susan could see it too, just for a moment—that kingly, weary face, lighting up as the three of them swept forward, hands outstretched to their High King—
All a game! Nothing more. An irritating game. Peter's kingly at times, but not a king, and his face always lights up for us. Or, no, it doesn't, not for us— just for Lucy and Edmund now. That thought hurt, and she pushed it away. Still, a memory of emotion lingered—of fear for his absence, and gladness at his coming, though she couldn't place where the memory was from.
"We shall make his homecoming a pleasant one," she declared, and felt Lucy's arm stiffen. "What is it?"
"You use the words we learned as Queens, the exact ones you used in the Great Hall when we received word of his ship returning from Telmar—Susan, you do remember."
Susan was walking there suddenly, in another place, such a strange place—feeling the chill of a great empty hall, no torches blazing, but ringing with the sound of Edmund and Lucy's excitement, of her own, for Peter was coming back. Her skirts swished around her, lighter and brighter and more beautiful than any she'd seen in England, breathtaking in their colour, and the singing notes of the merfolk sounded in her ears as they announced the King's coming—
"You are talking nonsense." She cut her thoughts off sharply, withdrawing her arm from Lucy's. They were in England. They stood by a dusty, dirty street, with Lucy's plain hat resting delicately on her head. These things were real. The castle in Susan's imagination had never existed; she had known that for years now—why was it coming back? Why could she see something that never really was? Oh, because of Lucy, with her childish beliefs. She should cut them off, like she had before. "Why must you continually bring up these games? It's not becoming of a young lady, and it's stupid. It's utter nonsense!"
Edmund's voice, young and bitter, saying, But it's all nonsense! sounded in her ears—they'd been at the Professor's, when he still had a mansion, and Edmund had been talking about Lucy's games—he'd known it was nonsense then. He'd known, and Susan knew it now.
"It isn't nonsense!" Lucy cried, and Susan drew herself up, glancing around and flushing. A woman across the street was staring, and a few little boys—dirty-looking urchins, with mud on their faces—were beginning to mock, to call the words back in high tones.
"Stop making a scene. It was and it is, and I don't know why you're suddenly bringing it up. You know that I hate it!"
"Because it's true, and you—you don't act like it. Like you ever knew it. You throw out your flowers and miss Peter's return, and you only like being with your friends. You're never with us anymore!"
"I apologised for the flowers, and I'm trying to be there for Peter's return. And I enjoy being with my friends because they make me feel far better than you do! They smile, and pay me attention. They listen when I say something without judging me for it, for what I like, and they like it too, and they help me, with rides and dresses and hats and all the things you never care for!"
"I'm helping you right now!"
"Only because it's helping Peter! Because it's helping the precious, judgemental family you love so much, that you keep dragging me back to, when the truth is my friends treat me far better than you do!"
"We love you. And we want you there. We try very hard not to judge, or I do, because I like pretty things and being thought pretty just as much." Lucy was mastering herself, reigning in her temper, and somehow that made Susan cold with anger.
"You hardly like it as much as I do, or you'd come out more, come out with me. And enjoy it, rather than just worrying. My friends already do that; they love me better. They don't judge me by a standard I don't hold." Susan turned around, trying to ignore how white Lucy's face went. She'd meant the words to hurt, but, but only because the truth hurt at times. She shouldn't have said it like that, no, but…
It was said. "I'm sorry I lost my temper. I'll finish my shopping on my own."
"But Peter—"
"Oh, hang Peter! Leave me alone, Lucy, I don't want to be near you right now." Because I know I'll hurt you more, and I don't want to. I don't want to fight. I hate that you keep reminding me of all the childish things you care about. That you value a game above this world—above me. Above everything I care for.
But even if I told you that, it wouldn't make a difference. And I don't want to see you stand there and acknowledge that a game means more to you than I do. Means more to all of you.
Susan straightened her hat, blinked hard, gathered her skirts in one hand, and walked forward.
She did not look back.
She would not cry. She kept the water from falling, blinking to avoid red eyes. She got to the end of the street, her head high, ignoring the calls of, "Your sister ain't goin' back, miss, ain't you gonna stop?" "Yeah, we wanna hear more!" from their ignorant audience. But at the end of the street, as she turned the corner, she did look back.
Lucy was still there. Still watching. And Susan could tell by the set of her shoulders she was unhappy, and wanted to cry. That her eyes were probably burning as well, and her own words were choking her, as Susan's choked themselves down.
They were too different—they loved different things, believed different things, and if Susan went back, she would only make it worse. They would never understand each other. Never be truly friends again.
So Susan walked away. She ran her errands like an adult, taking extra care with each one, letting them go later and later. She walked to the shop she liked best, a full half-mile further away, and did not mind the long lines. She acknowledged to herself that she did not want to go home.
She heard the chimes striking eight as she walked out of the last shop and knew she'd missed Peter's homecoming. Indeed, they might all be in bed by the time she reached home.
That would be such a relief.
A part of her wanted to cry harder at the bitterness of that thought.