Prompt #8: "'The policeman doesn't believe a word I've been saying,' she whispered anxiously, 'but you do, don't you?' 'I do [...] But you see, I can believe a thing without understanding it. It's all a matter of training.'" ~ Dorothy Sayers


At last (at long, long last), Susan got up and washed her face mechanically. The white, hollow thing looking back in the mirror reminded her of her darkest days in Narnia. Even then she had been beautiful, assured, long dark hair framing her face. Now she reapplied her makeup and smiled. At this moment her bob looked peculiarly hideous. She looked hideous.

She was throwing away everything she had ever valued, piece by piece. Susan remembered the moment Edmund had compared her to Jadis. When she had been dealing with her, she had been so sure they were opposites.

Now, Susan Pevensie of England smiled with blood-red lips, dark hair and a paper-white face, and was not so sure she didn't see Jadis in her reflection.

Well—if she was damned already—why not go the whole hog? Why not make sure she was damned properly? Why not make sure Aslan would never love her again? In the mirror her eyes were wild; what she saw, and what she considered, frightened her.

That was when, recollecting that Edmund was in the house, Susan near-ran out of the bathroom and went to find him. He saw the wildness in her eyes, too, and got up in alarm.

"What's wrong, Su?"

"I just—I don't know," she admitted at last, and grabbed his arms. He moved to embrace her, and she let him. "I'm tired." Her voice broke on the last note.

Edmund hugged her firmly. "You can cry all you like, you know."

"I was—earlier. Ed, do you remember when you told me I looked like Jadis?"

He stiffened slightly. "That was a while ago. Do you mean to say that's still bothering you? I'm sorry for saying it."

"Yes, yes, and no, you were right. Edmund, I've been playing a part all this time—perfect daughter, perfect sister, perfect society butterfly. I don't know who I really am."

"You're Queen Susan the Gentle."

"No." She backed away, out of his arms and looking away. "That's—that's a part, too. Aslan never wanted me." There was desperation in her voice. "I was just the fourth—the fourth throne."

"'You have been listening to fear, child'," he quoted, and Susan shuddered. "He loves you, Su."

"How do I know? He kicked me out. Us out. Of his land." She remembered Aslan in her dream long ago. "This is not your place, Queen Susan."

"You just look at him and know. I wish you were there when he talked to me—after the Witch."

After the darkest night of Susan's life, the night that had changed her existence.

"He was so kind. And—I can't say half of what he said, and I don't remember half of it, anyway. There's no point dwelling on the past. The past is the past and it's done."

"The past defines the future."

"No," said Edmund quietly. "The past informs the future. You define the future."

She wanted to laugh in his face, but quashed the impulse. Are you sure I exist? If you did think so, are you sure you want to see me? The real me, without the mask I hold up to the world? "That makes it sound so easy. I can't just—go against everything."

"Yes, you can."

Susan raised her head and deliberately turned her back on him, but said in a voice that was made to carry, "Then I'm skipping the next meeting of the Friends of Narnia. Don't tell them why, just say I couldn't make it. And maybe I'll never happen to be able to make it to any future ones. What a shame."

Without waiting to see his reaction, she left the room hurriedly. Edmund called her name several times, but presently was quiet, and did not try to follow.


My dear Susan,

I hope that you did not mean your statement to imply that you didn't want to talk about Narnia ever. I understand it if it's somehow a painful subject for you, all that we've lost, and if you don't want to talk excessively about it. But I hope it's nothing to do with disbelief. Queen Susan, I can hardly think you would forget about our land. However, I can understand your point of view. Only—I love my sisters, both of you. As Peter has special love for Lucy, I do for you.

I hope that someday, dear sister, you will be happy, even if that means turning your back on your childhood. I don't have to understand you fully to know that for some people, walking away is the right choice, even temporarily. Just don't walk away completely, or disbelieve. I love you, and I know Aslan loves you, even if it doesn't feel like it.

I'm praying for you—both to the God of the Bible and to Aslan.

Yours in the Lion's name,

Edmund


I love you too. Make my excuses to Lucy for tonight's meeting. I just can't face her. You know, sometimes it feels like she reproaches me. And this will be the last I could attend for some time, anyway—I am starting my official training on Monday. We will see how life goes from there, further up and further in. What a strange web we weave through life; so many connections.

Keep writing to me, please. I don't want to lose my just brother. I wish there were something more, something happier, I could write in this so brief letter. I remember we would send absolute tomes during that first year back from Narnia the first time. Someday, perhaps, we will do it again: though not for now.

I hope Lucy will forgive me. I just can't take it—or her, right now. Don't tell her that, though.

—Susan, once falsely called Gentle


Author's note: Oh, hi, look, another chapter where I don't know where I'm going next. Whoops. I hope you like this chapter, anyway. I'm not sure I walked the right line with Edmund, not really, but I tried, I guess. Let me know what you thought of it!

(Chapter title from "Rainy Days and Mondays", which was the first Carpenters song I listened to on repeat, what I was listening to while writing, and the first I learned to sing in its entirety.)

God keep you in his hands today.

—H