Welp, this is the end! I don't think I'm doing the amnesties this year, as I have a very busy week ahead of me haha
Prompt: Someone is reading (or hearing) the Chronicles of Narnia for the first time. Can be in-canon or breaking the fourth wall.
The penthouse rose in the gray sky, standing tall and solid as a wind whistled around, tossing hats, paper, and umbrellas alike. Allan pushed his hair out of his eyes. That would be the right address. Hopefully Susan Pevensie was home.
Lucy Pevensie had been Susan's younger sister, according to the journal. He held the wrapped journal carefully against his side as he ran up the stairs two at a time.
It had been wrong of him to read so much of Lucy's journal. The sinking feeling in his stomach assured him of that.
But at the same time… it had been captivating. She told stories of a magical land called Narnia, where animals talked and rivers and trees came alive and there were all manner of magical creatures.
That's also where Aslan was from. The mysterious being he'd read about in the very first entry.
It was like reading the musings and imaginations of an author—which Allan had done once or twice—except Lucy Pevensie seemed to have believed they were real.
Allan wasn't convinced that she wasn't touched in the head, but the fact remained… she was a beautifully imaginative girl.
A girl who was now dead.
The realization tugged at his heartstrings. He knew she was dead—he'd helped remove her remains from the train wreckage, after all—but somehow after reading the journal… it seemed like she was alive still. To a degree.
Her sister would probably be plagued with grief, though. He moistened his lips and shook out his hair from the wind. According to the records, Susan Pevensie was the only Pevensie left. All the rest had been killed in the accident.
He grimaced as he stopped in front of the correct apartment door. These sorts of visits always left him feeling torn up inside. This one would be no different, he was sure.
After a moment, he knocked.
There was a long pause, with complete silence, before the door cracked open to reveal a pallid face with bags under her eyes and a mussed length of raven-black hair. "Can I help you?"
"Are you Susan Pevensie, ma'am?" He kept his voice gentle and soft, like he always tried to do around grieving family members.
The door opened a little wider. Behind her, he saw boxes and a table overflowing with paintings, clothes, books, and an assortment of other things.
Sorting through a loved one's items… he'd heard it was horrible oftentimes.
"Yes. What is it?" The lack of joy, of any life rang hollow in her voice.
His heart pinched as he held out the parcel. "This was found in the wreckage, ma'am… I believe it was your sister Lucy's journal."
"Oh." Susan stared at it for a long moment before reaching out to take it. "Thank you."
He was supposed to turn away. Offer condolences, and turn away. But that didn't feel like enough—it was never enough. He'd seen the records, Susan was completely alone.
He opened his mouth, then hesitated again.
Susan tilted her head, glancing up to meet his eyes. "What?"
She'd noticed.
"I… I read some of your sister's journal." The words came out before he'd even thought about them. He shouldn't have said that—it was recommended to not reference a deceased family member aside from what was necessary. And that definitely was not something that was necessary to say.
Her hand paused on the inside doorknob. "Oh." Her face contorted, pushing back tears. Finally she sucked in a deep breath and held the door open wider. "I can explain."
"I'm sorry, I hadn't meant—"
She shook her head. "You didn't do anything. It doesn't matter, anyway."
His heart pounded, and with each heartbeat it felt like a rip was growing in his chest. The rip had always been there, ever since his first death visit, but it grew with each one. "I'm very sorry for your loss." His tone dipped. "She sounds like an amazing person."
Susan sniffed quietly, swiping at her eyes with a wrist. "Do you want to come in?"
"I don't want to intrude. But thank you." He wanted to know more about Lucy and the journal, but that clearly was not a topic to ask about.
She gestured inside with a jerky motion. "It's a mess. There's no one here. I'd like company." She stopped, eyes searching the hallway behind him for something that wasn't there.
Slowly, he stepped past her into the house. It wasn't as bad as his glimpse into the house had made it seem. The only cluttered part of the house was the living area. The kitchen just had a few things on the table, most of which were old dishes, several of which were tea cups. She must like tea. "Can I make you some tea?"
She drew in a shaky breath. "I can make it myself."
He walked further into the kitchen. "It's alright," he said with a small smile. "All it takes is a tea kettle and cups… where are the cups?"
She motioned to the cupboard next to the stove as she sagged into a chair at the table, and rested her elbows on it. "What did you read in her journal?"
Moving as quietly as he could, he took down the cups and tea, which was in the same cupboard, and lighted the stove beneath the kettle. "Mostly… about Narnia."
A fresh wave of grief flew across her face, mixed with anger. "Of course. It wasn't real."
He nodded. He'd assumed not, though Lucy had been so vivid in her descriptions of it.
"None of it was real," Susan repeated. "They were good stories, though." She glanced up at him. "Would you like to hear one?"
He slowly lowered himself into a chair near her seat. "Would it help you to tell it?"
Her breath shuddered as she nodded. "Yes," she whispered hoarsely. "If you don't mind."
"I don't, not a bit." He nodded, adding a soft smile.
And then he heard, for the first time, the complete story of the wardrobe, told as though it was just a fairytale created by four children, sent away from the air raids.
