The first time Susan met him was at the funeral. She doesn't think she'd've remembered him at all - so much of that time was lost in a blur of shock and grief - except for his unusual behavior. She had been standing to one side, receiving what seemed like an endless stream of mourners she knew only vaguely or not at all, come to convey their condolences. Everyone sounded exactly the same, pale, drawn faces swimming above dark mourning attire, and soon they faded into a blur of earnest faces murmuring identical concerned platitudes, sympathy turned meaningless by dint of sheer repetition. At first, he seemed just like the rest, another pale, serious face swimming above a dark uniform.
"Miss Pevensie, Rhys Emerson. I was a friend of your brother - of Peter." That follows, she thought vaguely. He looked roughly Peter's age, her own age. "I am so sorry for your loss. Your brother-" She might've imagined the hitch in his voice, a tiny pause easily ignored, "-well. He was a king among men." His lips quirked slightly, as if at a private joke.
Susan's eyes snapped to his, gaze suddenly sharpening at this deviation from the standard script. His eyes were a startling blue. "Yes, he truly was." Her lips felt frozen in a polite shape, something approximating the intersection of politeness and grave stoicism, and her voice sounded far away to her own ears. "Tell me, have you known Peter long?" There was something, she could not quite place...
"Oh, yes." The man nodded. "We served together, in the War."
"Ah," She nodded too, as if it meant anything at all. That explained the uniform. "Of course."
He nodded again. She wondered if anyone has ever been nodded to so often as at a funeral. "Miss Pevensie." He extended a hand to her.
"Mister Emerson." She took it, expecting to shake. Instead, he lifted it and bent his head, grazing his lips over her knuckles. His breath was warm through her gloves.
"Milady." He caught her eye and let go, head remaining bent in acknowledgement for half a beat before he straightened to walk towards the door. Susan gazed after him a moment before shaking her head and turning back to greet the next person, retreating back behind her veil and murmuring the appropriate polite and demure responses.
This is ALL YOUR FAULT
"Miss Pevensie, Rhys Emerson. I was a friend of your brother - of Peter." That follows, she thought vaguely. He looked roughly Peter's age, her own age. "I am so sorry for your loss. Your brother-" She might've imagined the hitch in his voice, a tiny pause easily ignored, "-well. He was a king among men." His lips quirked slightly, as if at a private joke.
Susan's eyes snapped to his, gaze suddenly sharpening at this deviation from the standard script. His eyes were a startling blue. "Yes, he truly was." Her lips felt frozen in a polite shape, something approximating the intersection of politeness and grave stoicism, and her voice sounded far away to her own ears. "Tell me, have you known Peter long?" There was something, she could not quite place...
"Oh, yes." The man nodded. "We served together, in the War."
"Ah," She nodded too, as if it meant anything at all. That explained the uniform. "Of course."
He nodded again. She wondered if anyone has ever been nodded to so often as at a funeral. "Miss Pevensie." He extended a hand to her.
"Mister Emerson." She took it, expecting to shake. Instead, he lifted it and bent his head, grazing his lips over her knuckles. His breath was warm through her gloves.
"Milady." He caught her eye and let go, head remaining bent in acknowledgement for half a beat before he straightened to walk towards the door. Susan gazed after him a moment before shaking her head and turning back to greet the next person, retreating back behind her veil and murmuring the appropriate polite and demure responses.