whynot | strictly BYOB

One week after the train crash, Edmund sits down across from Susan at the kitchen table and slides two tickets across to her.

"The Marigold. She crosses from Dover to France in three days. The funeral's over, we can sell the house from abroad. I'm going to be on it. You should come with me."

"Traveling won't fix anything, Edmund," Susan says, and her red lipstick is like a scar across her face. He can't think of the last time he saw her without her makeup on. "There's no way to forget, and we aren't ever going to travel far enough."

"But wherever we go won't be here, with all the memories," Edmund says. "That's the important part. You haven't slept in days, Susan. Come with me."

"I'll think about it," she says, and her heels click on the wood as she heads up the stairs. Edmund doesn't move, just closes his eyes and leans back.

(I have no idea if I'm going to be able to do this justice.)

Edmund's on the deck looking back at the crowd on the docks, a'flutter with flags and handkerchiefs, the people being left behind waving goodbye to the people going ahead.

There might be a white handkerchief for him back on the docks, from a sister whose mask has now succeeded in shutting even him out, the one who understood her the best. But he doubts it.

He's in Morocco, six months later, when the letter reaches him. It's covered in stamps and writing from dozens of postmasters who had sent the letter on, as if it were a faithful dog always two cities behind.

(eeeeee people being left behind waving goodbye to the people going ahead)

He opens it in the sun, sitting on the veranda of a hotel with the heat soaking into his skin, and Susan's clear elegant handwriting feels a little like home. He can almost pretend he's just a short boat ride from Peter and Lucy and Susan.

Edmund, the letter reads, I don't know when this will catch up with you. The letter too feels familiar, a little bit scolding and a little bit hopeful, the type of letters she wrote to him while he was in university, and before that when he was off in foreign courts, trying to wrangle a lower tax on their imports or access to someone's harbors. Mostly, though, it feels like meaningless chatter, as if she had begun and then not known what to say. At the end she writes, You were right. We've only got each other left now. I've sold the house and moved into a flat in London. It feels strange and quiet all by myself, and I think if you came and said let's go to Paris I would say yes this time. I hope you're enjoying yourself. Affectionately, Susan.

It's the first time Susan has sounded like Susan to him in years, and within an hour he's checked out of the hotel and booked passage to England.

It gets colder as he moves north. He dreams too much to sleep well.

Susan meets him at the harbor, though it feels to Edmund like he is the one meeting her. He's the one who cranes his neck to spot her over the heads of the milling crowd, and he's the one who circles the platform looking this way and that. When he finally finds her, she is standing by the exit with an air of straight-backed patience, as if waiting to be found. Her make-up is immaculate and her shoes are sensible, and her face lights up with a smile when she sees her brother.

"How was France?" she asks.

Edmund shrugs. "I didn't stay long."

"Of course," she says. "How very like a Pevensie."

+

The flat is small but tidy, and smells oppressively of jasmine and fag ends. (Edmund will learn that Susan sprays the place liberally with perfume to cover the smell of her cigarettes.) They celebrate his homecoming with a bottle of wine and an exchange of stories. ("Oh, Ed, that's not fair. What have I got to top watching the sun rise over the pyramids?") Susan laughs as she recounts the hearts she's broken, the money saved up from secretarial work, her thoughts on the politics of the day. She doesn't mention anyone breaking her heart though. Maybe no one did.

"Did you mean it," Edmund asks, "when you said you'd go to Paris with me?"

Susan takes Edmund's glass of wine and drinks from it, smiling absently.

Edmund asks, "Did you say that just to bring me back home."

She says, "D'you feel like a dance?"

The next day is Friday, and Edmund stays home and sits by the fire while he reads poetry from the books lined up neatly on a shelf. Susan gets home from work and looks relieved to see him still there, and he reads aloud poetry while she goes to the kitchen.

"Here is no water but only rock
Rock and no water and the sandy road
The road winding above among the mountains
Which are mountains of rock without water."

"Oh, Edmund, you always did like poetry," she says, and comes out and sits down next to him on the sofa. "There's some much more cheerful poetry in this book," she continues, taking down a different book and handing it to him, and he remembers her quoting Eliot under her breath on days when England seemed particularly dreary and they all wanted nothing more than to go home. "It's quite hot by the fire," she says after a moment of silence. "Aren't you warm?"

"A little cool, actually," he says, and feels the brush of ice-cold lips on his ear and a whisper that has haunted his dreams since the train crash.

"What would you like for supper?" Susan says, and he gets up to help her cook.

(I'm not sure I can do this right...)

They continue like this, shifting the spaces left behind until they can cover them with their meagre selves. There are still gaping holes, to be sure, but they far and few between.

**

On Sunday, they watch the flow of cars and pedestrians make their way to the church from Susan's bedroom window. They are all dressed in their best and stiff.

**

The next day, Susan leaves the flat to buy groceries early in the morning. Edmund stays in, sprawling across his bed with an array of books and old newspapers. History, philosophy, it doesn't matter, he just needs to do something.

Somehow, the newspaper reporting the train crash survives long enough to make it into his hands.

**

When Susan returns, arms full, the door to the flat is open. She drops the groceries and hurrie inside.

"Edmund? Ed!"

"I can't stay here," Edmund says, determined, folding up another shirt and putting it in his suitcase. "I can't, all right? If you need me, you're going to have to either come with me or put up with short visits at long intervals."

"Oh, fine," Susan says. "Can you at least wait two weeks? Recommendations make getting a new job much easier." He blinks and spins around to face her.

"You'll come?"

"London's a bit stuffy at this time of year," she says, practical and sensible, but there is something in her eyes like the Susan he remembers, and she is not wearing her lipstick.

"All right then, two weeks," Edmund says. "But that's it. England is too familiar." Susan doesn't say anything, but her lips press together tightly and he can't help but wonder, what was she doing at Peter's flat that day? Were they finally making up? "Have you been eating enough?" he says, following her. "You look too thin."

"I'm fine, Edmund," she says, still tight. "A trip will do us both good."

There's no time to think, and Edmund almost luxuriates in the frantic days of preparation, because it means he can fall tiredly into bed every night and sleep without reawakened dreams. Mostly.

The night before they're to set off, he kisses Susan goodnight and falls asleep instantly when his head touches his pillow.

Aslan appears before him in the meadow on a mountaintop looking over a landscape he does not recognize. He's crying - no, Edmund's crying, and it's Edmund's tears glittering on Edmund's palms as he stretches his hands out and stumbles forward, because he's twelve again and his legs are half as long as he's used to them being. "Aslan--"

Aslan's living golden fieriness dissolves into a cold, dead, winking gold, twists upward into something more angular, and Edmund is looking up into ruby eyes. Real, priceless rubies, the likes of which would've fetched thousands of crescents in the Calormen auctions. They're staring at him, down the length of a cruel beak.

Tash blinks, and Edmund's world goes gray with the dry hiss that lingers in his ears.

+

"You're quiet," Susan comments, her words nearly lost in the wind whipping about their faces. It's not like Edmund's first trip across the Channel, sunny and calm. It's winter now and the waters are choppy, restless under the dismal sky.

(so many people yay!)

"It's cold," Edmund says. And then, "I'm remembering."

"You're quite bundled up," Susan says, but she slips her arm around his waist and crowds close anyway. "You never have liked winter much, but you've been quite fine for years now," she murmurs. Edmund is not sure if this is her way of saying 'I understand' without mentioning Narnia, or if she really doesn't remember.

He doesn't know how to ask, so they stand at the bow until France comes into view.

+

"Notre Dame is supposed to be quite beautiful," Susan says, and Edmund says all right, let's go.

But they don't go in, just wander around the outside and stare at the stained glass.

"Have you ever heard of apotheosis?" Susan says, and her voice is unexpectedly bitter.

"Yes," Edmund says cautiously. "Greek classes in university, remember?"

He waits for her to continue, but she turns away to look at Christ's divine face gazing down at them, glowing from the candles inside the church. His hair is golden.

They sit together outside the cathedral for a long time. People pass them, going in and coming out. The people come and leave, but Susan and Edmund stay.

+

The next day, they visit the Eiffel Tower. They don't pose in pictures like the other tourists, wrapped in layers of wool and family. Little children laugh together. Once again, they sit.

+

That night, the eat by the Seine, in a restaurant meant for romantic evenings. Their evening is decidedly unromantic.

+

"Why?" Susan asks. It's just the two of them and some coffee, the waiter has taken away the plates.

"Why what?" Edmund asks, though he knows what she's asking.

Susan gestures toward the river. "Why all this?"

"We could always go to Africa instead," Edmund says. "I was in Morocco when your letter found me. It's quite lovely down there." She accepts his careful change of subject and sips her coffee.

"Perhaps we should," she says.

+

They chase the sun, heading south to escape the chill of winter.

+

Within a few days, Susan has stopped saying "When I get back to England," and has taken to writing her close friends letters instead. The further south the shorter the letters get, and the more often he finds himself remembering why she made such a good queen.

They are in the Congo before his careful guard slips and he says, "It reminds me of Galma a little," without thinking. There is a long silence from beside him as Susan stares over the side of the boat, breathing deeply.

"Yes," she says, and takes his hand. "Me too."

"When I beheld thy blue eyes shine
Through the bright drop that pity drew,
I saw beneath those tears of thine
A blue-ey'd violet bathed in dew."

The vendor with the turban and the flowing grey beard quotes some translated poetry at her, fine and flowery, and Susan replies, without thinking, in Calormene.

He looks at her curiously, no doubt wondering what language the sad, pale traveler could be speaking that is so like his own native tongue, and yet not like.

"Excuse me," Susan says hastily and bends over the jewelry displayed on the seller's carpet, concentrating on the tiny gems to cover the panic in her mind. She is absurdly grateful Edmund isn't here, because she's not ready for that.

Susan finds Edmund several stalls down in the marketplace. He pours over finely illuminated scrolls that make Susan think more of artwork than of writing. More of Calormen than of England.

"Edmund," she says softly. He looks at her intently, slipping one hand into hers. "These-."

"I know," he says, cutting her off.

They don't return to that marketplace.

+

It is only in the rainforests of the Congos that everything washes away. Here is not Narnia, is not England, is not even Calormen, it is simply here.

They relish in the humidity as other members of their guided walk constantly complain of it. Here, Susan does not wear her lipstick.

In their bungalow, Edmund lies awake in the darkness, staring up into the fine mesh of the mosquito net. Susan sleeps in the next bed over.

It is at night, when Edmund has only his thoughts to keep him company, that he remembers what it was like to miss her. He remembers what it was like, before that, to love her without restraint, to love all his siblings, to have so much openness within arm's reach.

He can barely hear Susan's breathing over the rasping of the insects outside, but he can hear it, making him more aware of the distance between them, how she seems the furthest away at night. In their individual fashions, they have both spent years trying to simultaneously move on and stay the same. But they have, over the course of this trip, stumbled back into each other in a meandering fashion, rediscovering an intimacy they haven't felt in years.

It is a slow process. Everything is different now, and they will not be rushed.

After they have seen the sights, they withdraw to their bungalow and drowse in the heat together, reading or talking, slow and quiet. Nothing too much. Sometimes they forget and say do you remember? but it's rare. They have met their own grief and they know the size of it, but they have not yet found a way across.

Edmund is not sure that they ever will.

+

Susan does not mention England anymore.

+

"Edmund, how are we paying for this?" she says suddenly one day, and he shrugs. "Do I want to know?"

"It's not illegal," he protests. "You went over the money with me. We inherited a fair bit, and I've been investing mine. Also, I know how to get deals out here."

"I should probably invest mine," Susan says.

+

They go into the nearby village to get food, and Susan examines native plants and vegetables with interest.

"If I cook this, will you eat it?" she asks, holding yams in her hands.

"Why not," he says. Susan buys figs and peppers and other things and experiments in the kitchen while Edmund carries in water. The bungalow has only the bare necessities out here.

The next day she heads into town by herself and comes home late and tired, but with a smile on her face.

"Where were you?" Edmund asks.

"With the women," she says. "It's quite fascinating how many uses the plants out here have."

The day before they leave the country, Susan insists on saying goodbye to her newfound friends. Edmund follows; he needs to buy toothpaste.

Susan's French is good, or at least much better than his. At the little variety store, at the marketplace, she takes Edmund's arm and goes, "Voici mon frere, Edmund," and Edmund mumbles, "Enchante, enchante," and smiles awkwardly. They smile at him and ask him questions, and many go back to smiling when they find out he doesn't speak French.

A girl who sells oranges at the market ("Edmund, this is Marie.") tells him, "Edmund, your sister said you like the yams."

"It's all right," says Edmund. "Susan's a good cook."

"Susan is a good woman," Marie says, and laughs merrily. Susan says something to her in rapid-fire French, and they laugh again.

Susan has always been good at this, worming her way into people's hearts and winning their confidence. In Narnia, she was effectively a diplomatic scout, sent into foreign courts ahead of her brothers and sister to lay groundwork and make sure the way was clear.

"Here," says Marie, taking Edmund's hand and placing an orange in it. "For your journey."

"Thank you," says Edmund. "Merci."

Marie smiles. "De rien."

They huddle together over a map, looking at the world with new eyes.

"How about Italy?" Edmund suggests, but Susan shakes her head and points to India.

"Let's go to India," she says. "I don't know much about India." They go north cautiously, Susan watching the temperature and Edmund watching the sky. Spring is coming, and he remembers spring in Narnia, when everyone celebrated and Susan and Lucy braided flowers into their hair and they wore crowns of flowers to the festivals at night, where the drumbeat felt like the heartbeat of the earth.

At one of the African ports they put into on their journey, someone is drumming on the dock, thump thump thump, and Edmund watches Susan tap her foot to the beat and remembers her dancing hand in hand with dryads.

She is smiling and lovely in the sun, and he can be content with this.

+

They sail through the Mediterranean and one night the boat holds a dance. Susan digs out a dress Edmund has never seen from her suitcase and they go together. They waltz together easily, one-two-three one-two-three. When the music changes they move out onto the deck and Edmund says,

"It sounds like-"

"It does, doesn't it," Susan agrees gently, and they spin into a Narnian dance together, hands light on each other's bodies and mouths smiling.

The song slows to a stop, and Edmund and Susan stop dancing just a few seconds late. Someone has paused the world, and they stand still in the held breath between this song and the next, his hand on her waist, her hand on his shoulder, and his hand - to Edmund's embarrassment - is getting clammy. His sister looks up at him from under her lashes, something like curiosity in her eyes, something like amusement tugging at her mouth. He can smell the faint notes of bergamot in her perfume.

"What?" he asks.

The next song is a Thelonius Monk song that Susan likes and Edmund can't remember the name of. He's never cared one way or the other about jazz, but Susan's face breaks into a smile bright enough to break the silence between them, and she begins to tug him back inside.

"The girls and I used to dance to this all the time," she tells Edmund, who is trying to refuse to be tugged.

"I don't know how to dance to this one," Edmund says dubiously.

"Pish posh," Susan declares. To his horror, she manages to pull him onto the dance floor, and she takes his hands, and she says, "It's easy: we start like this, and then we do whatever we want."

+

It's not just a matter of reclaiming the past and the way they used to be. The past binds them regardless; the trick is to not be suffocated. The trick is to know how to move forward with it. The past must be carried inside you; you must not be carried inside your past. Ask your questions if you must ("Why have I been left behind?"), but don't wait for answers.

"I wonder sometimes if we have some unfinished business here," Susan says, in the quiet of their cabin. This is how she reconciles: quiet non sequiturs that give the impression of having bubbled for a long time, with no choice in when they will spill over.

"You make us sound like ghosts," says Edmund.

"Maybe to ghosts, we are the ghosts. Maybe ghosts are just true selves in the shadow world."

Edmund lies in the top bunk, Susan in the bottom, the whiskey keeping them giddy, restless, awake. The jazz and waltz is still traipsing through his head, intertwined around the images of his sister laughing, dancing. She danced with three other men that night, and when they tried to lead her away from the dance floor, she would leave their company in a whirl of flirtation so deft that they didn't realize they were rejected until she was gone.

She returned to Edmund at the bar, and he raised his eyebrows, asking, "Do none of these dukes and princes please you, sister?"

"They please me well enough," she replied, "but they displease me just as well."

They smiled at the old joke, and Edmund ordered her another drink.

Next morning an old lady asks Susan how her lovely young husband is. Susan is unfazed.

They stop in Sicily, and Susan stops at an old woman's stall.

"Who is this?" she asks, picking up a small statue. "She's very beautiful."

"Aurora," the woman says reverently. "Goddess of the dawn. She brings a fair wind and a fresh start."

"How much?" Susan says, and when they get back to the ship she places the small statue carefully on the bureau and stares at it for a long time.

strictly BYOB

LB AU's are my specialty!

Re: LB AU's are my specialty!

Re: LB AU's are my specialty!

last battle revisionism ftw

especially Susan&Edmund!

I can join? :)

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Re: I can join? :)

eeeee Pevensies!

Re: eeeee Pevensies!

Re: eeeee Pevensies!

Re: eeeee Pevensies!

Re: eeeee Pevensies!

Re: eeeee Pevensies!

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IF I COOK THIS WILL YOU EAT IT <33

susan has experimented before! it has not always gone this well!

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