SUSAN/LUCY - LET IT DIE
Title: Let It Die
Fandom/Pairing: NARNIA; Susan Pevensie/Lucy Pevensie
Summary: Set after Kill Me Softly, Susan hears of her siblings’ deaths for the first time. She deals with it as an adult. She stops believing altogether.
All she thinks of is her beauty, and her suitors, her schedule and tea. She no longer has the time for little games of half-truths and all lies. Susan is an adult. She knows better, thinks more. So, naturally, that is how she approaches it when news arrives.
Susan is putting her books away when she first hears it; Hears of their deaths. Hears they have died. Hears how they have died. Her fingers curl dangerously around a first edition novel of Joseph Conrad’s Heart of Darkness.
Susan feels cold. She thinks - She thinks of nothing. Her eyes are reflections of her dreams and her thoughts; her soul. They reflect dark and white and greys.
Susan feels. She feels like ice and death, icy death, all over. Imagines. How. She imagines hard. Imagines how their bodies are now shattered into nothing, battered beyond recognition at the train’s collision. Remnants of black holes; empty voids. Like butterflies burned to their ends, scorched out of existence, having fluttered too close to an open flame. Not even food for the picking. They weren’t even granted that much.
Susan thinks of Lucy first. Thinks of how she had come to her, begging, pleading, asking. Come back, come home, come with her. But Susan had said no, had dismissed it like it wasn’t important, had shut Lucy out. Her only concern, at the time, had been getting ready for a profit ball. Fixing her eye make-up to look suitable, beautiful, like an adult. That ball pales in comparison to the heartbreak she feels now. Her heart is wrenching, tugging at the strings. Playing a composition that has her dying over and over again inside.
Susan thinks: Why Aslan? Why?
Edmund. Peter. Oh god. Edmund, Peter, Lucy.
Lucy.
Susan feels cold all over. Like the temperature’s gone and dropped and hell’s frozen all the way over. She tries to reason with herself. What is the best way to approach this? Older, wiser. Civilised, proper. Like her aspiration, her idealism. No tears, no drama. Susan must think, react, feel, like an adult: Smart, logical. Detached, unfeeling.
She must not care. She must detach herse -
Susan shuts her eyes, closes herself down. It hurts. It really hurts. Thinking about it, pains. Susan can see their faces now, will forever dream of them in her sleep.
It’s all a little late. Susan can’t set time back. She can only live now, alone at her own expense.
Ribbons of agony are suffocating her, closing over her mouth, bringing Susan down. She can barely keep breath and willpower to stand. An adult, she reminds herself. She is an adult. She levels her mind, she tries. Susan sets the Heart of Darkness down.
She cracks open another book, never says a word. Odd. Susan can’t read pass the stings of her eyes, the water that prickles and falls down her cheeks and never ends. She presses her head against the desk, chokes on the breath she’s holding in. Her make-up draws black lines down her face, darkens her cheeks, washes over her blush.
They’re dead.
They haven’t gone to Narnia this time around. They’re not living, breathing. They’re. Not. All. Right. They’re gone. Dead. Dead. Dead. And Susan hates Aslan for it. If he were, was, is, real - they wouldn’t have died, Susan wouldn’t be feeling like this. She wouldn’t be alone.
There is no great lion. There is no Narnia. There are no more Pevensies. Just a sole Pevensie. Just Susan. Alone. Adult. Amazing.
Adult, no. Still young and childish. Cries at the smallest (biggest) things.
Amazing, no. Weak, foolish, naïve (such a child).
Alone? Always. Now and forever. There’s nothing left. There’s no-one left.
Lucy. Thinking of her almost causes Susan to forcibly reject her servings of tea and scones. Lucy was wrong. Believing in Aslan was nothing, meant nothing, is nothing. Lucy had believed in the wrong cause. She had died for it. They all had.
There is a bad aftertaste in Susan’s mouth. Her fingers are tight against the spine of an old, old, old edition of the Holy Bible. Susan sends a silent prayer without even knowing it. Black tears fall to stain on white sheets, and black text that will never be recovered blur inconsequentially to be remembered as unimportant, nothing. Like the cuts in Susan’s heart, she’s given up being concerned.
Forget Aslan, forget being an adult. Susan doesn’t bother to care. Suddenly her make-up isn’t all that important anymore.
Dear God. Hallowed be thy name. Thy kingdom come, thy will be done. Susan sucks in a breath, prays to the one God she should’ve always believed in before. On earth as it is in heaven.
Fandom/Pairing: NARNIA; Susan Pevensie/Lucy Pevensie
Summary: Set after Kill Me Softly, Susan hears of her siblings’ deaths for the first time. She deals with it as an adult. She stops believing altogether.
All she thinks of is her beauty, and her suitors, her schedule and tea. She no longer has the time for little games of half-truths and all lies. Susan is an adult. She knows better, thinks more. So, naturally, that is how she approaches it when news arrives.
Susan is putting her books away when she first hears it; Hears of their deaths. Hears they have died. Hears how they have died. Her fingers curl dangerously around a first edition novel of Joseph Conrad’s Heart of Darkness.
Susan feels cold. She thinks - She thinks of nothing. Her eyes are reflections of her dreams and her thoughts; her soul. They reflect dark and white and greys.
Susan feels. She feels like ice and death, icy death, all over. Imagines. How. She imagines hard. Imagines how their bodies are now shattered into nothing, battered beyond recognition at the train’s collision. Remnants of black holes; empty voids. Like butterflies burned to their ends, scorched out of existence, having fluttered too close to an open flame. Not even food for the picking. They weren’t even granted that much.
Susan thinks of Lucy first. Thinks of how she had come to her, begging, pleading, asking. Come back, come home, come with her. But Susan had said no, had dismissed it like it wasn’t important, had shut Lucy out. Her only concern, at the time, had been getting ready for a profit ball. Fixing her eye make-up to look suitable, beautiful, like an adult. That ball pales in comparison to the heartbreak she feels now. Her heart is wrenching, tugging at the strings. Playing a composition that has her dying over and over again inside.
Susan thinks: Why Aslan? Why?
Edmund. Peter. Oh god. Edmund, Peter, Lucy.
Lucy.
Susan feels cold all over. Like the temperature’s gone and dropped and hell’s frozen all the way over. She tries to reason with herself. What is the best way to approach this? Older, wiser. Civilised, proper. Like her aspiration, her idealism. No tears, no drama. Susan must think, react, feel, like an adult: Smart, logical. Detached, unfeeling.
She must not care. She must detach herse -
Susan shuts her eyes, closes herself down. It hurts. It really hurts. Thinking about it, pains. Susan can see their faces now, will forever dream of them in her sleep.
It’s all a little late. Susan can’t set time back. She can only live now, alone at her own expense.
Ribbons of agony are suffocating her, closing over her mouth, bringing Susan down. She can barely keep breath and willpower to stand. An adult, she reminds herself. She is an adult. She levels her mind, she tries. Susan sets the Heart of Darkness down.
She cracks open another book, never says a word. Odd. Susan can’t read pass the stings of her eyes, the water that prickles and falls down her cheeks and never ends. She presses her head against the desk, chokes on the breath she’s holding in. Her make-up draws black lines down her face, darkens her cheeks, washes over her blush.
They’re dead.
They haven’t gone to Narnia this time around. They’re not living, breathing. They’re. Not. All. Right. They’re gone. Dead. Dead. Dead. And Susan hates Aslan for it. If he were, was, is, real - they wouldn’t have died, Susan wouldn’t be feeling like this. She wouldn’t be alone.
There is no great lion. There is no Narnia. There are no more Pevensies. Just a sole Pevensie. Just Susan. Alone. Adult. Amazing.
Adult, no. Still young and childish. Cries at the smallest (biggest) things.
Amazing, no. Weak, foolish, naïve (such a child).
Alone? Always. Now and forever. There’s nothing left. There’s no-one left.
Lucy. Thinking of her almost causes Susan to forcibly reject her servings of tea and scones. Lucy was wrong. Believing in Aslan was nothing, meant nothing, is nothing. Lucy had believed in the wrong cause. She had died for it. They all had.
There is a bad aftertaste in Susan’s mouth. Her fingers are tight against the spine of an old, old, old edition of the Holy Bible. Susan sends a silent prayer without even knowing it. Black tears fall to stain on white sheets, and black text that will never be recovered blur inconsequentially to be remembered as unimportant, nothing. Like the cuts in Susan’s heart, she’s given up being concerned.
Forget Aslan, forget being an adult. Susan doesn’t bother to care. Suddenly her make-up isn’t all that important anymore.
Dear God. Hallowed be thy name. Thy kingdom come, thy will be done. Susan sucks in a breath, prays to the one God she should’ve always believed in before. On earth as it is in heaven.