It was like they'd just taken a ferry over especially choppy waters; a river, say, after a very heavy rain; and now they were disembarking and needed to get used to the land. Camilla nibbled a biscuit to steady herself, and smiled that inscrutable small smile of hers. She had a sort of language of smiles. This was not the polite vague smile, or the bland oh really? smile, or the joyous glowing smile; this one was the smile that reiterated Camilla's fundamental remoteness from things outside herself. It relieved the stark intimacy of what had just passed.
"It's all right," said Camilla. She wondered whether Ryder would be unhappy with her for spoiling his fun. Susan would presumably now know better than to wear funny hats. On an impulse she added, "Stephen's not a bad person, you know. It wasn't a lapse of judgement on your part to have feelings for him. It just wasn't fated, between you. Maybe his fated person is already dead." Stephen had mentioned Diana only once in Camilla's presence, and not in much detail; it had been in the context of a remark on his daughter.
Susan sipped at her tea, its sweetness taking on a whole new dimension--and that was saying something, given her sense of taste. While her senses were not quite so intense as a mortal, rather than as Death, they were damn close. Perhaps it came with her liberation from...well, from herself, really, from her self-imposed laws and boundaries. She was Susan--nothing could control her but herself, and it seemed she was a little too good at perpetuating self-destruction.
She sighed. "I'm sure he's not," she said. "However, he handled the whole thing abominably--if he wanted to end it, he could have at least had the courtesy to tell me. Or at least said something--anything at all. Simply avoiding me was...well, just about the worst thing he could have done. Even a nasty note would have been better." All this would not have hit her half so hard, had he just had the basic courtesy to talk to her.
And yet...well, she was almost surprised to find she didn't care, anymore. That particular pain had drained with all the rest of it, and though there was a vague, formless irritation well-hidden at the back of her mind, it was just that--vague. It was the kind of thing that would dissipate with time, she knew, just like so many other mild annoyances. Should she happen to run into Stephen, she could face him without a qualm now--whatever feelings, whatever attraction she'd had, was gone. She did not even resent him, and that seemed to her stranger still; he'd hurt her worse than anyone ever had in her life, but it was finished now, gone with the feelings that had been so troublesome.
"Obviously it really wasn't fated," Susan mused. "I just wish I'd known that beforehand, and spared myself...well, everything that followed." However badly it had ended, Stephen had been her first love, and first love, no matter what age you are when it hits you, is not a thing that can ever be reproduced. She was amused, too, at Camilla's words. "And I really don't think I'll go looking for this mystical 'fated' person," she said, dry as hot sand. "It would have to be someone who would not suddenly find me intolerable." And someone who would not ask for what I refuse to give, she added mentally. She had no idea that just such a person did exist, and that she would indeed run across him in due time.
Camilla actually rolled her eyes. "Susan. Men almost always handle everything abominably. It's part of what they do. Honestly." Even Henry, genius and saint and diabolical mastermind all rolled into one as far as Camilla was concerned -- well, if it hadn't been for the bacchanal, Camilla wouldn't even have known he was interested. Men just didn't handle these things properly. "Half the time they don't know what they're feeling and the rest of the time they don't know what to do about it."
Susan digested this, still sipping her tea. This was a fact she had not known. "I didn't realize that," she said, thoughtful. "Then again, most of my experience with men comes from Stephen, so I suppose I couldn't have known. The few boyfriends I had back home never progressed to the point where such a mess could be made." Thank gods. "And yet, knowing this, women voluntarily move on to another man?" What a terrible thought, though it must not be too terrible to many women--sheer evidence told her that. "Perhaps it's one of the human things I don't grasp even in this state, but it seems an almost masochistic thing, to set yourself up for the possibility of another failure." Once again, she almost envied Camilla and Henry--they could no more be separated than the earth and gravity. It wasn't a romantic metaphor, but apt nonetheless.
She'd had a 'few boyfriends' and really didn't know how clueless men could be? They must not have progressed far at all, thought Camilla, whose own number of past boyfriends would have varied depending on what one considered to count as a 'boyfriend'. Either that, or Susan must not have been paying attention. Maybe they were all the dating equivalent of orange trucker hats, tried on because Susan felt she ought to do so?
"It's like anything else. Like ..." She was about to say riding a bicycle, and didn't for two reasons. First, she had a vague memory of some saying about women needing men like a fish need a bicycle (though it would be deeply surprising if Camilla had much idea who Gloria Steinem was, let alone that Steinem had been the source of that quotation). Second, and more important, she wasn't entirely sure Susan would know what a bicycle was.
"Like riding a horse. You don't look at every horse thinking it's going to throw you and kick you in the face."
Probably a bad analogy.
"Or like ... mixing drinks. Just because you botch a pitcher of martinis once doesn't mean you're never going to make martinis again, right? You just have to use better gin the next time, or less vermouth, or something. Maybe you don't like olives."
It took Susan a moment to sort out the various metaphors, but when she did she looked thoughtful. "I suppose," she said, her not-quite-blue eyes staring at some point beyond Camilla's head, "it just depends on your judgment, which can't well be formed until someone's thrown you over, and you learn to be...cautious." Susan had not needed caution, with Stephen--or at least, had thought she didn't--but she'd know better, next time. If there was a next time. Knowledge that apparently all men were good a mucking things up made her much more wary of the idea even than she'd been before.
"Well," she added, "whoever comes along next time had better be prepared to deal with me. If I'm going to get thrown over again, I'm not going to be caught by surprise."
Susan paused, searching for the right words. "They have to accept me for who and what I am, and not suddenly decide there are aspects of me that are absolutely intolerable." She poured herself more tea. "That is not something I want to deal with a second time. Which admittedly limits the pool of potential candidates, but oh well." It almost, or so she thought, wrote out normal humanity entirely. After all, most men would likely have a problem with a woman who always knew where they were. "And, of course, the Hair has to approve, too."
"It's not as though there needs to be a huge pool of potential candidates." Camilla helped herself to some tea as well, and stirred milk into it. "When there's more than one person interested in you, it can get messy." Especially if the Sorting Hat went and married you off to one of them. "There only really needs to be one person, and if you're lucky they show up at an opportune time." As opposed to when you're living with your brother who's obsessively in love with you!
Susan could easily believe Camilla spoke from experience. Camilla was the sort of beautiful men liked--beautiful, graceful, with a slight air of mystery about her. Susan wasn't stupid--she knew that she herself was pretty enough--but apparently whatever 'air of mystery' she might have was a turn-off, rather than a turn-on. Camilla allured; Susan, apparently, terrified. Or disturbed. Or--well, anyway, she doubted she could ever in life have more than one man interested in her. Shaun had been right, when he'd said that she was scary as all hell--and most men, unless they had a serious complex of some sort, didn't like scary in a woman. Bah.
"Well, I won't rule it out, I suppose," she said, the words half dubious. At least she could consider it, though--all the things that would have barred her forever from even dreaming of such a thing had been bled away, like an infected wound. That thought at least was quite cheering, in its own way.
"That's the important thing." Camilla nodded. "Don't try to block anything. If you never find a man who's suitable, well, so be it. There are worse things. Just ... be open to what fate brings your way. Because fate does not like to be thwarted, and it's not nice to watch people learn that the hard way."
Fate might not like to be thwarted, but neither did Susan--and up until now, Susan had always won. It wasn't even so much the event itself, now--though that had hurt like hell--as it was the fact that she'd gone up against something and lost. The idea that perhaps there might be no winning or losing did not occur to her; she was, after all, Susan, and some things were intrinsic to her nature.
Part of her wanted to quit fighting, though. Her parents had found a way to live around the whole Death thing--surely she could, too. She couldn't spend forever with some inner recess of her soul filled with rage, which was what she'd more or less done up until now. That rage had gone with everything else, and perhaps--just perhaps--she didn't have to let it back in.
"Well, I wish Fate would give me some warning next time," she said. "I suppose that's too much to ask, though. Just yet another thing I've got to keep my eyes open for."
Camilla set down her teacup. "No, no, you can't watch for it. You'll only try to forestall things and that makes everything worse in the end."
She contemplated sharing the story of Oedipus Rex, and how Laius made everything much worse for himself, but it seemed an inopportune story for the present, so she left it alone.
"Things happen. It's no use being careful. Goodness, I never expected anything like --" she waved her hand in a vague and general gesture -- "what I have now. With Henry. I could never have imagined him in a million years."
Susan knew fully well that you couldn't predict everything--hells, in some cases you couldn't predict anything. With her unique memory, though, she'd been able to--not predict, but anticipate to some extent. Her memories of the future were vague and unreliable, but just occasionally one turned out to be of some use. Very, very occasionally, but still.
"Well, you're right on that score," she admitted, only slightly grudingly. "I just wish you weren't. You know, I met Fate once back home," she added, sipping her tea and staring at nothing. "They call her the Lady--her eyes are all green, with no white at all. She's a horrible person, too--when people call Fate a bitch, they're not kidding."
Now, that couldn't fail to intrigue Camilla, even if she knew full well that the Discworld wasn't her own. "Really? Did you talk to her at all?"
What were 'Fate's' thoughts on yaoi incest, I wonder? There were lots of Greek tragedies that involved incest, either inadvertent or willful, after all. And that John Ford play, whose title Camilla didn't like to think about, nor its end.
Susan shook her head. "Not really," she said. "She doesn't often speak, I gather--even with the other gods and personifications, she doesn't have to. Grandfather doesn't like her much; he says she makes his job uncertain. It used to be that people were meant to die and did it, but now there's something called the Uncertainty Principal, so he often runs off only to discover someone's changed a small something and suddenly they're not due to die."
The fact that Susan could discourse so lightly over something like the personification of Fate said a great deal about her state of mind--about how very much it had improved. She sounded like herself again, albeit more...still, in a sense--she still hadn't released the Death entirely, and wasn't certain she ever would. It still helped, even if she no longer needed to block anything.
"It's all right," said Camilla. She wondered whether Ryder would be unhappy with her for spoiling his fun. Susan would presumably now know better than to wear funny hats. On an impulse she added, "Stephen's not a bad person, you know. It wasn't a lapse of judgement on your part to have feelings for him. It just wasn't fated, between you. Maybe his fated person is already dead." Stephen had mentioned Diana only once in Camilla's presence, and not in much detail; it had been in the context of a remark on his daughter.
"And maybe you haven't met yours yet."
Oh, Camilla, you will regret those words.
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She sighed. "I'm sure he's not," she said. "However, he handled the whole thing abominably--if he wanted to end it, he could have at least had the courtesy to tell me. Or at least said something--anything at all. Simply avoiding me was...well, just about the worst thing he could have done. Even a nasty note would have been better." All this would not have hit her half so hard, had he just had the basic courtesy to talk to her.
And yet...well, she was almost surprised to find she didn't care, anymore. That particular pain had drained with all the rest of it, and though there was a vague, formless irritation well-hidden at the back of her mind, it was just that--vague. It was the kind of thing that would dissipate with time, she knew, just like so many other mild annoyances. Should she happen to run into Stephen, she could face him without a qualm now--whatever feelings, whatever attraction she'd had, was gone. She did not even resent him, and that seemed to her stranger still; he'd hurt her worse than anyone ever had in her life, but it was finished now, gone with the feelings that had been so troublesome.
"Obviously it really wasn't fated," Susan mused. "I just wish I'd known that beforehand, and spared myself...well, everything that followed." However badly it had ended, Stephen had been her first love, and first love, no matter what age you are when it hits you, is not a thing that can ever be reproduced. She was amused, too, at Camilla's words. "And I really don't think I'll go looking for this mystical 'fated' person," she said, dry as hot sand. "It would have to be someone who would not suddenly find me intolerable." And someone who would not ask for what I refuse to give, she added mentally. She had no idea that just such a person did exist, and that she would indeed run across him in due time.
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"It's like anything else. Like ..." She was about to say riding a bicycle, and didn't for two reasons. First, she had a vague memory of some saying about women needing men like a fish need a bicycle (though it would be deeply surprising if Camilla had much idea who Gloria Steinem was, let alone that Steinem had been the source of that quotation). Second, and more important, she wasn't entirely sure Susan would know what a bicycle was.
"Like riding a horse. You don't look at every horse thinking it's going to throw you and kick you in the face."
Probably a bad analogy.
"Or like ... mixing drinks. Just because you botch a pitcher of martinis once doesn't mean you're never going to make martinis again, right? You just have to use better gin the next time, or less vermouth, or something. Maybe you don't like olives."
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"Well," she added, "whoever comes along next time had better be prepared to deal with me. If I'm going to get thrown over again, I'm not going to be caught by surprise."
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It sounded rather ominous.
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"Well, I won't rule it out, I suppose," she said, the words half dubious. At least she could consider it, though--all the things that would have barred her forever from even dreaming of such a thing had been bled away, like an infected wound. That thought at least was quite cheering, in its own way.
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Fate might not like to be thwarted, but neither did Susan--and up until now, Susan had always won. It wasn't even so much the event itself, now--though that had hurt like hell--as it was the fact that she'd gone up against something and lost. The idea that perhaps there might be no winning or losing did not occur to her; she was, after all, Susan, and some things were intrinsic to her nature.
Part of her wanted to quit fighting, though. Her parents had found a way to live around the whole Death thing--surely she could, too. She couldn't spend forever with some inner recess of her soul filled with rage, which was what she'd more or less done up until now. That rage had gone with everything else, and perhaps--just perhaps--she didn't have to let it back in.
"Well, I wish Fate would give me some warning next time," she said. "I suppose that's too much to ask, though. Just yet another thing I've got to keep my eyes open for."
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She contemplated sharing the story of Oedipus Rex, and how Laius made everything much worse for himself, but it seemed an inopportune story for the present, so she left it alone.
"Things happen. It's no use being careful. Goodness, I never expected anything like --" she waved her hand in a vague and general gesture -- "what I have now. With Henry. I could never have imagined him in a million years."
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"Well, you're right on that score," she admitted, only slightly grudingly. "I just wish you weren't. You know, I met Fate once back home," she added, sipping her tea and staring at nothing. "They call her the Lady--her eyes are all green, with no white at all. She's a horrible person, too--when people call Fate a bitch, they're not kidding."
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What were 'Fate's' thoughts on yaoi incest, I wonder? There were lots of Greek tragedies that involved incest, either inadvertent or willful, after all. And that John Ford play, whose title Camilla didn't like to think about, nor its end.
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The fact that Susan could discourse so lightly over something like the personification of Fate said a great deal about her state of mind--about how very much it had improved. She sounded like herself again, albeit more...still, in a sense--she still hadn't released the Death entirely, and wasn't certain she ever would. It still helped, even if she no longer needed to block anything.
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