Fic: With A Clouded View, Part 2 of 9 (Narnia - Lucy/Susan - PG)
Title: With A Clouded View (Part 2 of 9)
Fandom: Chronicles of Narnia
Pairing(s): Lucy/Susan
Rating: PG for this part. NC-17 overall
Summary: In which Lucy is guilt-ridden and Edmund is infuriating.
Word count: 4123
Warnings: Incest, although only implied so far. Don't like? Don't read.
A/N: Chapter 1 and initial notes are here.
This has taken for ever, and given that I posted the first part almost exactly 8 months ago, I can't imagine that anyone but me's still interested. But hey, it's now the longest story - and the only multi-chapter one- I've ever written and I'm having fun with it, so.
By the way, can anyone tell me why beavers would eat bacon, or how it's possible for a country to continue to feed itself after a hundred years of winter? Just two of so many questions that have occurred to me in the months that this story has been going around my brain.
Thanks so much to my beta cobalt_siren. And thanks too, to perverbially, sushizuzoru and jules2112, who've been so supportive and just generally fabulous. ♥
Dedication: Once again, this is for likecharity, who does so much for Narnia fandom.
Disclaimer: Obviously all the characters and pretty much everything else belong to the estate of C.S. Lewis, and Walden Media. This is just for fun!
Part 1
Part 3
Part 4
Part 5
Part 6
Part 7
Part 8
Part 9, and Epilogue
Appendix (Various Interludes
(For those of you who find white on black annoying, there are also copies at my Archive of Our Own page).
With a Clouded View, Part 2
The knock - different this time, neither hesitant nor peremptory - comes a few hours after sunrise. If it's possible that a knock can be good humoured, then this is it. Three beats. Fist, not knuckles.
"Come out, come out, wherever you are." The faintest memory of a game from their old lives, it sounds faintly ridiculous as Edmund speaks it, his voice deep and laughing. "If you think I'm going away just because you refuse to answer your door, little sis, you're going to be very disappointed. And anyway, I'm king. Who's going to tell me that I can't stay here all blasted day? I'll tell you who: no one, that's who. I'll get my meals brought up here, if I have to. And eventually you're going to have to open up, because I know you can't climb out the window, even if you have tried more than once."
Lucy tosses in her bed, for, oh Aslan knows how many times it’s been that night. The sun found her in a twisted mess of bedclothes. She's thrown most of them off now, and she's curled, knees to her chest, clutching a single blanket. Her eyes feel sore and puffy and her head is aching. So many times she has cursed her own family over the last few months. This day is much like any other, at least as far as that goes.
The knock (knock? It sounds and feels like Edmund is trying to break through the door with his own fist) comes again.
"Really, Lu, this isn't a joke. I mean to talk to you, and you really don't have that much choice in the matter, as far as I can see it. I can hold this conversation through the door, if you like. And well, if you don't want to contribute, there's nothing I can do about that. But I think you'll probably want to say something. Even if it's only to get me to shut up for a few minutes." Edmund is using his battle-field voice. It seems to vibrate her brain in her skull, and the Lion knows, it doesn't make her want to actually talk to him. His isn't an empty threat though. He’s always been his own favourite conversationalist.
Lucy stares at the ceiling, all midnight blue and decorated with the constellations that have become so familiar to her. And once again, she curses quietly to herself. When she raises her voice in answer, the pain in her head becomes a brief, lancing fire. She winces and tries again.
“Ed, is there no way at all that I can persuade you to go away for the moment? I'll come and find you later, honestly, and you can talk at me to your heart's content.”
Edmund is quiet for a few seconds, long enough that Lucy starts to hope that he might have decided to leave her in peace. But no, this is Edmund. She should know better. Still, his voice is less stentorian when next he speaks. Lucy offers up her thanks for that, at least.
“Lu, I understand, I really do. Whatever's wrong, I know you'd rather not talk about it and I accept that. But just … Let me in, will you? If you don't want to say anything then don't, but it might help, have you thought of that?”
“All right,” Lucy says, her voice sharp enough that it sets her head to throbbing once more. “At least let me get dressed, will you?”
She rolls out of bed when no reply comes, taking a few minutes to locate the clothes she had thrown off the night before. (She feels the heat rise in her face just thinking about the previous day). She's never been one for maid-servants and dresses and she's grateful for it now. Just the thought of having to deal with those resolutely incurious, ever-watching eyes makes her uncomfortable. Bad enough with a clean conscience, but now?
She throws on a long tunic and loosely knots a robe over it, and curls up in the window-seat to stare silently out to sea. It is early still, the sun isn't nearly high and it throws a glittering road on the waves below. Even with the ache in her head, Lucy finds it calming.
“Come in, then, if you must.”
For all the vigour of his initial gambit Edmund's next move is blessedly restrained. Lucy had expected to feel the door shaking in its hinges, but no. With unwonted discretion and an audible double-click Edmund is there, in her sanctuary, curiosity vying with concern in his gaze. He's dressed for the hunt. (He so often is. He does so love to hunt, even if the softness of his heart regularly ensures that no actual quarry is taken in the sport. Mostly - and he's told Lucy this more often than she'd like - he loves to ride. The rest is simply dressing). There's a flush to his skin and a brightness in the eyes that he absolutely won't take from Lucy's face. A king, or a queen, looks all in the eyes, unashamed and unflinching. Lucy remembers the lesson, she is simply unable to put it into practice. Her eyes flicker to the wall above Edmund's head, to the blue of sea and sky outside her window. The ache in her temples protests the constant movement but it fights a losing battle with the prickings of her conscience.
There is silence. Seconds that stretch to minutes, and minutes to well, not hours perhaps, but to Lucy it starts to seem that way. She stops even pretending to look at her brother, focuses on the gulls, raucous and demanding, beyond the glass. (She wishes she could join them. Anywhere is better than here). She knows the tactic well, has seen Edmund use it to great effect so many times before. She always wondered at its success. No longer. She sighs, finally looking over at him, leaning against her door with a nonchalance belied only by the sharp brightness of his eyes on hers.
“Please, Edmund, don't do that. I'm your sister, not your subject. If you have something to say, just say it.” She hates how tiny her voice sounds, and how close to tears.
He drops his eyes, smiling. “Aslan, I'm sorry. I don't realise I'm doing it now, most of the time. Once a king, always a king, I suppose.”
Running a hand through unruly dark hair, he finally detaches himself from her door. Her bed is a mess but that doesn't stop him throwing himself face-first onto it, bouncing gently for a few moments before he pulls himself into a sitting position. He greets Lucy's look of reproach with a grin, his tongue flickering briefly. He looks so young in that moment, like a naughty schoolboy.
“We've all been where you are now, you know,” he says, suddenly entirely serious; and, when Lucy's only response is a wide-eyed stare, eyebrows creeping up her forehead, “Oh, you know what I mean. It's not easy, we all know that. Dash it, I'm not that much older than you. I remember what it's like. And I won't say it gets better overnight, but it does get better. It's slow, and I'll admit that there are still times when I'm convinced that I'm the worst person in the world and everybody hates me.
And then there's all the changes and stuff, and it's confusing and, well, there it is,” he finishes, all in a rush, his eyes on the floor, clearly wishing himself to be anywhere but here, now. Lucy's sure that he would rather charge an Ettin warband, unarmed and single-handed, than have this conversation with her. She almost feels sorry for him. Not enough to soften the look she gives him, but almost.
“Oh, stop! Good grief, Ed, what do you think this is? I'm 16 years old, you know. You do know that, don't you? Not 11? And yes, I've had that conversation. Actually, I've had it twice. Once with Susan and once with Shatterstaff. The first time I thought it couldn't possibly get any more embarrassing. I was wrong, though.” Lucy laughs bitterly. “Shatterstaff. Can you imagine?”
Edmund's discomfiture disappears almost instantly as he struggles to control a snort. He's always done the most perfect impression of the royal tutor. “Sometimes, when a mummy centaur and a daddy centaur love each other very much, they hug each other in a special way and ...”
“Edmund!” Lucy's snort echoes Edmund's own as he sputters himself to a stop.
They're both silent for a moment, Lucy doing her best not to dwell on the image that her brother has conjured. At least it offers a relief from the other, so much more disturbing, images. The tension is gone, though, spiked with their mutual mortification. Ed lets himself fall back onto the bed, suddenly boneless.
“Well, thank the Lion for that. Su said it wouldn't be that but, well. I thought I'd better make sure. I do remember how confusing it gets.”
Lucy is relieved that Edmund isn't looking her in the eye now as she studies his face from the least flattering of angles, her brows knitted, remembering. A two year age gap is not so very much, and she recalls vividly the troubles of his transition to manhood. Or, to put it more accurately, the absence of them. Is she being unfair? There had been a particularly nasty sprained ankle, the result of a poor dismount, that had cursed him for weeks around the time of - what was it? - his 14th birthday; a few months when his voice had resolutely refused to behave itself, and then? Nothing. A child to a man, almost overnight. She feels her eyes sting, the rawness in her throat. Oh, for the love of the Lion, won't this ever stop?
Edmund looks up suddenly, craning his neck to catch her gaze before she can avert it. “So then! Now that we've established what it's not, would you like to tell me what it is? You can, you know. I won't blab. Not even to our ever so sincere and ever so concerned royal brother!”
She remains silent for a few moments longer, eyes still far wider than they have any right to be, and simply imagines. The sheer horror of it turns her insides to ice and her skin to fire. She wants to die. So, not that then.
Instead, she takes a deep breath and tells him what he wants to hear. Oh, it's the truth too, but so far from being the whole truth as to be a different world.
“Don't you ever get lonely, Ed? Don't you ever just want someone you can tell everything to? Someone who's yours?” Oh, even this is excruciating enough. It's her turn to stare at the floor now. She can't bear to see Edmund's face, isn't sure whether sympathy or condescension would be the less welcome response.
Apparently he's settled on understanding with an undertone of breezy good humour. So very Edmund.
“Oh Lu, is that what the problem's been all this time? You silly goose, of course I do! It's hard enough anyway, I think, even if you don't have a country to rule.” Edmund is far more relaxed. He's identified the problem, now he just has to solve it.
Lucy returns her eyes to the ocean, her face hot.
“I'm 16 and I've never been kissed. I hate it! I hate feeling this way.”
She jumps silently at Edmund's touch. For all his brashness he can move so quietly at times, and he touches her so gently. He stares silently into the distance, his hands a comforting presence on her shoulders, his thumbs making the tiniest circles. The shock is brief and she relaxes sooner than she would have thought possible, her head against his side. Her breath slows and the urge to cry - or run - finally wanes. Lucy has never felt so grateful to him. Perhaps more than anything, she's grateful that he's stopped talking.
Side by side, they stare at the horizon, Lucy wishing she could disappear over it, Edmund … well, she's never been able to tell what Ed is thinking. She doesn't need to know. He's there. It's enough, for the moment.
“It's a lie that you've never been kissed, you know. I've seen you kiss Tumnus hundreds of times.” She can hear the smile in his voice but she still hits him, hard, in the side. He sputters slightly but stays where he is, his affection so much stronger than physical discomfort.
“Ed, stop it! Don't laugh at me, I don't think I can stand it. And you know I don't mean those sorts of kisses. That's disgusting!”
He chuckles quietly, squeezing her shoulder as he does so. “Sorry, just checking. There are lots of different kinds of kisses, after all. Of course, as your brother, I'd have to say that I don't think there's anyone I'd consider good enough for you to be kissing. The Lion knows there's little enough choice!”
“Well thank you, brother. That's very helpful. Where does that leave me, then?” Lucy can hear the bitterness in her voice, hates that it's there.
“Hey, hold on a moment. Let me finish, will you?” Edmund's poke is far gentler than her own assault, hardly even a tap. “I was going to say that that's what I think as your brother, but as your friend, well, that's different. I've seen the way Derren looks at you, for one thing. And ignoring the fact that I'd be honour-bound to knock him down if he so much as thought of kissing you, you could do a lot worse.”
Lucy can't help the way she twists to stare him in the eye.
“What? Well, you could. He's handsome, witty, an excellent rider. And Rhyddion's little brother, to boot. He'd be overjoyed. Peter too, I think.”
“Handsome? An excellent rider? Honestly, you'll be telling me he has good teeth next,” Lucy says, her voice sharp.
“Well, he does. Anyway, I'd have thought you'd consider that important if you're going to be to be kissing him!”
“Edmund! I am not going to be kissing Rhyddion's little brother! Just listen to yourself for a moment.”
Edmund is not to be dissuaded. “Not Derren, then. I understand. But really, Lu, you're a queen of Narnia. That makes you about as eligible as can be. There's not a man within a thousand miles who'd say no to you. It's just a case of finding someone whom you won't say no to.”
Lucy listens to him talk, all plans and excitement. So certain that he's helping. So, so wrong. And then it happens.
“I have it! Oh, why didn't I think of it before? A ball! It will be your birthday in just a few months, and obviously you'll want a party. All we have to do is request the presence of every eligible bachelor of appropriate age and there you have it! I'm sure even Your Pickiness will see something you like. And we needn't tell them why they're really there, so you'll have all the time you need to make a choice. It's perfect!
“You see, all you have to do is talk about them, and all your problems will be solved!” He sounds so pleased with himself.
Lucy takes a deep breath and closes her eyes. “Yes, Edmund. That's a wonderful idea. Thank you.”
He's so tied up in his plans that he doesn't even seem to notice that she is sighing as she says it. “All right, then. I'll start with the arrangements as soon as possible. There's nothing to be served by wasting time, after all. I'm sure Peter and Su will have all sorts of suggestions. Aren't you glad I insisted that you talk to me now?”
He leaves without waiting for her answer, murmuring to himself. Lucy, her eyes still closed, leans back in the window-seat and, very quietly, swears. She's not quite sure what just happened. She only knows that it's a complete disaster.
Oh Aslan. What now?
**
It could be worse. It could be worse. It could be so much worse. Day after day, Lucy repeats the words to herself, convinced that they're a lie, hoping that she'll eventually believe them all the same.
She doesn't need to try to keep herself busy. She has her duties, her schooling, a castle that's never quiet, never entirely devoid of expectant advisers, important guests, diplomatic delegations to entertain and charm. She doesn't need to try to keep herself busy, but it's never quite enough. She would find it impossible to avoid her sister even if she wanted to, even if the thought didn't cause her actual physical pain. And so she schools her expression, laughs, smiles, gossips, scowls, bickers, is serious and playful. She is everything she always was. No one could guess how different she is. Aslan, please let no one guess.
Edmund is true to his word. He doesn't utter a syllable of Lucy's 'problem' to their brother. She's grateful to him for that, even though she can't help feeling that it would be helpful to give Peter an answer to the questions that he no longer asks. She can feel him looking at her when he thinks she doesn't see, concern and query etched across his brow and shadowing his eyes. She's certain he sees through the facade. It makes her play her part all the harder. She doesn't know how long she can keep it up, and the thought of what might happen when the mask crumbles … Lucy can't bear to think of it. (She can't think of a way not to).
Lucy can't find it in herself to be completely infuriated with Edmund, although she really can't help thinking that he is having entirely too much fun. Not at her expense, exactly, but … Lucy has never asked for his help, and she watches the consequences of it unfolding before her eyes with quiet horror. She wants to stop it, she has to stop it. And she would stop it, except that, now the questions have ceased. Not just from Peter, but entirely. Edmund has done his work (all unwitting) as well as he does anything that he sets his mind to, and now the only enquiries she receives are those pertaining to food, and guest lists, and music, and …
“What kind of dancing would you like?”
“What think you of the son of Lune's chancellor?”
“I hear that the dashed Tisroc would like to send every one of his unmarried sons. I have informed his ambassador that, whatever rumours he may have heard, he can inform his master that they'll have a wasted journey. I take it you have no objections, Lu?”
It takes him perhaps half a week to enlist Susan's aid. Some things require a woman's touch, he tells Lucy. She nods dumbly, eyes wide. It is her most common response to Edmund these days. She wonders when he'll recognise the look in her eyes (he must have seen it often enough, in the eyes of his four-legged quarry). But she wonders in vain. He saves all his insight for his subjects, apparently.
**
“I really thought that you might have your own ideas about this, Lu. I don't think that you have any idea how exhausting it all is.” Edmund is formally attired, and Lucy knows well that he's spent most of the morning and a good part of the afternoon deep in discussion with the Terebinthian delegation. Yet still the happiness of his younger sister is at the forefront of his mind.
Well, isn't that nice.
Lucy takes a moment to compose herself, her book shielding all but her eyes, which she closes for the tiniest handful of seconds. The bench on which she has spent most of the heat of the day is shaded and peaceful. Lucy would admit to no one (has only recently admitted to herself) that its attraction is greatly enhanced by the way it overlooks - just so - the rose gardens that are so favoured among the few ladies of the court. Perhaps half an hour before, she had watched as a group of Calormene maidservants had gossiped and laughed between themselves. (If they had noticed the attentions of their youngest host, they were the very embodiment of discretion). By the third strike of the hour, Lucy had turned the page of her book no more than four times.
She snaps the book shut. “I'm sorry, Edmund. I'm sure I don't know what you mean,” she says, her eyebrows assuming a position that has become seemingly habitual. (A nagging memory - the merest whisper of an echo - suggests to her that she may be in trouble if the wind changes. She really has no idea why).
He sits on the bench beside her and sighs deeply. “Honestly, Lucy. Do you realise how exhausting it is? All so you can most likely reject everyone who could possibly be appropriate. And I really am trying to be discreet but it's nigh on impossible to stop the rumours. And meanwhile, I would never have imagined that the Terebinthians would drive such a hard bargain. I say we should just invade and have done with it.”
He leans against the tree at his back, sighing again, a sigh which turns into a wince has Lucy prods him sharply in the side.
“Edmund! Don't even joke about that!” she says, in her sternest voice. The effect is rather lessened by the yawn that overtakes her. “Really, I know how much you enjoy all this … diplomat-ing,” - Lucy ignores the amused eye that her brother cocks at her - “but there are some who would take you at your word, you know.
“And I wouldn't dream of depriving you of all the pleasure you so clearly derive in trying to arrange my lovelife. That would be unforgivably selfish of me.” She knows that there's an edge to her voice, and she doesn't even try to hide it. Edmund - true to form - appears oblivious. “You are going to invite some women to this wondrous spectacle that you're arranging in my honour, I hope. I can't be expected to entertain every man you see fit to invite.”
“Of course! What sort of a fool do you take me for? It would be a little odd, not to say a little suspicious if we didn't, don't you think?” Edmund's eyes are closed again; he really does look exhausted. He doesn't see the exasperation in Lucy's face as she shakes her head, ever so slightly, or the look that replaces it as her eyes flicker gently over the forms of two Narnian women - she recognises them as the Ladies Rhiannon and Angharad - as they take the air in the Rose Walk. They stop for a moment to exchange pleasantries with Lilygloves the mole, his midnight black fur beautiful in the sunlight.
“Well then, as you and Susan seem to be having so much fun finding me a suitable mate, perhaps I should focus on the rest of the guest list. The women of the court will feel ever so neglected otherwise, I'm sure, and we really mustn't forget the rest of our subjects. Just because you can only marry me off to a Son of Adam doesn't mean that we can ignore everybody else!”
“Ah, of course,” Edmund replies with a laugh, seemingly deliberately misunderstanding her. “How else will you ensure that you have no inconvenient rivals?”
He winks at her, not at all serious, she is fully aware. That doesn't stop her briefly entertaining the fantasy of beating him soundly around the head with her book until he stops being so damnably annoying and so extraordinarily insensitive. She resists, with no little difficulty.
“Yes, brother. You've see through me again,” she says with a sigh. “However do you manage that?”
He doesn't reply. They sit in silence, separated by the smallest sliver of air, and a chasm so yawning that Lucy feels sick when she thinks of it. The sun westers, painfully slowly. It is late summer. Lucy contemplates the weeks to come. She had thought that her heart couldn't sink any further. How could she have been so wrong?
Fandom: Chronicles of Narnia
Pairing(s): Lucy/Susan
Rating: PG for this part. NC-17 overall
Summary: In which Lucy is guilt-ridden and Edmund is infuriating.
Word count: 4123
Warnings: Incest, although only implied so far. Don't like? Don't read.
A/N: Chapter 1 and initial notes are here.
This has taken for ever, and given that I posted the first part almost exactly 8 months ago, I can't imagine that anyone but me's still interested. But hey, it's now the longest story - and the only multi-chapter one- I've ever written and I'm having fun with it, so.
By the way, can anyone tell me why beavers would eat bacon, or how it's possible for a country to continue to feed itself after a hundred years of winter? Just two of so many questions that have occurred to me in the months that this story has been going around my brain.
Thanks so much to my beta cobalt_siren. And thanks too, to perverbially, sushizuzoru and jules2112, who've been so supportive and just generally fabulous. ♥
Dedication: Once again, this is for likecharity, who does so much for Narnia fandom.
Disclaimer: Obviously all the characters and pretty much everything else belong to the estate of C.S. Lewis, and Walden Media. This is just for fun!
Part 1
Part 3
Part 4
Part 5
Part 6
Part 7
Part 8
Part 9, and Epilogue
Appendix (Various Interludes
(For those of you who find white on black annoying, there are also copies at my Archive of Our Own page).
With a Clouded View, Part 2
The knock - different this time, neither hesitant nor peremptory - comes a few hours after sunrise. If it's possible that a knock can be good humoured, then this is it. Three beats. Fist, not knuckles.
"Come out, come out, wherever you are." The faintest memory of a game from their old lives, it sounds faintly ridiculous as Edmund speaks it, his voice deep and laughing. "If you think I'm going away just because you refuse to answer your door, little sis, you're going to be very disappointed. And anyway, I'm king. Who's going to tell me that I can't stay here all blasted day? I'll tell you who: no one, that's who. I'll get my meals brought up here, if I have to. And eventually you're going to have to open up, because I know you can't climb out the window, even if you have tried more than once."
Lucy tosses in her bed, for, oh Aslan knows how many times it’s been that night. The sun found her in a twisted mess of bedclothes. She's thrown most of them off now, and she's curled, knees to her chest, clutching a single blanket. Her eyes feel sore and puffy and her head is aching. So many times she has cursed her own family over the last few months. This day is much like any other, at least as far as that goes.
The knock (knock? It sounds and feels like Edmund is trying to break through the door with his own fist) comes again.
"Really, Lu, this isn't a joke. I mean to talk to you, and you really don't have that much choice in the matter, as far as I can see it. I can hold this conversation through the door, if you like. And well, if you don't want to contribute, there's nothing I can do about that. But I think you'll probably want to say something. Even if it's only to get me to shut up for a few minutes." Edmund is using his battle-field voice. It seems to vibrate her brain in her skull, and the Lion knows, it doesn't make her want to actually talk to him. His isn't an empty threat though. He’s always been his own favourite conversationalist.
Lucy stares at the ceiling, all midnight blue and decorated with the constellations that have become so familiar to her. And once again, she curses quietly to herself. When she raises her voice in answer, the pain in her head becomes a brief, lancing fire. She winces and tries again.
“Ed, is there no way at all that I can persuade you to go away for the moment? I'll come and find you later, honestly, and you can talk at me to your heart's content.”
Edmund is quiet for a few seconds, long enough that Lucy starts to hope that he might have decided to leave her in peace. But no, this is Edmund. She should know better. Still, his voice is less stentorian when next he speaks. Lucy offers up her thanks for that, at least.
“Lu, I understand, I really do. Whatever's wrong, I know you'd rather not talk about it and I accept that. But just … Let me in, will you? If you don't want to say anything then don't, but it might help, have you thought of that?”
“All right,” Lucy says, her voice sharp enough that it sets her head to throbbing once more. “At least let me get dressed, will you?”
She rolls out of bed when no reply comes, taking a few minutes to locate the clothes she had thrown off the night before. (She feels the heat rise in her face just thinking about the previous day). She's never been one for maid-servants and dresses and she's grateful for it now. Just the thought of having to deal with those resolutely incurious, ever-watching eyes makes her uncomfortable. Bad enough with a clean conscience, but now?
She throws on a long tunic and loosely knots a robe over it, and curls up in the window-seat to stare silently out to sea. It is early still, the sun isn't nearly high and it throws a glittering road on the waves below. Even with the ache in her head, Lucy finds it calming.
“Come in, then, if you must.”
For all the vigour of his initial gambit Edmund's next move is blessedly restrained. Lucy had expected to feel the door shaking in its hinges, but no. With unwonted discretion and an audible double-click Edmund is there, in her sanctuary, curiosity vying with concern in his gaze. He's dressed for the hunt. (He so often is. He does so love to hunt, even if the softness of his heart regularly ensures that no actual quarry is taken in the sport. Mostly - and he's told Lucy this more often than she'd like - he loves to ride. The rest is simply dressing). There's a flush to his skin and a brightness in the eyes that he absolutely won't take from Lucy's face. A king, or a queen, looks all in the eyes, unashamed and unflinching. Lucy remembers the lesson, she is simply unable to put it into practice. Her eyes flicker to the wall above Edmund's head, to the blue of sea and sky outside her window. The ache in her temples protests the constant movement but it fights a losing battle with the prickings of her conscience.
There is silence. Seconds that stretch to minutes, and minutes to well, not hours perhaps, but to Lucy it starts to seem that way. She stops even pretending to look at her brother, focuses on the gulls, raucous and demanding, beyond the glass. (She wishes she could join them. Anywhere is better than here). She knows the tactic well, has seen Edmund use it to great effect so many times before. She always wondered at its success. No longer. She sighs, finally looking over at him, leaning against her door with a nonchalance belied only by the sharp brightness of his eyes on hers.
“Please, Edmund, don't do that. I'm your sister, not your subject. If you have something to say, just say it.” She hates how tiny her voice sounds, and how close to tears.
He drops his eyes, smiling. “Aslan, I'm sorry. I don't realise I'm doing it now, most of the time. Once a king, always a king, I suppose.”
Running a hand through unruly dark hair, he finally detaches himself from her door. Her bed is a mess but that doesn't stop him throwing himself face-first onto it, bouncing gently for a few moments before he pulls himself into a sitting position. He greets Lucy's look of reproach with a grin, his tongue flickering briefly. He looks so young in that moment, like a naughty schoolboy.
“We've all been where you are now, you know,” he says, suddenly entirely serious; and, when Lucy's only response is a wide-eyed stare, eyebrows creeping up her forehead, “Oh, you know what I mean. It's not easy, we all know that. Dash it, I'm not that much older than you. I remember what it's like. And I won't say it gets better overnight, but it does get better. It's slow, and I'll admit that there are still times when I'm convinced that I'm the worst person in the world and everybody hates me.
And then there's all the changes and stuff, and it's confusing and, well, there it is,” he finishes, all in a rush, his eyes on the floor, clearly wishing himself to be anywhere but here, now. Lucy's sure that he would rather charge an Ettin warband, unarmed and single-handed, than have this conversation with her. She almost feels sorry for him. Not enough to soften the look she gives him, but almost.
“Oh, stop! Good grief, Ed, what do you think this is? I'm 16 years old, you know. You do know that, don't you? Not 11? And yes, I've had that conversation. Actually, I've had it twice. Once with Susan and once with Shatterstaff. The first time I thought it couldn't possibly get any more embarrassing. I was wrong, though.” Lucy laughs bitterly. “Shatterstaff. Can you imagine?”
Edmund's discomfiture disappears almost instantly as he struggles to control a snort. He's always done the most perfect impression of the royal tutor. “Sometimes, when a mummy centaur and a daddy centaur love each other very much, they hug each other in a special way and ...”
“Edmund!” Lucy's snort echoes Edmund's own as he sputters himself to a stop.
They're both silent for a moment, Lucy doing her best not to dwell on the image that her brother has conjured. At least it offers a relief from the other, so much more disturbing, images. The tension is gone, though, spiked with their mutual mortification. Ed lets himself fall back onto the bed, suddenly boneless.
“Well, thank the Lion for that. Su said it wouldn't be that but, well. I thought I'd better make sure. I do remember how confusing it gets.”
Lucy is relieved that Edmund isn't looking her in the eye now as she studies his face from the least flattering of angles, her brows knitted, remembering. A two year age gap is not so very much, and she recalls vividly the troubles of his transition to manhood. Or, to put it more accurately, the absence of them. Is she being unfair? There had been a particularly nasty sprained ankle, the result of a poor dismount, that had cursed him for weeks around the time of - what was it? - his 14th birthday; a few months when his voice had resolutely refused to behave itself, and then? Nothing. A child to a man, almost overnight. She feels her eyes sting, the rawness in her throat. Oh, for the love of the Lion, won't this ever stop?
Edmund looks up suddenly, craning his neck to catch her gaze before she can avert it. “So then! Now that we've established what it's not, would you like to tell me what it is? You can, you know. I won't blab. Not even to our ever so sincere and ever so concerned royal brother!”
She remains silent for a few moments longer, eyes still far wider than they have any right to be, and simply imagines. The sheer horror of it turns her insides to ice and her skin to fire. She wants to die. So, not that then.
Instead, she takes a deep breath and tells him what he wants to hear. Oh, it's the truth too, but so far from being the whole truth as to be a different world.
“Don't you ever get lonely, Ed? Don't you ever just want someone you can tell everything to? Someone who's yours?” Oh, even this is excruciating enough. It's her turn to stare at the floor now. She can't bear to see Edmund's face, isn't sure whether sympathy or condescension would be the less welcome response.
Apparently he's settled on understanding with an undertone of breezy good humour. So very Edmund.
“Oh Lu, is that what the problem's been all this time? You silly goose, of course I do! It's hard enough anyway, I think, even if you don't have a country to rule.” Edmund is far more relaxed. He's identified the problem, now he just has to solve it.
Lucy returns her eyes to the ocean, her face hot.
“I'm 16 and I've never been kissed. I hate it! I hate feeling this way.”
She jumps silently at Edmund's touch. For all his brashness he can move so quietly at times, and he touches her so gently. He stares silently into the distance, his hands a comforting presence on her shoulders, his thumbs making the tiniest circles. The shock is brief and she relaxes sooner than she would have thought possible, her head against his side. Her breath slows and the urge to cry - or run - finally wanes. Lucy has never felt so grateful to him. Perhaps more than anything, she's grateful that he's stopped talking.
Side by side, they stare at the horizon, Lucy wishing she could disappear over it, Edmund … well, she's never been able to tell what Ed is thinking. She doesn't need to know. He's there. It's enough, for the moment.
“It's a lie that you've never been kissed, you know. I've seen you kiss Tumnus hundreds of times.” She can hear the smile in his voice but she still hits him, hard, in the side. He sputters slightly but stays where he is, his affection so much stronger than physical discomfort.
“Ed, stop it! Don't laugh at me, I don't think I can stand it. And you know I don't mean those sorts of kisses. That's disgusting!”
He chuckles quietly, squeezing her shoulder as he does so. “Sorry, just checking. There are lots of different kinds of kisses, after all. Of course, as your brother, I'd have to say that I don't think there's anyone I'd consider good enough for you to be kissing. The Lion knows there's little enough choice!”
“Well thank you, brother. That's very helpful. Where does that leave me, then?” Lucy can hear the bitterness in her voice, hates that it's there.
“Hey, hold on a moment. Let me finish, will you?” Edmund's poke is far gentler than her own assault, hardly even a tap. “I was going to say that that's what I think as your brother, but as your friend, well, that's different. I've seen the way Derren looks at you, for one thing. And ignoring the fact that I'd be honour-bound to knock him down if he so much as thought of kissing you, you could do a lot worse.”
Lucy can't help the way she twists to stare him in the eye.
“What? Well, you could. He's handsome, witty, an excellent rider. And Rhyddion's little brother, to boot. He'd be overjoyed. Peter too, I think.”
“Handsome? An excellent rider? Honestly, you'll be telling me he has good teeth next,” Lucy says, her voice sharp.
“Well, he does. Anyway, I'd have thought you'd consider that important if you're going to be to be kissing him!”
“Edmund! I am not going to be kissing Rhyddion's little brother! Just listen to yourself for a moment.”
Edmund is not to be dissuaded. “Not Derren, then. I understand. But really, Lu, you're a queen of Narnia. That makes you about as eligible as can be. There's not a man within a thousand miles who'd say no to you. It's just a case of finding someone whom you won't say no to.”
Lucy listens to him talk, all plans and excitement. So certain that he's helping. So, so wrong. And then it happens.
“I have it! Oh, why didn't I think of it before? A ball! It will be your birthday in just a few months, and obviously you'll want a party. All we have to do is request the presence of every eligible bachelor of appropriate age and there you have it! I'm sure even Your Pickiness will see something you like. And we needn't tell them why they're really there, so you'll have all the time you need to make a choice. It's perfect!
“You see, all you have to do is talk about them, and all your problems will be solved!” He sounds so pleased with himself.
Lucy takes a deep breath and closes her eyes. “Yes, Edmund. That's a wonderful idea. Thank you.”
He's so tied up in his plans that he doesn't even seem to notice that she is sighing as she says it. “All right, then. I'll start with the arrangements as soon as possible. There's nothing to be served by wasting time, after all. I'm sure Peter and Su will have all sorts of suggestions. Aren't you glad I insisted that you talk to me now?”
He leaves without waiting for her answer, murmuring to himself. Lucy, her eyes still closed, leans back in the window-seat and, very quietly, swears. She's not quite sure what just happened. She only knows that it's a complete disaster.
Oh Aslan. What now?
**
It could be worse. It could be worse. It could be so much worse. Day after day, Lucy repeats the words to herself, convinced that they're a lie, hoping that she'll eventually believe them all the same.
She doesn't need to try to keep herself busy. She has her duties, her schooling, a castle that's never quiet, never entirely devoid of expectant advisers, important guests, diplomatic delegations to entertain and charm. She doesn't need to try to keep herself busy, but it's never quite enough. She would find it impossible to avoid her sister even if she wanted to, even if the thought didn't cause her actual physical pain. And so she schools her expression, laughs, smiles, gossips, scowls, bickers, is serious and playful. She is everything she always was. No one could guess how different she is. Aslan, please let no one guess.
Edmund is true to his word. He doesn't utter a syllable of Lucy's 'problem' to their brother. She's grateful to him for that, even though she can't help feeling that it would be helpful to give Peter an answer to the questions that he no longer asks. She can feel him looking at her when he thinks she doesn't see, concern and query etched across his brow and shadowing his eyes. She's certain he sees through the facade. It makes her play her part all the harder. She doesn't know how long she can keep it up, and the thought of what might happen when the mask crumbles … Lucy can't bear to think of it. (She can't think of a way not to).
Lucy can't find it in herself to be completely infuriated with Edmund, although she really can't help thinking that he is having entirely too much fun. Not at her expense, exactly, but … Lucy has never asked for his help, and she watches the consequences of it unfolding before her eyes with quiet horror. She wants to stop it, she has to stop it. And she would stop it, except that, now the questions have ceased. Not just from Peter, but entirely. Edmund has done his work (all unwitting) as well as he does anything that he sets his mind to, and now the only enquiries she receives are those pertaining to food, and guest lists, and music, and …
“What kind of dancing would you like?”
“What think you of the son of Lune's chancellor?”
“I hear that the dashed Tisroc would like to send every one of his unmarried sons. I have informed his ambassador that, whatever rumours he may have heard, he can inform his master that they'll have a wasted journey. I take it you have no objections, Lu?”
It takes him perhaps half a week to enlist Susan's aid. Some things require a woman's touch, he tells Lucy. She nods dumbly, eyes wide. It is her most common response to Edmund these days. She wonders when he'll recognise the look in her eyes (he must have seen it often enough, in the eyes of his four-legged quarry). But she wonders in vain. He saves all his insight for his subjects, apparently.
**
“I really thought that you might have your own ideas about this, Lu. I don't think that you have any idea how exhausting it all is.” Edmund is formally attired, and Lucy knows well that he's spent most of the morning and a good part of the afternoon deep in discussion with the Terebinthian delegation. Yet still the happiness of his younger sister is at the forefront of his mind.
Well, isn't that nice.
Lucy takes a moment to compose herself, her book shielding all but her eyes, which she closes for the tiniest handful of seconds. The bench on which she has spent most of the heat of the day is shaded and peaceful. Lucy would admit to no one (has only recently admitted to herself) that its attraction is greatly enhanced by the way it overlooks - just so - the rose gardens that are so favoured among the few ladies of the court. Perhaps half an hour before, she had watched as a group of Calormene maidservants had gossiped and laughed between themselves. (If they had noticed the attentions of their youngest host, they were the very embodiment of discretion). By the third strike of the hour, Lucy had turned the page of her book no more than four times.
She snaps the book shut. “I'm sorry, Edmund. I'm sure I don't know what you mean,” she says, her eyebrows assuming a position that has become seemingly habitual. (A nagging memory - the merest whisper of an echo - suggests to her that she may be in trouble if the wind changes. She really has no idea why).
He sits on the bench beside her and sighs deeply. “Honestly, Lucy. Do you realise how exhausting it is? All so you can most likely reject everyone who could possibly be appropriate. And I really am trying to be discreet but it's nigh on impossible to stop the rumours. And meanwhile, I would never have imagined that the Terebinthians would drive such a hard bargain. I say we should just invade and have done with it.”
He leans against the tree at his back, sighing again, a sigh which turns into a wince has Lucy prods him sharply in the side.
“Edmund! Don't even joke about that!” she says, in her sternest voice. The effect is rather lessened by the yawn that overtakes her. “Really, I know how much you enjoy all this … diplomat-ing,” - Lucy ignores the amused eye that her brother cocks at her - “but there are some who would take you at your word, you know.
“And I wouldn't dream of depriving you of all the pleasure you so clearly derive in trying to arrange my lovelife. That would be unforgivably selfish of me.” She knows that there's an edge to her voice, and she doesn't even try to hide it. Edmund - true to form - appears oblivious. “You are going to invite some women to this wondrous spectacle that you're arranging in my honour, I hope. I can't be expected to entertain every man you see fit to invite.”
“Of course! What sort of a fool do you take me for? It would be a little odd, not to say a little suspicious if we didn't, don't you think?” Edmund's eyes are closed again; he really does look exhausted. He doesn't see the exasperation in Lucy's face as she shakes her head, ever so slightly, or the look that replaces it as her eyes flicker gently over the forms of two Narnian women - she recognises them as the Ladies Rhiannon and Angharad - as they take the air in the Rose Walk. They stop for a moment to exchange pleasantries with Lilygloves the mole, his midnight black fur beautiful in the sunlight.
“Well then, as you and Susan seem to be having so much fun finding me a suitable mate, perhaps I should focus on the rest of the guest list. The women of the court will feel ever so neglected otherwise, I'm sure, and we really mustn't forget the rest of our subjects. Just because you can only marry me off to a Son of Adam doesn't mean that we can ignore everybody else!”
“Ah, of course,” Edmund replies with a laugh, seemingly deliberately misunderstanding her. “How else will you ensure that you have no inconvenient rivals?”
He winks at her, not at all serious, she is fully aware. That doesn't stop her briefly entertaining the fantasy of beating him soundly around the head with her book until he stops being so damnably annoying and so extraordinarily insensitive. She resists, with no little difficulty.
“Yes, brother. You've see through me again,” she says with a sigh. “However do you manage that?”
He doesn't reply. They sit in silence, separated by the smallest sliver of air, and a chasm so yawning that Lucy feels sick when she thinks of it. The sun westers, painfully slowly. It is late summer. Lucy contemplates the weeks to come. She had thought that her heart couldn't sink any further. How could she have been so wrong?