chronicles of narnia; Once, We Were | Peter/Susan
Title: Once, We Were
Pairing: Peter/Susan, some Peter/Lucy
Summary: She doesn't see how they've changed at first, which makes her wonder if she's a terrible mother or if they're just brilliant actors.
Disclaimer: I don't own The Chronicles of Narnia.
Once, We Were
She doesn't see how they've changed at first, which makes her wonder if she's a terrible mother or if they're just brilliant actors.
Maybe she's just blind.
Oh, she sees the little things- like how Susan carries herself with such grace, or how Lucy's smile is that of a woman's, not a child's, or how Edmund is quieter, more grave, or even how Peter has a kind of confidence she was sure he didn't have before, a majestic air of sorts- but she ignores them, tells herself that it's just her imagination, that they've always been this way and nothing's changed.
It's not until she slips into Peter's room one morning, to wake him up before he's late- because he's got himself a job, running little errands before school to help support the family, and she's so proud- that she realizes that yes, everything has changed.
In the dim lighting of the room she can see two lumps under the blanket, and she sighs, because she's told Lucy a million times to not disturb her brother when he sleeps, that he needs all the rest he can get.
Then one of them shifts in her sleep, and she stops mid-step as she sees dark hair, as black as night. Only one of her children have hair that shade.
But Susan has always been strong, she thinks as she steps closer, as she finally sees her oldest daughter's face, streaked with dried tears, laying against Peter's chest. She has always been an anchor, the one she knows she can count on to be a mother when she can't be there. She's never woken up crying, never run for comfort from any of her siblings.
But there she is, clinging to her older brother for dear life, and it is then she first realizes that something is very, very wrong.
She starts watching them, her children who aren't anymore. It's easier to see the changes in her boys- her sons, she corrects herself, because they are no longer boys but she cannot bring herself to call them men. The others defer to Peter, she can see now that she's opened her eyes. They look towards him for guidance when they are unsure, even Edmund which is a miracle in itself, and he takes that trust and doesn't betray it. And Edmund- he has changed the most of all. He's kind, no longer selfish, no longer tells lies. He doesn't pick on Lucy anymore, doesn't call her nasty names or says nasty things. He's quieter, kinder.
She can see it in her daughters as well, if not as clearly. Susan is all gentleness and grace, all her awkward attempts to be just that gone. And Lucy- she's far too adult for her age, too much of a woman in her smiles and laughs for such a young girl. Where did my baby go, she wonders when she looks at her.
And they are all sad. That is the biggest difference now, now that she allows herself to see. She can see it, in the depths of their eyes and the quirk of their smiles, in the sound of their voices and the tilt of their hands. They're sad, all so unbearably sad that she thinks she could cry herself.
She doesn't know what to do with them now, doesn't know what to do with these sad pantomimes of her children.
She's in a hurry one day- too much to do, there's always too much to do no matter how much help she gets- and she barges into Susan's room, not even taking the time to knock. She looks up, just in time to see her two oldest children move away from each other, just in time to see their eyes before they look to the side. She stands there for a moment, arms full of laundry and eyes full of questions, wondering what just happened, wondering what it was she saw.
Peter trots out a quick excuse she doesn't hear, and moves past her, is gone. She turns to Susan, wordlessly asking her all of her questions, but she just looks away and doesn't say a word, her lips pressed tightly together.
Later that evening, at dinner, she sees Lucy watching Peter the same way Peter and Susan watched each other. Suddenly, she's grateful for Edmund, who just sits there and eats quietly, because she can understand him better then any of the rest, even if he now hates Turkish Delight.
They come home one day, their eyes bright and strange. Home, sings their footsteps on the floor. Home, thrums the blood in their veins. Home, whispers the flush of their cheeks.
The song is quiet, as if it's slowly fading in lieu of that ever-present sadness, but it doesn't matter. Because she only needs one look at them to know that this is not the home they seek.
She only needs one look to know that she will one day lose them forever.
This time, she allows herself to cry. And when Edmund, all concern, asks her why, she cannot bring herself to answer.
When Susan loses her grace and gentleness in favor of boys and flirting, she isn't sure if she should hope or mourn.
She's finally growing up, she thinks, but then wonders what she should call before now, when she was not a child but something else. She's finally paying attention to those boys who look at her, to her future, she thinks, but then remembers the day she saw her step away from Peter, that odd look burning in her eyes.
She's unsure, that is, until the day she sees Peter and Lucy in an empty corner of the hallway.
"She's forgotten," he whispers, his voice ragged, broken, filled with tears, and she wonders what he means, what Susan has done to make him sound like this. She doesn't wonder how she knows it's Susan he's speaking of. "She doesn't remember anything."
And Lucy, little Lucy who used to run to him for comfort when she woke up scared, opened up her arms to him. And when he stepped into them, when he clung to her, like an anchor in the sea, holding her so tightly that it's a wonder she can still breathe, she wonders when the roles were reversed.
And finally, when she sees the look in Lucy's eyes, like she doesn't know if she should cry with him or cling to this moment, she knew.
Her family wasn't broken.
Not until now.
And they would never, ever be whole again.
Pairing: Peter/Susan, some Peter/Lucy
Summary: She doesn't see how they've changed at first, which makes her wonder if she's a terrible mother or if they're just brilliant actors.
Disclaimer: I don't own The Chronicles of Narnia.
Once, We Were
She doesn't see how they've changed at first, which makes her wonder if she's a terrible mother or if they're just brilliant actors.
Maybe she's just blind.
Oh, she sees the little things- like how Susan carries herself with such grace, or how Lucy's smile is that of a woman's, not a child's, or how Edmund is quieter, more grave, or even how Peter has a kind of confidence she was sure he didn't have before, a majestic air of sorts- but she ignores them, tells herself that it's just her imagination, that they've always been this way and nothing's changed.
It's not until she slips into Peter's room one morning, to wake him up before he's late- because he's got himself a job, running little errands before school to help support the family, and she's so proud- that she realizes that yes, everything has changed.
In the dim lighting of the room she can see two lumps under the blanket, and she sighs, because she's told Lucy a million times to not disturb her brother when he sleeps, that he needs all the rest he can get.
Then one of them shifts in her sleep, and she stops mid-step as she sees dark hair, as black as night. Only one of her children have hair that shade.
But Susan has always been strong, she thinks as she steps closer, as she finally sees her oldest daughter's face, streaked with dried tears, laying against Peter's chest. She has always been an anchor, the one she knows she can count on to be a mother when she can't be there. She's never woken up crying, never run for comfort from any of her siblings.
But there she is, clinging to her older brother for dear life, and it is then she first realizes that something is very, very wrong.
She starts watching them, her children who aren't anymore. It's easier to see the changes in her boys- her sons, she corrects herself, because they are no longer boys but she cannot bring herself to call them men. The others defer to Peter, she can see now that she's opened her eyes. They look towards him for guidance when they are unsure, even Edmund which is a miracle in itself, and he takes that trust and doesn't betray it. And Edmund- he has changed the most of all. He's kind, no longer selfish, no longer tells lies. He doesn't pick on Lucy anymore, doesn't call her nasty names or says nasty things. He's quieter, kinder.
She can see it in her daughters as well, if not as clearly. Susan is all gentleness and grace, all her awkward attempts to be just that gone. And Lucy- she's far too adult for her age, too much of a woman in her smiles and laughs for such a young girl. Where did my baby go, she wonders when she looks at her.
And they are all sad. That is the biggest difference now, now that she allows herself to see. She can see it, in the depths of their eyes and the quirk of their smiles, in the sound of their voices and the tilt of their hands. They're sad, all so unbearably sad that she thinks she could cry herself.
She doesn't know what to do with them now, doesn't know what to do with these sad pantomimes of her children.
She's in a hurry one day- too much to do, there's always too much to do no matter how much help she gets- and she barges into Susan's room, not even taking the time to knock. She looks up, just in time to see her two oldest children move away from each other, just in time to see their eyes before they look to the side. She stands there for a moment, arms full of laundry and eyes full of questions, wondering what just happened, wondering what it was she saw.
Peter trots out a quick excuse she doesn't hear, and moves past her, is gone. She turns to Susan, wordlessly asking her all of her questions, but she just looks away and doesn't say a word, her lips pressed tightly together.
Later that evening, at dinner, she sees Lucy watching Peter the same way Peter and Susan watched each other. Suddenly, she's grateful for Edmund, who just sits there and eats quietly, because she can understand him better then any of the rest, even if he now hates Turkish Delight.
They come home one day, their eyes bright and strange. Home, sings their footsteps on the floor. Home, thrums the blood in their veins. Home, whispers the flush of their cheeks.
The song is quiet, as if it's slowly fading in lieu of that ever-present sadness, but it doesn't matter. Because she only needs one look at them to know that this is not the home they seek.
She only needs one look to know that she will one day lose them forever.
This time, she allows herself to cry. And when Edmund, all concern, asks her why, she cannot bring herself to answer.
When Susan loses her grace and gentleness in favor of boys and flirting, she isn't sure if she should hope or mourn.
She's finally growing up, she thinks, but then wonders what she should call before now, when she was not a child but something else. She's finally paying attention to those boys who look at her, to her future, she thinks, but then remembers the day she saw her step away from Peter, that odd look burning in her eyes.
She's unsure, that is, until the day she sees Peter and Lucy in an empty corner of the hallway.
"She's forgotten," he whispers, his voice ragged, broken, filled with tears, and she wonders what he means, what Susan has done to make him sound like this. She doesn't wonder how she knows it's Susan he's speaking of. "She doesn't remember anything."
And Lucy, little Lucy who used to run to him for comfort when she woke up scared, opened up her arms to him. And when he stepped into them, when he clung to her, like an anchor in the sea, holding her so tightly that it's a wonder she can still breathe, she wonders when the roles were reversed.
And finally, when she sees the look in Lucy's eyes, like she doesn't know if she should cry with him or cling to this moment, she knew.
Her family wasn't broken.
Not until now.
And they would never, ever be whole again.