He stares at the world map on the laptop screen and thinks The sun never sets on the British Empire with grimness and an air of 'why am I not surprised'. Singapore won its independence in 1963, Hong Kong in 1997, and apparently India is shooting up to the top of the world. ("Well," Susan mused, "they're working on it.") The USSR is now Russia, Rhodesia Zimbabwe (how quaint!), and he doesn't recognize eastern Europe, or Africa for that matter, at all. It's a little bit like going back to Narnia and finding Cair Paravel in ruins, old paths leading to dead ends. He is betrayed by geography once more. He has been left behind in the dust of history. Again.
"Do you think Aslan meant for this to happen? My coming back, that is."
"Don't be stupid."
Peter doesn't seem to hear her and goes on, "Is England in a crisis?"
I'm actually rather fond of London, especially if they raised him from the grave, because, wow, more trauma.
(Dude, I totally wrote bits of this last night.)
"Susan," Peter whispers from the door, and Susan rolls over to see him wide awak, standing with his hand clenched tightly on the doorframe. Behind him, the sitting room is lit up as brightly as day.
Peter looks terrified, and deserpate, and more than a little bit mad. "Com ehere," Susan says, throwing back the sheets and reaching over to turn on the bedside lamp.
He doesn't say anything, but his expression is desperately, starkly grateful as he coves over, leaving the door open behind him, and crawls into bed with her.
"Come here," Susan says again, careful to speak in Narnian and not English -- she's not even certain that Peter remembers more than a few words of English, especially not in the state he's in, the last traces of the drugs still filtering their way out of his body.
Peter is shaking when she puts her arms around him, a faint but distinct tremor, but he hugs her back, holding on so tightly and yet so gently that Susan thinks she might crack from it. She kisses his forehead and leaves the lights on.
(Dude, I totally wrote bits of this last night.) XD so HARD. HEE. <3
and ZOMG peter&susaaaaan CUDDLING EACH OTHER TO SLEEP <333333. She hasn't had to deal with a brother in several lifetimes, or deal with a resurrected one in even longer than that. If they had had Lucy's cordial, she finds herself thinking, then Peter would be in a better state.
But even the cordial brought its own subtle poison: delusions of grandeur, pretensions of immortality, the excuse to always do what is Right instead of what must be done. It is dangerous for someone to think they can never die, and it was no surprise that Peter developed the strongest immunity to the cordial. When Susan found out, she felt understandably far from reassured. When she told him to be careful in the tone that meant she Meant It, he would just feel miffed and put upon.
You worry too much, he would reply.
Only because you don't worry enough.
Are you joking? I worry all the ti--
Never about the important things, however.
You would think that, of course.
What do you mean, 'I would think that'?
And they would fight some more, driven by the inevitability of duty and love, letting themselves be angry at one another. Sometimes it ended with kisses, sometimes with the sound of doors slamming, but most times it was a draw. Still, when Peter returned home from some battle, some siege or other, Susan had to resist the urge to run to her brother and throw herself into his arms. She knew he would have embraced her back, but she was a Queen of Narnia, not some clingy child, and someone had to keep a level head.
Everything about Peter is abrupt now, a half-beat out of step with the time and the world. "The police called me," Susan says quietly. "I had to identify the bodies."
Peter winces a little, but shakes his head. "That's not what I meant," he says. "Narnia. Do you remember her?"
It's a test, Susan realizes even as she says, "Of course," because sixty years ago she would have said no. But it's three lifetimes (at least) later now, and there's no point to denying the truth, especially to Peter. "I never forgot."
Peter flexes his hands -- scarred and callused in what seem like all the wrong places -- and looks down at them. "I can almost feel her," he says, "and I remember her. But I feel like I'm remembering something wrong, like she wasn't good enough, and -- God," he swears uncharacteristically, because he's always sworn by Aslan or the Seven, a holdover from his year with the westron mercenaries. "How do you stand it?"
Susan flinches and Peter immediately looks shamefaced. "I didn't mean it like that," he apologizes. "It's just that -- it's always been different for me."
"I know," Susan says gently, and Peter puts his head in his hands, fingers digging into his thick hair.
EDITED VERSION because I forgot he doesn't remember being dead. Oh, the hazards of playing with other people's toys.
"And I haven't figured out whether it's a blessing or a curse yet," she shrugs, "or whether it has a purpose."
Peter soaks in the bathtub, staring at the ceiling. Susan sits on the bathroom counter smoking a cigarette, ashing in the toilet bowl. He says, "Everything has a purpose."
"If there's a prophecy lying around somewhere explaining why I'm now doomed to walk the earth forever, I'd really like to see it."
"Am I immortal too, then?"
She hesitates. "I don't know. Actually I'm not sure if I'm immortal or just have a really, really long life-span."
But, the very thought of Peter growing old and dying, leaving her again, while she stayed young and looked on... She wasn't sure she was ready to think about that. She had just gotten him back.
"Come here with that," says Peter.
"What?"
He gestures at the cigarette.
Susan slides off the counter and kneels by the tub, putting the cigarette to Peter's lips. He inhales deeply and exhales the smoke through his nostrils. Susan is momentarily reminded of Hadassar.
"Do you want to live forever?" she asks.
"I don't fucking know," he mutters. "No one exactly asked my permission before bringing me back from the dead, either."
"You're acting the ingrate a bit, aren't you?" she says with a small smile.
He doesn't reply. She offers the cigarette to him again and he shakes his head, so she takes a last drag, tosses the butt in the toilet bowl, and stands up.
"I'm going to start dinner," she says. "Give us a shout if you need anything."
Oh, Susan and Peter. They are just so screwed up, aren't they?
Back inside the bedroom, PEter is still sleeping, the light from the overhead lamp limning the gold in his hair and deepening the shadows on his face. Susan stands in the doorway and watches him for a long time.
Her brother, back when she'd thought she'd never see him again, not even beyond the grave she hadn't yet -- and maybe never would -- come close to reaching. Sixty years late, but isn't that their curse? To remain beyond all hope of salvation, when even time has betrayed them? And a Raising is voilent, and unnatural, and no work of God's or Aslan's or anyone else's, but she's stubbornly, selfishly glad that Peter is here nonetheless, even though no one should have to share her curse.
He's sleeping face-down, one hand beneath his pillow, the other stretched out across her side of the bed, like he's reaching for someone. Susan hopes it's her.
Why Peter? she wonders, not for the first time. In England, he's nothing more than another RAF pilot damaged by the war, just the oldest son of another family destroyed by Hitler's mad quest. There are thousands of others just like him.
He wakes up the way he always does, or always did, all at once, a sudden trasition between sleeping and waking. For a moment his expression is blank and Susan stiffens and leans forward, praying to every god she's ever heard of that he recognizes her, then he says slowly, "Susan."
"I'm here," Susan says, crossing to the bed and perching on it next to him.
Peter rubs a hand over his face. "Evverything's...blurred," he says uncertainly in Old Narnian. "I don't --" He reaches out and touches her cheek and Susan turns her face into his palm. "Know," he finishes. "I don't know."
"You know me," Susan assures him. "Do you know where we are?"
Peter hesitates before answering, looking around the plain hotel room. "England," he says, a world of disappointment in his voice. "We're in England."
Susan nods, his hand still on her face like he's trying to divine the truth of her words by touch alone.
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(no subject)
Date: 2008-08-16 05:27 pm (UTC)He stares at the world map on the laptop screen and thinks The sun never sets on the British Empire with grimness and an air of 'why am I not surprised'. Singapore won its independence in 1963, Hong Kong in 1997, and apparently India is shooting up to the top of the world. ("Well," Susan mused, "they're working on it.") The USSR is now Russia, Rhodesia Zimbabwe (how quaint!), and he doesn't recognize eastern Europe, or Africa for that matter, at all. It's a little bit like going back to Narnia and finding Cair Paravel in ruins, old paths leading to dead ends. He is betrayed by geography once more. He has been left behind in the dust of history. Again.
"Do you think Aslan meant for this to happen? My coming back, that is."
"Don't be stupid."
Peter doesn't seem to hear her and goes on, "Is England in a crisis?"
"No. But you were."
(no subject)
Date: 2008-08-16 06:59 pm (UTC)(Dude, I totally wrote bits of this last night.)
"Susan," Peter whispers from the door, and Susan rolls over to see him wide awak, standing with his hand clenched tightly on the doorframe. Behind him, the sitting room is lit up as brightly as day.
Peter looks terrified, and deserpate, and more than a little bit mad. "Com ehere," Susan says, throwing back the sheets and reaching over to turn on the bedside lamp.
He doesn't say anything, but his expression is desperately, starkly grateful as he coves over, leaving the door open behind him, and crawls into bed with her.
"Come here," Susan says again, careful to speak in Narnian and not English -- she's not even certain that Peter remembers more than a few words of English, especially not in the state he's in, the last traces of the drugs still filtering their way out of his body.
Peter is shaking when she puts her arms around him, a faint but distinct tremor, but he hugs her back, holding on so tightly and yet so gently that Susan thinks she might crack from it. She kisses his forehead and leaves the lights on.
(no subject)
Date: 2008-08-16 08:58 pm (UTC)(Dude, I totally wrote bits of this last night.)
XD so HARD. HEE. <3
and ZOMG peter&susaaaaan CUDDLING EACH OTHER TO SLEEP <333333. She hasn't had to deal with a brother in several lifetimes, or deal with a resurrected one in even longer than that. If they had had Lucy's cordial, she finds herself thinking, then Peter would be in a better state.
But even the cordial brought its own subtle poison: delusions of grandeur, pretensions of immortality, the excuse to always do what is Right instead of what must be done. It is dangerous for someone to think they can never die, and it was no surprise that Peter developed the strongest immunity to the cordial. When Susan found out, she felt understandably far from reassured. When she told him to be careful in the tone that meant she Meant It, he would just feel miffed and put upon.
You worry too much, he would reply.
Only because you don't worry enough.
Are you joking? I worry all the ti--
Never about the important things, however.
You would think that, of course.
What do you mean, 'I would think that'?
And they would fight some more, driven by the inevitability of duty and love, letting themselves be angry at one another. Sometimes it ended with kisses, sometimes with the sound of doors slamming, but most times it was a draw. Still, when Peter returned home from some battle, some siege or other, Susan had to resist the urge to run to her brother and throw herself into his arms. She knew he would have embraced her back, but she was a Queen of Narnia, not some clingy child, and someone had to keep a level head.
(no subject)
Date: 2008-08-16 11:26 pm (UTC)"Do you remember?" he asks abruptly.
Everything about Peter is abrupt now, a half-beat out of step with the time and the world. "The police called me," Susan says quietly. "I had to identify the bodies."
Peter winces a little, but shakes his head. "That's not what I meant," he says. "Narnia. Do you remember her?"
It's a test, Susan realizes even as she says, "Of course," because sixty years ago she would have said no. But it's three lifetimes (at least) later now, and there's no point to denying the truth, especially to Peter. "I never forgot."
Peter flexes his hands -- scarred and callused in what seem like all the wrong places -- and looks down at them. "I can almost feel her," he says, "and I remember her. But I feel like I'm remembering something wrong, like she wasn't good enough, and -- God," he swears uncharacteristically, because he's always sworn by Aslan or the Seven, a holdover from his year with the westron mercenaries. "How do you stand it?"
Susan flinches and Peter immediately looks shamefaced. "I didn't mean it like that," he apologizes. "It's just that -- it's always been different for me."
"I know," Susan says gently, and Peter puts his head in his hands, fingers digging into his thick hair.
(no subject)
Date: 2008-08-17 05:01 pm (UTC)"And I haven't figured out whether it's a blessing or a curse yet," she shrugs, "or whether it has a purpose."
Peter soaks in the bathtub, staring at the ceiling. Susan sits on the bathroom counter smoking a cigarette, ashing in the toilet bowl. He says, "Everything has a purpose."
"If there's a prophecy lying around somewhere explaining why I'm now doomed to walk the earth forever, I'd really like to see it."
"Am I immortal too, then?"
She hesitates. "I don't know. Actually I'm not sure if I'm immortal or just have a really, really long life-span."
But, the very thought of Peter growing old and dying, leaving her again, while she stayed young and looked on... She wasn't sure she was ready to think about that. She had just gotten him back.
"Come here with that," says Peter.
"What?"
He gestures at the cigarette.
Susan slides off the counter and kneels by the tub, putting the cigarette to Peter's lips. He inhales deeply and exhales the smoke through his nostrils. Susan is momentarily reminded of Hadassar.
"Do you want to live forever?" she asks.
"I don't fucking know," he mutters. "No one exactly asked my permission before bringing me back from the dead, either."
"You're acting the ingrate a bit, aren't you?" she says with a small smile.
He doesn't reply. She offers the cigarette to him again and he shakes his head, so she takes a last drag, tosses the butt in the toilet bowl, and stands up.
"I'm going to start dinner," she says. "Give us a shout if you need anything."
"'Right."
(no subject)
Date: 2008-08-20 01:31 pm (UTC)Back inside the bedroom, PEter is still sleeping, the light from the overhead lamp limning the gold in his hair and deepening the shadows on his face. Susan stands in the doorway and watches him for a long time.
Her brother, back when she'd thought she'd never see him again, not even beyond the grave she hadn't yet -- and maybe never would -- come close to reaching. Sixty years late, but isn't that their curse? To remain beyond all hope of salvation, when even time has betrayed them? And a Raising is voilent, and unnatural, and no work of God's or Aslan's or anyone else's, but she's stubbornly, selfishly glad that Peter is here nonetheless, even though no one should have to share her curse.
He's sleeping face-down, one hand beneath his pillow, the other stretched out across her side of the bed, like he's reaching for someone. Susan hopes it's her.
Why Peter? she wonders, not for the first time. In England, he's nothing more than another RAF pilot damaged by the war, just the oldest son of another family destroyed by Hitler's mad quest. There are thousands of others just like him.
He wakes up the way he always does, or always did, all at once, a sudden trasition between sleeping and waking. For a moment his expression is blank and Susan stiffens and leans forward, praying to every god she's ever heard of that he recognizes her, then he says slowly, "Susan."
"I'm here," Susan says, crossing to the bed and perching on it next to him.
Peter rubs a hand over his face. "Evverything's...blurred," he says uncertainly in Old Narnian. "I don't --" He reaches out and touches her cheek and Susan turns her face into his palm. "Know," he finishes. "I don't know."
"You know me," Susan assures him. "Do you know where we are?"
Peter hesitates before answering, looking around the plain hotel room. "England," he says, a world of disappointment in his voice. "We're in England."
Susan nods, his hand still on her face like he's trying to divine the truth of her words by touch alone.