( it's empty in the valley of your heart )

[just]

( Edmund lets his crutches clatter to the ground without caring about the ruckus — only Susan is in the house with him, after all, and if she chooses to start a fight over it, he's ready for it. There's a restless buzzing under his skin that had always preceded battle in Narnia, the precursor of bloodshed and anger and the saccharine taste of Lucy's fireflower cordial.

Letting out a silent breath, Edmund leans back against the sofa, reveling in the quiet burn of the healing wound on his abdomen. He's thinking about the apple tree in the backyard, how its leaves have been burnished to a dusky gold. He's thinking about the sunset in Susan's hair, and how it isn't quite enough to erase the lines of weariness from her face. He's thinking about the awful casserole that Mrs. Minchen from down the street brought for their dinner.

Even looking at it had made him nauseous. )

Hungry, Susan? ( He hasn't called her Su in years, and he's not likely to start now. )

Comments

[practicality]

[ just as quick, susan is already behind him, picking up his crutches and giving him a pointed look while at it. the house, as always, is neat, orderly, quiet - just the way she sometimes prefer it. nothing is out of place and edmund should already be observant of this, as it's been days already with just the two of them here. he has eyes, doesn't he?

she makes a move to put his crutches away, then changes her mind at the last second and shoves them at him. susan isn't his servant, and he seems well enough to care for them himself. ]

No, thank you. [ the smell is enough to turn her stomach to knots, and it's a wonder she's able to accept the food when it was earlier shoved at her (with cooing noises even, tut-tut you should eat and take care of your brother tsk-tsk poor dears) rather than hurl it at the ground, where it belonged. she gestures towards the table. ] Some packages came for you today.

[just]

( It's too easy to imagine that same sharp look from a different situation, a different time, a different place.

Edmund clutches the crutches in one hand, smothering the puerile urge to let them fall to the ground again. Because he knows he's going to go mad very soon if his realities are already starting to flood into one another. )

You like opening parcels, don't you? Go ahead. ( If the words are sharper than they should have been, he's not going to apologize for it. He's ready for a fight, and he'll keep pushing until she starts to push back. )

[practicality]

They're yours. [ her tone is flat - she doesn't even muster enough energy to act all affronted and offended at his words, at his insinuation. what's the point of doing that, anyway? the house is so quiet it doesn't seem right to break its silence. ] Besides, they're probably sent to you by your friends to cheer you up. [ never mind that it seems, of them four - of them two, now - she's the one with people whom can be arbitrarily labeled as 'friends'. ] Boys' things and all that. [ never mind that ed's no longer a boy - not so for many years now. ]

[just]

( Her flat tone does nothing to lighten Edmund's mood — he stares at her with a resentment that hasn't belonged on his face since he was ten years old.

His anger has always been cold where Peter's was hot, taking its place in shadows and silence. Perhaps the fit of temper he shows in sweeping the parcels from the table is a subconscious attempt to make up for what he's missing most. )

Throw them into the street. ( The sharp movement again pulls his wounds taut; he welcomes the blunted ache of it. ) I don't want any of it.

[practicality]

Edmund! [ she takes a step back, narrowly missing the parcel that flew near her feet. the sound of something breaking is unmistakable, and there's one with its contents spilled over (turkish delight, from the looks of it) on the floor and susan stares at the mess her brother's made in horror before lifting her gaze up and glaring at him. ] What was that for?

[ the mask she's so carefully sewn and worn these past few days begins to crack, and oh how she hates him for it. ] What's your problem?

[just]

( Edmund levers himself to his feet, his crutches again clattering to the ground. There's nothing impressive about his height nor the trembling set of his shoulders, but anger makes him incandescent. ) It's a boon, my lady. My gift to you. ( He whispers the words, his lips drawn back into a snarl. This is what he had been waiting for, even as the self-recrimination begins to settle in around the anger. This is his sister, the only person left for him in the world. ) Clean it up, then. You've spent so long pretending not to be a queen that it's high time that you proved how deep your denial goes.

( It's cruel, crueler perhaps than Edmund has ever been, but he needs to lash out. He needs to know that she's hurting as badly as he is. He needs solidarity, and she's shown him none. )

[practicality]

[ there's a ringing somewhere in her head, and she doesn't even notice lifting her hand and slapping him, hard, across the cheek - not until the deed is done and her palm is stinging. susan doesn't cry - not in front of people, not in front of her family, be it here or in that other place, the one that she doesn't think or talk about - and she still isn't, now. but there's a burning ache in her heart and up her throat it goes and she tastes something bitter in her mouth and she swallows, hard.

she doesn't speak. she doesn't trust herself to. she just needs some moments to gain the control she's lost, and all will be well again.]

[just]

( In the aftermoments, it's the silence that first strikes Edmund. All he can hear is the harsh in-out of his breath. Then, the sting of Susan's slap, followed quickly by the bone-deep exhaustion of the intent behind the slap. )

Su — ( The syllable involuntarily escapes him, sibilant on the edge of his exhaled breath. Another moment of stasis, his bones turned to marble, to lead, to stone, and then he's stumbling forward, dragging her to him without giving himself time to think through his actions. He's dry-eyed and shaking; his arms bracketing her narrow shoulders with a force just short of bruising. )

[practicality]

[ a strangled cry escapes from her mouth as susan finds herself encased, and for a wild moment she thinks of pushing him away - go away please just leave me alone i need to be alone oh go away ed - and she lifts her hands to do just that, because she doesn't need this and she doesn't want to cry and there are still some things that needed her attention and she has to do them all so she can't think about them, the people she's lost all so suddenly and ed, ed, why are you doing this to me? what do you want from me?

but then she grasps the sides of his shirt and she holds on tightly, afraid that if she lets go ed will disappear, and she can't, she doesn't want to be alone. her eyes sting and she blinks back her tears, but too late. too late. ]

I'm sorry. I'm sorry. [ for so many things. for everything. but a litany of apologies can't ever bring them back now. ]

[just]

( It has been a lifetime since Edmund last held her like this — even in Narnia, it had been Peter's hands that soothed while Edmund's words did the rest. But, with his cheek pressed to her temple and the entirety of his body swept up in a gray torrent of emptiness, it's hard to remember why he'd kept his distance. Narnia had quartered each of their souls and distributed the pieces into one another; now half of Edmund has been taken away from him — but there's this, and there's now and there's the quietude of tears seeping down his cheeks. For now, it's all that he can do. )

Pax, sister. ( It's murmured, whispered through his gritted teeth, barely denting the silence around them. And that's all that he can allow himself to think about — peace, and Susan, and the sticky feel of crushed Turkish Delight beneath his heel. )

[practicality]

I'm so sorry. [ the words are pushed through her mouth so softly even she has difficulty hearing them. this is probably the first time the two of them clung at each other like this, as if they were the only ones left in the world and isn't it the truth, anyway? They're all gone - all the people who's ever mattered to them anyway and it isn't fair, no, not at all.

susan draws in a deep, shaky breath - the first step she takes for her to calm down, to dry the seemingly endless flow of tears pouring down her cheeks. she lets go of his shirt, but stays where she is - for now. ] What do we do now?

THE PRODIGAL SON RETURNS

[just]

( Edmund lets the silence breathe between them, letting it shroud the sharpest edges of his rage. It will be a long while before that anger fades — perhaps it never will. For now, muting it temporarily is all he can do. )

Let's leave. ( The words leave him in a rush, as jumbled as the thoughts that had prompted them. Now that he's broken his silence, he can't stop the torrent. ) We've only to sell the house; we'll let the solicitors tidy up the rest of our affairs. Sod my degree, sod your preening American friends, and sod this entire country — bloody hell, we've nothing to lose! ( He hasn't realised what he's doing, but he's gripping her wrist, so tightly that it must be uncomfortable. There's something frenetic and wild in his eyes; the kind of passion that he'd never let himself show before his world turned itself inside out. ) There's a world out there that we've never seen — let's go. You and I, two practical people who've forgotten what practicality is. Sod it all, by jove!

WELCOMES HIM WITH OPEN ARMS

[practicality]

Leave? [ she pulls back to look at his face, ignoring the pain brought by his hold on her wrist. the word echoes in her head, and it sounds so unfamiliar and foreign as it's something she hasn't considered before. leave? can they? should they? everything familiar to them is here, in his house, and to leave them all behind - would that not be betraying them, somehow? mum, dad, peter, lucy? practically it was sound advice, but isn't it too soon? ]

We can't just-- [ her eyes wander a bit, spotting places that bring so many memories they make her head swim and her heart ache. the hurt will fade - this she knows so well - but... ] --leave. [ the more she says it, the more it makes sense for them to do it. after all, why should they tie themselves to their painful past? besides, if they leave, no one says they can't ever return - if they want to. susan takes a deep breath, meets ed's eyes. ] Sod it all, you said? I think... I think you're right.