( 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.