It wasn’t that they ever intended to do anything wrong. There had been no conscious decision, no moment when one or other chose to step across a boundary. It had been a gradual shift, a process of forgetting who they were in that other world. After all, London was a very different place, and the memory of rationed food was hard to retain when you could have anything you wanted.
Sometimes Susan remembered. Sometimes she woke in the night with a heavy but unclear feeling of dread, fear of death, fear for her siblings. There had been a time when Lucy had often crept to her sister’s bed in tears, crying for their mother, for Aslan, or just from dreams that terrify the young. But as they grew this became less frequent, and Susan, as the elder, could not turn to Lucy for comfort.
There was only Peter to turn to and not lose face. And he spoke to her gently, with kind eyes and sweet promises and sometimes, in the morning, she’d find a blanket on the couch in her dressing room, but he would never admit that he had slept there.
As they grew their roles as kings and queens became more familiar to them than their memories of England. Memory faded in the way that dreams do in the morning; occasional bursts of niggling remembrance, but full recollection just out of reach.
Lucy was the beloved one, the one who always supported her people, the one they could reach out and touch. Edmund was the lawgiver, surprising everyone with how quickly he learned the intricacies of the legal system. He was not afraid to speak out when he felt his it necessary. Susan was the politician, arranging alliances with visiting dignitaries and charming them with her wit and diplomatic skill, her elegant proficiency at being hostess mellowing even the most aggressive ambassador. Peter was High King, the leader of his armies, the one to whom all the others turned when they were unsure.
They held banquets for the smallest occasion, opening their doors to their populace, keen to demonstrate fondness for even the smallest of their subjects. And yet, Peter found, it was hard to pursue conversations when everyone was so eager to tell you how much they appreciated you. The courtiers learned that they did not need to bow each time he passed, but he could not convince them to give up the slight nod of deference. Then he stopped trying, and became used to it.
It wasn’t that any of the children were lonely as they danced towards adulthood. Lucy was still accepted by her people, still went for tea with the Beavers, and they were all surrounded by the crowds of the court. But they, all four, remained closest to each other. It was to Susan that Lucy went after attending the funeral of a centaur of whom she had been particularly fond. It was from Peter that Edmund sought advice when he believed one of the courtiers was a Calormene spy. And it was to Peter that Susan went each time she gently let down another suitor and deflected another marriage proposal.
It wasn’t that she couldn’t have married them, she supposed, as she tried to negotiate an advantageous alliance that didn’t involve tying either herself or Lucy to some distant prince, but that in doing so the group would split. And they were Queens of Narnia in their own right, were they not?
Peter asked her about it one evening when she stood on the balcony overlooking the sea, salty tears drying on her face. Why had she rejected the nobleman’s son, he wanted to know, when she was so obviously fond of him?
“I didn’t love him, he was just a nice man,” she replied softly. “It wasn’t his fault that half my heart belongs already to Narnia.”
Peter rested a knowing hand on her shoulder, giving her silent support. When she turned into his embrace, burying her face against his broadening chest, it was no different than any other time he had comforted her. He stroked her hair, made soothing noises, and she tilted her face up for kiss like she had when they were children. It was instinct that turned the kiss from a chaste press of lips to something more; neither of them had kissed that way before but it seemed natural to tip their heads and open their mouths. After all, they loved each other as they loved Narnia. They were Narnia.
There was no conscious realisation of what they were doing; all was a continuation of that first, true kiss. Peter settled on the embroidered couch, Susan in his lap, and they murmured gentle words to each other between kisses, touching each other’s shoulders and arms and waists. Peter’s hands on Susan’s breasts were soothing, almost unintentional, stroking her the way he calmed his horse. When Susan shifted her weight and felt Peter’s erection pressing up against her, it was impossible not to press back.
Even when their breathing became more laboured, their kisses never grew more urgent, still gentle encouraging licks and presses, their fingers white with clutching one another, the clothes between them hot and damp, their movements clumsy and beautiful.
When Peter came it was a constricted pulse against Susan’s petticoats, and he tipped his head back and gulped the air as Susan squeezed her thighs around him, shuddering with her enlightening release.
Even then, sweaty and entangled, as they shared a deep, exploratory kiss; even then, when they realised something between them had changed irreversibly, they never considered any alternative to accepting it.
It became a badly kept secret that King Peter rarely slept in his own bedchamber, though no comment was passed. And although Edmund frowned when he found out, he couldn’t quite fathom why the thought brought him displeasure. Peter and Susan were radiant and he could think of no reason to deny them their pleasure.
When Queen Susan’s stomach began to swell, and her gowns had to be let out, there was never any doubt that the child was the High King’s. The people of Narnia rejoiced that they would have an heir and the Golden Age was complete.
The baby was born in the spring, just as the flowers began to bloom. They called their daughter Arian, and no child was more loved. Queen Lucy was in attendance throughout the birth and was the first to lift the child into her arms. It was from King Edmund’s knees that the little princess took her first step. Each year her birthday was celebrated with the grandest feast of the year, the creatures of the country coming to attend her and lavish her with their affection. The little princess learned the ways of her land and was as fond of the woods as the palace, often spending the whole day with her animal friends.
It was on such a day as this, shortly before Arian’s eleventh birthday, when she was happily sharing tea with Mr Tumnus, that the four kings and queens stumbled back into Spare Oom.
It took only moments for the combined weight of their memories to send them sinking to the floor. Susan looked up into Peter’s childishly round face and her eyes filled with tears. Edmund bit his lip and avoided looking at them.
When Susan sobbed herself to sleep there was nothing little Lucy, sitting with her arms around her sister, could do. There was no way back through the wardrobe, the professor said. Susan’s daughter was gone.
She tried to talk of Arian to Peter once, in the days after their return. He gripped her hand until his nails made her bleed, but he never spoke a word.
The shared memory of another life was oppressive and the children drifted apart, unable to speak of what had happened, unable to maintain that closeness with those who reminded them of their other lives. But it was still there.
Sometimes Susan forgot and took Peter’s hand, kissed his lips instead of his cheek. Once she bought a little handkerchief embroidered with the monogram AP, and then realised none of her siblings had those initials. One day late in March, when he was fifteen, Peter returned home with a small package, and Lucy asked if they might have a little party, and Susan burst into tears. Their mother, confused, saved the iced buns for another time.
When Susan brought home her beau, a tall American sailor, Peter couldn’t eat his dinner and hardly spoke a word all evening. When Susan lost her virginity for the second time she returned home and sought out her brother, curling silently in his bed, pressed against his warm body.
It was only then that they consciously stepped over the line, just once, to let themselves memorize every touch and every breath, so that, when they had to return to being brother and sister, when they could no longer be King and Queen, they had a way to remember Narnia.
It’s a fanfic a friend of mine made.
Hmmmm…
I don’t remember this being in any of the books.
edit—that fanfic is SICK.
Well written, but too twisted.
