Work Text:
Susan is crowned at Cair Paravel for the second time. It is Lucy who crowns her, with trembling hands. Susan can hear her teeth chatter, can hear her hitched breaths. And yet she’s steady and poised, and when Susan raises her head, the weight of the metal settling heavy onto her shoulders, Lucy manages to give her a smile. Not a true smile, weak and watery, the light in her brown eyes dimmed, but still a smile. Still more joy than any of them have shown in weeks.
Susan stumbles, for a moment, at the thought, the stone floor suddenly slippery as her vision falters. What if—
But no. She has no room for that kind of thought anymore. They all look to her now.
She’s rising off her knee, back straight and eyes forward like Pe—the way a ruler of Narnia should. Carrying herself, throwing her weight into her shoulders.
(His crown is heavy. So deceptively delicate, shining golden, simple and elegant, and yet it sits on top of her head and drags on her as nothing else she’s carried ever has. More than her own circlet ever did, though they carried the same weight, the two of them, shared between the molded metals.)
The walk to the throne is an eternity. Every step echoes off the walls a deep, hollow sound that reverberates through the air, setting her teeth on edge. The castle could be empty, for its silence, for all that she can see what seems like all of Narnia packed into the hall and beyond.
Her own raised dais beckons to her. Long habit wills her feet where they want to go, but Edmund catches her elbow, just in time. A light touch, looking like comfort and support, maybe, to all the eyes that watch her every move, making her neck prickle.
She follows the push to where she’s supposed to be, now. The place she has to take. And oh, it’s so much easier to make plans, she has lists of things they need to do, treaties and initiatives and negotiations in shambles with the unexpected upset. The things she’s always been good at, the delicate manoeuvring. This, what she’s supposed to do—
“Behold,” Tumnus says, his voice high and reedy, not quite quavering, “Queen Susan the Gentle, High Queen of Narnia.”
There is no cheering. There are no trumpets. The black mourning-banners flutter limply in a sudden angry breeze. Even the cawing of the gulls seems muted, dull. Waves pound angrily on the shore, though the sky is blue (cornflower blue, like—) and clear. There is no summer warmth, no rumbling of a lion.
Susan must have said some words, standing there, the everyday noises of Cair Paravel washing over her. She can’t remember them. The sea roars in her ears. Her eyes are wet, suddenly, but she doesn’t let the tears fall. She mustn’t falter. She won’t falter.
Narnia waits for her.