heeeeey soul sister ain't that mister mister

[thirtycoins]

[ In the far-lying future, Edmund will look upon his childhood with a self-indulgent smile: he'll remember the rolling green hills, the wheatgrass in the wind, Lucy laughing in a tangle of coltish limbs. He'll remember summers spent penning letters to faraway statesmen, sitting in the nook upon his high courtyard, drinking glasses of cool lemon-lime, and finally feeling that he'd found his place in the world.

Now, however, the future is a bright spot far out of his reach. In fact, even the incumbent promise of supper is a bright spot far out of reach, as this lesson has dragged on far too long for Edmund's liking.

It's not that he doesn't find the vast majority of his Narnian studies interesting — he does, he truly does — but for every ten days spent devouring the library's tomes, there is one like today, slumped over his desk, the murmuring of their faun instructor just a bit of white noise on the edge of his consciousness.

(Why in Aslan's name do they need to know about the mating rituals of all furred, feathered, and hooved creatures in Narnia, anyway? Surely kingship won't involve mating with all of them!)

Peter and Lucy, as High King and the resident baby of the court respectively, managed to beg off with the excuse of having a late-summer harvest at Anvard to attend. Of course, someone needed to stay behind to mind Cair, and someone else had to stay behind so that their misery could be shared. Lucky Edmund. Lucky Susan.

Edmund, rucking a glance up at Mister Softfallow (the poor fellow is half-blind, anyway), tears a bit of paper from the edge of his (very blank) notes, and scribbles down a half-legible message. He then balls it up and tosses it Susan's way.

(Ten points if he hits her square in the forehead!)

Unfortunately (or fortunately, rather, as Susan's wrath can be a terrible thing), it falls to the wayside, and lands instead into her lap. ]

Do you reckon the injuries I'd suffer from tossing myself from the window would count as excuse enough to escape this lesson?

Comments

[practicality]

[ really, edmund, leaving her to do the dirty work is not at all very nice. susan lets several moments pass, even allowing herself to take notes every now and then as she starts feeling guilty about not listening to the lecture she's supposed to be taking into heart. but after softfallow goes into a tangent completely unrelated to the mating habit of griffins (and their penchant for cross-breeding), susan scribbles down quite firmly: ]

Surely you're not leaving me alone in this task, are you? This is YOUR idea, after all.

[thirtycoins]

[ The pause is long enough that Edmund takes to amusing himself by sketching unflattering portraits of poor Mister Softfallow in the margins of his notes.

Griffins? Honestly?

Edmund adds a jaunty little griffin-beak to his sketch of a pouting Softfallow. ]

Please, Susan. Mister Softfallow likes you much better. Tragic, really, but what can I do? The sight of a woman's lovely face will always be much preferable to that of a man's rugged visage.

[practicality]

[ susan scoffs, and it is her misfortune that she isn't as subtle about it as she would have liked - so when mister softfallow turns, she feigns coughing, even hitting her chest and muttering apologies for interrupting the class. ]

Rugged visage? [ see how she has underlined it in her disbelief, edmund? ] Pray whose rugged visage are you talking about?

[thirtycoins]

[ Edmund grins at her across the table, not bothering with subtlety. His reply is a quick scribble that he tosses back to her before Mister Softfallow finishes the sentence he'd started when Susan passed the note over. ]

Careful! Pound on your poor chest any harder and you're likely to knock your eyes from their sockets. Then you'll be left bereft of the sight of my rugged visage forever. By Jove! T'would be unbearable. ]

[practicality]

I don't ever recall anyone ever calling your visage 'rugged', dear brother - except for that poor delegate from Terebinthia whose poor existence you kept on ignoring, if I recall.

[ susan smiles at the memory. ]

Really, you ought to be more cordial to our guests, especially to those very, very few who recognize your, er, ruggedness.

[thirtycoins]

[ That's enough to draw a scowl to his face. ]

Must we travel down this dusty road again? Your ledger of terrible suitors is much heavier than mine, might I remind you. That dandified rooster from Galma? The ages-old drunkard from Lune's court? The Talking Rabbit?

Men clearly have a fondness for you, sister. Thus I name you delegate to the talks of import with our fine faunly instructor. I will hear no more of it!

[practicality]

[ you know she'll keep harping on about this until you get married, edmund. the memories of her less-than-pleasant suitors, however, are definitely effective to make her purse her lips. ]

They are perfectly lovely individuals and I'll trust that you at least think of them with some form of courtesy.

[thirtycoins]

[ He's not going to get married! He's a strong, independent woman who don't need no man!

There was that one green-eyed lady from Galma who'd sent Edmund into a tizzy. (Though 'tizzy' is hardly how he'd phrase it, of course. A contemplative fugue. A good king maintains his dignity at all times.)

Thankfully, he's relatively certain that Lucy hadn't told anyone about her. Else Susan would have already been tying the noose about his neck. ]

Lovely, is it?

If the flourish of your pen could be given a tone, I would say that was fondness speaking. You ought to have told me if men of the rabbity persuasion were your preference! I am your closest confidant, am I not?

[practicality]

[ wow edmund wow why aren't you sharing these juicy bits with your understanding and benevolent older sister gosh

also what makes you think you're her closest confidante really ]

I wouldn't say fondness, really. Perhaps kindness, more like. Besides, Sir Lioncourt seems to take more of a liking to Peter than I. If you were more attentive instead of trying to hide at every turn, you might have noticed it too.

[thirtycoins]

[ ...which understanding and benevolent older sister, again?

What she's written is enough to pull Edmund up short. His eyes widen to a comical extent, his mouth a slack drape of surprise.

And then, of course, the mischief settles in. ]

I do wonder how Peter feels on the matter — if dalliances with rabbitkind are of interest to him, perhaps he'll enjoy Mister Softfallow's lessons a great deal more than we had reason to believe.

[practicality]

[ dude how many older sisters do you have

and peter does not count ok

also there's a horrified expression on susan's face as she reads and imagines what edmund is alluding to ]

I meant a liking to Peter because they share the same thoughts about the giants occupying our northern borders, Edmund. Has anyone ever told you your mind is a dark, terrifying thing?

[thirtycoins]

Please. Do you not think it would make an endearing sight? A fat little rosy-cheeked bunny, wearing the crown of Narnia's queen-consort. It would certainly tighten up Son-of-Adam and Talking-Beast relations, if you catch my meaning.

[ And, really, it's just another way to soothe their consciences about tricking Peter into this. He's grinning, unabashed, by the time he flicks the note back.

Don't ruin it, Su. ]

[practicality]

Sir Lioncourt is hardly what I'd call fat. [ because this is really the heart of what they're talking about. ]

And I don't know about you, but honestly I'd prefer someone else to be Narnia's queen-consort.

[ probably someone with features akin to theirs - more, well, human than anything else. ]

Someone who could... well, bear children, I mean. You do realize that bearing children who would inherit the throne is Peter's burden, more so than any of us.

[ ..................thankfully. ]