called_lioness | (no subject)

(no subject)

The hike to the castle is easy enough. It would likely have taken less time if Mary hadn’t been curious and wanted to stop and look at some of the older trees.

But that’s what holidays are about, really.

The plan is to ride to Port Caynn tomorrow and swim in the sea before spending the night at an inn of…slightly dubious reputation. (Alanna assures her it’s safe now. Lucy makes a note not to mention any former smugglers to Archibald Craven.)

But tonight is for camping, and as the evening approaching Lucy heads out to stroke her borrowed mare’s neck and make sure the supplies are all ready.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

"You mean you are going to die again."

Like Ennis did, but he hadn't been dead.

Like Wellard almost did - but not on purpose. It isn't as if he had wanted to.

"No. No, Mary. It's more like living again than anything else. I'll just leave. Go through the door, I imagine."

Lucy does not want to say this.

If asked, Mary would say that she wants to hear the truth. That it is better to know than not.

All the same, she doesn't want to hear this. She stares sullenly at her knees, as she demands, "Why?"

Her parents are in Heaven. She expects it's nice enough for them. But Lucy isn't like her parents - she's here, and she seems more alive than her parents ever did. And Mary does not think, in any case, that they would get along.

Her heart aches.

What right, she thinks, do I have to be this selfish?

And she knows she will be, anyway.

"Because I am tired," she says softly. "And because I should. I am dead, and the is a way station, and I am not meant to live there forever. Because I want to go home," she finishes and wishes there were better words. That she could find them.

"There are lots of dead people in Milliways."

Mary says it to her knees.

"And it cannot be home if you have never been there."

It's stubborn, and a part of her knows already that it's not true; Yorkshire was, after all.

"Yes. And some stay for very long times, and some stay for shorter times. And some may never leave, but I doubt it."

She has to take a breath.

"But I will."

She's not talking about a very long time. And Mary knows it.

"Do you not even care," she demands, suddenly furious, "that you may not ever come back? You can always go to Heaven - you cannot always come back."

"Of course I care!"

It's startled as she watches the girl.

"And I hate that. I do, Mary, that I have to choose. But it's still right to choose."

Flat: "And you have chosen."

"Would you come here, Mary?" she asks before answering that, holding out an arm.

Mary looks at the arm, and at Lucy, and doesn't move from her spot.

"Why?"

"Because I would like to hold you for a minute. If you'd let me."

"That," Mary says, after a confused beat, her voice still flat and toneless, "will not make anything better."

"It will not make it worse either, at least. And I'd still like to."

Mary's back is very stiff, as she says, "If you wanted to so much you ought not to be going away. You have already chosen - it is not as if you are going to take it back."

She already chose, and she chose not-Mary.

Her arm drops slightly as she breathes.

"I can't. It wouldn't--Mary, if I could have it be right, I'd never leave you. But it's not."

"Sometime I shall grow old and die," Mary says, after a long moment.

"I shall likely go to Heaven then. You could wait until then."

It's not like the door is going to close.

"Oh, Mary."

She wants Mary to die old.

She wants Mary to never die.

"You will." That's just fierce. "You will go, and I'll greet you and even if you are a hundred and one I plan to twirl you in my arms. But I can't wait that long."

"It is only almost so long as you would have had to wait anyways," Mary says, stiff with angry logic. "If you had not died already. You are old - but not so very old."

"But I did die, Mary.

"And I'm tired. I stayed this long for you."

For Mary and Lilly and Susan and Caspian all, but Mary is the one who hurts the most.

Mary is the one she has to leave behind who can understand the least.

That shuts Mary up again for a long moment, her face scrunching up red and angry and her throat clenched.

"If it was so hard," she snaps, all of a sudden, "you ought not to have!" and bursts into tears.

"Mary," Lucy says helplessly, and "Mary," she says again, and "Mary," as she moves and pulls the girl into her arms whether she likes it or not.

(What right, Archibald Craven asked, and now Lucy wonders if she never had any to start with, and all she can think is, Lion, please, don't let me have been wrong.)

"I love you." It's fierce and whispered and her arms are tight around the smaller girl and not letting go. "I love you. I love you. I will always and ever love you. You gave me reason to stay. You were worth it. You were always worth it and always will be. I love you."

She wishes if she said it enough it would make things better.

It doesn't.

It's just truth.

Mary is crying harder, now, nose running freely into Lucy's shirt.

She doesn't know what to say; it hurts every which way, to think that what she is saying is true and that it is not. If Lucy really does love her, and she is leaving anyways -

At least Oats promised to come back.

She does not wish she did not care, though. She had ten years of not caring, and that was worse.

"I love you."

It's like a mantra, and Lucy wishes it could change something.

It doesn't.

There's snot on her tunic and Mary's face is angry and sad and red all, and Lucy just holds her as closely as she can and kissing her hair and weeps, trying to keep her breath from shaking.

"Shhh," she says between repeating that she loves Mary, and if Lucy could hold Mary more tightly without hurting her she would.

She doesn't really want to ever let Mary go.

"I'd give you," Lucy says finally in a whisper, "everything I could, Mary. But this one I can't. And it breaks my heart, and I still and always and forever," and her voice catches on a sob she can't keep back, "love you."

Mary is crying now in unsteady hiccups, eyes still scrunched shut.

"It does not matter," she mutters, muffled, "about giving me things. That is not anything at all that is important -"

And then she hiccups again, as she remembers something that is important.

"Shall you want your tree back to take?"