Author's Notes: This is in response to the Weekly Drabble Challenge # 3: White at the Susan/Caspian group on Livejournal. I wrote it very quickly when I had this idea of Susan trying to retain who she was as a girl, not as a queen. This is supposed to be after Peter and Caspian come up with the idea for the final battle, but before Susan and Lucy go off on their own. I haven't seen the movie in a while so my brain is a bit foggy on the exact details and timeline. I know that in the books Susan is supposed to be 13 or something, but I made her a bit older since Anna is older. Also, I haven't taken a French class in three years, and all my dictionaries are packed up, so please forgive me any errors where that is concerned.

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Disclaimer: I do not own anything you recognize, Disney owns it just like it owns the world. Seriously, think about it.


Susan stood above the doorway to the How, not doing what Peter had asked of her. He wanted her to check the vantage point of this ledge, to see if the pieces of their plan would fit. Instead she stared across the landscape, taking in how much her Narnia had changed over the last 1300 years.

But this wasn't her Narnia and only a year had passed. She wasn't Queen Susan the Gentle; she was simply Susan Pevensie, 15 years old and impatient to get home.

Not that she didn't enjoy being back in Narnia, she had dreamt about it since the day they had left. But she knew that they would go home to England, it happened last time, she just wished they knew how long they would stay here.

It had begun, the changes in her thoughts and her actions the longer they stayed in Narnia. The way her bow and arrow felt the most comfortable in her hands, how she longed to have her throne back, to be treated with respect. But she couldn't allow herself to forget the other world. England. Home.

So every day she tried to find a quiet spot and quiz herself on subjects she would have aced back at school. Today's lesson consisted of French. Her eyes looked about for something she could easily translate into the language she had studied since her first day.

"Les fleurs sont petites," she murmured to herself as she knelt by a small patch of daisies. Or what at least looked like daises. "Les fleurs…Oh, what is the word for white?" She stared at their snowy petals, willing them to give her the answers. "Les fleurs…les fleurs…" Her eyes misted as her mind refused to give her the right word. She didn't want to forget who she was; she didn't want to be disappointed when they left.

Footsteps approached and she quickly composed herself. Peter's come to check on me. She stood ready to defend the length of time she had been wasting here to her older brother. She wasn't ready to meet the deep brown eyes of Prince Caspian when she turned around.

"Your Majesty," he said softly, stopping the moment she looked at him, as he would a startled animal. He was always so careful around her. "Your brother sent me looking for you."

"Yes, I'm sure he has." Susan had yet to forgive Peter for the siege on Miraz's castle. If only he had listened to Caspian, if only he hadn't tried act like High King Peter again. If only he had remembered he was a boy and not a king, maybe those Narnians would still be alive.

"You're upset," Caspian stated in his foreign accent. "You've been crying." Susan said nothing, not sure how to answer. "If-if you need someone to talk to, Queen Susan, I am willing to listen. I will try to understand."

Susan couldn't help but smile at his offer. She had noticed him since their abrupt meeting in the woods, when he couldn't seem to stop looking at her. But with the knowledge of her and her siblings' future departure she couldn't let herself be drawn in to Caspian.

"Thank you, Caspian." And yet she couldn't help but wonder what it would have been like if they met in England. Would he still look at her in that way? That way that made her stomach clench and her skin itch for his touch? "I'll come down in a moment."

She expected him to bow and turn away, leaving her to her thoughts once more. But he took a step closer and knelt at her feet. Before she could ask what he was doing, he stood with one of the small white flowers between his tanned forefinger and thumb.

"Blanche." he said softly. "Une belle fleur blanche pour une tres belle femme."


French translations:

Les fleurs sont petites: the flowers are small

The last line: White. A beautiful white flower for a beautiful woman.

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