Susan does not often cry, and she cries in front of other people even less. Outside of the day that she first remembered Narnia, the last time she cried in front someone was Ingrid, in Ingrid's flat, right after she'd finished (silent, shaking, but ever so carefully-composed) identifying her family's bodies. She didn't weep at their funerals - just after, with a bottle of some terrible wine she'd found under the sink, alone in her room. The few times she got caught, surprised by her grief in the middle of a story she'd been reading for Lucy, tears barely came at all.
If she were a little more composed, she might think that the fact she can cry at all is a good sign. There's no longer that dreadful quietness in her core that held her removed from the world. She's feeling things again, with more and more regularity. On a good day, she might marvel at being overwhelmed by her feelings.
To-day is not a good day. But Lancelot is here, and that is a good thing. She can cling to him. She can let him support her through this. She wants him to.
She's been more in touch with her grief, of late; writing those secret letters to her siblings has put her into closer contact with it. It's more tangible, now. It's certainly crowding in at the moment, threatening to sweep over her and knock her down, like the tides of the Great Eastern Ocean rushing in to the shores just past Cair Paravel after a storm. Too, she's been starting to learn, more and more, that she needn't go it alone here. That day in Ingrid's flat, clutching her hands so tightly that Ingrid had marks from Susan's nails for over a week etched into the sides of her fingers, she'd felt like she might drift away from anything and anyone. But as she clings to Lancelot, she knows: he can tether her, if she lets him. And so she presses her face against his shoulder, and closes her eyes, and wraps her arms fiercely around him, and - so assured - lets herself let go of her grip on that knot of feelings inside of her.
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If she were a little more composed, she might think that the fact she can cry at all is a good sign. There's no longer that dreadful quietness in her core that held her removed from the world. She's feeling things again, with more and more regularity. On a good day, she might marvel at being overwhelmed by her feelings.
To-day is not a good day. But Lancelot is here, and that is a good thing. She can cling to him. She can let him support her through this. She wants him to.
She's been more in touch with her grief, of late; writing those secret letters to her siblings has put her into closer contact with it. It's more tangible, now. It's certainly crowding in at the moment, threatening to sweep over her and knock her down, like the tides of the Great Eastern Ocean rushing in to the shores just past Cair Paravel after a storm. Too, she's been starting to learn, more and more, that she needn't go it alone here. That day in Ingrid's flat, clutching her hands so tightly that Ingrid had marks from Susan's nails for over a week etched into the sides of her fingers, she'd felt like she might drift away from anything and anyone. But as she clings to Lancelot, she knows: he can tether her, if she lets him. And so she presses her face against his shoulder, and closes her eyes, and wraps her arms fiercely around him, and - so assured - lets herself let go of her grip on that knot of feelings inside of her.