something something you're susan pevensie and you've decided that you will live again no matter the fact that you've done this all before. you decide that if you are to be in exile, there can be use and joy in making it work.

you're susan pevensie, and when you look at your siblings you see broken tools shoved into jobs they are not made for. your older brother is nothing more than a sword forcibly blunted, rust-red and sacrificial, a means to an end brought to ruin between gunfire and shrapnel pieces. your younger brother forgets to crave sugar like they want him to, forgets that he cannot speak sense to adults lest he be branded ill-mannered and dangerous. your sister seems like a tear in the landscape, so utterly alien, so unfitting, to the world that birthed her that you can't bear to look at her anymore.

something something your siblings yearn for the forge that broke them beyond repair, and all you can find within them are the ways they were molded to never belong to themselves again, the swords and salvation of a place that shaped them into things never meant for eternal use.