Chapter Text
the one where England goes to a funeral
A country always knows where its important people are. It may not know why these people are important - or indeed, if they'll be the good or bad sort of important - but there's always a slight tug in the back of the mind, growing stronger and harder to ignore as critical moments approach.
Which is how England finds himself at a funeral, standing next to a perfectly still, frighteningly calm young woman. She's so important that he can almost feel the land trying to spin around her, but aside from the dignity with which she carries herself, there is nothing superficially remarkable about her.
"Ms. Pevensie," he says as she turns to leave, and then "Susan," but there are many people calling her name today, and she ignores him the way she ignores all the others.
So he decides to wait for her outside her home, and she doesn't try to approach her door or walk past him, choosing to stand a few steps away with a soldier's set to her shoulders and her fashionable handbag clutched in her small gloved hands. She is so important that it almost hurts.
And this is the other thing about countries - sometimes, when they need to, they know exactly what to say.
"Your Highness," England says. "You still have work to do."
Susan Pevensie thins perfectly made-up lips and breezes past him into her house - but she is important and responsible and always and forever a queen, so she leaves the door open behind her.