A/N: I do not own any of the four, and certainly not Aslan.
This was written for all those who have a sibling who has walked away from the faith, or for those who have known what it is to have memories become ghosts.
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It happens most when I'm with my siblings. When noise and movement and the awareness of others are so familiar this room becomes home, even outside Narnia. For my sovereigns are near me, those under me who rule with me, and even in England the three of them are home.
I turn, expecting to see my graceful sister in her corner raising her piercing, beautiful eyes to meet mine as I ask her a question.
The corner is empty.
Later, out of habit, I scan the room. Eighteen-year-old Edmund, studying for entrance exams, legs over the side of a chair, wisdom in his furrowed forehead and thoughtful glance. Lucy, hands propping up her chin, smiling at a thought I knew she'd speak in a moment, and I glance to Susan to see her answering smile, and for a millisecond, I do; memory imprints a gentle, wise smile, graceful tilt to her head, already setting down her work to listen to her younger sister.
Then it's gone; her chair is empty.
"I wonder what the Calormenes would think of American ideas of freedom," Lucy says. Edmund lays down his book, his attention caught. "And what the American would think of Calormen poetry. Based on Susan's stories of America."
"They'd probably both be schooled by a Narnian who could tell them of the true freedom Aslan gives," was Edmund's smiling reply. The discussion of what freedom was—did it include breaking curfew?, and of Aslan's goodness in giving it, lasted the evening. But a gentle attention was missing, and we felt it. One part missing from the song unmakes the harmony, lessens it. Particularly in a Narnian song.
The absence of her voice haunts. I look up from my book, wanting her opinion on a classmate, her diplomacy and gentle strength untying the knot I find myself in, and—
I only hear silence.
I ache for her gentle hand on my arm, holding me back to let Edmund fight his own battles when he comes home with a black eye and cut cheek from a walk in the park—"The dog they were hurting looked big enough to be one of ours, Peter"—but it's Lucy, valiant Lucy, who has to fill both roles and comfort Edmund and hold me back at the same time. I gentle, because it's hard on her to do both, but I miss my other sister.
I miss the piercing eyes looking back, the smile and ready attention, the voice with wise words, the gentle touch that restrains without using strength.
I miss her sharing the burdens with Lu, taking tasks like laundry or tiresome conversations with old neighbors, so Lu laughed so much more—so much more, with her sister by her side.
I miss her discussions with Edmund, the two of them looking at questions from angles I'd never considered—who really thinks about asking a friend to ask a teacher to ask the headmaster to ask a parent if a fellow student could have one less class so he wouldn't be so tired and so cruel?—giving our lives a wisdom that had to come from Aslan.
And I miss sharing the burden of our younger siblings with her, exasperated looks that we used to have together. The two of us, keeping them safe; all the more necessary in a world brilliant enough to entrap the Gentle Queen. Aslan, can I keep the other two safe myself? Grant me guidance.
Her footsteps in their heels echo down the corridor; her voice lightly bids us goodbye in passing sometimes, but the noise only highlights our loss.
In forgetting Narnia, Su took our harmony and left us only memories.
And memories create ghosts.
Just enough to miss you, Su. Just enough to love you and remember we lost you. Just enough to know what's absent, and to know we cannot have it back.
Just enough not to let your loss heal.
Aslan, who sang Narnia into life, sing our sister into life again. Give us back our harmony, and our home.
Please.
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A/N: I like to believe - based on a letter Lewis once wrote, where he said that he never meant to bar Susan from Narnia completely, as she didn't die in the train crash - that Aslan did one day lead her home.