A/N: Not sure where this one came from – but I hope you like it!

Christmas. The first Christmas ever without Peter. It was months since the railway accident, but she still wasn't ready for this – and her empty, hollow heart could find no place for trees and carols and laughter. She hated every reminder of Christmases past, every display in the shop window, every red-and-white candy cane, every brightly painted nutcracker doll.

Every single whisper-soft snowflake, fluttering in the icy air. Every hint of frost on the branches. Every bitter howl of the wind. She hated it all.

There was no tree in the house, no decorations. Even the cards that well-meaning friends had sent were stacked in a neat pile on her desk; she had not put them up on the mantelpiece. She'd evaded the few half-hearted attempts of her friends to entice her to Christmas parties, asserting that it would do her good, would be 'just the ticket' (which made her think inevitably of train tickets and one-way tickets, and… well, she didn't like tickets any more. Or trains. Or, damn it all, Christmas parties). She had not bought anything celebratory for her Christmas meal. In fact, she had every intention of letting it slip by her this year, if she possibly could. Perhaps every year.

Snow had fallen deeply this year. Had Lucy still been alive, she would have revelled in it, dancing until it sparkled round her. Edmund would have been lobbing snowballs at Lucy and Peter. Peter would have been encouraging them all to make a snowman.

She'd have been urging them to come inside out of the cold when they were done, have some hot chocolate and cinnamon biscuits or mince pies (freshly baked). Peter and Edmund would have dragged in the tree. She and Lucy would have decorated it. They'd all have sung carols as they worked. They'd all have been sneaking presents downstairs to put under the tree, ready for Christmas morning.

Mother would have gone to church early, and come back and started cooking. Father would have carved the turkey. Then they'd have opened their presents, and there would have been warmth and laughter, and nothing in the world would have mattered, because they were all together.

No, there would be no Christmas lunch this year.

"They were all that mattered," she whispered to the cold, silent house. "And now they're gone." She turned out the lights, and went to bed.

She dreamed, that night. She dreamed of a perfect Christmas when they were younger, a tall fir tree in a forest, and a dryad bowing to Peter. "She was my mother, and remained loyal to Aslan always. She was considered a great beauty. Her name was Alba."

"She fought at Beruna," murmured Edmund sorrowfully, remembering her. "And died there."

The young dryad bowed in acknowledgment. "She did, sire, felled by magic. She would have been honoured to do this for the rightful Kings and Queens as her last act. Nay, not quite last; for the wood of a dryad's tree has magical properties. I would wager that Queen Susan's bow and arrows," and here she bowed to Susan, "are made of dryad wood. In the right hands, the wood may be used for many things. The centaurs know."

Peter had cleared his throat awkwardly, not knowing if it would be more rude to refuse or to take – well, her mother's body. But Lucy had understood. "We thank you, Cedra, for your Christmas gift to us, and are deeply honoured and humbled by such generosity," she had said, her pure, clear tone echoing over the snow-clad landscape. She was every inch the queen she had been for only a few months; but Lucy was like that.

They had taken the tree into the throne room at Cair Paravel, and decorated it all but the topmost branch – Tumnus had explained that Father Christmas would place something of importance there each year, and there had always been great excitement in each household to see what would be there on Christmas morning, for that would be the defining item for the year ahead. She had not understood it at the time, but each year had been different, and she had come to look forward to that aspect of Christmas morning almost more than any other.

That Christmas morning, there had been a lion, and they had known that Aslan had sent it as a reminder he was with them always.

Her dream drifted into other Christmases, and the topmost branches of the trees. The moon, the year that King Lune of Archenland had come to visit, and renewed the old alliance between Archenland and Narnia with them; the ship, the year the Splendour Hyaline was finished (using the wood from the dryad's tree), and they went to visit their provinces overseas; the horse, the year that they went to Calormen and found Prince Cor of Archenland. The white stag, the Christmas before they left.

She woke with a start. Dreams, just dreams, none of it is real. It's the grief, she told herself. She got out of bed and padded over to the window, and looked out into the back garden. Covered in snow, it looked like some kind of wonderland. Prints in the snow leading from the old Anderson shelter suggested a fox was using it for a lair; she resolved to check as soon as it was light. Nothing moved in the starlit garden –

Wait!

Susan held her breath. Something, out there in the garden, had moved. A glimmer of white, something prancing at the edge of her vision; yet when she looked, it wasn't there.

Forgetting that she was in her nightdress, and that she ought to be afraid, Susan crept downstairs and out into the garden. Snowflakes fluttered around her, and for a moment, she was disappointed. But what was it she had hoped to see, in this tiny garden in London? Tears sparkled unwillingly down her cheeks.

I thought… I thought…

"Come on, Su, what are you waiting for?" came a lilting voice that made her heart ache with longing, as a golden-haired girl caught hold of her hand and started whirling her round.

"Lucy?" she whispered, but the girl was pulling her towards the Anderson shelter.

"Come on, or we'll lose him again!" she cried with glee. "Oh, do hurry up!"

"Lose who?" she asked, as she was dragged through the snow.

"The white stag, of course! Didn't you see him?"

Susan shuddered. I'm still dreaming, then. "I saw him," she said softly. "At least, I thought I did."

She was rewarded with a beaming smile, and tumbled into the Anderson shelter. Except it wasn't the Anderson shelter any more; it was the throne room of Cair Paravel, and the white stag was there, but he turned into Aslan. "Welcome home, child."

"I'm dreaming," she replied; but instead of it being a flat refusal, a denial, it was a wistful acknowledgment.

"You are," he agreed. "But dreams have a magic all their own, dear heart. In them is much meaning and healing."

"Were you always the white stag?" she asked timidly.

"I was. But you knew that, Susan. I have many guises in many worlds. I have many faces, depending on my need, the need of those who follow me. I am the lion and the lamb, the stag and the phoenix, and many, many more." He breathed on her, and she felt it warm her. "See, Father Christmas comes to bring your gifts."

She took no note of the presents, save that there were only three (none for her, she realised with a pang). Then the jolly figure paused by her. "It's been a long time since that first Christmas, Susan of Narnia."

"It has, sir," she said with regret. "I'm sorry, I didn't have the heart this year…" she added impulsively.

"Well, well. No matter. Here, you always liked this part best anyway. Something for your tree, when you have the heart again." He handed her a little carving, and was gone. She stared down at it, trying to understand the meaning, and looked up again to ask Aslan – but found herself alone in the Anderson shelter.

I must have fallen asleep here, she thought wonderingly, opening the door. Then she gasped. Her own footprints were covered in snow, but across the lawn were the marks of a stag's hooves, and the imprints of a girl's dainty slippers.

She opened up her hand, and gazed down at the little carving. "Maybe it wasn't a dream," she whispered, staring at the phoenix.