Disclaimer: The characters and premise are property of CS Lewis, and I can barely lay claim to the plot because it's been done before. So I own nothing.

A/N: A one-shot, in the universe of ELIJAH'S CUP; reading that will make this make sense.

TELEGRAM

The first wasn't hers; but she signed for it. And stood, paper in hand, wrestling with the agony of warring anxiety and hope. From the army. From Father. Delivered by a military courier in smart uniform, it could mean anything.

She called for her mother, and the whole family came running at her shrill shout. They stood, huddled together in the front entranceway, as Helen Pevensie unfolded the missive. A shaking hand lifted to her mouth as tears glistened on her cheeks.

"Mother!" Susan grabbed the telegram.

Lucy's face crumpled, and she burrowed into Peter's embrace. Her brothers were pale, exchanging worried glances as they embraced the youngest girl between them.

"He's coming home!" Susan remembered shrieking.

"What?"

"Let me see!"

And her siblings struggled over the telegram, until Peter snatched it neatly from their grasps and read it aloud in a wavering, excited voice.

They celebrated that night, for the first time since hell had burst into their world with bombs from the sky and words of death on the radio. And when Father arrived home a week later, the telegram had been framed, and was hanging in the front hall.

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The second message was much less dire. She was no longer living with her family, and telegrams had slipped into the history of technology. The postal service had taken over, with unrivalled efficiency aided by ever-faster means of transportation. She opened her mailbox that day and read the return address with a thrill of anticipation.

She'd sent out her resume quite awhile ago, and the interview had gone well. Print proclaimed her the victor after she tore the envelope away; she had a research position at the American National Institute of Health!

So she packed, and filled out her change-of-address forms, embracing a new life in a new era, and a new country. She needed the challenge, and the change. But mostly, she needed the distance from her family. Especially once it was clear that they were all afflicted with the same . . . condition. To not age – it isn't natural! Her siblings refused to see the possibilities she had to consider. In truth, she knew there must be a scientific explanation. They just refused to see. Regardless, she would find it.

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The third message came strangely – she could have sworn she heard an owl hooting, but that was impossible in this part of Maryland. Especially during the day. And the letter was also written in green ink. But once she scanned the contents, the oddness of the thick paper and the color of the pen used were the last things on her mind.

I regret to inform you that there has been an accident, in which –

She hadn't spoken to them, not in years. Not since after she'd received the second message. Since she'd been accepted in America, and had spent the last two decades hopping from position to position across this new country.

This was the first message that she didn't believe; but the news was full of the accident. Newspaper, television, radio – she couldn't escape it. Suspected terrorist attack, derailing a train and killing hundreds. She couldn't get past the clogged phone lines, and they weren't releasing names to anyone who didn't show up with proof of their relation to the victims. Or to those who had to identify –

She stuffed the letter in her bedside table, and tried to forget about it.

Susan cried herself to sleep every other night for a month.

After that message, color slipped away into a life of black-and-white. She existed, feeling more alone than she had ever been, for a year.

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And then the last message arrived.

She didn't let herself believe the handwriting on the envelope. The return address gave her a start – but she passed it off as some business to do with the estate. She was sole owner of Professor Kirke's Mansion now, after all.

She made herself a cup of tea before opening the letter, still English despite her years in America. Coffee might smell lovely, but it tasted terrible. Susan sat down at her kitchen table with flower-patterned china, staring at the stamps and the inked address. She finished the cup before she found the courage to peel open the envelope.

Once inside, she unfolded the sheafs of paper, and found three page-long letters. One from Peter. One from Edmund. One from Lucy.

All dated from the last week.

Dear Su, ran the first. Peter's letters, precise and legible. I know this is going to be an awful shock, but there's been a mistake. We know you were told that we were killed in the train wreck outside London last September – but it was a mistake. We're fine.

Dear Su, in Edmund's ragged scrawl. We're all fine. Never better, actually, except for the bruising Peter gave me when I tried to play cricket with him last Tuesday.

She gave a teary laugh at that.

Dear Susan, Lucy's calm handwriting soothed her. I'm so sorry that you thought we had all died.

She read their letters, over and over and over, until she had them memorized. And then she read them again, just for the joy of seeing familiar handwriting and what it meant. Not alone. Not as desperately lonely as she had been the past year. She had to see them.

All things come full circle.

She booked a flight back to England, closing up her American home with haphazard haste. The last year had passed in a swift gray blur; the next day was a colored torture, dragging along as she waited with uncharacteristic impatience. Waited for the plane to take off, to cross the ocean, to land. Waited during the drive to Coombe Halt. Waited to find her family.

When she finally saw them, beloved and familiar faces, she cried. And in her tears, she found a message from one she had forgotten, but who had never forgotten her.

Faith, Aslan's voice whispered in her heart. Faith.