It was a grey day. In every meaning of the word. The sky was grey. The graveyard was grey. Her heart was grey. The world was grey. Colour and light seemed to be foreign concepts. "…sister care to say a few words?" Susan looked up. The vicar had been droning on for some time, but she hadn't been able to focus on the words. The words for her friends and family. The ones she'd abandoned. And now, seemingly, they had abandoned her; leaving for a place where she was no longer worthy to follow. The small congregation were looking at her expectantly. The vicar nodded with encouragement. She reached up and pulled the pin from her hair, letting it tumble loose and wild around her shoulders: the way it had so often been, so many years ago, in a land that she had betrayed and forgotten for ever such a long time. And they called Edmund a traitor. She was filled with self-loathing. A few people gasped: Susan Pevensie wasn't seen like this! The Gentle was once, she thought, but she and I are no longer one woman. Then she walked over to stand in front of her siblings' graves, staring blankly at the names, mentally adding the titles. The Magnificent, the Just and the Valiant. The Gentle could no longer be counted among them. She swallowed hard, then said in a quiet voice that some of her courtiers might have recognised, "Once, I could have spoken words such as might be fitting at a time such as this. Once, but no longer. My heart is cold and empty. I have not the music in me I once had. That my family still have; they have not lost it in death. Now I stand alone, I who was never alone. Not really. I am left with a fist full of treasures: my brothers' pocket knives – Edmund's with the scarred handle, Peter's with the broken blade – and Lucy's silver necklace. The silver cross was my mother's. She died long ago. The wooden lion was made by Edmund: a Christmas gift. These objects were given to me, so I was told, to soothe me. But they are filled only with memories. Memories and ghosts. I remember when they were warm to touch, and imprinted with life. Now, they are cold. So very cold. And I have only felt a cold such as this once before. Alas! If only I had recalled that time: things might have been different. Once, I would have known words filled with hope and comfort. But now my heart is cold and petrified in a way that none of you could ever understand. My words have failed me, but something must be said. I can never atone for what I have done, but I hope can do a little. My sister wrote this song," she broke off, "Lucy! My poor, sweet, valiant sister." Then she composed herself, "…but I must be strong for their sakes. I have no word of my own, so I will sing those of my sister – wise beyond her years, as always. My voice is nothing compared with hers, but must try." And quietly, she sang.
"I-it started out as a feeling
Which then grew into a hope.
Which then turned into a quiet thought,
Which then turned into a quiet word.
And then that w-word grew louder and louder
Until it was a battle cry.
I'll come back when you call me.
N-no need to say goodbye."
Oh, yes. She remembered battle cries. And the blood. The pain. The worry. It was funny, really. All that fretting about people's safety. Then they were gone. And it seemed like nothing would ever happen again. It all seemed rather pointless, really. In her mind's eye, it was raining. She supposed it was in England, too. But she couldn't really tell. "Just because everything's changing
Doesn't mean it's never been this way before.
All you can do is try to know who your friends are
As you head off to the war.
Pick a star on the dark horizon and follow the light;
You'll come back when it's over.
No need to say goodbye."
Everything had changed. She'd gone back to England. Back to a War with both Germany and herself. But she'd forgotten who her friends were. And now she was paying for that. When Lucy had first shown her the song, she hadn't understood the line about the star. Maybe, just maybe, she did now. Her voice faltered to a sound barely above a whisper, but she kept going. She owed it to herself and to her kin. "N-now we're back to the beginning:
It's just a f-feeling and no-one knows yet.
But j-just because they c-can't feel it too
Doesn't mean that you have to f-forget.
L-let your memories grow s-stronger and stronger
'Til they're before your eyes."
Memories were all she had now. And, in Aslan's name, she wasn't going to let them go.
"Y-you'll come back when they call you:
N-no need to s-say g-goodbye."
I hope so, she thought. Suddenly, she let out a sound halfway between a sob and a scream, clawing at her styled hair, scrubbing the makeup from her face. Where am I? She asked silently, begging for answers, I was more than this. Without it, is there nothing left? She fell to her knees in the damp grass. The wind howled around the gravestones, making the leaves dance around her, brushing past her face like the dryads had done all those years ago. Then a feeling came. A quiet thought, a quiet word. How could Lucy have known? What it would be like? She murmured it like a prayer.
Aslan.
Aslan.
"Aslan.
Aslan.
ASLAN!"
A battlecry in the war against herself. If the congregation were surprised by this, Susan couldn't tell. They no longer existed to her. Theirs was another world. Not her own. She stood, her fists clenched defiantly, her hair whipping in the wind. It didn't howl any more. It roared. She sang once more, stronger now, and it felt as if the wind carried her words all the way to His country.
"I'll come back when you call me:
No need to say goodbye."
I promise, Aslan.