This probably isn't a good idea since I still have King and Lionheart as a WIP, and if you're following that story you know I'm the absolute worst when it comes to updating. But this little story (yes, it will be a "little story" in that I plan to finish it around five chapters - maybe less) begged to be written on my phone's Journal during my three-hour commute back to my province. Also, Edmund's devotion to his sister and Queen, and his absolute willingness to die for her honor in Horse and His Boy touched my heart in ways I couldn't describe when I recently revisited the Focus on the Family radio drama adaptation of HHB (though the voice actor for Edmund leaves a lot to be desired, I'm afraid), so I told myself that I need to call that poignant moment of brotherly love to mind in one of my stories someday.

I promise to get back to Lionheart as soon as possible (if anyone is still interested, that is) - preferably when I'm not in such a dour state of mind that I seem to be in the mood for only dark, borderline-depressing stories and music (I am listening to Land of All by Woodkid as I write this note, which is probably written under the definition of "dour" in the dictionary, and I can't stop - neither do I want to).

No beta, and as I have said, I wrote everything using the Journal application on my phone, so please bear with any grammatical/structural errors. Also, I just plain SUCK at tenses, so if at some point the narrator's tenses become a disorienting mess of past-present-present-past or something similar, please do forgive a sad, brooding scatterbrain like me.

All right. Please enjoy (or perhaps not). Also, kindly let me know if I should stop this rot, or see it through the [bittersweet] end.

-oOo-

FOR THE LOVE OF A BROTHER

Chapter 1

There is something oddly familiar about this.

Death.

The death of people I love.

I don't understand how it can be familiar. I have lived through war—survived it by the skin of my teeth, more like, during the Blitz. I have seen deaths on the paper; have heard the cries of widowed women and children on the radio. I know death is real.

But it should not be this real—like some estranged, traitorous friend I could do without reconciling with ever again.

I tell myself that I'm not thinking right—that whatever I feel to be familiar so as to be palpable is merely a result of seeing strangers lower my family to the cold, damp Finchley soil. In my mind I curse at the skies, and then at England, for being so deprived of sunshine that there is no light upon my loved ones for this one final time. As if they are not to spend the rest of who knows how long down there.

So cold. So dark. So utterly without life.

I shake my head mentally, or perhaps physically—I don't really care either way—and thank the skies instead for crying on my behalf. I didn't cry the first time I'd heard the news. I haven't cried since. Tears are for people who deserve forgiveness, and I do not deserve an ounce of mercy for my decision. Perhaps I would cry after he has dispensed all his anger on me. That is something I truly deserve.

Mum's and dad's caskets are the first to hit the earth with a sickening finality, the sound more harrowing than bombs exploding round our house when the Germans had their fun with the Luftwaffe. I try to conjure mum's lullaby, or dad's voice when he called me "the most beautiful young woman I have ever seen," just to dispel the echo of that final sound. No such remembered sounds come to console me.

They work on lowering Peter and Lucy next, with Lucy getting down in that abyss faster, probably because of her weight (and the fact that there was not much of her left to begin with). Again I try to remember her voice before her casket could touch ground, and I succeed, postponing for now the need to reason why I seem to have more memories of her than of our parents.

I could hear her laughter, the kind that reminds me of bubbling spring water after a long trek in the desert. So sweet, so pure, and overflowing with life. I remember her face, that beautiful young face with a smile so bright it put the sun to shame. Above all I remember her love—for our families and friends, animals and nature, and for everything that had breath. I remember her thin yet strong arms wrapped around me while I was at the mercy of my own frail heart, how she would say, "It will be all right, Susan. Aslan will help us."

I rub my arms as if burned by the memory of that embrace... of those words. Whoever or whatever He was, real or childish imaginings, He did not help her. I seethe at the sound of that name. I am chasing tendrils of moments spent with my sister. I do not need to hear the name.

The only consolation is that I got too distracted to hear Lucy's casket hit the ground.

Too soon. I spoke (thought) too soon. Peter's casket gives a thud much louder than anyone else's. Apparently someone has made an error with the mechanism used to lower the box. I know I ought to be furious at the fool who could not even lay my brother down in peace; instead I focus all of my emotions in remembering my older brother.

Just as it is with Lucy, the memories come with ease. I remember the handsome, regal timbre of his voice, his fondness for suffocating us with his hugs and annoying us (Edmund, especially) with his kisses, the feeling of safety and security his mere presence radiated even at rest, his calm and cool intellect in the face of the most daunting tasks, his endearing bossiness when he gave orders as the High Ki-

"Aslan bless and keep you, Su, until Edmund and I return."

That name. That horrible, blasted name. That wretched deserter whose name I will never-

Edmund...

Oh, mercy, how I need Edmund here to hold me!

No, Susan. Don't be daft. It's the mercy of mercies that he isn't here. Otherwise he would be one of the bodies you will be burying today. He isn't gone. He is alive.

Deeply unconscious and fevered from injuries sustained in the accident that claimed everyone's life, but alive and would soon be awake.

"Barring any serious complication or worsening of the infection."

No, there is no need to think about what the doctor said. He will live. He will heal. Otherwise I will kill him for surviving such a tragedy, only to succumb to fever.

Yes, he will live... to hear that his sister had buried his father, mother, and two siblings while he struggled for every breath for a chance to see them. He will live to know that she didn't even let him say goodbye... to the father and mother he honored and loved with every beat of his heart, the younger sister he would have protected all the days of his life, and the older brother who was and always will be the better half of his soul.

But he needn't fret, for he still has his cold, heartless, wet blanket of an older sister with him. The sister who could not support the flight of fancy that sent everyone he loved literally crashing to their death.

I squeeze the thorn-filled stems of the white roses in my hands, relishing every puncture on my skin and the way blood seeps between my fingers.

By the time I lay the flowers on their individual headstones, even the petals are covered in blood.

Liam Peter Pevensie

Helen Katherine Pevensie

Peter Alexander Pevensie

Lucy Beatrice Pevensie

Tears fall from my eyes to mingle with the blood on the rose meant for Lucy's headstone. She has always loved... had always loved flowers, so I would always put some in the vase in her room. It saddened her to see a wilted petal, or any condition that made the flowers less than healthy.

I am sorry, Lucy. I am sorry, Peter. Mum. Dad. Not even the rain could wash away the mess I've made of my final offering to you. I am so sorry... for all the terrible things I did... for the worthless daughter and sister that I was.

I am sorry, Edmund, for this terrible thing I have done, and for the mess that will become of your life with only me in it.

-oOo-

I may be just the slightest bit depressed at the moment - as you can probably tell from this Tragedy-Fest of a chapter. Reviews might perk me up a bit, thought. ;-)

Thanks for taking the time to read. All glory to our G-D Most High!