Author's Note: I think I'm addicted to writing Susan. I just can't help myself, because she just wants to be written about so much! I find that I like her more and more as I write more about her, because she's just so very complicated.

So this will be in three parts - one for each of Susan's siblings. They're nothing new, really, but I find writing about Susan to be enormously relaxing, and it's a way of combating writer's block with various other ideas. So if it's a bit messy, I'm sorry!

If you could take the time to review, I would love it! But if you can't, then I hope you enjoy it anyway.

Disclaimer: I own nothing to do with the Pevensies or Narnia - that's C. S. Lewis.

My Sister Susan

Peter

My sister Susan was my eldest sibling, and I can't remember anything before she was born. She was always there, from my earliest memories, with her serious little face and her practical sensibilities. I always relied on her more than I could say.

Susan was always there for me – a dreadful cliché, but true all the same. Even when she was small she was ridiculously responsible. I broke my arm when I was six, falling out of a tree in our garden. Susan had been sitting on the grass, drawing butterflies and robins with brightly coloured crayons. She went white when I fell and whiter still when she heard the crack. But she didn't scream or cry or anything like that. That's not what Susan does.

She came over to me gravely.

"Does it hurt, Peter?" she asked.

I was incoherent by this time; I was determined not to cry, but I'm afraid I wasn't very successful.

"Don't move," she said, and I watched her run up to the house. I groaned, but I didn't move. When Susan told you to do something, it was usually a good idea to do it. Susan's suggestions were usually good.

She still wasn't crying when she led Mother out to see me, but I could see that she had been. Her face was red and streaked, but she still regarded me calmly. I felt very grateful to her then, for making that effort for me.

Mother was usually similarly serene, but she was rather less controlled that day. I am not saying that she was hysterical, or anything like that. She was just very tired and exhausted – Lucy had just been born, you see.

"I'll have to call an ambulance," she said, kissing me on the forehead. "You stay here with Susan until I get back."

Susan walked over and knelt beside me on the grass.

"I told you not to climb that branch," she observed. "It was always going to crack."

That was Susan – calm, unruffled, always very certain that she was right. Usually, it must be said, she was.

She was always calm in front of me. Edmund says that he saw her cry several times, but I never did – not once. Not even when … but I won't talk about that. I wonder if she didn't want to cry in front of her older brother. It's the sort of thing she might do, I suppose.

I remember coming home from school with Susan on her first day. I wanted to know all about it – who her teacher was, who she sat with, what she thought of the playground. She babbled agreeably for a bit, and then looked at me in a very strange way.

"You know, Peter, I think I'm going to like school."

I snorted. "You wait," I said. "It's only your first day. It doesn't take long to become tiresome."

"No, I suppose not," she said, in that serious way of hers.

But she was right – she did like school. She was never particularly good at schoolwork – I don't think her mind worked that way – but she revelled in the routine, and the social aspect. Once, many years later, her teacher told me that all the little girls used to take their problems straight to her. It doesn't surprise me.

We fought, of course. All siblings do, from what I've seen of the world. But our fights were never really serious. I would get annoyed at her for cleaning up my room without being asked, so I couldn't find anything – she always had that tiresome habit, even much later. I remember one day when I was about eleven, when she had carefully carried all my previous year's schoolwork outside and into the bin.

"I wanted them!" I yelled at her.

"What for?" she asked, straightening the various things on my bedside table. "You were never going to look at them again. You told me so."

"But – but –" Susan's inescapable logic always caught me. "I might have, someday."

Susan gave me a long look.

"Don't do that," I snapped, slapping her hand away from my bedside table. "I can look after my own bedroom."

"You have to keep it tidy, Peter," she said severely. "Otherwise Edmund might swallow something."

"He's eight, Susan, not a baby!"

She glared at me and stalked off.

But these fights were rare once Edmund and Lucy started to grow up. Susan and I were that little bit older, and we had to present a united front a lot of the time. Edmund was a difficult child – Lucy, of course, was not – and we both shouldered responsibility with little complaint. I resented it sometimes, though – never to my siblings, I could never have done that to them, but sometimes, lying in bed at night, I would wish that I didn't have to look after my younger siblings.

I don't think Susan had any such doubts. She was the perfect little mother to them. I hardly ever heard her get cross with either of them, in fact.

In Narnia, Susan was always there when I needed her. Having her there – calm, gentle – always helped me more than I ever told her. I wish I had told her how much she meant to me, before – well, I wish I had.

As she got older, Susan changed – but so did we all. She began to worry more about her appearance, to begin with. Susan had always been concerned about looking neat and proper, but it went beyond that. She spent hours every day making sure that she looked perfect. I didn't worry too much. All girls grew up, I thought.

Edmund, I think, always saw a bit more of Susan than I did. I was so used to her being her steady, reliable self that perhaps I didn't look deeper when I should have. Edmund, at least, was not completely surprised when it happened.

I'm not going to talk about that, though. I still don't understand it at all.

I don't talk to my sister Susan anymore. Properly, I mean. We exchange niceties when we see each other, but I haven't spoken to Susan herself for quite some time.

And now – well, we might not come back from wherever we're going. I won't write much about the Narnian that the seven of us saw a few days ago. Edmund and I are going to get the rings. We don't know what will happen, but whatever it is, Susan doesn't want to be involved.

I suppose I hate her for it, really. I still can't believe that she would abandon us like that. My Susan would never have done it.

But there is a reason I've written all this, here in this little book that Lucy talked the three of us (she, Edmund and I) into buying. We never said that it was for Susan, but we all knew it.

I miss my sister Susan.

A/N2: Well, what do you think? It's a bit rough, I know.

Interesting fact: Peter is extremely easy to write in first person. Who would've thought?