A/N: This is a story I posted on my old account forever ago, and revisited recently. I cleaned it up and fixed a few minor errors. I thought I'd upload it to my new account, here, for all to enjoy (and also so no one finds any of my old, horribly-written fics I have over there). Enjoy, everyone, and leave a review if you feel up to it! ;)
The late night breeze whistled through a crack of the family room window, casting a frosty chill through the quiet room. Towering orange flames shifted in response, shifting shadows surrounding the fireplace and sending a lone spark fluttering through the air, gliding down as a dislodged feather from an airborne dove. A faint scent of hot chocolate drifted throughout the entire house, and rightly so; four empty cups stood on an otherwise empty stand near the sofa. On the leather sofa itself sat four children, all fast asleep.
The names of those children were Peter, Susan, Edmund, and Lucy Pevensie, formerly known as High King Peter the Magnificent, Queen Susan the Gentle, King Edmund the Just, and Queen Lucy the Valiant.
But that was in another place. Another time.
Instead of telling a daring adventure, or a forbidden romance, let us tell a story never told before. A story that tells of a family awaiting a visitor – A story worth more than the time it took to write itself.
That night, four children lay fast asleep, each lying on the sibling to the left of them, in a sort of cascade. The children had stayed up most of the night, waiting for a sacred sound: a door knock. Their father was returning home, and despite Peter being of fifteen years of age, he felt as giddy as his younger sister, Lucy. They all wanted to be the first to hug him, right when he opened that door, and greet him with all of the 'I love you's' they could muster. The past six years were the worst the children had ever lived through. It was torture to hear that thirty were killed in a raid, not knowing if your father was one of them, or to hear of fifty troops coming home, and then finding out that he wasn't among them.
The children were wild with anticipation. They had stayed up past the point of dizziness, headaches, nodding off, and more. Then eleven o'clock came. Lucy fell asleep. Another hour passed. Peter asked Susan a question, and a shallow breath was his only response. Edmund and Peter, however, were adamant. They stayed up for hours, talking of fierce battles and castle sieges to ward off the impending slumber. Peter told of the attack at Ettinsmoor against the giants, while Edmund told of the battle against the Calormenes at Anvard.
This went on for hours, but by two in the morning they were slowing down. At four o'clock in the morning the frost was awake, dancing on the windows, but the children were fast asleep. They had either missed their father, or he hadn't come. They all fought with the two possibilities in their dreams, desperately hoping it was the first one. Yet in a strange way they hoped he hadn't come. Not yet, because they wanted to be there the moment he did. They just hoped that the reason behind his absence was a simple setback. Not—not something else.
Three hours after Peter and Edmund had dozed off, Lucy awoke, bright-eyed and ecstatic. She shook her siblings awake with the joy of a young child on Christmas, and ran to their parent's bedroom. She returned moments later, disappointment clear on her face.
He hadn't come.
They were both relieved—yet worried. The day dragged on in silence. Nothing was said; nothing was done. It seemed as if even the clouds had rolled away and the birds had stopped singing for this occasion alone. Mother Nature herself was holding her breath in anticipation.
By two o'clock in the afternoon, their hopes for seeing their father were high, but their patience was fleeting. Edmund and Lucy had resorted to playing with things that children their age were supposed to play with (although with a mind of a twenty-six year old, it was hardly amusing), and Susan and Peter began trying to fight off urges to abandon their stakeout and get out of the house.
"Where do you think he is?" Lucy finally asked.
"Coming home, hopefully," Peter ever so helpfully said from his post at the window, gazing out at the falling rain.
"I just hope it will be soon," Susan added, "I can't take much more of this."
The rest of the day drug on, ever so slowly, and the children were getting tired once more. By that night, they were waiting by the door, their mother in the kitchen. Suddenly they were startled by a loud knocking at the door.
"Mum! He's home!" Lucy shouted, leading the flock of four toward the front door. Helen abandoned Supper as she ran from the other room, trying to get there before her children engulfed her husband.
Peter flung open the door, but the sight that met their gaze wasn't their father. Two men, both fully uniformed, stood standing in the pouring rain, a letter in hand.
They instantly knew what was about to be said.
Back in Narnia, during the wars, Peter and Edmund were no strangers to this. They had often brought the dreaded news of deaths to awaiting families, not unlike these men were doing now. The look on the family members' faces during those dreadful meetings were much like the Pevensies' own. And much like the daughters back in Narnia, Lucy and Susan began to cry.
The men from the army made their consolations as they handed Mrs. Pevensie the letter. She tried to thank the men though her tears prevented any coherent speech. Peter solemnly nodded his thanks and gently closed the door before walking his sobbing mother to the nearest chair. She collapsed into it before clumsily prying the letter open with shaking hands. Edmund remained near the door, watching the procession with his hand gripping the threshold. His knuckles turned white, his nails dug into the wood as he watched his mother suffer. Halfway through the letter Helen couldn't bear to read further and simply threw it down, rushing out of the room, her sobs echoing throughout the vacant halls. Susan slowly picked it up and read it aloud:
General George M. McNullen
23rd Battalion of the British Army
Mrs. Pevensie,
We are saddened to inform you that Mr. Frank J. Pevensie, (Colonel of the 43rd Battalion) was wounded by a gunshot to his abdomen on October 17, 1943. He was taken to St. David's Hospital in Manchester, Great Britain on October 18, 1943. He passed away on October 24, 1943.
Before he passed, he had a final will and testimony written, which will be delivered on or before December 1st. With it, we will ship his personal belongings, and, if you wish, we will send his body, also.
We are deeply grieved at this loss. Mr. Pevensie was a brave man with an undying love for his family. We know that he will live on in our hearts, and we are certain he will live on in yours.
Sincerely,
General George M. McNullen
Susan slowly folded the letter once more, sniffing as a single tear splashed onto the scrawled lettering. It wasn't but a moment before Lucy had redoubled her tears, clinging to her elder sister for all she was worth.
Peter cast a glance at Edmund, and the brothers shared an understanding glance. Edmund sighed. "He's with Aslan now. All we can do is what the letter says: always hold him in our hearts," he said softly. He closed his eyes.
Lucy's soft voice echoed throughout the room that seemed so much lonelier than it had but a few moments before: "Aslan, take care of our father, and tell him how much we love him."