A/N: This story takes place after the Pevensies disappear from Narnia. Based on the story rooty-boots and I have created, which was also the foundation for "The Artist's Tale" this is the family tree for the story. Susan was the first to marry Erech, an impoverished nobleman from the Seven Isles who she met when Peter was thrown from his horse while they were visiting. They had a son, Dashiel and a daughter, Edina, who died when there was a sickness in the land. Peter wound up falling in love with Susan's midwife, a fiery, redheaded woman named Amelia who gave him a daughter, Susannah (called Anna by everyone). Meanwhile, Lucy fell in love with Prince Corin of Archenland, who I see as only three years her junior and had his son, Lucien, so named by Corin after the boy's mother. Lucien was constantly sick as a child with the same illness that killed Edina until he was healed by the cordial not by Lucy, but by Edmund, who he was very close to. (How that all came to pass is a whole other story). As for Edmund, this story feeds off the Artist's Tale. He and Peridan split up for awhile, during which time Peridan's family pushed him into marriage, and his wife had a daughter Juliette. Without giving away a major part of "The Artist's Tale" for any who are interested, suffice it to say that Juliette has been raised in Cair Paravel with the other children in a slightly unorthodox family arrangement: Peridan is Juliette's Papa, her biological father, but he raised her with Edmund, who became Dada. But of course a little girl needs a female influence, so Peridan enlisted the help of his best friend, Susan, who pretty much adopted Juliette and became her Mama.
While Lewis says the Golden Age was only about 15 years, I consider that information to be apocryphal inasmuch as it's in his letters and not the actual Chronicles themselves. Therefore the Golden Age in this story lasts about 25 years. So the kids are older. Dash and Juliette are about 16, Anna's 14 or so, and Lucien's 13. Juliette is our narrator here. Sorry for the long author's notes...now on to the story! (PS - If you're still confused, feel free to message me and I'll provide a more in-depth explanation)
When you lose someone, the hardest part isn't really the first shock of loss. That's almost easy because you can bury yourself in your love and your grief. You can cry and cry like Anna did, or not say a word like Lucien did, or not eat like Dash did, or sit on your father's knee and Uncle Erech's knee as if you were a little girl all over again like I did. This can go on for weeks and no one says anything. But then there is a point, an invisible line that you only see once you've reached it when inevitably the time has come to move on. Because you are still alive and still here, and you are not lost forever. So it comes time to find yourself again.
We all knew when we reached that point. No one said anything, but the expectation of "moving on" was heavy in the air, as if we could smell it in the smoke from the fire. It had been months since that day in the autumn when we were a dawdling party on a merry hunt. Then Uncle Peter saw the stag and took off, and because he was the competitive younger brother, Dada let out a cry and was on his heels with Aunty Lucy not a nose behind, not about to be outdone by her older brother. And Mama rolled her eyes and smiled at their childishness as she always does but she spurred on her horse because she always follows where Uncle Peter leads. They were all smiling, so happy, and we laughed to see them go. That was after all what they did—rode off together, laughed together, four united monarchs. We all knew it was not four families but one.
We could not have imagined that Dash and Papa would come back the next morning bearing Uncle Peter's crown and Mama's horn and nothing more—not a trace of blood or a body or a breath of news. No one could have imagined the wail that came from Anna's lips, that fierce sound that was loud and sharp enough to give voice to the grief of the whole country. No one could have imagined the cold in Narnia that winter, or that instead of evenings with little groups scattered all over the castle we would bind ourselves together in grief as though sewing ourselves into a shroud. The fire was always stoked almost too high because Uncle Erech didn't have anything else to do. And we barely said a word to each other, just huddled in our chairs and felt the yawning gaps in the circle. The chess board stood untouched because Dada was the chess champion and everyone tried to beat him. The big armchair by the fire was vacant, though Aunt Amelia and Anna drew up footstools beside it and Anna would lay her head on the arm and stare at the fire with limpid eyes. The room was quiet without Aunty Lucy's laugh, and cold without Mama's caresses.
Terrible evenings where the grief was palpable. But we grew comfortable because we knew how to grieve. We could mourn their loss and we didn't have to try to be brave or get better. Then one night, Aunt Amelia stood up and brushed down her skirt and she asked Bors to bring her husband's letters. There were so many—old letters he had never seen, letters he had meant to reply to and scribbled notes about in the margins, new letters that kept coming because the people of Narnia were so lost without their High King they kept turning to him even after he was gone. As though he could come back, like Aslan. There was a mountain of paper, but Aunt Amelia set her mouth in a line and sorted through each one of those letters. She didn't say anything to anyone, and she stayed up until two in the morning, but she finished that night.
That was how we knew the time had come. We started thinking about the country outside the castle, leaderless and lost, and the world beyond that, greedy and ready to pounce. Sometimes Papa would rouse himself from his cloud of grief and note that something had to be done about the succession and remember Galma and the Seven Isles. We would nod, but no one felt strong enough to do anything just yet except to make sure the borders were protected by ordering the captains and the generals to do as they had been doing. I never thought I would understand so much about Narnian politics.
We knew the time had come, but we weren't ready for it. The circle by the hot fire broke up, and we scattered like snowflakes round the castle, sifting through their remnants. We found everything as they had left it months before and that seemed worse, because when I held Mama's embroidery hoop, the threaded needle told me she would be back any moment with the silk she had been hunting for. Daily living hurt much more, because it meant that life had to go on without them. And the castle was so quiet.
The best thing I could think of to do was follow my old routine as much as possible, and so one day I began again. Breakfast, then a walk in the garden. It wasn't a pleasant walk because I was thinking about everyone—how Papa hardly seemed to remember how to eat, how Lucien hadn't spoken a word for…I tabulated in my head. Two days. I was worried about him. Lucien didn't talk much at the best of times unless he was in a classroom. Only Aunty Lucy and Dada knew his secrets, and they were both gone. And Dash…I stopped myself. All the joy I had known with Dash belonged to another world. A world where the summer sun shone and the High King Peter was sitting at his rightful place on the throne of Narnia.
I went to the garden gate and when I looked out at the fields I was not surprised to see Dash trudging through the snow. He hadn't even shown me half his secret places, but I knew he was seeking one out now. His curly head was down and his shoulders were sagging. I wanted to run to him and be with him, but I didn't know what we could say. Usually our encounters were full of mute ecstasy, and one little sigh said more than Dada and Papa said to each other in a whole evening of banter. Dash's hair seemed very black against the snow and the white sky. I watched until he disappeared.
Then I turned and went inside. The getting up, the eating, the thinking, these were mechanical things I learned to do even in the depths of my grief. The hard part was the next step in my old routine, the hour in the music room.
When I entered the room, everything was just as we had left it. My score was still open to the page I had been working on the last day we had together. I couldn't even remember that lesson, because I thought there would be a never ending string after, but I tried to recreate it in my head. I sat at my stand and looked at the notes. I tried to summon up the image of Dada before me, conducting with that little half smile on his face. I tried to sing and imagine him correcting me. "No, no, Juliette. Not so much vibrato. Clear and sharp." I tried to find my voice for him, but it stuck in my throat. I went to the window and cried. I cried for my Dada who I loved so, the black haired man who came one day and told me he was going to take me away and make me a princess. I didn't know who would intercede when Papa became too strict. I didn't know who would tell me the best bedtime stories anymore, or who would really hear my voice. I choked on my sobs. I wasn't ready to move on. I wasn't strong enough.
After a long time I got up and wiped my tears with my cuff. That was what Dada used to do if he ever found me crying. Mama and Papa always had clean handkerchiefs, but Papa never did. He was forever getting them soiled, as fast as I could make them, and I made them by the dozen. But he never had a clean one, so if I was crying, he would draw me onto his knee and give me a hug and wipe my cheeks with his cuff. I would soil his silk shirts that way, but he didn't seem to mind.
Dada had a lovely voice. Sometimes when I was very sad, he would sing to me, quietly, as if his song was a secret. He had a song he made up just for me, and he would sing it to comfort me. I hummed this to myself as I wandered around the room thinking of Dada. I brushed my fingers over his instruments and mine. I peered at the rolls of sheet music I had organized so neatly but which Dada had ruffled when looking for something one day. I brushed the scattered papers with my fingertips, thinking that I would never have the heart to straighten them now. I wanted to hold onto every last trace he left.
I turned around, and my eyes fell on the writing desk. There was a score spread out on it, and I went over to peer at it and gasped when I saw what it was. One of Dada's songs, unfinished. I sat down and scanned the notes and notations, and the music started to play in my head. I could hear it so clearly that even when I reached the end of Dada's markings, the song went on. I bit my lip, and without pausing to think too much about what I was doing, I dipped his pen in ink and finished what I heard. It was as if Dada was singing in my ear. I knew his song.
Sometimes it was hard to grasped and almost escaped me, but I thought hard of Dada. I paced the room and buried my hands in my hair. I looked around the room, and it was as though I could see the notes hanging in the air. I only had to reach out and snatch them. And when I did, I saw that Dada was there too, and he was smiling his little half smile and nodding his approval.
I became so absorbed in my work that I didn't hear the door open or anyone step inside, yet I wasn't surprised when I heard Lucien's voice in my ear. "That's one of Uncle's songs."
The spell broke, and I looked up and nodded. Only then did I realize that tears were running down my cheeks. "It needed finishing."
He nodded too, and laid his hand on my shoulder. I covered his hand with mine; Lucien doesn't touch people unless he needs them. He reached out and brushed Dada's part of the score with his fingertips. "It was like he was here. Wasn't it." This was not a question.
"You know," I returned softly.
He shook his head, his eyes filling. "No, I don't." His voice broke.
I looked up at him. Poor Lucien looked so lost, and so pale and lonely. Dada was still hovering so close to me, and I wanted to share that with him. I stood up and took his hand. "Come on. I'll show you."
I pulled him through the halls and passages of the castle until we came to Papa and Dada's bed chamber. I knew Papa was in his studio, so I drew Lucien inside. He stood for a moment, looking at the hearth. The chess board was set up as it always was, and there was a stack of books on the table. The wine rack was full. These were all the little trappings of our childhood evenings: wine and books and chess and words. Someone was always talking in this bedchamber, but now it was silent. Neither of us could say a word.
While Lucien was examining the books, I went over to the chest of drawers and pulled out one of Dada's tunics. It was black, and emblazoned with his crest. Somehow the warm softness of the tunic was more comforting than the cold jewels he wore. I went to the wardrobe and took out a cloak too, but not before I stared inside for a moment. Dada was still hovering near me, and something in the air vibrated as I leaned inside and smelled the fresh cedar and rosewood. I reached into the back and was somehow surprised to find my fingertips brushing against wood. Surely Dada was on the other side, waiting.
I shook myself free of this fantasy and carried the clothes to Lucien. "You could wear these," I offered.
He looked at me, then the clothes and buried his face in them. "Oh…" he murmured, muffled against the fabric. "They smell like him. They do." And the next thing I knew, Lucien was sobbing, sobbing into the fine fabric. This was the first time he had cried. Uncle Corin said he sat up and stared at the candle burning all through the night. He did not speak unless absolutely necessary. But now the sobs wracked his thin body so deeply I was scared he would have an attack, forgetting that he had been cured of his illness forever by none other than Dada.
So I held him and let him cry. Eventually his coughing, bitter tears turned into a softer weeping, the keening of real sorrow. I kissed his pale curls and rocked him until he slept with his head on my lap, using Dada's clothes as a pillow. Then I stroked his back and rocked him, humming one of Dada's songs while he slept. I thought that he looked like a little boy, that he looked as he did when he was sleeping after one of his attacks. I knew he was sick from this loss—we all were. But I vowed I would take care of him.
After a time, Papa came in. He was very pale too, and there were dark circles under his eyes. He had looked this way since the fall. He didn't sleep and spent many hours in his studio, but he never seemed to paint anything, just stare at the canvas with the brush hanging listlessly from his fingers. He barely had the energy to raise his eyebrows at the picture Lucien and I made.
"Lucien needed…" I began, but trailed off. I didn't know how to find the words for what he needed.
That didn't seem to matter to Papa. He heaved a sigh and sat on his bed, pulling off his boots. Then he lay down, fully dressed, and twitched the curtains shut. I thought that he looked like a sick man, and I knew the cause. He knew the cause as well, but none of us knew the cure. I bent over Lucien's sleeping head and I let myself cry a few silent tears, wishing all the while that Dada would come and wipe away my tears with his cuff and find a way to rouse Papa. At the moment all I had was Lucien, and I held him tight.