I was determined not to write anything completely new for Christmas...Hmmph, you can see how well that went. This is loosely tied into my Crownless story arc, and I would suggest reading that story as well, though it isn't entirely necessary.
December, 1945
The telephone cut shrilly through the silence of Susan's small flat and she rolled over in bed, groaning, and glared at the clock. A quarter past six, which either meant that Lucy had at last discovered how to use a telephone, or that Peter was inexplicably speaking to her again—Peter and Lucy were the only two people she knew who would be awake and coherent at such an hour.
She waited for the ringing to die away, before pulling the blankets back over her aching head. She felt a little guilty about not answering, but she was still rather reluctant to speak to either Peter or Lucy. Lucy because she could not stand the hurt in her younger sister's voice, and Peter because she knew he was still terribly angry with her for turning her back on Narnia.
The telephone began its persistent trilling again, and a stab of worry jolted through her. Not so long ago Edmund had been very ill, maybe—
She bolted out of bed, not even pausing to reach for her dressing gown, and stumbled down the narrow hallway. The telephone continued wringing like a demented thing until she wrenched it from its cradle and held it urgently to her ear.
"Hello? Peter? Lucy? Is everything alright?" There was a long pause, during which Susan felt her heart begin to race in a desperate rhythm of dread. Don't let it be about Edmund.
"Susan, it's Peter," her elder brother said at last, unnecessarily—even with the slight distorted hissing of the phone line her brother's voice would have been instantly recognisable to her. "We're all alright here," he continued, the reassurance calming Susan's nerves somewhat.
"Oh, right, glad to hear it." She waited, listening to the pop of static in her ear and the faint sounds of Peter's breathing. Despite his assurance he seemed somewhat agitated.
"Do you know what today is?" he asked flatly, a moment later.
Today? Now that the flash of fear was fading, Susan's mind felt slow and muddled by sleep. It took her a moment to realise what he meant, and when she did she sighed in a manner that would certainly be audible to Peter.
"Of course. It's Christmas Eve. Peter, if you're trying to get me—"
"Just listen," he interrupted briskly. "Ed, Lucy, and I are going to the Christmas service tonight—just the three of us, if that's what you're worried about—and, well, I thought you might come."
Susan stared at the faint light streaming through a gap in the heavy curtains on the kitchen window. The phone line popped, Peter waited, and Susan found herself uninclined to respond. The polite refusal, which she felt she must make, was not immediately forthcoming, and that puzzled her.
"Su, please," Peter sounded less angry with her than he had in years, and there was a pleading quality to his voice. "It would mean a lot to Lucy, and me—if you really must know. And, you know Ed's been ill, so—" his voice trailed into silence and he cleared his throat harshly. Susan wondered if he was crying. "Please?" he repeated, and Susan felt her wavering resolve crumble. A wave of sadness and longing, carefully held back by her refusal to be drawn back into her family's circle for so long, crashed over her and she felt tears spring to her own eyes.
"Alright, I'll come." She was certain her voice sounded rough with the force of her emotions, but doubted Peter would care so long as she agreed.
"Six o'clock then? Dad's let me borrow the motor since it's too cold for—I'll just pick you up, alright?"
Since it's too cold for Edmund to be out of doors, Susan thought, finishing Peter's abandoned phrase. I ought to have been there, despite everything. Edmund had always been the one to understand her reasons, the only one who never made her feel judged, but when he had needed her—when he had been so ill everyone feared for his life—Susan had been unable to bring herself to go to him.
"How is he?" she asked quickly, sensing Peter was about to hang up, and desperately wishing to be prepared for whatever the coming evening might bring.
Peter sighed, the sound audible even over the static, and Susan waited, wondering if he would answer at all and feeling her worry increase with every tick of the cheap clock on the wall. "Better," he said at last. "I thought—we nearly lost him, Susan, again—and I couldn't bear that. It made me think about—look, never mind that now. I'll see you tonight."
Before Susan could respond she heard the click of the telephone receiver being dropped back into its cradle and replaced her own receiver. She crossed to the curtains and pushed them back to look out of the strip of grey slush that served for snow, feeling a tear trace its way down her cheek. She tried not to remember, but could not push the images away.
Snow, as white and pure as spring clouds on a bright day, burying a gently sloping land under its peaceful mantle. An old man with merry eyes and a red coat handing her a quiver of red fletched arrows and a gracefully curved bow. Lucy, snow covered and grinning, chasing an exuberant faun beneath a grove of laughing Evergreens. Peter and Edmund stumbling as she and Lucy threw a volley of snowballs at them, only to regain their balance and retaliate with joyful enthusiasm.
Shadows; nothing more. She blinked the images away and pulled the curtains closed. Nothing more. I've forgotten. I've moved on, and I'm happy. But the thoughts were not as convincing as they had been the other times she had used them to strengthen her resolve. One evening of remembering, one night as a family again—surely it cannot hurt me so very much? She knew it could, but for all that, could not stop the flutter of anticipation she felt.
Peter had called—he hadn't shouted, he hadn't offered blame, and he hadn't insisted she must remember Narnia. Surely Lucy would lay aside her hurt for one day—for Christmas. And Edmund—Edmund had never blamed her anyway.
By six o'clock Susan's nerves were nearly overwrought. She had changed her dress five times, debated which of her two coats she would wear for fully ten minutes, and applied and removed her make up at least three times. By the fourth time she managed to smudge her lipstick with her shaking hands she decided against wearing it at all—Peter had never approved anyway—and went to wash her face yet again.
When the bell rang, announcing Peter's presence she briefly considered running back into her bedroom, locking the door, and hoping he would give up and go without her. Of course, she did not do so—it would have been dreadfully impolite, and Susan had always prided herself on possessing a proper sense of propriety.
She gathered up her coat blindly, checked her reflection hurriedly in the round mirror that hung in the hallway, and opened her door with shaking hands.
It was not Peter who stood on her doorstep, puffing and shifting his weight impatiently, but Edmund, and she instantly felt guilty for delaying.
"Ed! What are you doing?" She demanded, already halfway through the process of pulling him inside with the intention of wrapping him in blankets and plying him with multiple cups of hot tea.
Her younger brother grinned, resisted her attempts to pull him through the door, and jerked his head in the direction of the idling motorcar in front of the row of flats. "Relax Su, Peter wouldn't have let me walk here—he just thought you might have changed your mind and, if so, I would be able to convince you."
"Oh, right." She abandoned her attempts to pull Edmund inside and instead stepped out to join him in the icy air. She glanced over at him as she locked the door, studying his face for any sign of his recent illness, but his cheeks were flushed from the cold—hiding any lingering pallor—and his eyes were bright with suppressed laughter. He seemed well enough, and that was vaguely reassuring.
The short drive to the chapel was rather strained. Peter greeted her cheerfully, if somewhat stiffly, Lucy hugged her as best she could in the confines of the motor, but the conversation was stilted at best.
Susan inquired politely about Peter's recent acceptance to university and his response was equally polite, if somewhat less informative than she had expected. Lucy added that she wanted to attend university when she was older—despite the fact that was not particularly common for girls to do so—and that announcement was met with exuberant approval from Peter and a quietly pleased smile from Edmund. Susan herself felt a flash of pride for her younger sister. Of course Lucy would attend university—Susan had always known she would not be content with remaining average.
Light spilled from the stained-glass windows as the four of them approached the iron-bound wooden doors of the small chapel. Susan was fairly certain none of them had been inside since before the war, and was vaguely surprised that the place remained standing. The rest of the street had visibly suffered when the bombs fell, but the chapel remained untouched, standing peaceful and welcoming in its surrounding shrubbery.
She hesitated halfway up the path, feeling her hands shake and trying, unsuccessfully to convince herself it was from cold. Peter glanced back, exchanged a silent look with Edmund—who wrapped an arm around Lucy's shoulders and guided her through the doors—and waited for her to catch up.
"Susan, we do need to talk," he said quietly, guiding her to the edge of the path to let an approaching family pass them. "I want you to know why I asked you to come with us tonight."
Susan remained silent, eyes fixed on the multicoloured flecks of light dancing across the brown grass and the red brick of the path. I think know why. But she couldn't say it. Her voice seemed trapped somewhere deep within her, in the same corner of her spirit where Queen Susan of Narnia crouched, hidden but impossible to forget entirely.
"Susan?" For once Peter did not seem cross with her. He was watching her quietly, and seemed to understand her struggle. "Please, will you let me tell you?"
She nodded bleakly, fighting the haze of tears that made the lights dance and blur before her eyes.
"Aslan spoke to me, when Edmund was ill, but He wasn't quite Aslan. You remember, I know you do, Susan, how He told us to look for Him here; He told us He has another name." He looked up at the window above the doors, golden light slanting across his face, and Susan was suddenly aware that she stood in shadow while the light fell full upon Peter.
Of course it does. Peter was Aslan's golden king, and what was she? A faded echo of her former beauty and grace—an empty vessel lying cracked beneath the tread of careless feet. Hot, bitter tears splashed across her face and she brushed them away impatiently—knowing they would be misinterpreted.
"Won't you try, Su?" Peter persisted, pleadingly. "We can't go back, but won't you try to see Him here?"
She wanted to say yes, despite her bitterness, but not for the sake of finding Aslan. She wanted a Christmas with her family—untainted by her ongoing quarrel with Peter, a Chridtmas whose joy was undiminished by the sadness in Lucy's eyes when she saw her.
"I'll try," she said at last, shakily, and hoping Peter did not question whether she really meant it. I can't mean it right now, maybe I never will, but surely I deserve to be with my family—just this once.
Peter's smile made her feel like a liar, but she pushed the guilt away and returned the expression with as much sincerity as she could muster. He offered her his arm and she accepted, unable to meet his eyes as they passed through the warm golden glow and under the arched doorway.
She hadn't expected the warmth and quiet wonder that swept through her as the voices of the choir rose in a chorus nearly as beautiful as that of the Stars. She hadn't expected to feel as if she belonged when she found herself nearly crushed between Lucy and Peter on the narrow pew, but she did, and for those all too short, glowing moments she could breathe again.
When they staggered back out into the bitter cold of the night, stretching cramped limbs and rubbing their hands against the cold, Susan turned to look back at the shining window and found that the slanting golden light fell across her face like a gentle embrace—bringing with it a promise of warmth, and life, and love. She smiled, linked arms with Edmund and wrapped an arm round Lucy's shoulders. Peter, who had hurried ahead to start the motor turned back, caught her eyes briefly and smiled, nodding slightly in recognition of the peace that Susan knew must show on her face.
Tonight I am whole, she thought. Tonight I am reborn. And perhaps, she reflected later—when Lucy had fallen asleep on her shoulder and Peter and Edmund were speaking in quiet voices as they played chess in front of the fireplace. Perhaps, that is what Christmas means. The birth of a Saviour, and a chance at rebirth for His people.
If you have read Crownless then you know this is the Christmas mentioned in passing in the fifth chapter. However, this is actually a bit AU to my own works (oops), because I wanted to write a hopeful ending, rather than having the Pevensies dissolve into another family spat. Regardless, this is exactly what Susan says it is-a chance. Interpret the ending however you wish in light of that statement :-)
Merry Christmas, Happy Holidays, Cheers,
A