Disclaimer: Not mine.
Susan saw the poster as she was walking by. An old faded square of paper, hung in a small shop that sold collectables. A poster in the window calling men—boys—to sign up for war.
And there, filling Susan's eyes and ears, stood Peter. So strong was his presence she believed he was alive, just for that moment.
Peter, their defense against all enemies; Peter, going off to war so many times, sword at his side (she couldn't remember the name of that sword, but she knew it, the blade, the color, the way he bore it with honour and strength). Peter, their leader, elder brother. The High King above all of Narnia's Kings, true and magnificent and utterly their own. Standing between them and all that wished them harm.
Peter.
For one moment he wasn't dead. He was standing right beside her.
And then he died again.
For Edmund it was mercy. Odd for the Just King, some would say. It was not odd for those who received his judgement. Justice itself could be a mercy.
Susan walked (a different route) along the river, and, just ahead, a London scamp pick-pocketed a well-dressed gentleman. Susan opened her mouth to warn him—she too had learned justice—when the man's hand shot out and grabbed the dirt-stained shirt. Firmly he took the boy's shoulder, turned him around, and removed the wallet from the boy's clutching fingers. In a few brief seconds he took out the money, handed it to the boy, put the wallet back in his pocket, and smiled.
"Come to 804 Chester Avenue, Sussex, tomorrow morning. I'll teach you something better than lifting wallets." He let the boy go. Open-mouthed, the boy stared, then started in fear. He vanished seconds later, money fluttering in his fist, and the gentleman went on his way.
The woman walking behind them pressed fingers over her mouth, choking on her cries. The boy may not show up. It could have been giving money to a thief.
It was mercy undeserved, startling second chances, and she saw Edmund smiling in approval. She heard him discuss the merits, the wisdom (or lack thereof), responding point for point to her gentle arguments.
Edmund.
She ran for home, the ache never leaving, the cries held in till they were gasps.
It'd been four years.
It'd happened today.
Echoes of Lucy lived in many things. Robin calls (she'd followed that first Robin so willingly!), miracle cures, archery lessons, and the richest golden colour in things that lived.
But they were echoes. Not strong enough to call memory to life, to summon Lucy till Susan knew if she just looked over her shoulder—
No. They echoed her but did not make her live.
Susan did not look for things to make her little sister live; she would sooner live in a continuing funeral than live through another death.
Till.
Till a schoolfellow of Lucy's, Marjorie Preston, mailed Susan a small package. Susan turned over the brown paper—warped in round spots, as if water had been splashed on it—and vaguely recalled Lucy talking about this girl. Enthusiastically, at first, though Susan had barely been listening—and then more calmly—almost sadly. They had stayed friends, but not as they were.
Susan pulled off the string, and a small collection of letters spilled into her lap. The brown paper had a note, though the handwriting was badly scrawled and the ink ran in places. I think you should have these. Lucy sent them to me. I wanted to keep them after—the accident. But if it were my sister I'd want to have them.
Yours,
Marjorie Preston
Letters from Lucy. Kind, courageous, wise with the wisdom of the faith-filled, fun, the letters of a girl—
And Susan could hear her sister's voice in every word.
Lucy.
Lucy Lucy Lucy.
This grief is killing me.
A poster stayed tacked to a back room wall. A wallet (bought because it looked the same) sat on a nearby table, with a pile of letters next to them. They did not always awaken the ghosts; indeed, some days Susan would walk through the room and not notice the keepsakes.
Other times she'd stop, her hand flying again to her mouth, and she'd crumple to the floor.
Some griefs do not fade with time.