Disclaimer: I dearly wish Peter and Edmund were mine—my brothers—but they aren't.
I also wish her companion was introduced in this chapter, but the story didn't cooperate. It's its own thing, not mine, apparently.

Beta'd by trustingHim17, who caught several annoying errors - THANK YOU!

"Only the brave and the broken are kind in this world."
~ Nikita Gill

When Susan got home, her first act was, admittedly, to go to bed. She liked to think that Hester would approve. And Peter would have as well.

But she couldn't fall asleep. She lay there and stared up at the tree branch shadows shifting across the ceiling. Tonight, coming back—she missed the three. Edmund would have quietly, internally gone over Carol's actions, Harriet's, and Nancy's—he would have approved of Nancy, throwing a glance at Peter to double check—and helped her see things even more clearly. Peter would have known the right path ahead, and Lucy would have shown how love made that path easy.

Susan's heart ached so deeply she pressed her hand over it, bearing down, trying to keep it in its place. The pressure made it easier to bear the pain.

But she wasn't alone. "What would you say to that, Edmund?" she whispered. "How did going to a party bring the three of you closer?"

Something to do with actually living, probably. Funny, how living brought the dead back to life in her mind.

Not funny. But true.

So why couldn't she sleep?

"Peter? Edmund?" She paused. "Lucy?"

None of their voices answered, but her own did. Because tomorrow is coming. Tomorrow, when she'd be alone again. Another day of work, another day of struggling to connect, another day of so much pain—

She needed something to look forward to. Rolling over in bed, Susan buried her head in the pillow. What was there to look forward to? The trips she took—she looked forward to them, yes, but they had so much pain attached to them. And she definitely didn't look forward to parties and dances now. Every human interaction, as much as she craved it, was exhausting work.

What could she look forward to?

Peter and Edmund's room. I haven't been in there yet.

It would mean more pain—but it meant their presence would be so strong it would be like they hadn't died, just for a brief moment. Susan needed that right now. She needed them back.

A few moments would be better than nothing.

That resolved, she fell asleep a few moments later. She hurried her way through work the next day, rushed through a silent lunch, and came home.

Only to make tea. She told herself she just wanted something to drink, to steady herself, and if she cried a lot the liquid would be helpful, but…

She knew she was stalling. She just wasn't sure why.

It's not because it's a last goodbye, be quiet Lucy. I'll still talk to them, like I do to you.

It might be the pain. She'd always tried to avoid pain. And this would hurt. She knew it would. So she was avoiding doing it. Setting the teacup down firmly, Susan got up. She would not be a coward any longer.

She didn't let herself pause outside their door; if she did, she'd never go in. She opened it and stepped in, shutting it behind her.

She knew their room. A bed on either side with matching blue blankets, with a window in between (no helpful tree near it), Edmund's a little more neatly made. Peter's pillow was a little off-centre. The smile curving her lips surprised her; she didn't feel any pain.

But she didn't feel their presence, either. So she wandered to Peter's side of the room first. A sturdy, navy carpet-bag sat at the foot of his bed, full of the books that had been sent back from the Professor's. Susan opened the bag, glancing over the titles. They were mostly Greek or Latin texts. Closing the bag, Susan sighed. She never had been good at those subjects. Still kind and kingly, Peter hadn't discussed them with her much, knowing she was lost. They were of no help.

There weren't many other things in the room. But Peter had always been like that, Susan remembered, running her hand over the pillow and feeling the cotton pillowcase. He had little, and did much.

Peter, strong as a mountain, magnificent as a lion—

Susan began crying again. She could almost feel him, silently standing behind her, guarding. Guarding her like he always had. So much of his legacy was his influence on people, rather than what he created.

She'd hurt him, as a king and as a brother, when she'd turned away from Narnia. She'd never said sorry for it. Peter would have forgiven her—wouldn't he? He had so much greatness of spirit; her own pettiness would have been swallowed up.

Wouldn't it?

She wanted, desperately, to ask him for it. For him to grant it quickly; for all to be well between them.

But she couldn't.* So she leaned forward, burying her tears into his pillow, imagining she could feel his hand on her shoulder. Peter, bracing and strong. She missed him with all her heart. Why couldn't she see his face? Why, when he was the leader, the one they all used to follow?

She cried herself out. Her face felt hot as she pushed herself up from the pillow, but she wiped away her tears. She wasn't done; she had another brother. Edmund's side of the room still remained.

Edmund's side had a lot more clutter—books, papers, sports gear belonging to both him and Peter that was all on Edmund's side, and a few bags his school had sent. A dresser stood at the foot of his bed, and a desk beyond that; the top of the dresser was clean, but the top of the desk had four separate piles of papers on it. One pile, Susan remembered from Narnia, would be projects completed but not yet organised and put away; another would be the incomplete projects. Edmund joked that he liked progress to be visible.

She had no idea what the other two piles were; nor what his current projects would be. But she'd leave those for later. She opened the bags first, finding one filled with books, another with ragged, torn clothing, and the third with clean clothing, neatly folded. She ran her hands over the clean clothing—she remembered Edmund wearing that particular forest-green shirt. Once, a very long time ago, she'd offered to embroider a lion on the hem of it, refusing to put it over the heart, where Edmund wanted it, since it would be too obvious.

She ran her fingers over the yellow thread on the hem, tracing along the Lion's back, and wished she'd given Edmund his way. Even though Peter was usually the one more firmly obvious in his following, Edmund had wanted this. And she'd said no.

She closed the bag.

Opening the dresser, she found more clothing. The top two drawers were Peter's, the bottom two Edmund's, and nearly empty. The middle drawer had a collection of beaten up balls, a splintered bat, and two well-used fencing foil guards. Susan closed the drawer quietly.

That only left the desk.

Maybe she should leave it. Peter's pillow was still damp from the tears she'd cried; she'd come back and cry over Edmund another day.

But—that felt like a betrayal. Like Edmund wasn't important enough to do on the same day. Oh, Edmund might have understood; he was like that, now at least—but Susan had enough of turning away. She went to the desk.

The pile of completed projects was all the way to the left side of the desk, and Susan couldn't help smiling, a little bitterly. It had held that same place in Narnia, too.

"You changed in Narnia, yet you remained unchanged here. Edmund—I almost wish I had taken your path instead." She lifted the first paper—an essay on the concept of fairness—off of the pile and looked at the next. Frowning, she bent closer. "It almost looks like a diagram—for a break in? Edmund, what—" She flipped the paper over, but nothing was written on the back except Gas or plumbing outfits?

It was in the completed pile. What had Edmund done?

She'd never be able to ask him. She'd—she'd probably never know. Susan set the diagram down and sank into the chair. How could she be out of tears, but still feel like crying?

She set the diagram on top of the essay. There were six other essays in the pile, two letters from friends (Edmund must have already answered them), and a reading list half-checked off. She didn't recognise any of the titles, and she set it back down. Why hadn't he read the other half? Hadn't he liked the first? He'd never discussed them with her—it would just be another thing she couldn't know.

The to-do pile was right next to the completed one, and there were three other letters from friends. It included a very brief note from Eustace, containing—Susan swallowed—the time and date of the train by which he'd been planning to arrive. Closing her eyes, she tried not to throw up. It wasn't as if she'd ever forget that date, but seeing the way Eustace had—he'd thought—they'd arrive and be together and alive and—

She shoved that pile to the back of the desk, not caring about the other few papers. She couldn't handle it. She turned to the other two piles instead, the ones on the right, and started with the one closest to her.

Surprisingly, the top paper showed Peter's handwriting, larger and loopier than Edmund's. A list of things to take to Professor Kirk's, probably from last term; underneath was an essay of Edmund's that Peter had marked up; two letters Father had written during the war; a painting of Lucy's, of Cair Paravel from the sea; and a drawing of all six members of the family, done at Peter's request last Christmas. Susan swallowed, and reached out and touched her own image. She was wearing a pretty white dress, matching Lucy's, but looked several years older than her sister. She'd been impatient during her turn for the sitting, and her image, despite Lucy's best efforts, looked upset. Lucy had a knack for telling the truth, most of the time.

But—Susan picked the drawing up and set it aside, still trying not to cry. Her own face scowled, and despite spending a good deal of time in front of the mirror in Susan's room, Lucy had not been able to catch her own image well. Still, her parents and brothers were well done, and now—now Susan could remember them.

At the bottom of Peter's stack was a pressed flower—a lily. Susan's fingers started shaking as she reached out to touch it. She knew why it was there. She hadn't given Peter anything, really, to add to mementoes of his family—and so Peter had added his own. "I'm sorry," she whispered. "Thank you for never forgetting me."

One stack more.

The top entry had a date at the beginning, a week before the accident, and Susan, reading below it, realised this was Edmund's diary. He hadn't needed to keep one in Narnia—at least, none that she knew about—since he discussed most things with all of them. Writing and speaking both worked for him, so when he could, he chose to speak with his family and friends. This particular entry—Edmund had been musing on the unbreakableness of Aslan's word, how He said Edmund could never go back. How, given that instruction, it would be wrong for Edmund to try.

But how it was so very tempting.

Edmund wrestled with the temptation, reminding himself that he already knew what happened when one walked away from Aslan's plan. It never turned out the way the sinner intended. Things were meant to be done the Lion's way; not just the results, but the path taken to get there. Because the Lion was trustworthy.

But Edmund's heart still wanted to return. So he dwelt on the good things in England, on his friends there, on his parents, his schooling, his hopes for the future…by the end, Edmund had pretty well subdued his temptation, accepting the Lion's will. Even if his heart still craved his other home.

Susan set the letter down and sank her face into her arm, breathing heavily. "Would you still have been so content, Edmund, if you knew you were dying a week later?"

We accept the Lion's will because it is good, not because it is what we expected, Susan could hear Edmund say. Just behind him, Peter added, Isn't He worth following at all times, in all the places He leads, Su?

Maybe, Susan answered them, because only honesty worked at times like these. But I wish He'd lead me to you all.

She lifted her face back up again, and paused.

Only honesty worked at times like these. When had she forgotten that? She thought of Marguerite, Arwen, and even gentle Beth, how truth had been the only lasting comfort she could offer, but how she'd felt the temptation to hedge, to offer other comfort. Only her grief had stopped her, and her bitterness. But she'd known this lesson before, and needed to remember it. She picked up the next page of Edmund's diary. She noticed the date, frowning—something had happened that day, but she couldn't remember—

Oh. It was the day after her conversation with Peter, late at night**, when she'd disowned Narnia. Edmund had two pages of writing, of wrestling. Susan bit her lip and began reading.

I never wanted her to know my choice. I never thought she would. I never thought she'd completely break with the truth.

Perhaps that's why I'm so angry.

Peter will never be a traitor, he's bent his entire will to follow Aslan, through thick and thin, castle and small house in Finchley.

Even through his siblings' traitorous choices.

Lucy won't, either. She can't, because her heart is Aslan's, and she can't deny her heart. For most people, it's not safe for their hearts to lead. They love too many things they shouldn't, or love the right things the wrong way. But Lucy loves as she should, which is why her heart can always lead. To forswear Aslan would be to break her own heart.

But I never thought Susan would leave either.

How could someone love so much, so deeply, the way Aslan does, and not be His?

Susan had to set the letter down. The Lion's painting on the table, looking at her—she'd never truly thought about how much she must have wounded Him, turning away. She never thought about how much He may have grieved. She couldn't face that painting, couldn't face her thoughts, so she turned back to Edmund's words.

But it's love again, because Susan does love the right things in the wrong way…and now she doesn't love as she should. Her love for us is still there, behind the shiver-cold laughs and fluttering hands, but it's harder to spot. And her love for Aslan…it's choked out.

I never wanted her to know this choice. I never thought she would.

I thought I was the only one who would choke his own right loves by fear and that devouring hunger, for something, anything, to drown out the fear. But she's making those same choices, and it shouldn't be her, I should be the only one…

Anyone can fall to temptation. I should know that better than most. Even Peter. Even Lucy.

Even Susan.

I write these words and my anger drains away, leaving only…emptiness.

Peter's face, that night, so old and grieving; she'd known she'd hurt them, read it in Lucy's diary, but—oh, they'd forgive her, wouldn't they? Even after all this hurt?

Even after there was no way to make it right?

If Susan falls, wiser and more loving than I was, if any of us could fall—what hope do we have?

"Edmund," Susan choked out, crying. "You call me that, even this way? What—what would you call me now?" There was a little bit left of this entry.

But my mind laughs at that question, laughs, and the emptiness shrinks, because I know the answer. I know the Lion reclaims His own.

I know there's a Lion, our God sinless and loving, who draws us back after we fall. I know He loves us so well He will not let us stay where we have fallen.

A walk on a sunlit morning, a conversation I can never forget, and that love—the love that I cannot deny, that breaks me, that builds me up again into a better man than I was. The love that teaches me to love the right things. That reminded me to give mercy, that reminded me to do more than hope; to believe my sister will be my fellow ruler, my gentle queen and sister, once more.

Susan, I never wanted you to know the emptiness of a traitor's choice. But I know, someday, you will believe in the love that brings even the traitors back.***

Susan set the paper down, pushing her chair back, and ran for the painting. She took it up and fled with it, into her room. Looking around, not knowing where to put it, she caught a glimpse of her crying reflection, and walked to place Aslan's picture in front of her vanity mirror. She sat.

"I'm sorry," she cried to it. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have hurt them. I shouldn't have hurt You. I—You promise to take any of us back, the priest says, anyone who comes repenting. I'm coming. I'm here. I'm sorry." The wise eyes continued to look at her, patient, loving, eternal—unchanging.

Unchanging, even to a girl who had every other part of her life change.

"Please," she whispered. "Please, please—don't leave me alone."

*She does get to ask his forgiveness in Time Traveller.
**Chapter three of this story.
***I wrote this in Short Snippets and decided to use it here, if it reads familiar; I altered it just a little bit.