Midnight.

She had been unwell for over a week. Edmund thought she looked rather anemic. Pale and weak. You look just terrible, he would have told her had she asked. Well, had she asked in Narnia. But she didn't ask him. Edmund rarely saw the Susan from Narnia anymore. His closest confidante, one who shared most everything with him—even her innermost secrets that neither Peter nor Lucy knew—was tight-lipped since their return ten days ago.

Still, it did not stop him from trying. He made his way to her bedroom, carefully avoiding the creaky floorboard in front of his brother's bedroom door. Peter was still the light sleeper that he was in Narnia, after all.

He hesitated briefly as he arrived in front of Susan's room. He knew Peter would knock on the door, and turn away when unanswered. But Edmund would knock on the door and go in anyway. So he did just that, his eyes averted on the slight chance she was not decent.

He walked into a somewhat dim and stuffy room and noticed the curtains were drawn, the lone electric lamp on the nightstand providing the only light that created oppressive shadows against the dark walls. His sister was an unmoving lump of a girl leaning against the headboard with blankets drawn up to her waist. She had a bundle gripped tightly to her middle, but he could not make out what it was.

"Susan," Edmund said. She looked up, the dark circles under her eyes that have plagued her for days even more prevalent in the dim light of the room. "Are you all right?"

"Yes," she croaked out. "Yes, sorry."

He had asked her that every day all week, and he got the same answer each and every time. "I can't say that I believe you. What's really wrong, Su?"

"It's just the normal trials and tribulations of becoming a woman, is all, Edmund," Susan said with an attempt at a smile. "Nothing I haven't experienced before."

"Trials and tribulations? Such as?"

"Becoming a woman, Ed," she said, lifting her arms to reveal the antiquated ceramic hot water bottle she was clutching.

"Oh. Oh!" Old child-Edmund would have grimaced and left the room. New child-Edmund kept himself in check. "I, er…," he cleared a throat that did not need clearing. "I don't remember them, er, it being this bad. Then."

"It wasn't. It's different this time. Here."

"Oh," he said again.

Susan heaved a big sigh and leaned back on her pillows. "Isn't it past your bedtime?"

Edmund strolled towards the window, and pulled back a curtain to look out to the moon-lit garden below. "Since when have I ever adhered to a bedtime?" he said, turning to give her a smile.

"Well, I suppose you had one when you were ten," she said with an arch of her brow.

"Ah." Edmund dropped the curtain. "Point taken."

Edmund supposed that this would have been an opportune time to exit and leave her be, but dammit, he was tired of seeing his eldest sister so sad. Just two weeks prior, she had been so happy, the happiest he had ever remembered seeing her…

"I haven't had a chance to tell you this yet, but Lu and Pete and I ended up talking before breakfast, and we have decided to meet every morning and go through everything we can remember about Narnia. See?" he asked, holding up the new journal that the Professor had given him. "I'm even writing it all down, so nothing is lost."

When his sister didn't reply, he knew it was time to address the Elephant in the room. It had been long enough, and he was tired of skirting around the issue.

"Perhaps it would better if we let Peter and Lucy know about everything between you and Per—"

"No! No, Ed. You must not tell them. They are handling things so well. There is no reason to lay this upon them." She sat up straighter and looked him squarely in the eye. "I will be fine. I promise. I don't want sympathy… it'd be too much. And I… I just can't."

Edmund looked down briefly to his slippered feet. "I miss him, too, Su. I miss everyone, of course, and always will," he said. "But I cannot imagine what you—"

"I'd rather not talk about him, Ed, if you don't mind. Or any of it." Susan straightened up to adjust a pillow behind her and plastered on an unconvincing smile. "Why dwell?"

Edmund frowned. "Remembering is not dwelling."

"It's just as painful," she countered. "I am finding it hard to tell the difference."

"But it can, and will, get less painful in time. I promise you, Su," Edmund pleaded. "Listen. You don't have to join us tomorrow morning, or any morning if you don't want to. I hope someday you will, but I will not pressure you, and I'll tell the others not to do so either. All the same…you know you can talk to me at anytime, right? About anything. That doesn't change."

Susan fiddled with the screw cap of the hot water bottle. "Even if everything else has changed, Ed?"

"Especially if." He crossed over to her bed and placed his journal on her nightstand. "So, will you? Talk, I mean?"

Susan sat, her gaze unfocused on her bedspread as she continued to twist and untwist the water bottle's cap.

Edmund took her in—the disheveled hair, the sad eyes, the pale pallor of her skin. He hated seeing her like this.

"I don't know," she softly answered, raising her head to finally look at him.

Their gazes remained locked for several long beats, and only broke when she had to quickly wipe away a tear with a trembling hand—the first he had seen her shed since their return.

Of course he did not believe her when she had said she would be fine. But he also knew that if she were to open up to him ever again, he would need to trust her and give her time.

He sat on the edge of her bed, and in a moment of affection that they never acted upon the last time they were of this age, of this place, Edmund took her in his arms and held her.

Susan remained stiff in his arms, and he did not know if he could ever get used to being the smaller of the two of them again. He held her for a good long while, and from the tell-tale shudder she could not keep under control, he knew that she needed this. And when she did not pull back, he also knew that she wanted this.

He planted a kiss to her ear before pulling away, and he braced her shoulders for a moment. Susan blinked away more tears that had finally managed to escape, and gave him a slight smile.

"All right," he quietly said, tucking a limp strand of hair behind her ear. He gathered his book from her nightstand and made his way to the door.

Before he exited, he turned to her and asked one last time, "Are you sure that you are fine?"

Susan nodded, once again the figure of poise and control, and broke eye contact with him. "I will be."

And that was that. There was no further pressing Queen Susan.

He turned into the hallway, quietly closed the door so as not to wake his other siblings, and made his way to his room to make one last entry in his journal before retiring. Despite the late hour, he would still get up early to meet with Peter and Lucy at the agreed upon hour—the hour they would from now on spend every morning, sharing every story, going over every memory they had of Narnia so none of it would disappear.

Susan might not join them in the morning, but Susan would come to them eventually. In her own time.

He hoped.

"When the winds of change blow, some people build walls and others build windmills."—Chinese Proverb

Many thanks to snacky for once again hosting a marvelous exchange, and to my most excellent beta reader, lady_songsmith!

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