~ Of Hearth and Home ~

A/N: Once I began Peter's book, I knew I'd be writing the other Pevensie children as well. This story spent a while longer than Edmund's and Peter's in my head, because of other projects--but I couldn't seem to put it down. It's also going to be slow going, compared to the other books in the "Blades of Narnia" series, because I have other works to write. You might want to read the other books in the "Blades of Narnia" series, because events in each book hinge on a lot of what has happened in the previous ones. See my profile for a list of the books in order.

Susan's an interesting character. She alone of the main characters was not allowed back into Narnia at the end of the Chronicles. I always wondered what would have driven her to deny and forget Narnia, and it's one of those things I wish I could ask C.S. Lewis to this day. I like to think there's more to it than the little Lewis tells us. Maybe she'll tell me herself....

Ch 1: Missing Children

Helen Pevensie scrubbed a cup and saucer, humming along to the radio in the parlor. She glanced out the kitchen window into the little backyard. The empty backyard.

Where on earth were her sons and daughters? Since the beginning of summer holiday, not one of them had spent any more time than necessary indoors.

After their stay at Professor Kirke's house during the war, Helen felt a different set of children had been returned to her. Quieter. More focused. Less prone to the play and laughter that ought to accompany children. And everywhere they went, strangers stopped to stare, as if quite uncertain what they were looking at. Whenever this happened, Helen returned the stares with a stern, protective look. They were simply children, after all. Her children. And yet … not.

Peter, like a little man with his pensive scowl and constant attention to his brother and sisters' whereabouts. Not very unusual, she supposed after all. During the war, she'd made Peter promise to look after his siblings. But she hadn't realized then how seriously her eldest would take his duty.

Then there was Edmund. Perhaps the most confusing of alterations, since before the Professor's house, he'd shown absolutely no interest in academics. Now his marks rivaled Peter's, and often bested them. To say nothing of that disturbing situation about the maps and the drawings of trees. Well, the doctor had told her Ed was fine. Still, it was a mother's nature to worry....

Lucy, even Lucy, somehow not as carefree as Helen remembered her. Oh, she still smiled and laughed and jumped on the furniture when she thought Helen wasn't looking. But at odd moments, Helen would find her youngest crying quietly, and the other three would draw close around her--a silent wall that seemed to comfort Lucy but somehow left Helen feeling shut out.

And Susan. Susan's change pained Helen the most. Before, Susan would join her to bake and sing and talk in the kitchen, mother to blossoming young woman. They shopped and cooked and gossiped about the latest fashions … before.

The Susan who returned from Professor Kirke's didn't care for cooking. She rarely paid any heed to the telephone when it rang--seemed not to know what to do with it, in fact. And though knee-length skirts were the norm, Susan often pored wistfully over the longer Victorian styles that went all the way to the ankles. When Helen broached the subject with a cautious comment on the price of cloth, Susan stopped looking at those old catalogs at once.

Although she didn't participate in the cooking, Susan was always the one to call everyone to supper. No one was ever late. The other children seemed to revolve silently around some internal schedule Susan had organized.

It wasn't until Lucy fell ill that Helen realized the little mother Susan had become. Without being asked (and well before Helen discovered Lucy had awakened), Susan was up in the middle of the night spooning out cough medicine for Lucy and soothing her with warm compresses.

When had her children stopped needing her?

Something thumped in the next room. Helen froze with a dripping plate in her hand. For a long time after the war, every unexpected noise brought on a knee-jerk reaction to gather her family and hurry to the air raid shelter. Even now, she found herself staring out the window and looking for her children … in vain. She forced herself to relax. The war was over.

Someone jabbed her sides. Helen yelped and dropped the plate in the sink with a crash. She whirled around to find her husband laughing. "Michael!" she scolded.

"Sorry, dearest. I just got home. I'm going upstairs to wash for supper." He gave her a peck on the cheek, then left the kitchen.

Helen turned back to the sink to pick the broken pieces of the plate out of the dishwater. "Shout out the window for the children," she called after him. With a sigh, she pulled out the dustbin and threw away the pieces of broken ceramic. She hated to throw anything out. Perhaps she could have--

Another noise from the next room. Maybe her children had returned after all. She wiped the counter, then replaced the dustbin and turned around. "Peter? You--"

Not Peter. A wild-eyed blond man stood in her kitchen, pointing a pistol in her face. Helen screamed.

The gun fired.

A world away, Susan sprang upright from a sound sleep in her bed, eyes wide and heart pounding. "Mother!"