Fearless • P. Pevensie

Write Me A Letter {Epologue}

The Pevensies stay another two months.

I grow closer with each of them. Though, Susan and I often squabble. It doesn't mean much, though. We share a respect that neither of us truly comprehend.

Memories dance into my visions, late at night. But I can't make any sense of them. I've tried writing down all I can remember of a world that's been lost to my memory, but it comes out a jumbled, confused mess. Stories about a frozen river, and beavers. Of a mighty lion. Of a husband I don't recognize, of a son I've never had.

I get the closest with Peter. I do say, he'd be a fine boy to marry. The way that his smile glints in the sunlight pervades my thoughts for many waking hours. His laugh carries so much weight to it, I find.

Lucy talks of a land called Narnia. It sounds familiar. So familiar, in fact, I half believe her when she talks about it. The other siblings shoot each other odd glances each time I laugh at the young girl's ramblings. As if they're all a part of a secret that I've not been allowed to know.

Peter and I grow close. So close, in fact, that I hold him up from leaving, when the time comes.

"Hey. Write to me?" I ask him.

Something washes over his face. An unreadable emotion. When he's looked at me before, it's a sort of melancholy woe. As if he's looking upon an elderly grandmother who's gotten dementia. Someone whose there, but have left all the same. But now?

He looks at me with purpose.

"Every day." He nods, his stance true. "And I'll expect a letter every day in return." He tells me.

"Save for Sundays." I giggle.

He smiles down at me.

"Save for Sundays." He agrees.

Then, just like they'd come. They were gone. For nearly a month after, I'd turn to tell Lucy something. Or I'd knock something over and turn to scold Edmund for it. I'd read something interesting and think to get up and go tell Susan.

I'd be cold. Deep into the night. And reach for Peter's hand. But he's not there. He's never been there. I don't know why I got it in my head that he should be there.

I find myself walking most nights. Always to the same place. To the spare room, the one with the wardrobe. The one that makes my head fuzzy. My heart churn with emotions I don't understand.

Tonight, however, I'm not alone.

Professor Kirke waits for me. Puffing a pipe, sitting on a windowsill. I don't pay him any mind as I do what I do every night.

I sit in front of the wardrobe.

"You've lost a great deal." He tells me.

"My parents." I nod. "Died in a house fire. Firemen said it was a complete loss." I recall.

"Not just them, dear. You've lost a great deal more in your time." He tells me.

My head swirls.

"Can I tell you something crazy?" I ask him, turning to look at him. He takes a puff from his pipe before smiling at me.

"I live for crazy, Rose." He tells me.

I stop. "No one calls me Rose." I laugh. "Though, I will say. I like the ring it has." I tell him.

"Tell me what troubles you. What brings you to the wardrobe at this hour?" He asks.

"I-I don't remember. But it's so persistently there. Like...like a book. The name of a book that you read many years ago. You can describe what you felt while reading it, but when asked the name, your memory fails you." I tell him.

"What do you remember?" He asks me.

"I remember a wood." I tell him. "I remember Witches, and Lions. I remember a pair of beavers, husband and wife- I think. There was a bull. No- a minotaur. And a tortoise." I laugh.

"You remember the Pevensies?" He asks.

"I-I remember betrayal. I remember smiles. Hands holding mine. I remember a dark-haired child pressed into my chest, sobbing about...something. I remember a castle. I remember a husband, and..." I trail off.

"And?" Kirke asks, probing me once more.

"I had a son." I nearly cry, pulling my knees up to my chest.

"It's crazy. Impossible. But...I miss him. I miss my husband, too. I can't- I can't describe the longing I feel to you, Professor. It's more profound than anything else I've felt in my life." I tell him.

He sighs.

"I've never imagined amnesia as strong as yours." He shakes his head. "Aslan must've known you'd fight to return. Spared you the sorrow that comes with losing all that you've lost. I doubt in the morning you'll even remember this conversation at all." Kirke tells me.

I'm quiet for a long moment. The memories I was so sure of just a moment before already beginning to fade into obscurity.

"I don't want to forget." I mumble, barely a whisper.

"None of us do." He assures me. "But it'll be better this way. For the time being, anyway."

I pause.

"Was Peter my husband?" I ask, curiously.

"Yes, child. I do suppose that he was."

I stare at the wardrobe. What wonders did I find within it's wood? What story is left unwritten, taken by my forgetful mind?

"Professor?"

"Hmm?" He takes a long puff of his pipe, as if dreading the worst.

"Why am I staring at a wardrobe?"

He pauses.

"Go on to bed now, child. It will all make sense some day."