I don't own Narnia or the Pevensies, I just occupy all my time with them.
Peter is like the springtime, like the brave first flower that dares to push its way out of the snow-soaked soil and seep up the glorious sunlight. He is the quiet strength of the thawing world as it strives painstakingly towards warmth, towards blossom, towards life. The fragile blue of the young spring sky reflects in his clear eyes, and just like those skies his gaze can be stormy and troubled, and just like those skies, sometimes the rain rolls down his cheeks until the sun comes out again; the only difference is that spring is not ashamed to cry but Peter, he must hide his tears.
Peter is like the springtime in that he brings hopes to the sun-starved Narnians, makes them believe that perhaps even after the snow, scars can heal and life can begin anew. He takes what he is given, the frost-torn lands and the frightened people and his own young, troubled heart, and he does not complain but works day after day to make of them something that Aslan might be proud of, until all three are healed and complete and perhaps satisfactory to him. Peter is not always the spring robin singing its pristine ribbon of melody into the still morning, nor is he the happy burbling of the unfrozen brook, but something of him is there when the last bit of stubborn snow drops from the treetops because day after day after day the spring has slowly worked to make it happen.
Sometimes Peter finds that he is still clinging to winter, and his own shortcomings.
Lucy of course is like summer. It has been like this since before anyone can remember. She is the sunshine and the playful waves and the soft sand of the beach, the vibrant joyousness of the world as it flourishes, the broad expanse of simple, breathtaking, cloudless blue sky. Like the summer, she makes people feel inside that they can do whatever impossible, fantastical feat they desire, instilling in them all a sense of power and worth, of hope, of being loved. Her gay laughter, even in the darkest places, rings of the sort of games that the older children only play in the summer (when their peers aren't around to see them do it). She is happiness. She is life.
Lucy, like summertime, lets herself give in to fancy and sometimes in the sun-drunk stupor of her presence, people find themselves able to say things they have needed and feared to say for years. Her light streaks through the cracks of hardened hearts like the sunlight through the chinks in the castle walls of Cair Paravel. Her touches, feather-light like the waves that softly kiss the sandy shores as the day drifts to closing, heal in ways her cordial cannot, the simple love and compassion and optimism in her smallest gestures bringing a summer feast of hope to her beloved people. They love their merry queen as fiercely as she does them.
When Lucy comes, the harshness of winter seems so far away that even Edmund has a hard time remembering it.
The autumn is Susan's time, when the air is crisp like her speech and the breeze is cool like the looks she gives the unwelcome suitors. There is something dignified about the way her long skirts sweep through the crackling, flame-coloured leaves as she strides through the courtyards, the understated sunlight glinting off the twisted bands of gold in her long, dark hair. Autumn is not gaudy like the summer, nor is it as delicate as the springtime, and it does not have the biting chill of winter. Susan possesses not the girlish enchantment of Lucy, nor Peter's pained strength, nor the sorrow and guilt that Edmund bears; though there are pieces of all her siblings within her, she is not like any one of them. Sometimes she can be coldly polite and formal, masking fury with rigid disdain, but there is another side to her, just as the autumn, though gets chillier with every passing day, also brings times of plenty.
When harvest comes and Narnia overflows with abundance, Susan is the proud warmth of mother nature as she displays everything she has worked to grow. Like autumn's richness, she is ever the one to nurture, to nourish, to cultivate. She blankets her people with an all-encompassing love, a sea of motherly protection that sees its children at their productive peak and the Narnians together in the fields, celebrating yet another year of bounty. Autumn is more than pretty leaves and light, cool winds; Susan is more than a pretty face and her queenly dignity.
But no matter how subtly the chill sets in, it is undeniable that autumn is always travelling towards winter.
Edmund hates to think it, but in the end, he is winter. When first he stepped through the wardrobe, he was the sharp, bitter sting of the freezing wind, full of envy for Lucy, who always drew the adults' attention, full of resentment for Susan, who thought she was older than she was, and most of all full of hatred for his golden older brother who never seemed to do anything wrong and who reminded him of his failures twice as often as his accomplishments. Now he is not winter's razor-keen edge but the slow, thudding, dull ache of a world numbed beneath heavy whiteness. He is the cloudy sky that tries to let the sun through but soon slips back into a swirling snowstorm of sorrow and regret. The gloom, which once he clung to as a defence, has seeped into the pores of his subconscious the way the cold always finds some way to reach even the snuggest of homes and in the winter, Edmund can't help but feel like the trees, burdened under the weight of so much snow and hopelessness.
And yet sometimes Edmund looks out over the clean, glistening white of the snow in the moonlight, and sees not the darkness but the way it gleams freshly, like a new start. And sometimes, he will feel Susan come to stand beside him at his window, her touch upon his arm promising that no matter his troubles, she will listen. And sometimes, he will hear the pattering of swift footsteps and receive Lucy's arms, flung about his waist, promising that however much his own innocence has been lost, some things in life remain pure. And sometimes, as he stands with a blank face but pained eyes, he will feel the rough, gentle weight of Peter's hand upon his shoulder, promising that his despair will eventually give way to hope, and that most of all, he is never alone.
Edmund knows now; winter ends.