Rebirth
By Kara
Rated: K+
Spoilers: all the books
Summary: It wasn't about believing. It was about learning to live again. Follows "Childhood's End".
It wasn't about believing. That's what her family never seemed to understand. She never stopped believing—not in Narnia, not in Aslan. It was acknowledging something that she'd lost that Susan couldn't handle—agnostic to pain and sorrow, not the god himself.
She wouldn't go to church on Sundays after the war. None of them would, so Mum stopped trying to force them. Lucy's beliefs no longer could be pigeonholed by the C of E, and Mum knew better than to try and force the boys when they were home on hols. Mum and Dad shook their heads and sighed quietly, their obvious hopes of a happy family shot down in what looked like acts of rebellion. But none of them saw. None of them tried to see.
Susan the Gentle became Susan the Distant the second time she grew up. She may have maintained the grace and the charm, but the responsibility fled as soon as she realized there was no country she was responsible for, no reigning decision. No child. Mum and Dad's disappointment was easy to ignore, but it took considerable effort not to flinch at her siblings' betrayed looks. That Pole girl, an interloper that Susan was never quite comfortable with, only annoyed Susan with her constant proclamations of "frivlous" and "flighty". And even Lady Polly (who had never been a Queen of Narnia), could only see the shallow, vain surface of the carefully-cultivated mask.
But none of them had known, in those last days of that Golden Age, except for a healer and her own betrothed, about the child that never had a chance to be born. Lucy knew the pains of growing up a second time, dealing with the emotions in a childish body that wasn't quite ready for them, but that was nothing compared to the what-ifs, the might-have-beens. Susan had hid the pregnancy so carefully, even as she and Sol had marveled over the softly-rounded swell of her belly, biding their time until they were ready to share that gift with the world. And when they'd stepped back into Narnia on the shores of what had been Caer Paravel, she almost wondered if they would step back into that old life. And while love always survives the breadth of time in all worlds, the mortal coil never seems to be able to keep up.
She wished, sometimes, that she could have forgotten, could have worshipped at some false idol that had nothing to do with wondrous lions with velvet paws. She tried not to flinch every time she visited the London zoo, avoiding the big cat enclosure because she was afraid of what power might look out at her from behind those golden eyes.
There were times when she caught Lucy watching her, that second time, to the point that Susan wondered if her little sister knew. Her valiant sister had grown wise the second time she grew up—unless it was retention of the natural wisdom that had come with being a queen. She wondered, sometimes, how much Lucy saw through her game and into the heart of the despair. She never saw pity in Lucy's eyes, but there was always a type of understanding—Lucy might not have agreed with her tactic, but her little sister, devoutest dervish to the altar of Aslan, understood.
But mistakes revisited her, though Susan was careful not to call them second chances. The second time she was twenty-one, queenly airs giving way to a gay flirtatiousness that her generation seemed to thrive on, it was a one night stand. An attempt to reconnect with something she'd lost—a man with unruly yellow curls, much like the ones a Prince of Archenland had once worn. They met at a carnival, and he won her a stuffed lion, something that surely was a messenger of fate. But the connection failed. While she never saw him again, the spark of life took, and she found herself once again cradling a swollen belly. This time, she swore. This time, the child wouldn't be taken away, disappearing into the mist between worlds as if she never existed. This time, her family would know, and they could all share in the joy in case it should be taken away again.
They were all on their way to visit her in Bristol—Mother and Father, Peter and Lu and Edmund, even the Professor and Lady Polly. She hadn't seen the family in months, as busy with school and university as they'd all been. It had also been a matter of pride—supporting herself, even though her job had politely asked her to leave only two months before, and a Queen of Narnia never begged her parents for support. But at almost nine months, there was no way of hiding it—not now. Not when her family was so determined to see her.
News of the accident sent her into premature labor, the doctors said later. Her neighbor rang for the ambulance, because all Susan could do was clutch the stuffed lion to her breast and beg, not this time, no, please… It wasn't until her daughter, head crowned with wispy red-gold curls, was placed in her arms, that she allowed herself to believe again. And to hope.
Sol had been the shining star in her sky, once. She had scorned his advances at first, seeing him only as the younger brother of the King of Archenland. But his valiant nature, his laughing ways that helped burn away some of the stigma and pain of Rabadash—he became to her what Tumnus was to Lucy, in many ways. They had all fallen in love in some form in Narnia—Edmund with his justice, Lucy with her faun, Peter with his people. But she was the only one to give both body and heart to Narnia. And Narnia had repayed her, years later, with a second dawn. Aurora.
Which is why she stood at the door of the manse, Aurora bundled up in her arms, a stuffed lion peeking out of the diaper bag slung over her shoulder. The rector stared at her in askance, as if unsure what to make of her.
"Can I help you, child?" he asked, a look of concern on his weathered face.
"I'd like to have my daughter baptized," she answered. It wasn't the right god or the right ritual, but somehow, she thought Aslan would understand.