I just got the movie guide to LLW. This was bad news- now I am busily planning an idea for how to complete the chronicles in movie form appropriately.

I'm curious as to how people think this should go- the book to movie process. As I see it, we have five main stories that must be shot in some sequence, and two that are floaters- Magician's Nephew and Horse and His Boy- but where's the draw for all the strictly movie fans (because we know there are many) if all our favorite characters have moved on?

--- Susan, perhaps?

This is my vision- critiques welcome, but please don't bash the entire idea.- I can't imagine the movies without the original characters- this is my personal idea on how to fix that.

This would be the beginning of Magician's Nephew, which I envision being the sixth movie, although that causes problems for the End of Last Battle- though I have some ideas on how to fix that too…

I originally wrote this as a loose screenplay, but changed it into what I hope reads as a more pleasing narrative (my screenplay was hurried, and very poorly written).

Magician's Nephew Introduction:

She was dancing with a fox, which was rather difficult, considering the height difference. But this fox had done so much for her family and country- she was seeing him in the jaws of a vicious wolf, even as he charmed her as they danced. Her brothers were dancing with dryads, her sister was being led in an intricate dance with a strange, half man half- goat? The faun, the faun, oh what was his name- he was lively and spritely and young and handsome. But he had been hard and cold as stone once- he'd been stone!

The ball room disappeared, and the scene changed quickly to one of her and her siblings, playing in a field. But it wasn't here, in England, it was there, in the world where she danced with talking foxes, oh what a strange world!

She heard their voices, Lucy and Edmund, singing a duet together, even as they were dancing, even as they were playing with her and Peter, and then suddenly they were standing together, older, and she could see them singing.

"Well done, Lu!" Peter said, jumping up from a golden chair next to her. "That was brilliant."

"And I suppose my job wasn't amazing?" Edmund joked.

"You can't carry a tune in a bucket," Peter scoffed.

"He lies, we all know you sing better than him, Ed," Susan laughed, "he's just jealous. Magnificent he may be, but magnificent singer he is not."

All three laughed as they turned to look at her, but as they laid eyes on her, she gasped in pain, and their solid forms disappeared in the blink of an eye.

-----------------

Susan woke with a gasp, her face puffy with the tears of the night before. "Susan," came the voice of her aunt from her doorway. The room was full of moving boxes, bare except for a picture of a boat hanging on the wall. The wardrobe was wide open, with bright colored ball gowns spilling from it, crammed in with little care. Susan closed her eyes again, sighing, before she sat up and got out of the bed.

She shot a brief, angry glance at the ball gowns spilling from the closet, which she remembered dancing in so many nights! But those nights were as unlike as they were like the dream she'd just had- the one that flitted away from her whenever she tried to grasp it, a dream of herself dancing with an odd partner.

"An odd dream," she told herself firmly, shaking her head to clear it of the last vestiges of the memory, even if it had been good. It had also been painful, like this week.

Her memories were persistent. One from just two weeks ago flashed into her head.

She was at a party, with a friend. "Where's your brother? I thought your siblings were invited tonight?" her friend asked, surveying the room.

"Peter went to a dinner party at the professors house with Edmund and Lucy," Susan replied, her interest on the other side of the room.

"Oh," the friend replied, looking disappointed. "That's a shame. Why aren't you there with them?"

Susan's face looked dark and stormy for a second, before she wiped it clear. "I had no interest in the silly things that they would be discussing, Mary Anna. Please, let's not think on it. I'm much more interested with making sure Lizzy Bane doesn't spend the entire night hanging off Tom, because last week he told me he'd spend this evening with me, and she not exactly letting him get anywhere near enough that he could ask me." She grabbed her friend and dragged her towards the couple in question as the memory faded.

"I should have gone, Peter," Susan said to the empty spare bedroom in her Aunt and Uncle's home. "I'm so sorry I didn't. I'm so sorry I fought with you."

She began to cry as she picked up the black dress.

----------

She'd stopped crying by the time she reached the church. Her aunt and uncle sat to one side of her in the first pew. Six coffins stood at the front of the church, with pictures of her parents, siblings and cousin standing in front of each coffin. The accident necessitated the closed coffin, and her uncle had had to identify the remains. Susan wished she could look on her family's faces, but she knew that she couldn't have. As the service began around her, she stared at the coffins, seeing flashes of her siblings superimposed on the still images staring down at her, benevolent and kind.

There was Peter, as he had been during the war, yelling at Edmund, then dazed and confused in a crowded train station, saying farewell to their mother. There were memories from the boring days and the happy days spent at the Professor's place.

There was the sad memory of the angry Peter, fighting five boys singlehandedly, and just barely holding his own, until his brother had joined him in the fray. "I had it sorted," he'd growled unthankfully, before he'd said, "I wasn't always."

"You weren't always what?" Susan murmured to his picture, straining to remember.

She shook her head and her gaze fell on Edmund's picture. His grin jumped to mind, his crushed and broken spirit during the air raid, holding to their father's picture. His distraction during a game of cricket, then his happiness in the latter half of the summer- gone was the surly boy, but why? There was fear and pride in him warring in her, because she knew something was wrong, or had been very wrong in those memories, during that span of time when he'd changed. Something was definitely wrong, because her brother was dead, at nineteen, but something had been wrong then too.

The pastor said something she didn't hear, and she was late to stand, as images continued to flash through her head, ones she couldn't focus on well enough, fuzzy at the edges and silent like an old movie. The boys were fighting, but not angrily, and on horseback with swords. And then there was a scene of battle.

And her brother lay dying.

A scream rose in her throat, and she choked off the thoughts, which were coming around to an image of Edmund gasping, the wreckage of a train around him, but she could see it so clearly because she'd seen him like that before- she'd seen him dying. They'd all died, in horrible pain, and her imagination was grasping at it, at the screams that must have rent the air, a vision pulled together from the pieces she'd heard of the accident, and her memories of war and fear (they seemed so much more numerous than they should).

"You didn't really want to" Lucy to her, in strange clothes, her eyes sad. Susan's eyes unwillingly were drawn to her dearest sister, thoroughly confused.

Remembering Lu was remembering the innocence of youth, without growth. She'd matured without aging- a child in the body of a beautiful young woman.

Images danced, swirled around her, making her head spin, of Lucy as a frightened child, being sent away, Lucy at the Professor's.

Lucy running from wolves in her nightmares, talking to trees, her stories.

Lucy running from wolves that were trying to get them, trying to get them all, Lucy throwing her dagger, Lu on horseback, running from yet more danger, Lucy happy, Lucy sad, Lucy angry-

Lucy in Susan's arms again, safe from runaway trains.

The worst memory was the last memory, of the night before she'd died. Lucy was glaring angrily at her. "Why won't you take your head out of the clouds, and remember? Remember what you once were, Susan Pevensie. What you once did. Who you once were, and come back!"

"I don't remember, Lucy," Susan whispered. "I don't remember."

She closed her eyes as the funeral drew to a close, everyone weeping around her, and one image lingered clearly against the backdrop of the alter, of the four of them together, standing before thrones. Then it too faded into darkness, everything faded until she couldn't see anything. "I don't remember," Susan repeated softly, into the void.

-------------

Susan knew that the world was moving on without her. The sun rose and set, flowers grew and died, the trees shed their leaves. It had been Autumn when it happened, then Winter came and stole away the last vestiges of color from the world, and Spring dawned with colors, but they were never so bright as they had been last Spring and those before them, and even Summer's warmth could not thaw her frozen sorrow. The moving boxes disappeared, except for three, hidden in a corner, which held everything most precious to each of her siblings. The dresses in her wardrobe slowly disappeared, as darker colors, mourning colors, took over. Even on happy days, there was no color in Susan's heart.

"Susan," her aunt said from the doorway, looking in on her niece, who sat on the bed, staring out the window, "Mary Anna is here to walk with you to work."

This would be about where the first two chapters of my story Closure would fit in.