Susan Pevensie's notion of a guilty pleasure had changed somewhat in recent years. While her brothers and sisters had still been alive, her secret enjoyment had been in acting like a normal young woman: to wear lipstick, talk about makeup, go to parties, all the things that drove Lucy mad or made Peter shake his head in disappointment. "It isn't appropriate for a Queen of Narnia to act this way," she remembered him saying once.
"Then maybe I don't want to be a Queen of Narnia," she'd retorted, and they'd fought, and then they'd gone back to not speaking.
But now they were gone, torn away in the horrific Crash she couldn't help but think of in capital letters. And with their passing, her need to be normal – to be like the grown men and women around her, rather than still tangled in her childhood memories – had faded, too.
Now Susan had everything she'd thought she wanted – up to and including a certain young man – but she found there was something… missing. She longed for the quarrels with Lucy, the scathing comments from Edmund, even the disapproving looks from Peter – all the little ways she'd been able to think about Narnia without giving in to it. Without them, Narnia was becoming what she'd claimed it to be all along – a half-remembered childhood fantasy.
So now, when she sought her guilty pleasure, she found it here, in the Welsh countryside. She slipped between the trees, dressed in soft leather boots and dull-coloured (but exquisitely tailored) clothing. Her friends and acquaintances would never have recognised their outgoing socialite companion – but her siblings certainly would have. And while they had never seen the hand-carved bow she held in her left hand, they would have recognised its inspiration.
A rustle in the branches of a conifer caught Susan's attention, and an unlucky squirrel found itself suddenly presented with an arrow right between its front paws. It fled up the trunk, but didn't manage to make it out of range before a second arrow blocked its path. Diverting around, it swarmed up into the upper branches, leapt across to a second pine, and vanished into the canopy.
Susan watched it go with a small smile. Getting two shots off in the handful of seconds she'd had available was an accomplishment she could be proud of – even if terrifying random wildlife wasn't exactly what Queen Susan the Gentle would have done. There was no challenge in stationary targets, though, and-
A sound cut Susan's train of thought off: a rustle of pine needles, like someone squeezing between too-close-together trees. She ducked behind the tree the squirrel had vacated, watching the medium-sized clearing closely. There were no good reasons to be in this forest, and a bow and arrow wasn't likely to do much good against a poacher with a gun.
The branches across the clearing parted, and a man stepped out. He was tall – seven feet if he was an inch – but eerily quiet, somehow avoiding any of the fallen twigs on the ground at his feet. Only the branches he absolutely had to move made any sound at all, and that was barely a whisper. His hair was as black as Susan's, long and intricately bladed, and his clothes were even more archaic-looking than Susan's deliberately Narnian style. And peeking out from that jet-black hair –
"Impossible," Susan Pevensie whispered.
- were a pair of pointed ears.
The man's head snapped up. It was ridiculous, of course - the clearing was a good fifty yards long, and her whisper had been barely audible even to her own ears - but Susan knew he'd heard her. And while she couldn't see a weapon, she could see his stance. He was a man ready to kill at a moment's notice. She should run.
She stepped out into the clearing, arrow nocked to her bow, aiming it at his chest. "Who are you?" she demanded.
The man didn't seem surprised. Standing in place, he shook his head slightly. "Another one," he said, clearly to himself, but loud enough for Susan to hear. "I really thought I was going to get through a decade without having to kill any mortals."
Susan's eyes narrowed. "In case you hadn't noticed, I'm the one with the weapon. Now identify yourself!"
The man actually chuckled. "You wouldn't dare try to shoot me," he said, taking a step forward. "You're not a-"
Susan shifted her aim and loosed. The arrow buzzed into the ground a quarter of an inch in front of the man's left foot, and by the time he managed to tear his gaze away from it, she had another nocked. "I ask a third time," she said in a level voice. "By the Lion's Mane, tell me who you are!"
The man blinked. "Lion? What lion?"
"You know what Lion," Susan snapped, but her hand trembled slightly. He seemed genuinely baffled - but no-one with ears like that could possibly claim to be human. "All you Narnians know His name."
"Then there's your problem," the man said. "I'm not a… Narnian, was it?"
"Ridiculous," Susan said, her certainty crumbling further. "Are you claiming to be human?"
"Never in my very long life," the man said easily. He took another step towards her, but Susan lifted her bow back into position and he stopped once more.
"Then you're a Narnian, or from that world," Susan said firmly. "Or will you try to tell me there's magic in this world, too?"
"Magic?" the man repeated, and his eyes - grey, but with a dark fire in them - flicked away from hers, examining her body with an attention to detail that would have been flattering - or embarassing - in any other situation. His gaze passed over her left hand, gripping the bow tightly, and then locked back onto it. Susan saw his jaw literally drop.
"Corma," the man whispered, staring at her hand. "Impossible." He shifted as if to step forward, but stopped when Susan pulled the bowstring back tighter. "Where did you get that?" he demanded instead, pointing at her left hand. "Is that one of my nephew's Rings? Tell me!"
Susan glanced at her hand, only allowing a split second before she returned her focus to the man. The only ring she wore was her mourning ring - a thin silver band with a jet setting, and at its centre, a miniscule lion's head carved in ivory. "No," she said bluntly. "I made it." Which was true - from a certain point of view.
The man wrenched his gaze away from her hand, and looked into her eyes. "I think I should start again," he said, and he seemed almost to grow taller as he spoke. "My name is Makalaurë Fëanárion. I am a Lord of the Eldar, and High King of the Noldor. And you, mortal, are in terrible danger."
Susan narrowed her eyes. "Really," she said. "What from?"
The man - Makalaurë - grinned, his teeth white, his eyes dark. "Me."
He moved faster than she'd ever thought possible, and her first shot went wide. But even an Eldar or Noldor or whatever he was calling himself took time to cross fifty yards of uneven ground, and Susan's second arrow found its mark. It lodged in Makalaurë's left thigh, and he went down, falling awkwardly across a treestump. The sharp Crack! didn't sound like a twig breaking.
With yet another arrow nocked - she was going to run out, at this rate! - Susan advanced slowly on the crumpled figure. His knife - the one she hadn't even seen him draw - had fallen from his hand, and he was half-curled around his left shoulder, whimpering in what seemed to be genuine pain. It seemed reasonable to assume he was no threat - but reason had gone out the window the moment a magical creature had appeared in a Welsh forest.
Somehow, despite the arrow sticking out of his leg and a shoulder that, now Susan was close enough to see it, looked dislocated at the very least, Makalaurë managed to look up at her. "Úvanimo," he hissed at her through gritted teeth. "Urco. Are you going to let me die here, mortal?"
"I could," Susan said, tilting her head and looking at him dispassionately. "You tried to kill me."
"Your ring…" Makalaurë shook his head slightly, then gasped with pain. "Do you have any idea what I could accomplish with even a lesser magic ring, let alone a Ring of Power?"
Susan shook her head, keeping the arrow pointed at him. "It's not magic," she said. "It's just a memory."
"Not… from where I'm lying," Makalaurë told her. "The lion - is it the one you were talking about?"
Susan blinked in surprise. There was no way he should be able to see the detail of the carving, from his distance. "Uh, yes," she said. "An image of him, at any rate."
"It has a powerful magic in it," Makalaurë said. "And you say you made it?"
"Not the carving," Susan said, resisting the urge to look down. "I found it after the Crash… I recognised it from my horn. I didn't know how it got into my jewellery box - I thought it was a message, or a… a goodbye. I don't know. So I had it set in- don't move!"
Makalaurë cringed as she swung the bow back into line. "You shot me," he hissed. "Do you expect me to simply lie here? My leg bleeds, and if my collarbone is not fractured, then I'm Ungweliantë. Since you are apparently inclined simply to gloat over my suffering, I must tend my own wounds."
Susan considered this, but not too seriously. Yes, he had tried to attack her - but now he was incapacitated, and whether she was Queen Susan of Narnia, or Susan the Socialite, she wasn't inclined to let an injured man - or magical being - suffer.
Leaning her bow against a log, she unslung her quiver and advanced. She grabbed the knife Makalaurë had dropped, partly to get it out of his reach, but mostly to use. It had a strange curve to its blade, with delicate patterns traced on it, and an intricately carved wooden handle, but most of all, it was sharp. Bending over Makalaurë, Susan grasped the shaft of the arrow.
Makalaurë's eyes widened, showing shock even through the pain. "You're just going to pull it?" he demanded.
"Relax," Susan said, making sure of her grip. "It's only a field point." And with a firm tug, she drew the arrow out of his flesh.
Makalaurë cried out in pain, but Susan was too busy to concern herself with that. She sliced the fabric of his trousers - insofar as they could be called 'trousers', they seemed rather too medieval for that - away from the wound, then uncorked her bottle (another of those items that would have shocked her friends) and splashed some water on it. The wound was oozing blood, and she considered the hem of her skirt for a long moment - but there was no point ruining good clothes. Makalaurë's tunic - there was no other word for it - yielded under the knife, and she wrapped the long strip tightly around his leg, bandaging the wound.
"Now then," she said briskly, "let's see about that shoulder."
"You could have killed me," Makalaurë said in a stunned tone. It had taken some work to get him onto flat ground - work that had included moving what seemed like half a tree's worth of branches - and some careful probing had confirmed his theory that his collarbone was fractured. Now Susan was carefully binding several of her arrows - including the one that she had just pulled from his leg - across his shoulders to immobilise them. "If your bolt had passed through my blood vessel-"
"The biggest vessels are all on the inside of your thigh," Susan told him. "I shot you on the outside. You were in no danger."
"Forgive me if I remain unconvinced," Makalaurë said. "A mortal of your age can hardly be an expert in-"
"I'm older than I look," Susan cut him off. "And I've served on my share of battlefields."
"Really." Makalaurë's voice dripped sarcasm. "It's my understanding that your benighted little nation still insists that women cannot fight, despite the desperation of the recent war. Where was it you served, precisely?"
Susan gave him a sharp look, which softened into puzzlement. "You really don't recognise me?"
"Should I?" Makalaurë asked, and winced as she pulled another strip of cloth tight. "Are you one of those ephemeral mortal celebrities?"
"Susan Pevensie," Susan said, watching his face closely. When his expression didn't even flicker, she added, "Sister to Peter Pevensie." Still nothing. "High King at Cair Paravel."
Makalaurë frowned. "I thought I knew every 'caer' in this country," he admitted, "and I was positive you didn't have High Kings any more. Who are you, Susan Pevensie?"
"As I recollect it," Susan said, cutting another bandage from the half of Makalaurë's tunic that still existed, "I asked first. And you didn't give me a satisfactory answer."
"I suppose I didn't, at that." Makalaurë shrugged his good shoulder. "If you want it in the simplest of terms - I'm an elf. A very old elf."
A swirl of responses ran through Susan's brain. There aren't any elves in Narnia seemed rather beside the point, while You don't look that old would be rather too flippant. "And what, precisely, is an elf?" she asked.
"Are we trading questions?" Makalaurë retorted. "Because you've yet to answer mine."
Susan's eyes narrowed, and she jerked the current bandage rather more sharply than was strictly necessary. "I'm a Queen of Narnia," she said, "bearer of the Horn and the Bow, lady of Cair Paravel. Now what's an elf?"
"I suppose I deserved that," Makalaurë allowed. "The Eldar are-"
"Eldar?" Susan interjected.
"Elves, then, if you must." Makalaurë sighed. "We were the Firstborn. Before your species ever arose, we were there. Immortal, wise, and fair. We lived in bliss, and then we… gave it up, in exchange for this world of dust and ash." He picked up a fistful of loose earth and pine needles, let the wind blow it out of his hand. "There was a war; it doesn't matter who we were fighting. Your earliest ancestors stood with us - or against us, depending. And after the fighting was over, almost all of us left, preparing to take the memory of bliss over this marred realm. I… stayed."
"Before mankind…" Susan tested the splint for firmness, then sat back. "You're talking thousands of years. Tens of thousands."
"I did say 'immortal'," Makalaurë pointed out.
"Yes, but…" Susan shook her head in wonder. "And you've been alone since the dawn of humanity?"
"Close to," Makalaurë agreed, and then looked at her sharply. "But it's my question. Where is Narnia? And where did they get their magic?"
"That's two questions," Susan pointed out, "and they will both have to wait. I need to support your arm."
Makalaurë looked down at his top, which now stopped about halfway down his breastbone. "I don't think there's enough left for a sling," he said wryly.
Susan shook her head, her face mournful. "This skirt was new, too." Kneeling up, she lifted her skirt onto her knees and began to cut.
They faced each other across the tree stump. Makalaurë the immortal elf sat with his left leg stretched out, his muscled chest bare, his shoulder bandaged in dark green, his left arm in a brown sling. Susan the Gentle, Queen of Narnia, knelt with a knife in one hand, her skirt now falling barely below mid-thigh, her hands and blouse still stained with his blood.
"So tell me of Narnia," Makalaurë said, his grey eyes burning into hers.
Susan ducked her head, trying to avoid that gaze. "Narnia is… not of this world. The first time, we got there through a wardrobe. The second, I'm not sure. He called us, I suppose. It's a realm of magic - of fauns and dwarves and talking beasts." She sighed softly. "But I can't go back. I got too old."
"You keep saying 'He'," Makalaurë observed. "Who?"
"My turn," Susan chided. "Why did you try to kill me? You're clearly not a bloodthirsty maniac."
Makalaurë gave her a tight smile. "I wouldn't count on that. But…" He shook his head slowly. "Do you know the story of Beowulf?"
"He kills a dragon and then has to fight its mother," Susan said, frowning. "Why?"
Makalaurë snorted. "I doubt my mother would have come to my rescue even if she was on this side of the Sea… the story is corrupted, of course. But the monster - the dragon comes later, it's a separate species - was me. That's how mortals react when they find out who - what - I am. As far as I'm concerned, it was you or me. And you didn't exactly disprove that, did you?" He tapped his leg, and then his shoulder.
"You were coming for me," Susan pointed out. "And I did warn you, first."
"So did I," Makalaurë said. "But what drove you to threaten me in the first place? I hadn't even spoken then."
"This forest should be empty," Susan told him. "No-one just walks in it - you must have seen for yourself how difficult it is to move through. I know what my reason for being out here is, but all the other people I've encountered - and there have been a few - have been poachers, thieves, or… worse."
"You felt threatened," Makalaurë mused. "Much like I did."
"Except that my fear was based on recent information," Susan said. "Yours is a thousand years old or more." She frowned suddenly. "Come to think of it… you speak modern English, yet you claim to be thousands of years old. How?"
"I believe it's my turn," Makalaurë said mildly.
"You asked why I attacked you. I answered. Now you get to answer my question."
Makalaurë shrugged his working shoulder. "Every two yeni or so - that's a hundred and fifty years of the sun," he added, seeing Susan's confusion, "I pick a mortal to tell some of my story to. That requires me to learn the language. I've just finished with the latest - a Professor Tolkien. He was very good, in fact, not like that Stratford playwright. He was more interested in making bodily function jokes than getting the facts right."
Susan smiled slightly. "I've done something of the sort myself," she admitted. "There's this man - another professor, actually - who I've been exchanging letters with, and I might have let slip a few things. Heaven only knows what he'll make of it all."
"Probably nothing," Makalaurë shrugged. "As the 'fairy' fiasco shows, even those who know a great deal of the truth can still get the facts dramatically wrong." He frowned, and nodded at her. "Well done - you almost distracted me from my question. But not quite. Who is 'He'?"
Susan bit her lip. It was silly, really, avoiding the Name. It wasn't like He was listening to her - and if He was, He already knew she was talking about Him. But over the years, the Name had become a symbol to her, of all the childishness she rejected in her siblings.
But they were gone, now, and here she was, sitting in a forest miles from anywhere with an honest-to-goodness elf. Perhaps a bit more 'childishness' would be a good thing.
"Aslan," she said in a small voice. "His name is Aslan."
The conversation had lapsed into silence. They hadn't exactly shared their life stories - Susan didn't think she'd mentioned London even once, and she didn't even know if Makalaurë had any family (well, there was that one mention of a nephew, but nothing more). She was sure they could come up with more questions, given time, but right now it was more pleasant simply to listen to the humming of the insects in the twilight.
Wait. Susan looked up at a sky that was several shades darker than it should be. For a moment she stared in disbelief, then sat bolt upright. "How did it get this late?"
"The usual way, I imagine," Makalaurë said. "Is there a problem?"
"Only if I don't want to be out all night," Susan said grimly. She got to her feet and held out a hand for Makalaurë. "Can you walk?"
The elf shifted his leg slightly, pushing the foot against the floor, and winced. "No," he said. "Not unless I use a staff - and given the state of my shoulder, I can't do that, either."
Susan bit her lip. "I can already tell I'm not going to be able to carry you," she said. "Maybe I can rig up a trellis of some kind."
Makalaurë looked at the dense forest, now a wall of shadows. He didn't say anything. He didn't have to.
Susan groaned. "This is impossible," she said. "I simply can't spend the night in the woods." She looked back at him, and her face fell even more. "Not just one night, either… good grief, you could be here a week before that leg heals enough."
"Ah, now there I have some good news," Makalaurë replied. "We Eldar have accelerated healing - or rather, you mortals have slow healing. By tomorrow morning I should at least be able to hobble along."
"Then we can get you to a hospital," Susan said.
Makalaurë actually laughed, though it caused him to wince from the pain in his shoulder. "Did you miss the part about accelerated healing? And, for that matter, the part about Beowulf? I am not going within twelve miles of a mortal hospital, and especially not for something this trivial."
"Have it your way," Susan said with a shrug. "When you die up here in the woods, don't blame it on me. But none of that helps with tonight. I haven't spent a night in the woods since we fought the White Witch."
"Another story you've yet to tell me," Makalaurë said. "And while I have slept outdoors - frequently - I would rarely do so this close to winter. Or without being fully dressed."
Susan looked down at her own bare knees, scuffed and scratched enough to make Lucy proud. "We're going to need a fire."
"And some bracken to sleep on," Makalaurë suggested. "It can retain the heat quite well."
"Provided a spark doesn't jump out and set it alight."
"Ah," the elf replied with a smile, "that's what makes life interesting."
After about the fifth time she stopped to glare at Makalaurë, Susan gave up. He was just lounging around watching her do all the work, true, but on the other hand, it was hardly his fault. A fractured collarbone didn't lend itself to manual labour.
Of course, that didn't mean she stopped looking at him - and disguising it as a glare. While she was no stranger to men - nor even to shirtless men - she didn't think she'd ever seen anyone as dangerous-looking as Makalaurë. Some of her suitors back in Cair Paravel - in another life - might have come close, but…
It wasn't something she could pin down. Was it his eyes, with their not-so-hidden depths of rage? Maybe the way his hair was so intricately braided, sending the message that he would never do anything by halves. It could be the hard, lean musculature of his stomach and chest, with a pale tracery of old scars, or the fact that his height brought him most of the way to eye-level when he was sitting down, or simply the fact that he had, after all, tried to kill her.
Or, of course, it could be the fact that she was going to spend the night alone in a dark forest with a topless man, while she herself already felt half-naked. That could be contributing something.
"Lean the larger branches into a cone shape," Makalaurë called across to her. "That way, when you light the fire in the centre, it will be protected - and will burn up, which it wants to do anyway."
"Who died and made you the expert?" Susan muttered, and wasn't all that surprised when he - impossibly - heard her.
"More people than I'd care to count," he said with a touch of sadness. "Fire seems to run in my family, sometimes."
Susan looked over again, to see him slumped in place, eyes closed. Pain showed on his face, but it didn't seem to be the pain of his wounds. This was an older, deeper pain - but she recognised it. It was the same pain she felt over her family's deaths - just written on a far greater scale.
The ridiculous, pyramid-shaped bonfire did end up looking somewhat like the ones Susan remembered from her Narnian adventures - except for the minor fact that there was no fire. She crossed back to Makalaurë. "Do you have matches?"
"I can't imagine why I would," the elf replied, then pushed himself to sit upright. "But if you bring me some bracken and small pieces of wood-"
"Some tinder," Susan cut in. "I do know the word."
"Marvellous. Bring me some, and I can light your fire. Unless you'd prefer to demonstrate your mastery of this primitive tongue some more?"
Susan glared at him again, and this time didn't feel any compunction to stop. "Are all Eldar this unpleasant?" she asked.
"Only around mortals," Makalaurë replied cheerfully. "Or should I say, only around mortals who shoot them in the leg."
"... I'm sorry," Susan managed to grind out.
"Don't be. I was going to kill you if you didn't." Makalaurë shook his head. "It still hurts, though. You can understand why I'm a little on edge."
"Because you're an ungrateful Nolgo with a massive superiority complex?"
"That's Noldo," Makalaurë corrected loftily. His lip twitched. Susan's moved to match it. Then, abruptly, they both burst out laughing.
Eventually, Susan regained control over herself - only to find, naturally, that Makalaurë had gotten there first. He was leaning back on his working hand, looking up at her. "Tinder?" he asked lazily. "Or do I have to crawl around and pick it up myself?"
By the time Susan got the fire going, the sky was as dark as her hair - or Makalaurë's. It was a clear night, with the stars gleaming brightly, but no moon in sight.
Sleeping arrangements had proved… difficult. Someone needed to stay awake to feed the fire, of course, and Susan had decreed that Makalaurë would sleep first. "Even accelerated healing doesn't do away with the need to rest," she'd pointed out.
Getting to that point had required solving three problems, however. Firstly, Makalaurë was too far from the fire to get much benefit from it - and could hardly walk over by himself. Simply hauling him upright onto his good leg had been a struggle, and actually crossing the ten yards or so turned into an ordeal of Biblical proportions. "Why couldn't you have broken your right shoulder?" Susan had demanded, as yet another hop went wrong and nearly dragged her down on top of him.
"Because I'm contrary," Makalaurë had replied, and there was no way she could disagree.
The second issue had been the relative lack of bracken in the clearing or the edges of the forest. The trees were so close together that ferns had trouble getting started, and the clearing was strewn with broken branches that hadn't yet allowed anything to grow through. Even supplementing the bracken with armfuls of pine needles, there was only enough to cover one person.
"At least this problem has an obvious solution," Susan had said, trying for flippancy but straying into despair. "I can't say I like it, though."
"I'm not all that keen on cuddling up with a mortal, either," Makalaurë had replied, "but needs must, I suppose."
Technically, it hadn't been absolutely necessary - there was bound to be enough to cover both of them if Susan spent long enough looking - but that comment had stung her pride. If Makalaurë didn't want to be anywhere near her, that was reason enough to ensure she was sitting right in his lap.
Or, as it turned out, vice versa. The third problem they faced was that when Makalaurë tried to lie down, his face turned pale and his breath hissed between his teeth. "This isn't going to work," he said.
"You could lean against the stump," Susan suggested, and looked back over the ten yards they'd covered to reach the bonfire. "All right, not the stump - but a log or something."
"They're all too low to the ground," Makalaurë said. "The only thing tall enough to lean on is…" He looked her up and down speculatively.
Susan felt her mouth drop open. "You want to sleep on top of me?" she demanded.
"Want to? No." Makalaurë propped himself up on his working hand and looked her in the eye. "But it's the only choice I've got." He sniffed. "Besides, 'on top of' is an overstatement."
Ultimately, Susan found herself half-lying against a fallen tree, propped up by the trunk, with Makalaurë's head on her shoulder. His bandaged and splinted shoulders rested against her chest, which neither she nor he had gone so far as to mention made for an excellent pillow - though she was sure he'd thought it just as often as she had. Below that, they were covered in a heap of bracken and needles. Susan had curled her legs to one side - being very careful to tuck her skirt between them to preserve her modesty - and Makalaurë had propped himself up against her body.
Now she was sitting in the firelight, one hand pressed against the elf's bare chest to steady him, listening to his slightly pained breathing and feeling his heartbeat. In an effort to avoid staring down at his chest, she let her gaze wander until it alighted on his hand.
Susan drew in a sharp breath, and Makalaurë stirred against her. "What happened?" he asked.
"Your hand…" Susan reached down with her free hand to take his, uncurling his fingers to reveal the mass of scar tissue that blazed a circle on his palm. "What happened to you?"
She felt the sudden tension in his neck. "A jewel," he said tersely. "I tried to claim it. It… didn't like that."
Susan touched her fingers to the scar, ran them over it, felt the tortured shape of Makalaurë's skin. Not for the first time that day, she wished she had Lucy's healing vial - but there was no helping that. "Did it hurt?" she whispered.
"A great deal," Makalaurë confirmed drowsily. "It still does, sometimes."
Carefully, Susan took his hand in hers, then brought it up to her lips. The scar tissue felt warm under her lips as she pressed them to it - and then waited for Makalaurë's reaction.
She didn't get one. Very quietly, the elf had fallen asleep.
The night was drawing on, the fire burning low. Susan had built a large pile of timber within easy reach, but pine - particularly the size of branches available to her - burned quickly. So it was with some relief that she felt Makalaurë stir against her at last.
"What did I miss?" he asked in a voice without even the faintest trace of sleep in it. "Balrogs? Dragons? Tanks?"
"Nothing at all, unfortunately," Susan said softly. "It's been drearily quiet."
Makalaurë sniffed. "I suppose that's what I get for putting a mortal on watch. Now, one of my people, she'd have discovered a dozen threats not only to our safety, but to the very island we stand on. Or sit, as the case may be."
"Doubtless," Susan said dryly. "And I'm certain she'd also have been willing to listen to you witter on all night long. But this mortal intends to get some sleep - if the noble Makalaurë is capable of handling things on his own."
"Quite capable, thank you," Makalaurë said. He stretched, and winced in pain as the motion jarred his collarbone. "Though if you'd prefer to stay awake, I'm sure we can arrange something."
"My preferences don't come into it," Susan pointed out, and then had to stop to cover her mouth as she yawned. "I simply won't be able to keep my eyes open any longer."
"Well, then, don't let me keep you," Makalaurë said. "Good night."
Susan closed her eyes and leant back against the tree. Makalaurë was still leaning against her chest, and at some point in the last few moments his head had shifted. His breath now flurried over her neck, warm against her cold skin. With every one of her own breaths, Susan felt the weight of him on her chest, the strange sensation of his body yielding against hers.
It took her about five minutes to realise that she was not falling asleep.
"I heard that," Makalaurë murmured, and his working hand reached across her body to pat her arm. "That catch in your breath. Can't sleep?"
"No," Susan admitted, not opening her eyes. "It's annoying."
"I know exactly how you feel," Makalaurë said. "I once went a week without being able to properly rest. At the end of it I didn't know whether I was coming or going."
"What, the mighty Noldo suffers from insomnia?" Susan snorted. "What is the world coming to?"
"Oh, I never said that," he replied. "It was a battle - and not one of your little ones, either. I would have killed to sit in a clearing with only a fractured collarbone to worry about."
"I knew there'd be something," Susan said. "There's always something."
"That's because we're better than you," Makalaurë said in that voice that Susan still wasn't sure if it was a joke. "But if you can't sleep - how about a song?"
"A lullaby?" Susan asked. "Do I look like a five-year-old?"
"From my perspective, you've only just been born," Makalaurë pointed out, "and you're already within arm's reach of the grave."
"How reassuring," Susan muttered. "If you don't mind, I'm going to try and sleep again."
"The song was a serious offer," Makalaurë said gently. "I used to be… somewhat renowned as a singer. I like to think my voice still holds some of its magic."
"Oh, very well, then." Susan shifted slightly - the most she could do without jarring his shoulder - and felt Makalaurë relax once more against her. "Give it a try."
There was a moment of silence. Then, "This song was written by my cousin," the elf said softly. "It's something of a lament, I'm afraid - most of our songs tend to be. But perhaps it will still your racing mind." He took a deep breath, and began to sing:
"Ai! laurië lantar lassi súrinen,
yéni únótimë ve rámar aldaron..."
Susan almost sat bolt upright in shock. Only the weight of Makalaurë on her chest checked her - if she moved, he would fall over, and probably do something horrible to his shoulder. But his voice, his voice was like starglow and waterfalls, like homelessness and homecoming, like loss and reunion. It was amazing, it was wonderful, it was glorious, it was every adjective she could think of and then some. And it was…
… it was Aslan's voice, she realised. Not from his mouth, not from his maned throat; it was the voice of Aslan's heart, speaking through this elf who had never heard of him. It was peace, and reassurance, and love without end.
And it was one other thing: it was effective. Without even realising she was doing so, Susan Pevensie drifted off to sleep.
When she awoke, Makalaurë was gone.
Susan awoke slowly, luxuriating in the feel of the morning sun on her skin, the gentle breeze in her hair, the unexpected warmth of the bracken pile, the-
-the complete lack of weight. Her eyes snapped open. She was alone in the clearing.
Scrambling to her feet, Susan looked around. The campfire had burned down, but there was still enough heat coming from the ashes that she felt sure it hadn't been long. The rest of the clearing was as she had left it, except that the knife she had left on the stump was gone.
As was Makalaurë.
For a heartbeat, Susan considered searching for him. After all, he was fairly seriously injured - he couldn't have gotten far. And for anyone else, she would have done exactly that.
But this was Makalaurë. He was as arrogant as he was handsome, and as stubborn as he was inscrutible. He wouldn't be hiding in a corner somewhere. If he'd decided to leave, he would have just… left. She supposed she was lucky he hadn't decided to kill her 'just in case'.
With a heart that felt distinctly heavier than was reasonable, Susan gathered up her things. Her water bottle and other sundries were next to where she'd slept; her quiver hung from a branch at the edge of the clearing; her bow still stood propped by the stump. And on the stump was something new: a piece of bark, weighed down by a pair of small rocks. Baffled, Susan picked it up and turned it over.
The letters written in charcoal on the back had a strange flowing quality to them, as if they were written by someone used to a far more graceful alphabet than the Latin. Which, Susan reflected, was probably true.
Makalaurë Kanafinwë Fëanárion, High King of the Noldor, to Susan Pevensie, Queen of Narnia, greetings.
As I assured you, my leg had healed sufficiently by the time the sun rose to make my journey home practical. Since you were sleeping so soundly that you did not notice my initial clumsy efforts to stand, I concluded that you required the rest.
Should you desire to resume our acquaintance, I have a small shelter at the foot of the cliff, an hour's walk to the west. I intend to remain there until my collarbone is healed from the injury you inflicted.
Perhaps we will meet again soon.
Susan shook her head slowly, amazed at the audacity of the elf - and then, not so amazed. There was nothing in the letter that he wouldn't have likely said directly to her face, had she woken up in time. Of course, that would have given her the chance to accept or refuse his implicit offer on equal terms.
"But then, you never did see us as equals, did you?" she murmured to the dawn forest, turning over her options in her mind. To the east lay home, and a fairly ridiculous level of inherited wealth. All her friends, her possessions, her entire life. To the west lay an immortal, conceited elf, exiled to the borders of civilisation, and - lest she forget - liable to wandering off with no warning. It should have been no contest.
She didn't know how long she stood there, as the birds sang in the trees and the sun rose higher into the pale blue sky. She felt the breeze ruffling her ragged-edged skirt, the ache in her back where she'd had to sleep against the tree, the wet patches on her blouse from the morning dew. She thought of Makalaurë, of London, of Narnia. Of Peter, Edmund, and little Lucy. She thought of wardrobes and witches, and the great Lion whose image she wore in her ring.
Susan Pevensie made her decision. Shouldering her bow, she turned on her heel, and walked off, into the trees.
Disclaimer: Susan and all things Narnian belong to C.S. Lewis. Maglor and all things Middle-earth belong to J.R.R. Tolkien. The plot of this story is my own, based on a suggestion by Ailavyn Siniyash.
Author's Note: 'Makalaurë Kanafinwë Fëanárion' is the full Quenya name of Maglor, son of Fëanor. For the purposes of this story, I have assumed that Tolkien was right in stating that Middle-earth is just Earth's past (though I've refrained from stating how far in the past it is). Since Maglor is stated to have never returned to Valinor, it's a fairly common notion to have him still wandering around. The idea of him telling his story to Tolkien has doubtless come up before; the notion that he also told it to Shakespeare is, as far as I know, all my own.
Susan's ring is my own invention; it's actually a fragment of her magic horn, sent to her after the end of Narnia by Aslan. She had it set in jet and made into a Victorian-style mourning ring herself. Whether it still possesses any power, or is just imprinted with the magic the whole horn once had, is left unmentioned.
I hope you had as much fun reading this as I did writing it. ;)