Disclaimer: I don't own Narnia or Susan, I just write about them.

There are days when Susan just wishes she died in Narnia – at least then she wouldn't have to deal with the harsh realities of a world where she no longer fits, where she is expected to fade when she once shone – but then she sees her siblings and feels their love for her and wonders how she could even be so selfish.

There are days when Susan wonders if she was ever beautiful. She covers herself up with paints and powders, hiding behind her mask of dresses and silk stockings, dancing dances that are not really dances (it feels wrong to call it dancing when the music is either too fast or too slow to match the beat of her heart. She knows her heart only beats in time to the music that accompanied the real dances, the ones in Narnia).

There are days when Susan wonders why she had to leave. She doesn't fit here anymore. Not in England, where the world is too gray and cold; she does not fit here. She envies her siblings, who have had much more success in fitting in here – or at least, succeeding in making the world fit them.

There is one reason that Susan wasn't there that day – she cannot stand the thought of travelling by train (she'd much rather travel by horses, but there is a dearth of horses here. Susan doesn't travel very often anymore; when her parents took her to America that summer, it was all she could do to hide her tears on the boat that did not feel like a boat – it was made of metal, not wood). So she did not come when Peter called her, begging her to meet them, lying, and telling him that she did not remember Narnia. (she promises herself that she will tell him the truth the next time she sees him, for she feels that it is too hard to tell Peter the truth over the telephone – another device she hates. She misses the feel of parchment and aches for the sight of a handwritten note).

There she stands, at the wreck of the train station she did not go to, identifying the bodies of her entire family. She has never felt more alone. (do they hate me for not coming? for saying that Narnia was not real?)

There are days when Susan feels so alone. She puts on black clothing, and walks to the cemetery to bury her siblings. She is surrounded by dozens of people murmuring their condolences, as a priest speaks words that mean nothing to Susan. All the while, men pile earth atop wooden boxes containing the remains of the best people Susan knew. Susan wonders, for a moment, if this is how the Narnians felt when they found the Susan and her siblings to be missing. (She thinks it is because she has never felt more lost and she wonders where the Gentle Queen has gotten to. Some part of her thinks it should be raining and that there should be flags and Kings and Queens and royalty and a whole host of Generals and Captains and soldiers and satyrs and fauns and centaurs and dwarves and dryads and naiads and Giants and Animals to cry over her siblings' deaths. She wishes there could be a Lion to comfort her.)

There is one day when she finds someone as lost as she is – a man with sad, dark eyes and an empty smile that mirrors her own. They do not love each other, but there is some small measure of comfort in not suffering loss alone.

There is a day, almost a week before the first anniversary of their deaths, when the man proposes to Susan. He hands her a ring with a small diamond on it, and it doesn't shine as brightly as the jewels in her old crown, but it seems worth more than anything when he tells her ('I know it's not much. It's the only thing I have left of my family – it was my mother's, you know.') She quietly places the ring on her finger and can't help but think of all the men back in that place who would have killed – literally – to make Susan their Queen.

There, one week later, Susan travels alone to visit their graves. She rants and raves at her siblings, at Aslan, for leaving her alone. It is raining (finally), and Susan stands by their graves, quickly becoming soaking wet. Her tears mingle with raindrops and Susan is pleased with that, at least. She wonders what ever happened to the Gentle Queen. The next year, Susan returns. She plants an apple tree by their graves.

There, she says to herself, adjusting her white dress. It is a simple dress, not as gaudy as some of the other monstrosities she saw in the bridal shop, and it is the closest she has come to wearing something worthy of Narnia; something worthy of the Gentle Queen. She walks down the aisle of the small, nearly empty church, smiling at the man standing up at the altar, who is smiling back at her. Susan notices that both their smiles seem less empty than usual.

There is a day when Susan and her husband travel to Professor Kirke's old house, left to Susan after the crash. Susan and her husband explore the house, at last coming up to a nearly-empty room. Susan's husband follows her as she climbs into the Wardrobe, where she proceeds to tell him – sobbing the entire time – about a Lion and a Witch and the Four Kings and Queens of Old. When Susan is finished with her tale, her husband says nothing, save that he believes her. He holds her while she cries for what she has lost. Her husband almost swears he felt a pine needle under his hand, but as he goes to pick it up, it rolls away. He makes no mention of it.

There, the next day, when Susan wakes up, she finds her husband, still awake, stroking her hair, murmuring comforting words. He tells her that she should not be ashamed. He asks her to listen as he bares his soul to her. She listens to him as he tells her about the war and losing his sanity and his brother and his friends and losing a part of himself and coming home only to find that his entire family died during the Blitz. Susan listen as her husband cries into her hair about the horrors of a concentration camp he helped liberate, all the starving children, all the horrible, twisted experiments, and Susan wonders if the people here are any worse than the Witch.

There Susan lies, in the hospital, sweating, in pain, as she pushes and pushes, bringing a small, wailing thing into the world. It is a girl, and Susan's heart gives a lurch when she realizes that her little girl's eyes are the same color as Lucy's were. Susan cries with her daughter over all she lost, and feels, for the first time, hope for the future.

There Susan lies, in a wooden box, as her husband and daughter – now grown – watch as she is lowered into the ground, next to her siblings. Her daughter cries, as her husband stands there, wishing her luck. He hopes to see her soon, for he is getting old and life is harder to bear without his wife (no one quite understands him anymore). He plucks an apple from the tree as they leave.