Susan of Narnia

by girlontheindex

The day Susan was told that she could never return to the one place she felt accepted was the day everything changed. She became unrecognisable. Slowly she forgot everything about Narnia, including a particular King. Convinced herself she was happier with her new life. Then one day she arrives back in Narnia, and is faced with a threat bigger than she could have ever imagined.

1. The Great Pretender

A.N: So this story has been bubbling under the surface for a while now, and I've only just gotten it down on paper now. Please, let me know what you think, I'd love to hear your thoughts! Also, there's a playlist I made to go with the story, you can find the song titles before the chapters. Thanks!

Chapter One

The Great Pretender - The Platters

August 27th, 1942

Southport, North Carolina, U.S.A.

The sun kissed Susan's skin, rays dancing across her face. A pair of clear transparent-framed sunglasses were perched on her nose, and a smile played on her lips. Her legs dangled off the edge of a pier, her pale yellow skirts spread out across the wooden boards. She had hoisted them up to her knees, scandalously, as to allow her legs to bathe in the sunlight too.

Susan couldn't remember the last time she had felt so at peace.

The last few months had been turbulent, to say the least. In February she had to drop out of school due to poor performance. Once upon a time, Susan would have been mortified. The suggestion she wasn't clever enough to stay on at school would have felt like a slap to the face, an insult to her capability. Instead, she had felt only numb. She had been ushered from the school gates into a taxi to the train station, girls staring at her from the windows, and yet it had all felt like something out of a dream. As though it were happening to somebody else, and Susan was merely a spectator. Driving away from her education, she thought nothing about her future, or what it would mean, but instead about her parents. About how ashamed they would be of her, of how disappointed. They'd saved for years so that her and her siblings could attend a distinguished boarding school, her mother working three jobs so that send Lucy and Edmund wouldn't miss out. What would they think of her, wasting her opportunity like that?

Turns out, they were only concerned with Susan's wellbeing. Knowing her better than anybody else in the world - well, besides her siblings - they suspected Susan wouldn't allow her schoolwork to fall behind unless she really wasn't well. They'd taken her to the doctors in Finchley the second she returned home, and after countless tests that had, at the time, felt unnecessary, the doctor decided that Susan was suffering from severe depression and stress. He prescribed her rest, and a healthy diet, and sent them on her way.

Gordon and Helen Pevensie were distraught that they had missed the signs. Felt as though they had failed their daughter. Susan, however, believed it was her who had let her parents down, and withdrew further into herself. Rarely retreating out of her room, Susan became almost a shell of herself. Then, in the July, Peter returned home from army training, a fully qualified soldier. Newly appointed Private Peter Pevensie was the pride and joy of their household. No longer a boy, Peter was eager to join the fight abroad. However his mother wasn't as keen. Sergeant Gordon Pevensie ensured that his son had a few months off duty, as to accompany him to America. Later that month, Susan, Peter, Helen and Gordon boarded a boat to America.

At first the warm weather, and luscious greens were just a reminder of the source of all Susan's troubles. Helen believed the change of scenery to be good for Susan, the lack of air raid sirens and bombings to be just the thing she needed. The more and more her mother told Susan that Southport was necessary to her 'recovery', the more Susan believed it.

And sitting out on the pier in the baking July heat, basking in the sun, Susan could hardly disagree.

Her brother, Peter, sat beside her. His white shirt sleeves were rolled up, and his beige slacks were itching further and further up his legs. His honey blonde hair was uncharacteristically untidy, and a pair of sunglasses were balanced on his nose. Turning his head to the side, he glanced at Susan, and grinned.

"Think we could get used to it, Su?"

Susan didn't move, except to smile back. "Oh I don't know Pete, don't you think the view would grow old?"

Peter leant forward so that the sunglasses slid down his nose slightly, and peered out at the sight in front of him. Crystal, sparkling waters as far as the eye could see, waves lapping gently onto silky smooth sand. A picturesque town stood in the distance, as though it were taken from a postcard from paradise.

"Certainly beats the cobbled streets of Finchley," Peter sighed, as he struggled to take it all in. "I can't remember the last time we even visited the beach. Well, I mean I can, but we weren't in Finchley, were we?"

Sitting up, Susan took her sunglasses off and folded them in her lap, and swallowed as if anxious about something. "Don't," she muttered, her jaw tight.

"It's alright to talk about it, Su, really I think it would help - "

"Sorry, I forgot you were a doctor," Susan snapped, though immediately calmed. It was not in her nature to be cruel. "I . . . I just can't even bring myself to think about . . . that place anymore Peter. Not yet, anyway."

Nodding, Peter understood that he had clearly hit a raw nerve. He didn't quite understand Susan's sudden hostile attitude toward Narnia, though pretended he does, so that she didn't fear he was judging her.

Suddenly, a few men on the opposite pier, fishing rods and buckets at their feet, spotted Susan, and her bare legs. The started to whistle, piercing sounds that attract all sorts of attention, most of all Susan. After some obscene gestures, Susan got to her feet, rolling her eyes. She turned her back to them, after promising Peter that she's not offended, and he doesn't need to go after them. Shifting uncomfortably, he joined his sister leaning on the railing, blood boiling.

"How can you stand it?" he finally says, when the calls have subsided. His knuckles were white.

Susan shrugged. "Ignore it, I suppose," she replied, then grinned, almost mischievously. "Though there was this one time, when I was waiting for a bus. This boy wouldn't leave me alone - quite persistent actually, not taking any of my hints and making wild suggestions. Nobody was around, so I . . . well, I punched him, didn't I? Broke his nose! The bus arrived a minute or two later, and the driver didn't believe the boy that I could inflict such a wound on a boy his size!"

Stunned, Peter stared in awe of his sister. Sometimes he wasn't sure who he was looking at; the bright, pretty schoolgirl from Finchley, or the warrior Queen she was - she had been. Sometimes the two figures blended into one, such as during the telling of the story of the boy at the bus stop.

"You've always turned heads, Su, now and when you were thirteen years older," Peter sighed, shaking his head. "You must have expected similar attention after returning back from . . . well, you know where. The amount of suitors you left trailing in your wake, mother would have a heart attack."

Frowning, Susan turned sharply to face her brother. "I'm not interested in turning men's heads, thank you very much. I've told you, I don't enjoy the attention."

Rather stupidly, Peter snorted. "You didn't seem to mind Caspian's attention," he pointed out, insensitively. Slapping him in the arm, Susan was too shocked to do anything else. She slapped him again, though admittedly not as rough. To her surprise, Peter starts to chuckle, apologising. "I'm sorry . . . hey, I'm sorry! That was unkind of me."

Pursing her lips, the comment still washing over her, Susan looked Peter in the eyes and saw that he truly did mean it. Softening, she folded her arms. "I've half mind to go and find Petunia Fennell, and invite her to the British Consul's Tea Party on behalf of you."

Petunia Fennell was a well-meaning, sweet girl, who had an unfortunately shrill voice and very large front teeth, who had set her sights on Peter. Her mother was one of Helen Pevensie's new American friends, and was just as keen to set her daughter up with a handsome English soldier as Petunia was to marry one.

Peter went white as a sheet. "Please, Su, you wouldn't."

"I'm not sure, Pete, I think she would make a very lovely bride in Finchley, don't you?" Susan teased, starting to walk down the pier, her white shoes in her hands, swinging by her side. "She'd be over the moon you've asked her."

Following behind, Peter wasn't quite sure if his sister was joking or not. "You won't, will you? Susan, you wouldn't dare."

Bursting into laughter at the sight of Peter's pale complexion and furrowed brow, Susan steadied herself on his arm, clutching her stomach. "You should . . . see your . . . face!" she gasped, through fits of laughter. Breathing a sigh of relief, Peter nudged Susan slightly.

"Don't do that to me!" he cried.

Still chuckling, Susan pushed Peter back, knocking him sideways. Peter grinned, and pushed his sister back, though clearly not aware of his own strength. Susan was sent flying a few feet, into the arms of a stranger, who luckily caught her. Immediately full of apologies, Susan turned around, still being held onto. Who she came face to face with, however, left her speechless.

The man, for it was indeed a man, had raven black hair, slicked back, with eyes that were a swirling, hypnotic mixture of emerald and hazel, and they daren't look away from Susan for a second, as though entranced. Clean-shaven, he smelt of the sea air, and it was incredibly enticing. His dark eyebrows were arched, and his coral-coloured lips were parted slightly. Clad in a white shirt, his sleeves were rolled up, displaying his impressive arms. His hands were clasped on her back, tightly, and Susan was shocked at how natural it felt to be held by a complete unknown.

The stranger's gaze was intense, their eyes locking, neither able to look away. Both Peter, and the friends that had accompanied the man onto the pier faded into the background, and it felt as though they were the only two bodies on the pier. "Are you alright, miss?" he asked, his accent a syrupy, American drawl, contrasting completely with Susan's crisp English accent.

"Never better," was all Susan could think to say, unmoving, unblinking.

The man laughed, and so did Susan, finding it infectious, and then realised the awkward yet oddly comfortable position she was in - leaning back, relying completely on his strength not to drop her. Her laugh turning into an untimely cough, she straightened herself out, smoothening her dress down and tucking her hair behind her ears. Abruptly, Susan noticed that her hands were now suddenly empty, and that her feet were still bare. Gasping, she looks around, hoping the shoes will have just dropped by her side, but the pier is empty.

"Um, you come here," Peter called, leaning over the railing. "Down there."

Running to her brother's side, she spots the pearly heels floating in the ocean, bobbing up and down. Groaning, she hits Peter in the shoulder, this time a little more forcefully.

"No need for that! Listen, I'll go and get them," Peter begins, taking off his own shoes to make a point, when the handsome stranger appears beside them, glancing into the water. Then, without a moment's hesitation, he tugs off his white shirt, and shimmies out of his trousers, discarding the items to the side, and prepares to jump. Susan is stunned, by both this astonishing gesture, and the man's Grecian-sculpted muscles. A small tinge of rose appeared on her cheeks, and she was torn between looking away and keeping her eyes glued to his torso.

A second later, he's dived in. Rather expertly too, Susan mentally notes. Her and Peter, were stood frozen for a while, the stranger's friends muttering between themselves. Then, as he surfaces, he holds the shoes high above his head, triumphantly. His friends begin to whoop and cheer, and even Susan awards the man a small round of applause, and a smile she couldn't seem to shake.

They met the man on the shore, Susan holding out his shirt. Her skirts were blowing gently in the wind, and her mahogany coloured hair framing her face. She found she was unable to tear her eyes away from his figure, as he departed the sea. His hair had fallen in his face, and so he swept a hand through the sopping locks. The water that dripped from his body cast a glistening sheen that reflected the sunlight, giving him the illusion he was glowing.

Grinning, he approached Susan, the shoes in hand. "I believe these are yours?" he asked, gallantly.

Not quite sure where to look, Susan instead directed her focus to the pile of clothes in her hands, and held them out for the stranger. "I'll trade you?"

Whilst he changed back into his clothes, Susan looked over her shoulder, shoes now back by her side, only to see Peter scowling. His arms were folded, and his brow was creased. Susan could tell he was disapproving of the whole situation. Rolling her eyes, she instead turned around to see the stranger's two friends gazing rather intently at her, muttering under their breaths. When they saw that Susan had caught them, they immediately ceased, and pretend to be distracted by something behind her.

"Perhaps the custom is different over here, but where I'm from talking about people behind their backs is considered to be bad mannered," she says, matter-of-factly. The two young men shuffle awkwardly on their feet, unable to meet Susan's eyes.

"I apologise for my friends, they find it difficult to talk to pretty girls," the stranger spoke, a hint of amusement in his voice.

Susan swivelled around immediately, finding the man fully dressed once more, though still soaking. He grinned at Susan, and she couldn't help but think about just how handsome he was, especially when he smiled. She was so dazzled by his appearance, that she almost forgot what he had said. Feeling the heat rise once more to her cheeks, she hoped he would assume it was merely an unfortunate side effect of the sunshine. Subconsciously, she raised a hand to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear.

"That stunt was rather thrilling, all for a pair of shoes," she told him, still fiddling with the rogue lock of chestnut hair. "How can I thank you?"

"You can start by telling me your name?" the man replied, stepping closer to her.

Breath hitching in her throat, she swallowed slightly. "Susan Pevensie," she answered, her voice surprisingly steady, despite her frantic heartbeat, pounding away inside her chest. Why was she so nervous? She spoke to people, men, all the time! Usually she was impervious to their charms, brushing them off like one would a fly. Men aren't this good-looking back in Finchley though, her inner voice pointed out, smugly.

"Pleasure to meet you, Susan Pevensie," the man countered, extending an arm in a courteous manner. "I'm Johnny Coppola. May I be so forward as to ask if I can accompany you on your walk? I'd like to know more about what a girl like you is doing in a place like this."

Slightly taken aback, Susan turned to her brother for assistance, however he was failing, try as he might, to hide his unimpressed facial expression. His arms were crossed, and his nose was crinkled as though he were displeased by the proposal.

"I wouldn't want to intrude, of course," Johnny is quick to add, which Susan thinks is very sweet.

"No, no, Peter is my brother," Susan informed him, reaching out to place hand on the man's arms to reassure him. However, the second they make contact again, the butterflies erupt, and Susan's retracts quickly. "I'd love a walk with you. I'll see you later, Pete."

With that, Susan had begun to walk away, motioning for Johnny to follow. Grinning, he jogs to catch up with her, and shoots his friends a wink. Peter shook his head, and watched the retreating figure of his sister disappear up the beach, accompanied by a man she had met minutes ago. Whether it was the duty Peter felt he had to uphold as big brother, or mere intuition, he did not trust this Johnny Coppola one bit.

\\\\\

There was something about the warmth of the sun rays on her cheeks, the silkiness of the sand between her toes, the calming lull of the waves reaching the shore, and the presence of Johnny Coppola that made Susan feel at ease. As though the events of the last year had all been a bad dream, or something dreadful she had read in one of her novels.

Glancing over at him, throwing pebbles into the serene sea, watching with childlike innocence as the stones made ripples, joy spreading onto his features, Susan couldn't help but smile herself. He had dried off somewhat now, though his hair did still have a slight sheen to it. She watched the muscles in his back contract with fascination as sent another stone into the watery depths, the definition clear through his shirt.

Johnny turned around, causing Susan to look away immediately, not wanting to be caught staring at him. He holds out a pebble to her, a smile playing on his lips. "Why don't you have a go?" he suggests. "Unless you don't think you can throw farther than me."

Raising her eyebrows, Susan chuckles, and takes the stone from him. Their fingertips brush against each others, sending shivers down her spine. "I'm afraid you're going to be thoroughly disappointed. I happen to be a champion pebble thrower."

Johnny gestures for her to take her chance, chuckling. "I'll believe it when I see it," he teases. He clearly wasn't expecting much, which is why when Susan's stone flies a good four or five feet further than his did, his jaw drops. He then turns back to Susan, and bows low, causing her to giggle. "I must apologise, you truly are the champion."

Amused, Susan starts to walk back along the beach, though was wading up to her ankles in the water. Johnny follows, observing her with great interest.

"So where is it you come from, Susan Pevensie? I'm guessing you're not from around here."

"Perceptive as well as a poor thrower? Girls must be queuing for miles to snap you up," Susan joked, dryly.

"I'm also a very loud snorer," Johnny added, with a mischievous grin. "How is it that I'm still single?"

Laughing, Susan tried to ignore the part of her stomach that began to somersault when she heard the latter statement. "Finchley," she answered. "I doubt you'll have heard of it. It's in London, though. You know London, of course?"

"London? That rings a bell," Johnny remarked, jesting, with a twinkle in his eye. He entered the water too, walking alongside Susan. "I've always wanted to visit London. Are you happy in Finchley?"

Caught off guard by the latter question, Susan was surprised at how sincere he was. Nobody asks you if you're happy anymore, only if you're alright. Alright is not the same as happy. Alright is a blasé answer, apathetic and cloyed, for when one asking is too disinterested to want to know or care. If somebody asks if you're happy, then they care, don't they? They are curious and concerned about your wellbeing.

"I suppose," Susan begins, then realised she didn't have the heart to lie. "Not really. Not at the moment, with everything that's going on. One step outside and you're instantly reminded of the death and destruction that you try so hard to forget. My street is relatively unscathed, but the street next to ours has suffered more than most. Three houses were wiped out within nights of each other. People try to stay positive, keep calm and carry on and all that, but it's difficult when we're all living in constant fear."

Johnny was listening intently, sombrely. "Must be a change staying here, in Southport."

"My mother said, the first day we got off the boat, that it's like something out of a postcard."

"Why did you come here, if you don't mind me asking?" Johnny inquired. Susan didn't mind at all.

"My father is a Captain, in the Army. He was a professor of literature before he was called up. As a favour to an American General he became friendly with in France, he's come over to deliver a lecture on war to a few universities. He brought me and Peter, and our mother, along. Thought we'd like the new scenery."

Of course she wasn't telling him the true reason she was invited, but she didn't feel comfortable enough talking about her troubles with her own family, she wasn't going to bear her scars to a man she had just met. It didn't matter how handsome he was.

"And how are you finding the scenery?" Johnny grins. Susan couldn't help but notice how he was edging closer and closer to her.

"Oh, I've seen better," she teased, though unwelcome images of Narnia flashed through her mind, and a lump formed in her throat. "The people are nice though. You'll never believe what this boy did on the pier earlier just to rescue my shoes."

Johnny chuckled, running a hand through his inky black hair. "I suspect he may fancy you, pulling a dangerous stunt like that when he should have known better."

Susan felt a smile creep up onto her lips, as the butterflies were once again sent into a frenzy. Then, she felt the back of his hand brush hers, knuckles grazing one another's. Looking up at Johnny, she found him already looking down at her, steadily. Their eyes locked, and neither could dare to look away.

\\\\\

The more time Susan spent listening and talking with Johnny, the more she realised she had missed human interaction. Shut away inside her childhood home in Finchley had perhaps done more harm than good, though Susan suspected she had known that by withdrawing herself from civilisation the problem wasn't going to get fixed. Perhaps, deep down, past the stone walls she had built to protect herself, she wanted that constant pain. It would serve as an excruciatingly painful reminder that it had all existed. That the lions, the witches, and the wardrobes hadn't been a childish figment of her imagination. That the people hadn't been imagined, that the friendships and, dare she say it, relationships, hadn't been created out of thin air.

She couldn't bring herself to think his name, let alone say it aloud. Not since the true realisation that she could never return had dawned on her. It was all poetic, and romantic, leaving the way they did, announcing it to the shock of the crowd. That kiss had been a statement for sure, a way to ensure that he would never forget her, that the people wouldn't forget.

Then one night it struck Susan that he could forget her, that in the blink of an eye a hundred years could have passed, and there'd be nobody to remember the kiss. He was a King now, wasn't he? He had a duty to his subjects. Narnia would need a new ruler when he passes. That would mean he'd require a Queen. Susan was a good judge of character, she knew him better than he perhaps knew himself. He wouldn't marry for duty, he'd marry for love. And that would mean forgetting her.

Susan knew that. It hurt, so much, but she knew. So why couldn't she forget him? Couldn't forget the curve of his lips, or the lilt in his voice, or the eclipse in his eyes. He was everything she could have sought after in a man; loyal, courageous, intelligent, and kind. No other compared to him, not before and not after.

Well, no one had until Johnny.

Susan had known him less than three hours, and yet she could feel herself healing. Listening to him talk about his family, she found herself slipping away from the trauma of the last year, and finally focusing on the present. Focusing on Johnny, and the way his soft, peach coloured lips would form around the words, words that sounded idyllic in his melodious yet staunch accent.

"I can't remember them, my parents. Not really. I was too young to really have any memories of them. Things people tell me about them, though, makes me wish I had some recollection of them," he explained, thoughtfully. "For instance, my dad was this cabbie, in New York. He was this six foot something guy from Brooklyn, with a wide jaw and boxer's hands. The last thing you'd want to do if you got into his cab was to then tell him you didn't have enough money to pay for the ride. But it was during the time of the Great Depression, and nobody had money. Dad used to give people rides, anybody, and when they told him they couldn't pay up, he'd ask that they show him a trick. People sung for him, people performed magic, some were pretty talentless but dad didn't care. He was all for chances, and spreading happiness. I'd like to say that I'm the same."

Susan smiled, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. The sun was beginning to dim in the distance, so her beloved sunglasses had been placed upon her head. Her shoes were back on her feet, as they walked through town.

"And your mum, what was she like?" she asked, sweetly, brimming with curiosity.

"Oh, everybody tells me she was the most beautiful woman in New York. Jet black hair, always wore cherry red lips, cheekbones up to her ears. Never seen without a smile, people say. Her family came over from Italy in the 1890's, escaping poverty. She was an actress, or tried to be. Even had a role on Broadway a few times. Not name-in-lights kind of deal, but made her recognisable to some," Johnny beamed. He then turned to Susan, grinning like the Cheshire cat. "My uncle told me once, when he took me to the pictures to watch Gone With the Wind, that my parents were the spit image of Clark Gable and Vivien Leigh. Could you imagine!"

"Is that who raised you, your uncle?" Susan inquired.

Johnny nodded. "Brought me up in Brooklyn. He's my dad's brother. Fought in the Great War when he was seventeen. Stepped on a landmine at Armentières. Wounded him pretty badly, lost a leg and his hearing. Shrapnel littered his body, some of it's still in there. He never married, which is a shame. I'd love to see him happy. God knows he deserves it."

Reaching out, tentatively, Susan placed a hand delicately on his forearm. She squeezed, gently, hoping that it would give him some comfort. From the smile that he shot her, she assumed it did. "I feel awful, complaining about my family," she sighed.

Chuckling, despite the subject matter, Johnny shook his head. "No, no, I get it. If I had three siblings, I think I'd find a cause to complain."

They continued walking together, down a road that led to a row of holiday homes. With a heavy heart, Susan realised that she'd have to depart soon, knowing that one of the houses was hers. As they neared the familiar weatherboarded house, figures moving behind the curtains, and walked up the pathway to the door, Susan was struggling to think of a way to say goodbye. She didn't want to leave Johnny, didn't want their friendship to end there.

It appeared that Johnny felt the same.

"Listen, I'm staying with some friends at the moment, but I leave to go back to New York soon. I don't want to go though, without . . . well," Johnny tried to say, slipping and tripping over his words. "Without exploring this further, if that makes sense."

Susan let a small 'oh' escape her lips, causing Johnny's head to fall. Not wanting him to assume she was dismissing him, she stood in front of him, placing a hand on his chest, stopping him in his tracks. "It makes perfect sense," she told him, a smile playing on her lips. "I think that it would be a shame if we were to leave each other without wondering . . . what if?"

Unable to stop the spread of a grin on his face, Johnny placed a hand over Susan's, and squeezed. "Brilliant," he exclaims. "In that case, I was wondering - "

Suddenly, the front door swung open, causing the pair to wrench apart, and Susan was mortified to see her father, her mother, and of course Peter, all stood in the doorway, surveying the scene like hawks. Her father had clearly just got in from a lecture, still dressed in his sharp suit, looking both impressive and intimidating. Her mother, meanwhile, was wearing her favourite apron, though admittedly it was stained with splotches of flour and egg yolk - the enticing scent of freshly baked Victoria sponge came wafting out. Peter stood behind their mother, arms crossed and lips pursed. Obviously his opinion on the situation hadn't changed since earlier. Susan resisted the urge to roll her eyes.

"Is this the young man who jumped in to fetch your shoes?" her father blurted out, in a rather monotonous tone, eyes narrowed slightly.

"Yes, it is," Susan answered, boldly, refusing to let him threaten her the only way a father can; through stern looks.

Her mother squealed, despite herself, and flashed a toothy grin. "How wonderful! How brave!" she cried, to the dismay of her husband beside her.

"If you don't mind, Johnny was just going to ask me something," Susan sighed, and turned her attention back to American. "You were saying?"

Shuffling on his feet slightly, Johnny's eyes flitted from the onlookers in the doorway, to the girl in front of him. "Just pretend they're not here," Susan whispered, with an encouraging smile. It seemed to work, as Johnny smiles back.

"I was wondering if, well if you'd like to attend the British Consul's Tea Party with me?" he managed, stumbling only once.

Surprised at the invitation, and how formal the occasion was - she had expected another few walks on the beach before they were to attend such a noteworthy social gathering such as the British Consul's Tea party. However, Susan couldn't ignore the butterflies that were sent in a frenzy once more, and nodded. "I'd love to," she replied, glowing.

Breathing a sigh of relief, Johnny flashed her a grin. "That's great!" he exclaimed, and reached out and held her hands. "I'll come and pick you up? I can't wait." He kissed her hand, and Susan couldn't help but be reminded of a time in her life where a greeting like that would have been more customary than shaking somebody's hand.

"Well, until then," she says, feeling the heat creep up her cheeks again. The peck on her knuckles, small though it was, sent shivers up her body. "Goodbye, Johnny."

"See you soon, Susan."

And with that, Johnny walks back down the pathway, off home. Turning to step inside the house, a smile dancing on her lips, Susan was reminded of her audience. Groaning, she suddenly wished she was back on the beach, throwing pebbles into the waves with Johnny.

/

That evening, Susan sat at the desk in their living room. Her parents were sat outside, making the most of the evening sun, lounging on deck chairs. They were holding hands, their eyes closed, letting the warmth wash over them. Susan smiled.

Looking down, she sighs, signing her letter with an 'x'. She wasn't sure when the letter would reach Lucy and Edmund, not when she considered the boat journey from America to London, and she wondered if it would even reach them, due to the U-boat attacks that have been occurring more frequently recently. She hoped it did, for she didn't want Lucy and Edmund to feel left out or forgotten. She knew that they were a little bitter about being left in England whilst the four of them sailed off to North Carolina, so Susan tried her best to ensure that they knew they weren't out of her thoughts.

Glancing at the framed picture of her and her siblings at a train station last year, she smiles slightly, remembering how simple things had been before their second trip to Narnia. Placing the pen down, she seals the envelope. Reaching for a stamp, the door swings open, and Peter appeared. He hadn't spoken much to her since Johnny walked her home, choosing to ignore her at dinner. Her parents hadn't noticed though; their mother talked enough for everybody. She had been so excited to see Susan talking to somebody else for a change, much less a handsome American. Her father, however, wasn't as pleased. He didn't think that Susan Should be concerning herself with boys at seventeen, and in her 'fragile condition' he had put so insensitively.

It seemed Peter and he shared this opinion. "I don't think you should go to that party with him."

Susan rolled her eyes. "Well, I don't think that you should have enlisted, but you didn't listen to me, did you?"

"That was different, at least I know what I'm signing up for. You don't even know this Johnny, not really."

Susan shot out of her chair, eyes wide. "You have no idea what you're signing up for, Peter! A couple of battles in Narnia, and you think you're ready for war here! Missiles and rifles are completely different to to horses and swords."

"I'm eighteen, it's about time I joined the war!" Peter countered, his body tense.

"Oh, yes, I'm sure the Germans will appreciate the target practice," Susan bit back, her voice dripping with sarcasm. As soon as the words left her lips, she regretted them immediately, and took a deep breath. "Johnny is a good man, alright. Not many men would have jumped off that pier for a pair of silly shoes."

"Caspian would have," Peter blurted out. "Five seconds with your new American, and you've forgotten him already?"

That felt like a slap to the face for Susan. Stepping backwards, her heart began hammering in her chest. Once again, Peter realised his mistake too soon, and tried to approach Susan. She wouldn't allow him to touch her, her limbs going numb. His words rang in her ear, drowning out his overdue apologies.

"Please, go," Susan whispered, as she backed into a wall. Peter ignored her, trying once more too reach out to her, but she pushed him away. "I said go, Peter!"

Knowing that any attempts at a reconciliation were futile, Peter hung his head and left swiftly. Lingering in the doorway, he turned around to face Susan, only to see a trickle of tears fall down Susan's face. "Su - "

He didn't finish, for Susan flew at the door and slammed it in his face. Now truly alone, Susan let the sobs escape freely. Sliding down the wooden panelled door, her legs giving way, she fell to the floor in a heap. Holding her head in her hands, she clutched at her her in fists. Everything she hadn't let herself feel over the last year was suddenly all hitting her at once, and she couldn't bear it.

Just when she was starting to feel more positive, Peter goes and ruins it all. He spoke her worst fear out loud; forgetting. He accused her of forgetting him, of forgetting the man she had fallen so irrevocably in love with. The man she could never see again, hold again, hear again, kiss again.

Without meaning to, Susan called out for him, for Caspian.