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CHAPTER ONE

A FAREWELL IN TWO WAYS

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~ Narnia ~

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A hush settled over the crowd; full of uncertainty and surprise. But nothing happened—there was no dramatic shift in the world. No outcry of indignation from the two Kings of Old, or their youngest sister. Neither did Aslan himself object. Only the wind, continuing its merry ruffling of the leaves on the Door. The wind descended from the tree-top, caressing his cheek, dragging his hair forward to conceal the heady blush that stained his face—and Caspian was grateful for it.

He couldn't look at anyone, at anything. Not at the Pevensies—certainly not at Susan, or Peter. If he looked at the lion he would likely be petrified by a gaze of disapproval. He thought he might hang his head in shame at the notion.

She's still leaving. What a fool—to think a boyish kiss would stay her going. Look, there she goes—can you look, can you watch it?

—Ha, I should think not. Embarrassment enough you've become, but don't shed tears now. Look away, look down. A thief's chance in the Tisroc's palace is all you've ever had. To think a queen of Myth should want you as any sort of lover; friendly companion, perhaps—loyal companion-at-arms, most like.

What a fool you are. . .

Soft murmurs, whispers overlapping like gently running water, edged into Caspian's personal despair, and he tore his gaze up from the stones beneath his boots, from the mortar-cracks he'd been tracking aimlessly.

How cruel, how shamelessly cruel! I could not be more self-hearted. . . Oh, Susan, Susan, shame on you! There's been hardly time for declarations of the heart—for courtship or deeper feeling. And you have kissed him—when we shan't return.

And what a silly little kiss that was; like a chaste, maidenly thing from a sister or an aunt. What a farewell to impart; giving someone such a false hope to hang onto. Cruel, cruel, cruel. . . How horrid I am. What a vain and selfish thing to do.

Though. . . I. . . I can't—I mustn't, but, oh, how I Do Wish. . .

Susan lifted her head, setting her mouth instead of biting her lip in chagrin. She had nearly reached Peter's side, had nearly crossed entirely back to her duty, to where she must go. She shouldn't look back, it was not a path she could traverse, but, oh, she could not look at her siblings; not yet.

Caspian stared back at her, dark eyes wide—but expression inscrutable and blank. Shame made heat unfurl across her collarbones, clinging up her throat. What must he think of her now? To do such a thing in front of so many spectators, instead of in a private moment alone. . . She had made – whatever little feeling had been between them – belong to the world, when it should have been something precious, and exclusive.

The wind ruffled out around them all, oblivious to the torrential emotions that played beneath it. It stirred Caspian's hair, the dark strands tracing above his brows and catching at the corner of his mouth. Susan struggled with the grief that wished to etch itself on her features, with the frown that wanted to turn down her lips. If only she could pass some sort of understanding between them in this heavy silence—but, alas, such a fantastic notion existed only in the realm of the truly fictional. Even Edmund had once said that to attempt to pry into a mind using magic was a route ruinous, destined for insanity. Oh, if only she had thought to take a moment to speak in private; if only there were not this great body of witnesses; if only they had had a chance in these past days to take time for themselves, apart from Narnia. If only, if only, Susan's heart lamented. Perhaps, when they went. . . back – for England, it… well, it didn't really feel like home now, and to call it such, after everything. . . strangely, it felt like betrayal in the queerest sensation – when they went back, she would do good for herself to have a long cry alone. Because she could not shed tears here, not now; not before Peter. Weeping here, in front of him, would be a petulant, childish exhibition after all the devastation she'd witnessed him endure.

If he could just ask, though, her heart longed tremulously as she stared at Caspian.

Oh, Caspian. . . I might. . . I think that I could…

Susan sighed in resignation. It was not to be; she must square her shoulders and move onward. She turned, back to the Door, back to her siblings. . . away from Narnia, and everything else, and lifted her head. Peter's gaze caught hers, and held fast. He beheld her as if he watched her ascend some sort of scaffold to her execution. His eyes pale and full of feeling; she could imagine splinters of him breaking off and fading into the wind all around them like a wood-nymph in ephemeral form.

Dying before you like a shooting star burns out, her conscious whispered softly. His soul is dying, and all you're thinking about is your nonexistent love-affair. It never even blossomed—while his has been burned in full-bloom. You must stop thinking about yourself! Selfish, selfish, selfish…

"My lady Susan!"

Susan's heartbeat stopped at Caspian's cry, and she couldn't breathe. She spun, hastily, to turn and look back at him. He stared at her, his free hand outstretched, Rhindon hanging limply at his side. But his expression was one of intent, and focus. His dark eyes full of uncertain desperation. Just like the pitch of his voice.

The wind blew through in a torrent, and Susan lifted her hand to hold her hair back out of her face. She wouldn't look away—couldn't, a small voice whispered pitifully in the back of her mind.

Oh, don't stop now, you reckless, headstrong, mad boy!

She was looking at him—she had stopped. It was a chance; perhaps his only chance. Caspian swallowed the tightness down in his throat. He paused, pressing Peter's broadsword into Cornelius's unexpectant hands, and crossed to where Susan stood. He reached out, but hesitated, for perhaps that was a gesture too much of desperation. Instead, he moved to take her hand in his, bringing it back to where she'd laid it on his chest, briefly, before slipping out of reach just moments ago.

"Do not go," he managed, and found his voice unable to surpass a whisper, his tone roughened with an odd emotion that wasn't bitterness, and it wasn't grief. "Do not leave Narnia, Susan." He pressed closer to her, and stared into her clear eyes, bright as a winter river. They stood as close as they had when she'd placed the crown on his head at his coronation; as close as they'd been that day at Beruna, when she'd nearly been killed by Telmarine soldiers—as close as they'd been when she'd come up and kissed him, just now. Yet somehow there lay a gap between them; a divide he wished to end. "Do not go away from me—not now, when I think that my heart could beat for yours." He searched her countenance, waiting, with a suspension that felt as though it could slay him.

Susan stared up into Caspian's face, and her breath caught as her heart that had been still until now resumed its loud beating. It was a wonder to her that no one else made mention of the roar. Caspian looked at her with an intensity that reminded her of his passion—of the ferocity that had been in his face when Peter accused him at the How, the despair when Miraz slandered him in his bedchamber. He wouldn't be a weak-willed lover; no, he would offer only a love that was all of his soul. The intensity was a startling revelation, but one, she knew deeply, that she'd already been well aware of. It was the very thing that drew them together, she supposed. He was not a half-made man, dispassionate and indifferent, pursuing for only the amusement of distraction, or the pleasure of a reputation.

He isn't Rabadash.

Under her fingers she could feel his own heartbeat through the fabric of his shirt, racing in tandem with hers. The tears burned at the edges of her lashes, and Susan blinked in despair. She wished, oh, if everything were different! But she could not. . . she could not be so selfish. . . Not now, not with—

"Do it, Sue."

It was a tender voice, edged in a hint of pain, that broke through her silent grieving. Susan started, and Caspian flinched under her hand. Every eye turned to look at Peter where he stood beneath the shade of the Living Door, sunlight dappling through the green leaves to turn his blonde head tawny golden. Lucy looked up at her oldest brother, brows furrowing in surprised perturbation.

"Do it. Stay with him." Peter shrugged, and smiled, and his eyes were bright. Susan saw again that he was shattering in silence. Collapsing inward alone in isolation, as he always did; her endlessly dying star. So brave, even when bravery wasn't all that mattered. Magnificent, she'd teased him needlessly before Trumpkin so many months ago—but he was that, truly. Magnificent, to carry on when she thought she would have broken, and perished in grief. Susan rested her hand atop Caspian's heart, a moment of hesitation she should not have held.

She moved to step away, shaking her head, even as a stray tear trickled down her cheek. Caspian gripped her wrist, the hold gentle, but desperate. He moved as she moved; perhaps he shook his head and whispered a near inaudible ' no'; she was never quite certain when she reflected back on the day.

"Oh, Peter, I—"

"Is this what you wish, child?"

Aslan's voice. Rich as summer, heady as a perfume of wildflowers on the wind. Soothing, and terrifying; boundless in wisdom and grave in kindness. The lion's voice broke through the frenzy, and rendered everyone silent. Caspian stood still. His hand gripping hers pressed it tightly, then released. Susan did not look at him, did not look at Peter, or Edmund, or Lucy—even the spectators were forgotten as she gasped, and spun to Aslan, tears falling freely. There was so much guilt, and dismay, and pitiful, embarrassing hope.

"Oh yes, yes—I do," Susan gasped to the lion. "I do, Aslan, ever so much more than anything."

She gazed at Aslan, and the lion peered back at her with his living golden eyes. Steadily, he looked at her, until he bowed his head; the light danced off of his mane like the points of so many dazzling stars. "Come forward, child, that I may breathe on you."

Susan inhaled a small hiccup and half a sob, and gathered her skirts and stepped toward Aslan. There had been few times she'd ever come before him, so broken and shamed and uncertain. But twice now, since returning back to Narnia, she had felt ever so much like a little girl utterly lost and searching. However, perhaps now, her fear was for a greater reason. She sank down in front of Aslan, spreading her skirts to keep them from dirtying too awfully, and looked at him.

Aslan crouched, his face very close to hers; so close, that she could see her own face mirrored in his eyes. His breath came hot on her face, soothing against the stinging tears and her damp skin. Warm, and sweet; the best memories of youth in Narnia returned to her, and for a moment, Susan closed her eyes. She exhaled, the peace settling along her shoulders like the warmth of a much-needed blanket on a cool autumnal evening.

"If you trod this path, there is no return, you must know." Aslan spoke gravely, quiet. His voice rumbled gently, a steady cadence of security and unfathomable power. "It will be, as if you were not."

Susan nodded, the tears dropping from her chin, leaving dark circles on the blue of her skirts. She pressed her thumb over the largest of the stains, eclipsing the marring entire. Blotted out, in a manner of speaking—that's what would become of her life lived in England. A shimmer and a shift; like some sort of fevered dream. An ache built behind her breastbone, and a small gasp escaped her. She opened her eyes quickly, and looked up. Aslan stood still above her, looking down. His eyes were full of sorrow, and understanding.

"I know," she whispered.

"Even still, do you wish it?" Aslan murmured.

"Yes."

Aslan bowed his head graciously, and rose. On unsteady feet, Susan stood back up. As she pressed her hands to smooth her gown, a soft exclamation came from behind her.

"Oh!"

Susan turned.

Lucy ran across the divide, and flung her arms about her sister's waist. "Oh, I shall miss you," she whispered fiercely, squeezing her eyes closed. Susan sniffled, and reached out, touching Lucy's brass-brown braids before closing her eyes and embracing her sister tightly.

"And I you," she responded. "It's going to be so hard," she managed after, opening her eyes. She had never been without them, any of them. Even in moments of parting, there had been the sure knowledge that they would be reunited—because the separation was only a temporary thing. But now, now it would be a permanent sunder; an eternal cutting off. Above her, the sky was blue, and full of piled white clouds. Pennants snapped atop the Telmarine castle towers, and the oak leaves were dazzling green. Susan's tears spilled over again as she stared upward.

Lucy eased her embrace. "But it's all right," she insisted, beaming. Her eyes were bright, but she hadn't a tear on her face. "This. . . this is what should be. I knew he would call you again." She grinned impishly, and Susan couldn't help but laugh, cupping her little sister's cheek with dismayed affection.

"Oh, I can't believe you remembered that!" They laughed together at their shared personal joke. But it was Lucy who turned her head, chewing her bottom lip between her teeth in that terrible habit Susan long knew she'd never break, to look back at their brothers. Susan lifted her head then, too, and looked across at Peter.

He had begun to cross the cobblestone, coming out into the light. Her throat tightened, and she wanted to weep afresh. What had she done? What would she be causing him now? But he reached her, and laid a hand on her shoulder. He nodded.

"It's good, Sue." He murmured. Then he folded her up into his arms, pulling her tight into him. Susan closed her eyes, pressing her nose into his chest, her hands gathering fists of his shirt at his shoulders. She must remember him this way—happy, mostly. Brave and strong and always, always the big brother who did whatever he must for his family. Even if it destroyed him. Sometimes she did not see it—she would not, again, she thought with a lurch of grief. "This is a good choice, do not fear the making of it," he breathed into her hair as he pressed a kiss to her temple, before he squeezed her arms in affection and stepped back.

Susan looked up at him, and smiled even though her tears refused to stop. Peter only looked back with a knowing expression, and nodded.

Then it was Edmund's turn. She moved to face him, but he already stood watching her, thoughtful and still. Dear Edmund—how alike they had always been as reigning monarchs; how easily they'd learned to understand one another's opinion without having to utter a word. He was not displeased with her, she thought in relief. Nor did he seem offended. He had never been a man for bold affection, for hugs and kisses and tussles in kindness, but she reached for him nonetheless, and embraced him. His hand patted her back, and he laughed lowly. "Ah, well," he mumbled into her shoulder, before politely tugging back.

"I'll miss you." She had to tell one of them, since she could not look Peter in the eye and speak such a phrase for fear that both of them would be undone by the pain it would cause.

"We shan't be long parted," Edmund replied, and quirked his familiar crooked turn of mouth that seemed like a smile, but never truly became one. His brown eyes were dark, full of affection and gravity and a serenity she'd never been able to achieve—once, oh so long ago, she had longed for it jealously.

Susan looked at him and shook her head. "But—"

Edmund tsked, canting his head to the side and regarding her. "We stand here now and say goodbye, as if for the last time—but it will not be, because there is a Country yet to view, of which we are all countrymen." His gaze softened, somewhat forlorn. But he smiled all the same. The wind tugged at his dark forelock of curls that he could never manage, and he squinted at her tenderly. "Until the next life, or whatever Aslan decides." It was gallant; half Narnian, half English schoolboy. A pouring of the man he'd been into the boy he was now. Susan smiled, and reached to hug him again, even as he raised his arms in protest.

Lucy watched them all, and smiled. "Oh!" she cried once more, and reached to fling her arms around them. Peter followed suit, and laughing all together, they embraced as a group. Susan hugged Edmund, then Peter, then Lucy. She must remember them like this, as best she could, for perhaps it would be all she would ever have of them after now.

"Dear ones, it is time." Aslan's voice broke through the close group of siblings.

Susan touched all their faces, smiling at each in turn. "Goodbye," she managed, heartfelt and soft. They smiled, and slipped away.

"Goodbye, Aslan," Lucy called, tone bittersweet and her eyes only a little melancholy.

"Farewell, dear heart," Aslan replied, jovial and serious.

Susan stepped back, but then gasped, and sprang forward before Peter could step through the Door. "Oh, Peter! Peter!" She reached out, drawing an object from the pocket of her gown. "I couldn't let it be lost. Keep it. I knew you would want after it if you hadn't." She pressed the piece into her brother's palm, closing his fingers around it securely. It was such a small thing, a little token—but she hoped he would understand, that he would not despise her too much; because she knew him, she knew his nature. Peter was good at heart, an honorable man—but he was a boy, still, too. And boys did not know how to stop the ache of envy when it burned in their souls. He loved her, and had given her this new beginning, but he would crave some likeness of it for himself too, and mourn that it had gone beyond reach.

"Goodbye."

I love you, and I'm so sorry, dear brother. So sorry.

"Goodbye, Sue." Peter smiled, and turned away.

Susan waved until they turned away from her. Then she clasped her hands and pressed them to her lips, watching as her siblings shifted, and prismed, and vanished into noonday sunbeams like the Telmarines who had gone before. She lowered her arms at her sides, feeling strangely empty. Numb of grief and fear and joy. "Oh, goodbye."

A/N: This is better than the original. More is coming, but bear with me; it may take a while to post additional chapters. I've changed a massive heap of plot in this story, as well as some of the backstories and original headcanons I brought into this all the way back in 2014. If should suddenly go down... you can find me and these familiar old stories over on AO3 under the pseud "MentallyDatingAHotCelebrity". Cheers, and tell me what you think.

~ Windy