Disclaimer: I have known the rising anger, filling the emptiness left by grief. But I will not claim it.
Beta'd by trustingHim17
"I push you away,
still you won't let go;
you grow your roses on my barren soul!"
~ NEEDTOBREATHE
Susan did not sleep much that night. She rose shortly after dawn and made herself another cup of tea and a plate of bread, sitting directly in front of the Lion's portrait. She did not have anything to say, but—
But he was the only one left to judge her. After Lucy's journal, she acknowledged His right to judge.
Portraits, gravestones, and ghosts. They are all I have left now. Edmund would find that ironic, since I stressed being a grown-up so much. Now I converse in an empty house, with distant things. The grown-up things are empty things. She looked at the portrait. "Do you judge me for complaining?" she asked it. Asked Him.
The Lion did not move, no matter how hard Susan looked. She took in the eyes with their immeasurable depth, surrounded by the golden mane. "Are you watching?" she asked, more softly.
That, it could answer. Its eyes never left hers. She was the one who looked down, running one finger along the wooden grains of the table.
"Yesterday—You know what happened yesterday. You know how my regrets were written out in Lucy's pen, too clear for me not to see. How I saw what I had done wrong. How I saw who I was. And I know, I remember from Narnia, that we cannot become something new, something better, without facing what we were. You did that with Edmund. He faced who he was before he became King." She paused, trying to put the rest in words. It was hard; even before the face of One who only spoke truth, it was hard. She picked up her teacup and took a sip. "I don't—this isn't who I am. Not after You took them all away. I'm barely a person anymore." She looked back up. "I am not Anne. And I never can be. I cannot be Hester. What am I supposed to be? People are built on what they have and who they love. So—You took—what have you left me with?" Hot liquid spilled over her hand, and she looked at her reddening skin with surprise, before setting the teacup down with trembling fingers.
The painting still said nothing. Susan's heart sank, her stomach knotting. Somehow she expected more; she had half-expected to hear that deep voice again.
But there was nothing.
Susan took a deep breath. "I am aware that I burn myself with my own anger," she forced out. "I know I'm doing it now. But You—You took everything away. I'm finally ready to believe, to listen to a Lion in a world where they don't talk—and You do not speak." She shoved her chair back, the legs squeaking on the floor. Her fingers stung from the force of her push.
But she paused as she saw the plate beneath her bread. A circle of plain white, a regular plate—with a chip on one side.
The plate Peter always took, when he was home.
Obedience is a habit, he'd said once. Susan thought of yesterday, of her delayed obedience, of the way she was so ready to leave now. To get out.
To leave, instead of—what had the Doorkeeper told her to do? Go home and wait.
She looked back at the painting, at the representation of all Peter once obeyed. "You're not the Lion," she whispered. "You're not—I put you in His place, because I have nothing else, but—did I take it too far?"
She sat back down, scooting the chair forward with small jumps, and then, with gentle fingers, she reached to lay the painting face-down. Then she closed her eyes and folded her hands in front of her face, calling up all the distant memories she had of childhood and teenage prayers by her bed.
"I was told to go home and wait, but waiting—waiting is hard. Waiting means I feel all the pain. And it feels like it won't end, like this will be forever—me in an empty kitchen, waiting on a Lion who—who comes and goes in Your own time. You always have, I know that, but I need—"
She paused. "Can we tell You to do something, just because we need it?" She asked it in a whisper, speaking to the Lion who might be there beside her. Somehow it was easier to talk to Him when she couldn't stare at His painted face, when she had to take Him on His own terms.
But what was the answer to her question?
Yes and no, she could hear her siblings say, Edmund with a wry smile, Peter with a serious and gentle face. He will meet our needs. But it will be on His terms. He knows what is better for us.
"You meet our needs, but You alone know what they are. Aslan, I need someone here, someone strong, someone—I need to feel something other than pain."
Again—like all the times before—there was no answer Susan could hear.
So Susan went about her day. She stayed inside and waited, as she had been told. She washed dishes, mended curtains, and, on a whim, called Carol. Carol, who had just gotten out of bed, told Susan all about Robert and Nancy ending their engagement, so gracefully, yet it was such a shame—Nancy with her head up as high as a queen's, like she still had a right to put on airs, and Robert laughing and obviously glad to be free—he'd flirted with Carol. Just a bit, you know, but Carol knew better than that—Nancy was a lesson to them all.
Nancy, Susan remembered, had been in pain. After she ended the call with Carol—a little abruptly, perhaps, but Susan had good excuses—she sat and looked at the receiver.
She could call Nancy.
She could provide that listening ear that sometimes meant a lot. She could be for Nancy what Hester had been for her.
I thought you might understand, Nancy had said.
And Susan would. She'd known, in that other world, the pain of a love that promised much and gave nothing. But…
I don't want to. I don't want to pick up that phone. I—today is so heavy already. I don't think I can.
She hesitated. I could.
I couldn't do it well. But I could do it.
She didn't. She could not make herself put her hand out, could not make herself pick up that heavy, cold receiver and listen to anyone else's pain.*
She went to the kitchen and made a sandwich for an early lunch instead. But she didn't want to eat it at the table, with the picture facedown on it. She didn't want to be around the reminder of the Lion, who would probably have called Nancy.
If Lions could use phones.
He—didn't He use a sword to knight Peter, holding it somehow in those large paws?
Susan bit her lip and thought hard. But she couldn't recall the picture clearly, just how hard it had been to get enough air to breathe, and how her cheeks had been wet. She had been scared. She dimly remembered Peter's bowed back as he knelt, and the way the Lion had drawn her eyes.
She could not remember that face clearly.
And she didn't want to. Not—not just then.
She brushed the crumbs from her skirt and stood, making up her mind. She would go shopping. The noise, and the, oh, the possible bargains, might make this day a little shorter. And I do need some things. The bread will run out soon.
But she closed her eyes, because the bread would have run out every other day, before—Before.
I'm the only one eating anything now. I hate this. I hate how everything is a reminder that I'm alone. She opened her eyes and glared at the plain white back of the painting. Do you hear me? I hate this! I hate trying and trying to deal, and being left with only hard choices, and, and—
I hate being alone.
I have always hated being alone. You knew that. You knew I never, never wanted to be alone. But no one comes—no one has—no one knows what it's like. There's no one, I am all alone—
Alone, though the house had a ghosts, a painting, a telephone to call real people, real friends—
Nothing felt real.
That—that was the problem. Nothing, not one good thing she had, felt real. Only the grief did. She'd known what was real for so long, but now, nothing felt like enough. And she knew, before she even began, that shopping wouldn't be enough either.
So what should she do?
She had no idea. She wanted to sit and do nothing, she wanted to let the world burn itself out or fade to grey, to cease; she wanted to—be done.
She'd wanted that since reading Lucy's journal.
Only, if she did that, then she could not be a Walker. And she admitted, only to herself, that she wanted to be a Walker. Or rather, she wanted another trip. Another time, when she did not feel her own life, nor exist inside her own head, but watched the world of someone else. She wanted to watch them win against their own hearts.
So. Perhaps—just perhaps—if she went back to the graveyard, perhaps she would find the Doorkeeper again. Perhaps he would let her go on another trip.
But perhaps he won't be there, she thought as she reached for her coat. She paused, fingers just brushing the material. Perhaps he will only scold, telling me it's too soon to want another trip already.
But she didn't want anything else. And so she would go. She would do what she wanted.
No. Not what she wanted. That had led her nowhere but alone, in the past. She would do what she needed.
She needed to not exist. To live someone else's life for a bit. To escape the pain.
She put her coat on, went out the front door and tried to lock it, and realised she'd left her keys on the side table of the hall.
She did not have her purse either.
It's a very good thing I didn't want to go shopping, she thought to herself. I am good for nothing right now.
Except, perhaps, to dwell in the shadows. To stay where nothing matters.
And to burn.
She left the door unlocked. There was a painting of the Lion inside it, and if He—or the Doorkeeper, on His command—had given the house to her, then He could keep it safe. She went to the cemetery.
There was no one there.
No, there were the graves. And Susan, standing in the entrance and seeing no one else in sight, knew she would go visit them. But first—first—
She took another look around, studying the church, the trees, the taller gravestones—anywhere someone could hide, or lean against something and blend in.
No one else was there.
She went to the graves and sat beside them. She had nothing to say. She thought she would, once she was taking trips, but she didn't. Not even words she held back, words she didn't want to hurt them. She didn't even have any of those. She felt utterly empty, as if all thoughts, all hopes, all love had been buried beneath her and she was the shell, sitting against the stone.
But she didn't want to sit and say nothing. Not with them. Not when she did that with everyone else; she did not want to do that with them.
"I—I'm here to find someone." That felt flat. But she tried, because she had to try. She had to keep this link.
"He's not—he's not here. And I need him to be. I need another trip."
She couldn't even hear their answers echoing inside her head.
Oh, she could if she tried, she knew that, but—
But she didn't want to hear their answers. Their obedience, their calm logic, their insufferable ability to wait—
Perhaps she was not as empty as she thought. She still had her anger. Even though she didn't want it directed at them.
She sighed. "I don't want my anger to be all that I bring here. I don't want to hold on to it, either. I just—I want somewhere to go. I want to be able to live, when nothing feels possible." She stopped, waiting.
They said nothing.
They did that too, she remembered. Sometimes, if—the times when Ed stopped them, or sometimes, rarely, Peter—when they could see I wouldn't listen, they just stopped talking.
And then, soon after her birthday, they began trying again.
It hadn't made sense. But it tied in with Lucy's journal. Something had rekindled their hope, and she had been annoyed by it, annoyed that they wouldn't leave her in peace—
Now they'd left her, and there was anything but peace.
This wasn't what she wanted to bring to their graves either.
She got to her feet, dusting off her coat. "I'm going home," she told them. "Or out. I'm going—I'm going somewhere, I just don't know where yet. I'll—I'll try to come tell you all about it when I get back. Okay?"
Still that silence. She bit her lip, rubbed her eyes, and turned away.
The Doorkeeper was standing behind her. "You did not go home right away," he rebuked her gravely. "And then you came back instead of waiting."
Her immediate reply, angry and sharp, sprung to her mouth. I'm not even allowed to visit their graves anymore? Or perhaps I went home—wasn't that enough?
But she had just told her siblings that she didn't want to be angry. Anger had not helped in the past. Anger made her feel powerful, like she had a measure of control, but that feeling faded to nothing before a being who walked through time and opened doors to other worlds.
Anger was of no use.
"Why are you here?" she asked instead. Don't let myself hope. Don't let myself wish for something I may not get. Don't have one more disappointed dream.
But the desire, as deep as a need, was stronger than her self-control, and so she asked, "Am I to take another trip?"
He sighed. "I don't think it's a good idea. But I'm under orders, and yes, you are. This is a different trip, mind," he warned her. His harsh tone drew her eyes to his face, to the troubled look behind his glasses. Whatever he would warn her of, it was serious. "This will not be as easy as the other excursion. You will exist in this world; you can touch it, change it, and beings can hear you there. There is nothing to harm you, where you are going, as long as you remain in the bounds of the forest. Do you hear? Remain in the forest. The continent has been ruled by a good king for a long, long lifetime by now, and his son continues his good work. He hunted down most of the evil. But stay in the forest. Do not interact with anyone who may come through. Though the forest should be mostly empty. There will be one person you may speak to, just one." He rubbed his fingers together, flexing them.
"Who?" Susan asked, when he stopped his explanation there.
"Someone we haven't been able to help. Oh, you'll recognise her—you'll see the look in her eyes. She will wear a look you know. But we must outfit you first. Come with me." He held out his hand, and Susan took it. He turned completely around and pulled her towards one of the trees, a large towering oak taller than the church only a few graves away. He placed his hand on the bark, and the air around it began to swirl.
"I left a door here, since it seems your chosen meeting place." While he spoke the air swirled white, then black, a circle growing bigger and bigger, till suddenly it turned a dark brown, and the Doorkeeper pulled her through.
The air that hit her face was cold, as cold as the snow of Narnia's long winter, but it touched her face and hands for less than a second before she was through and blinking on the other side.
Blinking, for the new place was dark, lit only by a dim yellow light on the wall, near the ground. The light did not look like fire.
"Ignore the nightlight," came the Doorkeeper's impatient voice. "We're not here for that. And the Bookkeeper is the one who uses it, anyway; I can see in the dark, as long as I have my spectacles."
The Bookkeeper? A nightlight?
He can see in the dark? Who made his spectacles, an Owl?
But before Susan could ask any of her questions, the Doorkeeper said, "Ah, here we are. Hold still, I think it will fit you," and something soft and warm fell over her shoulders. The material pulled forward, and something rustled a hand's breadth from her neck, as if someone were tying strings. She put out her right hand and touched the cloth that hung from her shoulders to the floor. It was soft but tough, beautiful beneath her fingers in the dark, but also felt like something that would wear well.
"Do you like it? The Elves made it. It was given to me by someone very like the person you're going to go see. She'll recognise it, and so she might speak to you. Otherwise she may not speak at all. And that would be a useless trip; I am far too busy to take people on useless trips. Now take this." Susan held out one hand towards the dim silhouette of the Doorkeeper, and she heard him snort.
"Your other hand too, lady of sorrow. This isn't a light thing to carry."
She held out both hands and felt something hard and round, a bar made of straw, placed in her hands; a large square hung from it. A picnic basket, she would guess, and pulled it closer to herself with some effort. He was right, it was heavy.
"I don't know how long you will be there, and it wouldn't do to starve. Now, turn around, and off you go."
She turned—she had no desire to delay this obedience (though she rather felt she was in over her head)—and saw a circle spinning again, though this time it grew to the square shape of a door, white, then black, then the golden colour of leaves beginning to turn in fall. She took a deep breath and stepped through.
Again the doorway laid ice against her skin; she clenched her hands around the basket, determined not to drop it, and then caught her breath.
She was through, and she stood in a forest unlike any she had ever seen. The trees towered tall, reaching upwards in smooth silver pillars, with graceful branches that seemed to hold the sky. The leaves shone the colour of yellow gold, and in the distance she could hear water running.
She knew she stood beneath the sun of a different world once more.
*I should clarify, there are days when talking to someone else about their pain is a terrible idea, and I don't mean to imply anyone should do this every time. But I've often found a measure of comfort for myself when I comfort someone else's pain, and Susan probably would have as well, on a day when she had nothing to do and nothing to think about. Obedience can create its own reward. There's only been one exception to that principle, and that's because our pain stemmed from the same incident; I was not ready to relive it.
A/N: Anyone have a guess as to where she is?
