Disclaimer: I might own this chapter more than most, considering the characters and place, and that definitely gives me the rights to owning Narnia…oh, wait…never mind.
Beta'd by trustingHim17!
"Sometimes we don't want to heal because the pain is the last link to what we've lost."
~ JmStorm
"So you're finally ready, are you?" inquired the fussy voice. A moment later a head popped out of the swirling white circle.
Susan swallowed, feeling her throat close, the word suddenly hard to let out. "Yes."
The head sighed and the light expanded, the entire body walked through. The moment he left the light, it ceased. Susan blinked away the white spots dotting her vision.
I can never predict what he's going to do. I thought we'd leave. This unpredictability will make working with him quite hard; I knew the others so well—
"I think," the Doorkeeper said, his tone a bit softer, "that we need to talk. But perhaps not here. You've stayed longer in this world than I thought you would." He reached backwards and touched the tree; the light began spinning again. "I have my own doubts about you being a Walker. But we'll discuss them later. Come, come, the door shouldn't stay open for long—this world has had too many wars, too many shadows. Quickly now. Quickly."
Susan hesitated for a bare moment—she hated the feeling of ice on her skin—but if she was to be a Walker, to go through his doors often, she would need courage. She hoisted the basket higher on her arm and walked forward swiftly, her feet firm.
Through the ice, and this time as the cold coated her skin, she felt a sudden spear of it thrust through her heart, as if someone had thrust an icicle through it. She was gasping when she reached the other side, bent over. Two surprisingly strong hands caught her elbow.
"It was too close—I knew the monster was too close, but I couldn't open the door anywhere else. Breathe through it, it'll melt. Just breathe the warm air. That's it, keep breathing. There you are." The voice sighed, relieved, and the hands holding her elbow let go.
It is getting easier to breathe. It's so warm here. Her eyes began to focus on the smooth wooden floor, polished to a shine.
Meanwhile the voice went on. "Some day opening doors will be easy. Not easy enough for anyone to do so, you know, but I will find it easy. Easier. There won't be the things in the dark to run from."
He talks more when he's nervous. "Will it be less cold then?" Susan asked, her teeth almost chattering.
"Cold? My dear, it is your own grief that makes it cold. By the time the Walkers find it warm, it's usually time for them to walk into their homes and stay. Death is too close to the doors; a separation most find final. But the attack on your heart, that was not you. I am most sorry. And I do not say that lightly. But you stayed longer in the world than I thought you would—maybe not more than you were meant to, but I did not think you'd want to stay near someone so much like you."
Susan looked up, growing gradually warmer in the sheltered, damp atmosphere. Right above her hovered the kind eyes in the brisk face, still half-hidden between the glasses in their golden frame. Its owner was right. She would not have liked to stay near the Queen, she realised—if she had not had the drinks of the river. "I loved her."
"You've loved many things you haven't treated well." Seeing her stand more upright, the Doorkeeper released her arm.
The anger came up, sharp and biting, and Susan pressed her lips together and shuddered. The anger made the cold worse, as if a silver of that icicle stabbed her again. Isn't anger supposed to be hot? Somehow this was easier with Arwen.
Or easier when I had the river.
But the Doorkeeper sighed. "I'm sorry, Aslan's Queen. That was ill done of me. Hester told me to be patient with you."
That snapped Susan's attention back to him. "Hester—said what?"
"That you were only half-ready, uncertain of yourself, and that I must be patient."
Hester…Hester told him that?
I didn't think she'd—yet I suppose the Walkers work under him. But—"What else did she say?" Susan demanded sharply, then gasped. Her heart throbbed again, and the Doorkeeper grabbed her arm.
"I hate making things worse," he muttered. "Why, oh why, isn't a Walker here?"
There is a Walker here, Susan felt like retorting, and the ice spread down her arms, an ache growing outward towards her fingers. She bent double once again under the pain of it. I said I would be one.
You do not look like Hester right now, a voice in her head whispered back, the voice of the Queen she'd once been, gentle and truthful, and Susan winced.
I burn myself on my own anger, she had told the painting of Aslan. Now she admitted, It is not only myself that I burn. I can hear the upset in the Doorkeeper's voice.
"I am sorry," she said to the polished floor. The cold stopped. Her hands warmed, and she stilled for a moment, enjoying the relief, before flexing her fingers. The warmth followed them, up her arms, closing in on her heart. Is this what words do in this world? "I am sorry I upset you." She pushed herself up straight, and again the Doorkeeper let go of her, though he did not step back. She looked at the pinched mouth, the hands he shoved in his pockets. "I may not want to hear, but—"but I need it, so I will ask anyway—"will you tell me what else she said?"
"That you did not take time for decisions, but that you did still have a heart. A beautiful one, though not a strong one yet. And again that I was not to be impatient with you."
Susan swallowed. That—
That is…more than I thought I had.
That is more than Queen Arwen had.
Is it enough to be a Walker? I trust her judgement more than the Doorkeeper's, but…
"Enough," the Doorkeeper added—impatiently, Susan noticed. "The foyer is not the area of this discussion. Can you stand? Good. Then if you will follow me—" and he moved away, heading for an ornate arched door made of dark wood. Susan, still growing warmer, paused to look around. They stood in a very small, circular chamber, with lumpy stone walls, like the sides of a cave. Only the stone stood very clean, with no dust or dirt in any crevice. The chamber had a warm yellow light, though Susan could not tell where it came from.
The Doorkeeper stood by the door, scrutinising the carvings on it before reaching out to push on the head of a wooden fox in the door. The entire door began silently opening.
"I chose him this time, but I wouldn't make that choice if I were you. Not the fox, he does not like many people. Go for the swan, I think, or the mermaid. If you're ever here by yourself, which you shouldn't be. Now come on in, or I'll be scolded for leaving a guest in the antechamber. Antechamber is his word for it; I think foyer suits it better. Another of our ongoing disagreements."
Disagreements with whom?
But Susan followed him into the adjoining hall without asking. The hall made her blink. It was a large hall, wide enough for perhaps four people to walk side-by-side—if it had not been filled on one side with bookshelf after bookshelf.
But only on the one side.
It was a long hallway, perhaps as long as three or four rooms. The left side of the hall had lanterns blazing at regular intervals, though the light in each curling iron structure came from a round orb instead of a flame. There was a single door, made of light wood, perhaps six steps from where Susan stood.
The other side of the hall had black bookshelves, dark wooden bookshelves, white bookshelves, and bookshelves made of metal, all placed against the wall without any sort of pattern. Smaller bookshelves were stacked on each other. The books they held varied even more than the bookshelves; tall books, short books, books with bright colours, books made of leather, books with ornate golden script, books with fat red letters on black backgrounds. There were even books shoved under the lanterns that appeared at the same regular intervals, poking themselves through the books. Opposite the door to the left was another, made of the same light wood, barely visible behind the books.
There was no door at the end of the hall.
I feel like Aunt Alberta's brain scientists would write entire pages on what this hallway signifies, Susan thought with a sudden mental snort.
"More memories. Just what I need. Do wait a moment, if you would. I won't be long. Apparently patience is required both ways, for us." The Doorkeeper sounded irritated, and when Susan looked towards him, he was pulling that small book with the pages of folded flaps out of his breast pocket. She realised he had been standing frozen a moment before, his hand about to turn the knob. He'd taken it off to get his book out. "But everything's been noted, and all is in order. I see the Merlion will need more help later. Why does he get up to so much trouble? Just when I thought I had enough to handle—" he opened the door to the right, his voice growing a bit muffled as he went inside. "But no, a new potential Walker and a wizard, all at once, of course, not to mention sending Hester to…"
The door shut behind him.
Am I supposed to follow?
He asked me to wait. I think I will. I'd rather not make him more irritated, his irritation cuts. A contrast flooded her mind, of another older man who once sat in a garden with her, an older man who was far gentler and more patient, but who could also cut away all idiocy and pretence with a few well-chosen words.
I wonder what the Professor would have made of the Doorkeeper, Susan thought, and had to close her eyes.
That is a death I have not mourned yet.
She did not want to think on that, not when the ache from the cold already made her feel bruised. She looked towards the wall filled with books and lanterns, and the door standing across from the Doorkeeper's.
If—if Lucy were here, she'd wonder what was behind the other door. I want to know, too, but…
Are these things I risk messing about with? She thought of the monster the Doorkeeper said had stabbed her heart, and she shuddered.
I want to tell Lucy about it when I go back. And Edmund—he'd love to be around all these books. But I do not think I dare. My heart has been hurt enough.
So Susan walked to the closest bookshelf instead. The top shelf was filled with books, all by the same author, a James Patterson. They had bold and blaring titles, and Susan didn't feel much interest in them. The shelf below them held three books with beautiful hard covers, deep green, soft blue, and a gentle maroon, and read Greek Myths Retold. Next to them was The Life and Letters of Silenus, and Susan caught her breath.
Cair Paravel had held a copy of that. Mr. Tumnus had given it to Edmund as a birthday present, when Edmund was trying to learn about visitors to Narnia. Edmund. She could barely breathe. She reached out to touch the title.
"For every minute spent organising, an hour is earned," a high male voice behind her said, and Susan spun, fingers still outstretched, to see someone very like the Doorkeeper peering at her over thick, gold-rimmed glasses. The hair was curly black instead of curly brown, and the suit seemed permanently rumpled, creased at the elbows as if the person spent a lot of time with his arms bent. The face also seemed less fussy and more absent, the eyes already scanning the book titles behind her. "But also, 'Organising is a journey, not a destination.'" He reached over her shoulder and slid a small book into the James Patterson shelf. He nodded to her, turned on silent feet, and went through the door on the right.
The door on the left opened while Susan still stood there, her heart hammering. The Doorkeeper poked his head out. He seems to have a penchant for doing that, Susan thought, still trying to catch her breath. He never seems to go all the way through a door if he can help it. At least her racing heart seemed completely warm now.
"I seem to register a bit of alarm in the air. Did something happen? It shouldn't have, this place is quite safe, you know, for it would be disastrous—no, something did happen. What?" he demanded sharply, coming out of the door.
"Someone just came into the hallway." The Doorkeeper tilted his head, and Susan explained, "He looked a bit like you, only with dark hair."
"Ah. That's the Bookkeeper. Don't mind him, he doesn't say much."
"He said something about organisation," Susan admitted, glancing back at the door.
"He quoted something about organisation. But if he said anything at all, take it as a compliment. But do stay there for just a moment longer, as it appears he's confiscated the chairs in the hallway once again—probably to reach books too high on the shelf. I told him to grow another foot, but no, that keeps his head too far away from the books…" and the Doorkeeper disappeared again, the door shutting behind him with a quiet click. But it opened a second or so later, and the Doorkeeper emerged with two wooden chairs, carrying one in each hand by their backs. There were dark brown cushions tied onto the backs with strings, and he lugged them a little farther down the hallway, setting them down by the empty wall. He sat in one with a sigh of relief, then looked at her. "Are you coming?"
I hope I don't get angry again. I hope he is patient, and so am I. Somehow, though, we do not seem to work that way.
But—no more delayed obedience. Not if I make my mind up to this.
"I'm coming," Susan replied softly, reaching out to touch the books one more time. Edmund would have loved that side so much. He would have wanted to stay.
But I—I need a way out more than the wisdom of false worlds.
So she walked to the chair and sat, clasping her hands in her lap and waiting for him to begin.
The Doorkeeper sighed. "You want to be a Walker?"
"I do," she reiterated. There, her future, running over her tongue, said out loud.
He sighed again.
If he were Peter, he would have run his hand through his hair.
Oh, how that thought hurt. A pang as sharp as Edmund and the books had been.
Peter, where are you now? You—you never left us when we needed you. You were always there. I need you now.
I have him instead, and he's no king to follow.
"Tell me why," the Doorkeeper asked, leaning back in his chair and directing his gaze to the books across the hallway. "Why do you want to be a Walker?"
I should have expected that question. He always asks the hard questions.
But I found my own answer after meeting with Queen Arwen. I can tell that to him.
"I do not want to leave the past behind. I want to remember." I need to remember. Despite the pain, that sharp piercing when they're vividly in mind—I need to remember. "But I do not want to be Queen Arwen." She looked at her hands, the white, delicate fingers. Men had loved her hands, seizing them for dances—bowing over them in Narnia.
But will they be enough for this?
The Doorkeeper still said nothing, and so Susan went on. "I cannot be Hester, strong and passionate, and, and, sure of herself. But I can—" She broke off.
What can I offer?
What could I offer before? Before I became this shell; before I became something that lived only for laughter.
"I can be gentle, I think. I can relearn to be gentle. In other places, where people are hurting. I can learn to be gentle there. I can offer them the understanding that makes grief easier."
"It will not just be beautiful people you are sent to," he warned, but his tone was kind again. "The first few—they might be. I do not know, I am not the one who makes the orders, thank the Being that orders all universes. But it will grow harder. And you will have to keep going. Walkers cannot lay their mantle down without also laying down all hope for their souls, once they have taken it up. Unless, of course, the same Being lays it down for you."
Susan swallowed. I do not know if my strength is enough for this.
Of course it's not, she could hear Lucy saying, Peter and Edmund's voices laying over hers. That's what Aslan's strength is for.
"The Being that gives the orders," she hesitated. The Doorkeeper said nothing, inviting her to continue. "Is that Aslan?" If it was, if it was Him—she feared Him, still. She remembered the piercingness of those eyes, the way they allowed nothing to hide. She had feared to meet them once, when she had only been grumpy and disbelieving. She did not know if she could meet them now, foresworn, angry, broken.
Yet she still believed He was good. And if He ordered her steps, she could trust Him.
Can't I?
But I don't trust Him. Not—not fully.
I trust Him when I don't have any other choice.
And now I don't.
"Aslan? Aslan. Hmmm. The name sounds familiar—He has so many names. There's an entire list of them, just for the human He was, in that long prophecy...Aslan. Yes, I remember. Narnia. The world that lived under the Lion." He glanced at her, up and down, a quick evaluating glance. "The Being called Aslan orders all things according to His Father's will, does he not? Aslan's Queen."
Susan shuddered.
No. I am not a queen. Not the Queen of such a Being, who orders all worlds and sends saviours to them. I am not a Queen of His.
Or—or—
She remembered, she could see and feel the memories as the Doorkeeper called her that title. She remembered the metal circlet that she wore so often she didn't notice it, wearing it while swirling in circles with a Faun, sitting across from the other three and discussing—oh, everything.
I was a Queen once. He said it. He said—He said more than that. Once a queen of Narnia, always a queen of Narnia. Does that mean I still am?
I trust His words more than I trust myself.
But there is not a single syllable of that name that feels true. I could not meet His eyes as a traitor; I could never face them if I had to meet them as a failed queen.
I do not like this name. But I do not think I can change the Doorkeeper's mind. That is a task even Edmund or Lucy would struggle to accomplish.
She looked up. "If I let you call me that, can I be a Walker?" she asked, as steadily as she could. Maybe she wouldn't have to hear it very much. Maybe she wouldn't—her title and Aslan's name—
Why did that have to be what he called her?
"Are you strong enough to bear that title?" he asked her back, just as gravely.
She closed her eyes. "No." She opened her eyes again. "But I was not strong enough to bear my family's deaths, either."
"So you would be a Walker because you must." He sighed. "I'm being patient. I'm not talking much. But I must tell you, I do not like it. I do not think it wise. If you are to be one—well, it is often the most broken that become the most beautiful, in His hands. I have seen far too many things to tell you no. You may eventually be a Walker."
Eventually? That is—
I know I am not strong enough to wait. The waiting is the hardest.
"When?"
He shrugged. "I do not know, Aslan's Queen. Time is something I understand better than most, and as a result I predict it far less."
I don't know if I'll ever be able to keep up with his mind.
I certainly hope he's not one of the people I have to love in order to live as more than a ruin. I think I would find him difficult to love.
That does beg the question, Edmund would say—Edmund, I miss you—as to whether or not I can love unlovable people.
"You've been very good at being patient, and so have I. But there is more more thing I would say to you, Aslan's Queen. Are you listening?"
She looked back at him, noticing the way his eyes hardened, the lines that appeared around their corners.
This will be hard to hear. Aslan—if You are listening—how much more do I have to take today?
Where is Your strength? I offered You all I have, saying You can make me into something better. Where is Your strength?
I still have to try.
"I am listening," she answered, and if it was a whisper, it was one she meant.
"You are listening with intention." He paused. "But listen with your heart."
That—I do not want to do that. His words might hurt, and if my guard is not up—
But—was this a part of what Hester meant?
I am not as strong as Hester was.
I will need to be, if I want to be a Walker. If I want to walk in other worlds, see other souls, even take on other sorrows—I will need to be strong. Strong enough to hold their memories and my own.
So I will try.
Aslan, help me to try. I am truly not strong enough for this.
Perhaps I will find Your strength in the trying.
She nodded at the Doorkeeper.
"To be a Walker there is one thing you must do. Over time, it will grow harder. It always is, because Sons of Adam were never made for pain, and so they seek to avoid it. But you must keep your memories. Even if they hurt. To grow into what you could be, to fulfil the promise Hester sees in your heart, you must keep all your past. Your memories have been carefully chosen for you—yes, all of them, even the ones you've never asked for. Even the ones you would give everything not to remember. Remember them."
Remember them? That's what I wanted, there in that last world. But if he's warning me—I should stop and listen. Are there things I don't want to remember?
She thought of how hard it was to speak to the ghosts and know they would never answer, how the memories took away her words, standing in front of the graves. How it hurt to remember the morning when she didn't kiss her mother.
And she remembered how she had deliberately forgotten Narnia. How she had blanked it out of her mind as best she could.
She had done that because it had caused her pain, and the world offered her pleasure.
But she thought, too, of knowing how Edmund would have delighted in the books, how Lucy would have walked through the other door—how they walked with her, even while they left her alone. How she could remember Peter's strength.
And how it was her memories that held the Lion.
I need Him; I would not know what I needed, if I did not remember.
She brought her mind back to the present, and looked at the Doorkeeper's face, the glasses and sharp eyes. "I will remember," she promised.
"Good. Very good. See to it that you do. And now we must go. Come along." He stood, leaving the chair, and moved, not to the foyer—antechamber—but to his door. He opened it and walked through, leaving it open behind him.
I get to see where he lives? She glanced through the door. Why is it so dark?
But she walked through, taking several steps into the darkness, and heard the door shut behind her. It was very dark.
"Where are the lights?" she asked.
"How would I know? This isn't my house."
"This—what?"
"You should know where the lights are. This is your room."
Susan almost didn't believe him, but she could see the window, half-blocked by a tree trunk, and it—it did look very familiar.
She moved, half-stumbling (but she knew this floor) over to the light and flipped the switch.
She was, indeed, in her own bedroom.
No. I was not ready to come back here yet. I was trying so hard to be strong—why do I have to come back to the waiting! Why?
"Why—what?"
"You will have to be a bit clearer than that," the Doorkeeper said dryly, and then snorted. "All right, all right, patience has never been my strong suit, and I'm rather out of what limited amount of it I have right now. I'm glad when people can do their jobs and do them well. But all beings should be open to making themselves better. What is it you want to know?"
"Why am I in my own room?"
"This isn't where you belong?"
No, I don't belong here.
But you might disagree, and I will not quibble. I am too tired; I have too little control over my emotions and too much to feel.
But I also don't understand how we got to my room.
"How did we get here?"
"We walked through your door, of course."
"No, we didn't," Susan retorted sharply. "We did not walk through the door to my room."
"Ah. I understand. The door to my home—well, I almost never invite people in. I was taking you here."
"Then—then why take me to that hallway at all?" Why give me a glimpse into another world, where I cannot be given entry? But she did not have the words to ask him that, so she just asked, "Why?"
"Oh. That. Yes, quite. I took you through a door, and you were pierced in the heart. To take you back to your home, with that wound, would be very unwise. The doors are still too cold for you. But my door—ah, my door. It is a masterpiece. Set in splendid relief, of course, by the Bookkeeper's door—it's quite an ordinary door. I'm very proud of mine. It makes all passages warm and easy. And sometimes, coming home after a very long day, I'm quite glad to go through it. It gathers that gladness and holds it, and helps all people come home. And home is where you need to be, isn't it?" The last question was asked much more gently.
The gentleness helped.
Even if his explanation didn't, Susan thought.
And I do not know where else I need to be. And all my ghosts are here. And—I would like to go to their graves again. To tell them all these things. So..."I suppose this is where I should be," she admitted.
"No, not where you should be, where you need to be. I will likely see you again. I'll take your cloak, if you please."
"When?" She could not help the question, the demand, but her fingers quickly moved to unclasp the cloak and hand it back to him even while she asked, even while her heart begged, How long do I have to wait?
He shrugged. "I do not know, Aslan's Queen. Good day to you." He opened the door and walked through, shutting it behind him.
Susan doubted he was in the hallway. She let herself fall, letting her bed catch her, put her hands over her face, and cried.
Surely he would be back. Surely Aslan would give her strength for the wait.
Surely being a part of a Walker was weeping.