Disclaimer: Though this consists of two of my childhood worlds, I entered them to experience them. They left me richer in everything but rights of ownership and money.

A/N: I think it might be fair to warn you, I cried while writing this chapter. I have no idea if it will affect readers the same way, but I thought it fair to say so at the beginning.

Beta'd by trustingHim17

"There are human beings in this world who are soft enough to feel every terrible thing that happens so deeply.
And are still brave enough to remain constant and suffer for those who need them the most.
Even the stars blink in awe of the gleam of their souls."
~ Nikita Gill

"When Jo came home that spring, she had been struck with the change in Beth. No one spoke of it, or seemed aware of it, for it had come too gradually to startle those who saw her daily; but to eyes sharpened by absence it was very plain, and a heavy weight fell on Jo's heart as she saw her sister's face. It was no paler, and but little thinner than in the autumn; yet there was a strange, transparent look about it, as if the mortal was being slowly refined away, and the immortal shining through the frail flesh with an indescribably pathetic beauty. [...]
'Is this what made you so unhappy in the autumn, Beth? You did not feel it then, and keep it to yourself so long, did you?' asked Jo, refusing to see or say that it was best, but glad to know that Laurie had no part in Beth's trouble.
"Yes, I gave up hoping then, but I didn't like to own it. I tried to think it was a sick fancy, and would not let it trouble anyone. But when I saw you all so well and strong and full of happy plans, it was hard to feel that I could never be like you, and then I was miserable, Jo.'"
~ Louisa May Alcott, Little Women

She stood in a small room with a single bookshelf, a couch and a few chairs, and a fire burning on the hearth. It felt like a place where every person who walked in would suddenly long for home. Not a magical place, not an odd one, but simply—and gloriously—human.

A young girl, not out of her teens, lay on a couch and looked out the window. She wore a simple dress, and her face was plain and worn, but something about her stirred Susan's heart. Perhaps it was the way one hand lay open under the vase of flowers on the windowsill, or the way the other ran its fingers over red coverlet with slow, soft strokes, or the beautiful blue shawl around the thin shoulders, or, perhaps, the way the head rested wearily against the glass but a smile still graced the face.

This, Susan knew, was someone who loved beauty. Someone gentle. Someone who loved home and family.

This girl, in another world, another time, another chance—she would have been a soul-friend of Susan's.

And she was dying.

How foolish Susan had been to think this would be easy, to think the first task would be anything but heart-wrenching. Susan wondered suddenly if she turned, if she opened the door behind her, if the Doorkeeper's door would still be there and she could go, leaving this task to someone else.

But at that moment Susan saw something else, something that made it impossible to leave.

A drop of water, light shining through it, as it fell from the girl's face. It spattered over a spot already a little wet.

She needs help, and I am like her enough I could help—and I know the weight of secrets. I know how much easier it is when they are shared. Even if it's just with graves. I—I will help.

Susan stepped forward and the girl turned away from the window, startled and quickly wiping at her cheek. "I didn't know anyone was here," she began, then stopped, looking at Susan's face. Susan let her. Perhaps the girl would see what Susan had already seen, that they were similar; that they loved similar things in similar ways. Perhaps that would make it easy for the girl to talk to her, would make it easier for Susan to help.

"How did you get in? I didn't hear the front door, nor Hannah answering," the girl asked, curiosity animating her a bit more, and Susan smiled. No wonder Hester had sometimes been cryptic. It was a question that did not matter, but also one impossible to answer.

"Through the door," she answered softly. She kept her voice gentle and low, and she saw the girl smile shyly in response.

"Are you looking for my father?"

"Your father?"

"He went out with Marmee this morning. Some of his parishioners are sick." She shivered, and Susan stepped forward before she even thought about it, pulling the blue shawl up and wrapping the front of it securely.

"Are you warmer?"

"Yes. Thank you. I couldn't go, since they were worried I might get sick, but I don't mind staying home."

I don't mind staying home. "I loved home like that once too," Susan offered, and once again the two shared a smile. But neither had anything to say after that.

I don't think I should tower over her. Susan moved to the end of the couch and sat. How do I begin this?

Perhaps I should begin by telling the truth.

"I was not looking for your father. I was looking for you."

"For me?"

Susan nodded. "What is your name?" she asked suddenly. It would hurt, if I went back to my world and did not know her name.

"I'm Beth."

"I'm Susan." Beth smiled again, and Susan folded both her hands on her lap. "I'm looking for you, Beth, because I would like to help you." She smiled, just a little. "I was sent to help you." Because she knew it made a difference, a difference to the heart, when help was deliberately sent instead of chance's happenstance.

"Can you help me get better?" Beth breathed, eyes going wide with hope, and Susan felt a sharp pang.

"No," she said, as gently as she could, and still had to watch Beth's face fall. I did not mean to raise her hopes. I—wish I was better at this.

I wish I was Lucy, cordial in hand.

"I am not able to do that. But I wish I could."

Beth smiled, her white hands gathering the ends of the shawl and twisting it. "A lot of people wish that. Papa keeps praying for it, at every meal. And he gives thanks anytime I am a little bit better." Another drop of water fell from her face, darkening a spot on the shawl. "I want to get better."

Every memory of Susan bearing others' pain, of the gentleness needed for her own, the kindness mixed with strength when it handled the broken, she drew on all those memories and tried to pour them into her voice. "That's why I've come. I've come to ask you to tell me something. Do you think you will get better?"

"No," Beth whispered, and two more tears fell onto the shawl. "I'm trying not to think that way, but I'm not getting better." She raised her hands to her face. "I haven't told anyone yet. They're all so well and strong and happy, and I'm not. I'm getting worse. And sometimes at night I watch the shadows grow longer and longer on the floor. I don't want to be their shadow."

Susan leaned forward, her own tears beginning to fall, and enfolded the frail girl in both arms. Beth began shaking, tears falling much more quickly; Susan could feel them making her shirt wet.

"Is my mind just sick?" Beth asked, her voice breaking.

"Oh, Beth." Susan reached up one hand and began stroking Beth's hair—hair darker than Lucy's, but Susan's hand began trembling as she realised she'd done this for Lucy in Narnia, when the Fauns had begun vanishing.

No. Beth needs me now. But I can be just as gentle with her.

"Your mind is not sick," Susan reassured, her voice low. "I am sorry, Beth. You aren't wrong. Oh, Beth, I don't know why—I have no idea why Aslan calls some of His own to die. But my sister—" Her voice caught. That was something she could not offer yet.

"Aslan?" Beth asked, pushing herself back and blowing her nose on a handkerchief. "That's a pretty name. It sounds like something Jo would write."

"It's the name of the Person who sent me. He—He has different names sometimes."

"Probably like Christ," Beth said seriously. She blinked, and two more tears fell. Susan reached out and gathered both white hands in her own. She needed to make sure she gave Beth all the comfort she had been sent to give.

"I know you haven't told anyone else yet. That's all right, Beth. You can tell them in your own time, when it's good. But it's a heavy thing to bear alone. I came to bear it with you, for a little while." Memories of doing this in Narnia, of holding people in their darkest nights, the questions she had asked them, helped her now. She squeezed Beth's hands. "Can you tell me the hardest part? Can you give that to me?"

Beth leaned forward again, hiding her face in Susan's shoulder. She moved easily, as if she'd done this a hundred times, and Susan thought for a brief moment about Beth's parents, and how the Doorkeeper said they saw souls. She did not doubt that they had comforted Beth this way many times.

"Jo made so many plans for a great future," Beth said, her voice partially muffled. "She wants to be a famous writer, and she wants to change the terrible things of the world. Amy is in Europe right now, studying art and paintings and going everywhere. She can make so many beautiful things. And sometimes Meg comes over and she talks about the future she wants for the babies. The future looks so bright for everyone, and—I won't be there. I can't have any future plans. I can't look forward and see my dreams. I can't be like them, or be with them." Beth shuddered, arms wrapping around Susan's waist. "They're leaving me behind!"

Susan held her, rocking back and forth, back and forth, running her hand over Beth's trembling head. She didn't have any words, there weren't any words, for a spirit feeling itself dying.

But she could hold her, hold her gently and tightly, and let her say all she needed.

It wasn't enough, it would never be enough. The burden wouldn't be lifted, and life wouldn't be restored. But the burden would be shared, and Susan would carry this in her own life.

She refused to think about how much that would hurt, when she went back. This was about Beth. Beautiful, homely Beth.

She rocked her back and forth, crying as she listened to Beth's tears.

The cries softened and grew less frequent, Beth leaning a little more heavily onto Susan's shoulder. Susan laid her own head on top of Beth's. "I'm sorry," she said softly, when Beth's noises had completely stopped.

Beth pushed herself back, and Susan rewrapped the shawl, then handed Beth the handkerchief she'd used before. After blowing her nose, Beth looked back at Susan. "I haven't been able to tell my father yet," she said slowly. "He still hopes for a lot for me. But if I could—I think he would tell me I'm not being left behind. I'm going ahead." Two more tears fell, and Beth quickly rubbed them away. "But it's hard to go ahead."

"I have not gone ahead, so I cannot say," Susan answered, holding Beth's hand. She pushed back her own hurt, refusing to think about those words. Not yet. "I am sorry."

"Telling you made it easier," Beth admitted. She put her other hand, still holding the handkerchief, over Susan's holding her own. "Thank you," she said earnestly. "Thank you for helping me."

Two more tears fell down Susan's face, and Beth reached up to pat them away with the handkerchief.

Just then Susan twisted her head. She had not seen anything, but—but it felt like a gust of wind had just blown past her through an open window, only it wasn't wind, it was—change, as if her heart felt and understood a bit of change had entered this world.

Hadn't the Doorkeeper told her to watch for the door opening?

But Susan looked down at the girl in her arms, and clutched her more tightly. Just a moment more, just a moment, to hold her; she could not leave Beth alone. Not when she knew how hard it was to have no one else to hold.

And just then both girls heard a door downstairs swinging shut, and heard a strong, energetic girl's voice call, "Beth?"

"That's Jo," Beth said, turning back to look at Susan. "Will you stay and meet her?"

Susan smiled and shook her head, drawing back both her hands. "I was sent to you, and I must go away now." She stood, but something in Beth's eyes stopped her. She stooped, wrapping Beth in one last hug and holding on. "I'm going away first," she whispered to the girl. "But I'm also just going ahead."

She felt Beth nod, the dark head moving against her own, and then Susan stood.

But the feeling of that gust of change stopped. Susan frowned. Had she missed the moment? She headed for the door, only to take several steps to the side as she heard feet pounding up the stairs. A moment later it burst open and a tall young woman with dark hair ran in. Her eyes were so fixed on Beth on the couch—and Susan caught her breath at that look, at the fierce, tender, passionate love utterly focused on the dying girl—that she did not see Susan, off to the side. "Beth, I brought you something."

And the gust of change came again. Susan took several quiet steps back towards the door, pausing only for a moment to look over her shoulder.

The girl had gone to her knees by the couch, hand outstretched, love and hope and so much life spilling from her. Beth was smiling. "Teddy and I put it together—he thought it would amuse you—look, Beth, isn't it sweet?"

Susan opened the door, stepped through it—and the chill hit her bones this time, as if all the pain she had been holding back caught the cold and held it—and then she was through, standing in her own hallway, dimly aware of the brown arm and head beside her.

Her own eyes filled with tears. That world was gone. The girl was gone. The girl who struggled with a burden no person should ever have to carry, who was loved and lovely and so, so kind—who was dying.

Who was gone.

Susan missed her. Already, she missed her, and she ached with what was happening to her.

"How soon?" she asked the Doorkeeper, her voice a little choked. She kept her eyes on the hall, not wanting to look at him and let him see her tears.

"How soon?"

"How long—till she dies?"

"Ah." He paused, and Susan caught a glimpse of light from her peripheral vision, as if a small torch had just been lit and then gone out. "Several months. She will tell her sister—Jo, whom you saw, and you should have left sooner than that, by the way." Susan heard his hair rustle as he shook his head. "And I will have to put up with the consequences of that. But Jo will know Beth's secret, and Beth will acknowledge it, and then they will go home, and both parents will also know." He stopped again. "Beth's life will be much, much easier these next few months, because you visited her. Try to hold on to that, when the consequences come calling." His voice was gruff but kind, and then Susan heard him turn, heard the door open and shut, and knew he was gone.

He was gone for now. Perhaps for a month, perhaps for less than a month, perhaps for more; she didn't know.

But her entire heart was focused on one thing at the moment, too full for the future.

On another person she loved who was dying; dead.

Beth.