Author's Note: The one quibble I had with The Chronicles of Narnia was Susan's storyline in The Last Battle. The whole idea that she was no longer part of her siblings, or that she might even never return to Narnia because of it, really bothered me. I wrote this to see where it would take me. It was interesting to explore this possibility, one among many.
Light Warning: There could possibly be triggers for physical/mental abuse in this story.
~BD
Requiem
Somewhere in the South Pacific, December 1961
She stared up at the gaping mouth of the cave in confusion and bubbling anger. Then her voice snapped out like a whip: harsh and brittle.
"I wasn't supposed to be able to go back! He told me I couldn't go back!"
The words echoed furiously as they faded into the black chasm before her.
She straightened her shoulders and narrowed her eyes. "I'm not afraid," she declared mutinously, wishing to taunt whomever might be listening.
When there was no response, she began to march forward, beneath the arching entrance, ready for whatever might await her.
After all, it could be no worse then anything else during the past fifteen years.
oOo
London, April 1961
The gavel slapped onto the judge's pulpit with a bang, but she didn't flinch. Instead, she maintained the stony silence she had put forth since the beginning of the proceedings, for her silence had been the mask to hide the turmoil of emotion boiling within her.
To her left, her attorney congratulated her on the verdict, which was overwhelmingly in her favor. She'd won everything in the divorce, leaving her former, once-politically powerful husband with virtually nothing. His career had been wrecked, his bank accounts would be drained into hers, and the mansion, country home, the expensive cars, the servants, and the sleek yacht... everything would all be signed away into her name soon enough.
And yet, she thought bitterly, she had absolutely nothing, for all she had everything.
"I'll stop by tomorrow morning?" her attorney said blithely, smiling at her. "To finish the paperwork?"
Susan pulled herself out of the horrors of the past and nodded once. "Mm. That will be fine, Fredrickson."
oOo
Narnia, Second Visit
Even as she made her way down the corridor towards his chambers, she couldn't help but wonder if this was wrong, that perhaps Aslan wouldn't approve. And yet, the tingling within her chest and fingers made her wonder how something that seemed so right could be wrong.
It was late – long past midnight – but when she softly rapped her knuckles against the heavy wooden door, it opened within seconds. Much faster than it should, she thought distantly, if he didn't feel the same way. Which meant that perhaps he did feel the same, and that perhaps his quiet staring at her across the dinner table was what she imagined.
They stood frozen, each on opposite sides of the threshold for several long seconds, before he whispered her name hoarsely. Questioning. Heady.
She responded by stepping over the threshold, cupping the back of his neck, rising to her toes, and pressing her lips to his in a slow, dragging kiss. He remained frozen for a moment longer, long enough for her to open her mouth and catch his lower lip between hers. She sucked it gently and nipped it, and the next thing she knew, he had pulled her into the room.
She heard the lock click, and her stomach flipped pleasurably as he backed her against the heavy door, pressed her against it with his body, and began kissing her desperately.
oOo
London, Spring 1960
Their marriage has never been what one could possibly call perfect. No marriage was, she assumed, but theirs seemed worse than most. She had never been able to comprehend it; he had positively adored her during their courtship, shown her off as a beautiful trophy, and he had eagerly anticipated their wedding (which had been a ridiculously large event). She had been excited at the prospect of marrying such a man – a man who had influence in politics, a man who possessed wealth that would enable her to do anything she wished, buy anything she wished, possibly take care of her family if they needed her assistance. She had known it wasn't exactly a fairytale, but she had given up on that type love long ago, much to the consternation of her siblings.
Still, in the days following their wedding, he had grown exceptionally cold and distant. Their marriage had remained that way for the next ten years – ten long, horrible years in which she lost her parents and siblings to an unspeakable tragedy and her friends slowly disappeared out of her life because they couldn't stand her sardonic, moody ways. In the meantime, he had cheated, lied, and pushed her aside. He abused her verbally and physically. The tabloids had delighted in publishing photographs of him, always with younger, prettier women draped on his arm at posh parties or in private nightclubs that she had known nothing about until seeing them on the front pages. He would always deny the photographs in press conferences, so he could continue rising up the political ladder. He would dismiss them as fakes. And yet, she had never believed him when he insisted that he had never cheated on her, because the evidence was there, no matter how many times he denied it. She couldn't bring herself to care too much, because… well, she just didn't care. Somehow, she had known when she married him that their union would be riddled with such infidelities on his part. But she'd never thought that he would question her fidelity.
Until tonight, she thought dully, as she stood on the balcony nursing a double. They had argued in the past, but never quite like this. She had finally reached her limit; finally demanded truthful answers in a heated verbal exchange. He had responded by tormenting her – telling her that she had no room to berate him for his sexual affairs, because she hadn't been a virgin on their wedding night, and he just knew she had been sleeping with other men behind his back throughout their entire marriage.
At first, she had been too stunned to respond, and he took her shocked expression for a confession. But when she insisted that she had been a virgin the first night, he sneered that he knew damned well that she wasn't. She had been too knowledgeable, to experienced for a virgin.
Her blood ran cold. It would be a lie to continue insisting she had been. The problem was, she couldn't explain why she wasn't. She had given up on the world that her younger self had indulged in years ago, in a desperate attempt to integrate herself back into English society. After all, she'd been told that she would never be able to go back. She had taken that to mean that she needed to live in her own world, to forget what she had cherished in a place her siblings called Narnia. The others had always been upset at her decision to move forward. But she had known of no other way to do as Aslan requested.
And now, the fateful decision she had made on her final night in that world was haunting her in a terrible way; she had wondered at the time if it were wrong, but it hadn't felt wrong and she had been so hopelessly desperate when Caspian had touched her and turned her blood to fire, as he kissed hot raw lines over her flushed skin.
Still, she never would have dreamed that the decision would destroy her now.
She didn't even have a chance to say that she hadn't cheated on her husband during their marriage. His hand connected with her cheek before she realized that he had crossed the room to stand in front of her, furious at her contemplative silence. He hit her four more times before he stormed out in a haze of liquor, leaving purpling bruises across her cheekbones and jaw.
First thing in the morning, she would call her lawyer, she thought distantly. Her marriage was over – even if her husband wished to reconcile for the sake of his career, she couldn't possibly stay with him any longer.
oOo
Narnia, Second Visit
It had turned so frantic, so fast. He clutched her to him like a dying man; his lips fused with hers as he held her hip and cradled her neck. Her fingers fisted into his thick, soft hair, needing an anchor, needing to be closer. Their mouths opened to each other, tongues touched, and she felt as though the heat within her was burning through her blood.
He breathed her name in a way that made her shiver, and she kept her eyes closed, her nose brushing along his jaw, against the light stubble on his chin. She kissed the base of his throat and heard him moan, felt his hips push closer to hers.
"Are you certain?" he breathed, his voice low and thick.
In response, she fumbled and unlaced his breeches and delved inside, and her fingers skating down his length despite the fact that, inwardly, she was quite nervous at her own daring. He bucked and cried out harshly, gasping her name. Reaching up, she pulled him down to kiss him fiercely again, and after a few seconds, she murmured against his mouth, "I'm very certain. Please…?"
Her robe was torn from her shoulders, revealing bare arms and a thin nightdress. They stumbled backwards to the bed, hands moving over the other and sometimes crossing in tangles. She had never dreamed she would react so quickly or so wantonly. But for this moment, she didn't want to be the voice of reason amongst the group – the one who always did the right thing, amongst an older brother who gallantly rode to war for the mere glory of it, a younger brother who was could be a terrible foe around a political round-table discussion, and a younger sister who stood valiantly before an army of hostile men as a brave warrior surpassing her youthful years. She wanted to be just plain Susan, and she wanted to be a passionate lover instead of remaining so aloof and distant. She wanted the man she had fallen for, who had fallen for her as well.
oOo
Southampton, June 1961
The Captain of the Aura met her as she stepped from the gangplank to the deck, shielded by a fashionable wide-brimmed hat and large sunglasses typical of the new decade.
"A course, madam?" he asked courteously.
She glanced about her, thankful for the dark lens that shielded her eyes and hid her expressions. Several photographers were hurrying up the docks, and she cringed as they bustled around coils of rope and annoyed, crusty old fishermen. She had tried to keep the date of her departure a secret, hoping the tabloids wouldn't get hold of it. Surely they had better things to report then her life? Good grief, but they were absolutely insufferable.
"The South Seas, perhaps?" She kept her voice low, not wishing to be overheard by anyone.
"Any particular island?" The Captain seemed unconcerned with the lack of direction and also spoke in a quiet voice, recognizing her desire for privacy. Or maybe he just enjoyed his pay.
She had already started to walk towards the door that led below decks, to the sumptuous quarters she had recently redecorated to suit her tastes instead of her ex-husband's. "I'll get back with you in a couple of days," she called over her shoulder, desperate to escape the paparazzi. "After we round the Cape of Good Hope."
"As you wish, madam."
The door shut with a thud behind her, and she inhaled slowly and removed her sunglasses, her eyes adjusting to the dark interior. The Cape of Good Hope. She snorted at the irony.
oOo
Somewhere in the South Pacific, July 1961
When she awoke, she was drenched in half-dried, salty seawater and she felt positively ghastly. Sand stuck unpleasantly to her arms and legs and hair, and she grimaced as she sat up gingerly and tried to brush some of it off.
The sun was hot, and when she shaded her eyes to take in her surroundings, she saw nothing except a tattered lifeboat pushed against the white sand. The crystalline, clear waves lapped feebly at the stern, causing it to bob pitifully in the shallow water.
She turned to look behind her, but the island seemed uninhabited at first sight; palm trees lined the fringe of tropical forest, and she shivered despite the sun.
A month in the South Seas had been balm to her soul, had eased away the memories of the ugly divorce, the tabloids, the accusations, and the painful recollections of a terrible train crash in the early 50's that had brutally wiped out her entire family. And then, just when she thought that perhaps yachting the rest of her life would be the very thing she needed to escape her past, the storm had hit.
Furious and awful, it had raged around them, and the Captain had yelled to her over the roar of wind and ocean that it seemed they were stuck in the middle of a typhoon. He was damned if he knew how to get out of it, for it seemed that no matter how he tried to escape the gale, it persisted. The radar and radio were both out, leaving the Aura helpless and threatening to flounder. Susan had understood even less then her captain had, and she remained below deck in anger and annoyance that the storm was wrecking her plans of mental escape.
On the second night, after ceaseless torrents of rain, one of the sailors had hauled her up to the main deck, explaining that they had struck a reef and were taking on water, fast. They couldn't send out a distress signal, because the radio was still inoperative, and no one would see flares in this weather, even if they could light the flares to begin with. He had put her in the lifeboat, but before the sailors could join her, a rogue wave washed over the deck. The lifeboat snapped from the ropes and plunged into the water. Terrified, she had tried to grab one of the oars, but the little boat seemed to have a life of its own as it went up and down on the waves and took her further out to sea. Through the sheets of rain she watched the yacht grow smaller and smaller, sailors loading another raft. The Aura sank quickly into the abyss of the Southern Pacific, and she had fainted in fear and hopelessness, curled up on the bottom of her lifeboat.
Now, she was completely alone on a deserted island, thousands of miles from anyone. Bitterly, she wished she had died. But it seemed that death eluded her, when it claimed nearly every other person of import in her life.
"Excuse me. You… You are Queen Susan?"
The voice startled her. She twisted and stared in horror at an unshaven man standing twenty feet away from her on the beach. He wore breaches and a thin, billowing shirt; he was barefoot and bareheaded, his skin tanned darkly and pitted with scars. His hair was long on his neck, dark brown with streaks of gray, and curly. He looked vaguely familiar, but she had no idea why he should. Good grief, she was hallucinating on top of everything else!
"Queen Susan of Old?" he repeated, watching her closely.
She staggered to her feet, suddenly nauseated. "This isn't amusing in the least," she spat, holding her stomach with one hand, as she tried to keep from retching, and grasping the lifeboat with the other hand to remain standing. "Who are you? Some sort of hallucination? Oh, that's rich, that is. Just what I need, stranded here in the middle of blasted nowhere! Hallucinating on top of everything else!"
The man looked confused. "But I am not a hallucination, Majesty. My name is Glozelle, former Lord of the Telmarines of Narnia. We met, you and I, some nineteen annuals prior in that land – before Aslan transported those of us who wished to begin anew, here. And now, I see, He brings you to us. You must wish to begin anew yourself, then?"
Her world seemed to blur and whirl up and away from her, as his words registered in her brain.
oOo
Somewhere in the South Pacific, July 1961
When she woke again, she discovered that she was in a small room on a pallet, and her head throbbed with what was the start of a promising migraine. Squinting through the darkness, she made out a dim lantern on the opposite side of the room on a table, and a woman sitting at the same, writing upon a piece of parchment.
Susan sat up slowly, but the crackle of the pallet drew the woman's attention.
In a heavy accent, she said, "Ah, you are awake. We were beginning to worry for you, Majesty."
Groggily, Susan snapped, "Don't call me that."
Unperturbed, the woman replied, "You are Queen Susan, are you not?"
"Most unfortunately, yes, my name is Susan. I rather wish it weren't."
"You are a former Queen of Narnia, are you not?"
"Emphasis on the 'former'," she replied bitterly, wishing the woman would stop referring to Narnia completely.
The woman smiled. "Once, I was a Queen of Narnia, too."
"Oh, for heaven's sake!" Susan snarled in exasperation. "There isn't any such place as Narnia!"
"Say such as you wish," the woman shrugged, "but Narnia exists and you have confirmed it by admitting you were a former queen of that land. Aslan sent us here nineteen years ago, so that we could begin new lives. And as he promised, our lives have been good. But you are a surprise to us. Why has Aslan sent you here, Queen Susan?"
"Really, I've no idea." She paused. "I was shipwrecked. My yacht struck a reef. I washed up here."
"That is not coincidence. It is Fate. Aslan sent you here."
"I rather doubt that. Aslan and I aren't particularly on speaking terms these days. I haven't seen him in almost twenty years."
The woman smiled wryly, but otherwise ignored the comment, and instead replied, "I am Prunaprismia, former wife of King Miraz. Here, I am Glozelle's wife; my first son bears my former husband's name only, and none of his personality, thank Aslan for it. We live with the others who joined us through the portal, and benefit from the island. We've never have contact with the outside world, until you arrived." She smiled and rose from her seat, took up a small bowl, and knelt by Susan. "Drink this. It will help."
"Somehow, I doubt that anything will help."
"You are very bitter, Majesty. Perhaps Aslan felt you needed a new start, as well."
It was an interested statement, not an accusation.
Susan's expression did not change. "My family was killed in a horrific accident years ago. My husband was abusive and we recently divorced," she said sharply. "I left England to try and… forget."
"One does not forget," Prunaprismia replied matter-of-factly, a sad expression in her eyes. "Your family – you mean the High King Peter, King Edmund, and Queen Lucy?"
Susan flinched at the names of her siblings, or perhaps she flinched at their titles. She wasn't quite certain; she had tried so desperately not to think of them since the train crash.
"And our parents," she added stiffly.
"My sincerest apologies, Majesty." Prunaprismia handed her the bowl of broth and turned to her writing table again. She began to roll up her parchments. "I know how painful it is to lose someone you love, you know. And you do not forget. Ever. Even in another world, another life… you do not forget."
For a moment, Susan remained silent. Whatever else the former Queen of the Telmarines said, she did in fact know exactly what it felt like to lose someone she loved. Even if her husband had been a manipulative, cunning, power-hungry man, she had still loved him, just as Susan had loved her own family.
She sighed heavily and, when the lady left her a few seconds later, she glanced down at the bowl of broth and realized how hungry she was.
oOo
Somewhere in the South Pacific, September 1961
The weeks slid by without change in temperature or even much change in weather – the days were sunny and warm, with occasional afternoon rain showers, but nothing like the storm that had destroyed her crew. She alternated between brooding on the empty beach or within the tropical forest where the small band of Telmarines had made their little village; a group of people who existed not as a monarchy but as a democracy, where everyone had a voice and decisions were made with everyone's opinion and suggestions.
It was frankly a bit annoying. The cheerful, simplistic lifestyle of the Telmarines was irksome, like a fly that persists around one's food at a picnic. They were all kind to her, treating her as one of them – one that was in need of a fresh start. They all agreed that was why Aslan had sent the Queen Susan to their island.
She ignored them, and more than once she wondered if she were actually dead, or if this were some incredible dream that her over-wrought mind had concocted. If she would wake to find her husband drunk and beating her again, with the tabloids snapping incriminating photographs through their bedroom window.
Perhaps the worst part was Prunaprismia's son, who bore the name Miraz like his father. The similarities between him and his cousin, Caspian, constantly caught her off her guard; she would glance up and notice him jostling with the other boys in the village, smiling easily, and she would see Caspian instead of Miraz. Like Caspian, Miraz's hair was brown tinted with gold, and his eyes were dark and deep; at times, they could bore into her soul before she had a chance to look away.
And more often than not, she would realize with a jolt of surprise that the boy was actually watching her. When that happened, she would turn away, unsure how to handle the situation, and she would go for one of her long walks in the forest to clear her head. He was far too young for her – only nineteen years old – and she didn't want another relationship with anyone.
oOo
Somewhere in the South Pacific, October 1961
The pool was deep and clear, and the water warm and relaxing. She had found the place by herself, though it would be strange if none of the Telmarines knew of its existence. Still, the times she came here, no one else was around, and so she considered it her place – her secret place to escape and dwell on the strange turn of her life.
It was perhaps three months after her arrival that it happened. It took her five minutes before she realized he was sitting on a rock opposite of her, watching her with those dark eyes so like his cousin's. She was startled, suddenly aware of her nakedness, and even more aware of his bare torso. For only nineteen summers, he was starting to fill out in shoulders and chest, yet still youthful. His mouth curved at her reaction to his presence, and she scowled at such insolence.
"What are you doing here?" she demanded.
"I come here often to watch you, Majesty."
There was something in his voice that was brazen, taunting. It startled her as much as his presence did, and as much as the fact that he apparently followed her about did. His mother claimed he was nothing like his father, but Susan was seriously starting to wonder if the woman was simply blind to her son's personality.
"Why?" She couldn't imagine why he would watch an older woman bathing. She was twice his age. Surely he would want to gawk at a younger girl? A younger, less experienced girl who was just starting to blossom? Whose breasts and arms hadn't born the bruises of an abusive husband, and whose body wasn't worn and tired from the bitterness of life?
"Because you are beautiful, Majesty." His eyebrows lifted, as though he thought the answer obvious.
"I am much older than you," she answered coldly. "And I am not beautiful. You'd best return to the village and find a younger woman to satisfy you."
"Age is merely a number. And you are, in fact, very beautiful."
"I am in no mood to humor anyone, including you."
"You allow the past to eat your future," he answered. And to her horror, he rose from the rock, stripped off his breeches, and dived into the water.
She was about to clamor out of the pool when he surfaced behind her and pressed her against the large boulder behind her. She twisted to face him, shoved at his chest, annoyed that he would go so far, but he ignored her and pressed his lips to hers.
The struggle was brief; she had been prepared to hit him across the mouth, but as his lips slid over hers she couldn't help but remember Caspian. The taste was similar though slightly different, the feel of his nude body against hers made something within her twist and ache with desire. It had been a long, long time since she had made love to a man simply for lust and joy instead of duty; the young man against her was strong and attractively built, despite his name and lineage.
It was several moments before she realized she had tangled her fingers in his hair and was kissing him in response; her mouth had opened and his tongue curled sensuously with hers. His hands were roaming, cupping her bottom and lifting her legs around his waist. She could feel his erection between them; one of his hands moved up her torso and cupped one of her breasts.
She broke apart and shoved at him, the feeling of passion draining from her brain rather quickly. This was wrong; he wasn't Caspian. He was a nineteen-year-old boy, and she was old enough to be his mother.
"Forget that I am young," he murmured, his teeth grazing her ear and his palm rubbing slow circles into her aching nipple. "Forget everything but what your body desires, Majesty."
Quite suddenly, his other hand was between them. He had her pressed to the rocks and she couldn't seem to make her ankles unlatch from his waist. His fingers sought her center, rubbing through the slick flesh and into her body. He breathed her name like a prayer and she moaned, trying to push herself onto his fingers. What did it feel like to make love to someone who didn't hate you? It had been so long since she had felt excited to have sex, rather than dreading it.
Her young lover was clearly experienced; perhaps he had slept with some of the young girls in the village already. Susan found she didn't care. He was pumping two fingers within her, and she could hear the water lapping at her chest as she slipped up and down. He leaned in and nipped at her exposed neck, muttering again how beautiful she was, how he loved to watch her in the water, how he dreamed of making love to her day and night, until she was sated and happy again.
Without warning, he thrust up inside of her and she threw her head back in pleasure. She heard him whisper that he would make her scream, and she rather hoped he would.
oOo
Somewhere in the South Pacific, December 1961
She felt lighter than she had in ages, as she carried on this secret relationship. She didn't care if anyone found out for her sake, but she did not want to get him in trouble. It was easy to see Caspian in him, even if Caspian was long gone. She vaguely remembered Lucy speaking once about Eustace visiting Narnia with some girl named Jill and discovering that Caspian had died of old age – for time moved differently in Narnia than in their world. The thought had pricked at her horribly; perhaps that was when she tried to stop believing. All of her childhood dreams had shattered when she discovered that the man she loved was dead, but her new lover was capable of making her forget things, even for a fraction of time.
And then, early one morning, before the sun was up, he woke her gently and pressed his finger to his lips to let her know she should remain silent. She was annoyed that he would want to have sex so early in the morning, but he only looked perplexed and motioned for her to follow him.
They made their way out of the sleepy, silent village in the darkness, and only when they were on the beach did he speak.
"I felt something breathe upon me while I was sleeping," he admitted, sounding confused. "I woke to see a dark shape go out of my hut and into yours. When I followed, it was not there. I looked out again, and saw it waiting for me at the entrance to the village."
"A dark shape?" She frowned at him. She was in no mood for riddles or ghosts.
"I saw it in the torchlight when I was at the entrance to your tent. It was a lion."
An icy wave of cold ran down her spine.
Miraz continued, "I think He wants you to follow Him."
"Perhaps He wants you to follow Him," she replied stonily.
"No. I did not get that impression." He turned, looked down the beach and pointed. Against the gray horizon, she could make out a shape – a giant lion, waiting on the sand. "He went to your tent. He was trying to wake up, but you would not wake up, so He sent me to wake you instead."
"I'm not following it," she responded, recoiling slightly.
"I don't think it will kill you. It must be Aslan, the Great Lion. And you must follow Him. I don't know why, but you must. I have never seen Him. How wondrous. I can only imagine what it was like to see Him in Narnia."
Several images crossed her mind, memories she had long buried: Aslan walking amongst Peter's camp; how He had visited them during their reign and talked with each of them; the White Witch as she raised a knife above the stone table and slay Him; how soft his shorn fur had been when she and Lucy undid the knots that bound him in the cold gray hours of morn. A morning not unlike this, she thought with some fear. She had forgotten so many things in the past decade.
Somehow, she put one foot in front of the other, and began to walk towards Him. Miraz, her young lover, remained on the beach, watching as she went. The great lion watched her for a moment, His face hidden in darkness, before He turned and began to meander off, expecting her to follow. Every so often, He would glance behind Him to make sure she was following.
He led her into the jungle from the beach, onto a path she had not walked before, through vines and tangled leaves. Several times she lost sight of Him completely, only to catch a glimpse of Him around moments later and lose sight of Him again. She cursed the vines that caught her body; she pushed her hair off her sweaty face and wished she had never followed Him to start with, if He was going to lead her through uncharted tropical forests. And then, when she was certain she'd had well enough and was thinking it would be better to turn and go back to the beach, wherever the hell that was, the jungle opened into a clearing and she saw it.
The mouth of a mammoth cave.
oOo
Somewhere in the South Pacific, December 1961
A single torch was just beyond the entrance, smoking slightly. She lifted it and walked deeper into the black, yawning hole.
The cave twisted and turned, until she could no longer see the hint of dawn that lit the mouth. Blackness pressed upon her, and the torch only illuminated so far into the darkness. The passage was high enough for her to walk without stooping, but it sloped downward and she wondered where He was taking her.
Eventually, the tunnel opened into a massive room, but the path went on straight ahead and ducked beneath a low rock into another corridor of stalagmites and stalactites, twisting to the ceiling and floor. The faint pings of dripping water were the only sounds aside from her footsteps.
It struck her then, that she had left her hut barefoot. When she looked down, she was wearing slippers and a dress. What on earth? When had her attire changed?
The sloping passage turned into a set of rough-hewn steps, and she followed them downward, endlessly downward it seemed, as though she were going into the bowels of the earth.
Hell, she thought bitterly, and she froze as a wave of terror washed through her. He was leading her to hell – she just knew it. That was her punishment.
A cool breeze ruffled her long hair. She was no longer sweaty, but felt cold. Yet, Hell was supposed to be hot. Perhaps it would be cold for her, because she was a cold person?
Resigned, she began to walk again. He was going to send her to hell dressed as a Narnian princess. Wasn't that just rich? She glanced down at her attire again – a court dress, of all things, in muted lavender with silver trim. Lucy had always worn the vibrant colors while Susan preferred the pastels. Edmund had favored earthen tones, and Peter had gravitated towards the regal shades of purple, red, gold, and deep blue.
Abruptly, the stairs turned, like a spiral, and upon the last twist, she found herself face to face with a door, and…
Aslan.
He was sitting in front of the door, calm and patient, watching her closely. Her fingers trembled and she placed the torch in a bracket on the rock wall, and immediately dropped to her knees before Him to bow, not knowing what to think or say or do. It was so hard to believe He was really here – that she was seeing Him for the first time in years, and that he was just in front of her, towering and solemn.
When He spoke, his voice was deep and gentle.
"Susan. Dear one. Please look up at me."
She felt tears sliding down her face as she sat up, but she remained as calm as she could and met his eyes.
"Why are you crying, child?"
"I'm no longer a child," she responded bitterly. "And I do not know what you want with me."
"You are always my child," He answered. "I wanted to see you. It has taken you a long time to find me again."
"What do you want with me? Am I to go to hell now?"
"Hell? Is that what you believe is on the other side of the door?" His brow knitted together, almost human, clearly concerned.
"What else?"
She thought she saw him smile slightly.
"I led you down here because this is the nearest entrance to your destination. It is hidden from the world – even from the band of Telmarines that took you in after my storm."
"Your storm? I don't understand! Why have I been punished? You told me to forget Narnia! That is what I did!"
"I said you would never go back to Narnia," he corrected gently. "But that did not mean that I wished you to forget. Quite the opposite, Susan."
"I knew of no other way to move on!" she cried. "I left everything I loved in Narnia!"
"Perhaps," he said thoughtfully, "everything you loved in Narnia would have found you in your world. But that is neither here nor there – for we are not to know what would have happened if anything had been done differently. We can only know what will happen from this point forward."
"You took my family from me," she said bitterly.
His eyes were sad, now. "A tragic accident took your family. Sometimes things happen that we wished had not."
"Was I supposed to be on the train, too?"
"That is also something we can never know."
She twisted her dress in her hands, as more tears ran down her face. "And what of me now? What will happen from this point forward? You are sending me to hell, aren't you?"
"Susan, child, why would you believe that?"
"Because I am a horrible person."
"You are human – and humans are not perfect. But that does not mean that you are not loved or treasured or forgiven. You believed in me while in Narnia. Have faith that I would not be so cruel to you now." He stood and stepped aside. "Open the door, Susan."
"What is beyond?"
"That is for you to discover." There was a smile to His words.
Her hands shaking, Susan pushed the heavy door open. A brilliant light traced a line across the floor as she did – she almost stopped, for the light was so blinding, but the door swung open and Aslan brushed against her. She grabbed at his fur and stumbled after him, into soft grass and warm sunshine, and she heard the door close behind her. When she looked over her shoulder, there was no door at all.
"Where are we?" she whispered.
"This is my world," He said pleasantly. "Better than the one you left behind, is it not?"
She stared around wordlessly. It was as though this new world were clearer, brighter, and more beautiful than anything she could imagine.
"But why am I here?" she stammered, clinging to his softness.
He smiled at her. "Once a King or Queen of Narnia, always a King or Queen of Narnia."
She stared at him, dumbfounded, but he merely nudged her and began to walk. As she fell into step beside him, she looked up across the rippling meadow of flowers and sunlight. She glanced down at her dress again, but it was no longer a dull lavender.
Instead, it was shining purple.
Someone shouted her name from a great distance away, and when she looked up once more, she saw three people – two young men and a young woman – waving at her and running towards her.
"Go on, dear one," Aslan said softly. "They have waited a long time to see you again."
And Susan took a step forward away from him, and another, until she was running blindly with tears on her cheeks to embrace her siblings in Aslan's country.
FIN