Disclaimer: Here comes the second universe interacting with the first, the first of many; I own neither it nor Narnia.
Beta'd by trustingHim17, with my thanks.

"I have learned now that while those who speak about one's miseries usually hurt,
those who keep silence hurt more."
~ Clive Staples Lewis

It was the policeman from the train wreck. The one who had handed her the deed to her parents' house.

His appearance was something of a shock. Susan absent-mindedly tucked her handkerchief away, automatically going forward to meet the waiting figure.

She'd spilled what few words she had at her family's graves. She used to have more, to have so many more words, more questions, for this figure who'd been given a note, a short scrap of paper with the written record of her world collapsing.

She'd had questions, before, but after the—the choking lack of communication and the haunted presence—

The way love didn't seem to reach—

Her questions didn't seem important.

Or, they did, in a small, far-away part of her mind; but so far all the answers had been…

Upside-down pictures of lions, knocks on doors with deeds in hand, that reassuring grip on her elbow. Small things. Small things, things that were not nearly enough. That could never be enough. A kiss on a bruised temple when her chest split open, blood pouring out; almost an insult to the wound that killed her world.

Shouldn't she know the answers, though?

He walked towards her, his distinctive helmet swinging from one hand.

Weren't they supposed to leave those on? Susan found herself thinking.

"Good morning," he offered quietly. "Though it might be afternoon now."

Once Susan would have smiled and answered back. Once—a few days ago. Before. Now his words made her angry; they didn't matter. "Why are you here?"

His eyes looked past her for a moment, and he offered her his arm to lean on. "To tell you a bit more." He waited while Susan looked down at his arm, then back up to his face. "If you're frightened, I can swear I mean you no harm." He didn't say it with a smile, the way Robert or Carol's friend Harry would have; his eyes were serious and his hands still. He meant what he said.

Susan took his arm. He led her back—not towards the graves, their graves, but towards a bench under a tree, just inside the gates. He let go of her arm before they sat, and, a bit clumsily, wiped the bench down with a handkerchief he took out of his belt.

"You haven't done much of that, have you," Susan said, sitting. It was out of her mouth before she thought, her tone tired. He sat beside her.

"Much of what?"

"Cleaning."

He smiled ruefully and shook his head. "The maids cleaned up after us, growing up. Or my aunt. She was a terror."

Susan felt her interest stir, in spite of herself. "How did you become a policeman?" It was not the preferred profession of the upper classes. Her companion looked down at the helmet in his hands and turned it right-side up.

"Well…I'm not."

Ah, yes, Susan could hear Edmund saying, so blindingly clearly, and it hurt. His voice hurt. Here's one of the answers that only leads to more questions.

He sighed and set the helmet on the bench between them. "Truth be told, it's a bit weird, walking around in a policeman's uniform."

That's one way to describe it. It's probably not even safe to be here with you. But I can't bring myself to care; to care about much at all. Suddenly Susan had a flash of Peter and Edmund, dressed in workman's overalls—disguised as something they weren't. For good, for safe reasons, she knew without knowing the reasons themselves. Perhaps—perhaps this was like them.

He was talking again, whoever this was. "But it's not as odd as it might be. I used to love acting in plays. I tried to put one on with my siblings and neighbours once, and got into a lot of trouble for it. Rightly so, too. I never thought it'd be preparing me for something like this. That my own foolishness would become something helpful."

"Your siblings?" Susan asked. Trying not to let her throat close on the word.

"I've a brother just under me, and two sisters younger than that. They're Maria and Julia." He paused. "I'm Tom, by the way."

He was the oldest of four, two boys, two girls—the girls were in the wrong order, but four, just like she'd—had—

Only Tom was nothing like Peter. Quick to smile, and careless, too, Susan would have guessed, though good fun at a party. That would have been her first impression. His smile, his tone, the words he chose, they said those things. But, of course, he had those old, shadowed eyes. And he could be gentle without suffocating her.

Careless was not the word for him. She wondered what his family was like.

"And your brother?"

He looked down at his hands, pausing before he spoke. "His name is Edmund," he said quietly.

The pain stabbed Susan's heart again, tears slipping down her cheeks, her lungs unable to breathe. A moment, two moments, three—draw air in, let that sob escape, and calm—calm. Calm down.

It is a common name. A common English name.

Tom's hand was on her elbow again, not guiding, just holding; giving a quiet comfort that kept her from feeling alone. And he let her cry for the few moments she must, before she thrust the tears back.

When she was quieter—when she was back to feeling empty, like the sadness would never leave and tomorrow was nothing to be hoped for—he began speaking again.

"Our family was a bit different from yours."

Well, I gathered that. You had maids. She had known a bit of a life like that once—Betty, Ivy, and Margaret, at an old house in the country owned by an old man with twinkling eyes, a young heart, and a wise head. But social status wasn't what this man—Tom—meant, for he kept going,

"Well, I and my sisters were. Our Edmund is like what your Edmund became, the stern, unworldly, almost scary type. But gentle, for all that. Wise." Susan tried not to let her mind jump to Edmund, her Edmund, with his gentle urging, his stern caution, his there will be consequences. "He—he became a parson, actually. In my—around me, that's a pretty common thing for younger sons to do. But it suited him. Only my sisters and I, we didn't care for that kind of life."

These days Susan never felt like smiling, but a corner of her heart that tried to remember felt itself lift, for a moment. She knew why they didn't care for that kind of life.

"I lived pretty much for myself. I spent my father's money as fast as I could—gambling, at parties, with friends—living just to enjoy living, but doing it so poorly I couldn't even do that." He shook his head. "At least your—at least here, you all have a good time because you know life is short. We gambled and drank and rode horses recklessly because we found it too long."

"What happened to—your brother?"

"I spent so much we had to rent out his parsonage," Tom said quietly. Quietly, as Edmund once had, when speaking of something wrong he had done, something that he knew was inexcusable, but forgiven,. "I made him wait, possibly for years, for his own independence, his own home. He didn't hold that against me. He's the forgiving type. But I didn't learn my lesson." He sighed. "My father took me overseas, but when I came back, I tried to make our home filled with the things I wanted—ignoring how unhealthy they were for my sisters." His fingers clutched the helmet tighter, white against the black. "I set up a situation where Maria fell deeper in love—a love that ruined her life. She loved someone other than her husband." Susan felt a bit of shock—that wasn't done often—but Tom kept going. "Julia reacted to Maria's ruin with fear, and, to a lesser extent, ruined herself in that fear. She has a husband who provokes nothing but impatience in her. Ed—my brother tried to warn me. I scorned his warning, and almost ruined his life as well."

"I'm sure they made their own choices," Susan said, a bit coldly. She'd had enough of siblings taking the blame, when people—when she—made choices for themselves.

Tom smiled a bit wryly. "They did. All three of us loved good things the wrong way. I was sent to you because someone thought you could relate to that. To loving the good things that can fill life, instead of loving a good life."

Was that an important distinction?

Lucy running for her hat and shoes, loving the sunshine on her hair. Loving helping. But loving dancing and dresses too. Loving so many more things than Susan did. Loving life itself most of all.

And now Susan hated life.

"Who sent you?" Susan asked sharply. She wanted—no, she was afraid—she was both—was it—Aslan?

The Lion's name was Aslan.

Somehow the name was easier to remember when a man from another world sat on a very real bench beside her.

Aslan. The name made her shiver, her heart filled with a longing for bliss and a memory of pain. Aslan.

Tom didn't notice. "He doesn't tell any of us his name. He just goes by a title; you won't have heard of it. He's an older gentleman. A bit fussy for my taste."

Not Aslan, then. Something new, not something familiar. "Then who is us?"

"They're called the Walkers." Tom said the title quietly, softly. "I'm not much of one, not really—but I lost both my parents this year, and they sent someone. To help me out. I was drowning, see. Then that someone thought I needed a break, and so I got sent here. To learn a bit about helping people, since I'll need to know that, now that—that my father's gone. They're going to send an actual Walker—"

"A Walker?" What an odd name.

"Someone who has known so much sorrow that they can meet the broken in the darkness of their night," Tom recited, as if he were quoting.

Susan thought of the dark nights, the smothering sense of being alone, the soaked pillow. "And what can a Walker do? Where were they before? Do they think they can actually help when my family is—"

"Sometimes all they can do is hold you while you're breaking," Tom put in, then winced. "Sorry—they told me not to interrupt. I'm still learning."

Susan looked at him, reading the discomfort in his hunched shoulders, the fingers nervously tapping the helmet. Grief made it so hard to be kind—but that didn't make it any less necessary. So instead of replying, she leaned back against the bench.

And she thought of his siblings, of two sisters with unhappy lives, and of a man who sounded like the brother she'd lost.

"Can I meet your siblings?" she asked at last. At least the brother. Maybe next year, if her heart was stronger then; maybe it could be something to look forward to.

"I'm afraid that's not possible. At least, I don't think it is."

Of course not. Why should Susan be given anything she asked? She'd asked for a good life, where she would also be good, and hadn't been given that. She'd asked for a crown again, once. Now she was asking for her family.

And, barring that, just to meet someone who was like them.

Every time she asked for something, she was told no.

"They sent me first because they didn't think you'd be open to—to comfort, right now."

At least someone had sense.

"So what are you meant to be, if you're not here for comfort?"

He smiled a bit ruefully. "I think I'm supposed to be a distraction. That way I learn what I do wrong, and you have something else to focus on." He looked down at his hands. "I'm hoping I can use some of what I learn to help my sisters," he admitted.

Susan had a thought—opened her mouth—and closed it again. She wasn't sure the words would come.

But Tom hadn't looked up from his hands, and, after all he had given her—though clumsily—she would like to give something back.

Maybe.

So she said it, though it felt like the words tore at her throat and came out bearing blood as well as truth. "You would do better to learn from my older brother."

Tom looked up, his words quiet. "Would you tell me about him?"

Susan thought about it. She could picture that conversation—the two of them on the bench, her telling Tom more and more of Peter, of why Peter meant safety, of the nobility inherent in his nature, of his endless holding himself to his standard—and of herself crying, hard, while she did. Of maybe healing a little bit, through that telling. Through the weeping.

But she couldn't. She couldn't speak it. The pain closed her in, stunned her brain till words wouldn't come; it wrecked her ability to speak or to breathe. She couldn't say a word.

"No," she heard Tom say. Her eyes were blurring; she couldn't see him. "I guess now isn't the time for that." She blinked, feeling a few tears fall, and she could see him again. He was looking back at his hands. "I'm sorry," he whispered.

Apologies still hurt, his request ripping open her wound still hurt, and she didn't have the breath to offer her forgiveness.

But Tom did mean well. He meant more than Uncle Harold and Aunt Alberta did; he wasn't as clumsy as Carol. It was a small hurt. Forgettable.

Suddenly his shoulders rolled uncomfortably, and he looked around. "I think I just felt a door opening. I should take you home. Hester is probably waiting."

Susan watched him stand, looked at the hand he held out, and then looked down at her own hands. They were clenched around each other. She made herself loosen them, letting go, and digging in her pocket for her handkerchief. She wiped her eyes (again), her face, and took a deep breath. His hand was still there, and she looked up at him.

"You are good at patience. Your sister will appreciate that." She took his hand and rose. "I would recommend listening to your younger brother, and trying to learn wisdom."

Tom nodded soberly. "I will do that. Thank you." He offered his arm. "I'll see you home."

A/N: Hey, everyone, I just wanted to let you know that I'm not going to be posting anything for the next week. My Grandpa got through surgery just fine, in God's grace, and is healing, but I found out yesterday that my parents are going to be putting their house on the market NEXT WEEK (we thought this was a six month thing), and need help, and they live in another state, so...I'm un-committing from pretty much all my plans. I'm sorry. I'll probably start posting again a week from Friday.

A/N2: Okay, I have to ask, author's curiosity, sorry—did you figure out which book Tom is from? When did you know?