…"Lady, lady, will you come away with Me?

Was never man lived longer for the hoarding of his breath;

Here be dragons to be slain, here be rich rewards to gain . . .

If we perish in the seeking . . . why, how small a thing is death!"

Desdichado, Sayers

The Abbey was the kind of building that made you feel small. Not in an unfriendly way, but still. One could almost see oneself from the point of view of the rafters, a tiny, lonely figure, in sedate, matronly dark blue, drifting from nave to transept, peering at the chancel, pausing -for far too long- at the tombs of long dead kings and queens and statesmen.

It was enough to make one quiet, even if one wasn't feeling especially religious.

Susan glanced up at the vault, finding the angles and the colour of the arches almost familiar. Perhaps she had been taken here when she was small. Catherine had already moved on towards the centre of the nave, and it was Catherine that had wanted to come, so Susan followed, keeping her steps as soft as the clicking of her shoes would allow.

Catherine had said, not long… after, that Susan reminded her of St. Paul's. She had meant it kindly. Meant that Susan stood still amidst all the ruin and loss, all the terrible, needless destruction. She had meant it to be about hope, about near misses, about bombs in the roof that had, for some reason, not gone off… but Susan had thought about all the people that had been forced to let the buildings around burn, just so they could save St. Paul's.

It wasn't true, anyway. She was like the Abbey. The House of Commons had been nearly destroyed, the Abbey itself had caught on fire, the roof melted, but it had been rebuilt. A whole new roof. A rebuilt facade. Like it had never happened.

Susan swallowed. It became, suddenly, very important to focus on the window. Light broke through the walls and split into a dozen different colours… yellow, gold, blue like the sky… Green, the colour of emeralds in a crown. Red, like poppies, or a lion rampant. Deep, deep blue, like the sea on blindingly bright days, blue like the sea never got in England.

But something was wrong, though she couldn't have said what. It was lovely, of course. Of course it was. The colour of the stone, though, the graceful sweep of the roof, it all seemed familiar, like a different picture drawn by the same artist. It filled her with a longing, and that too was familiar… an endless ache and desire to weep while knowing it would empty you, sob by sob, and that if you kept weeping someday there might be nothing left. Yet it was a different kind of longing. She had never felt that kind of longing for a place before.

"Susan, dear, are you…"

No. That wasn't true. Years ago, when they'd had to leave because of the air raids and been packed off on the train like so much baggage. Then she had sat in that beautiful old castle of a house, rain streaming down the windows, and longed for their tiny, cramped home in London. (Four children! In London. What had they been thinking?)

"Susan."

There wasn't enough light. That was what was wrong. Cair Paravel had always been filled with light, especially the throne room. Cair Paravel… had that been what they'd called it?

It made sense, of course: English architecture for English kings and queens ruling over a world of talking animals… It did make sense, the first king and queen were supposed to have been English themselves, weren't they? What had been their names?

Then it came, too quickly to be denied, a burst of sunlight over the picture. Light, light, light and a crowd, no, a throng, filling the huge hall, the murmur and chirp and squeal of hundreds of excited voices. The thrumming in her own veins, her cheeks growing hot, looking out at all the hopeful, furry faces. Not breathing until the crown was placed on her head, like the anvil waiting for the hammer, like closing your eyes and waiting for a kiss.

There was Peter, a new look of pride on his face, the true, bright joy of it that could have ground its poorer cousin, arrogance, into the dust. Edmund, pensive, but… happy. Lucy grinning from ear to ear, radiant, and too brilliantly stupid to be afraid. Lucy, oh, Lucy…

And that voice, deep and more than human, in her ear: "Susan. Susan."

And at the same time, like coming up out of the water, Catherine going: "Susan, dear. Susan, you're worrying me… Susan are you alright?"

Susan looked up, suddenly felt the tears streaming down her face. Yes, yes, Catherine did look worried. Very worried indeed. She should probably say something so she wouldn't worry.

Then came Catherine's gentle hands grasping her arms, the soft soothing noises she made as she walked Susan out the doors into the cool spring air and the mess of central London.

It was only later, when they were walking the final bit to their flat share that Susan realised it made perfect sense. Of course it did. She hadn't even been born when the king had been crowned, but…

Of course. Westminster Abbey.

Author's Note: This is not intended to be a one shot. But, you know. Also, apologies to anyone who actually wanted to read The Two Harrys... I've completely forgotten what I meant to do with the plot, so it may take some time to get that up and running again.