I'm going on placement tomorrow (in fact the first shift starts in precisely nine hours, from the moment I'm writing this bit... hope the whole chapter doesn't take too long!) so I don't know how much I'll have time to write, especially as I also have two assignments to complete by Thursday, one of which I haven't started and nor do I know what it's about. Whoops. Anyway, it's only two weeks, so I should be able to catch up after even if I fall a bit behind. Here's hoping!

There's absolutely no good reason why I haven't done the past handful of days and now have to play catchup. I forgot this challenge existed. xD


Prompt #8: Something unusual is happening in the skies of Narnia. What is it and why?


The music swelled as she grew near to the door. Susan was brought back, in an instant, to a memory, a beautiful past. A make-believe. Something that never happened. She'd imagined it too well.

Instead of walking into a throne room to fill one of the empty thrones, she was walking into a church where there would always be empty seats. The irony did not escape her. She touched the letter in her pocket, a kind of talisman against the terrible grief that threatened to overtake her at times. It had Peter's handwriting on it, and was still unread.

People were gathering, settling in a buzz of conversation. She ducked past black-clad women with downcast eyes, hoping nobody realised her connection to the dead. She'd already chosen to sit in the middle, not the front, because she had no desire to be associated so closely with them.

She couldn't bear the thought of sympathy.

What if nobody spoke of Narnia? The bold ambition, to get up and correct the story about the seven Friends of Narnia, had withered away in the light of day. She still wanted to, but not today. She had muttered something of it to Uncle Harold a few days earlier, and was hoping against hope that he would remember, would somehow understand why it was so important to her, closed-lipped and quiet, and the dead, who would never speak again.

Susan huddled on the end of a pew, trying to make herself as small as possible, and knowing she could never be made as small as she wanted. Sometimes she felt a terribly strong desire not to exist at all.

The last time she said something like that, Peter grew white about the mouth and hugged her, fiercely. It was the last time they touched.

By now everyone had entered and found their seats. A child carelessly knocked her knees as he scrambled past her. Before their adventures, their silly little game at the Professor's, Edmund would do that, uncaring of her personal space. Afterwards, the one time he did, he apologised in a flood of flowery language, and called her 'royal sister'.

The funeral began.

"We are here to mourn our brothers and sisters, taken too soon by a train crash: Digory Kirke, Polly Plummer, Richard Pevensie, Miriam Pevensie, Peter Pevensie, Edmund Pevensie, Lucy Pevensie, Eustace Scrubb, and Jill Pole." An infinitesimal pause before 'Edmund Pevensie'.

Her name should have been there too. If there was a God in heaven ("In your world I have another name"), or even Aslan (she remembered the coldest night of her life), why had they been taken, and she left? Why was she left? ("You have been listening to fears, child.")

Susan ran.


Royal sister,

I salute you in the Lion's name, and wish you were here with me this night. The stars are so bright one could almost touch them. And among them, Arvuam, Lord of Joy, is taking great strides in the Dance. He moves with such speed I almost fancy I see him step as I watch. In the other place I fancy we would call the Lord of Joy a comet. But I suppose that that is not what he is, only what he is made of.

Does it not fill you with wonder, the night sky? I hope at least that you set foot outside Cair Paravel this night, that though we are not together in body, we still gaze at the same stars, and feel the same wonder to it.

I return to the point about something only being what one is made of, for it is much on my mind this fine dark night. You, for instance, shall be known for your hair (a mighty thing to be renowned for indeed), or so I surmise. Yet is it not a great deal less important than the name that people world over call you, Queen Susan the Gentle? Not everyone could have the hair you do, but it is simply something that you were given (though it takes a great deal of care to keep it that way). But a name like Gentle is one that must be earned.

Is not that beautiful? That others look at you and see gentleness? Forgive me for being carried away by my subject, but I shall continue so to do. I myself look at you and see gentleness in the way you use your hands, the smiles you give to one and all: but sincere smiles, not merely thrown about like anyone might. Everything you do, royal sister, I fancy you mean.

Is it not a beautiful world that Aslan has made for us, and shall it not be a fine thing to stay in it a great many years yet, if it is his will? Sometimes I can hardly contain my joy and delight at simply being alive.

But when the Lion shakes his mane over me for the last time, I shall be glad to have all the petty troubles past.

In the name of Aslan the Beloved I salute you, wishing you may ever remain as you are, in essentials, my beloved royal sister.

Peter


She had cried so hard she could scarcely read the letter, wiping her eyes every sentence. She could hear, could see Peter, older than he had ever been, or ever would be. In imagination she received the letter for the first time.

And imagination was all it was.

"Miss?"

Susan folded up the letter with a little gasp, surprised at the young man at her side. Wiping her eyes again, she recognised her rescuer, and made an incoherent noise.

"Ma'am, are you all right?" He shuffled a little backwards.

"I—oh! I have a letter to give back to you." She fished it out of her pocket, loath to return something penned by Edmund, but determined to do so anyway. "It was caught in your handkerchief."

He accepted it. "My apologies. We were not properly introduced. I am Peter Ketterley, but if you read the letter—" She nodded. "—you will see me addressed as Cephas—my friend's brother was named Peter, and he had no wish to use the same name for a friend as a brother, though I fancy by the end we were as close as brothers." A pause, during which Susan blew her nose and tried to calm her breathing. "I see you were at the funeral also. You... were close to the deceased?"

"My name is Susan Pevensie."

"Then you are the woman referred to in his letter! Wondrous indeed! I am terribly sorry for your loss."

"Let's not talk of that now," said Susan quickly. "I want you to talk about Edmund—only if you don't mind."

"I don't mind. He was the greatest friend I have ever had or ever will have."

She interrupted with a suddenly pressing question. "What did he think of my appearance? I know Jill was... scathing."

The young man laughed; if he did not know who Jill was before, he must now. "He was always very firm that so long as your dress was suitable, he was glad you were happy wearing whatever you chose. But he did like your hair when it was long."

She shifted uncomfortably. "I know."

"He said it fell to your feet. How old were you then?"

Susan took a breath. "Twenty-four."

His lips parted. "You're twenty-one, aren't you?"

"I am now."


Arvuam was taken from the Fantasy Name Generator for Narnian stars.

Also, if you wouldn't mind praying for me. I wrote this chapter at this time to stop myself from doing something insane. So sorry if it's not very good. My mind was otherwise occupied.

Please review! :D