Disclaimer: …I can't even think of a disclaimer to write. Writing the chapter itself should be interesting. But to the surprise of none and knowledge of all, Narnia isn't mine.

"Where are the rules of grief written, and who do we offend when we write our own?"
~ Sally Britton

When Susan got home—the door opened into her bedroom once again—she went right to sleep. The next morning, as she dressed, she somehow felt lonelier than ever.

Somewhere in Arwen's world, Huan waited for her. But away from his gaze, leaning into his warmth, and the air of the wood and the scent of the river—the world Susan was in felt flat by contrast.

But she remembered her thoughts about glory. She remembered they came after suffering; and she thought she should look for them again. But first, she decided over breakfast to go to the graveyard. She'd seek the company of those whom she knew were glorious.

Telling them about Huan—that was something she knew they'd want to hear.

If they could hear. If they could care.

She opened the door and found it to be drizzling; hesitating for only a moment, she grabbed an umbrella and went out.

Four steps out the door, she stopped and turned around; if she wanted to sit by them, she would need something to sit on. Fetching a black mackintosh—Peter's, and she swallowed when she took it out of the hall closet, but it was the largest, and he would not mind. He would have offered it to her, if he were there.

If his spirit was there as well as his body.

She shut the door hard, trying to slam the thoughts away about what his body was probably like now. She wanted to think of his face as it had been—

Not the night she'd disowned Narnia. But the time at the Professor's, with the lavender all around.

Glorious, she thinks, as she trudged on muddy roads. How much easier it was to see the glory in a magical forest.

By the time she reached the graveyard she felt a little sour at the world; but she was here, and she might as well continue. She laid the coat down, sat on it as gracefully as she could, and let the umbrella's handle rest on her shoulder.

The rain fell on the gravestones. She reached out her hand—but knew if she got it wet, she would be cold for the rest of the visit, and the stones would feel colder yet. She drew herself back.

"How can I feel so far from you, when all that's left of you is right here?" Rubbing her hands up and down her arms, she felt like scowling at the monuments.

But she did enough of that in life. "Sorry," she said, after a moment. "I am poor company." There's nothing to hear in response, and she wondered if she should just give up.

She didn't know where else she would go.

Unbidden, the Doorkeeper's voice came to her mind, asking why do they feel so far from you? His voice, not her siblings', not her parents'—there's a sharp ache at the realisation. Yet even his company was better than the loneliness, and she told him what she would not say to his face, "They are dead and I am alive; is there any greater barrier than that? Even you, with your doors through time, bridging worlds, can't get through this barrier. They're so far—"

Grief broke through the anger when she said those words; her tears stopped her words. "No matter where I go," she murmured, and she's suddenly talking to her siblings again, not the Doorkeeper, "it doesn't erase what I've lost. Mum, you used to say that getting a new friend never changed the loss of an old one; no matter how many new people I meet, new people I love, they're not you, not any of you." The umbrella slid down onto her head as she covered her face. "I met someone you would love—a giant hound. He's not at all like the talking Dogs in Narnia, Lucy, but—oh, you'd love him. I think he'd feel joy just the same way you do, that solemn gladness that sometimes made you so still, just drinking it in—but perhaps he loves beauty like me, and that is what makes him glad. Either way, he is—strong, and gentle in his strength, and as steady you ever were, Peter. Remember that one teacher who said you were steady as a rock, and none of us got the joke till Dad explained it?" She wiped her tears before they could fall on her brown shirt. Pushing the umbrella off her hair, she sighed, looking out at the grass and the rain. "I don't really have the words for this. I just want you to meet Huan. To hear that I'm—not doing better. But perhaps I am. I feel like, oh, how would we have said it in Narnia? Like I have received a deep, deep wound, and it killed me. But something brought me to life again, and now I'm bleeding rather than dead." She felt a bitter laugh leave her mouth. "I'm not sure that's an improvement. But how can the world be so wrong, and still move on? How can I? How can this not have killed me?"

A turn of her head and the stones became visible to her; John, Helen, Peter, Edmund, and Lucy in black script. "I had to promise Huan I'd return, so dying isn't really an option," she whispered to them. "And I'm not sure I—do I tell you this? Do I tell you how hard it's been? I want you beyond all grief and sorrows now, I want that promise to be true for you, I do, but—it would be so terrible, if you could see me struggling now and not care at all." Suddenly the cold doesn't matter, and she reached for Peter's stone, wanting just a little of the warmth she felt while he was alive, the warmth that she remembered from Huan.

The cold bit into her fingers like the teeth of a mouse. She kept it there. It felt like a punishment, like something she deserved, but Peter—

Only it might not mean anything to him. He might not even know she was there.

She let her hand drop, and wiped it on her long plaid skirt. "I am going to live, if I can." She said it because they might hear her; they might care. "But even seeing Huan again isn't enough to get me through the day. Because the world is still cracked, and the wound is still there. The same people who promise you have no more sorrows promise that someday I'll be whole again—but some future day doesn't mean anything to living right now." She paused. "What would you say to that, Edmund?"

Nothing; she heard her own bitter laugh again. "Why is this so hard?"

Because, she could hear her own voice answering, her own voice from back then, when she was a Queen and knew so much more than she did now, you had companionship for a very brief time and lost it again. Did you not expect that to open up old wounds?

She didn't stay at the graveyard much longer. Just long enough to remind herself that Peter would once again say Courage, Su, and Edmund would draw her arm through his, and Lucy would say something about Aslan.

She couldn't hear their voices so readily now. But she did know what they would say.

She went home, and while putting on water for tea, glanced at the calendar, only to realise it was not a Saturday. She should have been at work hours ago. Her supervisor was not pleased, but a whisper from a coworker (probably reminding him that Susan had lost her family and that some eccentricities should be allowed) stopped the lecture short. Susan agreed to stay late that night, to make up for it. She walked home in the dark, wishing the entire time that Huan, Peter, her father, or Edmund were with her, again and again, as shadows shifted or the wind banged a shutter.

Despite her fears, nothing unpleasant happened. Too tired for dinner, she went straight to bed. The next morning she made sure to be at work early. Polishing a pair of earrings and pretending not to notice the supervisor eyeing her, she passed the morning keeping herself busy, too busy to think. Lunch dragged, even though many of her coworkers asked polite questions and tried to draw her out; she could feel their sympathy, and it grated like pebbles on her palm in a fall.

She worked an hour after lunch and her supervisor approached her to tell her she could go home early. When she looked at him blankly—and perhaps with a little apprehension, as she hoped this was not a prelude to being fired—he told her she looked tired, and she should get some rest.

She bit back the response that he had excellent advice, and if he knew a way to rest, would he share it? Instead she thanked him with as much quiet gratitude as she could muster, and she went home.

She did chores. She cleaned every room in the house—in her home—except the others' bedrooms. And then she sat down and tried to read—

Tried to write a letter to Jack—

Tried to drink tea and watch the sunlight in the garden—

Tried to sit in the garden—

It was a relief when the phone rang. She picked it up—suddenly flashing back to that terrible moment when the police had called, but she shoved that moment away, because who else was there to lose?

"Hello?"

"Susan? It's Nancy."

"Nancy," Susan breathed. The rushing relief was so strong she sat in the chair. Just hearing Nancy's voice, the sudden reminder that she was not alone in this world, was its own type of glory. Because that's what she'd been feeling, ever since coming back, that she was alone. It felt horrible.

"Yes, I wanted to check on you." A pause. "How are you?"

Susan laughed—less bitter, so much less bitter, but not happy. Her eyes roamed over the wooden cabinets. "Nancy, the last two days have been…it's good to hear your voice."

"Oh."

All the senses Susan had been growing again, the listening, the feeling, the imagining, came alert at that word. "Nancy," Susan asked slowly, "do you—have something you want to talk about?"

"Yes, it's—I know you won't be happy about it. But let me explain it first. Robert and I are back together."

Something in Susan couldn't understand that news.

"Listen, before you—just listen, please/ It's different this time."

"I'm listening," Susan answered slowly.

"Well, after our last party, Harriet tried to become the belle again. She was horrible to Donna, even ripping the shoulder of her dress 'by accident' and showing everyone the scars. She had all these jokes planned—Mary heard her rehearsing them—but she didn't get a single one of them out. Carol walked up to her and slapped her."

"Carol?" A bit unwillingly, Susan felt herself being pulled back into this world. She knew these people, and she cared for them.

"I know, I was surprised as well. I wouldn't have thought it of Carol. And I came up and put my shawl around Donna, and somehow, between those two things, Harriet came off as anything but clever and perfect. And when people came up to tell me how nice I'd been, I'd say something like how we're all meant to be kind, especially to people who have scars—like our parents—or veterans—anyway, I didn't mean much by it, I was just trying to change things, but people liked it, and I became the next belle. Or I think I did, because people listened. And I tried to use that to make things better, to be—more like a queen, like we talked about. And Robert started chasing me again. And I didn't pay him any attention, because…because it still hurt. But he kept trying, really trying. He'd ask me to dance no matter how many times I said no, and anytime I needed something, a drink, or my coat, he'd bring it before I even thought of asking. And one night he asked if we could talk, and people do that now, and I didn't want to tell him no just because of our history, so we walked out on the lawn—I stayed in sight of the house, I didn't want to be caught without a way of getting out—but he said he'd only been playing before. He admitted that was wrong of him, and apologised. And he said I'd changed, and seeing me that way, he fell in love with me. Truly, this time. And I agreed to give it a try. Just a try. But Susan, he's so attentive—we're together every moment we're at the parties. It's so much easier to love everybody, because I'm loved. I have less time, but it's so much easier to give, to be patient, to have compassion—to remember what it feels like to hurt, but it's proof that the happiness is there, and I can tell people that now. Susan, isn't it—isn't it wonderful?"

A part of Susan—the part that decorated ballrooms and living-rooms, that made things beautiful, wanted to believe it.

But she couldn't.

Not with Peter's face turning old and weary of soul, because of his love for her and the way she'd hurt him, fresh in her mind. Not with Huan's steadiness and warmth, forgiving and yet still clearly seeing—

She knew what love looked like. It had its joy, and it did make living so much easier, but it was not self-seeking. She could hear Edmund pointing that out.

Robert's promises rang false.

"I think," she said, trying to think of the words, "that—Nancy, I'm sorry, but I think Robert likes being the centre of attention. I think—I think he likes that more than he likes any particular girl."

There was a moment of brief silence. "Susan, that's horrible. How could you say that? I knew you saw the world differently, after everything, but—but happiness exists as well! Now that I have it, I can give it to the rest of our set! I'll be a better queen for it. I can't believe you'd let your own sorrow—" she broke off.

Susan said nothing. She wondered if she should have said nothing from the beginning; there were times when there was nothing to be said. She knew that.

But should she have let Nancy go unwarned?

Or was she wrong? Was she too drowned in sorrow to recognise happiness?

"Susan?"

Susan cleared her throat. "I'm here."

"I'm sorry," Nancy offered awkwardly. "That wasn't—wasn't queenly of me at all, was it?"

"I…don't know what to say to that, Nancy."

"You can tell me the truth on that." Susan can hear the short laugh Nancy gives, and she suddenly aches, because it's familiar. It's the laugh of the lonely, the ones who want connection.

And it makes her understand why Nancy gave Robert another chance.

"It was not, perhaps, queenly…but I have had many of those unqueenly moments myself."

"I haven't seen many of them."

Susan closed her eyes. This still hurt to admit. "My family saw the most of them."

"I'm sorry, Susan." Another short pause. "Can I do anything? Do you want to go another walk, maybe?"

"I don't think I can today, Nancy. I had to work late yesterday—I forgot to go to work, so I stayed till closing."

"That's not like you. Are you all right?"

That question swirled in Susan's head. Was she all right? Would she ever be?

She wasn't alone, wasn't lonely, in this moment. Yet her heart still ached.

Not because of her siblings. No, in those few moments of silence, she realised it was because she truly cared for Nancy. Because she tried to warn Nancy, to save her heartache, and yet hadn't been able to.

She wondered if her own face resembled what Peter's had been, to a lesser extent. She wondered if Edmund would laugh at this irony, or if his compassion would win out.

She wondered if this failure felt so bitter because she was a Walker now, and she was supposed to be able to help.

Though—Peter had been a King. And an older brother. And probably felt the same thing.

"I don't think I know how to be all right," she answered Nancy softly. "But Nancy, I don't think—no, I—" she sighed. "Let me finish saying what I should? I don't think dating Robert is a good idea. But I'm going to say that once," she explained, drawing on memories of her mother. "And I've said it. If you ever want to talk about it again, we can. You know where I stand, and that's enough. I still want to be of help. And if Robert proves me wrong, that's probably be best for everybody."

"Oh, he will, Susan. Thank you. That's—you're still the best example I have of acting like a queen. Can I do anything for you?"

"Not tonight. But thanks for calling. I'm less lonely now."

"I'll call more often, then. Don't pick up if you don't feel like talking. I'll keep calling."

"Thank you. Good night."

"Good night."

Nancy hung up. Susan waited for the click, and then hung up her own phone. She sat in her chair, hands in her lap, staring at nothing.

She wasn't lonely anymore. But she was watching something she cared about do something foolish, and it hurt. Would everything in her life be either emptiness, or hurt?