Disclaimer: Yes, I own England. Didn't you know? Very profitable country. Narnia is an annex, so of course, I own that as well. And I own the invention of dialogue. Which is pretty much all this chapter is.

Not beta'd, because emotions are happening and I didn't get this written till today—if you spot a mistake, please feel free to tell me, and I will fix it!

"I look young
But inside I am old
And filled with the deaths
Of other people."
~ Terry Moore

The world was gold.

Susan had seen living gold before, but that was a different, majestic gold. The leaves of the trees were a gentle and soft statement of colour, less firm, less adamant, the cover of the world rather than its foundation. The breeze was filled with the scent of growing plants and rushing water. Beneath Susan, Huan's sides rose and fell in deep, slow breaths. He was so warm, and the world so beautiful, and Susan wasn't alone.

Susan could not close her eyes, could not shut the beauty out, but the world still began to blur. A single tear let go and fell down her cheek, warm and small. So beautiful, so soft, so welcoming—and not hers. This was not her world. She was not allowed to stay.

That was good, in a way, Susan thought. Or not good, but fitting. I am not fit for a world such as this. My brokenness is too deep and I am too changed. Did not Queen Arwen tell me so?

Oh, Susan, that's not true, she could hear Lucy protest. Didn't Aslan always come for the broken?

If her heart were not so full of pain, Susan would have smiled. Her sister. Lucy, you don't understand. There are things too broken to fix, and I am not—I cannot ever be that Queen again. And only a Queen would fit in a forest like this. I am an intruder, here on sufferance—like that time at Galma, right after we became rulers; they only had us because they thought four children needed guidance. We did not belong there. I do not belong here.

Is that any way to take the gifts of Aslan? Peter's voice—stern, compelling, kingly. If this is what is given to you at this moment, enjoy the moment. Thank Him for it.

How is it, Peter, that all of you are gone and you're still lecturing me? Susan admitted she asked that mainly to avoid admitting he was right. If she took this as a temporary gift, it would break her heart.

But would it not mend something inside you as well, my sister? Edmund—at last she had all three. Arguing with her, and perhaps that was a habit of her memory, for she had spent the last few years arguing with them rather than speaking with them.

Still, the advice they gave was often good—she could acknowledge that now. So she spent the next half hour looking at the beautiful world, breathing its air, and trying to thank Aslan for the glory of it. The beauty brought her to a place of stillness—stillness where her own pain demanded to be felt, but also a place where she knew there were hands holding her broken heart. Huan beneath her, the air about her, gave her strength to bear the pain.

Which perhaps healed enough of it to help her breath. After a while she closed her eyes and leaned back against Huan, exhausted. She likely fell asleep again; the next thing she could remember thinking was that she was quite hungry.

The Doorkeeper stepped out of a tree trunk as soon as Susan's stomach started rumbling for breakfast. "Better?" he asked, as if he'd just stepped out of the room for the moment. A thought occurred to Susan.

"How long has it been since you've seen me?"

Pulling out that amazing watch and flipping open the lid, he checked it. "Not a minute of your time."

"No, I mean—how long has it been for you?"

"About a week, I think. Or two? Three men from a time far beyond yours wandered through a gate of time—though wandered is a misnomer, one of them in a blue shirt had accidentally shot himself full of drugs and ran through like a madman. His two friends followed. They ended up changing the course of all history, and the gate—it was a sentient gate, you see—worried they wouldn't be able to set it right again.* So he had me sit by and wait for a whole week on a rocky, deserted world—I had to help him freeze time, you see. All of time, over all of space, so that the three had two weeks to live in the past. And timing it so time started the instant they returned. Quite the work of art, with two artists needed! Though I'm not sure I approve of my Guardian friend's conclusions. Still, that's an argument for another time! I spent most of that time thinking about you. And Merlion. You'll meet him eventually, I'm sure, but not yet. Both of you are the biggest troublemakers I've known!"

By this time Huan had woken. Susan felt him shift behind her; she got up, allowing him to move as well.

"Sit, sit, Aslan's Queen. There's something we need to discuss. I wish to all of heaven and time that there was someone else to discuss it, but there isn't."

Susan hesitated for a single second, but…the Doorkeeper had led her time and again to truth and a measure of healing—or of purpose, at least. She sat, and Huan sat beside her, resting his head on her lap. He was so large his head covered both legs. Susan began petting his head. She'd taken up needlework in Narnia, she suddenly remembered, because she found it steadying; the forced rhythm of in, pull, out, pull, in, pull stopped her thoughts from a panicked pace. She stroked Huan's head with the same rhythmic pace, and took a deep breath, keeping her eyes on the grey-haired fur in front of her. "What do you need to discuss?"

Silence. Susan took another moment before looking up. The Doorkeeper looked troubled, with wrinkles in his forehead and his mouth pressed together. "Well?" she asked.

"I cannot think of a fair and wise way to say what needs to be said."

The troubled look had not faded, and Susan found herself saying, "Then state the truth with as much kindness as you can."

She'd said that—she'd said that so many times, to Edmund, Peter, and Lucy. But not in England. In Narnia. She'd said it so often they'd begun saying it back to her, often with a smile. Edmund once told her it was easy for her; her gentleness brought the gentleness out of others, and gentleness made everyone much more willing to listen.

She'd said the words of the Gentle Queen again.

She'd heard Peter, Edmund, Lucy, all three of them, the night before. What was the magic of this world, that it was so easy to be a queen here? To be the Gentle Queen here?

"You are going to hate hearing it no matter how kind I am. And I am not kind. And you're also not listening again."

"Your pardon," Susan apologised. "I am listening now. I will try to listen with courage and patience."

He sighed. "You can't stay here."

That was a loss Susan had dealt with this morning; hearing it hurt, but not as much as it might have. "I know."

"No, I do not think you understand. Aslan's Queen, you are extraordinarily good at what you do. I have never seen a Walker like you."

Her hand on Huan's head froze. How long had it been since she heard praise like that? Compliments were showered on her from friends and boys and old women she met in shops, but the praise often spoke of her looks, her dancing, her grace, the things she gave away. The things that mattered to others. Not touching other's hearts.

"Well, at least for the amount of time you've been a Walker. You're still quite new, but even new, the tasks you've been given—many Walkers would have blanched at that torture cell. Few of the ones who would not could have born time with the Frenchwoman longing for her husband. You are versatile, and you are learning courage. You make everyone love you. I could see you becoming very, very busy as a Walker."

She cleared her throat. It was harder than she thought it would be, to speak after praise like that. Especially since it felt only half-deserved, though she was not sure why. "Thank you."

"It's the truth."

"And…such a thing is a problem?" She thought of how she'd called a door to herself, even though she couldn't open it, and the danger the Doorkeeper had hinted at.

He hesitated. "I'm not good at this," he muttered. "I think I'll try Socrates' method. It certainly worked on me, the one time I met him. Very well, Aslan's Queen. Do you have any arguments against the praise I gave you just now?" He waited, but Susan was not sure what he wanted her to say. She wasn't quite sure what method he meant, and it sounded like it might be above her. She wished for Edmund, wishing he could sit beside her. His intelligence always seemed to lift her, lift everyone's, to a deeper level.

"I'm not sure what you mean."

The Doorkeeper actually smiled. "I think an old friend of yours would start asking what they do teach in these schools. Do you deserve the praise I gave you?"

"Everything you said was true," Susan responded slowly.

"Is it the whole picture?"

Susan thought for a moment. The self she was on her journeys; just now, the way it was easier to be the Gentle Queen, or how clearly she saw the necessity and truth of faith even in a prison cell—that wasn't quite like who she was in England, when Nancy called and she didn't have the words to warn her friend in a way her friend could hear, or when Donna still got hurt by Harriet, or her impatience with Carol most of the time. "It's not praise I deserve while in England, is it?"

"Not really. And that is what makes this so hard to tell you. You could, and quite possibly will, end up living as a Walker for the majority of your time. But it cannot be all of it. Indeed, you are suited to begin now, but now of all times we must not. You must be in England."

"Why?" Carol's conversation, where she talked about finding a purpose—Susan could not think of any purpose for herself in England. "Why must I be in England?"

Shifting, the Doorkeeper put one hand in his pocket. The other began swinging the watch chain. "Do you know I'm not human?" he asked abruptly.

"You look human."

"I am not. I am not anything, actually; species with only one being ever, are seldom named. I am unlike humans in many ways, not the least of which is this: I can live outside time. This is your practical answer. England is the time and earth that will ground you, pull you back, and keep you from the insanity that lurks when human minds stray outside of time. Even after you settle your purpose in England, you will need to return there for an entire day and night at least once a year. Perhaps on your birthday."

"Or on the anniversary of their death." It came out as a whisper, words Susan hadn't meant to say. But the words themselves showed her what the Doorkeeper meant. Already the day it would have been a year since their death, the day it would have been 365 days she'd lived through, was different from the calendar year in England. That day would come, but it would come at an unknown time for Susan. A sharp ache began in the front of her brain; this was not easy to deal with.

But it was better than acknowledging the ache in her heart. Someday it would be a year, a full year, since any of her family had breathed or spoken—or lived. Even Huan's head on her lap could not quiet that pain.

"Yes, the anniversary of their death might be a wise time as well. But you must live in that world at least once a year, regardless of how you grow as a Walker. Or grow as a person, I should say, since you are growing as a Walker in leaps and bounds and quite astonishing flights. But I don't think I can send you to anyone else till you've taken to England as well."

"But that's the problem." Because it was; she could almost see Edmund nodding from the corner of her eye. "If being a Walker is what I'm good at, and being in England isn't, why do I have to go back there? Why not stay in the life where it is easier, I am more gentle, where I grieve but in a better way? Why must I be back in England?"

"Oh, child," the Doorkeeper sighed. "Is this not a lesson you learned in Narnia? So often humans think the purpose of their lives is to become stronger and wiser and better. But it isn't."

"That was the point of us as kings and queens," Susan pointed out, a little sharply.

"That was a side-effect of the main purpose. No, what humans are to learn, first and foremost, is to lean on, love, and obey…Aslan, He would be to you. In all things. Often in the lives humans are better at, they think they need Him less. Oh, after they have learned how much they need Him, He puts them in lives where they are better, wiser, and more loving. But they still live lives that show them their utter need for Him. You could give much comfort to others as a Walker, but you are unable to comfort yourself yet. And He will not neglect you, nor have you neglect yourself. Where but England, in the humdrum life with people who make you impatient, will you look for a Lion who makes you better than you are, rather than relying on yourself to be a better person?"

All of that sounded true—an Edmund level of true—yet it could not dismiss the strongest objection from Susan's heart. "But I hate it."

"I know."

"You know? That's all you can say? You're going to take me back to a life I hate and all you can tell me is you know what you're doing?" Susan rose, though Huan's head slid off her lap and he whined. Whirling, she paced to a tree and back again, trying to keep other sharp words inside her mouth, instead of staining this bright air. It was just—Peter and Edmund had both said the same thing. She'd tried to tell them about how hard it was not to be in Narnia, not to be feted and loved as a Queen, and they had both said, I know.

Why would the Lion ask this of her again?

When she turned to walk back, the sight of her two companions took her by surprise. Huan sat up like a huge, attentive hunting dog, such a strange sight in England but one that fit into this world so perfectly Susan almost didn't notice. She did notice her other friend. For the first time the Doorkeeper looked a little old, the sunlight falling on his hair in a way that made it appear almost grey. But it was his posture that suggested that the most, his head bowed, hands resting on his lap where they'd fallen from the pocket and watch-chain. He looked a little defeated.

Susan did not like that look on him. And though their personalities clashed, she had learned enough in Narnia to know that she could probably help him, and help herself as well, as long as she asked. She strode back and sat down in front of him. "Help me," she asked, half demanded.

"What do you need help with?" he responded without looking up.

"Help me understand how I am supposed to go back to a world I hate, a life I hate, a person I hate being, and accept that the one who loves me best sends me there, and takes away my purpose at the same time."

"Tell me why you hate it."

"It's so lonely," Susan burst out. "Travelling, it's so easy to, to, oh, can't you see? To find other people and things to love."

"And love is what takes you out of yourself. Good, Aslan's Queen, it is good that you realise that. So what, then, would be your purpose in England?"

Susan shut her eyes. "To survive?"

"More than that. Remember the Lion you serve."

"What do you mean?"

"Remember what He did through you."

"Narnia freed from a hundred years of winter." Susan could remember it, could remember watching the snow melt away and patches of flowers spring up in the course of hours.

"From cruelty to love, by your reign. What else?"

"Edmund—He saved Edmund."

"A traitor turned into a Just King."

"A coward turned into a Gentle Queen," Susan added in a whisper. She could remember telling Lucy that she'd known Lucy was telling the truth, but that she hadn't let herself believe.

"A woman in England turned into—what, do you think?"

"I do not know." She said it after a pause, after searching inside herself and finding no answer.

"Neither do I, not yet. But you know the pattern of the One who guides you. And now you know what purpose you are called to in England."

"I do?" Her head still ached, and she was already done with this conversation.

"To love."

She sighed. "To love," she said, with regret.**

"You needn't sound so tired. Or perhaps you do need to; I am forgetting again. Come, let's let you take a drink of the river and then go home. The sooner you learn what you are called to learn, the sooner you can go on your next trip, and I can be about my business."

The mention of the river cheered her a little; she got willingly to her feet and followed the Doorkeeper, Huan trailing after them silently. She knew he was there because he turned to look, and something about that silent, watchful guardian reminded her of love. Of how she still had people who gave it to her.

The music of the water—and the need to watch her feet—drew her gaze forward again. The voice in the rushing music, just out of reach of her hearing or understanding, still pierced her heart with its beauty. This time, she thought she understood that it also spoke of loss.

A drink from the water, cold and alive and wet, roused her back to deep breaths and open eyes again. The Doorkeeper dusted and tapped a tree again, patted Huan gingerly on the head, and stepped through. Susan threw her arms around her companion's neck, holding him for a brief second—she could feel the door beginning to close—and then she stepped through it.

The sun was barely over the horizon, light just beginning to shine through her bedroom window. The Doorkeeper's voice came from the door to her room, making her whirl. "Don't forget to go to work," he said, and then the door or window or whatever it was he used snapped shut.

Going through her wardrobe for work clothes, as well as getting breakfast, took away most of the sense of magic and life from the river. If they had not done so, the customers at work certainly would have. Susan had to remind herself that she was here to love several times, as customers came in and critiqued the size of the diamonds, the decorative engraving on the bracelets, and the twists in the chains. The general air of better-than-thou made her coworkers grumpy as well, and Susan was glad to go home.

Or thought she would be. But halfway there, she remembered the graveyard. She remembered hearing her siblings speak in Huan's world, in Arwen's forest. And she wanted to hear them again. So she detoured to the graveyard. Settling against Lucy's stone, she stared at the grey sky. For some reason she didn't want to begin with Gen, in prison and bleeding, so she began with her coworkers and customers instead. Somehow, telling her siblings about it made it easier to see the people as people, rather than inconveniences to be born with.

Then she told them about Gen. She told them about being mistaken for a goddess, about how he said he lied, how he kept secrets, how he needed hope—

And she stopped.

"I can almost hear you all telling me to go on," she whispered. "But I am not sure how to. Because I need what Gen needed, and everything I've been hoping for, a way out, is being taken away.*** The only thing I look forward to in this world is coming here to speak with you. And you were louder in another world." She laughed bitterly. "The thing I look forward to is speaking to the graves of the dead." She looked away from the sky. "I wanted a way out before, didn't I? That's what all the parties and dances and dressing up was for. A way out of the pain. But I can't find a way out of this pain, because if I do, I'm afraid I'll lose you." She turned halfway round, so she could lean sideways and lean against Lucy's headstone. "I'm afraid of so many things," she whispered. "I'm a coward again. And I have no idea how the Lion will make me into a Queen. In Narnia it took the three of you, and the Narnians, as well as the Lion. Here, in this world—I think I might be too broken now to be made into anything." She shut her eyes, trying to hear what Lucy would say to that.

But all she heard was silence.

*Any guesses what this refers to?

**I may have memorised the first three chapters of I John (over the past two years) and am working on the fourth chapter, and the way he brings it back to love, over and over again, even as I am challenged to love people I want to hold grudges against…my church doesn't tend to elaborate on what it means to love all that often, and I disagree with the general American definition of love (I don't know other cultures well enough to agree or disagree with them), so I'm finding it a much-needed study. I'm hoping I'll learn even more about it as Susan learns to love.

***"'It was as if, having slowly and progressively removed every distraction from my life, I was suddenly faced with what I had been distracting myself from. Resting for a moment against the trunk of a tree, I stopped, and suddenly found myself bent over, convulsed with the newly present pain, sobbing.' Every crutch he had habitually turned to had been taken away. He couldn't call or text a friend; he couldn't check Twitter or email. He had to sit on the pain of his long-buried childhood trauma. And what he found was that he not only survived the experience, but that he found healing through it. [...] He spent a lifetime avoiding suffering, but the only way to the other side was through it" (Prayer in the Night Warren 134).