Disclaimer: Enter the third story; I took it without permission, true, but only because I do not claim it as my own.
Beta'd by trustingHim17, with my thanks. Fair warning, this chapter got out of hand.

Quick reminder that the Narnian challenge is next month!

"What cannot be said will be wept."
~ Sappho

Tom dropped her off at the gate. He forgot to hold it for her, something Susan noted distantly. I doubt he's used to taking care of others. The majority of her attention was fixed on the woman standing in the garden, right beside the front door. Someone who looked at home, even while she dressed as a stranger.

She was taller than average, with a stern, passionate face. Her hair was mostly covered in an odd-looking white bonnet, of a fashion that belonged to the Americas a hundred years ago. Her simple dress and grey cloak were dark, sober—the opposite of anything Susan would wear—except for the scarlet red "A," attached to the dress by gold thread. It was sewn over the woman's heart.

Susan let the gate swing shut behind her and swallowed. She had thought she was too tired, far too grieved, to feel anything. Yet the woman's face moved her, and it also made her a little afraid. There was much of passion in it, as well as an unbending strength. "Are you Hester?" she asked.

"I am," the woman said quietly. "Wilt thou allow me entrance to thy home?"*

The question caught Susan by surprise. So often, when magic made its rare appearance in their—her, just her life now—magic had not asked permission. Chased into a wardrobe, dragged from a train station by a sound, and she remembered Lucy (eyes alight, smile filled with wonder, and oh, how that hurt) telling of falling through a portrait into a sea and struggling not to drown.

Since when did magic ask permission?

Yet—this woman was not an ordinary woman.

Susan remembered the graveyard, and she felt this woman belonged there, rather than standing at the door of Susan's home. There was something about her that had the nature, the finality, of the dead.

Yet the woman was living enough she would need a place to sleep. And good enough, in her calm fierceness, that Susan should offer it.

"You may spend the night, if you have no other place to go." The words came out in a tone Susan had not used in years; a tone she was not used to hearing. It invited people in with an invitation that both honoured and declared honour received. It seemed—fitting, for such a guest.

"Before I darken thy doorstep, I should tell thee who and what I am." The dark gaze, under the walnut-brown hair and white bonnet, remained steady. "I am a sinner. The letter on my breast is the mark of an adulteress caught in her dishonour. It has banished me from the society of all from my home, marking me forever as someone shamed. Yet when I walked through the streets of this strange town, the glances that fell on it were not of shunning, but curiosity. I would tell thee who I am, before I come into thy home."

Susan paused. The face, the manner, the speech—they were not close enough to—to Edmund's, to remind her of her brother, but that gaze—

"You are not the first sinner to be welcomed here," she said after a moment. Her glance wandered over the deliberate face, the strong chin, the expressive mouth, and she shivered. "You remind me of both my—," she added, before her mind could command her mouth to be silent.

But she could not finish that sentence.

"Thy brothers? My master said thou had two, and had also a sister. I am sorry it is had."

Susan drew herself up, stirring what indifference she could. She did not want to cry again. Helped by her weariness, she kept the tears back and walked past her visitor, unlocking the door. Then she stopped in the doorway, for she remembered the painting of the Lion on the table.

"I do not have to come in," came the grave reminder from behind her.

Susan stepped wordlessly to the side, and the woman entered in, untying the strings of the cloak and hanging it up. Then she turned, studying Susan, before letting her eyes flit to each doorway. "Where would thou be most comfortable?"

Susan, though, was looking at the bright red A, the same colour as her own red dress, and she was remembering how the woman said she got it.

The woman, following Susan's gaze, also looked down. "Once this burned my heart! Once, even as it drove mankind away, it drove home to me my sin. But now—now, it does not burn so much." She looked at Susan's face. "Thou may touch it, if thou wishes. My daughter did, often in a way I took to be mocking. Little did I know then!"

Susan shrank back, suddenly repulsed, and shook her head. She turned, heading for the sitting room—not the kitchen—and waited till her guest was seated. But there seemed to be nothing to say, nothing politeness would allow to be said, or asked. Nor did she think this stern woman would care for most of Susan's typical topics of conversation.

Her guest broke the silence. "My name is Hester, and thou mayest call me such. Thou may also ask what questions are on thy mind." Hester smiled. "I raised a daughter, one who asked questions that I did not care to answer, though they were the questions that it is good for a mother to answer. Then I learned the answers to my own questions that I did not wish to ask, and hard were they to swallow! So there is little left that disturbs me now. Ask what thou wilt."

"You have a daughter?"

Hester nodded, folding her hands in her lap. "I named her Pearl. Truly she became what was the greatest price to me, for she led me back again to church, to home, and even led me and the one I loved to truth."

"The one you loved?" Susan faltered, but Hester indeed had not seemed bothered. "That was—not your husband?" When Hester shook her head, Susan added, "Tom said—he said his sister married someone she didn't love, and then fell into ruin for the man she loved. Is that—is that what it takes to make a Walker?"

"I know not Tom, nor do I know his sister; their stories were not told to me. Nor are Walkers made of this sin alone. But does thou know it?"

"No." Susan said it coldly.

Hester looked down again at her dress. "Thou hast not known what it is to love, wholeheartedly, that which was not meant for one?"

Susan opened her mouth to say no again, and paused. It was not quite the same—no, it was not. The things she had loved—dresses, dances, friends—they were meant for her.

Though perhaps she had, as Tom said, loved them too much; but they had been rightfully hers. And it was only perhaps. She could still hear her arguments with her siblings on that subject.

Hester perchance read Susan's answer in her face, for Hester smiled—and Susan caught her breath. Hester was in many ways just as beautiful as Susan's mother had been.

"Then I am not sent to thee for this sin, but for other reasons. Ask me more, that I may find what I am to tell thee."

Susan paused again. That was such an odd way to talk; for the comforter to wait for questions. But—it did not grate on Susan, as other comfort had; and so far, nothing in Hester's story had awakened Susan's own ghosts. "What—that is, who chose to send you to me? Why are the Walkers coming? Or the one who sends them, I suppose—why choose me?"

"Does thou not need us now?"

"I needed you long before now," Susan could not keep from saying in bitterness, her eyes falling to her lap. Hester did not answer, and Susan glanced up, only to meet that piercing gaze fixed on her. Susan felt her eyes fall again. "I knew magic twice before. It—it took me to another world, and then, after that second time—I was told I could never go back."

"Do not use the word magic for such dealings as this," Hester warned, her tone stern. "Magic is of witches and the Devil, and I do not serve his will."

Susan glanced up, startled. She had heard things such as that before, reading some of the books in America of that odd, sober people—the Puritans, that had been their name.

But she could remember, too, that lovely, lovely voice, saying "the Deep Magic, from before the dawn of time"; that magic had been good. She said as much to Hester, her words stumbling over each other as she tried to describe it from a dim memory; as she tried to put into words all that the Lion had been, and how He, and His Father, had spoken of magic. Hester listened thoughtfully.

"Perhaps the word means something different to you, and to Him. That much I may admit, that it is not the lesson I was sent to teach! Mayhap not all magic springs from evil, only magic with evil as its source. Not all evil springs from witchcraft, either, but from the human heart. Yet strength, obedience, beauty, and love all come from there as well! So be it. Thou hast known, twice, what it is to walk to other places, other worlds, where words are strange and living there yet stranger. What question dost thou have, of this?"

"Why is magi—why are you, and Tom, and whoever sends you, why are you appearing now? If you had appeared before—if you had shown me magic might still exist—I would have stayed with my siblings! I would have—"

"Thou art sure?"

Susan choked back the words crowding to her tongue. Hester's question was not an accusation, but a warning was within it nonetheless. And suddenly Susan heard again the Lion's voice, deep in her memory: What would have happened, child? No one is ever told that.

But Susan could guess. She knew herself.

"I do not think I would have ignored the evidence of my own eyes," she responded, more calmly.

"Thou art not doing so now?" Hester got up, walking towards the deep, comfortable chair, and touching the stack of books beside it. The books Susan had put back, once she was given the house. "Thou avoided the door two spaces down; something there is a truth you are avoiding, as I once avoided looking at this letter." She reached a hand up to the scarlet letter on her breast, before turning back to the books. "These books are not to thy taste; the room is set as if others will be coming home." She let her fingers fall from the stack, turning to face Susan once again. "To grieve is wise, and changes should be slow, when death visits a house. But thou goes even further. There is a tale, in the good book, of a brother begging Abraham to send a dead man, Lazarus, back to his brothers, to prove to them that Heaven and Hell exist." She walked back to her chair. "He is told that if his brothers will not believe Moses, the prophets, and all who came before, the unbelievers would not change even for a ghost."

Susan half smiled, feeling the familiar flare of anger mixed with admiration. She and—a brother—had once argued like this, with points that pierce and truth uncontestable.

She'd forgotten when they stopped. She wanted it back again.

But with him, not with a stranger. Not even this stranger, as she touched his books and told truths of her own.

Yet it made a nice distraction.

And Hester was like Pe—like Susan's older brother, too, in her determination, her quietness that was so full of passion. Though she did not have as much common sense, Susan guessed.

And felt surprise stir. It had—she had not, in the recent years, delved that deeply into another person, to read them and to know them. She had forgotten what it felt like.

She liked it. Under the hurt, the pain, the weariness of grief—it was a familiar thing she thought she had lost long before, and she liked it.

"So you do not think magic would have changed me?" she challenged Hester in return. Partly from habit, partly letting the anger out, but partly because—she wondered what else the conversation could stir.

"Thou wert twice before given the proof of your magic, was thou not? And yet it did not keep." Hester's fingers came up and touched the red letter on her dress again. "'Tis why I keep this, long after events have happened, such things have changed, long after men and women tell me I could take such off. I must remember. I must remember! It is much of what I am, and yet I may lose even what I am. Such is man. Such was I. I lost all I was, once."

"How?"

Hester looked up and smiled, so very sadly. "Through love. Though it is not perhaps thy lesson to learn, still, often comfort comes from stories. Let me tell thee…"

Hester spoke far into the evening, telling of her marriage, her unhappiness, her love, the discovery, her shame, and her years with her child. Susan listened to the passionate, living words, and wondered how she'd ever thought the woman belonged in a graveyard. As time went on Susan also thought about getting them both dinner, but she thought of the Lion on the kitchen table, of trying to explain Him to Hester, or Hester to him, and stayed in her chair. The hours went on and she found that she did not want to go to bed. Hester was strange and compelling, loving and stern, and so at home in sadness.

A Walker, Tom had said.

Sadness marked so much of what Hester said, of her movements and memories, and yet her pain seemed to bring her strength, freedom—freedom from all that held Susan. As Hester told her story, Susan heard how little Hester cared for the opinions of other men or women. And yet, how much Hester cared for her God's opinion, and for the way her conduct lined up with right and wrong!

It made Susan a little uncomfortable, in a way that was again familiar. It was often what her siblings had brought out, but it was…less uncomfortable, somehow, with Hester. Perhaps because Hester had so much sadness, and so much compassion. And less responsibility towards Susan. Or perhaps because Hester knew less of Susan's choices than her siblings had.

Her siblings knew nothing of Susan's choices now. They were gone.

If Susan went to sleep, would Hester be gone when she woke?

So Susan stole glances at the clock, asked questions, and listened, wanting this night, this conversation, this freedom from loneliness—this magic—to stay just a little longer.

To never end.

But when the clock chimed nine, Hester glanced at it and rose. "Sorrow cannot be dealt with unless the grieving have slept. Come, to bed." She held her hand out to Susan.

"You will be here in the morning?"

Hester hesitated. "I do not know. I do not know when the door will open. When it does, I must go through."

Susan looked towards the door to the hallway, open as it was, and rebelled. She thought desperately for something, anything, to get a promise—to keep the magic for a little longer. Oh, there was a reason! "I have not learned my lesson yet—surely you won't go? They won't send for you?"

Heather regarded her for a moment, and then her face softened into gentleness. "We must come and go at the command of the ones above us. That is a lesson sorrow teaches! For all must be surrendered, all things, even love, even happiness, all hope and all we strive for—sorrow takes all things away." She paused. "Thou knowest this," and Susan nodded. "After sorrow comes and it takes, find what is left."

Susan looked around the room, at the books, the chairs, the home that she couldn't bear to lose but that wasn't enough—"There is nothing left."

"There is truth. There is God." Hester reached out and took her arm, drawing back Susan's gaze. "I had my daughter, and she saved me from death, but for years I was not free. I did not heal! I had a letter burning on my breast, a child who mocked as much as she loved, a man I loved with whom I could not speak, and hovering over him, my husband, who had become a fiend! I had sorrow after sorrow, and sorrow did not leave, for I kept a secret—for love. For love I did not tell the truth. Foolishness! For love I kept a secret; yet I found keeping the secret harmed my love. I did not know that. I tried every way but that! I found those in sorrow and helped them, I learned from them, but it was not enough. I was not free. So I took counsel in my mind, to take my freedom, my happiness—I told myself that love was enough reason to break God's law, and that my punishment, my pain, had already paid the price for the breaking! I would go away with the man I loved. I thought that would be my freedom." Hester shook her head, white bonnet flaring around her dark hair. "Our God knows better. This letter would still have burned, even after I took it off! So the man I loved, despite his cowardice, set us both free." She let go of Susan's hand. "Would thee know how?"

Susan nodded.

"Truth, child. Truth is what sets us free. He told the truth to all, and the two of us were free. "

"What truth? What truth am I to tell? That my siblings are dead?" Susan laughed bitterly, stepping back. "I know that!"

Hester shook her head. "Thou cannot accept that truth, till thou dealeth with the other lies."

"What—" lies, were the words on Susan's tongue, but she knew.

She knew. She'd fought with her siblings about them for years, about their game; Susan knew it was so much more than a game, so much—

So much Susan had already lost.

"I cannot deal with that pain right now!" she cried, turning away. "I lost my family, I cannot—I cannot take more."

"Thou must."

"Why? So I can break? So I can drown? That is too much—I could not deal with the loss the first time, so I went to the things that dulled the pain." She paced around the chair, seeing the carpet pass under her feet, blurring as the tears came. She held them back. "Now—now, is the Lion satisfied? Now I have a pain I cannot ignore. And I have to face it—alone." She ended her words in a whisper.

"Thou art not alone." Hester's voice was calm and kind, but Susan laughed again.

"You will leave when the door opens."

"But the door will not open till it is good for thee that it does so."

That—was a promise so hard to trust. "And when will that be?" Susan whispered.

"After thou hast wept, I think." Hester came forward, around the chair, and pulled Susan into a hug, arms strong and steady about her. "Weep, child. Weep for the world thou lost, and also for thy family." The hug was Susan's undoing; all her walls crashed down and she wept. She wept for the pain tearing at her heart, ragged breaths coming in and out as she remembered her family was gone. She wept for Narnia, out of reach, her crown, her kingdom, her people, the life that she had loved.

She wept for Peter.

For Edmund.

For Lucy.

For her father and mother; for the Professor, Aunt Polly, Eustace, and Jill.

She wept the goodbye she could not say, the love she could not give, the voices she could not hear. She wept for it all. She wept for hours.

And, instead of a pillow, she had Hester's shoulder. Instead of a blanket that could not be wrapped tightly enough, Hester's arms held her tightly, unflinchingly, even when her shoulder was soaked and Susan was choking. Hester did not let go, and that was enough for Susan to weep.

*I admit, I read The Scarlet Letter long enough ago that I do not think I caught Hester's way of talking—Hawthorne wrote paragraphs of speech at a time, with a passion and womanhood that I do not think I can catch. I'm sorry I couldn't do better.

A/N: TwelveHolyKnights recently read Time Traveler (the story that started this monster, taking place somewhere in part II), and made a drawing of it! It can be found at beatricehawthorne . tumblr tagged/BrokenKestral
After removing the spaces, of course.