Disclaimer: please tell me you're not still reading these "I don't own Narnia" every time.

Beta'd by trustingHim17

"Consider how precious a soul must be, when both God and the devil are after it."

~ Charles Spurgeon

Susan fell asleep in the hallway. She did not know quite what those words "It is finished" meant, shining on the wall, but they held this promise, that one day, the tasks would be complete. That there was an end to grief, to the struggle; that things were done, and the right side won. When she woke, she was sitting in her living room chair, and the handkerchief was gone from her hand.

She pushed herself up from the chair and went to the kitchen to prepare breakfast. It was only when she was pouring her tea that she remembered she'd made a promise to Nancy the day before.

Susan did not want to go on that walk. She didn't want to feel how poorly she fit in this world anymore, nor struggle to connect to another hurting person.

But…Nancy was easier than Carol. Probably even easier than common-sense Donna. And suddenly she remembered something Edmund used to say, too, "knowing each will have to prove how this universal pain is also — personal."* She remembered the man weeping in the garden the night before, and the story she'd learned as a child. He had been God, but for love let Himself be broken unto death.

For love, she'd been taught; for love of the broken people.

If she was a Walker—and being with Beth had proved she could be—then she was also supposed to love the broken.

My whole set is broken, Susan realised with a slight shock, pausing as she set a single white plate on the table. Robert, with his love of admiration…no, I can hear Edmund in my head, correcting me, telling me it's a need to be adored. Carol, with her demanding only sugar from life. Nancy, who doesn't know what to do now. Belle, Clive, Henry, all of them…tired of the grimness of war, we demanded life only be laughs and colour. She sat in the chair, leaning back instead of eating. She could hear the sounds of one of the parties, like the one where she'd worn the red dress—violins and talk and feet stomping the floor; she could hear the enchantment that promised all would be good.

"It is finished…" I think I take that as a promise that someday, life will be like that. Laughter, colour, and wholeness. But I think we got even the laughter wrong. Not the music, not the dancing, and not even all of the beauty—but we did not know what to laugh about.

And today…maybe Nancy is one of the people who recognises that now.

She picked up her toast and took a lacklustre bite.

I suppose I should meet her. And go back to the people who knew Mum and Lucy, just to—

But her thoughts broke off as she stared at the wooden table, the single plate with its egg and toast.

She hadn't thought about it that morning. Every other morning, for the past month and a half, it had hurt to put out one plate, just one plate, even though she'd done that countless mornings when she got up too late, but it had always hurt that it wouldn't be more than one plate—

And this morning she had not noticed.

That cut again, that loss, that…not noticing. Life went on, and she'd heard that losses gradually fell away, were littler over time, but she didn't want that.

She shoved the plate away, heading up to Lucy's room, stepping into it and looking around, almost hoping for the heart-piercing pain. If the loss was all she could keep of her siblings, then she wanted it forever.

But Lucy's room—the hangings, the ribbons, the bed by the wall, all they produced were the slow ache, the persistent wariness that something was wrong.

Not that something was gone.

Susan turned in a swirl of her brown skirt, running out and shutting the door. She headed back to the boys' room, one palm on the door and the other on the knob before she stopped.

This will be a fresh loss; a place I haven't gone yet, where the loss is new, where it hits all over again.

I'm almost frantic to feel that, to know it's still here—she turned the knob as she thought—but…

Something held her back from pushing on the door.

I go to meet Nancy in just a few hours; I cannot go if I have been crying all morning, not go and be a Walker. She slowly took her hand off and let the knob turn back, creaking a little.

I have not lost them. I still miss them. She rested her head against the door. I really, really miss Edmund right now. Or Peter. What—what I wouldn't give for one more, just one more of those hugs that I told myself I didn't want. Peter, Peter, what would you think of me and what I do now?

Only silence answered her. Perhaps because she couldn't truly imagine Peter's reaction to her new life, her new self…

And that was another loss. She found herself crying anyway, tears falling from her cheeks and splashing in small dots on the floor.

She cleaned herself up perhaps half an hour later, drank some water, and went out the door. She was not but a few steps out the door when she realised it was chilly—the weather was turning towards autumn—and she went back inside. She pulled out her white coat, and paused.

The coat was no longer white. Something dark had fallen on it like dust, turning it grey; on the arms were several black spots.

Several black spots and one rust-brown, there on the wrist. Susan raised it to her nose and smelled the metallic scent of blood.

She rushed to the bathroom and threw up. She'd been wearing the coat when she went to the train station. She'd brought a little of it back with her, a little of that hovering cloud of smoke and spent blood.

She wiped her mouth, her tongue still burning, her stomach still churning, and drew herself up. Remember your past, the Doorkeeper had said, and Susan had spent her breakfast recalling memories; and had asked for more. She'd been given it.

Be careful what you ask for. I know, I know, Edmund. But you're here with me when you say that—and that's worth it.

I'll try to visit your gravestones after my time with Nancy, okay?

Even if I don't want to tell you about waiting a moment too long, not any of you. Maybe one day I'll be able to come with tales of worlds that I won't have to shrink from telling you.

And I'm grateful you'd never laugh at me for them. I need to remember to keep them from Nancy.

She went back to the closet, picking up the stained coat and hanging it all the way to the side, out of sight, and pulled out one of her mother's coats. It fit well enough to keep her warm.

Then she went to meet Nancy. Nancy was ready and waiting, in a navy coat of her own, and Susan smiled—her empty smile, and she knew it was, but she didn't have another—at Nancy's parents before turning to leave.

Nancy's mother brushed a gentle hand over her shoulder, saying nothing, and suddenly Susan felt ready to cry again. She missed people, people who made it easy to be around—not people she was sent to, not lessons, not burdens to be borne, but…

Mothers with gentle hands, brothers who walked beside her, oh, she missed them. A cold wind blew on her face and legs and she shivered.

"I say, Su, I don't feel like tea or shopping. What about a walk?" Nancy said suddenly. Susan looked over at her, one eyebrow raising before she could stop it, feeling her hair whip across her face in the cold wind. Nancy gave her a rueful smile. "I know it's cold. We don't have to. I just don't feel much like sitting down. Or…"

And Susan remembered that, remembered hours she couldn't leave the rocker, and the hours she could not stay still, going through the house like she herself was a ghost.

"We can walk," she agreed quietly. She followed Nancy, the bright hair blond-brown and caught up in a bun, and the dark coat flapping, till they found a small park. And they walked in the wind, following the winding path under the large oak trees, glad for the shelter from the wind.

They didn't say much as they walked. But the path was large enough they could walk side-by-side, without their arms even brushing, and it was easy, Susan realised, to fall into step with her. They both had the slow, quiet steps of the weary, but also the smoothness of those who dance often.

We're both exiles from the same country, Susan thought. And then felt her lips press together, because in some ways, yes—and in other ways, no. Susan's country—might possibly be Aslan's country. It had been Narnia.

But we can walk this way together. And she remembered how lonely it felt, to be an exile, and so she let herself walk a little closer to Nancy, to let their shoulders brush, and, thinking of her brothers, led the way down paths with more trees and less wind.

She found herself walking a little faster, head coming up into the wind, and a little more aware of the rustling of dead leaves along the ground, the branches held still in the sky.

And Nancy walked faster too, and though, when Susan glanced at her, she wasn't smiling, she was breathing easily and looking around.

We don't need to say anything, I don't think. Somehow this is easier than I thought it would be. And better, too. Maybe she'll go home a little less restless.

And I won't have been alone.

They walked for another half hour, before Nancy's breath started coming too short, and Susan, noticing, led the way to a tea shop. They sat by the window and Nancy paid for their drinks, a quiet "Let this be a thank you? For—for coming, and for taking care of me," stopping Susan's protests. She accepted with a nod and—not quite a smile. Nancy took it for what it was, a thanks, and ordered their tea. It came a few moments later, in a plain white pot and two delicate teacups shaded a deep rose.

They drank or sat with their hands round the teacups, growing warmer, and still said nothing. It was comfortable, though, in a way the phone conversation had not been.

Remembering that, remembering Nancy's promise to not pour all her troubles out on Susan, Susan looked over at Nancy. "Thank you for this walk," she said softly. Nancy looked up and flushed, eyes dropping to her cup again.

"Thank you. You're different than you were, but it—it helped. It reminds me of the few times I met your siblings, actually," she said, looking up quickly at Susan's face for a reaction. "I—my older cousin lost someone in the war, and she said one of the things that hurt after time was how no one mentioned him, how he seemed to be gone. I wanted to try to help that, to help you. If you want it."

Do I?

I want someone else to miss them just as much as I do. And I don't—I don't want them gone from this world.

"How do I remind you of them?" she asked quietly, though she kept her eyes on the tea steaming from the rose cup, her hands holding each other tightly in her lap.

"You're…I don't know, distant. Walking through the world as though it wasn't your world, Roger said once—though he didn't mean it kindly." And though Susan wasn't looking at Nancy's face, she could hear the mocking tone, and knew Roger was still a wound for Nancy. "But I feel like I can tell you anything, and you won't be surprised, or shocked; like you're safe to tell secrets to. Like everything you do is made to keep the people around you safe, and well."

Susan didn't feel quite like smiling, unless she had to for work, but that stirred the remnants of her sense of humour. "I have a few secrets of my own, you know. I can keep them. Do you have any you would like to tell me?" she asked, looking up at Nancy's face, at the curved chin and pale eyes. She watched her shrug a little diffidently.

"I don't know what to do with myself now—but that's no secret. I've been wondering, though, about our set. About…I think some of them have secrets."

"They do?" Susan asked, surprised, and briefly interested. Nancy nodded.

"You and I don't tend to keep secrets, I think. We show our emotions on our faces. Though you just said you had secrets…I remember, sorry, I spoke before I thought. But I went back to a few dances, and sometimes the faces laugh at all the right times, but they don't laugh, not at all, when they shouldn't. And there's other things…I wonder how many of us truly know what we're doing."

Susan thought of the men her mother and Lucy had helped, of Ed and Peter's classmates, of Eustace at that horrible school and how twisted people had been before the school had changed. "I do not think we're the only ones who don't know that."

It was Edmund's tone, leaving her mouth, and it hurt and felt right at the same time. This might be what the Doorkeeper meant, to remember—not only the pain, but the wisdom I learned from them. It will make me miss them, but it keeps them close.

Nancy smiled, just a bit. "Then maybe there's hope for us." She raised her teacup, and Susan raised her own, and felt the warm, black tea fill her mouth.

They didn't stay much longer than that. And Susan asked, quietly, if Nancy would mind going home alone. Nancy cheerfully agreed, thanking Susan again for the time, and the two headed their separate ways.

Susan walked home. It wasn't far, and she did not feel like dealing with any other people at the moment. It had been nice, not to be alone, but too long made her feel raw and tired. So she walked, huddled in her coat, keeping away from train tracks or the river, and away from larger crowds.

She found herself crying regardless, crying because she'd connected again, crying because of Beth and Jo, of Peter, Edmund, Lucy, Mum, Da…of Arwen with her ruined glory and all the sorrow she'd seen in the worlds. She cried because Nancy had been there and was gone, and because she wasn't strong enough to take being around people for too long. But she could breathe easily through the tears, and she did not think they did any harm.

She still saw the glances people sent her way, some with concern, but most with a curiosity that embarrassed her. She wiped the tears with her gloved hands, and realised she was still wearing her mother's coat.

It made her feel completely lonely; as if she would never walk with someone who truly knew her, who knew every secret.

I…don't pray that often; more, now, I know, but I don't—can I still call You Aslan? She nearly tripped over a raised cobblestone, and caught herself. I…please, I feel so alone right now. Could You, somehow, find a way to come to me? To send me someone to show me I'm not alone? I know that would be a miracle—how many others could You possibly have who walk in other worlds? But…Lucy always believed You worked miracles. The others did too. Would You send me a miracle?

Completely preoccupied with her own thoughts, Susan stumbled and nearly fell when the sound of someone calling her full name jarred her out of her thoughts.

She turned and saw a boy a year or two younger than Eustace, she would guess, of a sturdy build and light brown hair, striding quickly towards her. "You are Susan Pevensie?" he panted as he caught up.

"Yes," she answered, looking him up and down. He was a schoolboy still, older than some, but not anyone she could remember seeing. Too young for Peter or Edmund to have gone to school with.

"I'm Jack."** Susan blinked, her memory coming up blank. "Jack?" he tried again. "The one who wrote letters to them about—" he glanced up and down the street, and leaned in to lower his voice. "About the Lion?"

Susan froze. The word rang in her ears, but she could only blink, disbelieving. He couldn't mean—there wasn't any possible way—

"You don't know the Lion?" Jack asked, disappointed. Patience didn't seem to be his strong suit, and he took her silence for an answer. He stuck his hand in his pockets and leaned back, shaking his head. "Sorry. I thought you did. Their stories talked about you being there—the King of the Telar*** and Rabadash and all of it. I wrote them down and double checked, just to be sure. But they're all gone now, and I wanted someone who'd—never mind. Sorry to bother you." He turned to go, and Susan reached out without thinking.

"Wait," she said, breathless, and Jack turned back around. "You really mean the Lion?"

Jack nodded soberly. "'Course I do. I met Him once, see.**** Scrubb and Pole just came back, with Him and this other tall chap with a brilliant sword—I go to their school, see. And most of Them just ran away, and Scrubb, Pole, and the other chap chased them, but the Lion—I had to meet the Lion. So I went up to meet Him, and He said He'd…well, He said a few things. And one of them was to go meet Scrubb and write to Scrubb's cousins, so…" he shrugged uncomfortably. "They told me stories," he added, after a moment. "I…still want those. And I thought you might want to talk about the Lion too." He looked down, kicking at the stone street in the manner of uncomfortable little boys.

"I would," Susan said. She said it gently, for she could tell the boy was far out of his comfort zone. But she knew her own limits, too, and added, "But not today. Forgive me, I am far too tired. May I have your address, so I can write, like—" her voice caught. She fought herself, to keep her eyes from filling, her voice from straining. It felt familiar—it felt like some of her times as a queen—and that familiarity helped, for she fought herself and won. "May I have an address to write to?"

"Here," Jack said, thrusting a piece of paper at her hand. He nodded once to her, then turned and fled. Susan put the piece of paper carefully in her pocket and started again for home.

It did not surprise her quite as much when she heard her name called again, this time in the fussy tones she was beginning to recognise.

* From "A Liturgy for Those Who Weep Without Knowing Why," which can be found in full by searching Google for its name and "The Rabbit Room."

**CS Lewis apparently demanded to be called Jack almost as soon as he could talk, and the name stuck. He also did not like the school he went to as a boy, but I don't think it was quite as bad as Scrubb's.

***From my story Crown of Life. Jack doesn't bring up the best examples, does he?

****Short Snippets, chapter 34