Disclaimer: I admit to reading more of this world than most people I've talked to—all 17 books in the series, which can all be found online, if you ever want to read them, but that doesn't mean I own anything. Especially since SouthwestExpat suggested this world, and this character, a long long time ago. A writer is most grateful for the patience of her friends when they give good ideas and it takes her years to act on them!

Beta'd by trustingHim17.

"Worry is a cycle of inefficient thoughts whirling around a centre of fear."
~ Corrie Ten Boom

"Must you always be out and about?" the Doorkeeper fussed. He walked towards her—and right past her, continuing down the street at a brisk pace. Susan, still reeling from her short interaction with Jack, turned and followed. He'd continued talking and walking, heedless of whether she followed or not. The part of Susan's mind that never stopped thinking wondered what put him in such an impatient mood. She did not have to wait long to find out.

"There are no doors nearby. I am a Doorkeeper. Not a Walker. I do not walk more than I must. Do you know the closest door is a full two kilometres away? What were you doing out on such a blustery day, with no doors nearby?"

Kilometres; he uses the oddest collection of…habits. He may not be a Walker, but I am; should I not be walking? I can hear Edmund saying that, tone dry. Edmund, Edmund—would you have been proud of what I did today? Nancy, and Jack, and, and being with people again.

"And you are not listening again. I shall have to repeat myself. Your task—are you listening?"

"Normally you can tell," Susan couldn't help replying, but there was more of humour than anger in her tone. Being with people had…made it easier to be around him.* He didn't make her lonely the way so many others did.

"Normally I haven't exhausted myself walking two—and a half, now, two and a half kilometres chasing someone down. But—" he looked at her and slowed his pace. "You look like you might smile. What have you been doing, Aslan's Queen, that healed you so much?"

Being around people sprang to her tongue, but—no, it was not just that. That happens often. It was helping people, and seeing the miracle the Lion sent. "I have been doing His work," Susan said slowly. It was not the same way Lucy would have said it, though the words had once come from Lucy's lips. But she was not sure she wanted the Doorkeeper's reaction; would he criticise, would he ask questions? Nancy's troubles, even Nancy's changes, didn't seem like something Susan should discuss with others.

And she wanted to keep the miracle of another person who had seen the Lion all to herself, at least for a bit.

But the Doorkeeper merely nodded his head. "To be going about doing His work is often good for us. Well done. And I suppose if that is what you have been doing, I should not complain about you doing it! Right. Onward, then. There's a door just down this alley—I put it in the building next to the Leaky Cauldron, since that seems to attract doors—why are you slowing?"

Susan, whose steps had slowed, looked at him. He had not often been compassionate, nor gentle, but he often had a sharp sort of understanding, and enough common sense to accept limitations.

She wanted another adventure—she longed for it like she longed for a warm hug and a blazing fire after this cold walk—but her hands began trembling at the idea, and she guessed, if she went, she would make another mistake.

I want to go to their graves and tell them about an adventure without mistakes.

Will the Doorkeeper understand that?** And will I be able to wait?

"I am tired," she told the Doorkeeper slowly, wondering how to follow that up.

But he looked at her, fully looking with his eyes peering over the tops of his glasses, and she stopped the words that would have followed.

"So you are," he said. "Ah, well, this person is used to waiting. Another day will not make a difference. And I could use a long soak by the fire with a very good book, in the comfort of my own home. I'm sure the Bookkeeper would oblige me. I'll see you tomorrow, then. After work?"

Susan, looking at him, felt that small urge to smile again. He wasn't gentle, but he was kind. When he wasn't making her angry, that is. And he knew the wonder of the Lion's worlds. She nodded.

"Be off then, Aslan's Queen. It's not a day to be outside for very long." He stuck both hands into his pockets, took a step sidewise, and vanished.

Susan froze for a moment, stunned. She'd seen him do that before, of course, but they were standing in a London street—

She glanced up and down the rows of houses, the sidewalks with two women walking and a man pacing, head down. None of the three had noticed. Susan shook her head and went home.

She spent the evening in the living room, sitting in a chair. She couldn't quite get up the energy to build a fire, but she'd made tea, and when that didn't quite warm her, she'd fetched a blanket as well. Once the chill left, she sat and thought.

She thought about Nancy, how her friend felt restless, directionless. Without rest but without a place to go, or a goal to reach, or a person to be. Susan had felt that once, on coming back to England, though her siblings never seemed to. Perhaps it had been more that her goals did not seem possible, seem real, in her surroundings; but it made her as restless as Nancy was.

And the way Susan had reminded Nancy of the other three…I don't have the exact words to describe it. It's not happiness that I feel, but I cling to her words, almost desperately. It means if I am here, so are they.

Though—some of that they learned from me, Susan thought with a shock. Edmund told me, once, that they had learned to add gentleness to their care because I showed them how.

Aslan—I taught them in Narnia. They taught me in England. And now—

It's a way I can hold on to them, isn't it? Even when—even when the biting pain disappears, that sense of loss each time I see something where I realise they're dead, all over again—I will always have this of them; something I gave and they gave back.

That's probably something I should write to Jack. Susan closed her eyes and leaned back. But not tonight. I do not think this is delaying obedience; I think this is waiting, waiting till I can do what should be done. She fell asleep, there in the chair, and did not wake to stumble back to bed until late in the middle of the night.

She went to work the next day, and was surprised by how it helped. In the month she'd waited, it'd become routine; familiar, a place with no surprises. It made the motions of living easy. Yet even in the work, now that she was aware enough to see it, there were surprises. Her quiet, blond coworker came to her table and ate lunch with her without any prompting, and Susan shared half of the slice of bread and butter she'd brought, when she noticed the girl's lunch wasn't much.

This feels…not like healing. But like living might not be so hard, she thought as she cleaned up the crumbs and utensils from lunch. Like it won't always be climbing a mountain.

Though there will be other bad days. There always were, in Narnia or here. But with a trip waiting for me, rest, people from yesterday—today is not a bad day.

I need to remember things such as this, too. Because someday I might need to talk to people about how they heal. And how just healing one step forward makes it a little easier.

Even though I don't think healing—healing back to what I was, in Narnia or in England, is possible. All I know is that I can be badly broken and still live.

I wish I knew what I was waiting for, though. Because all of this—it feels like waiting, waiting for the next blow to come, the next thing to happen. It doesn't feel like living.

The Doorkeeper had not said when, after work, he would come. Susan knew going home to wait would just make her impatient—and knew, too, that she was coming up with excuses. She wanted to see her siblings again. To tell them about Beth and Jo, Jack, Nancy, everyone and everything, before too many things added up. She'd been planning to go over lunch, before her coworker sat down.

So right after work she wrapped up in her mother's dark coat and a grey scarf. It was sunny and clear, but still an autumn day, and Susan was going to be outside. Bundled up, she walked to the graveyard.

She noticed, again, the beauty of the place, the wooden benches, the old, towering trees, and clean stones, after the wind had brushed everything off them. At her family's place she carefully cleared away all the nearby leaves and sat down.

Only to find herself wordless. Their names, carved in stone, the way they would never answer, brought all the sorrow flooding back. She came here to speak to them, because here it felt like they could listen, but—they'd never, ever answer back. She'd never get to truly hear Lucy exclaim or see Peter nod; she could only imagine.

So she turned her back to the gravestones and leaned against Peter's, keeping her head tilted back to look at the sky.

"I went on another adventure," she began. And she told them, told them about gentle Beth, crying as she did. She told them about Jo, about the fierce love that cared so tenderly. She told them about how hard that had been, about the questions she had—"Edmund, is it hard for you all to go ahead? I'm asking you because Peter would just smile and say it's worth doing, but you might discuss it with me. Only—don't let it be hard for you. Be happy, and filled with wonder and wisdom, wherever you are." She told them about walking with Nancy, and how she'd learned to care for people in England as well—"Mother, does that make you happy? Not just happy, but proud?" She told them about Jack, admitting, scrubbing her cheeks, for the tears were cold, that she wished she'd stayed in touch with the Narnian friends enough she knew what to write to this schoolboy. What he already knew, and what he liked knowing.

She told them everything, and, when her words finally ran out, she sat and waited.

She should probably go home. But—sitting by their stones, having finally told them everything, felt like she'd shed the burden she'd been wearing, of little things piling up. All she had to carry now was the grief, and it was such a relief to just have that one thing to hold, however heavy.

It was a relief to be able to cry. And Susan didn't want to leave.

"I suppose," said a familiar, lecturing voice, "it's good I find you waiting. Very appropriate."

Susan moved her head, just her head, to look to the side, and saw the Doorkeeper standing over her.

She put a hand down on the cold ground to get up, but to her surprise he sat next to her, leaning against Edmund's gravestone. "Are you better?" he asked of the sky.

Susan smiled, a wintery smile, but still, a smile. I think he knows better than to ask a Walker that. "I am better than I was yesterday."

"Are you ready to Walk, then?"

Susan leaned her own head back. "Where am I going?"

"To England in 1793. To a French actress."

Susan turned her head, a little alarmed. "I don't speak French," she said uncertainly. "Do—is there something that can help me speak with her?"

He snorted. "Translators are a thing of the far future, my lady. They wouldn't work in 1793."

But we have translators now, Susan could hear Edmund protesting, and since they were here, since Susan liked to think that maybe, maybe, her siblings and parents heard her, she said what Edmund would say, just so he could hear the response.

"You have people who translate, you mean. In the future the work of translating is not done by humans, but by—well, never mind. That's beside the point. Your French actress, an orphan with one younger brother, married a British lord, and speaks English fluently."

"And society allowed that, back then?" Susan asked. She wondered if the woman was an outcast, and if that was why she needed a Walker.

The Doorkeeper sat straight, no longer leaning on the grave, and turned to stare at her. "This is 1793." Susan said nothing, though she felt herself flush, because he sounded just like her old teachers when she missed the obvious. All that old embarrassment, that feeling of inadequacy, came rushing back. "1793? The French Revolution?" He shook his head.

Memories of horrific stories—prison massacres, thousands beheaded, a nation running mad—filled Susan's head, and she shuddered. "The actress?" she asked, trying to get her emotions under control.

The Doorkeeper shook his head and leaned back again. "She is beautiful, charming, and intelligent—she'd get along well with your friend Carol, at that age. She married someone who loved her wholeheartedly, and she meant to be kind to him." An English lord, the Doorkeeper had said, and Susan felt judgement spring out swiftly, though she tried to stop it. An actress in a nation gone mad, offered the safety and protection of wealth and England—it would be hard not to take it.

Especially if he loved her. Love of any sort was hard to resist, when offered. Robert took it as his due, and so, once, did I.

"She came to England, and her husband asked her about something—about an entire family, one rumour said she sent to the guillotine."

"Did she?" Susan asked sharply. The Doorkeeper slowly turned his head to look at her, eyes fixed on her face.

"If she did," he asked gravely, "will you refuse to help her?"

Susan did not know what to say; should she be helping a murderer? Did a murderer, too, deserve mercy?

She looked at the Doorkeeper, wondering if he would say anything, but he didn't, merely looked at her, and Susan suddenly saw that the side of his head was pressed against the word Edmund.

"Did she repent?" she asked quietly.

"Does that matter?"

"I—doesn't it?"

The Doorkeeper half-smiled and looked back at the sky. "Grief comes to murderers as well. Once, the One who broke for sinners died with a thief on either side, and a murderer was released in His place. Oh, the type of help changes—you are wise to spot that, and glad I am to know it!—for we must never hinder justice. But the hands that deliver a murderer to a cell are still allowed to hold him when he cries going in." Susan thought about that—about how it sounded like something Edmund might say, or something she might have said to Edmund, when they tried to reach conclusions together. "But this woman did not mean to be a murderer. She carelessly spoke a word to the wrong person, and then tried to undo what she had done."

Susan breathed a sigh of relief. The Doorkeeper shook his head at her, brown curls brushing against Edmund's name. "More might be required of you later, Aslan's Queen. It is good that you think about such things now, for one day you may be tested by them."

"So the actress told her husband?" Susan asked, trying to move his piercing attention off of herself. And it worked, though he caught her full attention by his answer.

"No."

"No?"

"No. She wished to test her husband's love. A foolish, foolish thing to do. Tell me, Walker with sorrows, why would she do such a thing?"

You ask impossible questions.

But I can still hear that irritating condescension when I did not remember the date of the French Revolution, so I will take a try at your impossible question.

Why would a girl do that?

Why would she test his love that way?

She is French, more emotional, and…oh. Actresses are loved by their audiences, it is how they make their living, but in a nation gone mad, how certain was that love? Her parents were dead, the Doorkeeper said, and her only sibling was younger—how much could she depend on that love?

If she married a man who loved her, she probably wanted to know what that love meant.

"Because she wanted to know if his love made her safe," Susan replied.

"Quite possibly. Still foolish, of course," he added, and Susan felt her temper stir. Yes, foolish, but can't you see her side a little? We are—I have been—foolish in our need, our wanting love. "But her husband, though she did not know it, was committed to rescuing people from the government of France, and he recoiled from what she'd done in horror. For many months their marriage was a frozen affair, with both wearing masks before each other. And it was then that our foolish little actress learned she loved her husband, and she could not reach him. But his masks were eventually torn away, and her love for him was revealed, and honesty made marriage much better for them. As it's wont to do."

"Then why do they need a Walker? Why does she?" Susan asked. A part of her did not want to ask, a part of her wanted the story to stop with their happiness, finally won.

"Because her husband does not stay with her," the Doorkeeper answered. He sighed. "The Terror still goes on in France, and he leaves her, risking his life in all these impossible adventures—he only lives by the protection of the Lion, though he foolishly calls it Fate, calls it something he may grab and use—and his wife waits at home. Waits, worries, and drives herself nearly mad. She is growing thin, with all this sorrowing and loneliness. And alienated from many of her English counterparts, who view her emotions as foreign foolishness. I'm rather with them, I must say, but you, well…" He looked at her and suddenly smiled. "A Walker. You were already about to defend her to me, earlier, were you not?"

Susan felt the anger stir, again, at the way he'd boxed her into protecting this woman, leaving Susan little choice…but she also realised it would save her much effort if she already liked the person she was sent to. So she sighed and let the anger go.

"This will be a longer visit—I do not know how long yet, but the amount of time I am to etch into the threshold means at least four days, if not several days longer. She will handle your food, clothing, and all that; merely tell her you are a refugee, which you will be, and that you have been sent, which you are. She will assume you are one of the ones her husband risked his life to save. You may deal with some jealousy there, of course, but part of what you are to do is to teach her to take some of that all-consuming love for her husband and direct it towards the people close enough to love—like the refugees all around her. That, and to teach her how to wait. Do you understand?"

"Yes," Susan answered, and then paused. "I understand what I am to do, but I am— not sure I am wise enough to do it. I do not wait well myself. Not yet," she admitted quietly.

"Then I have no doubt you'll be learning lessons yourself. Now, up we get," and he offered her a hand as he stood, pulling her up from the ground. "And off we go!"

A door began to grow in front of her, that slight wind that felt like change danced across her skin, and Susan took a deep breath, and—with a backwards glance at the gravestones that reminded her to offer a prayer to Aslan, a silent request for His help—she walked through the cold that left her shivering but not, this time, chilled to the bone, and to the other side.

The darkness lasted a few moments this time, long enough that she had to blink against the light when it appeared. When her eyes adjusted, she realised she stood on an enormous lawn just before twilight, by the side of an immense white mansion. Immediately in front of her was a small circle created by a hedge, and within it came the wafting smell of roses. She stepped into the circle impulsively, breathing in the warm summer air so heavily scented with flowers, and then stopped.

The light of the setting sun fell on a beautiful woman sitting on a bench. Her radiant red-gold hair fell across her white shawl, and she would have looked like a statue of pure beauty, were it not for the worry creasing her eyes, trembling in her lips, and the white, thin face that spoke of suffering.

A/N: I truly thought I'd get this otherworldly visit finished in this chapter, but Susan's story tends to get away from me—most do, granted, but this one more than normal, for grief does take time. And, apparently, space. And it should be evident where Susan is going, no?

*By the way, from what I can tell in the books, Susan was an extrovert, so I think this would be true for her. It's not for me. My family does have several extroverts, and even they withdrew when our grief first broke over them. They did their work and were among people, but they stopped connecting to them for a time. Still, they reconnected much sooner than the introverts did.

**Also, if you have a friend who is grieving something deep and hard—literally everything is exhausting. One thing often takes all they have. Grief adds a huge burden to every step they talk, every conversation they have, and they wear out much more quickly. Please be patient; if they do one thing, they're trying, they're not giving up.