Disclaimer: Still not mine, even though I have written something probably close to the length of The Lord of the Rings by now. Proof that occupation is not nine-tenths of the law sometimes.

"It is not good that the man should be alone."
~Genesis 2:18

WARNING: though there is no suicide attempt in this chapter, Susan has to deal the fact that she no longer wants to be alive, and may not have the strength to keep living.

No one came to lift Susan's loneliness, not through all that dark night. She wept till she had no more tears, and a familiar heavy stillness fell on her. The night grew colder, the stone behind her back (she leaned on her Father's) numbing her upper body.

After several hours she no longer shivered. The part of her head that had sounded sirens, warning her to get up, to warm herself, had fallen silent hours ago. Susan could no longer feel any of her limbs; only her heart still ached with a heavy, broken waiting.

The moon rose, and the graveyard grew less dark. And Susan realised she faced another choice.

She could stay. She could stay till morning, sitting against the stone, and perhaps in the morning there would be a need for another grave. Here, with her family.

It would be so easy.

It might even feel like home. Like she belonged; like she might be welcomed into a place where there wasn't any hurting, wasn't any more struggles, or fighting herself, or being patient and gentle with others in a way that cost. Death felt more like home than anything she had while living.

But if she did—could she face Peter, knowing she took this life he'd guarded so often, for so long, and had thrown it away? Could she look into Edmund's eyes? Could she receive Lucy's hug? Death had everything she wanted—but she might not get any of it, if she sought death herself.

But somehow—somehow she was still almost willing to take that chance. Because maybe if all things were forgiven, all sins erased, this sin would be too. And it would be over. Over.

No more trips, a voice whispered in her head, and Susan tried to ignore it. But the voice grew louder, sterner, stronger, the part of herself that had grown as a Narnian Queen. No more people to help. Nancy, already mourning the death of her dreams and her love, would mourn the death of a friend as well. And all the things you are meant to do—left undone.

Would you really have this bitterness be worthless?

Would you really rather have nothing beautiful come? Because you've seen it before; the worse it begins, the more beautiful the Lion makes it, the more stark the contrast. Edmund as a bully, and Edmund as a King. Mr. Tumnus as a coward, and Mr. Tumnus saving us in Tashbaan with no fear at all. Edmund's story was, in many ways, more beautiful than Caspian's, because Edmund was lifted from the mire to the throne.

Would you really never have this brokenness be redeemed?

But—

And Susan closed her eyes, shutting out the moon, the stars, the rustling trees. She wrapped her arms around her knees and grew a little bit warmer; a little bit, because she needed to be alive to argue.

I am not sure I am strong enough to be reshaped. To hold on through the time needed to make this beautiful.

And even if, some day in the future, all this is—how was it said—worked into something good, my good—even then—could it be worth the pain right now?

Yet even as she thought that, the voice returned, stronger than ever. Are you going to give up before you find the answer to that?

There is a reason kings, queens, knights, heroes, even regular Narnians, were taught to persevere. Can you?

Susan did not want to answer that. To say no meant giving up, and she was—not quite there yet. Not after remembering there could be good things in the future. But to say yes meant more work than she was capable of.

But I can persevere tonight.

She didn't want to—she didn't want to get up, she wasn't even sure she could.

But she could put her hand on the cold stone above Peter's body. And once it was there, she could lean on it, lean forward, push up—at least till she was on her knees.

Her legs barely obeyed, so numb from sitting. It took several seconds that felt like hours to make them move again.

But she did it. Each second, she found she had strength for that second alone. Not the next, but for that one.

She spent the next hour walking, slowly at first, and then faster. Every time she passed by her family's quiet resting places, she stopped and told them a little more about Marguerite. She wore a path around them, crushing the grass down, but she moved. She stayed warm. She did not give up.

When the sun finally rose, she went home. Too tired to even pause at the gate, she shed her coat and shoes and fell into bed. When she opened her eyes again, the room was warm and filled with afternoon sunlight.

Susan rolled over. She knew afternoon sunlight, knew it because she'd often stayed out very late and slept till lunch.

But her mother wouldn't call her to lunch, not ever again. There was no plate set on the table quietly by Lucy, an act of love any more. Susan thought she should probably cry at that thought, but she didn't. Perhaps she'd wept all her tears away the night before.

They would come back. She knew that, too, now. But not just yet.

In the meantime, she was still alone. She went downstairs and made lunch, eating it in the garden and looking at the flowers Lucy planted that were still growing. She stooped and picked a sprig of lavender, holding it to her nose and breathing it in, hoping for a little bit of peace.

But when she finished lunch, washed the dishes, and put them away, she was once again in an empty house. She thought about calling Nancy, Carol, Donna, anyone—but she didn't want that type of company. She wanted family, magic, Narnia, Aslan—

And as if His name were a talisman, she remembered she'd promised to write a letter to Jack, that schoolboy who knew of the Lion. She gathered paper, a pen, and an envelope, and went into the living room. Dear Jack, she began. I don't know how much you know about Narnian. You mentioned some things in the street, but I am afraid I was far too tired to be paying attention. I thought I would begin at the beginning of our story. It began when we left London on a train—

She broke off, her hand trembling, the n she was writing smeared into a whimsical tail. Because it had begun with a bomb, but she hadn't wanted to say that; begun with a war; begun when London was no longer safe, but she'd skipped all that, and if she did—

Then their story began on a train.

And it ended on one too.

For everyone but Susan, it ended on a train. And she couldn't take that thought, that poetic justice, that there should be anything fitting about their deaths, so she dropped the pen and stood, hands still shaking. Perhaps she should go outside, perhaps—

But she paced instead, circling the living room, watching her feet step forward one at a time and her black skirt move.

Nothing to look forward to, pushed against Marguerite who didn't know how much she is loved—was there any love Susan was missing? Was there anything to look forward to in the future? Because each trip dealt out its own healing and its own wound. Each time there was another person to love, another person Susan would lose; is this what her future would be? A life of pain after pain, ending after ending, loss after loss?

Was she fit for any other life now? The broken were unfit for joy, couldn't even feel it; Susan knew she couldn't smile, couldn't laugh, couldn't love living anymore. Time healed, everyone knew that—but could time heal someone so completely broken?

And could Susan last the time that healing took, when she lived alone?

Either way, she did not feel like writing to Jack anymore. But she didn't have anything else to do either. Crumpling up that piece of paper, she began again. Dear Jack, this is Susan Pevensie. You've probably heard about how we met the Lion, but in case you haven't, it all began when we were sent to the country during the raids on London. We arrived at a very large house with only a professor, a housekeeper, and three servants. Their names are Betty, Ivy, and Margaret, but they don't come into the story much. Mrs. Macready, the housekeeper, was the one who chased us to Narnia, and the Professor the one who believed us. Did you meet him? Lucy went in first…

Line after line poured from Susan's pen; memories of how she had lived, of the beauty she'd seen, of the love she'd received—of the place that would always be home. She could see the hallways, the ornate carvings on the wardrobe; she could smell the moth balls, and hear the crunch of snow underfoot. She shivered as she recalled the torn portrait on the floor of Mr. Tumnus's cave, but added a sentence in parentheses about how it had been restored by the best artist at Cair Paravel, a joint birthday gift from her and Lucy.

Tears came as she wrote, but they were the easy kind, the one that lifted a little of the sadness. And as she wrote, the room filled with ghosts. Fauns, Beavers, Dwarfs, Centaurs, Sons of Adam and Daughters of Eve, they smiled at her, sang to her, curtsied, bowed, and disappeared. She was not alone.

A cramp in her hand stopped her on the tenth page. She set the pen down, twisting her wrist back and forth before wiping her face. She looked outside. The sun hadn't quite begun setting; perhaps, if she hurried, she could make it to evening church.

She added one more line, I will write more later, and readied the letter to post. Slipping into a simple black dress, folding a handkerchief in her pocket, Susan went off.

The sermon was uninspiring. Or perhaps grief blocked Susan's ears. But the people around her made it easier for her to breathe, the music comforted her, and Susan walked home more steady than when she came.

Work came the next day, and once again Susan was not alone. She ate lunch with the coworker who often sat alone, and a third joined them. It made for strained conversation, but it was, at least, a little step forward. After work Susan called Nancy, but Nancy had an engagement that evening and couldn't talk long. She seemed a bit better, or at least preoccupied.

The whole conversation left Susan feeling rather empty.* Especially after the warmth of the ghosts. She wondered if she should write another letter to Jack. Standing, she reached for the paper, only to stop when a knock sounded on the front door.

She almost smiled, hoping it was the person she thought it was. Dropping her hand, she hurried to answer it, and sure enough, the Doorkeeper stood there. "Let me in," he demanded impatiently, and Susan's stomach dropped. That tone was not what she needed, not right now, not while—things were barely stable. Perhaps the Doorkeeper noticed, for he continued, "Goodness knows why I am being sent on this errand, I should have thought Hester or Tom would be much more fitted, but He uses the weak to overcome the strong, the foolish to overset the wise—so here I am. Let me in, and let's get this over with."

Susan did not want to let him in. But she had promised obedience, so she stood aside, and he stepped past her into the hall. "Would you like to go into the sitting room?"

"No, I think—that's a place of peace. Look, child—no, Aslan's Queen you still are, though a hurting one at that. Of course that's obvious, you're a Walker, but sometimes the obvious bears stating."

Susan noticed that his hands were tugging the bottom of his tweed jacket straight, even though it hung perfectly, and she looked back up at his spectacled face. "Are you nervous?"

"Of course I am, I am not fitted for this! Doors, doors I can open, but hearts are much harder things to unlock."

"Mine needs to be unlocked? I thought—Hester already did that."

"Oh yes, and quite well. But—last night, my dear, was hard on you."

Susan turned away, towards the coat rack. She straightened her mother's coat (it would never be hers), just to have something to do with her hands, to hide the small shame. She knew it had been weak, but she couldn't do anything about it. She couldn't change it.

She couldn't make herself want to live again.

"I think you need a companion, my dear."

Turning back, Susan looked at him quickly. On the one hand she instantly hated the idea; someone who went with her, who saw all her grief, who saw the toll the trips took, even her mistakes, and not just the good she did. But on the other—there would be someone there. She wouldn't be alone. "Who—" She tried to think of someone. Jack? Hester? Tom? Working with all of them—they were so different than she was. They would work differently. And to have two counsellors counselling two different things at the same time would be horrid for anyone broken. "Who?"

"Don't be ashamed of needing this. Most warriors against evil are sent out two by two. It seems to be the way He likes to do things, and His ways always work best. No, we need to find someone to go with you. And who is the smart question. I have someone in mind—not someone you've met yet, and possibly not available, so no questions yet. But for tonight—I wanted to come to you after I'd asked this being, that would have been doing things in their proper order, but someone told me last night was close. I thought I should give you something to look forward to. Till then, though, Aslan's Queen—" He paused, looking her up and down. "I don't think you should spend much time alone. It's not wise," he hastened to explain.

"I know." Susan heard her own anger and bit her lip; but really, could he be any more obvious?

"Sometimes stating the obvious is—" he stopped, and Susan closed her eyes, gathering her self-control before looking at him again.

"Yes?"

"I suppose, if I were to state the obvious, I should say that I'm worried," he admitted more quietly. "Walkers often live in grief, but yours is drowning you. I am ill equipped to help. But someone else should be able to help! I'm going to talk to him right now."

The Doorkeeper sidestepped and disappeared again; the air that brushed past Susan's cheek smelled like—

Like the scent of Queen Arwen's forest. Could that be who he was going to fetch?

No, the Doorkeeper said talk to him.

Susan thought about dwelling on that puzzle for a while, just to occupy her mind; or writing to Jack. Or perhaps even going into Peter and Edmund's room; she would not really be alone if she did that.

But none of those seemed right; they left her feeling restless. She wandered from room to room, looking for something. For what, she was not sure, just something to spark an idea.

She saw the telephone, and remembered. Earlier Nancy had mentioned going to a party; it was a Monday, so Susan knew where it would be held.

Should she go?

It would help her escape her thoughts, she wouldn't be alone; but—was it right? And could she bear it, if she went? Bear the giggling, laughing, floating, emptiness of it all. Or what if she went, and it became all she wanted again? A thin veneer of laughter, to cover the aching desire to have stayed still in the graveyard…

The Doorkeeper was right, she should not be alone. Not now. And she had nowhere else to go.

She hurried to her room and opened the wardrobe, flipping through dress after dress. The scarlet one she'd loved, still stained, she pushed hurriedly aside; it was Narnian red, and she did not want to dress in it now. Her hands paused as the thought occurred.

"Aslan," she asked softly, "should I go?" She waited. She heard nothing. "I don't think I'm in danger from it—if there's a little danger, it's not as much as me staying alone." She could hear Edmund in her head, saying But is that reason enough to go? "I want to go. But I'm no longer sure that's a good reason for doing things." She didn't hear an answer again, and let her hands slip down the dresses. "Is it wrong to go?"

She could not think of a single reason why it would be wrong, not if she didn't make it her purpose and pastime again. And she did want to go.

Then go, in the Lion's name, and see what He does, she could hear Peter saying. She reached for a royal blue dress, one she hadn't worn much as it completely covered her legs instead of stopping just below the knees with a flare. But it seemed fitting, to wear something different. She didn't apply any makeup, though she took a few minutes to do her hair, and then she set off, clutching her small white bag.

Music rang through the street a full block away. Susan had forgotten how loud these places were. Her steps slowed; was she truly ready for this? A white gate—Susan knew from past Monday nights that it swung open easily—barred her way, and she rested her hands on it, the bag still hanging from one. Should she go in?

Go. She knew that voice, the deep, golden, wild voice. Swinging the gate open, she stepped through, suddenly confident. She wouldn't be alone, and if the Lion was sending her, it would be for a good reason.

Slipping through the open front door, she headed for the refreshment room; she was not ready to be dancing. Her name rippled through the air in a spreading wave as friend after friend called to her; she nodded, touched shoulders, and made her way to the food.

"Susan!" An arm slipped around her waist, the shoulder covered in a white dress. Nancy, Carol, and Harriet crowded her from behind. "What are you doing here?" Nancy asked.

"You came? How lovely! It's such a night tonight—not too late, of course, for some of us have work in the morning, but the dancing is so lively! Sometimes short-lived frolics are the most fun, don't you think?" Carol was already turning away from Susan, looking back towards the other room, but she reached out and put a hand on Susan's arm. "Do you think you'll dance tonight? It's been so sad without you; no one has the same grace. I told you we'd wait for you, didn't I?"

"You did, but I do not think I will be up for dancing tonight." Susan patted Carol's arm. "Do go ahead."

"But!"

"Oh, do go on, Carol." Nancy still hadn't let go of Susan in her one-armed hug.

"Oh, the two of you are just too old and staid for a party like this! Come on, Harriet!"

The red-haired Harriet hadn't said a thing yet—Susan wondered why—but at Carol's request she nodded and turned in a whirl of white skirts.

"Susan—what are you doing here?" Nancy glanced around, and led Susan to the back side of the table, with fewer people. "Are you all right? If I'd known you didn't want to be alone that badly I could have cancelled—but I heard there might be problems tonight—"

"What kind of problems?"

Nancy gave Susan her full attention. "Harriet. She—well, you probably ruined her plan just by showing up. She wants to be the new belle of the group, and get Robert. She's welcome to him, but she was going to play a cruel trick on Donna, a battle of wits that shows off Harriet's cleverness but talks about Donna's scarred shoulder, and Donna doesn't deserve that. I thought I'd come and stop it, if I could. But no one will be paying any attention to Harriet if you're here."

"Then I'm glad I came. Shall we go get Donna?"

"Let's. Oh, do let's. This is much easier with you here. But Susan—are you sure you're all right?"

"I'm better with something to do."

"What were you going to do? You didn't know about this, but you must have come for something."

"I think I came looking for the secrets you talked about," Susan admitted slowly. "Just—to see if there was a way to help."

"It certainly is harder than just coming to dance and laugh. But—I don't know, I go home a little fuller for it. Come. I think Donna's in the card room."

They found Donna easily enough, and she was glad to leave her companions. Too glad, Susan thought, and realised Nancy was probably on to something. The three circulated through the room, and the other ones, at a slow pace. Most people greeted Susan gladly, but Nancy—and Donna after a few conversations where she glanced from Susan to Nancy and back again—relieved Susan of most of the need to speak. So Susan simply watched.

And realised, to her surprise, that it was Carol who caught her attention the most. Nancy's secrets were already known to Susan, and Donna didn't seem to have any, but Carol laughed the loudest, danced the hardest, and, Susan realised, was completely unable to be still.

Susan stayed an hour, and then nodded towards the door.

"I'll see you out!" Nancy responded. Donna leaned forward to kiss Susan's cheek and pulled back to wave goodbye, but Nancy walked all the way into the yard. Susan leaned against the fence for a moment, feeling the cooler air.

"It's almost quiet by contrast—and a blessed relief," Nancy said with a sigh of her own.

"I think you were right about secrets. And I think Carol has some."

"Carol?" Nancy pulled away from the fence in surprise. "What makes you think so?"

"The way she moves. And the way she laughs."

"I'll keep an eye on her, then. Thanks."

"Thank you," Susan replied, and meant it. "I don't think it will happen, because our set doesn't think that way, but Nancy—by every right, you should be the next belle. You have the makings of a good queen."

Nancy turned away. "Thank you," she said, whisper-soft. "I think I'm growing into it, a bit, but—it scares me."

"To look at all the people that need love and wonder if you have enough love to give them."

"Yes. That's it exactly. Oh, Susan, won't you come back? It would be so much easier—no. No, that's not fair of me."

"If you need me, let me know. If I can I'll come."

Nancy laughed tiredly. "The promise of a queen."

"Or someone who used to be one."

"If you're not a queen anymore, than what are you?"

I don't know, came to Susan's lips, bitter and bloody. Because anything would be a step down from being a Queen. But the words that came out of her mouth were, "I'm a Walker."

"A what?"

Susan shook her head; how could she explain to Nancy? "Someone who walks with the hurting."

"Ah. Be careful, doing that. You don't have much to give, and you need to heal yourself, too."

"I don't think I have it in me to be careful. Not anymore."

"Then perhaps it was best you came here. Will you be all right going home?"

"I think so. This—was grounding."

Nancy laughed. "I know. It makes reality very clear, doesn't it? When so many people are trying to run away from it?"

"Or trying to convince themselves reality is more than the world our parents gave us, and the full graves we laid some of them in."

Shivering, Nancy said, "That's horrible, Susan."

"Sorry."

After a short pause, Nancy said, "It's true. I just don't want to admit it. I want there to be a bit of truth, at least, in all this." She waved her hand at the house, with its door still open and the music coming out.

"There is. Or at least, I remember there being. Thanks for making it so I wasn't alone tonight, Nancy."

"Come anytime. Or call. And sleep well tonight."

"Goodnight." Susan turned and went out the gate without looking back. She was glad she'd come, glad to see Nancy becoming something more than she'd been, glad to help Donna, and glad to have had a few moments connecting to someone else. But she was ready to leave.

She was ready to be home, and with her ghosts again.

*Susan is, to the best of my reading, an extrovert. I am trying to write her as such. For myself, I seldom want people near as much or as often as she does, but people would probably be one of her coping mechanisms, so…here's me trying to write that!