Disclaimer: why yes, my pen name is Tolkien. And Lewis. In addition to BrokenKestral. Didn't you know?

Beta'd by trustingHim17! Who amazingly still got to this in the middle of life happening.

"Amid the darkness I will stand
upheld by His almighty hand,
and angels sent at His command
will guard me on my way."
~ Jonathan Landry Cruse

"Now the chief of the wolfhounds that followed Celegorm was named Huan. He was not born in Middle-earth, but came from the Blessed Realm [...] Huan it was that found Luthien flying like a shadow surprised the daylight under the trees, when Celegorm and Curufin rested a while near to the western eaves of Doriath; for nothing could escape the sight and scent of Huan, nor could any enchantment stay him, and he slept not, neither by night nor day. [...] But Huan the hound was true of heart, and the love of Luthien had fallen upon him in the first hour of their meeting; and he grieved at her captivity. Therefore he came often to her chamber, and at night he lay before her door [...] Luthien spoke often to Huan in her loneliness, telling of Beren, who was the friend of all birds and beasts that did not serve Morgoth; and Huan understood all that was said. For he comprehended the speech of all things with voice; but it was permitted to him thrice only ere his death to speak with words. Now Huan devised a plan for the aid of Luthien, and coming at a time of night he brought her cloak, and for the first time he spoke, giving her counsel. [...] the arrow was aimed at Luthien. Huan leaping caught it in his mouth; but Curufin shot again, and Beren sprang before Luthien, and the dart smote him in the breast. It is told that Huan pursued the sons of Feanor, and they fled in fear; and returning he brought to Luthien a herb out of the forest. With that leaf she staunched Beren's wound, and by her arts and by her love she healed him [...] But Luthien heard [Beren's] song, and she sang in answer, as she came through the woods unlooked for. For Huan, consenting once more to be her steed, had borne her swiftly hard upon Beren's trail. Long he had pondered in his heart what counsel he could devise for the lightening of the peril of these two whom he loved [...] in the baying of Huan was heard the voice of the horns of Orome and the wrath of the Valar."

~J.R.R. Tolkien

Susan fell asleep in front of the painting of Aslan. It was barely sunrise when a fussy voice woke her, causing her to jerk upright, then wince as her neck muscles protested.

"Really! I do all that work, and this is the view I get?"

"Doorkeeper?" she asked, a little sleepily, blinking. "Where are you?"

"Move whatever silly thing you have that's blocking the mirror."

Susan moved the painting with gentle hands, and blinked again, not sure she was awake. The bottom of the mirror was no longer a mirror, but a moving picture, a film with colour, of the Doorkeeper standing in front of a dark forest. Once she moved the picture the entire mirror filled with the image.

The Doorkeeper sighed in satisfaction. "That's better. Small windows require much more craftsmanship than large ones. Now, are you ready?"

"Ready?"

"Why, I've been busy all night! It's time to find you a companion, of course!"

"I have work today!" Susan's mouth said before her mind caught up—

She had begged not to be alone. Here she was promised a person, a companion. Forget work, her heart commanded, this is what you want, what you need!

Will—is there any companion that I could accept? What if he's bossy, or strict, or—it's work to be around people, how can I be around any for a long period of time?

And how do I fit that in with my regular life in England?

The Doorkeeper, unaware of all her questions, had only heard her protest about work. "Oh, of course, I forgot to tie it to your time instead of mine—I'll start making the door now, and it'll be done correctly. Of course it will, I'm marvellous at this! Now, go to the graveyard after work tonight! Be on time, the door won't last long—and don't wait for me to go through it, do you hear? Just go when it appears, right away, Aslan's Queen! This isn't heard of, what I'm doing. Not even by me! But His ways and not our ways, people wrote, and of course…"

The outer edges of the mirror's image began spinning as he spoke, and as it spun it shrank. The next moment it vanished, and with it that sense of change. Susan reached forward one hesitant hand and touched her mirror.

It was just a mirror, cool under her fingertips.

Susan pressed a little harder, then let go. She rolled her neck, winced, and stood. Glancing towards the door she debated with herself—should she go get breakfast? Or, glancing towards the bed, get some more rest?

Rest won out. She slipped off her shoes and pulled the covers over herself. Her muscles relaxed in relief, and she waited to fall asleep.

But in the silence, her questions about her companion started to return. She couldn't help it; she opened her eyes and stared into nothing.

What kind of person—or being—would be a help to her, and not a hindrance? Could she trust the Doorkeeper to judge? Or the Being above him? Would even her trips become work now, as well as grief? Would they be as hard as work, and friendships, and living? Oh, the trips were hard already, but in an entirely different way. They broke Susan's heart, but she didn't have to make herself do them.

Was she foolish, to ask these questions? So far her trips had been—

Susan paused at that thought.

They had been exactly tailored to Susan, hadn't they? To each step of her grief? She could not have borne any reminders of Narnia, nor Marguerite's passion, even a month ago.

Susan's grief wasn't lifting. It still weighed heavily on her heart. But the brokenness was changing, a little at a time. Perhaps even healing.

No, she remembered Edmund once saying, of a friend of theirs who had lost all his nation.* No, he's not healing yet. But the body will adjust for any broken bone and strengthen all that is around it. The same can happen with a broken heart; the rest of the heart grows stronger, to continue to live with the grief. That is why, Lucy, we must be so careful to love him. Love helps the rest of his heart grow stronger. Even though the broken bone remains.

This is what Edmund meant.

It was the thought that stayed with her and steadied her throughout the rest of that very long day. Through the teenager fussing that there weren't any dresses that fit her properly, through the five year old throwing a temper tantrum among the shelf of shoes he'd just knocked over, through her coworkers yelling and snapping at each other—through all of it, Susan endured. Because she knew her heart was stronger than it had been.

Then she went to the graveyard.

The skies were overcast, the strong wind whipping Susan's hair in front of her face, and the paths were empty. Susan sank in front of the stones gladly, wearily ready for some peace. She didn't say anything to her family, just nodded at them and huddled in her mother's coat.

The stones blocked the wind. It was a moment before Susan noticed, before she realised she was actually getting warmer. But though she could still hear the wind, and she could feel it playing with stray hairs, it wasn't as much like a giant's hand pushing her.

Suddenly everything from the day hit her, everything from the morning of wondering. She began crying. This, this, was what she wanted. A companion who was a shelter, company that was also peace.

She could not think of another person who could consistently offer that. Nancy was good to be around, but only for little periods of time; Aunt Alberta and Uncle Harold were anything but family; Beth was dead; Arwen refreshing but cutting all at once, as sharp and reassuring as a sword; Hester convicting as well as comforting—

As Susan thought through the long list, she grew wearier. Perhaps the problem was not other people. It may be that she was just too broken to be around other people. She reached out and touched Peter's sheltering stone. "How is it that I feel peace because you can't speak, but yet I want to hear your voice again?"

But a different breeze blew across her face, damp and musty, and she stiffened. It was a door. She got up at once, shivering in the wind, and looked around. Stones and paths, space and grey sky, the church in the distance—and there, in a large tree, a rectangle of black. Susan walked towards it at once.

The darkness was still cold, a winter wind with fragments of ice, and Susan gasped as she stepped through. But it didn't hit her heart, and her skin felt it for a brief instant before she was standing in warm, still air, gentle yellow light flooding the circular cave. The Doorkeeper's ornately carved door stood closed on one side.

Walking with slow steps, Susan made her way to it. There were four panels to it, two above and two below, and each panel had twelve animals carved into it. With no one to rush her this time, she examined them. On the upper left an elephant reached with its trunk to touch a mouse, while a lion faced them both, watching. Beneath them a horse ran, head up, chasing two dogs, who in turn were running after a cat. Reaching out to touch them, she paused. She did not remember which ones the Doorkeeper had said to touch.

"I remember not to touch the fox, as you don't like people," she said to it, tucked in the bottom corner of the upper left panel.

It turned its head to look at her.

She froze, looking back.

It stared. She swallowed, and it remained utterly still. "My apologies," she said, a little breathlessly. "I was not aware you could hear me." It still didn't move. If she hadn't seen that it had been staring at a very large fish before, she would have thought she'd imagined it. But it faced outward now. "Will you let me in?" she asked of it.

Nothing happened, so she reached with very gentle fingers and touched the upright body. "Please?"

The door swung open. Susan snatched her hand back, stepping away at the same moment. She began to step through, and paused. "Thank you," she called to the door, hoping the fox could hear her through the wood, and entered the hallway.

It looked exactly the same as before, bookshelves on one side, torches and two chairs on the other, and the two doors opposite each other. It was also empty.

Susan walked first towards where she remembered the story being shown—but it was nothing but a blank wall now. She wondered if she remembered the right space, as she pressed her fingers to it. She glanced down the rest of the hallway; nothing but torches.

"'It is not good for man to be alone.' Scripture."

Susan jumped, spinning around; she hadn't heard the Bookkeeper come out. He was standing behind her, blinking behind much larger glasses than she remembered.

It took her a moment to process what he'd said; and how did he know, anyway? But something about him invited an answer. "No, I—I don't want to be alone." He said nothing more. Susan found herself speaking, trying to fill the silence. "I don't want to be alone, but—I don't think I'm fit company for anyone right now. And I'm not sure anyone is fit for me." She swallowed, hearing herself. "I don't think being alone is good. But I'm not sure being with people is a better option."

He smiled, a smile as large as his glasses, and patted her shoulder. "'Keep some room in your heart for the unimaginable.' Mary Oliver." He took her hand and led her further down the hall. He paused at a small three-shelf bookshelf, barely a handbreadth across, filled with paperback books of a light tan. He took one from the top shelf labelled The Silmarillion** in his other hand and turned to lead her to the two chairs. He spun one chair to face the other, guided her to it, patted her shoulder, and spun the second chair to face hers. He set the book in it, smiled, and went back to his room.

Susan blinked. Was she meant to read it? She bent forward to pick it up. The instant she touched it, her mind was filled with pictures. Pictures of a hound as large as a horse, eyes much wiser than those of English dogs, standing in a forest; then following a group of beautiful people across a frozen land. Glimpses of him standing at a prow, gazing over the water; standing beside a tall man with pointed ears; following a horse on a hunt. He followed the man again, hunting cruel and terrible creatures, helping to slay them, fighting as Peter and Edmund had once fought, against a foe as evil.

"...then evil came to their land again and the hound set out with Cele—are you back?"

The Doorkeeper's voice grew louder and more real in Susan's ears. She blinked, and she was touching a book in front of her.

"The Bookkeeper never does give clear instructions. I've never been able to figure out if that's deliberate or if he actually cannot speak in anything but quotes. And since an instruction manual has never been written, he can't quote from it. I would have been here earlier, of course, but when he moved the book he moved the door it held, and a nice time I've had!"

Susan turned her head. The Doorkeeper stood beside her, dressed in an immaculate suit, as always. But his hair did look a little more rumpled and wild than usual.

"If that's as far as you got in the story, then I shall fill you in on the rest." Picking up the book, the Doorkeeper sat down and turned it over as he spoke. "This particular hound was given the—"

"The hound? Not the man he was with?"

The Doorkeeper blinked. "I assumed the Queen of Narnia would have no objections to an animal companion."

No, Susan thought but did not say, not because he's an animal, but because—

Because I never expected to have a part of that world back again. And I am not sure if I can take such a gift, or if I will be broken further by it.

"Ahem. To continue. There are two prophecies about this hound. Once, he will speak three times before he dies. And none of those will be to you, by the way."

A companion that does not speak?

That sounds…like a relief, actually.

The Dogs of Narnia—oh, I remember their tones. Most breeds spoke incessantly.

A silent companion may be an easier one to work with.

"Also, that he will die in battle with the greatest wolf in his world."

Another memory, as vivid as the pictures from the book, filled Susan's mind—of a Wolf chasing her and Lucy, of teeth snapping in a red jaw, of the fear so great she almost fainted and fell from the tree. She felt a little sick now.

"Can he be saved?" Peter, face white and determined, thrusting the Wolf through—would there be anyone to save this hound?

"All things have a time to die, Aslan's Queen." His tone was more gentle than usual. Susan swallowed. "He followed his master faithfully, and, when hunting with him, found a lady of great beauty, courage, and goodness…" The Doorkeeper's voice faded, and the images filled Susan's mind again. The Hound, scenting something in a cloak made of hair and shadows, bringing it back to his two masters. The cloak falling—and Susan gasped. It was Arwen, but Arwen before she withered. Only she did not name herself Arwen, but Luthien, and Susan watched in sorrow as the two masters took her captive. Huan, however, became her companion, listening outside her door; Huan spoke, in deep and baying tones that were yet somehow quiet, and set Luthien free. He took her to her love, a man tall and despairing, in a dungeon that made Susan shudder. Then the hound parted with them, parted to faithfully go back to his master, only to break with his master when the master met the pair once more, and fired arrows at them. Huan helped the Arwen-Luthien save her beloved, and then helped her find her love once more when her love left her to seek safety. Luthien swore to go with her love, and Huan gave them all the help he could—but he could not go with them. Nor could he go back to his master.

"And that, of course, is where he is in his story right now."

Susan blinked; once again, she sat in a hallway, the Doorkeeper closing the book in front of her.

"His story? Is this—is he not real?"

"Do things become false if they are written down? Is your history not written down for you to read, early in your school years?"

"But the writing happened after the events!"

"Ah. Well…I suppose I should tell you that this home of mine is outside of time. So it holds many complete stories, but I may enter into them at any point."

Susan looked from the book in his hands to the bookshelves on the walls. "Are all of these…stories being lived out?"

"Goodness gracious, no. Some are philosophy, and that's rarely lived out at all. Some are science, and that only becomes lived out far after your time. But I'd say about half are worlds. And about a third of the books inside his room, which is larger than London. One would think there'd be enough room without spilling into the hallway, but it doesn't matter. The Bookkeeper keeps the worlds, and I enter them. I much prefer it that way. There's several places to enter different worlds, you know. One involved water. How very messy."

"I think—I think Professor Digory—" Susan's voice caught, and she cleared her throat. "I think the Professor and Aunt Polly visited that place once."

"What? Oh, no, no. Not the Wood Between Worlds. That is…well, I won't get into how that is water but is not. Suffice it to say that when one arrives one is not wet. No, I meant the bottom of the ocean—the cracks in the ocean floor. But never mind," the Doorkeeper added, as Susan opened her mouth. "We should be getting on to your companion."***

Susan's words died in her throat.

I'm afraid. She looked down at her hands; they were beginning to shake, and she buried them in her skirt. I'm so afraid.

How, after a companion like a living Arwen, could he like me? I do not want a companion who…who feels only pity for me.

But…it might be worth it, not to be alone.

Aslan, this is so hard.

"Well, what is it?"

Glancing up, Susan once again met that keen gaze. For a second, and then she looked down again. "I'm scared."

"That is rather obvious. Of what? He's large, I know, but he won't hurt you."

"Will he like me?"

The Doorkeeper paused. There was a world of fear in that pause, Susan's fear of his answer. "I would have thought so. Yes. He loves the good and beautiful things in the world, and is protective of them. So I would have said a hesitant yes. But then, Aslan's Queen, I came back here and found the fox let you in, and now I'm certain of it."

"What? The fox on the door?" Susan frowned. "Why does that mean something?"

"The fox rarely likes anyone. But you have a way with you, Aslan's Queen. Your very name speaks of it. Every place we've gone, the person you're sent to falls in love with you."

"Isn't that normal for Walkers?"

"Merciful truth, no. You loved Hester, true. But it was hard to, wasn't it? And you liked Tom, but you didn't love him." The Doorkeeper stood, brushing his jacket down with one hand. "I hadn't seen that part of you when I met you. I miss a good deal about people. But even the fox on the door let you in. I have no doubts Huan will be drawn to you just as much. Shall we go and find out?" He held one hand out to her, and the other still held the book. Susan looked at it, pausing for just a moment—just enough to draw up her courage—and took his hand.

It felt like falling, and Susan was suddenly dizzy with another memory, with the feeling of being sucked off a train platform and landing in a thicket. A moment later she stood—not in a thicket, but a forest. The trees were dark, blocking most of the light, and the smell was of leaves and sticks rotting for ages. In the distance, she heard the cry of a hound.

"Come along," the Doorkeeper said, brushing his jacket once more. "I shall be quite glad when I no longer have to go tramping through the woods."

"Wait!" Susan caught his arm, surprised she caught it in the shadows. "If he's my companion—what does he eat? Will he stay inside the house all the time? How will he get exercise?"

"I'll bring him with me every time I open a door, you needn't worry about keeping him. Now come along!" He set off. Susan didn't follow.

Her heart sunk, and she didn't understand why. She still wasn't sure a companion was a good idea, even one like this, and the trouble of keeping a hound as large as a horse would have been no small one—

But she would still be alone at home?

She couldn't keep up with her own heart, she couldn't understand what she wanted; she just knew every time she got her hopes up for something, she never got it.

Is this what comes, Edmund, from wanting the wrong things for too many years?

"Aslan's Queen! Aren't you coming?" the Doorkeeper called from up ahead.

"Yes," Susan whispered. One step forward. Just like the graveyard, trying to keep warm—you can take one step forward. Leaves crunched under her foot. One more.

She'd taken four or five when the Doorkeeper was back, grabbing her hand and yanking her forward. "I don't normally do this, and I'll be very happy to end it, thank you! This is the gratitude I get for all the extra work—hurry up now! I want to get home."

Crunch, crunch, crunch, and then Susan ran into the Doorkeeper's back.

"Hush!" he hissed at her, standing perfectly still.

Susan remembered other times in Narnia—rescuing Peter in a series of caves, hiding with the Beavers from Father Christmas at the beginning—and breathed as silently as possible. She did not move.

Grunting sounds came from the forest to her left; horrible, ugly sounds, like a mix of a pig and a werewolf.

"March, you miserable maggots!" barked a voice, cruel and sharp. "Quick now!" Steps sounded, heavy and rhythmic, with the cracks of broken branches and sticks underfoot. But they—they were going further away. Susan could hear that.

"Halt! You, what's got you lagging? You need a taste of the whip, eh?"

"No, no!" squealed a high voice. "But I smell something."

The hand holding Susan's gripped fiercely—he's been afraid all along, and I missed that, too caught up—and the Doorkeeper turned.

A huge shadow, four legs and a large body, soundlessly slid between them and the direction of the sounds; a low growl sounded in Susan's ears.

"That's the leftover meat you smell, maggot! Get moving!" A whip's crack lashed through the forest, followed by a cry of pain, and the marching began again.

Susan found it hard to breathe. She'd known evil—Jadis' cruelty, Rabadash's lying destructiveness, the crowd that took the only truly good Lion and killed Him—but she'd forgotten—

She'd forgotten why it was so necessary to fight. She'd forgotten what Harriet's meanness and tricks, what Susan's own falsehoods, sided with.

She'd forgotten what evil truly was.

She'd forgotten what it was like to have her heart pound so hard that it hurt, how consuming fear could be. She'd even forgotten the pain for a moment.

"Are we safe?" The Doorkeeper's voice was harder than she'd ever heard it; she wondered why he hadn't just opened a door.

The head in front of them nodded.

"Then let's get out of here."

The head nodded again, and the Doorkeeper glanced the way they came. "You're sure they're gone? They won't get through any door I open?" He was already moving towards one of the trees as he asked. He took a handkerchief out of his pocket—a handkerchief, of all things—and dusted off a tree with it. Susan meant to watch, but she felt a presence behind her and whirled.

The hound—Huan?—stood there. And she could see his eyes.

They were very dog-like; brown, loving, alive, and watchful. They reminded her—in all the ways they were more than a dog's eyes, in their silent, strong, protective promise—of Peter. If Peter had lost all his siblings, and yet still swore himself to Aslan.

She did not think, she closed her own eyes and leaned forward, wrapping her arms around the large, furry neck. He smelled terrible, like a sweaty dog, but he did not move. His strength was like Peter's too, large enough to lean against, to trust.

"Thank you." The words whispered from her mouth into his fur, and he whined softly in reply.

"Through the door, through the door!" urged the Doorkeeper from behind her, but Susan didn't want to move. She didn't want to leave this refuge she'd only just found, the one companion she didn't dream she'd have again. Not Peter—but someone she could lean against and trust.

Her shirt pulled on her neck, pulling her off the ground, and she moved. Huan had picked her up, clasping her shirt in his teeth, not a single one scratching her. He plunged them through the whirling door in the tree.

*Khonat, the last of the Telar from Crown of Life.
**I'm aware the book wasn't published till 1977, about 21 years after The Last Battle, but the Bookkeeper's library is outside time and has all the books ever written, all the stories ever told. An idea I got from Beauty by Robin McKinley, one of my favourite Beauty and the Beast retellings.
***At last! I had no intention of writing any of the first part of this chapter other than the image in the mirror. The detours are as lengthy as a Hobbit's shortcut. But I did want to see the Bookkeeper again, so I wasn't all sad.

A/N: I'm going to PA for seven days to watch six nieces and nephews, and I'm not going to put any pressure on myself to write during that time, so it will probably be two weeks before I update again.