A/N very excited note: So, remember how this entire tale began as a five-chapter story named "Time Traveller"? Most of you probably know that. What most of you may not know is that BellatrixTheStar began writing "Time Traveller" from Edmund's POV, and she posted the second chapter this week, and I loved it whole-heartedly. If you're interested in reading it, please do, and please comment, because the more encouragement she gets the more likely she is to write chapter three, and I want it so badly! Pretty please? If you have time, and think you would enjoy it? :)
It can be found at: fanfiction s/13808378/1/Time-Traveller-from-Edmund-s-perspective

Disclaimer: I claim only the rights of most mischief-makers, to have started something they couldn't control.

"She didn't sob or wail. Her grief was horribly discreet but as persistent
and almost as silent as bleeding from an unstitched wound."
~ Unknown

Susan remembered a saying Edmund said once, quoting one of the great poets he'd been reading for school: They also serve who only stand and wait.

That, she decided with a bit of bitterness, is because waiting is so hard.

Yet, in the past, she'd found it less difficult than her siblings. There'd been so much to wait for, yes, but also so much to enjoy in each moment. Balls and music and food, company and love—the world had been so full in the present moment it was easy to wait for the next.

This waiting, in the dark, cold living-room, was anything but easy.

What did it mean, to wait on a God? To wait for His love?

A memory of Lucy, telling a story of reading a magic book, came to mind; of how Lucy had made Aslan visible.

"And what does that mean?" she demanded. "How does that relate to love?"

Start at the beginning, Su, she could hear Peter urging her; she could see Edmund leaning forward a little, dark eyes fixed on her, ready to offer help if she needed it but also ready to let her reach her own conclusions.

Her siblings softened her heart. But anger quickly followed that, because she didn't want at soft heart, she didn't want to hurt anymore—

Who told you love didn't come with a price, child?

The words, in that large and soft golden tone, stopped her anger and killed it.

But she was afraid to answer.

There were small, daily prices to loving; unselfishness, thoughtfulness, giving a little of freedom and indolence—but Susan was pretty sure that was not what the golden Voice meant.

Do you think loving you has cost Me nothing?

That—Susan knew the answer to that question. She knew what loving her had cost her siblings, she'd read it in their diaries, seen them wrestle with it on paper, watched Peter's face grow old. It must have cost the Lion even more; had she ever denied her siblings as much or as often as she'd denied the Lion?

As she was denying him now?

Her reaction to Nancy, to the Doorkeeper—the Doorkeeper had said to love out of Aslan's love for her. And her heart ached now, she admitted to herself, because she felt like she was not loved by anyone who mattered. With her family gone, with the hole that absent love created—there was never enough love to fill it.

Yet Aslan had loved her anyway. Continued to love her, walk with her, come to her, send her out, even coax her past her bitterness and hatred, despite how often she turned away from him.

Love had cost Him everything, once. Love for her brother. Susan shuddered as she began to consider what loving someone like herself might cost Him.

What it would still cost Him in the future, since the hole in her soul still gaped open like a waiting grave. But how was she to change that? Did she even want to?

Did she want to love, when love came with such a high price? No, not that it came with such a high price, exactly; that it came with a price so much higher than she was able to pay. If it cost everything, fine; Narnia had taught her that love was worth that. But what if the price was everything you had and were, and still more, and you had nothing left to pay it with?

One did not go to beggars and demand a throne of gold. Why would love demand a high price from someone who had nothing left to give? It wasn't fair!

But…love—in Aslan's world—had never been about fairness. Nor in England, in her family, come to think of it. Fair would have been for her siblings to disown her, to spurn her like she'd spurned them. And they had, in part—but not completely. They loved her still. And she had loved them!

Still, love demanded forgiveness, even in England. And forgiveness was never fair. It was always a gift. There are gifts that cannot be demanded, but are still right to give, Edmund had said once.

But Susan's head hurt, and she wanted to be done with this conversation.

Love had a price. Was she willing to pay it? Could she pay it? Even if she was healthy, and whole, could she pay a price so high?

No.

Susan got up from the chair. She wanted to pace the room—to help herself think—but her legs reminded her that she had walked very far in the cold and they were not up to such a task. Going to the kitchen instead, feeling the way it was a few degrees warmer, she made herself more tea and sat at the table.

She'd had a picture of the Lion here. She remembered it, remembered talking to it. Those great golden eyes—

She let herself breathe for a moment, let go of a little of the grustation. "All right, Aslan," she said, more quietly. "What am I supposed to do, when I can't love the way I need to?"

A few seconds passed by.

"Aren't you going to answer?"

There was a spot on the table. She began to rub it, before letting it go and closing her eyes. "Why won't you answer me? How am I supposed to love?"

Nothing. Feeling weary, for what good was a God who didn't answer, Susan let her head sink onto the table, lying sideways and staring at the sink.

As clearly as if he stood in the room with her, she once again heard the Doorkeeper say, don't love out of your own strength, remember how Aslan loves you.

Aslan's Queen.

Here, at the table, with the Lion she'd betrayed—somehow it was easy to dismiss that from the past, because He'd forgiven her, but here she was doing the same thing all over again—here at the table, He'd watched and wept with her.

He loved her.

Another memory, of another voice—brisk, feminine, and once very dear. There is nothing that can heal you, except the love of the Lion. Aunt Polly had been one of the few Susan had brought her wishes to, her wishes to go back to Narnia and find all that love once more. The brisk dismissal of what could not be had not encouraged Susan to go back to her again.

But now—there was something in what Aunt Polly said.

Nothing can heal this.

Nothing? After all the little healings you have brought about, after all you saw wounded and healed in Narnia, after Lucy's cordial, after a land and people set free from a hundred years of dark and cold cruelty, of wretched authority—you still say you cannot be healed?

He brought the dead back to life. He healed Edmund's vicious spirit.

I know the love of the Lion healed many.

Can it heal me?

And, Susan thought with a bit of shock, if it can—why hasn't it?

Oh.

Well—what kind of Walker would I be, if I were healed?

And…yes, I know, it would be very easy to go back to my old life, a little wiser, but not much, if I wasn't in pain anymore. I'd go back now, if it still had the power to make me happy. Susan closed her eyes again. The darkness felt comforting.

She fell asleep there at the table. But she was woken by a knocking on the door.

Blinking, Susan tried to get up and winced. Shooting pain in her neck reminded her that sleeping on a table was not the best choice.

Three more knocks, firm but polite, reminded Susan why she'd woken in the first place. She dusted herself off out of habit, and went to the front door.

Nancy stood outside. Blinking again, Susan felt like pinching herself just to make sure she was awake. That was Nancy's bright red coat, white hat, and black scarf, and Nancy's eyes above it, but…

"Can I come in?" Nancy's embarrassed question broke Susan's stupor, and she quickly stood to the side.

"Come in, it's cold," left her mouth.

Her mother's words. Every winter, every time someone knocked—come in, it's cold.

Habit helped her take Nancy's coat and scarf; habit made it easy to escort her to the living room and offer her some tea.

"Though I think I'll have to warm it again, it went cold." Habit didn't cover this; there used to be three of them bustling about to make people comfortable, but Susan would have to leave Nancy alone to put the kettle on, and that would be rude—

A hand caught her wrist. "Susan, it doesn't matter about the tea. Please, sit down."

Susan sat. But she couldn't meet Nancy's eyes; she looked at her skirt, smoothing out the wrinkles.

"Look, I know I behaved badly. Or said the wrong thing. Or just—please, Susan, don't shut me out. I'm worried."

Don't shut us out.

There was no way Susan could handle this right now.

I can't do it, I can't, hadn't she just been saying that to Aslan?

But where else was she to begin but by trying, as Aslan sent people along?

"I am sorry for my temper. Your tone—brought back memories. Of disagreements with my siblings."

"Oh. That makes—sense. Susan, won't you look at me?"

Hearing the pleading, Susan made herself raise her eyes. Wind-blown strands framed Nancy's face, and her dark blue eyes looked earnestly at Susan. "I just—I don't think you being alone will be—good."

The bitter laugh was rising, Susan could feel it, but she cut it off. "It's not good. I know that, Nancy. But it's all I can do right now."

"Then I'll come over. Not all the time—I asked C—I asked someone, and she said to let you have time alone, but will you let me come over?"

Take what Aslan sends, and trust Him to give you strength to meet it. Goodbye, Gentle Queen. I'll be back in a week.

Peter's voice—well, this was what Aslan was sending, so Susan nodded.

"Good. It'll just be for tea—and I can make it. I remember where the kitchen is. I'll go make some now." With a rustle of skirts, Nancy stood. "Do you want to wait in here, or come along?"

Another choice; Susan didn't really want to come, but she'd spend the entire time wondering what Nancy would be doing, or thinking about Susan's kitchen, and she might as well. "I'll come."

The kettle was still visible, and the mugs were easy to find, so Susan sat quietly at her own table and watched Nancy move quickly and surely around the tiny room. She took several moments to choose a tea, but that bothered Susan very little. Nancy was always choosy about food.

When the tea had been steeped, and Nancy set the two cups on the table and sat down, across from Susan, Susan took a moment to look at her. It was the first time, since before, that someone else had been at the table. Someone other than a painting of a Lion.

"Did Robert not want to come?"

Nancy paused, the teacup just beginning to lift into the air. She set it back down again and looked at it. "No," she said, after a moment. "I mean, yes."

In spite of herself, a smile lifted a corner of Susan's mouth. It vanished the next moment, but the humour helped. "Yes?"

"Oh, you know Robert, he loves visiting pretty girls—but it's just, I—"

Susan set her own teacup down. "What is it, Nancy?" Because there was a sound of wretchedness in Nancy's tone, and that stirred the part of Susan that had been growing stronger over her trips, her response to others' pain.

"Susan, I didn't come here to talk about that—"

"I think that might help more than anything else, Nancy. So just—tell me. What is it?"

Slipping both hands around the teacup—that wasn't a hard grip, but Susan wondered if Nancy meant to hide trembling fingers. "I invited Robert here, and he was coming. He'd like to see you." Another small smile—as if Robert's friendliness mattered to Susan anymore, or if his careless could hurt. "But I just—he wouldn't be of any use in a place with hurting people. And I didn't want to think about that, I really didn't. But the more I get to know our set the more I realise there's a lot of hurt. We all hide it, but the wars left scars on every single family, and what hurts a member of our family hurts us too. If I'm going to be a Queen…Susan, what use is a King who can't sit with the grieving?" Susan watched Nancy lift a finger and run it around the rim of the teacup as she thought out loud. "I don't want to give up Robert. I—his brightness is captivating. He reminds me of you, a little bit; so bright and beautiful."

That hurt more than Susan wanted to admit. She wouldn't have wanted to be anything like Robert, carelessly dealing out hurt for the sake of his own enjoyment. She hadn't, had she?

Not with anyone except her siblings.

Another thing to ask forgiveness for. But she pushed that aside—that would be for later—to focus back on Nancy. It was easier than it had been before.

"But, oh, I don't know. What it I'm the one hurting sometime? What if he can't help me?"

"It would be a poor marriage."

"We're not talking about marriage," Nancy replied, startled. "Just being together."

"So you're going to marry someone else while being with Robert?" Edmund's dry words left her mouth before Susan thought, and she winced at Nancy's face. "I'm sorry. That—I have less gentleness than I would wish, today."

"I suppose it is a valid point," Nancy answered stiffly.

"But not well said." Susan took a deep breath. "I'm sorry."

"Forgiven." An awkward pause settled over them.

"Are you sure you still want to come for tea more often?" Susan asked, trying to smile.

"Yes, of course." Another moment, and Nancy seemed to realise what Susan was asking. "I probably need to hear these things."

"Tell me more about our set," Susan asked, and the gentleness came easily to her tone. "Let me see if I can help there."

Because it was easy, with Nancy doing the work, the talking, to offer what she had learned in Narnia. Donna had begun going out with a young man who had a scar on his face, and that worried Susan at first, but Nancy said they seemed to truly like each other. Carol had been changing; dancing like tomorrow did not exist, but laughing less, off the dance floor, and watching the room with restless energy. Three of the other girls were bringing new young men to the dances, and two behaved pretty well, but one was like Robert before—and the girl didn't want to hear it.

Nancy rose to leave less than an hour later, and Susan saw her to the door, and even wrapped her scarf for her. Nancy thanked her with a smile, a memory between them of so many dances where all the girls helped each other get ready.

The click of the door closing behind her wasn't as hard as Susan thought it might be. Tiredness ran like lead on every bone in her body, but it felt like the world around her was stable again.

This, at least, would be one thing each week that Susan could look forward to. And maybe, on good weeks, Susan could go to a dance herself. And learn to love a little more.

But for now, it seemed like a good idea to go to bed.

A/N: I am going to try to publish on more than just Wednesday, because I'd like to wrap up Part I at the end of December, and work on original fiction for a year. Is there anywhere/anyone you want me to send Susan? I'd like to do at least one more trip, but I haven't picked where yet (amid about 30 choices I have written down), so I'm open to ideas.

Response to Magi: I actually heard of Andrew Peterson's music first—I love his "Silence of God" or "In the Night," and many others. And then I began reading The Rabbit Room articles before they mostly became sales pitches, and I loved that too. But somehow I never got around to the books! Which is sad; I should see if my library has them tomorrow.