Disclaimer: I have no memory of (creating the original of) this place.
And the idea for the destination was given to me by Sophia the Scribe, so that isn't mine either.

"They tried to bury us. They didn't know we were seeds."
~ Mexican Proverb

"What we do in life echoes in eternity."

…

"What is Rome, Maximus?"

"I have seen much of the rest of the world. It is brutal, and cruel, and dark. Rome is the light."

…

"Let me go home."

…

"The gods have spared you. Don't you understand? Today I saw a slave become more powerful than the emperor of Rome."

"The gods have spared me? I am at their mercy, with the power only to amuse a mob."

"The mob is Rome."

…

"I will always serve Rome."

…

"Marcus Arelius had a dream that was Rome. This is not it! This is not it!"

Gladiator

A part of Susan—granted, a small part, but the part that wanted nothing else besides a cup of tea after such a long afternoon, or perhaps a friend that would listen for once, a friend she could tell everything to—was not ready for anything that involved the Doorkeeper. But the Walker she had become asked, "Ready for what?"

"For your next trip. You've done a fine job putting down roots, and it's obvious you won't use the doors or open them without permission, so I think it's safe to send you onward. Are you ready?"

Susan weighed her choices.

A night by herself, and that didn't sound too appealing, after about half an hour of solitude; or a trip to another place, a story to tell her siblings, a ripping open of her heart and yet a time of making it come alive, all at once.

It was ironic that only living things could hurt. The dead felt nothing. The more alive she became, the deeper she could feel, and the deeper the hurts pierced.

But there wasn't really a choice.

"Where are you sending me?"

He sighed. "Sit down, Aslan's Queen. I am sorry for sending you when you're tired, but I think that will make the first part of the trip more bearable. See, I don't think he'll speak. But first, I need to give you this." He held out a small metal item to her, a tube smaller than half her pinky finger. When she touched it, it stuck—but not painfully—to her skin.

"What is this?"

"That's a translator."

"A what?"

"Something that will take every word you hear and translate it as it enters your ear. I stole it from the far, far future—far enough it doesn't get words wrong, even in dead languages—and what a ridiculous concept, as if a language could die, while the souls that speak it are eternal! But it will also translate your words into their language, which is an even more complicated process, and is a miracle of sound wave technology. But you will need to speak to the person you're sent to, of course."

Briefly imagining what it would be like to be a Walker and not be able to speak, Susan shuddered. Sympathy was an emotion that did not need words to be conveyed, but help—that would be harder. She accepted the translator with gratitude. "It will do all this if I hold it?"

"Dear me, no. No, it goes behind your ear. And it won't fall off."

Lifting it to her ear, Susan set it gently on top of the curve, near her hair. It released her finger and held to the skin as if glad to be there. It felt stuck. Shaking her head gently, she could barely feel it; it certainly didn't move.

"There. That's taken care of. Now, on to your mission. I am sending you to ancient Rome."

Jerking her head up, Susan stared at the bossy face behind the glasses, her mouth slightly open. "Ancient Rome? Jesus' time?" Was she going to a Christian fed to the lions? She'd heard stories, bloodthirsty, horrible stories.

"No, no, after Jesus. Almost two hundred years after.* The Roman empire is entirely corrupt, power changing hands rapidly, and the old, good emperor has just died."

"Am I to be sent to his son?"

The Doorkeeper laughed shortly. "His son killed him."

I do hope that's a no.

Though we've discussed how murderers also need mercy.

"The emperor, a wise old man named Marcus Arelius, intended to designate a humble genius, one of his generals, as his successor. His son found out, killed his father with his own hands, and arrested the general on charges of treason. The general, Maximus, fought off his executors, made the hard journey all the way home, and found his wife and child dead, executed. The general's heart and health gave out; he was found by slavers, and imprisoned. They cannot get him to stir, outside of games where he must fight for his life. Your task is to give him a reason to live."

"What on earth would he have to live for?" Susan asked, a little stung. Yes, she had found her friends, and a few roots in England, but—

She knew what it was to have nothing left. And how hard it was to accept anything back, after that, because anything received became yet another thing to lose. It was so much easier, and wiser, not to care. Not to have anything worth having.

Or so it felt. She knew a little better now. Choosing death wasn't wise, only easy. Even when her heart disagreed, her head still knew that.

"You shall have to talk to him and find out."

Aslan, help me. I do not think I am wise enough, and perhaps not strong enough, to go here.

Expecting only a normal answer—Huan's nose nudging her hand, or a word of encouragement from the Doorkeeper—Susan caught her breath when she heard, Courage, dear one.

It was a voice she remembered. A voice she could never completely forget, even when she tried her hardest for years.

And He still calls me dear.

"Are you ready, Aslan's Queen?"

"Yes," she whispered. If Aslan was with her, she would always be ready.

Lucy would point out Aslan was always with her. Which was perhaps why Lucy was so fearless.

"Then here we are. I won't be going with you. Put this on over your head—I know it's an odd blue, but it will hide your hair and make you look less foreign. Less, only less, but fortunately Rome was a well-travelled empire. Wrap it like a scarf. There. It will have to do. Huan, remember to keep your distance—the slavers would love to capture you and sell you to fight gladiators, and none of us would want that. Opening doors in dungeons is something the King of Kings does; I'd rather not get in the habit. Ready now? Here you go—" and white light swirled, bloomed, and turned black; once again the wind of a different world whispered through Susan's hair. A step forward, Huan at her side, and the cold was like a winter morning, brief on her skin. Then she was through.

The air beyond it felt hot. Hot and dry, like—like the sands of Tashbaan's desert. She'd been shown it once, in a tour around the city; taken beyond the gates and shown the immense expanse. The air cracked her lips, fizzled her hair, and made her feel death was close, and she was small.

The air here felt like that. She'd stepped into…a cell, or a stone room with bars on one end. The bars were all that stood between the room and a busy street. She looked around the room; she'd stepped from her world into the cell itself, though in a dark corner. Movement next to her made her jump, but it was just Huan, moving deeper into the shadows. A group of slaves, dark skinned, light skinned, all men, all with muscular arms bared by the tunics they wore, sat in one corner closest to the street.

One man sat alone. Sat on the ground, his back against the wall. He did not gaze at the street, or the other men, only the wall opposite.

Susan knew his stare. The opposite wall was not what he saw. She wondered what it was—what the bodies of his family had looked like.

Lucy, smiling, Peter as noble in death as in life, Ed—

She staggered back a step. Oh, Aslan, I have need of that courage.

Look at him, Daughter of Eve.

Aslan's voice alone could give courage to the most fearful. Susan looked. Courage—that had never been something this man lacked, she would guess. But the despair on such a wise face tore at her heart.

A deep breath; hot air scorched her throat. Then she walked forward.

The conversation of the men in the corner died as she walked past. Somehow she'd forgotten to fear them till they were silent.

Huan is in the corner. He will not let them touch me, she reminded herself.

"Are you here to buy, lady?" a tall, black-skinned man asked. His tone allayed Susan's fears; this man was kind, and would not touch her. She acknowledged him and continued towards the man sitting against the wall.

"I'd leave that one alone," another man called behind her, the biggest of the lot; the jeer in his tone stiffened Susan's neck and made her a little afraid. "The Spaniard is good for nothing."

"Except killing," a third joked, and the rest laughed. Susan did not respond—there was nothing in the other two that could hear her, Walker that she was, nor the Queen she had been. She stooped over the Spaniard and laid her hand over his eyes.

His hand caught her wrist in a firm, threatening grasp. "It is not a good idea to touch me."

"Whatever you are seeing, stop." She knew this much, at least. It was not wise to look too long at the faces of the dead.

Perhaps he knew it as well, for his fingers loosened, paused, and fell away. She let her hand rest there a moment later, to make sure his gaze was broken, and then let her own hand drop. As gracefully as she could, she sat in the dirt beside him.

"You are here for a killer?" he asked, and laughed. The laughter had more of the biggest jeerer than the black man, and Susan did not like it. "I do not think he will sell me."

Calormene slave markets, with their little children crying and women wincing, sprang to Susan's mind. "I do not buy men."

"Then why are you here?"

There were so many answers to that, but Susan did not know this man well enough to know what he would accept. She stayed silent.

"Are you from Rome?"

"No. I am from an island you would not know."

He turned his head away, staring at the opposite wall again. Susan had lost his interest.

"You kill?" she asked softly.

"They put a sword in my hand and men attack me."

The small shudder scraped Susan's back against the stones. The man noticed the movement.

"Once I killed for other reasons."

Susan herself had released an arrow, watched it fly, and watched a Dwarf, a Minotaur, and other creatures fall. But those memories had nothing to offer this man. "My brothers said killing is one the easiest things to do—and one of the hardest."

The Spaniard's head turned back towards her; dark eyes regarded her watchfully. "They were soldiers, then."

Though it hadn't been a question, Susan answered. "Yes."

"Where did they fight?"

Narnia would mean nothing to this man. "In a country bound under a cruel ruler."

"Did they win?"

"Yes." She hadn't even realised how much she'd been holding on to that, to a memory of a time when good had won. "Yes, the country was set free."

"And what did it become?"

"A place of beauty." He turned his head away, and Susan tried again. "A place where good was praised, and evil punished. A place where the people lived in their homes with joy, with good meals and families."

He did not look at her again, but his utter stillness gave Susan hope that he was listening. "A place we all called home."

"I had a home." The wretchedness of his tone—Susan bit her lip. But she let him continue. "A family. And I served, protected, under a good man. But the place he built crumbled." Picking up a handful of dirt beside him, the man let it stream through his fingers. "In the end, we all turn to dust."

"My brothers left a legacy, though," Susan said, when his words seemed finished. Once again, she caught his attention.

"They are dead?"

Her eyes were on the wall opposite before she realised she'd looked away. But she could not face him and admit it. "Yes."

Another soft sound of dirt falling. "Dust."

Everythign he knew, everything he'd fought for, had been taken from him. What was left?

What had been left for her?

A man in a policeman's suit, guiding her home. Handing her papers. The the ghosts of her family.

He had a Walker with him, and the ghosts of his family were as present with him as Susan's had been.

Were.

She had not lost them yet.

She couldn't have.

What else, though, had she had, when she'd had nothing, and wanted nothing?

The painting of a Lion. The voices of her siblings in her head, urging her to live, to love. Lucy's diary. Edmund's written struggle.

The way her siblings still lived through those things.

"Sometimes our ideas outlast our lives." It was her turn to allow herself to look back, into the dirty, sweaty face beside her. "My brothers are still very much alive to many people, though their bodies are—"

She could not say it.

He laughed, that sound she did not like. "I spent years fighting in cold, in heat, and in misery, to protect the ideas of good men. But I found their source had rotted."

"Then cleanse it."

"What?" His tone mocked her now. "As what? As a slave? A gladiator?"

Reaching two fingers in each hand, she stilled his face. "As a good man." She did not let him go, forcing him with gentle fingers to look at her. He would have fought any force, but he was too worn to fight gentleness. "The example of one good man can change the world." Waiting a second more, to make sure he heard her, she let him go. "Was not your world changed by the ideas of a good man? And do not tell me you are too tired. I know what it is to be weary, and I am not saying you should change the world at this moment. But if all you see are the bodies of the dead, you will join them before your time."

"So what would you have me look at?" he asked, and while his tone still held humour, it held a real question too.

Susan looked out at the street, but no, phantoms that vanished seconds after they appeared would not be enough to hold him. So she looked across the cell, at the men sitting around a game.

"Them? They are killers."

"So were the men you served with." She hoped this was the right advice. The urge to twist her fingers in her skirt, in her blue scarf, was strong, but the queen in her knew better than to look outwardly uneasy. "But they are living, and, if they are fighting in those games, desperate."

"You know much about desperate men?"

Nancy, Carol, with their thwarted desires, were not the same as this, but—

I do know what it is to have nothing left to lose. And I remember the sadness on Heather's face, the struggle on Beth's, the emptiness on Queen Arwen's.

"I know more of desperate women."

"Why are you here?"

"Because there are those who hoped I could help a desperate man."

"I do not want help."

"You do not want it now." A movement in the corner; she and the Spaniard both glanced sharply over (the others too lost in the game to notice)—Huan was stirring. She stood. "Remember it for later," Susan added softly. "There may come a time when you want help again. And my words can wait till then." Because love, Susan knew, was patient.

Perhaps especially with the grieving.

"You are going?"

A touch of cool air brushed Susan's face; the air of England. "I am summoned." But he was still watching—

"Then why aren't you going?" he asked, after a few moments.

"I do not know if you are supposed to watch me."

"I have watched many walk out of this cell before. I will not wrest the key from you."

That did not address Susan's concerns, but would the door stay open if she continued to hesitate? If it was here, perhaps he was meant to watch her leave. And to realise her words might be worth holding on to; at least enough to speak with some of the men in the cell with him.

To put down his own roots.

So she walked forward, quick steps without seeming to hurry, and once in the shadows she felt Huan press into her leg. She stepped into the black—the cold bit, like the first door she'd walked through—and then she was in her bedroom once again.

Her legs nearly gave out; she let herself press into Huan, first her waist, and then she bent and pressed her face in him too.

He was so warm. He was alive. He wasn't leaving.

Not at this moment, anyway.

"Aslan's Queen?" The Doorkeeper's voice was gentle.

"He lost his family. He lost everything."

"I know."

"He barely wanted to live anymore."

"I know that too."

"It hurts." A tear fell from her eye into Huan's fur; her own breath warmed her entire face and made it hot.

A pause. "I am sorry."

She was a Queen—had been once—and she should be strong enough for this.

But she wasn't.

She was strong enough to push herself up, and turn to the Doorkeeper. He did look genuinely sorry. And that was enough to say, "Thank you," as gently as she could.

"The destruction of a good man is worth mourning." He hesitated. "I wish—but it would not be a good idea. I can't leave Huan here two nights in a row. Should you call someone?"

There were only three people she wanted right now. She could not have them; but she could go speak to them. "No. I—will take a walk."

"Ah." That, at least, he seemed to understand. "Then God go with you. Come, Huan."

The big dog whined, and if Susan wasn't in so much pain, she would have smiled. "Go, Huan. I think I have other things to do tonight."

"Take care, Aslan's Queen. And take a coat! It's too cold to be outside without one."

"I will." The words were out of her mouth before she meant to say them, and a part of her sighed; she'd have to take a coat now, and she didn't feel like dealing with the bother of it. But she'd said she would.

"Then we're going."

A nod, the only farewell she could say right now.

"You're sure—"

"Please go," she asked softly. "I need to go myself."

"Very well. I commit you to Aslan's care, and you'd better be aware of it! Let's go, Huan." He reached out, as if he were turning the handle of a door, and he and Huan vanished.

Which was just as well. Susan needed her family right then. Or her own gaze would have been very much like the man in the cell.

*So on the topic of things you don't know till you write fiction—Marcus Arelius is a real emperor, lived a fascinating life, and was succeeded by a son who was such a person one Roman citizen said the empire was changing from one of iron to one of rust and rot. And Marcus Arelius died from causes we do not know about. So…that was interesting.
Another rabbit hole that made writing longer than it needed to be!

Response to Guest: I had no idea the Cailleach was going to show up - I knew an older woman who was an old friend of the Doorkeeper's was going to talk to Susan for a bit, but I had no idea who she was, and I fell in love with her, so I am so glad you did too! And a gold star for your guessing the complete phrase! I do think Nancy's life is going to get harder, and that makes me a little sad, because I really like her.