Prompt #2: "Nothing is ever done beautifully which is done in rivalship: or nobly, which is done in pride." ~ John Ruskin

Though the visit to Narnia this time had been so short (no decades to dissect her life, now, only a few weeks to upend the fragile peace she had fought for over the last year in England), Susan found herself struggling as school started up again. Lucy had been heartbreaking enough last year as she adjusted back to life as a child, as an English child. Now that they were both at school, it was harder, because Susan couldn't get away from her.

It was always, "Susan! I got a letter from the boys," or—worse—"I've just got to talk about the summer, Su, come on." That was the term they had agreed on to avoid anyone thinking they were crazy, talking about a world nobody else had ever heard of.

In some ways Susan wished she'd never heard of it, too, though it would be disloyal to mention to any of her siblings, much less to the shining-eyed Lucy. She had watched her, once, grow from a shining child to a joyful adult, and now she was a child again. The fact that Susan had not been joyful in Narnia needed no discussion. Lucy had never understood, perhaps never could.

After all, how to explain doubt to someone whose faith had never taken any effort? The years had given Susan weariness, not wisdom. Now, if someone had seen her and known nothing of Narnia, they would have seen a cynical teenager. She no longer let anyone in except for those who knew her greatest secret already; the mask was so perfect, even her parents still saw the gentle motherly child she had been, and guessed at none of her turmoil, or the carefully constructed wall that guarded her soul. Susan smiled, but only ever with teeth.

For Lucy, the dark night that ushered in the Golden Age was confirmation of Aslan's overwhelming power, and only strengthened her faith; for Susan, it was a betrayal, and even then had planted a seed of doubt. She believed in Aslan's power because she wanted to believe. Still the memory of the darkest and coldest despair that could ever touch a person whispered inside her, buried deep under years of blurred memories. The weight of Narnia's joy, and the price paid for it, gnawed at her bones.

Lucy was ignorant of all this. Strong, capable, trusting Lucy.

Her smile at every new thing was an insidious reminder of every way in which Susan herself failed. Susan was as polished as a savvy teenager could be, and spent hours at night perusing magazines under the covers with a torch, trying to be as stylish as she knew how. It didn't compare to the sincerity of the sister four years her junior. Everyone loved Lucy, and the only criticism Susan ever heard was out of jealousy, and held no real weight.

Capable, beloved, kind Lucy.

Girls her age tried to befriend her; girls Susan's age mothered her. Lucy was going through school on a path of roses, and they were all plucked from the path Susan trod. The unhappier she grew, the more Susan smiled, as if falseness could win the admiration Lucy's genuineness engendered.

At church, Lucy would sit and listen attentively, but her eyes were always on the stained glass windows that let such wonderful colours into the building, and Susan knew she thought of gold, gold, gold.

Susan herself would stare at the wall and wonder whether this God, the God of the Bible, would overlook her as easily as Aslan did. Then she would shake herself, and remember, and be comforted.

("You have been listening to fears, child.")

He loved her. Of that she was convinced—when she could bear to remember it. Sometimes it was easier to believe herself unloved, unwanted, cast aside. She was then free to nurse the secret resentment that was growing.

Narnia had torn her apart and reshaped her, and she was not yet quite comfortable in the person she had become. One of the older girls said that was just normal, that every girl felt like that when she was Susan's age (with a fine edge of patronising condescension), and that it would pass. Outwardly, Susan smiled and thanked her shyly; inwardly she fumed. I am no child.

But as far as everyone else was concerned, she was. Her siblings were, and appeared happy, though sometimes she wrote long letters to Edmund, and received longer ones back. He was lonely, though he spent time with Peter as well as a strong network of friends, and missed Narnia: missed Aslan, as they all did.

Even Susan missed Aslan. All her resentment, all her private unhappiness, all the grief, it was all because she had loved too deeply: and having loved, had watched it crumble before her eyes. The others could accept that the people and lands they had lost were someday to be theirs again, even if they had to wait until Aslan's country to see them. Susan was afraid to hope.

So she smiled, courted attention and positioned herself as a nice, steady, competent young woman. Everyone began to talk about her: Susan, Susan, Susan, and though they still reserved their love for Lucy they gave their courtesy to Susan. Sometimes she wondered fleetingly if she even loved Lucy anymore, or if she was too much a reminder of what they had all lost.

Aslan, Aslan, Aslan, where are you when I doubt? Where are you when I am afraid to even go on? Are you even there?

No roar, no flash of gold, no great footprints lingering. And though she had not expected them (not here, in England), she still felt very lonely, very forsaken.

Author's note: I don't know where I'm going with this. I'm not particularly happy with this chapter, but this is what came. It's partially inspired by a conversation I had recently about faith and doubt, and where the breaking point is. I am convinced that everyone doubts sometimes, regardless of their beliefs. The person I was discussing this with wasn't so sure (and is an ex-Christian).

Anyway, I hope you like this chapter, and please tell me what you think about it, even if you don't like it very much.

(The title of this chapter is taken from "Yesterday Once More".)

God bless and keep you.

—H