Prompt #4: One of the Friends of Narnia is called mad/insane.

When Susan woke, she took a moment to remember where she was and why. "Aslan," she whispered into silence, "I'm scared."

But Aslan did not answer her. She wished suddenly she had been able to remain there, to stay with him—even though it meant her death, here in England. She had always hated sanctimonious churchgoers spouting about the joys of heaven, and how they all longed to be there. Was Susan the only one who thought they sounded slightly concerning? It was an argument she had never had the energy to have with Peter, though she knew he felt the same way as many of the devout older women she had once sarcastically referred to as 'suicidal oldies' to Edmund.

Was Aslan's country worth it? More than anything at that moment she wanted him—wanted the brief moments of peace and stability he gave her. Was it a lie? When she looked into Aslan's face, she did not doubt, even in dream. It was when she had to look at the real world that she doubted.

Aslan had given her a glimpse of perfection, of what she could be, what she could have, and torn it away again.

It had happened so, so many times. With Aslan she was content. Without him she was heartbroken and unhappy. Susan... decidedly did not like that. She did not want to have to rely on anyone, especially someone who had let her down so many times.

Lucy would have said, "He doesn't let anyone down." And in a way perhaps she would have been right, but Susan felt abandoned. Surely the intent didn't really matter right now, if this was how he'd made her feel. She had always prided herself on having an analytical personality, but... the more she thought of Aslan the more her feelings overwhelmed the analytical side she had tried so hard to adopt.

"Aslan, I'm scared." Her head pounded, possibly due to alcohol, and the tears she could not shed earlier filled her eyes and trickled slowly down her cheeks. "Aslan, I want you. Aslan, Aslan, Aslan, I need you—"

And again (of course), he did not answer her. He was silent while she cried, silent while the tears abated, silent while she got up and went to the bathroom with a pair of scissors. Silent while she hacked off the long hair she had been known for in Narnia. She might regret it in the morning, but right now it seemed like a good idea.

I am no longer a queen of Narnia. Take that, Aslan.

If he had not reached her in her longing for him, he would not reach her in her rage. The following night Susan found another party to go to, dressed in new clothes she had not dared to before now (taking good care her parents did not see it), and was the life of the party (though only because her mother had taken her to a hairdresser in the morning to fix her poor attempt at a bob). She was gracious and charming and nobody suspected either her age or her grief. She danced with too many boys and drank too much champagne and returned home far too late. She was glad not to dream.

But the rage only lasted a few days; then the fire it had kindled sputtered into nothingness, and she was left with cold ashes again. She had liked the warmth while it lasted, but even defiance left a sour taste in her mouth. This was not the way to escape Aslan. Even across the world from where she'd first crossed to his world, even in a different world, she could not run far enough.

She wasn't even sure, just yet, if she wanted to. Occasionally she remembered his face, expression one of love and grief, not rebuke. That Aslan was sad, not indignant, at her. There was a better way, she suspected—somewhere deep inside that she refused to really acknowledge—but it would require reopening all the wounds she had tried to make scar, or maybe just fester by hiding them in enough bandages. She would have to go through the fires of hell to bear the cleansing light of heaven.

One day she looked in the mirror, and instead of seeing the trendy haircut, she saw for a moment Aslan's small, shaved head in the darkest night of her life, and remembered his sacrifice. That had been for Edmund, though: and Lucy had been the one to comfort him beforehand. She forgot, just for a moment, that she was there too, and that he had derived comfort from her too. Then she put her head in her hands and wondered if the path she was going down was the right one; she had been wondering for a long time.

Every path she knew of started, or ended, in pain. This one was no different.

That Sunday at church Susan listened as she had not done in years, and wrote down everything she found interesting. She wasn't sure she believed, but it wasn't like she had a choice to come. Weeks passed, and every week Susan diligently made notes in a small notebook, and afterwards would read over them with a kind of desperation, as if she could force herself to believe and hope and trust if she just read them over once again; as if she could will the empty facsimile of happiness into existence by reading about its existence.

A mask, however, was only as strong as the person holding it up. And Narnia had proven, over and over again, that the only thing she was good at was gentleness—and even that had been hardened into cynicism. Every facet of her character now was a performance, especially happiness.

She knew something dramatic had happened when she received letters from Lucy, Edmund, Peter and the Professor (the latter of whom had never written to her), all in the same post. There were four letters from Lucy crammed into one envelope, and Edmund's was merely very lengthy.

She opened the Professor's first, because it was the shortest.

Queen Susan, I hope my missive finds you well. I wish I could speak with you about Narnia in these dark times. We all sorely need help. You would be invaluable: though I certainly do not suppose you would come back at present even if you could. I hope you are having a pleasant time in America. Yours for the Lion's sake, &c.

What dark times did he talk about? Mystified, Susan opened Peter's. After a brief greeting, it said thus:

Though I came to him to study, as you know, the Professor is much concerned at present with his old and dear friend, Polly Plummer, who went to Narnia with him when they were kids. She appears to have suffered from some kind of breakdown, and they say she is insane. Only the Professor's best connections, including a well-respected doctor, prevented her from being immediately incarcerated for her own and everyone else's safety. He has engaged a nurse to care for her, in hopes that her illness will be of short duration. Understandably, he is very distracted, especially as the nurse cannot be forever unless some rich benefactor pays for her to be nursed. I think it unlikely, but he obviously wants Miss Plummer to get the best of care, and is concerned that Bedlam is perhaps not the best place for her. And after all, if once she goes, she will likely never get out of there. We are still searching for the extent of the problem and why it has suddenly come up. Pray for her, Su, and the Professor. Every prayer is needed.

Lucy and Edmund have something terrific to tell you of, but as Aslan said once, that is their story. I will leave them to tell you. I suppose you have a quantity of letters from them to read: Edmund telegraphed me as soon as he could, and said we would discuss details when we next saw each other, but he and Lucy both wanted you to know of the details sooner than it will be before you and our parents return to England.

In hope of the Lion, I remain yours, &c.

Author's note: I'm actually less unhappy with this chapter than I expected at the start of it. Shoutout to my friend, Kit, who suggested it be Polly, since my only thought was to have someone call Susan insane as a derogatory rather than clinical term.

Please tell me what you think of it!

(The title of this chapter is drawn from "Close to You".)

God bless and keep you.

—H