Prompt #9: Susan's horn was with her when the Four chased the white stag, and yet none of the other gifts were. Why was that the only gift they kept with them?

By the end of her first week of training, Susan was so tired she could not even read the long letter Lucy had sent her. It was full of excitement, memories of Narnia and the good times she was having. Susan was probably delighted for her, or so she presumed. Instead she just put the letter in her bag and forgot about it for several months.

Despite everyone's expectations, including her own, Susan was not a good nurse. She stuck it out for a year and a half, too tired to think or even question why she was continuing, until at last Edmund had to catch her from falling down the stairs, and persuaded her she was not cut out for it.

"What, should I be a social butterfly again?" she snapped tiredly, feeling her eyelids grow heavy as she sat down in a chair. "I tried that before I came to this job. Seems I'm not cut out for anywhere. I'm sixteen and a half, and I have no idea what to do with my life, because apparently this isn't working."

"You're just too tired for it," he said calmly. "Weariness for a while is normal, but it's been a long time, Su. I'm sure you're not giving good care to your patients when you're falling asleep on your feet."

"I'm just—weak." She laughed; it had a hysterical edge to it. "I'm just incapable of anything—everything." This time she laughed until she cried, and then she put her head down on the arm of the chair and sobbed until she fell asleep. Edmund was kind enough to let her.

For the first time since entering her profession, Susan was back at a meeting of the Friends of Narnia. This was not her first time meeting Jill Pole, for it was Eustace and Jill's adventures that had made Lucy call together the meeting Susan had refused to come to, and Jill had been at various parties and gatherings of various family members, but it was her first time being properly rested and able to carry on or properly follow a conversation.

It surprised Susan how upsetting it was.

At the head of the table sat the Professor (though he argued with the High King every time as to the appropriateness of his seating). Next to him, still a little fragile, sat Polly Plummer, eyes slightly vacant as they had been for the last few years. Only the fact that the Professor had finally found a place for her to receive regular care (the Poles', in fact, in exchange for a regular monthly stipend) had kept her out of Bedlam. Next came Peter, who always seemed most kingly at these times, then beloved Lucy, then thoughtful Edmund. Eustace and Jill sat close to each other and frequently engaged in whispered conversations none of the rest tried to enter.

Susan sat at the foot of the table and felt like an outcast.

Jill, as usual, made wistful comments about the centaurs and what it was like riding one. Digory tried to bring the conversation back to the time of Narnia's creation, in hopes it would draw out Polly. Those were the only times she ever seemed normal, though Jill had once assured Susan that Polly was getting better, it was just taking time. Susan was inclined to agree with her; the vacant expression was slightly less complete than it had been in the past, and she had hopes the older woman would eventually return to some semblance of normality.

Peter and Edmund discussed battles, with Lucy joining in. The conversation was fast-paced, flowing, easy; not one single conversation, but not separate either. Nobody quite seemed to notice that Susan didn't actually say anything, until Lucy recollected something and called on her sister to agree with her. It felt like she was trawling through mud to remember the specific anecdote.

Susan had let Narnia slip very thoroughly from her mind. It was better to suppress it than to agonise over it. But the thought, now, of the fact that she had mental space without training exhausting her so utterly, was abruptly terrifying.

"What d'you think would have happened if you hadn't carried your Horn, Su?" Lucy accosted her suddenly. "With Caspian."

Susan wrenched her mind back to the conversation. "I have no idea. One of Aslan's coincidences, I suppose. It was really that Wer-Wolf a few months earlier that made me carry it constantly, nothing else. If we'd gone a year earlier, I wouldn't have carried it."

"I didn't carry my dagger or cordial everywhere I went," mused Lucy. "Peter didn't wear Rhindon all the time either."

"And I didn't get a gift at all," said Edmund in a singsong voice, catching Susan's eye with a grin. "I'd forgotten about the Wer-Wolf," he added.

"Nearly killed me," she said dismissively. "Not the first time I was nearly got by some form of Wolf. I was lucky you were within yelling distance. But a Horn carries further: especially the one Aslan gave to me."

"'M," he agreed, in a musing tone. "I'm glad you carried it from then on. It made me far happier with your safety, since you refused to carry a dagger."

"You know me—I've never liked to injure creatures, no matter whether they're good or bad."

"I do know you," he said, with a clear-eyed glance. "You are known for your tenderness, Queen Susan the Gentle."

Except that's all an act. Everything I say and do is an act. But her brother's kindness still warmed the shell of her heart.

Author's note: I'd intended to do more around the Silver Chair, but it didn't work out that way. I'm not particularly sure I like this chapter (that is really to say: I'm not fond of this chapter), but I think it has its moments. Hopefully in the next few I'll delve more deeply into Susan's character again, post-nursing.

Again, please don't fact-check me too much :P (I tell a lie—I would like fact-checking, if you happen to know ways I can change this.) But I know I was exceedingly sloppy about it, because after all this is a daily prompt challenge and all. Let me know what you think of this chapter, I beg!

(The chapter title from "Calling Occupants of Interplanetary Craft".)

God bless and keep you.

—H