Oh, my dear child, I know.

It hurt.

The pain came so suddenly and so quickly that you could not prepare, and the pain was far greater than anything you wished to bear. This was not a worked muscle that recovered the next morning, nor the pangs of a chest that longed for oxygen after a healthy run, but a knife buried in in deep tissue, a gasp of poison air that left you feeling worse when you let it free. This was not a pain that lingered for a while, but was like the time you burned your hand on that hot saucepan and the pain lingered for days. And this pain does not lessen with time; it increases and deepens, and it threatens to drive you mad. Above all, you cannot escape the dread that lies within you: "This will go on even longer than I think." "My life as I knew it is over." "Nothing will ever be the way it was, and I will have to live with misery and tears until the day I die."

I know you have not avoided me out of spite or anger, as if you were pouting over a trifle. Nor have you asked yourself why this tragedy visited you, as if you had never known any pain before. Nor are you planning to abandon me and reject everything we have been through together, as if you had barely known me and been through nothing. Your reasons are deeper and more profound than those. You have been avoiding me because I am a constant reminder of your pain, of your loss, of the life you once knew and the life you have now. You have stayed silent because speaking with me would tear open your wounds: you already hurt too much, and the mere notion of greater pain is pointless. You have kept your distance because you feel that I have been your blanket—a soothing presence that made you happy and gave you security—and you fear that if you speak with me again, you will long for the happiness you once felt, and you will ache when you realize that the current moment is one of sorrow and pain.

My child, I long to weep with you, laugh with you, grieve with you, feel with you. For now, there is greater work to be done. Your roots have yet to grow and swell into that deeper strength, greater hope, better confidence, and steadfast, unshakeable joy that I planted in you long ago. Your journey of discovering them has barely begun; it will take you many days, many battles, and many more tears to dig into those, and you must learn to let your heart take root in something greater than wonderment, excitement, and anticipation of a bright and better tomorrow.

Before you lies the challenge of deepening your roots without sensing my presence or feeling my joy. In good time, when your roots have deepened and joy is yours, you will be ready for the challenge of letting me in again. By the time you open this letter, you will be ready for that challenge, and I will join you on your journey. Meanwhile, carry on with the good work that has begun, knowing that this letter is waiting for you.

With everlasting love,
Aslan

A/n: This wasn't a chapter I intended to write. I had some intensely demoralizing experiences during this year's Adventures in Narnia, and that's not to mention all the dishonest or obligatory reviews, chronic ostracization, and treatment like riffraff when I participated in it back in 2022 (which made that ordeal a humiliating experience). After all the shit I've had to cope with, I'm not keen to post anything on this site. But my ongoing journey with COVID-19 hit its three-year mark earlier this month, and it inspired some writing from a deep and poignant place in my heart. Whether it will mean anything to those who read it, I'll never know; however, I do know that if I didn't publish it, it wouldn't mean anything to anyone, so it's worth posting this on here and accepting anything that may come of it.

Peace and love, especially to any fellow COVID long-haulers and sufferers of chronic illness.