Susan Lacey née Pevensie was a fortunate woman; at least, that was what everyone thought. A queen of society and leader among many, she was both dignified and benevolent: "As if she'd been raised to wealth!" her husband was known to remark. And none would see the sad smile or sorrowful eyes to follow, for she who had learned graciousness and economy had also learned diplomacy, and she knew to hide the grief that none on this earth could understand.

So when Sir Richard and Lady Lacey took a vacation to the ocean it was natural that the crowds of fashionable London would follow. The days at Lyme were filled with tea parties and the evenings with dances, and when Susan slipped out one night for "a breath of fresh air" few attributed her absence to anything more than weariness.

But Susan was not simply tired; she was sorrowful, as well, and grieving once again for the joy she had lost. Every so often it would weight her down, the secret now she alone knew and missed, and Queen Susan the diplomat knew when to retire before her feelings could be noticed by others.

She wandered down the moonlit walkways, silently listening to the keening wind and breaking waves, when through the night the strains of a song were heard, a melody of ceaseless sorrow.

Mesmerized, Susan stopped and listened, as slowly the song's intensity increased. She stood entranced as a figure materialized out of the fading gloom, seeming nearly one with the fog and yet otherworldly as well. An ethereal light shone about him and the wind blew his hair like shadows about his face.

The singer continued on until Susan, her own heart's pain magnified by the stranger's song, sank to her knees on the cold stone with a breaking cry. Abruptly the song halted, and the singer turned to look at her with deep grey eyes, bright as though he beheld some great beauty and yet so lined with knowledge, guilt, and sorrow as to nearly drown out that memory of joy. The air stilled but for Susan's sobs until the man—if it was a man—asked her,

"Why do you weep, lady?"

Susan looked up and replied, for she could not dissemble before those eyes,

"I weep, sir, for what I have lost, and for the part I myself played in losing it. Why do you sing in sorrow?"

For a moment he did not answer but turned his eyes away toward the Western sky where the Evening Star hung low over the horizon.

"I sing in memory," he finally replied, "of those whom all others have forgotten. I sing in pain for the guilt that renders one unworthy. I sing in sorrow for the world marred, and in knowledge of one who in rebellion helped to mar it. And I sing in regret of deeds, once performed, that can never be undone or forgiven."

His eyes seemed to focus on the bright Star and he murmured in an unknown language before falling silent.

"What have you done that is unforgivable?" whispered Susan.

The piercing eyes turned to her once again, seeming to read her very thoughts, before the stranger's face softened into a smile, but a smile that held more sorrow than joy.

And so he sang once again, this time a tale the like of which even Queen Susan of Narnia had never heard. He sang of a beautiful land darkened by evil, of peace shattered by unrelenting shadow. He sang of the courage and recklessness of a people undone, of the dread of an unbreakable Oath. He sang of a Spirit of Fire and his seven sons and the terror that followed them. He sang of a curse, of the crushing of hope into despair, of three jewels and the blood spilt to regain them. He sang of love and vengeance and fury, of unrestrained passion and indescribable horror. And throughout the stranger's song Susan heard the never-ending lamentation of one forever remembering his own and his kindred's fall.

At last the singer fell silent, and again naught was heard but the wind and the waves. The Evening Star had now nearly set, and the stranger, once again riveted on its glow, spoke as if to himself,

"Yet ever Hope will shine, and even darkness cannot endure."

Turning away, he melted once again into the mist. The Star sank beyond the horizon.

As if waking from a dream, Susan started and cried, "Wait!" but naught echoed back but her own voice. The singer was gone as if he had never been.

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Every year, at the same time, Sir Richard and Lady Lacey return to Lyme. It becomes something of a festival for fashionable London, a time for parties and relaxation in the lovely and gracious Lady's company. But if that company is always missing one particular night none notice. None see Susan alone in the moonlight listening for a song beyond the keening wind and breaking waves. None see her weep for an unforgiven stranger with a story of sorrow, in that hour forgetting her own sadness for that of one whose grief far overshadows hers. And none see her wait, eyes drawn to the Evening Star, until it sinks once more beyond the edge of night.

Update: I made a few wording changes after re-reading it a couple months later. I hope you enjoyed this small crossover!