DISCLAIMER: By this time, I'm pretty darn tired of putting up the disclaimer and I wish I had something almost-witty to say that is along the lines of 'I don't own it'. But I'm all out of almost-witty thoughts and I still have to put up disclaimers. So, here goes. ))Yawns(( ...I don't own it.

It probably won't make you feel any better, but it makes me feel better, so let me say that I was actually ready to put up this chapter a few days before I actually did, but I left the beginning of the chapter at school where I couldn't get it... ))sniff((

Oh, well. By the way, I'll probably put up the last chapter a bit speedier than I normally do, because it's my assignment in Ms. Lokke's creative writing class to do one fiction, and I was all, 'Hey. What the heck. I may as well finish this and have it count for a grade.' So thanks, Ms. Lokke. (By the way, Ms. Lokke made a cameo appearance in Rendering the Powerful, my co-authored fic under the name Iridescent Earth and Swords. I wonder if she'd be flattered... Perhaps.)

Oh, you might not understand who Eustace, Jill, and Polly are if you haven't read the books, and they also appear in this chapter. So if you haven't, let me tell you they're people that also went to Narnia as children.

Enjoy, if you haven't stopped reading by now. I'm sorry I'm a procrastinator. I'll be content if one person has read through the entire thing; it's taking me over a year to write this. As an I'm-sorry present, this next chapter is longer than usual.

Chapter Forty-Four

The Last Try

Entry, Lucy Pevensie's diary, dated July 12, 1940:

It is the same bittersweet regret found in each self-same tale. We, the fallen heroes of some forgotten child's myth, are left behind to suffer away from a life once lived. I flatter myself to imagine that no soul ever knew agony; my pain is heaviest of them all, worse than any sad tale lamented, yet it can be empathised by no one. I, myself, wonder if each joy was a dream, or else it was more real than any illusion I have ever lived, and I shall soon wake and find myself out of this nightmare. There's nothing left for me here; my heart was snagged on a radiant thorn and caught forever in Narnia. Were I there now, I'd be too ashamed of myself to allow anyone sight of me. Each night my eyes are red and watery with tears, my body shaking in fits of sobbing convulsions, small and strange to me now. Because I now am such a child, I hardly know how to act, who I should pretend to be. How should a young English girl be expected to walk, have tea, answer her elders? It becomes a little to queer when a stranger will catch my attention by calling me 'dear' or 'little girl'. Sometimes I half-expect Baviar, my tutor, to come padding up behind me and insisting that they bow and refer to me as 'You Majesty'. Sometimes, in morning, I wake with excitement, thinking that today I'll learn that tricky sword manouvre Yuren promised to show me, or that I'll take my mare out to that clearing in the wood I've been wanting to explore.

But these things all are vain fantasy, remnants from the latent part of my heart that need the old world, a dormant life struggling up through the cracks in the sidewalk for light, for water, for hope. Just as I seen a sliver of green, the summer heat comes and withers it away. Because then I awaken, feel the lumpy bed, scratchy sheets, and a paper-thin nightgown and see Susan sleeping beside me because there aren't any other beds in the house, and I know I'm not Queen Lucy the Valiant anymore. And Susan is just that: Susan. No titles, no regal air. She says nothing of it, nor do her expressions reveal anything. She even shows no emotion or any sign that she mourns as deeply as the rest of us; I am at least aware of the grief I share with Edmund and Peter, for they are marked by a veil of emptiness across their eyes, signaling that they suffer at least as deeply as I do. I see them all. My brothers wilt away, their kingliness almost dust, and Susan suffers most of all. I begin to think if she recalls our life, our bliss at all. We, like any flower, are struggling for life but are in vain. Our memories shrink into nothing, just as, slowly, we do. We all wilt.

Please, Aslan, if there is any of that magic of Narnia left in me, bring it all forth to take me back.

❦

Although Lucy wasn't the sort to keep a diary, she wrote in it every single solitary night, crying for the greater part of the evening when sleep should have occupied her. Yet her emptiness remained unsatisfied, and a great, heavy weight was pulling down each working part of her body. Perhaps it was because of the something she dare did not confess, for fear that someone should pick up her journal and read the words built up inside her and scoff. What a child she was, to have such an imagination, eh? She must be terribly creative to think she was in love with a half-goat fellow. Fascinating how children can think up the most remarkable imaginary friends in their fairy-tale minds.

No! she would shout. He was my life! You could never even dream of how greatly, how deeply I've loved!

Isn't that funny? they would say. How jolly, how incredibly witty that a little girl could convince herself that she ever loved anyone.

But despite the disfavour she knew all the grown-ups would have of her, it didn't stem the flow of hope. Sometimes Edmund or Peter would have to go looking for her all day, only to find her crying into the coats at the back of the wardrobe. Lucy would shut her eyes and ears to them, but she couldn't hide it from her brothers. They sent her back to her room or to the library to keep her busy and her mind away from such matters, but it never worked.

Edmund sighed, watching her go. He recognised the way she walked about; he'd seen it before. Her eyes wide and plagued with the bags of sleepless nights, the smoke like way she floated through the house, wandering about with no sense of direction. It almost seemed she was a ghost, and Professor Kirke had inquired several times about her well-being. Who wouldn't, at that point?

Edmund had reached out to her, but she couldn't be helped, couldn't be comforted. 'Peter, she misses him.'

Peter nodded. 'We all miss him, and all the rest of Narnia, but–'

'You know what I mean, Peter.'

Hesitantly, he sighed. 'I do.' Peter swept away from Edmund and leaned against the wall, staring blankly out the rain-streaked window. 'How many times have we found her in this room? In the wardrobe? Ed, she needs help. She can't go around like this for the rest of her life. I don't know what I can do. If I have to keep seeing her like this, I might go mad from the grief of it.'

'We can't help her, Peter. We can't.' Edmund stared at the floor. 'She needs to go back. We all do... but I don't know if we can.'

Peter nodded, choking on his tears. 'I know,' he sobbed. 'I know!' And for the first time in years, Peter didn't care about the protocol of kings, nor could he control himself. He sank to the floor, crying.

Edmund knelt next to him, placing a hand on his shoulder and smiling as gently as he could. 'High Kings don't cry,' he whispered.

Peter let out a suppressed, weepy laugh. 'I... I've been a fool.'

Edmund sat in front of him, looking earnestly at him. 'Pete, don't worry. This is what happens to the kings after stories end. They just never write in those parts.'

❦

Lucy couldn't sleep, she couldn't write in the diary, and she could hardly do anything but think. She knew the truth in every careless glance shot in her direction what they would all say. No matter what I say, no matter what I do, I can do nothing to make them see I'm not a child. She rolled around in the small, scratchy bed, and glanced at Susan, asleep peacefully. They'll ridicule me, say how amusing it is. Important words cannot come out of such a trivial person, or else I'm a little girl make-believing she's grown up. They, and even I, at some points, do not understand why I'm a child. She sat up and hugged herself, cold from the night chill, and stared out the window to the pale full moon. How can I hold so much pain in so small a body?

Lucy stared intently at the bedside table, and lifted a trembling hand to grip the candle that stood there. Just one last time. I promise, this is my last wish. Just let me go and try to go home once more.

Quietly, she arose from bed and slipped into her dressing gown, then lit the candle, praying that the sudden aroma of sulphur wouldn't wake Susan. Creeping, Lucy prowled through the long hallways and staircases to the room. It seemed so odd now that, after fighting for her life in battles, she was afraid of getting caught at night by a housekeeper. But very little could keep her away this night. My last try, I promise. But please, just let me back in. Let me come home.

One lift of the lock, one step through the doorway, and there it was, just as humble as ever. It seemed so large; fleetingly, she wondered if she'd ever see it as a grown woman again.

Please, let it be there. This is the last time I'm trying; let me come back.

A hand outstretched, now on the doorknob, opening it... It was open. Taking a deep breath, she peered inside, and immediately her heart fell to the floor and shattered. There was no breeze, no scent of fresh snow, no sight of a tree or the sweet Narnian ground...

'I don't think you'll get back in that way.'

Lucy jumped, and turned to see the Professor sitting on a windowpane, holding his pipe. He looks so sad, she thought, and wondered why. But she took a second glance at him and immediately her mind recognised that stance. He couldn't hide it with the faded dressing gown, the white hair, the wooden pipe in his hand. He knows Narnia. He's been there.

'Lucy, I've already tried.'

They were both the same, both forgotten champions of that world, the home that could never be again. But seeing him, knowing he, too, was forgotten, gave her hope. Perhaps their story would be remembered. Perhaps it was being remembered now, in that same world where their stories began. He stood next to her and looked wistfully into the wardrobe, just a brief glance. They both knew he'd find nothing.

'Will we ever go back?' she asked, looking up into the old man's face. If she went back, then surely there was hope for him, too.

'Oh, I expect so,' he said, and closed the door. Strangely, she didn't feel so sad to see the door close. She didn't mind so much anymore, now being here with the Professor.

He smiled at her. 'But it'll probably happen when you're not looking for it.' He held out his hand, and Lucy took it, smiling. They began to walk, hand in hand.

'All the same...' he said, bending down a little so she might better hear him, and then he whispered: 'best to keep your eyes open.'

❦

She did go back. The first time was by complete surprise, at a train station, ready to return to school once the summer holidays were over. But once she was back in Narnia, even before she could tell where they were for sure, there was a nagging in the back of her mind that knew they were back home. Then they found out; it was true. They were back home... and yet she was unsatisfied. Where was he? What happened to him?

He was gone again, and this time nothing could happen for them to see each other. He had left her here in this place, in Narnia, at home... but home seemed an empty place now. It had been centuries since her time here, and he had disappeared from the pages of the story forever. Nothing could be done. It was bliss to be there, but she had finally accepted the fact that he was gone. And who knew? She could spend an entire lifetime here and then return again to England, and still no comfort for her grieving. She'd already lived more fully than most people had in their whole lives, and she was barely of adolescent years now. How could one person possibly live any more?

She soon found out. A second time she returned, and by now she was nearly ready to accept the fact that it had been a dream, as Susan had dismissed it so many times. But try as she might, she couldn't be like Susan at all. Narnia had taken her back under its wing, and this time she tried to put it all behind her; every doubt was shaken from her heart, and this time, she fully embraced the experience. Lucy reached out for every part of Narnia she could, so that it might live on in her memory. She'd tried to love another, a heart that could readily welcome hers, a heart that was present and alive. But what would happen when she left again? He'd move on, as she'd learned to do, and she didn't think her heart could stand it anymore. In any case, he couldn't fill the spot that Tumnus had once held captive.

Lucy never went back. She greatly envied her cousin, who had later returned to Narnia without her company. And now she was simply too old to go back. She was confined to the real world, to Earth, and had to simply get along best with what memories she had. However, Lucy really knew she should be grateful, and was simply overridden with selfish feelings. She and Edmund had gone to Narnia more than any single person that she knew of had, and perhaps combined. Lucy was once again grasping for any thread left of that wonderful place.

She came as close as she possibly could; there were very few people in this world who had been to Narnia before, at least to anyone's knowledge, and there were only eight. One of them – in fact, her own dear Susan – had forgotten completely about Narnia and disregarded the whole matter as a dream or a jolly good game of make-believe. The seven who did remember got together as often as possible, for it was only with them that they could speak freely of their once-lives.

Thus it continued for years, ever bearing on and on. Lucy, by this time, was growing older, and was quite soon out of school and became a writer. She rather liked the lifestyle it brought, for although the living conditions weren't at all like Narnia, it at least let her go there in the written word. But it only took one night to change every bit of that. One night was now about granted her a last chance to go back, for one last time.

For although she couldn't now go to Narnia, Narnia still found its way to her.

Peter had sent her a letter at her own little cottage out in the country where she now lived, a grown woman again. It was a day much like any other, a warm autumn morning when the foliage had turned a dulled gold and the air carried a scent of burning leaves. There, nestled in the morning post, was a letter from her eldest brother. Smiling, Lucy brought it in and settled into her favourite chair by the back window, took up her letter-opener and read the message:

October 11th, 1951

My dear Lucy,

As you are probably aware, it has been almost exactly eleven years since our first journey to Narnia. Well, at least eleven years in our time. Who knows how long it's been there? In any case, the seven friends are all gathering at Professor Kirke's house in a fortnight – that's the twenty-fifth, if you please – to have dinner. Please say you'll come; everyone else has agreed, and it simply wouldn't be the same if one of our number was missing. I do miss you, Lucy, and hope to see you there. Edmund sends his love as well.

Your brother,

Peter

By now she'd well grown used to seeing the casual close, 'Your brother' on letters. Eleven years ago, it would've had to be formaland the term 'His Majesty the High King Peter, etc., etc.' would have been used at least once. She liked it better now, with everything simple. It was how she'd grown accustomed to living: simply.

Eleven years already. She'd been nine on that first trip, and she was quite glad she wasn't the youngest friend of Narnia anymore. Eustace was a good six years younger than her, being nine on his first trip when she was fifteen.

Eleven long years since she'd last seen Tumnus.

Even now, she couldn't get his face out of her mind. That wonderful smile of his, those beautiful eyes, that warm way he spoke to her as if she was the only thing in the world that mattered.

Lucy shook her head. She couldn't dwell on him anymore, she was a grown woman, not a child. Though I was also a woman when I loved him. In fact, I was older than I am now. Then Lucy frowned at herself. Now, stop it. You're just being silly. Who knows how long ago that was.

Yes, said another, smaller voice in her. But it was stronger. But you still love him.

Well, she would still go to the dinner. Eustace and Jill, poor dears, were still in school, but were also going to the dinner. It had been so terribly long since she'd seen them. Lucy would simply have to go. Immediately she sent Peter a letter saying that she'd be delighted to go, and in a fortnight, she was there.

It was a terribly good meal; Aunt Polly, the Professor's friend whom he'd travelled to Narnia with, was an outstanding cook and had prepared food similar to what they would have eaten, were they in Narnia now. But as terrific as it was, it lacked the flourish of Narnian magic. It lacked the flourish of true Narnian company, it lacked... too much.

Professor Kirke placed down his knife forcefully on the table. 'Now that,' he chuckled, 'was a meal! Well done, Polly!'

'Yes, well done!' said Eustace.

'Hear, hear!' laughed Peter, and raised his glass, then looked at the few drops left in his glass and laughed. 'A toast with whatever wine is left in your glasses,' he began, and received a round of laughter before continuing more seriously, 'to whatever of Narnia is left in your heart. May it always be enough for you, and may you remember more and more of those cherished days.' He clinked glasses with the Professor on left side, and with Lucy at his right. Solemnly, the rest of the table followed suit, and Peter sat down.

At once, Lucy saw from the corner of her eye a sort of strange movement behind Polly, and stared. Funny. Now nothing was there. But as soon as she dismissed it from her mind, she noticed everyone else staring at it as well. For in that place now stood a man, ghostly and smoke like, clad in the kingly robes and draping fabric that was all too familiar to each of them. His face was that of a fighter and a noble, strong and square, full of power. Lucy leapt to her feet, as did Eustace and his friend Jill. Jill let out a tiny sort of shriek, and Lucy immediately raced over to her to give the girl some comfort. Polly, at the head of the table, drew in a sharp breath, and the Professor was so terribly startled that he knocked over his empty wine glass. The tinkling noise of its fall swept through the room and brought everyone to their senses.

Peter, although quite pale, had not moved until now. He spoke, gathering all the kingliness in him that was still left from those old days and looked directly into the eyes of the strange, ghostlike man and said with shocking authority: 'Speak, if you're not a phantom or a dream.' He then cocked his head in the slightest and said more. 'You have a Narnian look about you, and we are the seven friends of Narnia.'

Everyone held their breath, waiting for the man to say something, anything, but he did not.

Peter rose to his feet. 'Shadow or spirit or whatever you are,' he said, louder and eyes blazing and fixed on the ghost, 'if you are from Narnia, I charge you in the name of Aslan, speak to me. I am Peter the High King.'

And in that moment, he truly was.

But just as the figure had said nothing before, it said nothing now. Only now it was disappearing as quickly as it came. Everyone in the room at once began speaking.

'Look!' cried Jill. 'It's fading!'

'It's melting away,' said Eustace.

'It's vanishing.'

In a moment, it was gone.

Peter, still standing, turned to face the expectant faces of each person in the room. 'Friends,' he said, and gulped. 'It seems that we are all being called again into Narnia.'