Free to be Me

Summary: Susan Pevensie has lost her entire family. But it is only when she herself is dying that she finally realizes that Narnia wasn't a game. It was the only place she was free to be . . . herself. (Oneshot. Focuses on Susan's death & return to Narnia)

Rating: K

Genre: angst (emotional & a tad physical) ; family

Canon Character(s): Susan Pevensie ; Aslan (Peter, Edmund, and Lucy Pevensie & Professor Kirke & Eustance Scrubb are all mentioned)

OC Character(s): none

Set During: a few years after the events of TLB

Notes: This fic centers on Susan's death and redemption, as Lewis hinted at in letters before his death. So if you're not really into Susan-fics. . . You are warned. Also, it assumes that Susan was much younger at TLB than she really was. And this whole fic is in first person, so if that annoys you, you are also warned.

Also, the lyrics I use in this fic belong to "Free to be Me" by Francesca Battistelli.

I started the car with one hand while I checked my make-up in the mirror. With a start, I realized that my eyeliner was smudged and some of my lipstick. That was unacceptable, especially as I was due to meet . . . oh, what was his name again? Well, I was planning to meet my newest conquest today in a few minutes, and I had to be just perfect.

After all, I was at my prime blossom of beauty, of course, and it took much more work to keep my appearance maintained to that level.

But despite my great beauty, one thing still really bothered me.

It wasn't my overly overbearing, too concerned, over-the-top parents.

It wasn't my very annoying, still dream/game-obsessed, hopelessly lost brothers and sister.

And it wasn't the fact that they were all dead.

It was the fact that despite my great beauty, I still hadn't managed to land a great catch of a husband. They were all drop-dead handsome, sure, but none of them were intelligent to match. And I preferred at least a minimal ability to carry out a conversation.

I glanced at the clock and hit the gas. I wanted to be late, but not that late. I could always do my make-up during the ride.

I was almost about halfway to the restaurant when I finally finished my lipstick. That meant that I had swerved about, oh, two, three times. Not bad, actually; it was a new record for the minimum for me.

So I started on the eyeliner. I had about four minutes left, and there was about ten more minutes of driving.

If I stayed in the speed limit.

I hit the gas.

Driving while applying eyeliner was so not easy. It was the most easily smudged make-up of all, but it had to be perfect. It drew attention to my eyes, which I had always got the most praise for, even when I was younger. And then, when I had been older, when I had gorgeous, when I had admirers falling all over my feet begging for me to deign to bring my royal self to –

No.

Fiercely, I clamped down on that memory. I would not allow it to rise. I would not. I had sworn I would not.

And yet . . .

And yet, despite my will, it started to come.

I swung into the intersection as I started the battle against it, a vivid memory that kept coming back despite all my attempts otherwise. I had done everything to hold it back in the battles I had waged singe I had first come to my realization that this was life and I had to start living it, not wishing to go back to a childish dream. I had thrown away my diaries, alienated my siblings, buried my royal training, barricaded every single memory I had, thrown myself into my new life, ignored my dreams, guarded my mind and tongue, went out on dates constantly, remade myself into a normal girl.

I wasn't a Queen of . . . what had it been called?

Oh, yes.

Narnia.

I wasn't a Queen of . . . of Narnia.

I was just a girl. An amazingly beautiful girl, but a normal girl nonetheless.

I had no more times to play games.

A loud honk sounded somewhere behind me, shattering the dream.

I blinked and straightened, thanking the angry motorist. This is my life. This is the real life. I can't go on playing wishing-time. I am Susan Pevensie. I am Susan Pevensie. I am Susan Pevensie.

My brothers and sisters had refused to accept that. Even unto their deaths a few years ago, they had still tried to rope me into their games, no matter how many times I had patiently explained to them that it had all been just a game. It was nothing less to them, but I would not let it become anything more.

I was not so childish or foolish. I was a grown-up, just as Peter should have been.

But I had been the role model, not him, for which I always rolled my eyes and sighed at him for. He had always been so bent on being the man of the house; yet, at the most important time, he had been unable to.

I could still remember, just as vividly, our last encounter together.

Well, more like a last fight really.

It had ended with him shouting, "You're not just Susan! You're a Queen! You're the Gentle Queen of Cair Paravel, of Narnia! Why can't you accept that? Why can't you believe, just like the rest of us?"

His hurt had been so real, I could've believed it was a dream, seeing my brother, my pragmatic, serious, realistic brother, so devoted to a dream. I had never seen such hurt in his eyes as when I had told him, quite calmly, that I was done with his games and he would not see me again until he and Edmund and Lucy had grown up. It was like he felt that he had failed in the most important duty of his life.

Or like I was very slowly and very deliberately ripping out every single strand of his heart and burning it.

Either way, he was so pained that I had almost run back over and cried on his shoulder and done whatever could have been done to make him happy. We had always been so close. . .

I slammed my hand on the wheel, driving the memory out as pain surged up my arm. I would not give in. Not now. Peter was dead. I would not give in. If he wanted to be stubborn about a made-up game and fantasy, that was his problem. Not mine.

You were wrong, Peter. You were always wrong. Narnia was just a dream, a game, a made-up fantasy. You were wrong.

Something flickered at the edge of my vision; the light was changing, I guessed.

I stepped on the gas.

And then my whole world exploded into red and yellow brilliant light, burning heat, and overwhelming pain.

At twenty years of age I'm still looking for a dream
A war's already waged for my destiny
But You've already won the battle
And You've got great plans for me
Though I can't always see

I was twenty years old when I died. Just twenty years of age, two brief decades of life cut short in an explosion of heat, light, and noise. I was barely a woman out of girlhood, barely an adult out of childhood, barely a Queen out of the princess stage. I had no strategic value, no monetary incentive, no fabulous attributes.

And yet I was already being fought over.

Every day, the war was waged.

On one side, my normal life clamored, filled with giggling girlfriends, conniving plots, and new boyfriends every other week.

On the other side was simply one figure that now filled my vision with astonishing clarity.

Aslan.

But it wasn't really a battle. Technically, it was won now, with the explosion. Aslan had won. I had no idea how or why, but he had, because even if I survived, I'd never be the same after coming so close to death.

I didn't know why. Why he had chosen to arrive now, and flood my mind with the memories of Narnia. I had pushed them away, discarded them, turned my back on him.

Why did you come back?

I knew the answer, of course, before it was spoken, or whispered, or simply appeared in my mind. It was the same thing he had always said to me: I have great plans for you, Susan Pevensie.

Not that I could see them.

But he had never wavered from that claim, even when he had sent me from Narnia for the last time.

Narnia. . .

'Cause I got a couple dents in my fender
Got a couple rips in my jeans

Scattered voices passed through my ears – in one ear and out the other without really registering.

" – happened?"

" . . . know. She just . . . gas . . . ran the red light . . . crashed."

"Will . . . conscious?"

I felt softness under me; I wasn't in my car anymore. Something was wrong. Something had happened. Something not right. And my jeans were ripped; I could feel the coolness of breezes over my legs. As if my morning wasn't bad enough.

Try to fit the pieces together
But perfection is my enemy

I struggled to piece things together. The last thing I remembered . . . vaguely . . . was thinking about Peter, Narnia, and Aslan . . . and finishing my lipstick and starting on my eyeliner . . . and realizing that I had only four minutes to get to the restaurant . . . and then hitting the gas when the light changed. . . and then . . . nothing.

And I knew that my eyeliner wasn't done, and my jeans were ripped.

I felt like groaning.

Here I was, struggling to figure out what was going on and unable to open my eyes, and yet all I could think about was my ripped jeans and unfinished eyeliner. For the first time, my need of perfection – the need that had preserved my sanity in the days when the separation from Narnia and then my siblings had caused me more pain than anything else – was more my enemy than my friend.

On my own I'm so clumsy
But on Your shoulders I can see

I'm free to be me

A voice echoed from around me.

Susan.

The voice was clear, and strong, and majestic. It rang like bells in my ear, sweet and firm at the same time, and so familiar. . .

"Aslan," I struggled to say. Then I finally got my eyes open.

I was standing in a clear glade, with flat green grass and shallow pools of crystal water every few meters. There were only a few trees, though. It was like a savanna, only I was pretty sure a savanna didn't have bright green grass and a thousand pools within a few dozen square feet. Some were dried up, and just really shallow imprints in the dark red earth; others were clear and still, which told me they were special, because no pool is that still. Even when there is no wind. And . . . And was that . . . was that a guinea pig?

"Susan."

The voice still echoed, but it was clearer now, and closer.

I turned, trembling.

Aslan stood before me, eyes calmly resting on me. His gold fur shone and glittered although there was no sun that I could see. He seemed at once just like he always was, and yet bigger, sterner, and more . . . just more.

"Aslan," I tried to say as my knees gave way and I knelt.

He blinked. "Daughter of Eve."

I winced inwardly. He had not called me such ever. Even when we had first met, he had said, "Welcome, Susan, Daughter of Eve."

A scary thought shook me.

Did he no longer recognize me because for a time I had no longer recognized him?

Aslan leaned closer, his breath sweet and warm across my face. Somehow, it gave me strength. "You have been listening to your fears, child," he said, his voice rumbling. "See me. Touch me. Remember me."

I raised a hesitant hand to his fur, but when I touched it, my fingers curled in their own accord. I had once clung to this fur, hugged it, held it. I had once loved this fur, and dreamed of touching it, and gloried in touching it. It was beautiful. And it was the only way I had been able to show my joy when Aslan had been resurrected after the White Witch killed him.

"I remember you, Aslan," I whispered, because it seemed appropriate, and because the words came without any of my brain seeming to control them.

A rumble sounded through his chest, and he seemed to grow even taller.

"Welcome back, Susan," he said simply. "Now stand, Queen of Narnia; there are more places we are to go to."

I stared. I had lost faith in him, I had stopped believing in him, I had turned my back on him.

And yet that was it?

"But why?"

Aslan turned his head to me, his eyes staring unblinking in my direction. He seemed to understand the roots of my question more than my question itself.

Then he said, "I have great plans for you still, Queen Susan."

I tried to stand; the result was a clumsy rise that needed great aid from his steady figure. "What plans?"

"You will see," he told me simply, "now that your eyes have opened once again."

He shook himself then, nearly throwing me off balance.

"Now," he said, and his voice was suddenly deeper and stronger yet more playful than before, "climb on my back. We have a long ways to go, and little time to get there."

He paused.

"And you may want to cover your ears," he added suddenly.

I had just enough time to grin before I slammed my hands over my ears, not caring how silly it looked.

And Aslan roared, loud and long, like a king declaring his victory for his people.

And I laughed alongside him.

Just like that, I was free. Free to be myself. With Aslan, no one would laugh at me for acting like a child or believing in a childish game. I didn't need perfection anymore, and I didn't care that my make-up was smudged and my jeans ripped.

When I was just a girl I thought I had it figured out
My life would turn out right, and I'd make it here somehow

Riding Aslan as he charged forward, swifter than an arrow yet smoother than the wind, was like a dream brought to life. I could remember every minute of it – the powerful muscles surging under my hands; the wind blowing at my face and tugging at my long, streaming dark hair; the sensation of colors blurring into a rainbow where the gold fur shone like the sun. It was perfect. It was beautiful. It was everything.

Back then, I had been a young girl, barely in my teenage years, and naive and foolish to boot.

I had thought everything would turn out right in the end – Aslan would call us back to Narnia and we would be Queens and Kings again or he would not and we would continue our normal life. And someday, if we were lucky, we'd see Narnia again.

But things don't always come that easy
And sometimes I would doubt

But, of course, it hadn't been that easy.

Aslan had brought us back. We had been Queens and Kings again, albeit not the Kings and Queens. We had served Narnia again.

And then he had taken us aside, and told us that we were too old, and that we would never return.

Doubt had filled me entirely, cold and biting. And doubt had brought pain, deep, burning, overwhelming pain.

I was never the same again.

I had sworn then to find a way to focus on something, anything, other than that doubt that brought so much pain. I was too pragmatic, too independent, too realistic – I could not continue holding onto hope after Aslan's words, even though Lucy was my complete opposite and shone with hope with every second.

I couldn't be like her.

And I had finally threw my hands up, and let the doubt win, and let Narnia just be a game, like I had said it was. I had turned my back on Narnia, on my Queenship, on Aslan. I had forgotten everything.

'Cause I got a couple dents in my fender
Got a couple rips in my jeans
Try to fit the pieces together
But perfection is my enemy

Aslan stopped in a flurry of wind, and I tumbled clumsily off. A shallow pool was beside us, but it was smaller than the rest, and it was not as clear or as calm as the others.

He breathed on it.

And I gasped as images started to clear in the water.

There was something I recognized as my car – only it was dented in the fender, and smoking, and ruined. Another ruin was beside it. And there, by the edge of the road, was a stretcher, and two paramedics, one checking a screen, the other frantically pumping the chest in CPR. And then the first spoke, and the second stopped, wiped his brow, and sighed in defeat. Then they moved to cover the body with a sheet –

It was me.

I stumbled away, trying to put the puzzle together – to understand. I wanted to know everything . . . but I could not.

I am dead – but if that is me . . . what am I? A ghost?

"You are no ghost." Aslan's voice was clear and strong still, but I thought I could detect a tinge of sympathy. "That was your life in the Shadow Realm. There was an accident. And you did die. But that was the Shadow Realm. Now, I bear you to Narnia."

On my own I'm so clumsy
But on Your shoulders I can see

I'm free to be me

I shook my head, still confused. "What?"

Aslan blinked. He did not speak again. Perhaps he knew that I didn't really want an answer.

Then he commanded, "Climb on my back again, Queen Susan. Your journey is not finished. Not yet. In fact, it is only beginning."

"But . . ."

Aslan lowered his head so that we were on the same eye level. "But what, my child?" he asked. "Speak freely."

And you're free to be you

That was so like Aslan, I reflected.

But it was the truth.

With him, I could be angry, I could be happy, I could be afraid. I could dance and sing, and no one would give me a second glance. I could rage and have a temper tantrum, and no one would scold me. I could scream bloody murder, and no one would giggle maliciously and tear me down.

I was free. Free to be me.

Just like he was.

Sometimes I believe that I can do anything
Yet other times I think I've got nothing good to bring

Part of me wanted to say yes, to climb on his back, to ride wherever he wished and do whatever he wanted and fulfill his "great plans".

The other part remembered with awful shame what I had done.

I shook my head. "Aslan, I . . . I lost faith in you," I said in a rush. He had to know, if he didn't already. He had to know what he was bringing wherever he was bringing, because I really was not worth it. Maybe Lucy and Edmund and Peter were, as they still believed . . . but not me.

"I lost faith in you," I repeated. "I turned my back on you. I . . . I even hated you, at one point. What good can I possibly bring to any great plan of yours?"

But You look at my heart and tell me
That I've got all You seek

And Aslan took one look at me and laughed.

Laughed.

And not mockingly, either.

When his rumbles finally subsided, he lowered his head again and I could almost believe he was smiling.

"Susan," he said, and it was like a father chiding his most beloved daughter, "do you really believe that? I have seen your heart, child. You have listened to your fears. But now you have also cast them off. Now you have opened your eyes again, and you see the truth again. And you, Daughter of Eve, Queen of Narnia, have exactly what I seek."

Then he raised his head again.

"So here we come to the fork in the road, child. You can come with me, or you can return to your old life. It is your choice."

And it's easy to believe

I didn't have to think twice before climbing back onto his back. I knew where my destiny lay.

But . . .

I threw one last glance at the mirage in the pool.

Even though

'Cause I got a couple dents in my fender
Got a couple rips in my jeans
Try to fit the pieces together

I could still see myself – beaten, battered, injured. It was creepy. And my car was still dented in various places, my jeans were still ripped, my make-up was still smudged. And I was still trying to understand what was going on.

And the doubt was still there, whispering.

But when Aslan looked back at me again over his shoulders, I realized . . .

But perfection is my enemy
On my own I'm so clumsy
But on Your shoulders I can see

Perfection, and my need for it, truly was my enemy. I didn't need to know everything, to understand everything.

I had to trust.

I had to trust in destiny, I had to trust in Aslan, I had to trust in . . . well, myself.

I got a couple dents in my fender
Got a couple rips in my jeans

Try to fit the pieces together

Yes, my car was dented. Yes, my jeans were ripped. Yes, I kind of was dead. Yes, I wanted to understand. And yes, that was all fine and dandy and creepy.

But I didn't have to understand.

I just wanted to.

But perfection is my enemy
On my own I'm so clumsy
But on Your shoulders I can see

Perfection was my enemy.

For the last time, I shelved it. I wouldn't need it again. I was Susan Pevensie, Daughter of Eve, a Queen of the Golden Age of Narnia.

In other words, I wasn't perfect, and never would be.

I was simply human.

I had spent years of my life stumbling around searching for that very realization like I sought a dream, but it only came to me now, as I rodeon Aslan's shoulders like I had so many years ago when I had been a girl.

How ironic.

And yet, how fitting.

I'm free to be me

As we plunged into another pool, I let go and let out a shriek of delight. If anyone I had seen us, I wouldn't have cared less. My restraints, my image, my need for perfection was gone.

I was free to be me.

And you're free to be you

Then the darkness lifted. Aslan slowed to a halt, and I leaped off, and people stared in wonder as others began to run towards me.

And then I was swept up in strong arms and whirled around, and let go only to be hugged again, and then let go again only to be attacked with another fierce hug. And I gasped with each hug, "Peter? Edmund? Lucy?"

And they grinned, and hugged me again, and beckoned me forward, smiling and cheering and laughing.

"Come on, Susan," they chorused in unison, laughing and pulling at my hands, like little schoolchildren going on a field trip and showing off a prize. "Everyone's waiting – Everyone wants to meet you – They're dying to meet you!"

As I gave one last look at Aslan as they dragged me forward, I realized something else as well.

I wasn't the only free one.

He was free to be himself as well.

And the Great Lion gave me one last smile, and stood tall once more, and gave a roar that shook the very depths of my soul.

And I was free to live as . . . well, free to finally live as myself.

The End