Susan Pevensie, Somewhere-in-New-Jersey, United States of America, a park:

Everyone said she was the very picture of maturity and responsibility. Anyone who knew her siblings said the same about them, but it was Susan especially that they found to be the most adult-like. She was calm and graceful; sensible and reliable. She was everything she'd striven to be...and yet something had to have been missing. Why else then would her parents insist on dragging her out here to the country instead of allowing her to remain in the Big Apple?

She loved New York - its bright lights and hundreds of people rushing to and fro. There was always something to do somewhere, whether that be shopping in the many vibrant stores, or seeing a play on Broadway. Oh Broadway! You could be anyone when you acted, even a queen...especially a queen.

Susan's grip tightened on the park bench and her eyes shut, blocking out the sight of the leaves overhead. Yes, she could see it now. A play with her as Queen. She would wear a beautiful silk and velvet gown and a lovely golden crown decorated in blooming flowers. Her slippers would be soft and when she danced it would seem as if she was gliding across the floor. She would be the most beautiful woman in the land.

Or girl. Girl. She was a girl. Not yet seventeen.

Susan's grip tightened and then released as the wood began to cut into her palm. Time was moving so slowly! Everyday she grew just a bit more towards adulthood and the beautiful woman she knew she would become. And she would be just like a queen.

Susan the Gentle. That sounded right. Or perhaps Susan the Beautiful...but no, for some reason Gentle had a nicer ring to it. She wasn't quite sure why. Because of the make-believe she used to pretend as a child? Perhaps.

Susan sighed to herself and opened her eyes, looking around the small park. Boring houses lined one of the roads, the one she was facing, and there was an empty field to her back. She and her parents were staying in a small inn located just beyond the street of houses. For the second time.

This was her second time in America. Her father's initial lecturing tour had been very well received and he had been asked to come back. Neither Lucy nor Edmund had expressed any desire to come, and Peter had really delved into his studies to the point where you'd have thought he was trying to become the youngest politician in the world. No one quite knew why Peter was so hung up on politics and history, or if they did they weren't telling. Sometimes Mother and Father would ponder how much their children had changed over the breakfast table and Susan would listen and offer advice.

Peter was hardened. Edmund was bitter - or had been. Now it was like he just simply didn't fit in with anyone, no matter how hard he tried. He had become somewhat of an idiot-savant as they liked to say. Both Peter and Edmund had shown signs of genius in their studies, a fact which shocked everyone, as it had seemingly sprung out of nowhere. And Lucy...dear little Lucy was as mysterious as a unsolved riddle. No one quite knew what was going through her mind at any given time.

So her parents turned to Susan. She was the only normal one left, they said. Even if she was far more mature and grown-up than they ever could have imagined for her age.

But if that was the case, then why hadn't her parents allowed her to remain in New York while they did their tour of New Jersey? It wasn't fair. She could have joined them later. But instead she was now sitting in this silly little park in the suburbs that might as well have been countryside for all the entertainment they offered, utterly bored out of her mind. She could have been being discovered right now! She could have gone on Broadway! Been famous!

A sudden explosion of voices from behind her jerked her out of her daydreams and she twisted around in her seat to peer past the few trees. From the voices alone she could tell it was a group of boys, probably around her age, maybe a little younger, and most definitely American. No doubt they had come to play in the park, doing some inane boyish thing that would probably result in someone's injury.

She stood. She wasn't going to stick around and let them see her.

But something made her pause. She wasn't even sure what it was, only that the twanging sound that accompanied their shouts and laughter struck a cord deep within her. It was familiar. Comforting.

Instead she found herself moving around the bench and walking softly past the line of trees. The boys all stood in a group on the other side of the wide expanse of green grass and she soon discovered the source of the twanging noise.

One of the boys had a bow.

It was a plain bow, just some carved wood, shined and not even decorated. But it would do. The arrows were obviously manufactured. In fact, she bet the entire set was bought from a store. But that didn't mean that made it any less likely to work. A true archer would be able to work with whatever bow given.

Susan blinked and wondered how she knew all that. Since when was she interested in weapons of all things? That was something silly little boys interested themselves in, like Peter and Edmund with their fencing lessons. Not Susan.

But here she was, watching this group of teenaged American boys clumsily handle an archery set while her fingers itched and tingled, an excitement building in her chest and a thrill rushing through her veins.

What was wrong with her?

She stepped across the grass, coming up behind them. They never noticed her, too busy jeering at one of their number, who was trying to hit the crude bulls-eye they had drawn on one of the trees lining the other side of the park.

"You're holding it wrong," she heard herself say.

Seven sets of startled eyes turned to gape at her. She would be gaping too, if she were them. What had she just said? Why had she just said it?

A vague memory came to her, one of her playing pretend with her siblings. They were fighting a battle (although honestly, what kind of young girl acquiesces to play such a crude kind of make-believe in the first place?) and Susan had been the brave warrior Queen able to hit any bulls-eye.

But none of that meant she really knew how to handle a bow, so why on earth was she standing here pretending she did? (Never mind that it had felt all so real...and why would make-believe games be such prominent memories with such vivid sound and colour and adventure?)

"What the-" began one of the boys, probably around her age, before he cut off and clamped his mouth shut. Susan wasn't naive, she knew he had been about to swear at her.

She didn't say anything though, too embarrassed by her previous outburst. Hopefully they would just politely dismiss her and she could walk away, at least some of her dignity intact. But of course, she was underestimating a man's ego.

"What the...I mean, what would you know. You're a girl," said the boy holding the bow.

She stared at the bow. "It's not even properly strung," she blurted out and then almost clapped a hand over her mouth, but refrained. She wasn't about to lose all her dignity.

"A limey too," whispered one of the boys, but Susan caught it. Her temper sparked and her face flushed.

Susan the Gentle in her fantasies or not, but no one name-called Susan Pevensie like that to her face and got away with it! She was a sophisticated British lady, and no country-boy American was going to go around thinking otherwise.

"Give me that!" She snapped.

The boys were so surprised at her forwardness, that they didn't even move to stop her as she stepped forward and snatched the bow out of the hands of the one who had insulted her gender.

It was like she was in a trance. Her muscles knew what to do, even if her brain didn't. She removed the string and and restrung it properly, using all her considerable strength to get the wood to bend. She hadn't even known she had that kind of strength. Then she pushed past the group of shocked boys and picked up an arrow from the ground. It wasn't as well made as she could have hoped and it looked like it wouldn't fly quite straight. Never mind, she would compensate. She wasn't the best bowman - or rather, bow-woman - in Narnia for nothing. (Where? Make-believe! Just make-believe.)

She drew the bow up, her back suddenly ramrod straight. The arrow fitted between her fingers and rested against the wood of the bow lightly. Two fingers drew back the string, arrow attached.

It all happened fluidly, in one smooth motion - a move of pure practice and mastery. It wasn't only masterful, but graceful and poised.

She was Queen Susan.

Her world of make-believe was pressing at the edges of her mind. She wasn't even sure what was real anymore. Was it the stretch of her nylons and cinching of her skirt around her waist, or was it the solid weight and pressure of her chain-mail and the leather armour wrapped tightly around her chest? The swish of her dress around her ankles? Was it the crudely drawn bulls-eye carved into the tree not twenty metres away, or was it the screaming man on horseback galloping towards her, sword held ready and aiming at her neck?

Her arms strained with effort and she blinked her eyes rapidly. Which was it? Which was real? She didn't know anymore. She thought she had blocked it all out, pushed it back. But which was real? Surely they both couldn't be. It was impossible. Improbable.

The arrow released, she didn't even remember doing it. But it thudded into the centre of the bulls-eye deeply (or was it the neck of the man trying to kill her, right between the joint of his shoulder armour and helmet?).

Without thinking, she reached for her back, to the quiver of arrows that was supposed to be sitting on her shoulder, waiting to be strung and released. But there was nothing there. No comforting weight on her back, nor tight pressure of her armour. She was just Susan, standing in a small grassy clearing, shooting a mediocre bow and wearing a blouse.

She turned around, blinking and trying to shake away the memories. They weren't real. It was just her imagination. She'd been a very imaginative child.

But if it wasn't real, a small part of her whispered, then why did you just hit the bulls-eye? Why do you remember as much of Narnia as you do of England?

And why can't you remember the rest of your childhood? Where did that go?

"Jesus Christ!" Swore one of the boys in her face, and then he flushed as the one standing next to him hit him on the shoulder and hissed at him.

"Aslan," Susan found herself whispering. Not Jesus. Aslan. Aslan the great lion.

"Huh?"

Susan let the bow drop. "Here." She didn't elaborate. She wasn't even sure she wanted to.

Thinking of Aslan, and of Narnia, brought back make-believe (or not so make-believe) memories that she didn't think she could handle. She had been Queen. A great, beautiful Queen.

Susan the Gentle. High Queen Susan the Gentle. Most beautiful in the land. Gracious and kind. Strong and yet gentle. Her enemies feared her and her people adored her.

But she wasn't. She was just ordinary not-quite-seventeen Susan Pevensie on an ordinary trip to America with her ordinary parents.

The boys crowded around her, exclaiming and even jeering. One picked up the bow, but still wasn't holding it right. He shot an arrow and Susan stared after it with glazed eyes as it fell short and landed in the grass pathetically.

"She can show us! Come on, you can show us can't you?"

Susan shook her head mutely. No, she didn't want to. She hated that these boys had messed her up so badly inside.

She had done such a good job forgetting, and now look at her! Seventeen - three years after her last (supposed) journey to Narnia and already it seemed like an age had passed. Time in Narnia had gone by so quickly, but time in England and the real world had slowed to a crawl. And she was never going back.

Not that there was anywhere to go back to anyway. Narnia wasn't real. Aslan wasn't real.

And Queen Susan the Gentle wasn't real.

Susan brushed past the calling boys, steps quickening as she tried to reach the trees, as if she could abandon her memories behind her in that clearing with that single bow and the arrow that no one would be able to pull from its deep seat in the tree. She pushed past the line of trees and spotted the bench.

Chest heaving now, she collapsed onto the bench, put her head in her hands, and began to cry.

AN: I bet you never thought I'd update, huh? To be honest, this has been sitting on my hard-drive not-quite-finished for months and I just couldn't find the inspiration to finish it. That's not to say I've lost my passion for writing. Quite the contrary. Just these past two weeks, I've managed to write about 30k words of a brand new original story. And for anyone who reads my Harry Potter fanfiction, I'm still updating somewhat consistently there.

No, it's just Narnia. Some of this has to do with the fact that here at Uni I have no access to any Narnia stuff (books or movies...or my spiffy sword), which puts quite a damper on things. Especially when I want to look up information.

Anyway, I haven't abandoned this. Just know that time between drabbles will be long between. Though, I do find that the reviews you have all left me have been very touching and have kept me thinking about this fic, despite everything. All your lovely comments, helpful hints, words of constructive criticism, and of course, requests and ideas for future drabbles, always made my day. I read every single one of them, and perhaps even found the time to reply to a few of them.

So, finally, after months (and after a very hectic semester in which I have had to sort my out my year abroad plans for Japan and France with much confusion and chaos) I give you Susan's second chapter. Unfortunately, Susan has already begun to repress the memories she finds are too painful to remember. I can only hope I've lived up to your expectations of how you imagined Susan becoming when she was older.

And, of course, I finally managed to fit in the much-demanded/anticipated archery scene. Because, come on, Susan wouldn't be Susan without her archery skills. :]

Please do tell me what you think of this chapter, and leave any additional comments as well. I've compiled a list of requests and helpful ideas at the moment which I am still debating over, but feel free to add to it. The more ideas I have to potentially write about, the faster the inspiration might strike.

Well, that's it for now. And...truely sorry for the wait. I hope it was worth it!

xoxRia