AN: This is my new Susan/Peter fic. It was inspired by some of the main ideas of, "The Notebook" but just so you know this probably isn't going to be, "The notebook, Narnia style" or anything like that. I plan on changing A LOT and just borrowing some of the main themes and ideas. I did use the ferris wheel bit from the movie verison of "The Notebook" but only because I thought it was too funny to pass up completely. Also, I know that some of the things happening in this chapter may be a tad confusing but please bear with me, I promise that by the end of the fic, pretty much everything will make sense. It's going to be pieced together chapter by chapter so to speak.

At first, I think it is raining. I am fairly certain that I can distantly hear a tap-taping sound on the roof above me. Yet when I open my eyes I can see the sunshine pouring in so clearly from the window. A light sun-shower, I decide, as I stretch my arms over my head and sit up. Another morning in this place. I wish I didn't have to be here and yet I wont leave. I don't care if I am too young to belong-I'm only thirty years old-I just wont leave. Not without her. If she never gets better, if she stays here for ever and ever, I wont go. I will leave only when I can take her hand and hear her footsteps following closely behind my own.

So many times I have pictured this in my mind. My fingers curl around her fingers and she smiles at me; she knows me, really knows me. That blessed woman! That angelic queen! She would walk by my side and we would see the glass double-doors. We'd turn to each other and nod. We'd push them open together and race out of there. Of course, this might never happen. But I hope, goodness knows, I hope. I can't give it up. I never grow weary. I've never tried to seek another. She is the only one and that is that.

My feet sink slightly into the springy light-brown carpet as I stand up slowly. I walk into the small bathroom that is attached to the room they've given me. I sometimes feel bad that some poor elderly man can't have this room, that I am taking it for myself. But in a way, I need it more than most men-no matter how old they are-do. Most of them have families; no matter how many idiots are in it. I haven't got one anymore. Only her. The staff understands this and they've never said a word about my leaving, they understand that it wouldn't do any good. In all honesty, I think they may have learned to like, even love, me. It has been some eight years since I first came; I've been here since 1949. I think the staff would miss me if I went away.

I stumble to the brass sink and turn it on. I splash cool water on my face and say, "Ah." About a hundred times or so before wiping all the coolness away with a cotton towel. Now I look up into the mirror and cringe. Having just woken up, I look terrible. I have a bad case of bed-head; my blond hair sticks up in messy clumps in the back. My eyes look glassy and sort of blood-shot. My breath is bad enough to cause someone to drop dead.

By the Lion, I think to myself, you'd better clean up if you don't want to scare the living daylights out of her. Even if by some miracle she remembers, she is going to take one look at you and think, "I married that?"

So I get to work. I comb my hair and brush my teeth and I wash my face once more so that I don't look as tired. So that I don't look as if I was up most of the night, tossing and turning, thinking of the past and then falling into occasional fitful dreams. I notice a line of yellowish stubble and debate on whether or not I should shave. I do so, but not very closely.

Finally, I am satisfied with the way I look. I nod at my reflection and walk out of the bathroom back into the bedroom. I make my own bed, I am not so lazy or unkind to leave it for the staff. They have enough to worry about. Heck, if I'm young enough to constantly be mistaken for one of them, then I am young enough to tidy my own bed in the morning. I look around to make sure everything is neat, for I know they will come and clean and think nothing of it, leaving me with horrible guilt that will make falling asleep even harder. I decide it's perfect and reach for the door handle.

"Almost forgot!" I gasp to myself, stopping mid step and reaching over for something on my nightstand. I'll be needing that. It's very important. It is a small leather-bound journal. Its pages are worn and not at all blank and some long pieces of golden thread fall out, dangling from the sewn-in binding.

Will it work today? I wonder as I step onto into the hall with the beloved journal tucked carefully under one arm.

"Good morning." A friendly middle-aged lady who works here as a nurse smiles at me as she passes.

"Good morning, Della." I raise my free hand and wave to her down the hall.

"Hullo." Miss Rosie waves to me from the doorway of her room. She is eighty-five years old but any fool can see that she was utterly beautiful when she was younger. Her eyes are gorgeous. It is a wonder she never married.

"Hello, Alice." I remember to use her first name, for some reason whenever I call her that she beams happily. I guess she is so old that most people forget she even has a first name.

"Are you going to read to her today?" She asks, looking down at the journal.

"Are you going to ask me that every day?" I tease, raising an eyebrow in faux-surprise.

"Maybe." She laughs cheerfully. For such a sickly old woman, she is awfully happy.

At least she's got more joy than Bert Poble who's sitting in his wheelchair looking sullen-as usual. He's in his late nineties and is as bitter as extra dark chocolate.

"Hello, Bert." I say in my most annoyingly cheerful tone. I don't know why I torment that poor man every day, I just do. "How are you this morning?"

"I keep trying to die but they wont let me." He grumps shortly.

"Good to see you too, sir." I roll my eyes and continue walking down the hallway.

I say a few more short greetings to a few more people I know well whom I can't ignore even when I'm in a hurry. I want to see her, I miss her, even though I saw her just yesterday. I don't know how much longer I can take this, waking up every morning with loneliness swelling up inside me getting bigger with every passing day.

But if it's so bad for me, I remind myself, think of how much worse it is for her. She has nothing, not even memories to visit in the middle of the night. I know she dreams of them-maybe even of me-sometimes but those are nightmares and I don't wish them upon her. She's frightened and alone. She needs me-almost as much as I need her.

I am inches away from her door when one of the staff comes in front of me and frowns. "You didn't come down to breakfast."

"I'm not hungry." I say shortly, not because I am cross but because she is in my way. Standing between me and my beloved gentle queen; not exactly the safest place to be standing.

"You have to keep up your strength." She reminds me.

"I don't pay you to hassle me." I say.

She sighs and gives in. "I'll bring something up for the both of you."

"Thanks, Carrie!" I call after her as she finally gets out of my way and head down the other end of the hall.

"Yeah, whatever." She calls back.

I wonder if she's mad because I never gave her younger sister-who had a crush on me-the time of day. I'm taken, she has to get over it.

I sigh deeply and open the door just a crack, peering in.

There she is. Her back is turned to me, her long black hair is being worn down today. I think she looks beautiful even from behind. I feel terrible that she has to go through all of this. She's even younger than I am by about a year. She's just turned twenty-nine. Eight years, it's been eight bloody years! Why can't she heal? Why can't she remember? Why?

A kindly nurse is with her and is gently nudging her away from the painting on the wall that she cannot stop looking at. It is of a lion. "Come on, sweetheart, you haven't even eaten anything this morning."

"I feel so strange." She says sort of quietly.

Hearing her voice makes me want to cry but I don't. I hold back my tears and gulp down that lump in my throat. I force it to go away. This is the only way to make her better, I can't cry and give myself away. I can't and I wont.

I clear my throat and walk into the room.

The nurse turns and looks at me sadly. "I think you should go down stairs for breakfast." This is her way of saying she doesn't think today is a good day for me to come in and read; of course she must know by now that I wont give in that easily.

"Who's there?" My sweet gentle queen notices I am standing in the room and looks over at me.

I raise an eyebrow at the nurse who knows I am not going anywhere so she might as well play along. "This is Paul." She tells her. "He's come to read to you."

"Read?" She blinks in confusion. "Why?"

"I like to read." I say, getting the feeling that she is studying my face from where she is standing. I am glad I took the time to make myself look presentable.

"That's very nice." She says politely, her eyes stopping their desperate search. "But I'm not much interested in the news."

"It's not the news." I tell her. "It's a story."

"I don't care for most stories." She confesses rather freely, surprising me. She is usually not this open when I first come in. "They give me a horrible ache in my stomach and nightmares at night."

"You'll love this one." I promise.

"It's not a fairy-tale is it?" She wrinkles her nose and I can't help but be reminded of the first time I met her.

"Some parts of it are." I say truthfully. "But it's more of a romance."

"Is it a good one?" she seems to be warming up to the idea.

"A very good one."

"Are you sure I'll like it?"

"Positive." I grin at her now.

"Alright." She actually manages a friendly smile at me. "When will you begin?"

"After breakfast." A voice insists. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Carrie and the nurse who was in the room place two trays down on a little table-the sort little girls use for tea parties-and walk away, shutting the door softly behind them.

My queen and I eat together in silence. She says nothing. I say very little. Finally we are done and we leave the table and get up.

"Could you do me a favor?" She asks.

"Sure." I say. "What do you need?"

She hands me a long white sheet she has taken from one of the cabinets. "Please cover that picture." She can't stand looking at the lion anymore. I know why, she does not.

I cover the picture and we take seats by the window. She folds her hands gracefully in her lap and looks up at me. "Whenever you're ready."

"I'm ready now." I tell her, opening the journal to the first page. "Our story begins at a carnival. That's where they met."

"Who? The lovers in the story?" She asks to be sure.

"Yes, them."

"How old were they?" She wants to know.

"He was eleven and she was around ten or so." I explain.

"They met young, then." She realizes.

"Yes, they did."

"Would you like to hear about it?" I ask.

"Yes, please." She looks almost eager and my heart soars. This might be it. Maybe this time I can make it last.

Peter Pevensie walked through the carnival along side his friend, Warren. They were talking about something but he completely forgot what it was. Standing just a few feet away from him was the prettiest girl he had ever seen. She had long black hair parted into two braided pigtails and bright blue eyes.

"Who is that?" Peter said breathlessly, wondering why he suddenly couldn't feel his fingers.

"Oh, forget about it, mate." Warren laughed, shaking his head sympathetically. "You'll never get near the likes of her."

"Why not?" At eleven years old, Peter was a bit touchy and could be insulted rather easily. Why shouldn't the pretty girl want to talk to him? He was decent looking and friendly.

"She's stuck up." Warren sighed. "I already tried to talk to her and she gave me a fake name."

"How do you know it was fake?" Peter asked him.

"Because she told me her name was 'Phyllis' and then someone came running up to her calling her 'Susan'." He explained.

"Susan?" Peter said, not getting the point of the story. "That's her name?"

"I guess so, but it's-" Warren started.

"Bye!" Peter started walking away over towards where Susan was standing with her friends laughing about something.

"Hopeless." Warren sighed, laughing to himself just a little bit.

"Hey, Susan!" Peter said, jumping right in front of her.

"How do you know my name?" She blurted out.

"Want to be friends?" He asked, flat out ignoring her question.

"No." Susan shook her head and walked away. There was something seriously wrong with that boy.

Peter watched her go but he never was one to give up easily. He spent most of the carnival gazing at her from a distance, more determined than ever to make friends with her.

He got his next chance when he saw her getting onto the Ferris wheel. She wasn't alone she was sitting with some boy he didn't know. If they were older, he might have thought that this was her boyfriend but they were much too young for that.

Peter waited until the ride started and when the bar close to where she was sitting was near enough, he grabbed onto it, swinging himself into the middle of the seat.

"Hey, you can't do that!" The ticket man shouted up at him.

"I'll pay you later, alright?" Peter called down to him.

"No, get down from there now!" The man yelled.

"That's going to be sort of difficult." Peter said, noticing that they were now high off the ground. He shrugged and turned to Susan. "Hi, I'm Peter."

"Who is this?" The boy next to her demanded.

Susan looked at him incredulously. "I don't know-" She remembered that he had just told her his name. "He's Peter, I guess."

"You can't have more than two people in a seat!" The ticket man shouted.

"Alright, fine." Peter grabbed onto the bar hanging on with both hands so that he was dangling several feet above the ground. He looked at Susan again, "So, how about us being friends?"

She wrinkled her nose at him. "No."

"No?" Peter shot her a pathetic puppy-dog look. "Why not?"

"I don't need anymore friends." She tried.

"Come on, please?"

"Um, no." Susan told him.

"Fine." Peter sighed softly, letting go of the bar with one hand.

Susan screamed.

"Friends?" He tried again.

"No!" Susan shouted.

"Oh, darn." Peter groaned. "My hand's slipping."

"Grab onto the bar, you idiot!" Someone on the Ferris wheel towards the bottom shouted up at him.

"Just be friends with him, honey." Some old lady on the seat just below theirs suggested. "Who's it gonna hurt?"

"Fine." Susan said, looking nervously at Peter's slipping hand and praying he would stop being a moron and grab onto the bar soon. "I'll be friends with you."

"I don't want your pity." Peter told her.

"No, I want to." Susan blurted out.

"Say it." Peter grinned at her.

"I want to be friends with you." Susan said softy and quickly.

"Say it again, louder, shout it." Peter was enjoying himself way too much.

"I want to be friends with you!" Susan bawled so loudly that pretty much all of Finchley could hear her.

"Alright, alright, we can be friends, stop begging me." Peter laughed, reaching up and grabbing onto the bar.

"Oh you think you're so smart, don't you?" Susan sneered, leaning forward in her seat. She grabbed onto his pants and pulled them down showing everyone his underwear. "That'll teach you."

I look up to see her reaction. She is giggling softly into the palm of her hand. Her laughter is like music to me. I am glad I at least made her laugh today if not anything more.

"I like this story." She says when she finally stops laughing.

"I knew you would." I say with another warm smile.

"I think she liked him." She tells me.

"Huh?"

"The girl in the story, Susan. I think she liked Peter but was too stuck up and shy to admit it. I'll bet she was glad he forced her to be friends with him."

"I always thought so too. It's nice to hear you say it though."

"It is?"

"Yes."

"Good."

"Do you want to hear a little more?" I lift the journal up making reading motions.

"Sure." She shrugs. "I'd like to know what happens to them."

One year after the carnival took place, Susan's father died in the war. Her mother was stricken and broken-hearted but she re-married almost right away. It turned out that someone in the army had promised to marry her if her husband died and now he had to keep that promise. He had one son. Susan's mother, Helen, had three children. Susan and her younger siblings Edmund and Lucy.

"I don't want to meet him." Edmund grumped as Helen tried to make him look half-way decent. "I don't want a new father."

"He's a good man, right mummy?" Lucy asked timidly.

"Yes, sweetheart, he and your father were close friends during the fighting." She told her.

"He's bringing his son with him, mum?" Susan asked.

"Yes." Helen said.

The door bell rang, Helen opened the door, and standing there right beside her new stepfather, was none other than the 'friend' Susan had made at the carnival. She hadn't seen him since that night but she had thought about him occasionally.

"You?" She blurted out in surprise.

"Hi, Susan." He smiled at her.

This time she smiled back. "Hi, Peter."

"I didn't see that coming." She announces.

I look up from the page I am reading.

"I'll bet." I agree.

"I think they were meant to be." She sighs dreamily. She is in good sprits today even though the nurse hadn't thought so at first.

"I know they were." Oh, how I know.

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