The Chronicles of Narnia belongs to the greatest author and Christian apologist of the Twentieth Century. I would not presume to say that I owned any part of this extremely gifted man's works. I also apologize for appropriating Mr. Lewis himself in this way, but I thought it an appropriate end to the story. Only the highest degree of respect was intended in the writing of this fic.

Set after the ultimate end of the series. Major spoilers for The Last Battle. If you have not read it yet, what are you waiting for? Read the whole series - it is spectacular!

Why? It was a question Susan Pevensie had asked thousands of times in the last five years. Sometimes in anger, sometimes in confusion, sometimes in lonely anguish, but always the same question. Why? Why her parents? Why her brothers? Why her sister? Why was she left alone? Abandoned. Bereft of everything she'd ever loved.

Her grandmother counseled religion. 'Set a body and soul straight, it will,' she'd said. 'Can't go wrong with the good Lord on your side.'

Religion, Susan scoffed. Church. As if church held the answer to her broken heart.

She had found herself again in her favorite place in all the world, the steps of the library. Not the library, mind you, merely the steps. Or, to be more precise, on one of the two plinths flanking the steps.

The giant stone lions lay guarding the massive hall of books from those who would enter unlawfully. Most people walked right by without seeing them, but Susan never could. On days when her emotions were running at their most extreme, she would often come here, to sit between the paws of the gentler-looking cat, touching the frozen mane that would never part for her fingers, running her hand over the large, wise face, longing to feel his wild, living and life-giving breath on her face. Other days, when she was furiously angry, she would rail at the fierce feline, smashing her fists against paws that were melded with the slab below, that would never lash out with bared claws, the mouth that would never open and growling fangs that would never rip or tear her enemies no matter how she might wish it. "Aslan!" Susan would cry, burying her face in cold, unyeilding flesh, "You swore that you were here, in this world. You swore I would get to know you here! Where are you? Where are you when I need you most?" But the noble, marble beast remained silent, frozen in place as surely as if the White Witch had cast her spell upon him, and without a saviour to breathe him back to life again.

Susan knew that she made a spectacle of herself with her behaviour, but people soon learned to ignore her. She was harmless, after all, and only a little mad, and that only very occasionally. When she curled up between the paws of the lion, some kind soul would usually wake her shortly and she would gather her composure about herself and leave. 'It is only a stone lion,' she would tell herself, 'and nothing at all to do with me.'

And then one day, she had a dream. She was petting the lion and it turned its head, ever so slightly, and looked at her. A voice came into her mind.

Susan. Susan, why do you seek me here?

"Aslan?" she whispered, afraid that it was all a dream, and yet terrified that she might wake up.

I am not in carved stone, Susan. In these lands with little overt magic, in the land where the Sons and Daughters of Adam and Eve dwell, I am no lion. I am a man. Speak your thought, Daughter of Eve.

"Where are you?" she asked.

I am nowhere. I am everywhere. I am here, when you seek me with an open heart.

"I have been seeking," she whispered.

And not finding me. For you seek me as I was, not as I am. Daughter of Eve, why are you angry?

"I am alone."

Why are you alone?

"Because my family are all dead."

Are they?

"...aren't they?"

They are with me, Dear One. They are not dead who dwell with me.

"Oh, Aslan! May I see them? May I come with you, too?"

Soon, Dear Heart. Very soon.

"How soon is soon?"

She could hear the lionish smile in his voice as he replied, All times are soon to me.

She couldn't keep the petulance from her voice as she asked, "Why may I not come now?"

The great lion seemed to smile sadly. It is not yet your time, young one. Return to me, and do the task set before you, and your reward shall be great indeed.

Susan felt his presnce starting to fade and she cried out, almost in physical pain. "Aslan! Wait... you mean that if I'd believed in you, like the others did... stayed true to Narnia... stayed true to you, I might be with you right now?"

A rumbling came from his throat - not quite purr, not quite growl. No one knows what might-have-been, child, you know that, he admonished. Only where the path on which they are on leads. But fret not, young Queen - I foresee a great and glorious path ahead of you.

"Please, Aslan... Might I know... when will I see you again? And how shall I know you?"

The voice in her head was definitely purring now as he said, And how else shall you know me than that I am what I am?

And he was gone. Susan felt drained, hollow, as she climbed down from the plinth. She gazed up at her old friend, the lion, and across at his companion, but they were only statues, emptied of the memory of the wildness that had drawn her here so often. They were only stone, with no spirit within them.

She thought much about her vision, trying to puzzle out what it all meant. Finally, she decided she had to speak with the one man she thought might understand, and she rang him up.

They met the next day at a small cafe. Each bought a small coffee, and they sipped in silence for a short while. Finally, Susan spoke.

"Jack? You know I told you some time ago that I had had an adventure that would rival the stories of the most imaginative writer of fiction?"

Her friend put down his cup. "I do. You also told me that you would never tell it, that it was far too personal."

The dark haired girl swallowed hard. "Well... I think it's time for me to tell it to you. I don't know how much good it will do, but... I want someone to know. I think you're the one who will know best what it means."

The man leaned forward in his chair, steepling his fingers. "I cannot guarantee you are correct, my dear, but I shall try my utmost, with His help." He glanced upwards.

Susan followed his gaze instinctively, though she knew what he meant, and then caught her breath. A portrait of Jesus hung on the wall, and for a moment, in the shifting light from the cafe windows, it had looked as though the rays of light shining from behind his head were a glorious, full lion's mane.

It was all the sign she needed. Her heart swelled with gratitude as she began. "It all started one rainy morning in the country, when my brothers and sister and I were sent away during the blitz..."

Soon enough, her companion had pulled out a notebook and was jotting notes, listening for awhile, and then jotting down more, at quite a rapid pace. At the close of the tale, he took her by the hand and thanked her profusely. "It was a difficult tale to tell, my dear, but I thank you for it. Do you... would you mind very much if I wrote your story down and showed it to a few colleagues of mine? I rather think that this is a story that is longing to be told."

Susan nodded. "Yes. Yes, I agree, Jack. Only... I think it would be best if you passed it off as fiction. And... written by yourself. I've already earned a bit of a reputation as a mad woman; I have no desire to earn the customary treatment of one."

The author agreed and the two parted company.

Later that night, he sat down to his typewriter.

The Chronicles of Narnia, he wrote. by C.S. Lewis.

Once there were four children whose names were Peter, Susan, Edmund, and Lucy...