Five years after the train crash that took her family from her, Susan Pevensie came home, removed her high heels, and threw them in a rage at the door, where they gave a satisfying thud before hitting the floor. She wiped her make-up off angrily, brushed her hair out viciously, and stared at her still-beautiful countenance in the mirror.

"What happened to you?" she whispered to her reflection. "Where did you lose your way?" Then, as she stared into the mirror, scenes flitted in and out of focus in her mind.

SS~~SS

Perhaps unsurprisingly, the first scene was from only an hour or so previously, her date with John, where she'd been so sure he'd propose and so sure she'd accept. She'd been right about the first part, at least, but the unassuming man's proposal had left her feeling cold, unwanted, unloved, she couldn't fathom why. Perhaps because he'd seemed so sure of her favourable reply – quietly comfortable in his belief that she'd marry him because she was a woman on her own, and being with him would make her not on her own any more.

Yes, that had angered her; how could he think that? That he could take the place of three siblings, two parents, a cousin, and three friends? That she'd marry him and live happily ever after because she had a shred of comfort from someone who didn't understand how her loss had ripped her world apart? That she could just forget them and move on and be a quiet little housewife waiting meekly for her husband to come home. "I don't want you working, Susie," he'd said; and that use of a nickname that she'd never used, and had never given him permission to use, grated as well. Oh, some girls would have simpered and thought how wonderful that her man would look after her and keep her, but Susan was not that kind of person. No; once, perhaps, she might have dreamt of that, but no longer. It was something that surprised her; hadn't she gone to all these parties simply to find an eligible bachelor to take her away from all of 'this' to a life of privilege? John could have given her that, and she'd calmly, quietly refused him; refused the life he offered.

"I'm sorry, John," she heard herself say steadily, "but I'm not ready for marriage yet. I'm not sure I ever will be. I thought I was – truly – but I can't do this. I really am sorry."

She'd have felt better if he'd raged at her, called her a callous bitch for leading him on, anything but the awkward pat on the arm, and a quiet murmur that he understood; the devastation on his face as he walked away and out of her life. He was a good man, and she'd hurt him deeply, and she found it very hard to forgive herself.

SS~~SS

There were so many beaux, so many admiring faces, people who'd wanted her. She was no fool; she knew that. How many, though, had loved her? She frowned. None of those who had been her beaux, certainly. Love… no, they hadn't loved her, and she hadn't really loved them, either. Was there something wrong with her?

Another scene forced its way to the surface, something she'd buried so deeply she thought it was never going to rear its ugly head again. But here, where she had no Edmund to comfort and strengthen her, it came at her like a demon.

A beautiful room, sweltering, sultry heat, and fear on the air. Her brother Edmund explaining that they would find it hard to leave Tashbaan (how could she have forgotten that strange name, that exotic place?) without her giving her word to become the bride of her suitor, Prince Rabadash – and that name made her shiver, a sick feeling in her stomach – as he warned her that she might become his wife or his slave. Wife or slave. I don't want you working, Susie. Is that what had made her change her mind? The assumption that she would do as she was told, accept a nickname she didn't want, become a housewife with no means of her own… some reaction to that threat from the past, to try to mould her into something she was not?

Rabadash had desired her, beyond all reason. John had been reasonable, but had still wanted to call the shots and make her decisions for her.

Queen Susan the Gentle lifted her head stubbornly to gaze in the mirror again. One did not, she thought grimly, try to make decisions for a Queen of Narnia.

SS~~SS

After that, scenes flowed into each other, scenes that made her weep with grief and longing, sigh in exasperation at her foolishness, laugh at the antics of her siblings. But through them all, there was a face, a person, who was missing. Where are you? She thought angrily, trying to remember who, what was missing. Where are you?

I am with you. I am within you. No matter how much you have tried to banish me and deny me. I am still with you.

Susan blinked. It was not the response she was expecting. May I see you? The thought came timidly, but warmth flooded through her.

You had but to ask, Daughter. And there he prowled, the great Lion Aslan, shining more brightly than the noonday sun. Then, sorrowfully, reproachfully, you had but to ask.

Susan wept.

SS~~SS

She did her hair in the Narnian fashion the next morning – inexpertly, with no maid to help her. She frowned in concentration, trying to get it just so; and nodded a couple of times when she'd made a fairly passable effort. It was Sunday, and normally she'd have read the paper and had a coffee, but she felt restless and ill at ease, unable to settle, so after a hurried breakfast, she took up her bag and coat and hat, and went out.

It was a pleasant enough spring day, and she found herself back at the church she'd gone to as a child, to Sunday School; the church her parents had attended; the place where, five years ago, she'd attended the funerals of her family. She slipped inside, sitting at the back as she was a little late for the start of the service, and stared at the familiar stained glass windows. The east end, of course, was under scaffolding; the church had suffered badly in the blitz, and had not yet been restored. She listened half-heartedly to the readings and sermon, but stifled a gasp at the prayer of consecration. This is my body, broken for you. Do this in remembrance of me…

And ringing through her mind, fresh from the previous evening, that sorrowful, reproachful, you had but to ask. And she saw, instead of the golden glow of last night, that body, broken, dead, lying on a table of stone, and shuddered at the memory of the lifeless form, the distraught sobbing of her sister as she wore her fingers raw trying to untie him, her own hopeless sobs as she tried to help. This is my body, broken for you. This is my body, broken for you.

Why had she thought it was only for Edmund that Aslan had died – was it not for the sake of the prophecy, that they'd all become monarchs of Narnia and free it from the tyranny of the witch, of evil, that he'd made his sacrifice? Was it not for them all, for all of Narnia, that he'd died? And was she not also a part of that?

Why had she thought it was only Lucy who was his dear heart, his beloved, when she, too, had been comforted by him so many times, strengthened by his loving care?

Why had she thought it was only Peter who was so important to him, as the High King, when she, too, was appointed Queen to reign with him and Edmund and Lucy?

Why had she thought herself so little, so insignificant, so small? Did Aslan not love her, too? As much as the others?

This is my body, broken for you.

SS~~SS

She sat, lost in thought, for a while after the service had ended, and as the last members of the congregation filtered out through the doors, she followed them. It was not the rather gruff elderly clergyman who'd taken the funeral service who was speaking to the congregation as they went out, but a much younger man, with a kindly air. He seemed to know each and every one of his parishioners by name. Last of all, lingering in the hopes of not being noticed, and that she might slip out unseen, came Susan, to be greeted with a warm smile and a handshake. "Welcome to St. Mary's – I don't think I've seen you here before. I'm Father Dominic."

She smiled a little tentatively. "Susan Pevensie. I haven't been to church since the funerals of my family some years ago." She hadn't intended it to come out quite so much of a challenge, and bit her lip. "I'm sorry, that sounded terribly rude."

He smiled gently. "Not at all, I assure you, Miss Pevensie. Grief takes a great deal of time to heal, and when those we love best are taken from us, we grieve all the more. Grief, they say, is the price we pay for love."

She gulped, hearing the grief again in Aslan's voice. You had but to ask. He had never stopped loving her, and so grieved for her denial of him all the more. "It… has been very hard," she acknowledged. "I lost my parents, three siblings, my cousin, and some friends in a train crash. I found it… hard to forgive a God who could take so much from me." It felt like a weight off her chest, telling him that, although in her mind she was speaking more of Aslan – but he wasn't to know that.

He nodded in sympathy. "Believe me, I do understand. I remember that train crash, if it is the one I think you mean; I was going through my training at the time, and lost family, too. I almost gave up my training there and then – my faith was shaken so much – even though I only had a couple of months still to go. But… well, I found my way again, in time. Sometimes we all stray a little from our allotted paths, only to find them again. And perhaps there is a reason for those twists and turns." He gave a slight chuckle. "Had I not been skiving some of my courses, I might have been on that train, as it was the one I normally took to get to my lectures. But I'd stolen out to go to the pictures instead, with a friend. It took me a long time to forgive myself for being someone who survived." He caught her elbow as she swayed. "Miss Pevensie? Are you feeling unwell?"

"I… I think I should like to sit down," she said faintly. Her mind was in a whirl as he helped her to a seat. "It just seems so strange. My brothers and sister had asked me to go with them that day, but I'd refused – I was taking tea with a friend, and wouldn't put her off to spend time with my family. For so long, I have…"

"Blamed yourself for surviving? Yes, I understand."

And she knew that he did, and she was comforted, rather than affronted, when he smiled at her, and said, "I know you still have much healing to do, Miss Pevensie, but I hope I have been of some service to you today. Even if you feel unable to come to the services, please know that my door is always open if you want to talk to someone."

SS~~SS

After several months, the Narnian hairstyle came with practised ease, though Susan had a far greater appreciation for the maids who'd lovingly braided her hair when she was still in Narnia. Now, she could do it almost without thinking or checking in the mirror; and, in fact, only gave herself a perfunctory look as she readied herself to go out. She wore no make-up; she found she couldn't be bothered with it any more, and had given it away or thrown it out. This was not to say that she had no wish to look her best; but she realised that cosmetics were not the way she wanted to achieve it.

She had not been back to the communion service at the church since that time a few months previously, unable to bear the horror of the vision of Aslan's broken body overshadowing the service. She'd been irregularly to evensong. More often, though, when she felt lonely, or the grief and guilt hit her particularly hard, she'd swallowed her pride and taken Father Dominic at his word. He had never seemed surprised to see her, yet without seeming as though he'd been expecting her, and he'd never put pressure on her to go to the services. He had, quite simply, been there. Nor had he expected her always to speak of her grief, but somehow let it be acknowledged, even if she'd spoken of other things. He'd become a very dear friend.

Which was why, on this sunny Saturday, she'd allowed him to talk her into going to the church fete. She'd objected that she didn't really know anyone, which was not entirely true, as many of the parishioners were neighbours, though they were not close friends. He'd pointed out that she could get to know them. She'd objected that she had the housework to do. He'd countered by saying one week wouldn't make that much difference. She'd objected that she had to do the grocery shopping, and he'd immediately asked his housekeeper if she wouldn't mind very much collecting Miss Pevensie's groceries for her on Friday afternoon, and Mrs Brown had said, in her cheery, motherly way, that of course it was no trouble, dearie, just to give her the list and the key and she'd pop it in for her on the way home. Susan was, perhaps for the first time, completely out-maneuvered.

So, the rug most definitely pulled from under her feet, she'd given in with good grace, and had even baked some cakes for the cake stall and now stacked them neatly in the basket.

It was a pleasanter event than she'd thought it might be, and for a while, she enjoyed browsing the second-hand book stall, avoiding the pile of books that she'd donated – the first few things of her family's that she'd managed to let go of. It still hurt, and she soon moved off to other stalls, but it wasn't until she came to the area set aside for games that she found her friend.

"Have a go?" he suggested, waving at the target. "I couldn't get anywhere near the bull's-eye for the life of me. See if you can do better!"

Her heart sped up, hands shaking a little, but she handed over her money slowly nonetheless. The man in charge was half-way through explaining how to fit the arrow to the string as it thudded squarely in the centre of the target. His mouth gaped, and when the next two arrows also hit the bull's-eye, he muttered something about beginner's luck, but quickly fell silent at her closed look. She laid the bow down, and fell into step beside Father Dominic, who had given her an amused, assessing look.

"Beginners don't reach for the next arrow in their quiver," he remarked mildly. "You've done that before."

So he'd noticed the way her hand had involuntarily reached back, rather than to the arrows that the man had been holding. "A few times," she replied neutrally; there was no point in denying it, after all. She'd so obviously known what to do.

"I don't recall there being an archery club in Finchley, though?"

"There isn't; I didn't learn in Finchley."

"When you stayed in the country, perhaps?"

She smiled in agreement. "Yes." It was sort of true, after all. "I haven't handled a bow and arrow in years, though." That, at least, was perfectly true.

"Well, it seems you haven't forgotten how to do it." And he had the good sense to leave it at that. But Susan pondered the incident for some while.

SS~~SS

"I want to set up an archery club for the children."

To his credit, Father Dominic did not look surprised. "What a wonderful idea. With you teaching?"

"Yes."

"Hmm." He thought about it. "Well, I'll have a look into it. At the church, or at the school? You're teaching there now, aren't you?" For Susan had now finished her training.

"Yes, I am. I don't know which, really. I just thought, you know, it would be nice to do something like that. After all, I have the skill, and what's the point in that if I don't use it? And I enjoy teaching."

"Well, as the parish priest, I'm on the board of governors of the school. How about I suggest it as an after school club? It might need some outlay for equipment, of course."

"Of course, but I can provide some of it; my parents left everything to be divided equally between me and my siblings, but of course everything came to me. So I could…"

Her friend laughed. "Let's not get ahead of ourselves, shall we? Let me talk to some people first. Then we'll talk about it."

Susan sat back with a sigh. "Yes, I suppose you're right." She accepted the cup of tea offered to her with a smile. "It's so nice to be doing something again. Something useful, I mean."

He nodded. "It's good to see you doing it."

SS~~SS

"That's right, Meg, pull your arm back. Elbow back, not to the side. Good, that's better. Keep your eye on the target, hands steady. There! Well done!" exclaimed Susan as her newest archery pupil flushed with pleasure at having hit the target for the first time. Not the bull's-eye, of course; that was still a long way off; but it was the first of her arrows that had not, by some misadventure or another, gone astray. Meg was not particularly adept, but what she lacked in ability she made up for in enthusiasm and determination. And Susan was proud of her achievement.

Watching, Father Dominic couldn't help but think what a transformation this was from the sad, bitter young woman he'd greeted that Sunday morning to the grounded, efficient teacher who found pleasure and consolation in teaching. She looked so regal, standing with bow and arrow in hand, demonstrating to her pupils, he thought she rather looked like a warrior-queen of old – fanciful notion that it was. He was pleased that she looked content, fulfilled, here teaching the children. He was glad to see that his friend was slowly healing.

SS~~SS

He had noticed, over the years, that Susan's hair had become streaked with grey, her eyes tired. It wasn't until she broke down in tears that he noticed the hands, however.

"Oh, Susan…" he murmured, as she held them out for inspection, and he noticed the tell-tale signs of arthritis creeping in. "I'm so sorry. Will you have to give up the archery club?"

She nodded, brushing the tears away. "I can barely string the bow any more," she said shakily. "I can't carry on for much longer."

It was heart-breaking; she'd invested so much time and effort into the club, and it pained him to see her distress, especially as he knew the archery brought back memories of happy times spent with her siblings, though she'd rarely shared those memories with him. Only once she'd really opened up, when Meg had asked about how you flamed an arrow, and didn't you burn your fingers, or the bow? And Susan had laughed – a merry laugh that was rarely heard – and had replied, no, her sister had made that mistake once, and had tried it, and had nearly set fire to herself and the bow string, before their teacher had caught her at it, and reprimanded her. She'd gone on to explain that (while Meg shouldn't attempt it), it was done with much longer arrows than normal, so the point of the arrow was nowhere near the string (or your fingers) when you released it. She'd added, mischievously, that it was wise to remember not to take aim for too long, either; and sensing another story, he'd pressed her to tell on. But all she'd said, with another laugh, was that Lucy, valiant creature that she was, had made that mistake and burnt her fingers, but that to remind herself not to do it in future, she'd refused to have any sort of treatment for the burns, even though there was – salve – available. He'd wondered about that slight hesitation at the time, but dismissed it as unimportant.

He looked again at the beginnings of deformity in her hands. "What are you going to do? Carry on as long as possible? Disband the club?"

She took a deep breath. "I'll carry on while I can. Meg wrote to me last week – you remember Meg?" he nodded, and she continued. "She and I kept in contact after she left school, and all through her teacher training. You know, she said it was because of me that she went into teaching?" she marvelled. Father Dominic wasn't surprised; many of Susan's former pupils had followed her example with adoration, and that included a new generation of teachers inspired by her gift as a teacher, both in the classroom and at archery. Meg was far from an exception, though every time one of her former pupils shyly owned their reason for going into teaching, or for doing this or that, came from Susan's example, she was always gently startled. Her humility never ceased to amuse and astonish him. "Well, she's going to be teaching at the school! You probably knew that."

"I did, and I'm pleased one of our chicks is coming home to roost."

"And I. You know, after the first few terrible attempts, she became quite a good archer – she was so determined! She said she tried to keep it up and is still practising where she can. I was thinking, perhaps, when I can no longer…" her voice wavered slightly, but her chin tilted defiantly as she carried on, "hold the bow and arrow, perhaps, if she's willing, she might take over."

"I think that would be wonderful, if she would; that club has meant so much to the children at the school, especially those who could not, otherwise, have afforded something like that. Lifetime friendships have been formed over bow and arrows, rivalries settled, griefs mended. No, Susan, hear me out," he smiled, as she started to object. "You've done no end of good by starting that club, and touched so many young lives, and given them such a wonderful example. It would be a shame to see all that hard work go to waste. If Meg will do it, I know it'll be in good hands."

SS~~SS

It was Meg who insisted that the bow and arrow – which should have been hers, as Susan had left all the archery paraphernalia to her – was placed in the coffin with her. "I know it wasn't in her will," she said fiercely when Father Dominic commented mildly on it, "but don't you think she'd have wanted it? Really?"

He'd had no answer to that, and he'd long since discovered that one simply did not argue with Meg Reece. If, as Susan had once said, her sister Lucy had been anything like Meg, she'd have been a force to be reckoned with. He wished he could have met her – and the brothers she'd so adored, come to that.

So he'd held up his hands and let her lay them in the coffin. And now, here he sat, keeping vigil the night before his friend's funeral, alone in the church.

He knelt by the coffin to pray.

"Lord of all, I give you thanks this day for the life of our sister Susan, beloved teacher and friend." Tears dripped down his face, and his hands sought for, and found, the well-worn service book, opening to the funeral vigil.

"God of all consolation, in your unending love and mercy you turn the darkness of death into the dawn of new life. Your Son, by dying for us, conquered death and, by rising again, restored to us eternal life. May we then go forward eagerly to meet our redeemer and, after our life on earth, be reunited with all our brothers and sisters in that place where every tear is wiped away and all things are made new; through Jesus Christ our Saviour. Amen."

He kept vigil through the night, praying sometimes aloud, sometimes silently, eyes red and puffy with weeping for his friend. Stiff and sore and cold from kneeling all night, he uttered a final prayer for Susan as the sun began to rise. "May the souls of the faithful departed, through the mercy and love of God, rest in peace and rise in glory."

He would say, years after, as he himself lay dying, that he heard then a wild, jubilant bugle-call, as if a welcome home to one much loved; and, as the sun's first beams hit the coffin through the newly-restored stained glass window, he could have sworn he heard a lion's roar.

SS~~SS

A/N: There IS a St. Mary's Anglican church in Finchley, which was damaged in 1940 and the east end rebuilt in the 1950s. Father Dominic (for anyone wondering 'Father' is used to address a priest in the Anglican church, if it's High Anglican, as well as in the Catholic church) and Meg Reece are entirely my own creations. Both the prayers Father Dominic uses during the vigil are genuine prayers; the first is from Common Worship (and may therefore be anachronistic, but it really seemed to fit), and the second I remember using at the end of each service as a child. The words from the prayer of consecration are also taken genuinely from the prayer of consecration as it's used in the Anglican church. And it was, of course, Lucy (on Aslan's orders) winding Susan's own horn to call her home at last.