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Chapter Text

The arrow ripped through her stomach. Barbs got tangled into her once-pale skin as Susan faced the approaching hoard. The beasts that were not men charged towards her, screaming those disgusting words that she couldn’t understand. 

Susan reached for the quiver at her back. Her hand grasped empty air. She was out. This was it. This was how it ended. 

Behind her was a cliff that dropped into a shallow river. Before her were a dozen monsters that wanted to eat her for dinner. Susan knew which death she preferred. She shouldered her bow. Her bare feet pounded against the rocks, sending jolts up her bruised legs as she ran. And she ran. And she ran. 

Then she jumped. 

As she jumped, Susan sent a silent prayer to whatever was out there listening—God, Aslan, she was beyond caring at this point. She prayed that when her neck snapped on the water below, Lucy would be there to hug her. She prayed that Edmund would be there to roll his eyes and Peter would be there to scold her. 

Silly Susan, he would say. Didn’t you know there are more important things than growing up? 

She’d let him say it. She’d let him say it because she would be so happy to see him again that she wouldn’t care to argue. 

As Susan plummeted to the ground below, she prayed in a way that she hadn’t since a lifetime that she had all but forgotten. And she knew, this time, that she was going to die. 

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She was wrong. 

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Aragorn watched the woman hit the river with a sickening crunch. There was no way that a human could survive such a great fall, but he wasn’t willing to leave her body in the river to be eaten by wild animals. She deserved a proper burial in the customs of her people. She’d have to settle for Aragorn’s instead. 

The orcs didn’t follow, instead turning back to the stronghold that they were protecting––the same stronghold he’d been watching for the last three days. The woman was either unlucky or suicidal, searching for shelter amongst orcs. Aragorn would guess that she hadn’t known what she would find there, but he’d learned better than to make such assumptions. Either way, it had cost the oddly-dressed woman her life. 

Swimming into the river, Aragorn gathered her body and dragged the woman to the shore. He didn’t look at her until he was well within the forest, hidden from the orcs. Even in death she was beautiful, tall with raven hair that he was sure had once been immaculately kept. She wore a strange dress made of soft fabric with perfectly symmetrical stitching and beautiful pearl buttons. It was not in any style that Aragorn was familiar with, but it was obvious that she was a wealthy lady––if not from her clothing then from the ornate quiver and bow on her back. Her arm had broken in the impact that killed her, twisted at an odd angle that set sympathy in Aragorn’s chest. 

As he watched, the woman took a deep breath. Her eyes fluttered open. Blue like the water he’d just fished her dead body from. He had been so certain that she was dead. How did she survive such a fall?

“I’m not dead, am I?” she asked. 

Aragorn shook his head. “No.” 

“And I was so certain that it was going to happen.” 

She made death sound like an inconvenience. It made the hairs on Aragorn’s arms stand on edge. “Did you want to die?”

“I’m not adverse to the idea,” she said. “Although running from slobbering creatures is not the way that I would like it to happen.” 

She struggled to sit up. Aragorn helped her, being extra careful with her broken arm. Pulling his medicine kit out of his pack, he started to bandage it. The woman bit down a scream as he set the bone. “Do you know what those ‘slobbering creatures’ are?”

“Do you?” 

“Those are orcs, Lady…”

She snorted. “I’m not a lady. Although, if my sister was to be believed, I was a queen.” She seemed to find the idea humorous. Aragorn didn’t laugh. “It’s Susan. What’s your name?”

For a second, he almost told her. He wasn’t exactly sure why. She was a stranger claiming to be a lost queen. Maybe he felt a sort of kinship with her, this lost ruler who so clearly didn’t belong in the harsh forest. “Strider.” 

“What’s your real name?” 

Aragorn didn’t answer. 

She surveyed him as he finished bandaging her arm by creating a makeshift sling. “You can keep your secrets, but there are other questions that I need answers to.” 

“If it is in my capabilities to answer them, then I will,” he promised.

Susan seemed to know that this was an oath that he would keep. “Where am I?”

“You are currently in the mountains of Ered Luin.” 

“And where is that?” 

“In Middle Earth.” 

A sigh left Susan’s lips. She leaned her head against the tree behind her in resignation. “I thought as much.” 

The acceptance sparked Aragorn’s curiosity. “And where are you from, my lady?” 

“Someplace faraway from here. I don’t think I’ll be able to return.” 

She spoke with such certainty that Aragorn believed her. Whatever life she’d had was lost. Now she was a stranger in an unfamiliar land. Pity filled Aragorn's chest. He was all too familiar with the feeling of missing home—even if that was a place that he’d never truly known. He’d been to Gondor. He’d beheld the white city with his own eyes and lived amongst her people. It called to him to protect it. Such a song was not easy to ignore, no matter how much he longed to forsake the cursed crown that was his birthright. 

He glanced toward the bow at her side. “Do you know how to use that weapon?” 

“Much to my surprise, yes. I seem to have a talent for it.” 

“Good. You’ll need it.” 

Offering Susan his hand, he pulled her to her feet. They were bare. That would be his first business: outfitting her with proper footwear. 

“And why is that?”

Aragorn didn’t provide her with a straightforward answer. Instead, he asked, “What do you know of rangers?” 

Chapter Text

“Honestly, would it kill you to smile at the girl?” 

“What girl?”

Susan rolled her eyes. Strider was more hopeless than Peter. For all his kingly qualities, her elder brother had never noticed when a girl was flirting with him. Edmund, on the other hand, had. It had turned into a game between the two of them when they were in Narnia (which Susan was starting to slowly believe had actually happened) to see how many hints they could drop before Peter would notice the fluttering eyelashes and honeyed words. 

Strider was a million times worse than Peter had ever been. 

“That girl makes eyes at you every time she passes by us.” And she was pretty too. With her curling red hair and sweet smile, she would’ve definitely held Peter’s attention. At Strider’s disbelieving expression, Susan explained, “She fancies you.” 

“She is a very attractive woman,” Strider said after a moment. 

“But…?”

Strider sighed. “If this is the type of questioning that your siblings had to put up with, I pity them.” 

“This is nowhere close to it,” Susan corrected. “Now answer the question: why won’t you smile at the pretty girl?”

A minute passed as his thoughts turned inward. Susan was sure that he wasn’t going to answer her question when he finally spoke, “Because doing so would be a betrayal to the one I love.” 

Susan felt a little silly for gasping. There were girls who’d made fun of her for being so invested in romantic relationships––girls like Jill Pole who thought that they were better simply because they didn’t match their shoes with their lipstick. 

(Not that Susan had much of an opportunity to match anything over the past three months. These days, she dressed much like Strider, in worn leather boots and rough-spun tunics. The dress that she’d traveled to Middle Earth with was folded at the bottom of her bag. It would take a miracle to repair, but she didn’t want to get rid of it. Her mum had bought her that dress.)

“You have a…” Girlfriend didn’t sound like the right word. People didn’t have girlfriends in Eriador. Lover was a far too intimate word. “Person that waits.” 

Those were the words she finally settled on. For what was love if not having someone who waited for you? There was no one waiting for her return––not like there had been the last time she’d ventured into a strange world. At least this one made a little sense, she thought. There were no talking animals, strange lampposts, or Santa Claus here. There was no eternal winter, just tales of a war that had long since passed. 

Strider didn’t like those stories.

“I do.” 

“Care to elaborate on that?” 

“No.” 

“Of course not,” Susan huffed. 

Strider wasn’t a particularly open man. She knew enough about his character to trust him, and he had saved her life many times in these last three months, but he didn’t talk about his past. He never mentioned siblings, or even so much as a mother. She didn’t think he would ever share those things. Perhaps they were not his secrets to tell. Susan had plenty of experience with that. 

The shadows of a smile tugged at Strider’s lips. “I’ll tell you one day.”

“When?”

“On the day I tell you my real name.” 

It was a promise. Susan smiled. Strider always strove to keep his promises. One day he would share the truth and so would she. One day she’d tell him a crazy story of a Daughter of Eve who became the High Queen. One day, but not yet. 

“Well, if you’re not going to buy her a drink, we may as well leave.” Susan stood and shouldered her bow. “We do have a job to do.” 

“Do we?” There was a teasing note in Strider’s voice. It tugged at her heart. When was the last time she’d heard that type of teasing? When was the last time she’d appreciated it?

She’d been joining Strider on his ranger duties for the last three months. It always helped to have somebody watching your back, and Strider hadn’t had that for quite some time. Susan was sure that he did not need an extra pair of eyes––she had seen him fight after all––but he didn’t say anything to suggest that she was slowing him down. If anything he seemed to appreciate the company. 

Sometimes, though, he would wander off into the woods alone. He’d always come back the next morning, and Susan never asked him where he’d gone, but she worried. She knew the look of a haunted man; she’d seen the ravages of wars in her siblings' eyes. That was why it had been easier to pretend that Narnia never existed. They’d escaped one war only to fight in another. And when they’d come back––after they’d grown up––after they’d lived full lives––after they’d loved and lost and fought and survived––nothing had changed. Not even their bodies. 

She was glad to be a ranger, to help protect against the monsters known as orcs. She was scarred in ways that her body would never show. The least she could do was protect the innocents the way she and her brothers had always strived to protect Lucy. As long as Lucy had hope, they would win. As long as Lucy…

Susan tore her thoughts away from her siblings before she could slip into the pain and anguish that always accompanied them. They were dead and gone. Nothing she did could bring them back. 

“Oi, ranger!” 

Susan sighed as Strider stopped halfway out of town. That person hadn’t sounded particularly pleasant. Turning around only helped to prove her point. The leering man may have been handsome, but Susan could not tell with the hideous expression on his face and the hatred in his eyes. He had four men with him, each with a similar air of trouble. Susan really didn’t want to deal with trouble right now. She’d been promised the legendary green pastures of the Shire, not a back alley brawl in Bree. 

“What can I do for you gentlemen?” Strider asked politely. Susan liked that about him. He never seemed to forget his manners. His mother would be proud wherever she was. 

“You looking for a fight?” The man asked. “I saw the way you were eying my girl. We don’t appreciate strangers coming into town stealing our womenfolk, ranger.” 

Susan bit back a groan. Womenfolk? Were these men barbarians? The woman obviously didn’t care much for the man before them if her flirting was anything to go by, and Susan didn’t blame her. She wouldn’t want these men either. 

“I didn’t intend any disrespect,” was Strider’s diplomatic answer. “You have my sincerest apologies. Now, if you’ll excuse us.”

As Strider turned to leave, the man shouted, “I didn’t say you could leave, did I? The way I see it, we’ve got to make an example out of these two to stop others from getting ideas.” 

Susan couldn’t take it anymore. Edmund was the diplomat, not her. She broke. “You can’t seriously be dim enough to believe that fighting two rangers is a good idea?” 

Her gaze flicked from Strider, who had several seen and unseen knives along with a bow and a sword on his person, to the man and his friends, who mostly possessed the knives she’d seen people carrying around town. This seemed to be a spur of the moment decision––one that could cost them their lives. Were all men so stupid? 

“It’s five against two, boy. I like those odds.” 

Susan stopped herself from correcting him. It helped to have people underestimate her. 

“My partner is right,” Strider said. “Let us pass and no harm will come to you.” 

The man didn’t like that. He lunged. Susan rolled her eyes. She should’ve known better than to expect logic from barbarians. She made eye contact with Strider as she sidestepped a flailing dagger. He nodded. Good, she thought, they were in agreement. 

With that, she swept a leg underneath the man attacking her. He tumbled to the ground, sputtering for breath. That gave Susan time to deal with the other man attacking her. She ducked underneath his swing and kneed him in between the legs. If these men weren’t going to take her advice, then she wasn’t going to fight fair. The man doubled over in pain. A knock over the head with a nearby log was enough to render him unconscious. 

There was the sound of scuffling behind her. Before she could turn around, Susan felt a stab of pain in her arm as a small throwing knife lodged itself in her bicep. With a hiss, Susan whirled around and kicked him in the stomach. As he stumbled back, she didn’t stop her attacks, throwing the man into the wall and kicking him in the face. He didn’t get back up. 

Susan pulled the knife from her arm, slipping it into a sheath on her bracer as she turned to Strider’s fight. She watched him finish the remaining three men. Leaning against a barrel, she checked her arm. The pain was already gone, as was the wound. Her skin was as smooth as the day she was born. 

Just as she’d expected. 

“A little help would’ve been nice,” Strider said.

Susan glanced behind him at the three unconscious men. “Looks like you had it sorted.” 

Strider snorted. “See if I help you the next time you get us in a fight.”

“That was not my fault.” 

“You called him stupid.”

“I called him dim,” Susan corrected, “and this fight is no one’s fault but his own. We warned him.”

Strider looked at the man with pity. “We did.” 

With that, the two rangers left Bree behind them and headed to the Shire.

Chapter Text

The boy’s name was Peregrine, but he’d told Susan to call him ‘Pippin’ the night before. There was a mischievous curl to his lips when he smiled—the sort that promised trouble. Eustace used to look like that, once he’d gotten over being a haughty brat. Maybe that’s the reason Susan didn’t immediately tell Pippin to run along home when he started trailing after her. Susan was meant to be checking the boundaries while Strider chatted with Old Took. She could keep an eye on a trouble-making child in the process. 

And he was a child, even though he was a hobbit. A hobbit. What strange, lovely creatures they were. Small and judgmental, certainly, but with a love for life unlike anything Susan had ever seen. Old Took insisted on throwing a feast to welcome them, even though they were simply two rangers. And what a feast it had been. Susan didn’t think she’d ever had that much food in her life, not in any life she’d lived. 

She allowed Pippin to trail behind her for awhile, pretended she didn’t notice him stumbling behind her. She’d genuinely lost sight of him once or twice, but Pippin always resurface, as if afraid she would disappear if she could not hear him sneaking. After the first hour, Susan decided there’d been enough sneaking around. 

“You can come out Pippin,” she said. 

There was a gasp and a stumbling of large feet before Pippin appeared at her knee. He blinked up at her with wide eyes. “How did you know I was following you?” 

“Were you trying to be sneaky?” 

“I was sneaking about. You shouldn’t have been able to hear me.” 

Susan sat down on the ground. A stream trickled a few feet away from them. To Pippin it must’ve seemed like a river and she like a giant. Had she ever met a giant before?

An image flickered across her mind’s eye. A battlefield. And in it, three lumbering giants. There was fear there—such fear. Peter was out there and Edmund too. They were just boys—just children. This was not their war or their world. This was not their fight. What were they thinking? What was she thinking? She’d promised her mother she’d look after her siblings, keep them safe. They’d been sent away so they wouldn’t have to witness the atrocities of war, yet here they were—

Susan pushed the thought away before she could spiral into it. She focused on the curly-haired boy before her. Leaning in, she whispered, “Do you want to know a secret?”

Pippin nodded eagerly. 

“Do you promise not to tell anyone?” 

“Cross my heart.” Pippin made an X over his heart. 

Susan frowned as if she was debating whether or not to tell Pippin. 

“I promise I won’t tell anybody. Not even Merry.” 

“Well, if you won’t tell Merry, then I suppose it’s alright to tell you.” She could hide the smile on her face but not the one in her voice as Pippin stared up at her with those wide eyes. Had she ever been that innocent? “I can do a lot of things I’m not supposed to be able to.” 

“Like what?” 

Live. She couldn’t die. Her cuts healed and her body always fused itself back together, even when she didn’t want it to. 

It had gotten easier these past few months. Strider made it easier, for all his secrecy. The voice in the back of her mind—the one that reminded her she was alone, alone, alone—wasn’t nearly so loud with Strider by her side. Sometimes, she could almost ignore it. Alone. She was one of four, the last one. The last Pevensie. The last of the Kings and Queens of old. 

Death had been her constant companion through every lifetime. In her first lifetime, when she was a girl who was forced to become a woman before she was ready, the knowledge she could die had been there. It had haunted her actions, turned her into someone who cared only for the safety of her siblings. In her second lifetime, in a world that felt more like a dream than a memory, that she’d fled from death. On battlefields and in the street, she’d run and run and run, hoping and praying and believing in life.  

In her third lifetime, when she was a woman trying to reclaim her girlhood, death had refused to let go of her. It had taken everything: her parents, her brothers, her sister, even the professor. But when she’d begged it to take her, it had refused. It sent her here—to this land where she could not die, even when she desperately wanted to. 

In her fourth lifetime, in this lifetime, death had abandoned her. She’d spent so long trying to avoid it, but now it escaped her. She could not die. 

If Strider noticed, he did not say anything about it. He had his secrets and she had hers. Neither one asked about the things that were better left unspoken. 

“Lady Susan?” 

Pippin’s voice pulled Susan out of her thoughts. He was looking at her with concern on his face. She smiled at him. “I told you last night. Just call me Susan.” 

“But you’re so pretty. You’ve got to be a lady or a princess.” 

If this were Strider, she would’ve said something snarky, something that would cause the ends of his mouth to turn up, even if he didn’t smile, but it wasn’t Strider before her, who understood the weight of secrets, it was Pippin, and Pippin was simply a boy. She shook her head. “I’m not a lady or a princess. I’m simply a woman.” 

“You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.” 

It was kind of him to say such things when she was dressed as a ranger without so much as a rouge on her cheeks. “Thank you, Master Took.” 

“You are welcome, Lady Susan.” 

Susan sighed. There would be no convincing him to call her otherwise. Well, if the boy insisted she was a lady, she may as well take the chance offered to play a little bit of pretend. “Master Took, would you do the honor of dancing with me on this fine day?” 

“But I don’t know how to dance.” 

“Don’t worry. I’ll teach you.” 

And teach him she did. A foxtrot. A waltz. Swing dancing—how she’d loved swing dancing in America. And the courtly dances of a dream. Narnian dances were designed more for centaurs and fawns with far too much hopping for humans, but Pippin enjoyed them the same. And Susan enjoyed dancing with a child whose laughter sounded a little bit like Lucy’s. 

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Susan didn’t notice Aragorn’s approach. She was too wrapped up in twirling the hobbit boy around—one of Old Took’s many grandsons—to notice his approach. He slowed as her laughter rang out through the clearing, coupled with the child’s as he struggled to keep up with the dance she showed him. The dance required an awful lot of skipping and hopping and would be right at home in some celebration in the Shire. 

Aragorn leaned against a tree and watched the pair. Susan didn’t laugh much. He’d gotten a few chuckles out of her, mostly in irritation at his failing social graces, but he’d never truly heard her laugh—not like this. It was a beautiful sound, the sort of sound that caused heads to turn, as if Susan herself didn’t already do that. 

She’d been a queen once, she’d told him when she met him, in that snarky, bitter way of hers. He could see it. A beautiful queen, kind and gentle, whose smile could motivate men to fight for her cause. She had a queenly air to her, even if she sometimes acted like an annoying younger sister. She was certainly more royal than he’d ever be. 

And yet here they both were: two rangers patrolling the Shire. She was not a queen any longer and he would never be a king. They were kindred spirits, the two of them. If anyone would understand Aragorn’s plight, it would be Susan, yet he hesitated to tell her the truth, the same way she hesitated to tell him her truth. 

He’d noticed. It had been painfully obvious the first time he’d met her, when he’d fished her body out of the river, but there had been times since then. Susan wasn’t as talented a swordsman as he, although she was a finer archer. In a scuff, she got cut, yet she never tended to her wounds. She never had to. 

There had been times when he’d almost asked her. In that pub in Bree. On the road after a fight. He’d almost opened his mouth and asked her what she was. A Maia? Some sort of elven creature? Something older and deeper from a time long lost? The words never left his lips. It did not matter what she was. He knew her character. She was a woman who taught a hobbit boy how to dance. Such a being was not a threat to Middle Earth. 

Aragorn stepped away from the tree and returned back to Old Took’s hobbit hole. He didn’t want to interrupt her fun. She deserved it. 

Chapter Text

There were six regions of Middle Earth, although one of them was not a place where any man, elf, dwarf, or hobbit dared to venture. 

“Mordor is a wasteland filled with orcs and monsters from your greatest nightmares,” Strider explained to her one night as they camped in the wilderness of the Reach. A fire crackled between the two of them, sending sparks into the sky. “The scars of evil run deep into the soil, stopping anything from growing.” 

“Sounds like a lovely place for a holiday.” At Strider’s serious expression, Susan clarified, “I’m joking.” 

“This is no joking matter.” 

“That, I’ve gathered.” Susan leaned back on her elbows. A sea of foreign stars twinkled above her. Here, she did not know the constellations nor the stories behind them. It was just another reminder of how foreign this land truly was to her. “Let’s move on to a cheerier subject, please. Like your beloved. You have yet to tell me anything about her.” 

Strider remained silent. Susan hadn’t truly expected him to answer, but she would like to know more about her traveling companion. It had been six months and still she didn’t know much about his history. 

“Or, perhaps she’s not a she at all. You know, I met a man when I was visiting… well, it’s a large city in a country I wasn’t born in, but you wouldn’t know it… my point is, he was in love with another man, which I thought was the oddest thing, but if your beloved is—”

“A woman,” Strider corrected before Susan could speculate otherwise. “She’s a woman.” 

“That wasn’t so hard, was it? Now, what’s she like?” 

“You always ask about her.” 

“That’s because I’m curious, and one of us should have a love life. Aslan knows mine is dreadfully dull.” 

“You could have one, if you liked,” Strider said. At Susan’s disbelieving expression, he said, “You turn the head of every man we pass. Many would jump at a chance to marry you.” 

“It is not marriage I want, but love. True love. The sort that stands the test of time. All I’ve known are adolescent dalliances.” 

“So you have been in love before?” 

Susan arched an eyebrow. “Who’s the one asking questions now?” Strider looked like he was about to apologize or take back his words, so Susan spoke first, “There was Adam. He was… bold. Confident. He knew what he wanted and he wasn’t afraid to ask for it. I liked that about him, especially after all the bumbling boys back home.

“And there was James. He was an intellectual, headed off to study at the top university in our country. His mind was a match for mine, which is what drove him away in the end. He liked my face better than my opinions. He didn’t like it when I asked questions.”

Six months ago, Susan would have said those were the only two boys she’d ever truly loved. Six months ago, Susan would not have mentioned Aslan in a sentence. Six months ago, Aslan was Lucy’s imaginary friend, not the lion who haunted Susan’s dreams. 

“And then there was Caspian,” Susan said with a sigh. “Caspian was courageous, kind, a good man.” 

That was what Susan wanted: a good man. He didn’t have to be great. He didn’t have to be intellectual or bold. She just wanted him to be good, and kind, and courageous. 

She swallowed down the memory of a boy with kind brown eyes who looked at her like she’d hung the moon. “It wasn’t meant to be. Timing and all that.” 

And there was another memory of Eustace at a family gathering whispering to Peter, Edmund, and Lucy about how Caspian had married a star, his one true love. He’d grown into a man and married a woman, not the girl who’d known him for a month. There wasn’t grief there—not like with her siblings. Caspian was a boy she’d loved and lost years ago. 

The flames danced between Susan and Strider as silence settled over them like a blanket. Silence. Susan was used to it after so long at Strider’s side. The grass rustled in the wind. An owl hooted somewhere in the distance. 

“Her name is Arwen,” Strider broke the silence, “and she’s the only woman I have ever loved.” 

Susan didn’t respond to that—she didn’t think Strider wanted her to. She rolled onto her back and stared up at the stars. The fire turned to embers. The grass rustled in the wind. Eventually, Strider rolled onto his back and went to sleep, leaving Susan alone with her thoughts. 

Caspian. She hadn’t thought of him in years. Even when memories of Narnia had started to return, Caspian had barely been amongst them. The glimpses of the world she saw in her dreams rarely featured him, yet when she’d started telling Strider of the men she’d loved, there he’d been. She’d loved him, once—in a youthful, immature way. She could remember that feeling and the way it had hurt to leave, even though she’d wanted to get back to some level of normalcy. 

All the memories of Narnia hurt. Maybe if she hadn’t forgotten them, they could have been tinged with golden light. Maybe if she hadn’t shouted at Lucy to give up on her silly games, she could have remembered Narnia fondly. But she’d forgotten. She’d chosen to move on, to grow up, to focus on the world she was living in. And her siblings had died—not because of Narnia. Susan didn’t believe Aslan caused the train crash. But her siblings, the ones who believed, who shared those memories, died, and now she had no one to talk to them about. 

She’d died too. The first time, before she’d been brought to Middle Earth, she’d been driving in the middle of a rainstorm. It had been two years since the crash, and she’d tried to move on. She’d tried to keep living her life. She’d tried to go on dates and have fun with her friends. She’d tried, and then she’d crashed her car on a bridge outside of Oxford. It was an accident. Of course it had been an accident. The road was slick and the windshield wipers had barely worked and the darkness had looked to inviting, and she’d thought maybe—maybe—there was an afterlife where Peter, and Edmund, and Lucy were waiting. 

She’d been wrong. There was no afterlife. There was only Middle Earth, and Eriador, and Lindon, and Rohan, and a land to the east where evil fertilized the soil. Heaven was a dream and Narnia was a memory. 

A part of Susan wondered if her siblings had found themselves in this strange land when they died. Did they find themselves on the plains of Rohan or the green hills of the Shire? Had they run from orcs and fought bandits? Did their bodies heal every injury? Susan didn’t allow herself to linger on the possibility. Hope would leave a bitter taste in her mouth when it was gone, so she’d rather ignore it. 

“I can hear you thinking,” Strider’s voice cut across the clearing. “Go to sleep.” 

“You go to sleep.” 

Strider hummed in response. Susan closed her eyes and thought of nothing but her tired muscles and aching bones. A golden lion met her in her dreams with a whispered, “Susan.” 

Chapter Text

Winter crept up on them with soft morning frosts that quickly transformed into icy winds. It beat through Susan’s clothes, drying out her skin and chapping her lips, persistent in its coldness. The Reach’s chill settled into her bones and made itself at home, refusing to budge even around the warmest of campfires. 

The cold did not seem to affect Strider as it did Susan. His movements were as limber as ever. His feet were swift and his actions held the same surety they always had. Were it not for the way he collapsed by the fire and scarfed down food, Susan would have begun to wonder if the man was truly human. His behavior was more suited to that of an elf than a man. 

Not that Susan had the chance to meet an elf, but she’d heard stories. There were tales in the meadhouses, stories of strange beings who lived through the ages, immortal and eternal. Such beings haunted the forests of Lothlorien, and perhaps, some speculated, even those of Fangorn, for there was something odd about that forest––something strange––something not-quite-right––and elves were a preferable explanation to the alternative. She’d like to meet an elf, one day. And a dwarf too, if only to see how they differed from the ones in her dreams. 

She pushed thoughts of a dear little friend from her mind as Strider pulled his horse to a halt. She followed suit a moment later, bringing her horse beside his with concern on her face. “What is it?” 

Strider looked out over the rocky meadows. The snow-pepper grass blew in the wind. Susan could hear the rushing sound of Swiftwater to their left. Other than that, all seemed quiet. There wasn’t the usual orcish war cry she’d come to expect from Strider’s sudden pauses. There was only—

A scream. Sharp but so soft it was almost lost to the wind. Susan and Striders heads snapped to the left—to the place where the scream had come from—to the river. A horse raced alongside the river, its hooves pounding against the ground, and past it—there was a head, a figure caught in the current. Neither Strider nor Susan took a moment to process the sight, leaping into action. Susan spurred her horse in the direction of the river. Strider was one step ahead of her.

 In one swift move, he leapt from his horse, diving into the river. Susan rolled her eyes. Honestly. It was the dead of winter. The river had to be freezing. The least Strider could’ve done was throw off his cloak before diving, but, no, he had to race into the water. 

He showed no signs of struggle as he swam towards the drowning figure so Susan focused her attention on wrangling the horse. She had no lasso to pull it in like some cowboy from a film. Instead, she urged her horse towards the stallion. It was a huge Rohirric horse, magnificent in a way only Rohan’s horses seemed to be. Susan sidled up to the horse. It kept running, even as Strider fished its rider out of the river. Even with Susan’s horse keeping pace, it did not stop or even slow down. 

Pulling her feet from her stirrups, Susan took a deep breath, rose in her saddle to a half seat and launched herself onto the stallion’s side in a foolhardy move worthy of Peter. Unlike Peter, who would have succeeded in this folly, Susan barely managed to grasp the horse’s saddle before she fell. With the saddlehorn in her hand, she fell onto the flat ground. Pain laced through her body at the landing, then at the feeling of hooves crushing her lungs, but the horse slowed its race. It trotted towards a nearby meadow and munched on the dead grass. 

Susan lay on her back, waiting for the pain to subside. This sort of blow should’ve killed her, but it wouldn’t. She knew that by now. Nothing could kill her—nothing physical, at least. She hadn’t attempted to digest any poisons, so it was possible one of those could end her, but a fall and horse’s hooves—that was a regular spring day. 

She dared not look at her chest as she felt her bones move beneath her skin, righting themselves, focusing instead on the grey sky above. Did it look like it was going to snow? 

Strider’s face eventually appeared over her line of vision. His expression rivaled Edmund’s when one of their siblings did something particularly dumb, only this time it was Susan who’d done the dumb thing.

 “Oh, shut up,” Susan said, lifting herself up. She pointedly looked at Strider’s soaking wet clothes. “It’s not like you made the best choices either.” 

“I didn’t get trampled by a horse.” 

Susan accepted the hand Strider offered her. He pulled her to her feet. “But you’ll die of hypothermia soon if we don’t find you some warm clothes.” She turned her attention to the figure Strider had fished out of the water, loitering nervously beside his horse. 

It was a girl. Her hair was flaxen like many Rohirrim. She was tall for her age with broad shoulders most would never consider feminine and a lanky gait. She was a teenager, Susan guessed, probably fourteen or fifteen, and she was dripping wet. Shivers already wracked her body. 

Susan strolled purposefully towards the girl as Strider retrieved their horses and the runaway stallion. She pulled the cloak from her shoulders and wrapped it around the girl’s. It wouldn’t do much, but, at least, it would protect her from the harsh wind. 

“There,” Susan said gently. “You’re alright.” 

The girl’s teeth chattered. The cloak wouldn’t help her for long. She needed to get into dry clothes, but the only clothes Susan had were the dress she’d arrived here in and the clothing on her back. 

“What’s your name?” Susan asked. 

“E-Eowyn.” 

“It’s lovely to meet you, Eowyn. I’m Susan.” 

“I saw you… with Quickflame… he… you…” 

Ah, Susan thought. Eowyn had seen her heal. While Strider asked no questions, accepting it for the miracle it was, Eowyn would not be the same. She was a teenaged girl and they were insatiably curious. 

“I suppose I got lucky,” Susan said. “The same way you were lucky we heard you scream.” 

“I didn’t…” Eowyn looked like she was going to protest, but the appearance of Strider halted her tongue. She flushed at his approach, but Susan doubted the color in her cheeks was due to the cold. Strider was an attractive man, if one found rugged ranger attractive, and he’d just saved Eowyn’s life. It was natural for a girl her age to develop a crush. She’d have to warn Strider so he could let her down gently. 

“We are not far from Edoras,” Strider announced. “If we make haste, we can reach it before nightfall.” 

Eowyn groaned at Strider’s suggestion, even though Susan thought it was a good one. There was a story there and Susan would get it out of her once they were on the road. They needed to get both Eowyn and Strider warmed up as soon as possible. It looked like it was going to snow.

Eowyn believed her uncle was going to kill her for taking a horse she’d been told was too big, too wild, and too dangerous from his stables. She’d been trying to prove him wrong, that she was a horsewoman worthy of being a shield maiden, but she’d failed. And, because she’d failed, her uncle would kill her. Or, well, ground her—stop her from her pursuit of war and make her focus on her more tedious studies like embroidery. 

Susan didn’t point out Eowyn’s uncle likely would make her focus on her studies regardless of whether or not she’d successfully ridden Quickflame. Instead, she said, “There are many benefits to being proficient in embroidery.”

“Like what?” Eowyn asked as if she did not believe Susan. 

“Like mending your own clothes and making them look new again.” Goodness knows, she’d embroidered enough skirts to bring life back into them, mending the old during the war because there was no new to be bought. She might have gone a tad bit overboard with her purchases after the war, but after so long of having nothing it felt nice to have something new again. 

Eowyn made a displeased face. “How can you say that when you’re a ranger?” 

“Do you think this ranger doesn’t darn her own socks?” 

Eowyn seemed to consider Susan’s question for a moment before deciding it was a red herring argument. “But that’s not the same as embroidery.” 

“Oh?” 

“Yes! Embroidery means sitting around poking holes into tapestries.”

“Do you dislike tapestries?” 

“That’s not the point.” 

“What is the point then?” 

“The point is that I want to fight, to see the glories of the battlefield, to be remembered in songs by my ancestors.” 

Oh, dear. She was a child—Susan needed to remind herself of that. Eowyn was a child and, as such, had childish notions about wars, having only ever learned about them from tutors and songs. Susan wasn’t a child. She’d seen the horrors of wars, in two different realms. Even in a righteous war, lives were lost that would not have been sacrificed in peacetime. No war, no matter how justified, was desirable to Susan. If it were up to her, there would be nothing but peace, stories be damned. 

That was one of the reasons she’d forgotten Aslan in the beginning. They’d been thrown from one war to another, only allowed a moment of peace, and then faced with two more battles. If Aslan was powerful enough to defeat the White Witch, why hadn’t he done so earlier? Why did he wait for Sons of Adam and Daughters of Eve to arrive to do his bidding for him? Why would he allow so many Narnians to fall on the battlefield when he didn’t have to? 

Susan returned her attention to the girl riding beside her. Edoras was a dot in the distance. They steadily approached and would arrive before nightfall, seeing Eowyn back to her uncle’s house. Then, the girl would return to her fanciful dreams of glory and fame in battle. Nothing Susan could say was likely to change her mind, but she still said, “I fought in a war when I was your age.” 

Eowyn’s mouth dropped. 

Susan continued, “There is no glory to be found amongst corpses and blood. The reason we tell stories of heroes is to process the trauma you discover on a battlefield. What you hear is never the truth but a fictionalized version so children and lovers hold their warriors closer at night.” 

Eowyn went silent for a moment at Susan’s words. When Edoras’s gates were within their sight, she finally asked, “Is that how you became a ranger?” 

Susan laughed bitterly. “No.” 

They approached the gates with Strider in the lead. Before they were close enough to converse with the guards, the gates swung open and three horsemen rode out. The one at the front, a solid man with long golden hair, pulled his horse to a halt at the sight of the three of them. His eyes flew over Strider, lingered on Susan for a moment, and stopped on Eowyn. Recognition shone clearly in those pale blue eyes as he exclaimed, “Cousin!” 

Eowyn winced at the sound, both fond and reprimanding. She offered him a closed lip smile. “Hello, Theodred.”  

She sounded like Lucy when Peter caught her someplace she wasn’t supposed to be. If she lived with her uncle, then her cousin was likely as close as a brother. The sight of them made Susan’s heart ache. 

“I was just going out to find you. Father is not pleased you took Quickflame out without even an escort.” Theodred maneuvered his horse beside theirs, placing himself next to Eowyn. She was now sandwiched between him and Susan. 

“I was alright,” Eowyn insisted. 

Theodred’s eyes looked over Eowyn’s frozen dress. “Are you sure about that?” 

“I am.” 

Theodred shook his head fondly. “No doubt thanks to your companions help. I thank you, ranger.” 

He had that look in his eyes—the look of a man with his sights on a beautiful woman. Susan was familiar with that look, with the way it caused men to act towards her. Some of them were perfectly respectable, but some felt entitled to her interest. Based on the way Theodred interacted with his cousin, she would guess he fell into the former category, but he was still a man who looked at her and liked what he saw. 

Susan knew what it was to be desired by men, to draw their attention with a smile or a glance, to direct them about with a well-placed comment, to have them want her to be theirs completely and totally. She knew that love. She didn’t know the sort Strider had—the love that kept you warm despite the winter—the love that burned like a steady hearth instead of a consuming fire. 

Strider’s words from earlier came back to her. There were men who were interested. By the looks of it, Theodred was one of them. If she liked, she could date him, court him, and, perhaps, even fall in love with him. She could—perhaps. 

And that was why Susan said, “My name is Susan Pevensie.” 

“I wish our acquaintance had been made under better circumstances, Susan Pevensie,” Theodred said, “but thank you for delivering my unruly cousin back where she belongs. My name is Theodred, Son of Theoden King, Second Marshall of Rohan, and I am at your service.” 

That was quite a lot of titles. He was the son of a king, which would make him a prince. A prince was flirting with her. Susan almost laughed at the thought. 

“It’s lovely to meet you, Prince Theodred.” 

“Simply Theodred is fine.” 

“I could never be so impolite.” 

“It’s not impolite if I tell you to call me by my name.” 

Behind Theodred, one of the riders huffed. The other one rolled his eyes. Susan bit back a smile. Based on those reactions, she would guess Theodred was a natural charmer. Okay, then. If that was the case, Susan would enjoy her flirtation before taking her leave of the cousins. It had been awhile since she’d had a conversation with a man who wasn’t Strider. 

“If that’s the case,” Susan said, but she didn’t call Theodred by his first name. 

He didn’t seem to notice, his smile brightening at her concession. She smiled back at him, enjoying the attention. Theodred was a handsome man—a prince too. She’d flirted with princes before. A part of her could practically hear Edmund’s voice in her ear telling her they were here for diplomacy, not for flirtation. 

“Oh, Edmund,” she’d told him half a dozen times. “Don’t you know diplomacy and flirtation go hand in hand.” 

Edmund always huffed and rolled his eyes as if she were truly irritating him. She knew she never was—not back then in Narnia, at least. Afterwards, though… that was a different story. 

But her brother was not there to tell her to behave because he was dead. 

A somber mood descended over Susan at the thought. Oh, Edmund. Ed. What she wouldn’t give to say those words again. Theodred must notice the shift in her expression because he turned his attention completely to his cousin. “Let’s get you back home before Father finds out where you’ve been.” 

Eowyn lit up. “You’re not going to tell him?” 

“That depends on you now, cousin.” 

Eowyn took the charge, heading through the gates of Edoras as if it were her idea. Theodred shot a glance back towards Susan and Strider. “The two of you are welcome to join us, if you so desire.” 

It was the polite thing to accept the invitation—the diplomatic thing to do. There was a little bit of Peter in Theodred when he extended the invite, thankful for their help and genuine in his intentions. A girl with flaxen hair, a man who would be king, and her brother’s voice in her ears. Edoras was filled with ghosts and Susan hadn't even stepped foot inside the gates. 

“We thank you for your invitation, Prince Theodred, but we are needed elsewhere,” Strider said what she could not. 

“I understand,” Theodred said, “Know you will always find a home in Edoras, should you ever be in need of it—both of you.” He looked directly at Susan as he spoke. 

The smile that graced her lips was small but genuine. “Thank you, Theodred.” 

“Thank you, Susan Pevensie.” When he smiled, Susan saw a different man with golden hair—a high king chasing his sister through the stairwells of Cair Paravel. By Aslan, he was so much like Peter it hurt. 

The prince vanished through the gates and Susan turned her horse around with Strider by her side. “So, where exactly are we needed right now?” 

Strider considered her for a moment before asking, “How would you like to meet an elf?” 

Chapter Text

She stood in a field of flowers as red as blood. The petals danced and flickered like candle flames but they did not set the ground alight, nor did they turn her dress into ash. She stood in the middle of the fire flowers as if she herself had been planted there. Her bare feet padded through the soft grass. Her shirt rustled over the ground as she walked. 

There was no sun on the horizon, but the sky was light as if it were day. She looked out over the expanse of flowers, her black hair blowing gently in the wind. She was beautiful. Of course she was beautiful. She was a queen—that much was evident. A queen without a kingdom. How lonely. 

And then there was the song. It danced over the field, licking the flames with its music. A mournful lullaby. A satyr song that was not for this land but for something far older, as old as she herself was. 

She sighed along with the song, its melody mixing with the mournful tune. She sighed and she turned around—

Boromir woke up. 

He did not sit up in his bed as his eyes flew open. The night still hung heavy in the air as he lay still, motionless. He’d had that dream again—the one with the woman—the goddess, for what else could she be? In all his dreaming, he never saw her face, never heard her voice, never knew her being. She was a figure on a flaming hill, an apparition who appeared at the oddest times, a woman in his dreams. But it was not the dream that had woken him. 

A floorboard had creaked so softly none but elven ears should have been able to hear it. Boromir was no elf, but he’d developed his sense of sound over the years. He was a protector of Gondor. He’d learned to fight another man blindfolded in his preparation to face the enemy. 

But this was no enemy. No. Rolling onto his side confirmed Boromir’s suspicions. It was no orc sneaking into his room but his brother. Usually, Faramir was lighter footed than that but Boromir’s room was rife with traps for unsuspecting attackers and he changed them frequently. Some may have called him paranoid but he wanted to be prepared should the enemy send assassins after his family. 

“What are you doing, brother?” Boromir’s voice cut through the night like a blade. Faramir paused in the doorway. He’d opened it to take a peek, to reassure himself of his brother’s presence, but he’d been caught before he could slip back into his bedroom. 

Faramir lingered for a moment but did not answer. That could only mean one thing: he’d dreamed of Boromir’s death. 

“Come here.” Boromir made space on his bed to allow Faramir to sit. At seventeen, he’s nearly a man—not the boy who once snuck into Boromir’s bedroom and crawled under his covers. A part of Boromir misses that boy as Faramir sits on the edge of his bed as if he’s afraid of taking up space. 

Father did that to him, Boromir pushed away the unfilial thought and focused on his brother.  

“You have training in the morning,” Faramir said softly in protest as if he wasn’t already sitting on Boromir’s bed, as if he didn’t already take his invitation for reassurance. 

“As do you, and far more lessons than I must attend.”

There was a soft rustling as Faramir shook his head. “They do not matter.” 

“That’s not what I’ve heard. Filmar says you’re quite the scholar. He believes we should send you to Rivendell to learn from the elves, but Hawthorne disagrees.” 

“Hawthorne cares only for the glory of Gondor.” 

“A wise man.” Made wiser still in Boromir’s opinion by his urging to keep Faramir by his side. He was aware such thoughts weren’t righteous and made him a selfish man, but Boromir would allow himself selfishness where his brother was considered. It was the only piece of his life where he allowed such thoughts to exist. 

If he were a selfish man, he would have gone searching for answers by now. There was a woman in his dreams—a goddess—surrounded by flaming flowers. If she was not a true woman, then she was an omen of some sort, a vision sent by the Valar for some reason or another. If Boromir cared only for himself, he would have left the White City to find his answers. If he were a selfish man, he would have approached the woman in his dreams and turned her face to him to catch a glimpse of the mystery that had haunted him for years. But Boromir had other worries and other cares, so the woman in his dreams remained there. 

But that didn’t mean he wasn’t curious. 

“I had the dream again.” 

Faramir did not need to ask for specifications. Both of the steward’s sons were blessed or cursed with dreams of futures and far off places. Faramir once had a dream of a vehicle much like a carriage that was pulled without horses and steered by a wheel attached to a seat. Boromir’s dreams were never so outlandish. He had significantly less dreams than his brother, but he had one reoccurring dream at a greater frequency.

“Did anything change?” Faramir asked. 

“No. It was the same.” The same woman, the same field, the same sad sigh as if her heart had been torn from her chest. 

“The sadness you mention brings forth images of Nienna, but there is nothing in her writings that alludes to fields of flowers, much less ones that are burning.” Faramir chewed his thoughts for a long moment. He had researched Boromir’s dream far more than the man himself had. 

Boromir knew if he allowed himself to search, he would never stop. 

“Flowers are Vána’s domain, and yet her physical description varies greatly from the Queen of Blossoming. Not to mention, the fire motif—it’s almost a masculine trait: fire. It could be symbolic of the Imperishable Flame.” 

“Or they could be the magical flowers that grow on the sun,” Boromir joked. It seemed just as likely the flaming flowers in his dream were related to his mother’s fairy tales of far off lands and they were to the fire that creates life. 

Faramir leveled Boromir with a look doubting his seriousness. “I’m trying to be realistic here.” 

“Being realistic is for dullards.” Boromir flopped onto his back and stared up at the ceiling with a smile. “I much prefer my version.” 

“Of course you do,” Faramir grumbled but there was a smile in his voice—a smile that hadn’t been there when he’d crept into his brother’s room. Boromir counted that as a victory, even if it was formed through annoying his brother rather than comforting him. 

“I always liked Mother’s stories of Narnia,” Boromir protested. “They were better than Father’s tales of long-dead kings and stewards.” 

“They were,” a fondness entered Faramir’s voice. “Do you remember the one of the king who fell in love with a star?” 

Boromir hummed affirmatively. 

“I used to imagine I was in his place—that a star was walking amongst us and I’d caught a glimpse of her beauty. I don’t think I could’ve convinced her to love me.” 

“Why not?” 

“I am not the sort of man a star falls in love with,” Faramir said in that assuredly self-deprecating way of his. Before Boromir could protest, he continued, “She would fall for you.” 

“I do not want to marry a star.” 

“You do not want to marry,” Faramir corrected. 

That was his father’s complaint as of late as if Boromir were a seasoned warrior instead of a man of two and twenty. He could not believe he was hearing the same argument from his brother. 

“I will marry when I find the right woman,” Boromir insisted. 

“And what is wrong with the current Gondorian noblewomen Father wishes for you to marry? I believe her name is Lady Dirlorm.” 

There was nothing wrong with her, or with the five other women his father had pushed at him in his attempt to gain a grandchild. She was perfectly nice, perfectly poised, perfectly fine. But Boromir did not wish for fine. 

It was a foolish wish, for he was the steward’s son, next in line to be the steward, but Boromir desired to fall in love—the sort of love the bards sang of, a love that traversed time and space, that would live on past his death. He wanted a woman he loved to know his love from beyond the grave, to know that his heart was hers until his dying breath, to use that love to heal herself. He would not leave a widow in this world, and, with how frequently Faramir dreamed of his death, he knew the likelihood of such a thing happening. Only such a love would convince him to matrimony—only such a love. 

“I have time,” Boromir told his brother instead of the truth. “Do not pressure me like Father does and I will not ask why you have not responded to any of the love letters sent your way?”

“What love letters?” 

“The ones from the junior scribes at the university.” 

“Those are inquiries.” 

Boromir shook his head. How could his little brother be so knowledgeable about the world but so clueless about his own life? 

“If those are inquiries, then I’ll need to have a serious conversation with the university’s staff about appropriate language for missives, my lovely lord.” 

“You read them,” Faramir accused. 

“They’re inquiries.” Boromir chuckled when his brother pushed him in the shoulder. Through the shadows, he saw a smile grace Faramir’s lips and thoughts of his dream, of marriage, of death slipped from his mind.