Chapter Text
*
The Golden Wood comes into view; unmistakable. The tall trees glint in the sunlight. Susan feels a tinge of terror that she has subdued on the road. What horror will she find there? What dark power? Will this end with her body frozen in stone? Lost from her brothers and sister, and lost from Narnia, and lost from… from that place before? Is the Lady to be trusted?
Surely it was the Lady who intervened in her dream. She dare not mention it to Éowyn; she knows it could interrupt their journey, call into question the Lady’s status and side in this war. (She dare not speak another word to Éowyn at all, or else more madness will come racing out of her, a sticky mess of pleas and screams and whispers and cries.)
Three warriors appear at the edge of the wood; two with great spears and the third has a great bow and quiver of arrows. Strange women with pointed ears.
Soon: “Susan Pevensie, honored guest,” one says. “The Lady is pleased you have come to her dominion. She has ordered that we guide you to her mirror.”
Susan hasn’t heard her surname in a long time, a very long time. It puzzles her.
“To the warrior Dernhelm,” another says with a knowing smile. “The Lady sends you her thanks and bids you leave these woods at once. What you call Dwimordene is not your respite; other trees will need your care, far south from here. But first, you are needed at home. The king is unwell.”
It is sharp, like a piercing shard of glass to the heart. And it is a relief, too. For when Susan looks, Éowyn’s expression is not that of petulance, of dismay, but of a resigned honor. The true courtesy of princes.
“May I say goodbye?” Éowyn says, tightly.
The elf nods.
They dismount. And Éowyn takes her helmet off. There are tears in her eyes but also resolve. “Madam,” she starts. “Susan. It has been a great honor to be your guide. I–” she looks troubled, and suddenly so very young, so very beautiful. “I wish I could go with you, I wish I could–”
“I carry you with me here,” Susan says, hand at her chest. “Courage, dear heart.” And it’s impetuous, and it’s sudden, and it’s unseemly, but she leans in and gives her the wild kiss of a queen.
This is how Susan kisses the lady of Rohan: their lips meet, in truth this time. No dream, no fantasy. Soft, soft lips that open and let Susan in to taste her. Her tongue pressing in, a deep kiss that speaks of promise and hope, of adoration. Her hands grip Éowyn’s face, fingers against that golden hair she will never forget. The ghost of teeth biting her lip, the tease of a passion that could have been. She feels her thighs press together, a longing infused into the tangle of lips and tongue. Éowyn takes the kiss and it is timidly returned, enough to make Susan whine just a little. There is desire there to do more; to lance the white stag and bring it to the ground, demanding wishes to be granted. But no, the kiss can only be a kiss. And Susan is the one to pull away and stare with wonder at this brave woman who will remain in her heart until the breaking of the world.
And Éowyn will remember, remember the way it feels to be kissed by a sovereign. She’ll chase this feeling, long for it, cry in the dark for it, until her world ends and she awakens anew. But that is another story.
*
It is a journey to the witch’s lair but not unpleasant; the trees shine like gold, breathtaking and strange. And there is a peace to this wood, unlike the way the fields of Rohan hummed with the anxiety of a war to come. This kingdom is at rest, humming with a powerful magic, with protection warding off the enemy.
When she beholds the keeper of this magicked forest, it is unmistakable; the Lady of the Golden Wood is indeed a witch. Taller than any woman she’s ever seen, taller than Jadis. A lovely white gown, and peerless golden hair. An energy terrible around her. Like a bomb ready to go off.
(A bomb, Susan thinks, what is– why do I remember–.)
“Do not let your heart be troubled,” the witch says, a low feminine voice that echoes in her mind. “The maiden Éowyn will find her way home. As will you.”
“Did you bring me here?”
The witch does not answer, but looks at her instead. Cautious, appraising, before she speaks. “My ancient enemy has a servant that I am determined to kill. Or at least learn how to kill him.”
She gestures with her beautiful hand, long white fingers with a white star amongst them. Susan looks to see a pool of water near, and a great battle is playing on it as if – and Susan struggles with this memory – as if it is a film playing on a screen. She shakes her head trying to make sense of it. When she looks close, she sees a black phantasm on a monstrous beast, threatening a proud warrior. “Thou fool. No living man may hinder me!,” she hears it say. And there Susan is, in full Narnian armor with her bow and arrow, primed to kill this terror. The arrow of another world’s god, sure to slay a lesser one here. This Susan, both a mirror and a fantasy, snarls another witch’s words that have echoed in her mind for over a decade: “Despair and die.”
It’s not the first time a power beyond understanding ripped Susan away from her home to fight in another world’s war. (It is possibly not the last time, but that is another story.)
“The mirror tells me many things, not all of them true,” the witch says. “Some visions never come to be. But I am willing to risk it.”
“I am not this great warrior,” Susan says.
“Wars do not make one great,” the witch replies. “And you sparred quite well with the enemy in your dream.” She smiles then, and it is not a nice smile.
“He knows you,” Susan says, quietly. Nervous.
The smiles slips just a little. The witch says, “He has questions but no longer do I give him answers. I will play my part in his doom soon enough.” She straightens, taller than any woman Susan has ever seen. “Your world has a deep magic, and so does mine. Shall we look in the pool again, and see what you’ve done?”
“What have I–”
The images in the pool have shifted. The black phantasm says the words, “Thou fool. No living man may hinder me!,” and there is the warrior Dernhelm, with uncommon courage and valor singular. Her sword is raised high. “But no living man am I!”
The image vanishes, the pool smoothing out to reflect the stars above them.
“You have breathed life into that which was dead, a spark to become a magnificent flame,” the witch says, thoughtfully. “I never saw her at this dread battle in my mirror before now. How wondrous.”
Susan sets her jaw. It’s a sting to realize you are only a means to an end; a tool used by your betters. “Lady, I’m pleased you have found this solution, can we discuss the matter of sending me home? I hate to agree with your enemy, but I do not belong here. This is not my story.”
The witch looks at her, amused. “Oh yes,” she twists a ring on her finger. “I will send you back. No harm done.”
Susan thinks of the raw ache in her heart, thinks of gentle lips sweetly kissed, but keeps her mouth shut.
“Shall I return you to London, fair one?” the witch says. “Back to your mother?”
The words are an attack and Susan flinches to hear them. Memory resides in mist, and confusing snippets of fact are emerging from it.
“Strange that something, or someone has muffled the memory, perhaps if I–”
A cloud seems to lift and the bright sun of truth overwhelms. It’s a terrible thing to remember. Her mother. Helen Pevensie’s smile and the warmth of her arms wrapped around her eldest daughter. The sweetness in her eyes, the kindness in her words. The paradox of safety offered in an unsafe world; longing beyond measure. A mother’s love; the unparalleled power of it.
Susan stares hard into the witch’s ancient eyes. It is new agony but she is resolved. Her shaky response: “No. Send me back to my country.” She thinks of Peter, of Lucy and Edmund. Of Tumnus. Of her people. Of her duty as queen.
The witch looks at her. “You, daughter of Eve, believe you are a subject of Aslan.”
“I am.”
“My teacher spoke of him but once,” she says. “Melian knew many things. She found your god impressive if unkind to little girls who grew up to be such wonders as yourself.”
Susan lifts her chin. "My fealty does not rely on a witch's word but on His actions."
"Ah," she replies. "And may your fealty be rewarded, then. You wish to return to Narnia, and to Narnia, I will return its queen,” the witch says and twists the ring on her finger once more.
It is said before Susan can stop herself. “Will Éowyn be safe?” A plaintive question, a plea of sorts.
Now, this witch is the the oldest of the living Noldor on Arda, daughter of the Golden House of Finarfin, once commander of the Northern Armies under the High King Gil-Galad, the Lady of Lothlórien and the Lady of the Galadhrim, ringbearer and keeper of the White Ring of Adamant, Mistress of Magic, once called Artanis and Nerwen and Alatáriel. Her father, her mother; gone. Her brothers; gone. Her terror of an uncle; gone. Her mentor; gone. Her beloved daughter; gone. Friends and enemies alike; gone. Much has sunk to the bottom of the sea, and many have left for the place to which she cannot return until she is worthy of it once more. Her thousands of years have been riddled with loss and war.
And so, Galadriel replies: “No one is safe in Middle Earth, child.”
Susan blinks and the world has shifted again. She finds herself in a forest, in her forest, next to the lamp post. The light shines bright and there’s a whisper in the thicket beyond; the hum of spitfires and the nervous shriek of air raid sirens and and the clacking of train wheels against metal joints and the lisp of Churchill on the wireless and she can’t hear it, she won’t hear it. No, no.
She is in Narnia; the wonderful peace and truth of Narnia. Her country. The country of her brother the High King, and her brother the Just, and her valiant sister (oh, sweet Lucy still in Galma, how quickly can she get word to her that she still lives, a veteran of a strange adventure?). The country of the Dancing Lawn, and the River Rush, and fauns and dwarves and big cats. Of good cheer and the terror of promise. Of the Lion. Narnia, her home.
Narnia, where she shall never see the Lady Éowyn again.
She blinks again, for there are tears, and she draws a deep breath. “Well,” she says. “I’m back.”
THE END