Disclaimer: I do not own C.S. Lewis' masterpiece of a series.

She had been a queen once, so very long ago. Two life times ago really, if she counted time in that way, which she sometimes does, but only sometimes. Like now, when it's dark and no one is around to tell her that she simply must accept the fact that sweet Lucy, and darling Edmund and dear Peter died on that train along with anyone else who knew( she adds that last part herself because the people around don't, know that is).

And she does for the most part, save for sometimes, which are far and few between, when she lets her mind wander and she finds herself remembering Lucy call Narnia heavenly and hoping her sister is sitting by the waters in Cair Paravel. And it's when she thinks like this that she remembers more than silly games, more than boredom in the house with many doors. It's times like these when she allows herself to remember a bow and quiver of arrows, a castle by the sea, a great lion, a white witch, a wardrobe.

And with a great sadness she remembers the glory of their court and the music and feasts and the simple splendor of Narnia in its golden age after the long rule of the White Witch's winter. She remembers Cair Paravel in ruins and troubled times. She remembers having to stay while Lucy and Edmund, still young, returned…

She remembers laughing lightly at Lucy's memories because London had quite gradually become more solid than Narnia. She remembers shrugging and laughing about silly games that were more, and the hurt in the others eyes as she did.

She had been so sure of herself then, so sure that the troubled minds of bored wartime children had simply invented so marvelous a world as Narnia, where they had been kings and queens. There had been so many flaws she simply hadn't seen, hadn't let herself see, too busy with her girlfriends and this or that, too caught up the grey world she'd traded her childhood for.

Such a fickle thing adulthood, where stories of a gentle lion and two generous beavers and Father Christmas simply don't fit in.

But that Susan had passed away, she died in a train accident, like Queen Susan the Gentle before her who passed through a wardrobe and was lost, she knows this.

Narnia is again solid and real and she is whole, with a warm hope in her heart. She can hear the trumpets in the ivory hall and the see the brightly colored peacock feathers and feel the warm sand against the soles of her weary feet. London is the prison to which she has been banished, where she must live out her sentence waiting for the end, when she will learn whether Aslan has forgiven her for forgetting.

But she has some comfort, the sun comes up in the grey sky, bleary and tired, the wondrous visions of Narnia do not fade.