Notes: I always hated the way Lewis treated Susan.

The Question of Memory

Her siblings say that she has forgotten Narnia, and their eyes pity her loss.

They shouldn't. Susan has not forgotten one moment of Narnia.

She remembers how the jewel-toned silks had slid and clung to the curves of her body, remembers the weight of gold pressing against her temples and swinging from her earlobes, chiming softly around her wrists and settling in the hollow of her throat, cool and solid to the touch. She remembers the dancing, spinning over polished floors and passing from partner to partner while the mermaids sang and the light of a thousand candles reflected in the heat in the eyes of those who would have given half a kingdom for her smile, and more besides.

Susan remembers being beautiful every time she looks into a mirror, and sees hair that refuses to hold a curl, and the freckles on her cheeks, the plain cotton blouses and the drab wool skirts, the knobby wrists and the chest that refuses to go ahead and be a chest.

And she wonders, dismally, what the good of having once been a queen of Narnia is, when life in the real world is so colorless in comparison, and she's too old to ever go back, but too young to do anything here with the half a lifetime's knowledge she gained there.

It's not that Susan has forgotten Narnia.

It's that she remembers it all too well.