Disclaimer: C.S. Lewis is turning in his grave for what I'm doing with his work. :O

Rating: PG-13?

Notes: For Jolena, Fimbrethil, Greenbean, and Starbrow. You wheedled one right out of me, and this is long overdue as a thank you, even if it's not (I think) better than Part I. Tell me what you think, if you'd like. If you wouldn't mind. :D-

- - -

"You should have been a Queen. You would have been my Queen."

Jill smiles as she feels kisses barely there against her shoulder in her dreams, but her eyes open slowly to the thought that it feels too real to be a dream. Eyes searching the shadows, only to find no one. She gives one last sleepy gaze around the darkened room, and then falls back into the arms of sleep.

The Narnian morning sky – the new Narnia, the new world of wonder and perfection and amazement – is rich and blue and for some reason Jill imagines it would taste like Aunt Penny's homemade blueberry tarts. She grins wildly as she steps out of the castle, pulling the folds of her dress around her. It's beautiful, this is. She always wondered, before, what Heaven would be like. She never could have imagined this.

She guesses it has been about a week since that great, giant door of the shed closed upon the old Narnia and the old England.

Since then her senses have been assaulted by an onset of dreamlike flawlessness, an overwhelming torrent of pleasure and purity and adventure. So much, so much to see and do and discover. Lucy and her are children forever, in the day. The hills that sleep and seem to yawn with each magnificent break of morning light, the mist of pearl that hovers in the seaside caves. They explore a new land everyday, taking their time. There is no end to the adventure, no end to new places and each day they return to the castle at Cair Paravel and have supper in the Dining Hall with the eastern doors that look over towards the miles of waves breaking on the shore.

Jill closes her eyes and relives the sunshine and remembers the places they've seen so far. Each day seems like a year, here, not that it is boring or long-winded: it is simply that each minutes brings forth such a new burst of joy and laughter that one cannot help but savour every second, and with so much of that, time moves along quite languidly and pleasantly.

Edmund and Peter and Eustace do boy things, like archery and racing in the sea. They follow along to the caves sometimes, but they'd much rather sword fight with the many Kings of Narnia than have picnics with the girls.

Everyone is happy here, everyone is safe. Aslan is here, all the time, and Jill finds she never tires of simply lying down at his great paws and hearing him whisper against her cheek as crowds of Kings and animals and giants and all others do also. Somehow Aslan is always big enough, strong enough to speak to each of them, and Jill always wonders in amazement at this.

She opens her eyes. It has been a week. Her eyebrows furrow. The night times are ... confusing. She feels the kisses, the brushes against her cheeks and her hair and her lips, and at first she knows for sure that it is Tirian who is coming to her in the stillness of night.

And then she sees him the next day in the Halls, in the corridors and he merely smiles and nods lightly at her, continuing on with his friends or his father or Jewel.

And then she thinks maybe she isn't so sure.

A murmur of wind brushes against the cloth and she shivers, not so much at the cold as what the wind against her neck reminds her of.

Tirian. Tirian.

Jill frowns, perplexed, as she thinks it all through. They hadn't spoken after that first kiss, that first night in the Tower. Somehow, everything just moved too fast, too brutally into the force and the climax of the last battle, and he never spoke to her again outside of battle instructions and kingly advice.

What is she to do? Does he regret that night? Kissing her? Is that why he won't speak to her the way he did?

With the typical anxiety of a 16-year-old girl with a schoolgirl crush, she notices that she has been obsessing endlessly over him, frowns further more.

But can you blame me? He kissed me! And you kissed him back, Jill. Maybe you took it too fast.

She groans as she sits heavily on the steps of the castle.

And besides that, she knows there is more for her to worry about.

It was 2 days ago, in the early afternoon. Eustace and Edmund were bronzed by the glorious warmth of the sun, and were lazing about idly, floating atop the waves. She sat happily on the shore in her thin cotton dress, knees pulled up to her chin, enjoying the smooth feel of heat on her body and the fine grain of sand cushioning her. Suddenly, she heard Edmund give out a yell to further along the beach, and, squinting, saw Eustace join him in eagerly beckoning out. Curiously she fixed her gaze to her right, trying to see if Peter or Rilian had come to join the boys.

They floundered out of the water, grinning, and Jill put up her hand to her brow to shield her eyes from the stark light of the sun, still unable to define who that figure on the beach was.

All of a sudden, she knew. Eustace had a grip on one side of the figure, Edmund the other, and with playful insistence were dragging him to the shoreline, yelling something about a race. The figure laughed, and gamely began taking off the cotton shirt and riding pants he had been wearing, to match Eustace's and Edmund's sparse dressing.

Barely 20 feet away from her, stood Tirian, in nothing but his silk undershorts, arms defined and calf muscles being revealed from underneath smothering riding trousers and his upper torso hard and taut and oh-Jill-look-away-look-away-NOW-NOW-NOW-this-is-NOT-RIGHT

Her mind and heart were in the right place, but her eyes simply would not listen as she continued to stare with something of a fixed hunger (she realizes later in horror) at this dark, lovely man in front of her with his muscles rippling against skin and dark cocoa hair flying frivolously in the sea breeze.

Jill groans again and slumps her head into her hands. She remembers that day on the beach far too well, she decides; there was no need for such detail, surely.

She feels dirty, unclean, and she is in Aslan's own country, how can she think such terrible things? In the old world, it was all right, she supposes, but in Heaven! Such absolutely, blatantly carnal desires have no place in this pure, wonderful place, surely!

She has never, ever felt so at a loss before on what to do. She's always been brave, and headstrong, but – love? She would rather attack a few Dwarves than try to tackle love.

But- no. She has to handle this, and as the sounds of the others float in through the hall to her corner on the steps, she knows what she must do.

- - -

She steps politely, nervously into the Dining Hall. A feast of grapes and bread and meat and wonderful sauces of all kinds is spread out, as every day, across the tables. Aslan walks along the tables, leaning down, whispering or simply touching a loving lick to the skin or fur. She swallows, and approaches him, skittish, pushing away the excuses to stall this for just one more day away from her mind.

He stops the moment she takes the step towards him, even though she is behind him. He is silent, and Jill lowers her eyes to the floor, suddenly feeling naked and unworthy of something, but she can't be sure what.

"Aslan... Aslan, I'm sorry."

Her parents always said honesty was the best policy, and who else can she ask advice from? She has to tell him, she has to.

He turns, his glory shining like a thousand suns from his being and he walks towards her, past her, to the door and out. Somehow she knows she is to follow, and does.

They walk, in silence, and slowly Jill finds her tears falling. The grounds of Cair Paravel are big, and they walk along the quiet edges of the stone wall.

"A-Aslan..."

Her confusion and guilt is a mess, a terrible, unclean mess in her and she feels upset that Aslan who called her "beloved one" and "dear child" isn't doing anything to help her.

He stops, and so does she. As his face turns to hers, she falls to the ground, sobbing. After a moment warm breath and a loving paw is nudged against her.

"Hush, child. I know. I know."

With his words the sobs subside, and she dares not to look into those great, terrible eyes, fearing what she might see.

"I don't know what to do, Aslan. I'm so sorry... This... It isn't right, not here..."

With a rumble from him that makes her think vaguely that he is laughing, he speaks, lying down beside her and pressing his mane against her face, drying her tears that are falling from her eyes.

"My child, do you think that dishonesty, or hatred, or cowardice could ever be sustained in my presence?"

She wonders why he asks her this, but ponders this for a moment, gently calmed in the feeling of Aslan supporting her with his flank.

"N-No. Whenever you're around, everyone feels like being good, and everyone loves everyone else. And you make me feel brave, all the time."

"Then, sweetheart, do you not also agree that in my country, things such as fear, or greed or malice, or impurity have no place?"

"Of course... Oh..."

She looks towards Aslan, feeling his deep, searching eyes still her worried spirit.

"So you mean..."

"My dear, lovely child, you are so young. Love is not something to fear, or something to shy away from. This is my country. My presence is always here; what impurity can reside within you when I am here?"

Jill looks down again, and feels an awkward smile creep, unfettered, up her tear-stained face.

"Aslan, it's rather embarrassing to think about what you know, you know, I mean, even if it's okay..."

That amused rumble again, and, "Jill, Daughter of Eve, you deserve more love than you think you do. Now, go, child, and be at peace."

With that, he presses his nose against her back, and she giggles like the child she sees herself in his eyes.

- - -

The darkness falls, and Tirian's frustration, he feels, is unparalleled.

Every night, you stupid man. Every single night. Don't you think she notices? You've seen her wake up at it! And you're supposed to be the wise, last King of Narnia!

Like a moth drawn to the flame is the image that sears in his mind, and, as every night, he tiptoes guiltily into her chambers, standing in the shadows, watching the surreal sheen of the moonlight caress her cheekbones, her brow, her lips. He shudders inwardly at his memories of kissing those cheeks, that nose, those soft lips, and yearns for it once again while hating this unrequited attraction ever more.

He steps forward, assured by her steady, deep breathing that she is quite certainly fast asleep.

Fingers, that's all he uses, now. No lips, no palms like before. She woke up immediately the one time he kissed her.

Fingertips.

Fingertips, hot and shaking against cool stretches of her neck, her jawline as it curves into her soft lobes. Her eyelashes cast semicircles of shadow against her cheeks, ebony as crow's wings, and he thinks, each time, that dark angels have landed on her eyelids. The moon is a sliver, and plays with the shadow, covering her sleeping form in silhouettes of the trees outside her window.

He bites his lip to stop from calling her, waking her up and telling her how much he needs her.

He remembers her fingertips, firm and needy, pressing against his arms and entangled in his hair. Inwardly he moans –

As if she would even come back to someone so much older than her like you, Tirian. Eustace, or Edmund; you know she would do fine with either of them. You aren't even from her world! She didn't even look at you after that night, let alone want to touch you again...

He starts back into the shadows as he feels her shift out of slumber. It would be horrible for her to find him here. He knows, without a doubt, that for her to find him and to push him away would be to break his heart afresh.

He stays in the shadows, inching closer to the door, waiting for her to fall back into deep sleep so he can escape.

He panicks quietly as he realizes she is sitting up.

He panicks quietly as he realizes she is looking far more awake than she ought to be.

He panicks as he realizes he can no longer panic quietly because he is about to hyperventilate.

He feels himself going faint as she opens her mouth to speak.

"Tirian, stop. You're... hyperventilating. I can hear you, please come out. Please."

He does as she says, stepping away from the corner of the room, eyes wild and unfocused and widened in horror.

She steps out of bed, pushing her blanket off from around her shoulders and walks towards him. He feels like a deer, caught and unable to run. She is standing in front of him, now. Her fingers are as warm as he remembers – no, warmer – as she takes his hand in hers. No more of kingly wisdom or calm, or respectable, slight losses of control.

It slams into him: He was spying on her in her sleep. He was spying on her in her sleep!

"OhbyAslan'smaneJill,IamsorryIamIamsososorry..."

She silences him with a squeeze on the hand as she pulls him closer, and for a moment he is distracted from his thoughts of stupid, stupid Tirian and self-flagellation as he notices the smirk playing on her very, very kissable lips.

"Be quiet, Tirian. When I say "I love you", I mean it."

It takes 20 full minutes of kissing, embracing and warm breaths on cold stretches of neck before Tirian asks, "What took you so long, you tease?"

He gets a nip on the chin for this, before she answers.

"I had... issues. Which I'm sure you do too, and we will talk this over later. After. Much later, because now, we are busy."

He pulls away from her mouth sucking on the hollow of his collarbone and looks determinedly down at her.

She looks back up, eyes and frown silently questioning and protesting the abrupt lack of contact.

"... You're beautiful."

She blushes, and moves in to kiss him once again. He kisses her fully, teeth grazing achingly on her lips, then pulls away once again.

"Marry me. Marry me and be my Queen. Please."

The last word is a plea, a reckless hope and his heart is already preparing for the slam of the rejection or the uncertainty that is sure to come.

Sure enough, her eyebrows furrow, but her answer isn't any of the options in his head.

"... Is that even allowed? Marriages? Because this is sort of like a different dimension than before, really, so how does it work, do you know-"

He laughs, in spite of the vulnerability he feels, and kisses her forehead like a father to a daughter, silencing her musings.

"Yes or later, fair maiden?"

"What if my answer is neither of these?"

He looks into her face, his own falling as he processes her answer, before he notices the wicked gleam in her eye. She grins, and kisses him on the lips again, seemingly insatiable.

"Yes, yes, of course yes. Always and forever, and you will be my King."

His grin breaks across his face –

"... On one condition."

- and falters, eyes narrowing warily.

"Anything you wish, sweetheart."

"You have to stop constantly wearing long silk shirts and vests and court outfits during the day. You are not at court, so I don't see why you must. You will walk around in shorts and cotton T-shirts and if you've never heard of those, go talk to Peter or Edmund; they have lots to spare you."

His baffled silence prompts her to explain.

"Tirian, my love, you cannot fathom how absolutely stunning you look when you are not wearing a shirt and are swimming about in nothing but your underthings."

It is his turn to blush and she gives him a feral grin as she remembers the image again, this time with a definite fondness.

She kisses him one final, lasting time before pulling away.

"Now, go. We both need sleep, and then we have a wedding to plan. If it's even done in Aslan's country."

Finally he smiles and brushes a tender fingertip against her cheek.

"Promise me you won't ignore me in the morning, my sweet Jill."

She closes her eyes as he kisses her gently on the shell of her ear, letting forth the free fall of trembling emotion finally, finally, with a torrent of something exquisite and terrible and wonderful flowing like the waves crashing on the rocks of the shoreline and in a breath she promises, she promises, she promises.

And they wait for the morning.