Narnia fic: "Our Impudent Crimes"
May. 15th, 2011 12:48 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
bedlamsbardTitle: Our Impudent Crimes
Author:bedlamsbard
Fandom: Chronicles of Narnia bookverse/movieverse
Rating: PG
Content Advisory: none
Summary: Rilian has wanted to give her a name for weeks now, if only to call her something besides some variant on the lady in green, but she won’t have it.
Disclaimer: The Chronicles of Narnia and its characters, situations, settings, etc., belong to C.S. Lewis. Certain characters, situations, settings, etc., belong to Walden Media.
Author's Notes: A follow-up to Charmed Life and Be Bold, Be Bold. Our Impudent Crimes uses Warsverse backstory. It does not use material from The Voyage of the Dawn Treader (2010). Title from T.S. Eliot, "Gerontion."
Rilian decides that he draws the line at interpreting artwork. Literature he can do; he’s been either reading or read to since he was too young to walk, but artwork is something else entirely, and a something else that Rilian just can’t bring himself to agree with. Literature’s easy compared to some painting a thousand years old. Text makes sense; artwork is just shaped marble, or brush-strokes on canvas, or thousands of tiny glass pieces put together to form a pattern. Rilian’s not so stupid that he’ll argue that art doesn’t mean anything; he just doesn’t want to be the one who has to figure out what it does mean. When he says as much to Doctor Cornelius, his tutor looks like he’s going to cry in frustration.
“It’s no different from a poem, your highness,” Doctor Cornelius says after he’s regained control of himself. “The medium is different, but the spirit is the same. Brushstrokes can tell you as much as meter –”
“I think I’ve had more of meter than anyone deserves,” Rilian says gloomily. “It’s not fair! How is this going to be helpful when I’m king; I should be studying law, or strategy, or more history, not looking at some dead artist’s sketches to try and find out if he really approved of his subject or if he was just filling a contract –”
“Your highness!”
“And we’re not even looking at anything interesting!”
Doctor Cornelius sighs. “I shall make you a bargain,” he says eventually, after a long moment where he and Rilian stare at each other, neither of them willing to budge on their position. “If you promise to stop complaining about the topic –”
“Fat chance,” Rilian says, crossing his arms over his chest.
“– you may choose the objects that we study, so long as they are within the guidelines that I set out. If this proposal is unacceptable to you, we shall continue with the subjects that I have outlined, and I shall extend the session for another week.”
Rilian resists the urge to recoil in horror. “You wouldn’t.”
“I would,” Doctor Cornelius says, and opens the Index, running his finger down the list of art objects stored in Cair Paravel. “Naturally, I shall have to add several other subjects to account for the extra attention we will be paying to the subject –”
“All right!” Rilian says hastily. “I – what are my choices?”
“Do I have your word that you will cease your complaints, your highness?” asks Doctor Cornelius, eyeing Rilian over the rims of his spectacles.
Rilian sighs and nods. “You have my word as a prince of Narnia,” he says as formally as he can, the way father does when he’s assuring his lords that their ancestral lands won’t have to be ceded over to hordes of barbarian Narnians or that the excise tax for non-citizens won’t be applied to Lone Islander merchants.
“Very good, your highness,” says Doctor Cornelius. “I shall make you a list. In the meantime, I am assigning you the first six chapters of de Medina to read and summarize. When we meet in the morning, I expect you to present me with a list of five questions or concerns you may have regarding what you’ve read.”
“Yes, Doctor Cornelius,” Rilian agrees, obedient, and has the rather disturbing feeling that he may be consenting to something he doesn’t agree with. Doctor Cornelius is up to something. Doctor Cornelius is always up to something.
“Very good, your highness,” Doctor Cornelius says again. “Now, let us turn our attention to the history of the Lone Islands –”
Rilian finally manages to escape after three interminable hours and flees down to the stables, where Juniper greets him with an eager whinny. Rilian quiets him by patting his nose and feeding him half an apple, small and wrinkled after a winter in storage. He sends a groom lingering around the stables to go and get Juniper’s tack, stroking his horse’s neck as he waits for the faun to return. When he finally rides out, it’s into the warmth of late spring, the promise of a humid summer gathering sweat beneath the linen of his shirt, against the back of his neck beneath his queue. Once he’s out of the city and across the river, he sends Juniper in a gallop towards the thick forests of the north. It’s not that he expects to find anyone there, he tells himself firmly. It’s just a good ride.
The shade of the trees feels good on his overheated skin as they enter the woods, Juniper slowing to a walk. He heads towards the fountain even without Rilian telling him to do so.
It’s not that Rilian comes up here all the time. He doesn’t. Not more than a few times a week, anyway, and – it’s a good ride. It’s not dangerous. Going west from Cair Paravel is too dangerous, because it’s one of the least civilized parts of Narnia. Going south is boring, it’s all fields, the trees having obligingly moved westwards so that the humans can settle around Cair Paravel, keeping the capital city from being an isolated beacon of civilization in the wilderness that Narnia had become after the Golden Age had ended. Father won’t refer to it that way, of course. He’s says that it’s both unfair and untrue, though Doctor Cornelius disagrees with him, and from what Rilian’s seen of occupied Narnia outside of Cair Paravel he can’t say that he’d argue with Doctor Cornelius. He wonders what the High King would think of it. Peter’s Narnia must have been different from this one, a Narnia of magic and adventure and derring-do, the way that Rilian’s read about in his books. It must have been marvelous to see. This forest would have been full of life, fauns and Talking Beasts and other Narnians lurking in the depths behind the trees. Instead of being just a dumb snake, the creature that killed Rilian’s mother would be something more dangerous, something nefarious and dark – some creature of the White Witch, left behind after the Long Winter, or the tool of some pretender to Narnia’s throne –
He wonders what the lady in the green kirtle would think if he told her that. Maybe she’d laugh.
Rilian has wanted to give her a name for weeks now, if only to call her something besides some variant on the lady in green, but she won’t have it. She says she has to do something to earn it first, and Rilian supposes that he can respect that. He doesn’t entirely understand it, but he talks it through to himself as something like being appointed to be a general before he’s even held a sword. Though it’s a name, not – well, anyway.
She’s waiting for him when he reaches the clearing, smiling up at him from the forest floor. She’s brought a blanket (green as the grass it lays upon, of course) and a picnic basket this time; Rilian blinks at them, then grins. He dismounts, quickly untacking Juniper, because he doesn’t know how long they’re going to be here – a few hours, at least – and it’s not fair for his horse to be forced to bear the weight of his saddle if he’s not going to be using it. He lets Juniper go with a quiet reminder not to wander too far; there are still some dangers in these woods. Wild animals, mostly. They’re too close to the capital for there to be feral Narnians here.
“Come and sit,” says the lady in the green kirtle, patting a spot on the blanket beside her. Rilian doesn’t need any further invitation to do so.
“How did you know I was going to be here?” he asks, investigating the contents of the picnic basket as the lady pours red wine into silver cups.
“I always know,” she tells him, passing him the cup and reaching into the basket to pull out plates and napkins. Rilian puts the cup aside to help her serve cold cuts of roast goose glazed with orange and ouzo, flaky-crusted oyster pies, a salad of spring greens and pomegranate seeds tossed in a peppery vinaigrette, and finally sticky rolls stuffed with lemon rolls and toasted almonds.
“I know,” he says, when both of them have filled their plates and sat back to eat. “But how do you know? I don’t always know when I’m going to come.”
The goose leaves her mouth sticky and shiny after she bites into it. “I see it,” she says, after she’s chewed and swallowed. “In the smoke.” She pauses to search for the words, picking bits of meat off the bone with one finger. “Certain types of incense – if you know how, you can see different things.”
“What kinds of things?” Rilian prompts.
She smiles. “The present. The future. The past. Things that are true, things that could be true, and things that were never true. Many things.”
“I’d like to see them,” Rilian says, trying the oyster pies.
“Maybe you shall, some day. I’d like you to come visit me.”
Rilian looks at her with sudden fascination. He’s asked her several times where she lives, because there’s nothing up here except trees and ruins and mad Narnian hermits, and all she’d said was that she was staying nearby. She’d never called it “home.”
“I’d like that,” Rilian says, and hopes his blush doesn’t show. “I’d like that very much.”
The lady smiles, leaning over to kiss his cheek. “I shall make my preparations,” she says, “and when the time is right, you can come and visit me.”
“Would you,” Rilian starts, and clears his throat when his voice starts to jump, “would you come and visit me as well? I’d like you to meet my father.”
“I’d love to,” says the lady of the green kirtle, and smiles. “Someday in the future we shall visit your Cair Paravel and your father the king.”
*
The shadows are growing long by the time Rilian realizes what time it is and hurries to catch Juniper and saddle him. The lady blows him a kiss as he rides off; he resists the urge to return it, or at least turn around and ask her for a favor to wear at the next tourney, though he has no idea when that might be, given his father’s somber mood. He kicks Juniper into a gallop as soon as they’re out of the woods, hoping against hope that he’ll make it back to Cair Paravel before full dark.
He doesn’t have a chance. Instead, he runs into Lord Drinian and a troop of guardsmen, their faces grim in the moonlight.
“Your highness!” Lord Drinian hails him, his relief bleeding into his voice. He spurs his horse up next to Rilian’s; Rilian drops his shoulders and puts his head down, waiting for the rebuke.
It comes as expected, though at least Lord Drinian isn’t as likely to rail at him as much as some of his father’s other lords. What Lord Trumpkin would probably say doesn’t bear imagining, and Glenstorm’s silent disapproval would be worse than any tongue-lashing Drinian might lay on him.
“Where have you been so late, your highness?” Lord Drinian asks.
“I went riding,” Rilian says experimentally. “And I lost track of time –”
Lord Drinian raises an eyebrow. “Your highness,” he says, too soft for the surrounding guardsmen to hear. “I hope you were not thinking to hunt the beast that killed your lady mother. Vengeance – vengeance is something that may be brought to bear on a man, but not on a witless beast. I understand that your loss is great, but −”
“I haven’t thought about that in weeks,” Rilian blurts out.
“No?” says Lord Drinian, shepherding him back towards the Great River. “You have been riding in the Northern Woods many times these past months. There are other places in Narnia to ride in, your highness, ones with less sorrow attached.”
“‘All of Narnia is a graveyard,’” Rilian quotes dutifully, remembering one of Master Johnston’s masques.
“Mmm. But the blood spilled in other parts of Narnia is not so close to your own, your highness.”
“I haven’t been hunting the serpent,” Rilian says firmly. “I – it was just a dumb beast, you said as much yourself. And anyway, there’s no way to hunt a snake.”
“Indeed, your highness,” Lord Drinian says, eyeing him thoughtfully. “What have you been doing these past months, then? All these days riding out alone, being gone for hours…” He lets the words hang in the air, then adds quietly, “Your father is very worried for you.”
Rilian looks down, flushing dully. “There’s – something beautiful in the woods,” he compromises finally. “The most beautiful thing ever created.”
Lord Drinian raises an eyebrow. “Some artifact out of the ancient past?”
“No,” Rilian says firmly. “No, she’s not ancient at all –” he says, and stops, realizing he’s said too much.
“She,” Lord Drinian says, testing.
“Don’t tell my father,” Rilian mutters to his saddlehorn.
“Mmm,” Lord Drinian says again. “May I ask if this paramour of yours is a Telmarine lady?”
“No.”
“A Narnian woman?”
“No! I’d rather –” Rilian chokes on the words. It’s not that there’s anything wrong with Narnians, but the idea of making love to a nonhuman, well – Doctor Cornelius is half-Narnian, and he says that most of the time he would give anything to be full Telmarine. Father says that that might have been true before he took the throne, but since he’s king now, it shouldn’t be. Doctor Cornelius says that that doesn’t change the fact that Telmarines who marry Narnians are shunned among their fellow humans. Change one thing at a time, your majesty, he says. The rest will come. Only the most common criticism that Rilian’s heard, even in council, is that like should breed with like. There’s a rumor that some of the lords are putting together a petition to Father that will make marriage between humans and Narnians illegal.
Lord Drinian eyes him, frowning, and Rilian remembers belatedly that his mistress is a selkie, a shape-shifter. The idea discomfits him.
“You’ve missed two of your lessons and tilting practice,” Lord Drinian says finally, changing the subject. “Your tutor and Sir Berenguer are most displeased.”
“Doctor Cornelius is always displeased,” Rilian mutters, but he feels a tinge of regret for missing tilting. Tilting is fun. Although more painful than lessons.
They clatter over the Bridge of Sighs, the castle rising up in front of them behind the gauntlet of the town. There are more people out and about than Rilian would have expected there to be after dark; they clear to the sides of the streets to avoid the guardsmen’s horses. Some of them point at Rilian, their expressions knowing. Rilian grits his teeth and stares straight ahead, feeling like a child being escorted by his nursemaids. Prince or not, he doesn’t like being on display.
“Someone wants to see you,” Lord Drinian says when they dismount in the courtyard, grooms coming to take their horses. He puts his hand on Rilian’s shoulder, steering him in the direction he wants.
“Doctor Cornelius?” Rilian says gloomily as they go into one of the smaller courtyards. He starts to turn left automatically, to go up to Doctor Cornelius’s tower, but Lord Drinian corrects him and they keep going straight, towards the chapel, which is still under construction. Rilian blinks, wondering if he’s going to get told off by one of the new divines of Aslan. Something else the Narnians don’t approve of.
“Much worse,” Lord Drinian assures him.
Up ahead, the chapel is lit from within, far more candles than needed for worship. Rilian wonders who would be in there this late, then sees the palace guards stationed outside the doors and knows.
“Oh, no,” he says as one of the guardsmen opens a door for Lord Drinian, who steers him inside the same way he steered his ship around the outer edge of a hurricane three years ago.
“We’ve found the scamp, your majesty,” Lord Drinian says.
King Caspian X turns around, his expression relieved. Rilian resists the urge to sink into the floor. “Hello, Father,” he says to his boots, then raises his head to see Father nod thanks to Lord Drinian. The sea captain’s hobnailed boots click softly on the marble floor as he walks away, the door closing behind him.
“You gave us quite a scare, Rilian,” Father says, guiding him to a seat on a box left by one of the construction crews. Rilian sits, mentally preparing himself for the expected lecture about not running off and skipping his lessons. Instead Father clasps his hands behind his back, looking away.
Rilian looks too. The reason the chapel is lit up so late at night is because the painter Father has hired to do the murals in the chapel is still working, his apprentices fluttering around him – some of them are high up on the frame that allows them to paint the upper walls and parts of the ceiling. One of the panel paintings is done already, while most of the walls are blank, except for the section that’s currently being worked on. Rilian can’t tell what the subject matter is from here.
“Sarapammon has been showing me his sketches,” Father says, sounding tired. “The mural he’s already finished is one of the best I’ve ever seen. I’ll show it to you when we’ve finished.”
“Yes, Father,” Rilian says, looking over again. From what he can see, the finished mural is all blues and grays, the colors of winter.
Father finds another box and pulls it over, sitting down. “I wish you wouldn’t run off like that, Rilian,” he says quietly. “I know you’ve taken it hard since your mother died –”
“It’s not about Mother,” Rilian interrupts. “I just – I need to get out of the palace,” he tries to explain, a little clumsy. “I like riding. I know I shouldn’t skip my lessons, but I lost track of time, I won’t do it again –” He wants to get this over with as quickly as possible.
Father raises an eyebrow. “You and I know that’s probably not true, Rilian,” he says. “I can’t say I never skipped my lessons when I was your age –”
“I know. Doctor Cornelius has said.”
Father throws back his head and laughs, making some of Master Sarapammon’s apprentices look over before they go back to their work. “Indeed. If General Glozelle was here – well, one less person to tell tales of my misspent youth, I suppose.” He grins at Rilian, inviting him to share the joke, and Rilian grins obediently back, then lets his smile relax, waiting for the rest of the reprimand.
It comes quickly, as Father’s laughter fades, replaced by the sound of an apprentice demanding more blue paint. Father clears his throat, folding his scarred hands in his lap, and says, “You’ll have to apologize to Doctor Cornelius and Sir Berenguer, of course.”
“Yes, Father,” Rilian says obediently, having known that was coming sooner or later. He looks down at his own hands, smooth except for calluses from sword and lance on his palms and the insides of his fingers, then up at his father’s worried face. “And – I’m sorry for upsetting you,” he adds. “I didn’t mean to.”
“I know you didn’t,” Father says. “Do try not to do it again, or at least tell someone where you’re going next time. I wish you’d take a guard with you.”
Rilian shakes his head.
“I thought not,” Father sighs. “Must you go to the North Bank, Rilian? It’s not inhabited, and –” Rilian already knows the end of that sentence: and it’s where your mother died.
“That means there’s no one else up there,” Rilian says quickly, so he doesn’t have to think about Mother too hard. “Hardly anyone lives up there, Father, you know that. Not until you get the Marshes, or if you go west into the High Reaches. And I don’t go that far from Cair Paravel.”
Father eyes him thoughtfully. “I’d like to go with you sometime,” he says. “Just the two of us.”
Rilian hesitates. “I’d like that,” he says finally.
“Although not for another few days, since you’re confined to the palace for the next week,” Father says firmly.
Rilian sighs, but says, “Yes, Father,” obediently.
Father looks at him, frowning, then nods slowly. “What do you think of those northern lands?” he asks, resting his elbows on his knees as he leans forward.
“It’s good land,” Rilian says, blinking. Is this some kind of trick? “It looks like it would be good farmland.”
“It probably would be,” Father says. “Most of Narnia is. Has Doctor Cornelius told you why we’ve never sent settlers there?”
Rilian shakes his head. “But there’s plenty of land south of the Great River,” he says, “even though it’s further away from Cair Paravel.”
“So there is,” Father says. “The North Bank is Narnian land. It belongs to the Crown, like the rest of Narnia, but when we were arranging terms with the native Narnians I signed an agreement that there would be no Telmarine settlement on the North Bank for a hundred years. Narnian land for Narnians, without Telmarine interference.”
“But they wouldn’t do anything with it!” Rilian says, surprised. “And there’s no one living there now – if the Narnians want to live like savages, then they stay in the Western Wild. No one goes north of the Great River.” Except him. Him and the lady of the green kirtle.
“They aren’t savages,” Father says patiently. “And don’t say that where others can hear you.” He raises an eyebrow, and Rilian mutters, “Yes, Father.” Everyone else says it, but he can’t. That’s the way it always goes at court.
“Do you understand?” Father finishes.
Rilian nods slowly. “We can’t use the lands, and none of the Narnians want to move north.”
Father grins. “Close enough. Come on, I’ll have Sarapammon show you his masterpiece. Cornelius says that you’re about to begin the history of art, so I think you’ll appreciate this.”
He resists the urge to groan, but gets up anyway and follows his father over to the wall with the mural on it. Seeing the king approach, one of the artists breaks off from the group – Master Sarapammon, apparently. Rilian is surprised to see that he’s Narnian, a tall faun with curling horns sprouting from beneath his cap of shaggy blond hair. One of them has red paint on it. He stops a few steps away from Father and Rilian and bows from the waist.
“Your majesty,” he says. “Your highness. I’m afraid we haven’t made any noticeable progress in the past twenty minutes.”
That must have been when Father spoke to him last, Rilian realizes after a moment of puzzlement.
“Don’t worry about it,” Father says, with a hint of a smile. “I’ve come to show my son your newest masterpiece.”
“Ah,” says Master Sarapammon. “If you and the young prince would come with me then, please.” He leads the way, his hooves clicking quietly on the marble floor.
Rilian looks down at the floor as he follows. Less than a third of the floor has been laid so far and the pattern it will form isn’t clear yet. He can’t remember if anyone had told him what it was going to be; right now it’s a mess of black, white, and gray marble, with more tiles stacked against the opposite wall. Hopefully no one topples them over on accident.
“The Meeting in the Woods,” says Master Sarapammon proudly.
From the angle he’d been at before, Rilian hadn’t realized that the mural was on a monumental scale. Trees stripped bare of their leaves rise high along the wall, their tops disappearing into the border at the top of the mural. Snow lies in piles almost chest-high, higher than Rilian has ever seen it in Narnia, dipping downwards around the tree trunks where the branches have slowed the fall, creating a pit-like effect throughout the forest. A road cuts through the center of the painting, disappearing into the woods in the distance. The sleigh that has come to a stop in the center is all sharp, crystalline lines, unlike anything Rilian has ever seen in the real world, with a twining motif of lilies and snowflakes etched along its sides. Two white reindeer stand in harness, while a wolf lounges on the floor of the sleigh, its ears pricking. One of them is ragged. The reins have been tossed negligently aside in the occupant’s wake, leaving the sleigh empty but for the wolf and the skin of a white tiger.
The White Witch stands before the sleigh, drawing all Rilian’s attention, so that he barely notices the figure on the side of the road. She wears white and pale grey, icy blue embroidery across her bodice and the banding of her short cloak. Everything about her is lush; the white furs she wear look incredibly soft, while the fabric of her gown is expensive velvet and silk. Her skirts are fuller than Rilian would have expected, flaring out slightly at the waist and trailing on the ground. Instead of a crown, she wears a jeweled diadem – diamonds twisted amidst white gold, pale against her red hair. Her face is beautiful and human, with high cheekbones and full red lips. Her green eyes seem to stare straight into Rilian’s soul.
She dwarfs the figure of the boy who will become King Edmund the Just. He’s in profile, a boy younger than Rilian who’s wrapped himself in a cloak of very dark blue against the cold. His boots show all the signs of being put on hastily, the laces of the left one trailing on the ground. The Witch has raised her wand to push his hood back from his face, revealing dark hair and the soft features of a child. He looks utterly captivated.
It takes Rilian a minute to realize that the only real color in the painting is the red of the Witch’s hair and lips, and the deep blue of King Edmund’s cloak.
“Your highness?” says Master Sarapammon, waiting patiently. Rilian blinks, and realizes he’s staring.
“It’s brilliant,” he says, waving a hand in lieu of expressing himself more coherently. “It’s just – how did you know what the White Witch looked like, that’s amazing –”
“Thank you, your highness,” says Master Sarapammon, bowing slightly. “I studied the sources that remain from the period, and since they are all rather vague on her appearance, I extrapolated from what was written down. A certain lady sat for a portrait, and, with her permission, I used those sketches for her face. We have contemporary paintings and statuary of King Edmund, of course.”
“It’s brilliant,” Rilian repeats firmly. After a breath, he manages to tear his gaze away. “And the rest of the set – is that also going to be –”
“Indeed, your highness.” Master Sarapammon looks pleased. “We are currently painting a mural called At the Lamppost, of Queen Lucy’s –”
“− meeting with the faun Tumnus,” Rilian finishes for him, and grins. “I can’t wait to see it finished, Master Sarapammon.”
Father clears his throat softly, and Rilian remembers to say, “Thank you for showing me this, Master. I’m honored.”
“As am I, your highness,” says Master Sarapammon. “I can only hope that the rest of my work will live up to expectation.”
“I’m sure it will,” Rilian says, glancing back at the mural. He shudders slightly at the White Witch’s expression; Master Sarapammon has managed to make it look as if she has ice in her soul.
“Thank you for this honor, Master Sarapammon,” says Father, and the faun bows to him, murmuring, “Thank you, your majesty.”
“I’ll take myself and my errant son of your way and let you return to your work,” Father goes on, his voice gracious, and steers Rilian out of the chapel.
“Did the White Witch really look like that?” Rilian asks, after the door has closed behind them.
Father stops, his eyes closing for a moment. It had been Lord Trumpkin who’d told Rilian about that; Father never speaks of it. “No,” he says at last. “No, she didn’t. I thought that it might be unwise to have an accurate representation of the White Witch in Narnia. I like to think that there’s a reason why all the sources are so vague.”
“Because it might summon her back?” Rilian says softly.
“Something like that,” Father says, and shakes his head. He smiles at Rilian. “At least now you’ll have something to talk to Cornelius about, since I wager you didn’t bother to do your reading assignment, and it’s a bit late now.”
Rilian winces. He’d forgotten about that. “Yes, Father,” he says meekly. “Ah – may I be excused –”
“You missed supper,” Father points out. “Do you want to go to the kitchens?”
“No, I – I took some food with me,” Rilian lies. He steps back, bowing slightly to his father. “With your permission, Father.”
Father nods, looking slightly disappointed, though Rilian doesn’t know why, and lets Rilian hurry through the courtyard to a door that will, eventually, take him to the stairs that lead to his rooms. He’s undressing for bed when he finds one of the lady of the green kirtle’s silver cups in his pocket and winces in dismay; he doesn’t remember putting it there.
Since it’s here, Rilian leans over to look at it in the light of the candle on his desk, seeing the repoussé on the side for the first time. He turns the cup slowly around. It’s a narrative design, what Doctor Cornelius would call an ouroboros – a narrative with no beginning or end. A snake slides through tall grass, lingering at a fountain where a woman sits, and then slithers away, leaving her sleeping on the ground. Rilian puts the cup down quickly and stands back, wondering what would have compelled the lady to give him a cup with that design on it. Maybe she just doesn’t know about his mother.
He squeezes his eyes shut, then opens them again so he can undress quickly and wash up before he blows the candle out.
That night, he dreams of the lady of the green kirtle. She holds out her hand to him and says, Come.
end
Author:
bedlamsbardFandom: Chronicles of Narnia bookverse/movieverse
Rating: PG
Content Advisory: none
Summary: Rilian has wanted to give her a name for weeks now, if only to call her something besides some variant on the lady in green, but she won’t have it.
Disclaimer: The Chronicles of Narnia and its characters, situations, settings, etc., belong to C.S. Lewis. Certain characters, situations, settings, etc., belong to Walden Media.
Author's Notes: A follow-up to Charmed Life and Be Bold, Be Bold. Our Impudent Crimes uses Warsverse backstory. It does not use material from The Voyage of the Dawn Treader (2010). Title from T.S. Eliot, "Gerontion."
Rilian decides that he draws the line at interpreting artwork. Literature he can do; he’s been either reading or read to since he was too young to walk, but artwork is something else entirely, and a something else that Rilian just can’t bring himself to agree with. Literature’s easy compared to some painting a thousand years old. Text makes sense; artwork is just shaped marble, or brush-strokes on canvas, or thousands of tiny glass pieces put together to form a pattern. Rilian’s not so stupid that he’ll argue that art doesn’t mean anything; he just doesn’t want to be the one who has to figure out what it does mean. When he says as much to Doctor Cornelius, his tutor looks like he’s going to cry in frustration.
“It’s no different from a poem, your highness,” Doctor Cornelius says after he’s regained control of himself. “The medium is different, but the spirit is the same. Brushstrokes can tell you as much as meter –”
“I think I’ve had more of meter than anyone deserves,” Rilian says gloomily. “It’s not fair! How is this going to be helpful when I’m king; I should be studying law, or strategy, or more history, not looking at some dead artist’s sketches to try and find out if he really approved of his subject or if he was just filling a contract –”
“Your highness!”
“And we’re not even looking at anything interesting!”
Doctor Cornelius sighs. “I shall make you a bargain,” he says eventually, after a long moment where he and Rilian stare at each other, neither of them willing to budge on their position. “If you promise to stop complaining about the topic –”
“Fat chance,” Rilian says, crossing his arms over his chest.
“– you may choose the objects that we study, so long as they are within the guidelines that I set out. If this proposal is unacceptable to you, we shall continue with the subjects that I have outlined, and I shall extend the session for another week.”
Rilian resists the urge to recoil in horror. “You wouldn’t.”
“I would,” Doctor Cornelius says, and opens the Index, running his finger down the list of art objects stored in Cair Paravel. “Naturally, I shall have to add several other subjects to account for the extra attention we will be paying to the subject –”
“All right!” Rilian says hastily. “I – what are my choices?”
“Do I have your word that you will cease your complaints, your highness?” asks Doctor Cornelius, eyeing Rilian over the rims of his spectacles.
Rilian sighs and nods. “You have my word as a prince of Narnia,” he says as formally as he can, the way father does when he’s assuring his lords that their ancestral lands won’t have to be ceded over to hordes of barbarian Narnians or that the excise tax for non-citizens won’t be applied to Lone Islander merchants.
“Very good, your highness,” says Doctor Cornelius. “I shall make you a list. In the meantime, I am assigning you the first six chapters of de Medina to read and summarize. When we meet in the morning, I expect you to present me with a list of five questions or concerns you may have regarding what you’ve read.”
“Yes, Doctor Cornelius,” Rilian agrees, obedient, and has the rather disturbing feeling that he may be consenting to something he doesn’t agree with. Doctor Cornelius is up to something. Doctor Cornelius is always up to something.
“Very good, your highness,” Doctor Cornelius says again. “Now, let us turn our attention to the history of the Lone Islands –”
Rilian finally manages to escape after three interminable hours and flees down to the stables, where Juniper greets him with an eager whinny. Rilian quiets him by patting his nose and feeding him half an apple, small and wrinkled after a winter in storage. He sends a groom lingering around the stables to go and get Juniper’s tack, stroking his horse’s neck as he waits for the faun to return. When he finally rides out, it’s into the warmth of late spring, the promise of a humid summer gathering sweat beneath the linen of his shirt, against the back of his neck beneath his queue. Once he’s out of the city and across the river, he sends Juniper in a gallop towards the thick forests of the north. It’s not that he expects to find anyone there, he tells himself firmly. It’s just a good ride.
The shade of the trees feels good on his overheated skin as they enter the woods, Juniper slowing to a walk. He heads towards the fountain even without Rilian telling him to do so.
It’s not that Rilian comes up here all the time. He doesn’t. Not more than a few times a week, anyway, and – it’s a good ride. It’s not dangerous. Going west from Cair Paravel is too dangerous, because it’s one of the least civilized parts of Narnia. Going south is boring, it’s all fields, the trees having obligingly moved westwards so that the humans can settle around Cair Paravel, keeping the capital city from being an isolated beacon of civilization in the wilderness that Narnia had become after the Golden Age had ended. Father won’t refer to it that way, of course. He’s says that it’s both unfair and untrue, though Doctor Cornelius disagrees with him, and from what Rilian’s seen of occupied Narnia outside of Cair Paravel he can’t say that he’d argue with Doctor Cornelius. He wonders what the High King would think of it. Peter’s Narnia must have been different from this one, a Narnia of magic and adventure and derring-do, the way that Rilian’s read about in his books. It must have been marvelous to see. This forest would have been full of life, fauns and Talking Beasts and other Narnians lurking in the depths behind the trees. Instead of being just a dumb snake, the creature that killed Rilian’s mother would be something more dangerous, something nefarious and dark – some creature of the White Witch, left behind after the Long Winter, or the tool of some pretender to Narnia’s throne –
He wonders what the lady in the green kirtle would think if he told her that. Maybe she’d laugh.
Rilian has wanted to give her a name for weeks now, if only to call her something besides some variant on the lady in green, but she won’t have it. She says she has to do something to earn it first, and Rilian supposes that he can respect that. He doesn’t entirely understand it, but he talks it through to himself as something like being appointed to be a general before he’s even held a sword. Though it’s a name, not – well, anyway.
She’s waiting for him when he reaches the clearing, smiling up at him from the forest floor. She’s brought a blanket (green as the grass it lays upon, of course) and a picnic basket this time; Rilian blinks at them, then grins. He dismounts, quickly untacking Juniper, because he doesn’t know how long they’re going to be here – a few hours, at least – and it’s not fair for his horse to be forced to bear the weight of his saddle if he’s not going to be using it. He lets Juniper go with a quiet reminder not to wander too far; there are still some dangers in these woods. Wild animals, mostly. They’re too close to the capital for there to be feral Narnians here.
“Come and sit,” says the lady in the green kirtle, patting a spot on the blanket beside her. Rilian doesn’t need any further invitation to do so.
“How did you know I was going to be here?” he asks, investigating the contents of the picnic basket as the lady pours red wine into silver cups.
“I always know,” she tells him, passing him the cup and reaching into the basket to pull out plates and napkins. Rilian puts the cup aside to help her serve cold cuts of roast goose glazed with orange and ouzo, flaky-crusted oyster pies, a salad of spring greens and pomegranate seeds tossed in a peppery vinaigrette, and finally sticky rolls stuffed with lemon rolls and toasted almonds.
“I know,” he says, when both of them have filled their plates and sat back to eat. “But how do you know? I don’t always know when I’m going to come.”
The goose leaves her mouth sticky and shiny after she bites into it. “I see it,” she says, after she’s chewed and swallowed. “In the smoke.” She pauses to search for the words, picking bits of meat off the bone with one finger. “Certain types of incense – if you know how, you can see different things.”
“What kinds of things?” Rilian prompts.
She smiles. “The present. The future. The past. Things that are true, things that could be true, and things that were never true. Many things.”
“I’d like to see them,” Rilian says, trying the oyster pies.
“Maybe you shall, some day. I’d like you to come visit me.”
Rilian looks at her with sudden fascination. He’s asked her several times where she lives, because there’s nothing up here except trees and ruins and mad Narnian hermits, and all she’d said was that she was staying nearby. She’d never called it “home.”
“I’d like that,” Rilian says, and hopes his blush doesn’t show. “I’d like that very much.”
The lady smiles, leaning over to kiss his cheek. “I shall make my preparations,” she says, “and when the time is right, you can come and visit me.”
“Would you,” Rilian starts, and clears his throat when his voice starts to jump, “would you come and visit me as well? I’d like you to meet my father.”
“I’d love to,” says the lady of the green kirtle, and smiles. “Someday in the future we shall visit your Cair Paravel and your father the king.”
*
The shadows are growing long by the time Rilian realizes what time it is and hurries to catch Juniper and saddle him. The lady blows him a kiss as he rides off; he resists the urge to return it, or at least turn around and ask her for a favor to wear at the next tourney, though he has no idea when that might be, given his father’s somber mood. He kicks Juniper into a gallop as soon as they’re out of the woods, hoping against hope that he’ll make it back to Cair Paravel before full dark.
He doesn’t have a chance. Instead, he runs into Lord Drinian and a troop of guardsmen, their faces grim in the moonlight.
“Your highness!” Lord Drinian hails him, his relief bleeding into his voice. He spurs his horse up next to Rilian’s; Rilian drops his shoulders and puts his head down, waiting for the rebuke.
It comes as expected, though at least Lord Drinian isn’t as likely to rail at him as much as some of his father’s other lords. What Lord Trumpkin would probably say doesn’t bear imagining, and Glenstorm’s silent disapproval would be worse than any tongue-lashing Drinian might lay on him.
“Where have you been so late, your highness?” Lord Drinian asks.
“I went riding,” Rilian says experimentally. “And I lost track of time –”
Lord Drinian raises an eyebrow. “Your highness,” he says, too soft for the surrounding guardsmen to hear. “I hope you were not thinking to hunt the beast that killed your lady mother. Vengeance – vengeance is something that may be brought to bear on a man, but not on a witless beast. I understand that your loss is great, but −”
“I haven’t thought about that in weeks,” Rilian blurts out.
“No?” says Lord Drinian, shepherding him back towards the Great River. “You have been riding in the Northern Woods many times these past months. There are other places in Narnia to ride in, your highness, ones with less sorrow attached.”
“‘All of Narnia is a graveyard,’” Rilian quotes dutifully, remembering one of Master Johnston’s masques.
“Mmm. But the blood spilled in other parts of Narnia is not so close to your own, your highness.”
“I haven’t been hunting the serpent,” Rilian says firmly. “I – it was just a dumb beast, you said as much yourself. And anyway, there’s no way to hunt a snake.”
“Indeed, your highness,” Lord Drinian says, eyeing him thoughtfully. “What have you been doing these past months, then? All these days riding out alone, being gone for hours…” He lets the words hang in the air, then adds quietly, “Your father is very worried for you.”
Rilian looks down, flushing dully. “There’s – something beautiful in the woods,” he compromises finally. “The most beautiful thing ever created.”
Lord Drinian raises an eyebrow. “Some artifact out of the ancient past?”
“No,” Rilian says firmly. “No, she’s not ancient at all –” he says, and stops, realizing he’s said too much.
“She,” Lord Drinian says, testing.
“Don’t tell my father,” Rilian mutters to his saddlehorn.
“Mmm,” Lord Drinian says again. “May I ask if this paramour of yours is a Telmarine lady?”
“No.”
“A Narnian woman?”
“No! I’d rather –” Rilian chokes on the words. It’s not that there’s anything wrong with Narnians, but the idea of making love to a nonhuman, well – Doctor Cornelius is half-Narnian, and he says that most of the time he would give anything to be full Telmarine. Father says that that might have been true before he took the throne, but since he’s king now, it shouldn’t be. Doctor Cornelius says that that doesn’t change the fact that Telmarines who marry Narnians are shunned among their fellow humans. Change one thing at a time, your majesty, he says. The rest will come. Only the most common criticism that Rilian’s heard, even in council, is that like should breed with like. There’s a rumor that some of the lords are putting together a petition to Father that will make marriage between humans and Narnians illegal.
Lord Drinian eyes him, frowning, and Rilian remembers belatedly that his mistress is a selkie, a shape-shifter. The idea discomfits him.
“You’ve missed two of your lessons and tilting practice,” Lord Drinian says finally, changing the subject. “Your tutor and Sir Berenguer are most displeased.”
“Doctor Cornelius is always displeased,” Rilian mutters, but he feels a tinge of regret for missing tilting. Tilting is fun. Although more painful than lessons.
They clatter over the Bridge of Sighs, the castle rising up in front of them behind the gauntlet of the town. There are more people out and about than Rilian would have expected there to be after dark; they clear to the sides of the streets to avoid the guardsmen’s horses. Some of them point at Rilian, their expressions knowing. Rilian grits his teeth and stares straight ahead, feeling like a child being escorted by his nursemaids. Prince or not, he doesn’t like being on display.
“Someone wants to see you,” Lord Drinian says when they dismount in the courtyard, grooms coming to take their horses. He puts his hand on Rilian’s shoulder, steering him in the direction he wants.
“Doctor Cornelius?” Rilian says gloomily as they go into one of the smaller courtyards. He starts to turn left automatically, to go up to Doctor Cornelius’s tower, but Lord Drinian corrects him and they keep going straight, towards the chapel, which is still under construction. Rilian blinks, wondering if he’s going to get told off by one of the new divines of Aslan. Something else the Narnians don’t approve of.
“Much worse,” Lord Drinian assures him.
Up ahead, the chapel is lit from within, far more candles than needed for worship. Rilian wonders who would be in there this late, then sees the palace guards stationed outside the doors and knows.
“Oh, no,” he says as one of the guardsmen opens a door for Lord Drinian, who steers him inside the same way he steered his ship around the outer edge of a hurricane three years ago.
“We’ve found the scamp, your majesty,” Lord Drinian says.
King Caspian X turns around, his expression relieved. Rilian resists the urge to sink into the floor. “Hello, Father,” he says to his boots, then raises his head to see Father nod thanks to Lord Drinian. The sea captain’s hobnailed boots click softly on the marble floor as he walks away, the door closing behind him.
“You gave us quite a scare, Rilian,” Father says, guiding him to a seat on a box left by one of the construction crews. Rilian sits, mentally preparing himself for the expected lecture about not running off and skipping his lessons. Instead Father clasps his hands behind his back, looking away.
Rilian looks too. The reason the chapel is lit up so late at night is because the painter Father has hired to do the murals in the chapel is still working, his apprentices fluttering around him – some of them are high up on the frame that allows them to paint the upper walls and parts of the ceiling. One of the panel paintings is done already, while most of the walls are blank, except for the section that’s currently being worked on. Rilian can’t tell what the subject matter is from here.
“Sarapammon has been showing me his sketches,” Father says, sounding tired. “The mural he’s already finished is one of the best I’ve ever seen. I’ll show it to you when we’ve finished.”
“Yes, Father,” Rilian says, looking over again. From what he can see, the finished mural is all blues and grays, the colors of winter.
Father finds another box and pulls it over, sitting down. “I wish you wouldn’t run off like that, Rilian,” he says quietly. “I know you’ve taken it hard since your mother died –”
“It’s not about Mother,” Rilian interrupts. “I just – I need to get out of the palace,” he tries to explain, a little clumsy. “I like riding. I know I shouldn’t skip my lessons, but I lost track of time, I won’t do it again –” He wants to get this over with as quickly as possible.
Father raises an eyebrow. “You and I know that’s probably not true, Rilian,” he says. “I can’t say I never skipped my lessons when I was your age –”
“I know. Doctor Cornelius has said.”
Father throws back his head and laughs, making some of Master Sarapammon’s apprentices look over before they go back to their work. “Indeed. If General Glozelle was here – well, one less person to tell tales of my misspent youth, I suppose.” He grins at Rilian, inviting him to share the joke, and Rilian grins obediently back, then lets his smile relax, waiting for the rest of the reprimand.
It comes quickly, as Father’s laughter fades, replaced by the sound of an apprentice demanding more blue paint. Father clears his throat, folding his scarred hands in his lap, and says, “You’ll have to apologize to Doctor Cornelius and Sir Berenguer, of course.”
“Yes, Father,” Rilian says obediently, having known that was coming sooner or later. He looks down at his own hands, smooth except for calluses from sword and lance on his palms and the insides of his fingers, then up at his father’s worried face. “And – I’m sorry for upsetting you,” he adds. “I didn’t mean to.”
“I know you didn’t,” Father says. “Do try not to do it again, or at least tell someone where you’re going next time. I wish you’d take a guard with you.”
Rilian shakes his head.
“I thought not,” Father sighs. “Must you go to the North Bank, Rilian? It’s not inhabited, and –” Rilian already knows the end of that sentence: and it’s where your mother died.
“That means there’s no one else up there,” Rilian says quickly, so he doesn’t have to think about Mother too hard. “Hardly anyone lives up there, Father, you know that. Not until you get the Marshes, or if you go west into the High Reaches. And I don’t go that far from Cair Paravel.”
Father eyes him thoughtfully. “I’d like to go with you sometime,” he says. “Just the two of us.”
Rilian hesitates. “I’d like that,” he says finally.
“Although not for another few days, since you’re confined to the palace for the next week,” Father says firmly.
Rilian sighs, but says, “Yes, Father,” obediently.
Father looks at him, frowning, then nods slowly. “What do you think of those northern lands?” he asks, resting his elbows on his knees as he leans forward.
“It’s good land,” Rilian says, blinking. Is this some kind of trick? “It looks like it would be good farmland.”
“It probably would be,” Father says. “Most of Narnia is. Has Doctor Cornelius told you why we’ve never sent settlers there?”
Rilian shakes his head. “But there’s plenty of land south of the Great River,” he says, “even though it’s further away from Cair Paravel.”
“So there is,” Father says. “The North Bank is Narnian land. It belongs to the Crown, like the rest of Narnia, but when we were arranging terms with the native Narnians I signed an agreement that there would be no Telmarine settlement on the North Bank for a hundred years. Narnian land for Narnians, without Telmarine interference.”
“But they wouldn’t do anything with it!” Rilian says, surprised. “And there’s no one living there now – if the Narnians want to live like savages, then they stay in the Western Wild. No one goes north of the Great River.” Except him. Him and the lady of the green kirtle.
“They aren’t savages,” Father says patiently. “And don’t say that where others can hear you.” He raises an eyebrow, and Rilian mutters, “Yes, Father.” Everyone else says it, but he can’t. That’s the way it always goes at court.
“Do you understand?” Father finishes.
Rilian nods slowly. “We can’t use the lands, and none of the Narnians want to move north.”
Father grins. “Close enough. Come on, I’ll have Sarapammon show you his masterpiece. Cornelius says that you’re about to begin the history of art, so I think you’ll appreciate this.”
He resists the urge to groan, but gets up anyway and follows his father over to the wall with the mural on it. Seeing the king approach, one of the artists breaks off from the group – Master Sarapammon, apparently. Rilian is surprised to see that he’s Narnian, a tall faun with curling horns sprouting from beneath his cap of shaggy blond hair. One of them has red paint on it. He stops a few steps away from Father and Rilian and bows from the waist.
“Your majesty,” he says. “Your highness. I’m afraid we haven’t made any noticeable progress in the past twenty minutes.”
That must have been when Father spoke to him last, Rilian realizes after a moment of puzzlement.
“Don’t worry about it,” Father says, with a hint of a smile. “I’ve come to show my son your newest masterpiece.”
“Ah,” says Master Sarapammon. “If you and the young prince would come with me then, please.” He leads the way, his hooves clicking quietly on the marble floor.
Rilian looks down at the floor as he follows. Less than a third of the floor has been laid so far and the pattern it will form isn’t clear yet. He can’t remember if anyone had told him what it was going to be; right now it’s a mess of black, white, and gray marble, with more tiles stacked against the opposite wall. Hopefully no one topples them over on accident.
“The Meeting in the Woods,” says Master Sarapammon proudly.
From the angle he’d been at before, Rilian hadn’t realized that the mural was on a monumental scale. Trees stripped bare of their leaves rise high along the wall, their tops disappearing into the border at the top of the mural. Snow lies in piles almost chest-high, higher than Rilian has ever seen it in Narnia, dipping downwards around the tree trunks where the branches have slowed the fall, creating a pit-like effect throughout the forest. A road cuts through the center of the painting, disappearing into the woods in the distance. The sleigh that has come to a stop in the center is all sharp, crystalline lines, unlike anything Rilian has ever seen in the real world, with a twining motif of lilies and snowflakes etched along its sides. Two white reindeer stand in harness, while a wolf lounges on the floor of the sleigh, its ears pricking. One of them is ragged. The reins have been tossed negligently aside in the occupant’s wake, leaving the sleigh empty but for the wolf and the skin of a white tiger.
The White Witch stands before the sleigh, drawing all Rilian’s attention, so that he barely notices the figure on the side of the road. She wears white and pale grey, icy blue embroidery across her bodice and the banding of her short cloak. Everything about her is lush; the white furs she wear look incredibly soft, while the fabric of her gown is expensive velvet and silk. Her skirts are fuller than Rilian would have expected, flaring out slightly at the waist and trailing on the ground. Instead of a crown, she wears a jeweled diadem – diamonds twisted amidst white gold, pale against her red hair. Her face is beautiful and human, with high cheekbones and full red lips. Her green eyes seem to stare straight into Rilian’s soul.
She dwarfs the figure of the boy who will become King Edmund the Just. He’s in profile, a boy younger than Rilian who’s wrapped himself in a cloak of very dark blue against the cold. His boots show all the signs of being put on hastily, the laces of the left one trailing on the ground. The Witch has raised her wand to push his hood back from his face, revealing dark hair and the soft features of a child. He looks utterly captivated.
It takes Rilian a minute to realize that the only real color in the painting is the red of the Witch’s hair and lips, and the deep blue of King Edmund’s cloak.
“Your highness?” says Master Sarapammon, waiting patiently. Rilian blinks, and realizes he’s staring.
“It’s brilliant,” he says, waving a hand in lieu of expressing himself more coherently. “It’s just – how did you know what the White Witch looked like, that’s amazing –”
“Thank you, your highness,” says Master Sarapammon, bowing slightly. “I studied the sources that remain from the period, and since they are all rather vague on her appearance, I extrapolated from what was written down. A certain lady sat for a portrait, and, with her permission, I used those sketches for her face. We have contemporary paintings and statuary of King Edmund, of course.”
“It’s brilliant,” Rilian repeats firmly. After a breath, he manages to tear his gaze away. “And the rest of the set – is that also going to be –”
“Indeed, your highness.” Master Sarapammon looks pleased. “We are currently painting a mural called At the Lamppost, of Queen Lucy’s –”
“− meeting with the faun Tumnus,” Rilian finishes for him, and grins. “I can’t wait to see it finished, Master Sarapammon.”
Father clears his throat softly, and Rilian remembers to say, “Thank you for showing me this, Master. I’m honored.”
“As am I, your highness,” says Master Sarapammon. “I can only hope that the rest of my work will live up to expectation.”
“I’m sure it will,” Rilian says, glancing back at the mural. He shudders slightly at the White Witch’s expression; Master Sarapammon has managed to make it look as if she has ice in her soul.
“Thank you for this honor, Master Sarapammon,” says Father, and the faun bows to him, murmuring, “Thank you, your majesty.”
“I’ll take myself and my errant son of your way and let you return to your work,” Father goes on, his voice gracious, and steers Rilian out of the chapel.
“Did the White Witch really look like that?” Rilian asks, after the door has closed behind them.
Father stops, his eyes closing for a moment. It had been Lord Trumpkin who’d told Rilian about that; Father never speaks of it. “No,” he says at last. “No, she didn’t. I thought that it might be unwise to have an accurate representation of the White Witch in Narnia. I like to think that there’s a reason why all the sources are so vague.”
“Because it might summon her back?” Rilian says softly.
“Something like that,” Father says, and shakes his head. He smiles at Rilian. “At least now you’ll have something to talk to Cornelius about, since I wager you didn’t bother to do your reading assignment, and it’s a bit late now.”
Rilian winces. He’d forgotten about that. “Yes, Father,” he says meekly. “Ah – may I be excused –”
“You missed supper,” Father points out. “Do you want to go to the kitchens?”
“No, I – I took some food with me,” Rilian lies. He steps back, bowing slightly to his father. “With your permission, Father.”
Father nods, looking slightly disappointed, though Rilian doesn’t know why, and lets Rilian hurry through the courtyard to a door that will, eventually, take him to the stairs that lead to his rooms. He’s undressing for bed when he finds one of the lady of the green kirtle’s silver cups in his pocket and winces in dismay; he doesn’t remember putting it there.
Since it’s here, Rilian leans over to look at it in the light of the candle on his desk, seeing the repoussé on the side for the first time. He turns the cup slowly around. It’s a narrative design, what Doctor Cornelius would call an ouroboros – a narrative with no beginning or end. A snake slides through tall grass, lingering at a fountain where a woman sits, and then slithers away, leaving her sleeping on the ground. Rilian puts the cup down quickly and stands back, wondering what would have compelled the lady to give him a cup with that design on it. Maybe she just doesn’t know about his mother.
He squeezes his eyes shut, then opens them again so he can undress quickly and wash up before he blows the candle out.
That night, he dreams of the lady of the green kirtle. She holds out her hand to him and says, Come.
end
(no subject)
Date: 2011-05-15 01:53 pm (UTC)And oh, the irony of the Prince's thoughts about seeking adventure and not knowing who the Lady in green really is. And a name can be pretty powerful even if he doesn't realize it. A name, or a single word (like the Deplorable Word).
Funny how Doctor Cornelius would prefer to be full Telmarine than full Narnian. There are pros and cons to choosing either one, I suppose, but still... I don't like your version of Cornelius that much, but then again, I'm biased toward the Narnians. (I remember in "The Bone's Prayer", Edmund didn't seem to trust Cornelius much either.)
Loved the appearance of Drinian!
The murals!! They sound wonderful and horrible at the same time. I can't imagine the look on the Pevensies' faces if they ever saw that. Poor Edmund will never get away from that mistake that happened so long ago. At least Caspian was wise enough to not accurately portray what Jadis looked like.
As for the silver cup... it seems more like a warning from the Lady to Rilian than anything else. And it's one that the Prince fails to recognize, and will earn him a rather long imprisonment.
(no subject)
Date: 2011-05-16 11:33 pm (UTC)I think -- mmm, I think Rilian would be interested in visiting the Golden Age, but actually living there would be too disconcerting for him. Society in his own time is a little too tightly regimented for him to be (at least immediately) comfortable in the Golden Age. He's young and flexible, though -- he could get used to it, if he had the opportunity, which sadly he won't. I'm sure exile to the past would probably be more preferable than imprisonment with the LotGK!
Doctor Cornelius is an odd one. I think he had a hard time growing up half-Narnian and half-Telmarine, and although he ended up using his Narnian half to put Caspian in power, he thinks that the Telmarines are more powerful and more organized, something the Narnians never quite managed. (In case it didn't come out in the text, Telmarine-Narnian society has some interesting class stuff going on.)
The Pevensies may see the murals. Sometime in the future. /cagy
(no subject)
Date: 2011-05-17 01:39 am (UTC)As for the Telmarine/Narnian society, I do see the class divide and it seems logical given how the two different peoples were (forcibly) brought together. I do love how Drinian's mistress is a Selkie though! At least one Telmarine man is getting along with a Narnian. Heh.
Seeing Narnia in Tirian's time, at least the class issues have somewhat improved. And yes, I'd love to see the Pevensies' reaction to the murals someday. :-)
(no subject)
Date: 2011-05-19 01:24 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2011-05-16 05:56 am (UTC)It struck me when I was doing my reread, that Caspian and Rilian are both totally unsatisfied with the Narnia they get; they want something else that it isn't, and I think Rilian has a lot of that in here too. It's striking how far Narnia has regressed since the Golden Age, really; I don't think the Pevensies would have been very good at dealing with everything that's happened. Or at least, they'd have dealt with things very differently than Caspian.
Did Caspian inaugurate this chapel/divine business? It seems a very Telmarine thing to do.
I really want to see the Pevensies' reaction to those murals. Cloaks and boots, hah! Though it strikes me that the cup is just a reiteration of the warning in the mural, and Rilian can't or won't see.
(no subject)
Date: 2011-05-16 11:50 pm (UTC)*nodnod* Caspian would like a fully integrated society, and Rilian would like a society that works the way it's supposed. But the Telmarines aren't ready to accept the Narnians as equals; the Narnians aren't ready to accept the Telmarines as equals, and, well, people are people.
The Pevensies never had to try and integrate two societies, so -- it would be interested to see what they would have done.
Yep, Caspian. I'm not sure if it was his idea or someone else's.
We may see a Pevensie reaction to those murals in Dust, though I'm not promising anything. Coming up with the mural was -- exceptionally brain-breaking, in some ways. Because I write movieverse, so we know what that scene looks like, right? What Edmund and the White Witch were wearing, who was there, what the sleigh looks like -- but the Telmarines don't. So that was interesting.
(no subject)
Date: 2011-05-18 03:46 am (UTC)The art and history of Narnia continue to tie into Rilian's life, if only he'd notice, poor guy. Witches, Rilian! They're very tricky!
Loved the beginning conversation/battle of wills with Doctor Cornelius. Cornelius, you drive a hard bargain! And it's interesting to me that Cornelius would rather be a man than a dwarf - I feel like that was the opposite in canon.
Also interesting is the lack of women in Rilian's life, even after the death of his mother. He talks to Cornelius, to Drinian, to his father, but other than the LOTGK, there's no females for him to talk to.
I liked the scene with Caspian at the end. Poor Caspian, my heart always breaks for him. His disappointment at Rilian's departure at the end! But still, I get the sense that Caspian is a good king. Nice moment when he recalls the White Witch.
And Rilian with cup at the end! Poor, young, dumb, Rilian.
(no subject)
Date: 2011-05-19 01:22 am (UTC)I keep being surprised by Rilian, man. Everything about this mini-series surprises me. (Well, except the end, but that's canon: I know that's coming.) Rilian! Don't be so clueless! HISTORY IS TRYING TO TELL YOU SOMETHING.
I should write that Cornelius-in-Tashbaan story sometime, if only so I can get into Cornelius's head. I think part of my logic behind my Cornelius characterization is that Cornelius has seen how the human Telmarines and the non-human Narnians live, and while there's part of him that prefers the Narnians, the practical side knows that the humans are more organized, the ones that have been able to actually accomplish something. (Especially since there's such an obvious divide between the Narnians and the Telmarines. I think there's also probably some kind of compare-contrast that could be done between him and Benjavier Johnstone, from the last story.)
Oh, hey, I never thought about the lack of women in Rilian's life. *considers* That's a very good point! (Almost all canon characters in this story. So let's blame Lewis, shall we?)
I think Caspian was a good king, and one of his flaws was that he was a little too idealistic -- the world he gets isn't the one he wanted, and he's very quietly bitter about it. But he loves his son, and he tries very hard.
(no subject)
Date: 2011-05-20 02:32 am (UTC)Yes, that would be an interesting story! And especially if there is some compare/contrast with Johnstone. I can see where you're coming from with Cornelius though.
Definitely blame Lewis, heh. Although it's just another reason that Rilian is so drawn to the LOTGK, I'd think.
Poor Caspian, I always think he has so much to be bitter about.
(no subject)
Date: 2011-05-20 05:13 am (UTC)I have been thinking about it on and off for a while! I think he's in Tashbaan studying and/or looking for lost relics from the Golden Age; it might be where he finds Susan's horn.
I'm starting to feel really bad for Caspian. I mean, he just wants to be happy! He got what he wanted, didn't he? Kingdom and wife and kid. But then it all just goes really horribly wrong.