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bedlamsbardTitle: These Last Golden Days of Summer
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
bedlamsbard
Fandom: Chronicles of Narnia
Rating: PG-13
Summary: The moon is still faint in the morning sky when they arrive at the summer fair.
Disclaimer: The Chronicles of Narnia and all characters, locations, etc. belong to C.S. Lewis and descendents. Certain characters, locations, circumstances, etc. belong to Walden Media. Cut-tag from the English folksong "Tom O'Bedlam."
Author's Notes: The Golden Age of Narnia. References to The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe and The Horse and His Boy.
The moon is still faint in the morning sky when they arrive at the summer fair. Redfern looks up at the tall mountains to the north and says worriedly, “D’you think the army will come home?”
Tilse doubts it, quietly, but does not tell her so. Instead he settles the basket he’s carrying more firmly on his hip and looks over his shoulder at Proudfoot, who has consented to carry the bulk of the booth and goods on his back. The donkey says sarcastically, “The High King is fighting a war, faun. I’ve heard having an army there generally helps. One little human –” he condescends to add, “– even the High King Peter – can’t do everything.”
Redfern’s lips thin and she looks close to tears, so Tilse puts his free hand gently on her shoulder. Their father and her lover are fighting in the High King’s army.
“He will come home, he will come home,” she whispers, more to herself than to Tilse and Proudfoot. “The High King would never let his people be hurt.”
Tilse turns around to glare at Proudfoot just as the donkey is opening his mouth to speak. “Huh,” Proudfoot says instead, and gives Tilse an innocent look, bending his head to lip up some grass.
Most of the fair is already set up, but Peony has saved Tilse a spot like she promised – a good spot, next to the wide open area where there will be dancing in the evening. “The future is ill,” she says, helping raise the booth roof higher than the two fauns and the donkey would be able to otherwise. “The stars are clouded. I fear dark times are coming to Narnia.”
“As opposed to these bright and sunny times we have now?” Proudfoot says, digging his hooves into the ground to hold up the booth as Redfern pounds in stakes. “The last time we had peace was when the White Witch –”
Peony’s tail flips. “Do not speak so lightly of those dark times,” she snaps.
“And if you define peace as slavery,” Redfern adds. “Hold that.” She jams a stake in between Proudfoot’s teeth and crosses to the second staking point. “How dark, exactly? Because the High King –”
For a moment, Peony’s hooves beat the ground nervously as she prances in place. “I am not that skilled in reading the skies,” she says. “But – Jundi the Warrior and Caelinga the King are now in the shadow of the constellation Anord, Lord of Chaos. I do not know what this means. I will ask Strongheart when he returns with the High King. I am very young,” she admits, “and I have misread before.”
But her hooves beat the ground once more, anxious, and then they get the rest of the booth upright.
Not long after the official start of the fair (although it has been swarming with people for a good hour now), horns trumpet the arrival of King Edmund and Queen Lucy. “But where is Queen Susan?” Redfern asks anxiously, bracing herself between the side of the booth and Proudfoot’s back to clamber up and get a better look. “D’you think she’s ill?”
“Maybe she’s pregnant,” Proudfoot suggests, craning his head upwards, although he still can’t see anything over the crowd of cheering Narnians and a few foreigners come to visit. “I heard from Lysinger – you know, the unicorn from the south – that that Calormene prince really wanted to marry her.”
“I believe that would be what started the war,” Peony informs him. “Queen Lucy looks well. King Edmund seems pale, but I believe he took a wound in the battle at Anvard.”
Redfern climbs down and goes to the front of the booth, pushing Tilse out of the way. “You should pour,” she informs him briskly. “I’ll serve. I hear that King Edmund likes faun wine.”
Amused, Tilse lets her take the till and leans against the wall of the booth to watch the crowds pass by. Indeed, a laughing Queen Lucy, leaning on the arm of a young human man – Archenlander, by his tabard – comes by, and stops to count coins out of the purse on her belt as the human collects a pair of carved wooden beakers.
“Oh –” Redfern says, holding out her palms in protest. “No, I couldn’t possibly, your majesty –”
“A gift, then,” Lucy says, pressing the coins on her. She sips at the wine the faun hands her and smiles, bright eyes dancing. She is wearing a gown of soft rose with silver embroidery upon the sleeves, and her hair floats loose around her shoulders, barely held in check by the thin silver circlet slipping over her brow. “My compliments to the brewer. Which of you –”
Redfern catches Tilse’s arm and drags him forward. “My brother, your majesty, he’s very good –”
“Your majesty,” Tilse says, bowing as deeply as he can.
Lucy dips her head graciously. “You’ve been here before, haven’t you? With Tumnus’s cousin, Maryse.”
“Our father, your majesty,” Tilse says.
“And where is he?” the Queen asks. “Well, I hope? My brother Edmund has always spoken highly of his brewing.”
“Our father is away with the High King these many days,” Tilse says, while Redfern makes a small, squawking sound of surprise and horror, because neither Tilse nor Maryse has spoken of the fact that King Edmund himself has frequented their booth at fairs past, and Redfern is fonder of Edmund than she is even of Queen Susan.
Lucy nods in understanding. “Then I wish us both luck,” she says, and for a moment Tilse can see the girl that she is looking out from behind the queen, the girl that’s afraid for her brother’s safety. Then the girl is gone and the queen remains. “I shall tell Edmund that you’re here,” she says. “He’s always glad to try new brews.”
Faun wine isn’t brewed, and Tilse’s is hardly new – his father put it away before he went off to war – but no one corrects a queen of Narnia. Lucy is turning away when King Edmund appears out of the crush of crowd, Tumnus following close behind him.
“Lu –” King Edmund begins, but before he can speak, the horns sound again.
First is the bright, carrying interplay of notes that means, to all in Narnia, Peter the High King, the Magnificent, King of Summer, followed by a lower, sweeter melody – Queen Susan the Gentle, Queen of Spring – and then a darker, sharper sound – King Edmund the Just – and the clear, happy trumpet of Queen Lucy the Valiant.
“You idiot, we’re already here,” Edmund says under his breath, and Lucy puts a hand on his arm but doesn’t laugh. She’s standing up on tiptoe trying to see over the crowd, her beaker shoved into the hands of the unfortunate, ignored human beside her.
“Oh, where’s Philip when you need him?” she says, as the drums begin, a deep, intricate pulse that Tilse can feel in his bones.
Proudfoot has long since left to wander about the fair and look at whatever it is donkeys are interested in – Tilse would hardly know – but Peony steps forward shyly, one hoof pawing the ground nervously in front of her as she bows her head and says, “Your majesty, if you wish –”
“Do you mind?” Lucy says eagerly.
“No, of course not, your majesty, it is a great honor –” She extends an arm to help Lucy onto her back, and the queen doesn’t bother to tuck her skirt around her legs as she sits up. “Ed, it is Peter!”
“Who else would it be?” Edmund says, even though Lucy’s attention is already elsewhere. “It’s not as though there are exactly a lot of people out there with a personalized horn call.”
King Edmund forgotten, Redfern is practically dancing in place. “He brought the army home!” she exclaims. “High King Peter brought the army home! That means Alsacian and Dad are here!”
Tilse is straining to see himself, but there are too many people between them and the fair entrance. After a few minutes, where he can hear Peter’s voice faint in the distance – speaking to the army, no doubt – the drums roll again, the pattern different this time, and the tension that has held the fair breaks as the army is let free.
“I’ve got to go see Pete,” Edmund says. “Lu, are you coming?”
The queen slips gracefully off Peony’s back. “Thank you very much!” she says, and the centauress blushes.
“An honor, your majesty –” she begins, but Lucy and Edmund have already vanished into the crowd, the queen tugging on the king’s hand. The Archenlander boy trails after them.
Tumnus starts to follow, then hesitates. “It’s very good to see you again,” he says to Tilse and Redfern. “I’m sure your father is well – ah, I’ll talk to you in a bit, I must speak to the High King.”
“And you too, Cousin Tumnus,” Tilse says for both of them, since Redfern has taken the opportunity to shove the keys to the till in his hand and run off, doubtless to find Alsacian.
The size of the fair has more than tripled with the arrival of the army, and all around them people are reuniting and hugging. A group of centaurs led by Strongheart, Peony’s brother, arrives, and Peony is beside herself in delight. They buy rather a lot of wine – indeed, Tilse is doing better than he had expected, because everyone who wanders wants a drink to celebrate the return of their friends and family. Redfern eventually comes back, holding hands with Alsacian.
“Dad’s following behind with the wounded,” she says as Alsacian counts out coins.
Tilse stiffens. “Is he all right?” he asks anxiously.
Alsacian doesn’t quite meet his eyes. “He took a wound in the last battle,” he says as Tilse pours them all drinks.
“You should tell us all about it,” Redfern says, staring at him with lovesick eyes.
Alsacian’s expression is uncomfortable. “There’s not much to say,” he prevaricates. “Giants are so hard to kill, and we weren’t doing well in the end – they’d called up reinforcements from the far north. And then the High King –”
“You did WHAT?” King Edmund yells.
They all jump. None of them have realized that the royals are so close, and when Tilse looks up, he can see that they’re not – the High King and his brother are far up the opposite line of booths. Tilse can see just enough of Peter’s face to see that it’s bruised, and that he has the same uncomfortable expression on it that Alsacian does.
Edmund seems to realize that everyone is staring at him. He smiles one of his blinding smiles and says, “Excuse us,” catching the High King’s arm and dragging him out of sight. Peter goes with his awkward look briefly replaced by bemusement.
“Ah,” Alsacian says, and then continues, “and then the High King challenged the chief of the giants to single combat, with the stakes of surrender if the High King won and the retreat of the army if he lost.”
“Clearly he won,” Tilse says; that the High King won is a given.
“He fought a giant all by himself?” Redfern says, wide-eyed and clinging to Alsacian’s arm.
“Is that even possible?” Tilse asks. “For a human –” It’s not a question of whether the High King did it or not; of course the High King did it. The question is how the High King did it.
Alsacian nods. “It was the most impressive thing I’ve ever seen. The High King walked out into the ring and flung his axe –” He gestures with the hand Redfern’s not holding, splashing a little wine onto the ground. “He blinded the giant chief in one eye, and while the chief was striking all about him with his club, the High King leapt in and hamstrung him with his sword. The earth shook when he fell. And the High King offered him the chance to surrender, and when he refused, took his head off with a mighty blow.”
He sounds like he’s on the verge of composing a song about it, or maybe he already has. Alsacian has it in him to be a great bard. Tilse pours more wine as a group of dwarves and two naiads come by.
“Are you singing tonight, Alsacian?” he asks.
“Perhaps,” Alsacian says conservatively. “There are singers here much more accomplished than myself.”
“That’s not true!” Redfern exclaims, and then drags Alsacian off to see something else.
Tilse does a brisk business all that day, draining five barrels by the time dusk sets in and the center area around which the booths are roughly arranged begins to clear. King Edmund comes by and orders four large mugs of wine; when Tilse has to wrestle a new barrel out of the back, the king comes around and helps him. Tilse nearly drops the barrel, but Edmund helps him heave it up, a faint smile on his face, and refuses to take his drinks free. Tilse watches him take them across to his siblings, raising his mug in salute to Tilse when the High King asks him a question.
The first show is a singer who tells the story of High King Peter and the giant chief, and Tilse turns his head away at the exact moment that Queen Susan and King Edmund glare at the High King in unison; the High King looks supremely uncomfortable and fixes his attention on the singer as if he’s never seen anything more fascinating in his life.
The next are a group of dryad and faun dancers, followed by a set of players that act out the well-known story of how Queen Lucy came to Narnia. After this, Queen Lucy herself gets up, dragging Queen Susan with her. Both are laughing and a little pink-cheeked, and Edmund leans back to give orders to the musicians still remaining from the dancers. Peter, grinning easily (he is clean-shaven, as he always is on campaigns, or so Tilse has heard), says something to the faun beside him and a moment later has two bows and a quiver of arrows in his hands. He hands them over to his sisters; Susan takes two arrows and passes the quiver back.
Tilse pours himself a mug of wine – just a small one – and leans forward, fascinated as Susan and Lucy lay out bows and arrows in x’s on the ground before kilting up their skirts. Susan wraps her long dark hair around one hand and ties it back quickly and expertly, but Lucy leaves hers loose around her shoulders, grinning at her sister in wild delight, and Susan meets the expression with one of her own. When the music begins, they leap in near unison, legs flashing out, feet touching down briefly in the spaces between bow and string and arrow. Their hands are on their hips and then they rise, touching briefly at the very tips of their fingers before whirling away. They switch hands and places easily, moving faster and faster, arcing away and back in, hands on hips, in the air, on each other’s faces – and then together, as one, they lean down and pick up the arrows in one hand.
Tilse has seen neither Queen Susan nor Queen Lucy fight, but he’s heard of it, and he imagines it must be like this, the way the steel points of the arrows glisten in the firelight as they move around each other, still leaping adroitly amid the bows on the ground, careful not to slip on the carved wood or the silver of the string. For a heartbeat they nearly meet, and then they are parted again, dancing with frenetic energy. Queen Susan’s hair has fallen out of its bun and Lucy’s cheeks are flushed, their skirts whirling around their ankles in rising falls of gold and green silk, the metal of their crowns flashing and striking sparks across the High King’s face. They dip again for their bows, beginning a new set of steps that pass by too quickly for Tilse to make out more than the blur of the two queens. At the last, they end with arrows on the string, each one aimed between the other’s eyes.
For a moment they simply stand, panting, then they lower their bows and turn to curtsy together, Lucy turning hers into a bow at the last minute, grinning at the way Queen Susan rolls her eyes. Edmund hands them back their drinks as they sit back down again.
Someone calls for a sword-dance from the High King and King Edmund, and Peter shakes his head, laughing. He turns to say something softly to Edmund and his brother nods.
Tilse misses the next show because he’s so busy pouring mugs and beakers and paper twists of wine – he goes through another barrel, but Alsacian and Redfern come back in time to help him get the next (and last) one out. When he looks back up, there are dwarves juggling axes in front of him.
It’s late enough that people would begin trickling away from the fair if it weren’t for the fact that the High King himself is here. While rumor is that Peter would turn a blind eye, it would hardly be acceptable for anyone to leave before the High King. When Peter gets up, saying something to Edmund, Tilse thinks it’s to signal the end of the fair, but instead a pair of bears drag out one of the great drums the army travels with.
“Oh, yes,” Alsacian says, delighted, as Edmund gets up as well. Someone tosses Peter a pair of drumsticks, and he hands those over to Edmund before turning to catch another pair. They grin at each other, briefly and easily young (these humans, Tilse thinks, fleetingly; their lives seem so brief, even amid the flicker of a squirrel’s life, or a donkey’s), and take up positions on opposite sides of the drum after they’ve passed their swords to their sisters.
The High King strikes first, long and low, the sound thudding into Tilse’s bones, and keeps the beat as Edmund begins beating out a pattern than makes the few remaining mugs shake on the shelf at the back of the booth. They switch almost abruptly and Peter’s pattern is more elaborate, quicker and more elegant, tapping out gracenotes on the wooden sides of the drum. Edmund grins as he keeps the beat, and when they switch again he is even quicker than his brother, hands and arms moving smoothly and quickly. The next turn is Peter’s, and he sets his feet in the ground and matches Edmund this time, beating the stretched calfskin and the wooden sides, meeting Edmund’s drumsticks in mid-air with his own. They go through two more patterns each and the get down to the business of it, each going at it head-on, and the two melodies should clash but instead they might as well be one. Tilse can see the sweat shining on their faces, matching the way their crowns and the silver of the daggers in their belts glitter, the glint of gold in the High King’s hair.
His bones are humming, and Redfern stirs at his side, and across the circle even Queen Susan looks uneasy, although the expression passes quickly. Just when he thinks he can’t take it anymore, Peter and Edmund raise their drumsticks high, suddenly in complete unison, and bring them down together, three quick beats and then Edmund begins rolling as Peter thuds out heartbeats slower and slower until there are no more left. The rolling fades, Edmund’s face set in concentration, and then it ends. Peter and Edmund step back from the drum, sticks hanging loosely from their hands, and grin at each other. And at that, the tension that has built up breaks and Tilse can breathe again.
Not long afterwards, he sells out the last of his brew to King Edmund, who takes two mugs and goes away with a pretty naiad. The High King has left already with Queen Susan, and Queen Lucy is nowhere in sight, although the last Tilse saw her, she was with the Archenlander boy and a faun in the red of the Narnian army.
Redfern and Alsacian help Tilse pack up, along with Proudfoot, who makes a mysterious reappearance to say brightly, “So I heard a rumor from Perial, you know, that jaguar from Beaversdam – what do you want me to carry now, faun? I didn’t even drink anything – that the White Stag’s been spotted in Lantern Waste. What do you say? It’s not like we can’t all use a little luck.”
“I thought you didn’t believe in luck,” Redfern says, pulling up stakes.
“I do believe in Brangan’s best, though,” Proudfoot says.
“You were drinking with someone not Tilse?” Redfern exclaims, shocked.
“I can get Tilse’s brew anytime,” Proudfoot says, submitting to Alsacian and Tilse loading barrels on his back. “I can only get Brangan’s now and at the winter fair. I might as well make the best of it. And he has much better gossip than you, anyway. Besides the White Stag, I hear that Queen Lucy refused a marriage proposal from the governor of Terebinthia.”
“Oh, and he’s so cute, too!” Redfern says, immediately distracted.
“And King Edmund –”
Alsacian and Tilse smile at each other and ignore the two of them – Redfern occasionally breaking in with exclamation of shock or delight and the odd piece of news she’s heard – and they manage to get Proudfoot to haul the remnants of the booth half a mile up the road to the camping ground that’s already filled with fairgoers from too far away to go home tonight. All around them, Narnia falls into night, the moon and stars bright above, and as Tilse lies on his back, staring up and listening to Proudfoot snore and the quiet sound of Redfern and Alsacian making love not far away, he thinks suddenly of Peony’s prophecy. Never, he thinks, nothing can defeat the High King. Narnia is safe.
---------------------------------
Further author's notes: Peter and Edmund's drumming is based on Japanese Taiko drumming. Clips of this (which I highly recommend; I've had the opportunity to see it live several times) can be seen here.
Author:
bedlamsbardFandom: Chronicles of Narnia
Rating: PG-13
Summary: The moon is still faint in the morning sky when they arrive at the summer fair.
Disclaimer: The Chronicles of Narnia and all characters, locations, etc. belong to C.S. Lewis and descendents. Certain characters, locations, circumstances, etc. belong to Walden Media. Cut-tag from the English folksong "Tom O'Bedlam."
Author's Notes: The Golden Age of Narnia. References to The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe and The Horse and His Boy.
The moon is still faint in the morning sky when they arrive at the summer fair. Redfern looks up at the tall mountains to the north and says worriedly, “D’you think the army will come home?”
Tilse doubts it, quietly, but does not tell her so. Instead he settles the basket he’s carrying more firmly on his hip and looks over his shoulder at Proudfoot, who has consented to carry the bulk of the booth and goods on his back. The donkey says sarcastically, “The High King is fighting a war, faun. I’ve heard having an army there generally helps. One little human –” he condescends to add, “– even the High King Peter – can’t do everything.”
Redfern’s lips thin and she looks close to tears, so Tilse puts his free hand gently on her shoulder. Their father and her lover are fighting in the High King’s army.
“He will come home, he will come home,” she whispers, more to herself than to Tilse and Proudfoot. “The High King would never let his people be hurt.”
Tilse turns around to glare at Proudfoot just as the donkey is opening his mouth to speak. “Huh,” Proudfoot says instead, and gives Tilse an innocent look, bending his head to lip up some grass.
Most of the fair is already set up, but Peony has saved Tilse a spot like she promised – a good spot, next to the wide open area where there will be dancing in the evening. “The future is ill,” she says, helping raise the booth roof higher than the two fauns and the donkey would be able to otherwise. “The stars are clouded. I fear dark times are coming to Narnia.”
“As opposed to these bright and sunny times we have now?” Proudfoot says, digging his hooves into the ground to hold up the booth as Redfern pounds in stakes. “The last time we had peace was when the White Witch –”
Peony’s tail flips. “Do not speak so lightly of those dark times,” she snaps.
“And if you define peace as slavery,” Redfern adds. “Hold that.” She jams a stake in between Proudfoot’s teeth and crosses to the second staking point. “How dark, exactly? Because the High King –”
For a moment, Peony’s hooves beat the ground nervously as she prances in place. “I am not that skilled in reading the skies,” she says. “But – Jundi the Warrior and Caelinga the King are now in the shadow of the constellation Anord, Lord of Chaos. I do not know what this means. I will ask Strongheart when he returns with the High King. I am very young,” she admits, “and I have misread before.”
But her hooves beat the ground once more, anxious, and then they get the rest of the booth upright.
Not long after the official start of the fair (although it has been swarming with people for a good hour now), horns trumpet the arrival of King Edmund and Queen Lucy. “But where is Queen Susan?” Redfern asks anxiously, bracing herself between the side of the booth and Proudfoot’s back to clamber up and get a better look. “D’you think she’s ill?”
“Maybe she’s pregnant,” Proudfoot suggests, craning his head upwards, although he still can’t see anything over the crowd of cheering Narnians and a few foreigners come to visit. “I heard from Lysinger – you know, the unicorn from the south – that that Calormene prince really wanted to marry her.”
“I believe that would be what started the war,” Peony informs him. “Queen Lucy looks well. King Edmund seems pale, but I believe he took a wound in the battle at Anvard.”
Redfern climbs down and goes to the front of the booth, pushing Tilse out of the way. “You should pour,” she informs him briskly. “I’ll serve. I hear that King Edmund likes faun wine.”
Amused, Tilse lets her take the till and leans against the wall of the booth to watch the crowds pass by. Indeed, a laughing Queen Lucy, leaning on the arm of a young human man – Archenlander, by his tabard – comes by, and stops to count coins out of the purse on her belt as the human collects a pair of carved wooden beakers.
“Oh –” Redfern says, holding out her palms in protest. “No, I couldn’t possibly, your majesty –”
“A gift, then,” Lucy says, pressing the coins on her. She sips at the wine the faun hands her and smiles, bright eyes dancing. She is wearing a gown of soft rose with silver embroidery upon the sleeves, and her hair floats loose around her shoulders, barely held in check by the thin silver circlet slipping over her brow. “My compliments to the brewer. Which of you –”
Redfern catches Tilse’s arm and drags him forward. “My brother, your majesty, he’s very good –”
“Your majesty,” Tilse says, bowing as deeply as he can.
Lucy dips her head graciously. “You’ve been here before, haven’t you? With Tumnus’s cousin, Maryse.”
“Our father, your majesty,” Tilse says.
“And where is he?” the Queen asks. “Well, I hope? My brother Edmund has always spoken highly of his brewing.”
“Our father is away with the High King these many days,” Tilse says, while Redfern makes a small, squawking sound of surprise and horror, because neither Tilse nor Maryse has spoken of the fact that King Edmund himself has frequented their booth at fairs past, and Redfern is fonder of Edmund than she is even of Queen Susan.
Lucy nods in understanding. “Then I wish us both luck,” she says, and for a moment Tilse can see the girl that she is looking out from behind the queen, the girl that’s afraid for her brother’s safety. Then the girl is gone and the queen remains. “I shall tell Edmund that you’re here,” she says. “He’s always glad to try new brews.”
Faun wine isn’t brewed, and Tilse’s is hardly new – his father put it away before he went off to war – but no one corrects a queen of Narnia. Lucy is turning away when King Edmund appears out of the crush of crowd, Tumnus following close behind him.
“Lu –” King Edmund begins, but before he can speak, the horns sound again.
First is the bright, carrying interplay of notes that means, to all in Narnia, Peter the High King, the Magnificent, King of Summer, followed by a lower, sweeter melody – Queen Susan the Gentle, Queen of Spring – and then a darker, sharper sound – King Edmund the Just – and the clear, happy trumpet of Queen Lucy the Valiant.
“You idiot, we’re already here,” Edmund says under his breath, and Lucy puts a hand on his arm but doesn’t laugh. She’s standing up on tiptoe trying to see over the crowd, her beaker shoved into the hands of the unfortunate, ignored human beside her.
“Oh, where’s Philip when you need him?” she says, as the drums begin, a deep, intricate pulse that Tilse can feel in his bones.
Proudfoot has long since left to wander about the fair and look at whatever it is donkeys are interested in – Tilse would hardly know – but Peony steps forward shyly, one hoof pawing the ground nervously in front of her as she bows her head and says, “Your majesty, if you wish –”
“Do you mind?” Lucy says eagerly.
“No, of course not, your majesty, it is a great honor –” She extends an arm to help Lucy onto her back, and the queen doesn’t bother to tuck her skirt around her legs as she sits up. “Ed, it is Peter!”
“Who else would it be?” Edmund says, even though Lucy’s attention is already elsewhere. “It’s not as though there are exactly a lot of people out there with a personalized horn call.”
King Edmund forgotten, Redfern is practically dancing in place. “He brought the army home!” she exclaims. “High King Peter brought the army home! That means Alsacian and Dad are here!”
Tilse is straining to see himself, but there are too many people between them and the fair entrance. After a few minutes, where he can hear Peter’s voice faint in the distance – speaking to the army, no doubt – the drums roll again, the pattern different this time, and the tension that has held the fair breaks as the army is let free.
“I’ve got to go see Pete,” Edmund says. “Lu, are you coming?”
The queen slips gracefully off Peony’s back. “Thank you very much!” she says, and the centauress blushes.
“An honor, your majesty –” she begins, but Lucy and Edmund have already vanished into the crowd, the queen tugging on the king’s hand. The Archenlander boy trails after them.
Tumnus starts to follow, then hesitates. “It’s very good to see you again,” he says to Tilse and Redfern. “I’m sure your father is well – ah, I’ll talk to you in a bit, I must speak to the High King.”
“And you too, Cousin Tumnus,” Tilse says for both of them, since Redfern has taken the opportunity to shove the keys to the till in his hand and run off, doubtless to find Alsacian.
The size of the fair has more than tripled with the arrival of the army, and all around them people are reuniting and hugging. A group of centaurs led by Strongheart, Peony’s brother, arrives, and Peony is beside herself in delight. They buy rather a lot of wine – indeed, Tilse is doing better than he had expected, because everyone who wanders wants a drink to celebrate the return of their friends and family. Redfern eventually comes back, holding hands with Alsacian.
“Dad’s following behind with the wounded,” she says as Alsacian counts out coins.
Tilse stiffens. “Is he all right?” he asks anxiously.
Alsacian doesn’t quite meet his eyes. “He took a wound in the last battle,” he says as Tilse pours them all drinks.
“You should tell us all about it,” Redfern says, staring at him with lovesick eyes.
Alsacian’s expression is uncomfortable. “There’s not much to say,” he prevaricates. “Giants are so hard to kill, and we weren’t doing well in the end – they’d called up reinforcements from the far north. And then the High King –”
“You did WHAT?” King Edmund yells.
They all jump. None of them have realized that the royals are so close, and when Tilse looks up, he can see that they’re not – the High King and his brother are far up the opposite line of booths. Tilse can see just enough of Peter’s face to see that it’s bruised, and that he has the same uncomfortable expression on it that Alsacian does.
Edmund seems to realize that everyone is staring at him. He smiles one of his blinding smiles and says, “Excuse us,” catching the High King’s arm and dragging him out of sight. Peter goes with his awkward look briefly replaced by bemusement.
“Ah,” Alsacian says, and then continues, “and then the High King challenged the chief of the giants to single combat, with the stakes of surrender if the High King won and the retreat of the army if he lost.”
“Clearly he won,” Tilse says; that the High King won is a given.
“He fought a giant all by himself?” Redfern says, wide-eyed and clinging to Alsacian’s arm.
“Is that even possible?” Tilse asks. “For a human –” It’s not a question of whether the High King did it or not; of course the High King did it. The question is how the High King did it.
Alsacian nods. “It was the most impressive thing I’ve ever seen. The High King walked out into the ring and flung his axe –” He gestures with the hand Redfern’s not holding, splashing a little wine onto the ground. “He blinded the giant chief in one eye, and while the chief was striking all about him with his club, the High King leapt in and hamstrung him with his sword. The earth shook when he fell. And the High King offered him the chance to surrender, and when he refused, took his head off with a mighty blow.”
He sounds like he’s on the verge of composing a song about it, or maybe he already has. Alsacian has it in him to be a great bard. Tilse pours more wine as a group of dwarves and two naiads come by.
“Are you singing tonight, Alsacian?” he asks.
“Perhaps,” Alsacian says conservatively. “There are singers here much more accomplished than myself.”
“That’s not true!” Redfern exclaims, and then drags Alsacian off to see something else.
Tilse does a brisk business all that day, draining five barrels by the time dusk sets in and the center area around which the booths are roughly arranged begins to clear. King Edmund comes by and orders four large mugs of wine; when Tilse has to wrestle a new barrel out of the back, the king comes around and helps him. Tilse nearly drops the barrel, but Edmund helps him heave it up, a faint smile on his face, and refuses to take his drinks free. Tilse watches him take them across to his siblings, raising his mug in salute to Tilse when the High King asks him a question.
The first show is a singer who tells the story of High King Peter and the giant chief, and Tilse turns his head away at the exact moment that Queen Susan and King Edmund glare at the High King in unison; the High King looks supremely uncomfortable and fixes his attention on the singer as if he’s never seen anything more fascinating in his life.
The next are a group of dryad and faun dancers, followed by a set of players that act out the well-known story of how Queen Lucy came to Narnia. After this, Queen Lucy herself gets up, dragging Queen Susan with her. Both are laughing and a little pink-cheeked, and Edmund leans back to give orders to the musicians still remaining from the dancers. Peter, grinning easily (he is clean-shaven, as he always is on campaigns, or so Tilse has heard), says something to the faun beside him and a moment later has two bows and a quiver of arrows in his hands. He hands them over to his sisters; Susan takes two arrows and passes the quiver back.
Tilse pours himself a mug of wine – just a small one – and leans forward, fascinated as Susan and Lucy lay out bows and arrows in x’s on the ground before kilting up their skirts. Susan wraps her long dark hair around one hand and ties it back quickly and expertly, but Lucy leaves hers loose around her shoulders, grinning at her sister in wild delight, and Susan meets the expression with one of her own. When the music begins, they leap in near unison, legs flashing out, feet touching down briefly in the spaces between bow and string and arrow. Their hands are on their hips and then they rise, touching briefly at the very tips of their fingers before whirling away. They switch hands and places easily, moving faster and faster, arcing away and back in, hands on hips, in the air, on each other’s faces – and then together, as one, they lean down and pick up the arrows in one hand.
Tilse has seen neither Queen Susan nor Queen Lucy fight, but he’s heard of it, and he imagines it must be like this, the way the steel points of the arrows glisten in the firelight as they move around each other, still leaping adroitly amid the bows on the ground, careful not to slip on the carved wood or the silver of the string. For a heartbeat they nearly meet, and then they are parted again, dancing with frenetic energy. Queen Susan’s hair has fallen out of its bun and Lucy’s cheeks are flushed, their skirts whirling around their ankles in rising falls of gold and green silk, the metal of their crowns flashing and striking sparks across the High King’s face. They dip again for their bows, beginning a new set of steps that pass by too quickly for Tilse to make out more than the blur of the two queens. At the last, they end with arrows on the string, each one aimed between the other’s eyes.
For a moment they simply stand, panting, then they lower their bows and turn to curtsy together, Lucy turning hers into a bow at the last minute, grinning at the way Queen Susan rolls her eyes. Edmund hands them back their drinks as they sit back down again.
Someone calls for a sword-dance from the High King and King Edmund, and Peter shakes his head, laughing. He turns to say something softly to Edmund and his brother nods.
Tilse misses the next show because he’s so busy pouring mugs and beakers and paper twists of wine – he goes through another barrel, but Alsacian and Redfern come back in time to help him get the next (and last) one out. When he looks back up, there are dwarves juggling axes in front of him.
It’s late enough that people would begin trickling away from the fair if it weren’t for the fact that the High King himself is here. While rumor is that Peter would turn a blind eye, it would hardly be acceptable for anyone to leave before the High King. When Peter gets up, saying something to Edmund, Tilse thinks it’s to signal the end of the fair, but instead a pair of bears drag out one of the great drums the army travels with.
“Oh, yes,” Alsacian says, delighted, as Edmund gets up as well. Someone tosses Peter a pair of drumsticks, and he hands those over to Edmund before turning to catch another pair. They grin at each other, briefly and easily young (these humans, Tilse thinks, fleetingly; their lives seem so brief, even amid the flicker of a squirrel’s life, or a donkey’s), and take up positions on opposite sides of the drum after they’ve passed their swords to their sisters.
The High King strikes first, long and low, the sound thudding into Tilse’s bones, and keeps the beat as Edmund begins beating out a pattern than makes the few remaining mugs shake on the shelf at the back of the booth. They switch almost abruptly and Peter’s pattern is more elaborate, quicker and more elegant, tapping out gracenotes on the wooden sides of the drum. Edmund grins as he keeps the beat, and when they switch again he is even quicker than his brother, hands and arms moving smoothly and quickly. The next turn is Peter’s, and he sets his feet in the ground and matches Edmund this time, beating the stretched calfskin and the wooden sides, meeting Edmund’s drumsticks in mid-air with his own. They go through two more patterns each and the get down to the business of it, each going at it head-on, and the two melodies should clash but instead they might as well be one. Tilse can see the sweat shining on their faces, matching the way their crowns and the silver of the daggers in their belts glitter, the glint of gold in the High King’s hair.
His bones are humming, and Redfern stirs at his side, and across the circle even Queen Susan looks uneasy, although the expression passes quickly. Just when he thinks he can’t take it anymore, Peter and Edmund raise their drumsticks high, suddenly in complete unison, and bring them down together, three quick beats and then Edmund begins rolling as Peter thuds out heartbeats slower and slower until there are no more left. The rolling fades, Edmund’s face set in concentration, and then it ends. Peter and Edmund step back from the drum, sticks hanging loosely from their hands, and grin at each other. And at that, the tension that has built up breaks and Tilse can breathe again.
Not long afterwards, he sells out the last of his brew to King Edmund, who takes two mugs and goes away with a pretty naiad. The High King has left already with Queen Susan, and Queen Lucy is nowhere in sight, although the last Tilse saw her, she was with the Archenlander boy and a faun in the red of the Narnian army.
Redfern and Alsacian help Tilse pack up, along with Proudfoot, who makes a mysterious reappearance to say brightly, “So I heard a rumor from Perial, you know, that jaguar from Beaversdam – what do you want me to carry now, faun? I didn’t even drink anything – that the White Stag’s been spotted in Lantern Waste. What do you say? It’s not like we can’t all use a little luck.”
“I thought you didn’t believe in luck,” Redfern says, pulling up stakes.
“I do believe in Brangan’s best, though,” Proudfoot says.
“You were drinking with someone not Tilse?” Redfern exclaims, shocked.
“I can get Tilse’s brew anytime,” Proudfoot says, submitting to Alsacian and Tilse loading barrels on his back. “I can only get Brangan’s now and at the winter fair. I might as well make the best of it. And he has much better gossip than you, anyway. Besides the White Stag, I hear that Queen Lucy refused a marriage proposal from the governor of Terebinthia.”
“Oh, and he’s so cute, too!” Redfern says, immediately distracted.
“And King Edmund –”
Alsacian and Tilse smile at each other and ignore the two of them – Redfern occasionally breaking in with exclamation of shock or delight and the odd piece of news she’s heard – and they manage to get Proudfoot to haul the remnants of the booth half a mile up the road to the camping ground that’s already filled with fairgoers from too far away to go home tonight. All around them, Narnia falls into night, the moon and stars bright above, and as Tilse lies on his back, staring up and listening to Proudfoot snore and the quiet sound of Redfern and Alsacian making love not far away, he thinks suddenly of Peony’s prophecy. Never, he thinks, nothing can defeat the High King. Narnia is safe.
---------------------------------
Further author's notes: Peter and Edmund's drumming is based on Japanese Taiko drumming. Clips of this (which I highly recommend; I've had the opportunity to see it live several times) can be seen here.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Date: 2008-06-18 02:58 pm (UTC)I like the bits of foreshadowing, like how the White Stag is lucky. I love that no one corrects Lucy about faun wine, and that no one going home before the High King does. I reckon even though the Pevensies disagree with this formality, it's not like they can do anything about it.
“It’s not as though there are exactly a lot of people out there with a personalized horn call.” BWAH. Your Edmund and Lucy have good presence even though they don't feature. You communicate a lot with a little. And, personalized horn calls! Love it.
I LOVE LOVE LOVE the idea of the players! I wish I could watch that show. A story about the story in a story based on the story! YES. YES YES YES.
“Clearly he won,” Tilse says; that the High King won is a given. Is this a meta jibe?
This is excellent!
(no subject)
Date: 2008-06-19 11:03 pm (UTC)One does not correct a queen of Narnia, even if she's wrong! Especially if she's wrong. And Peter is just lucky that Narnia isn't overly given to formalities; I doubt that Narnia subscribes to the theory of "we will have one member of the court put on each piece of your clothing, and also wash your face."
Is this a meta jibe?
Just faith, based on previous wars and...well, absolute faith.
Thank you again!
(no subject)
Date: 2008-06-20 12:24 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2008-06-20 12:30 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2008-06-18 05:00 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2008-06-19 11:04 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2008-06-18 05:20 pm (UTC)this is fantastic. i love all the little nuances, seeing everything from an outsider's point of view. the names of the citizens, how they think, each with their own little personality and how they react to the kings and queens. catching a glimpse into the golden years that we never really get to see of in the books- which i've not really seen too many attention grabbing fics about, though i am so terribly picky. xD
the mentions with the stag, and the reminders of how much Narnia is Safe really gives good foreshadowing, explains why in prince caspian everyone seems so bitter. since the high king would never be defeated then he must have abandoned them.
ahhh! brilliant. fantastic. if you made this into a full length fic, i would read it.
(no subject)
Date: 2008-06-19 11:27 pm (UTC)And Edmund and Peter's conversation probably went a little like this: "So what brilliant trick did you pull out of your hat this time, Pete? Outnumbered and outarmed --" "Ah, I challenged the chief of the giants to single combat." "You did WHAT?" *a minute later* "You are an IDIOT. Are you out of your mind? What if you'd been killed? And you didn't even do it with Susan there to put an arrow through his skull if you had been killed! I'd like to trade in my brother and High King for one with a self preservation instinct." "Well, I wasn't killed, was I?" "I need a drink."
I figure that after the Pevensies disappeared, there were two theories: one, that they had been vilely murdered by Narnian traitors/White Witch worshippers/foreign assassins; and two, that Aslan had wanted them for something. When they never returned and their bodies were never found, well...history turns to legend, legend turns to myth, and whyever they were gone, they were gone.
Thank you! I'm glad you liked it!
(no subject)
Date: 2008-06-20 05:45 am (UTC)yes you're pretty much brilliant, that is my deduction. ♥
also your tabloid thing down below is freakin hilarious.
(no subject)
Date: 2008-06-20 06:33 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2008-06-18 11:25 pm (UTC)It's so glorious, and there they are in all their full, ripe, developed Narnian regality, and then white stag. I actually caught my breath out loud. SNEAKY. And made of win.
Meanwhile, Edmund. (God, I am a hopeless case.) With his blithe snark and his yelling at Peter and and and and the drumming. Which is sex. Clearly.
*happy sigh*
(no subject)
Date: 2008-06-19 11:40 pm (UTC)I was sneaking the White Stag in. Yay, Narnia, everything is happy here! ...except for that looming sense of disaster, but hey, besides that? Everything's just peachy! Except for how the stars have moved into the constellation of chaos and death and destruction!
The drumming is totally sex. Have you seen those videos? Totally, completely sex. (Evidenced by the fact that afterwards, Edmund went off and hit it with a cute naiad. I need to shut up now.)
(no subject)
Date: 2008-06-20 12:31 am (UTC)Utterly sex. Edmund was fighting off the naiads with a stick.
(no subject)
Date: 2008-06-20 12:44 am (UTC)Susan and Edmund have this down to an art, and Lucy laughs at them, and Peter puts up with it most of the time and occasionally snaps, which is never fun but is to be expected.
(no subject)
Date: 2008-06-19 08:05 pm (UTC)And it got me thinking that someone really needs to make a Narnian tabloid. Full out, you know, with "candid shots" and the latest gossip on Queen Susan's latest escort....how she'll turn this one down and why.("Last time, she proclaimed he 'didn't care about her enough'; she told the one before that though it was fun, he needed to go back to his other three wives...Will the latest escort be too young? He certainly looks that way.")
Hehe, I would totally buy those if I lived in Narnia. =D
(no subject)
Date: 2008-06-19 11:47 pm (UTC)Dude, I would totally buy those if I lived in Narnia. (All of Peter's failed engagements! "Will number five do the trick, or will she be another assassin?" "Will Lucy stop her wild bed-hopping ways at the High King's order?" "King Edmund tells the High King he needs to get his act together; the High King exiles his brother to the Lone Islands!")
(no subject)
Date: 2008-06-20 12:20 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2008-06-20 12:25 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2008-06-20 12:37 am (UTC)"Betrayal: Mrs. Beaver seen walking in gardens with Tumnus!'She certainly looked like she wanted to get cozy', according to one annonymous source!"
"Tumnus sitting with the High King during council; did Peter steal Tumnus form Susan?!?!"
"Edmund seen horse riding with Lucy's 'special' visitor; does he want more from Lucy's 'friend'?('And we thought he was married!')"
"Lucy spotted gathering wood with Mr. Beaver; perhaps retaliation?"
...this is fun! :P
(no subject)
Date: 2008-06-20 12:48 am (UTC)"Queen Susan throws the High King's fiancee out of Cair Paravel! Is she jealous?"
"The Tisroc of Calormen denies comments that Prince Rabadash courted King Edmund, not Queen Susan!"
"The High King at war again; who annoyed him this time?"
"The High King and King Edmund share a tent on campaign; are they getting to be closer than just brothers?"
(no subject)
Date: 2008-06-20 01:33 am (UTC)"Arvis seen fleeing the castle in Archenland in a temper; Corin soon followed. Is Arvis choosing him over Cor?"
"King Lune seen pleading with the High King; perhaps he wishes for a marriage between one of the Queens and one of his sons?"
"Arvis and Cor banned from castle until the 'stop that blasted arguing!' Who will break first?" (er, it is Cor, right? I don't have a copy of teh book with me, and I can't remember which one is Shasta!)
"Prince Rabadash seen storming out of Cair Paravel late last night; is rumored the Gentle Queen turned him down for the third time!"
(no subject)
Date: 2008-06-20 02:19 am (UTC)"Aravis and Lucy spend three days 'lost' in the mountains, 'rescued' by High King Peter on his way home from the Northern campaign."
"The High King threatens Calormen with invasion if Prince Rabadash doesn't leave Queen Susan alone!"
"The High King threatens Calormen with invasion if Prince Rabadash doesn't leave King Edmund alone!"
"Prince Cor and Queen Susan seen riding together in the South of Narnia; are they a couple?" (It is, in fact, Cor who is Shasta. I have the books beside me for reference. *facepalm*)
(no subject)
Date: 2008-06-20 02:53 am (UTC)"Queen Lucy seen talking to and later following Tumnus back to his cave near the Lantern Waste. Has she stole him back from the High King, and how many wars will be started?"
"Edmund and Peter seen fighting in the hallway during one of their latest balls! Does it have anything to do with the beautiful young dryad who danced with both of them multiple times?"
"King Edmund seen visiting the royal infirmary after wild party he threw at the dancing lawn, where he was seen kissing no less that three ladies!" ('See next page for scenes from the party as depicted by our artists!')
"King Edmund discovers new history books in the royal library depicting two children at the beginning of Narnia...one of which was named 'Diggory Kirke', and apparently went on to be what is called in the land of Spare Oom a 'Pimp' later in life."
(no subject)
Date: 2008-06-20 04:19 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2008-06-20 04:51 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2008-06-20 05:43 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2008-06-24 01:24 am (UTC)I've seen similar drumming before in person, and it was quite impressive. I'd love to see something like Susan and Lucy's dance.
(no subject)
Date: 2008-06-24 02:25 am (UTC)I'd love to see something like Susan and Lucy's dance; YouTube fails me.
(no subject)
Date: 2008-07-27 06:20 pm (UTC)I like that the Pevensies move naturally among their people and socialize. Underneath the Kings and Queens are the nice kids they were, somewhere...and I agree, there's NO way there'd be too much of that court formality, any time they could help it. They can dress themselves!-plus, ah...no need to put anyone any closer to a strike target than they need to possibly be, right?
Lucy & Susan's dance sounds fun, rather like Highland sword-dancing done Narnian-style. All bright and flashing, and I like Lucy's turning her curtsy into a bow. *grins*
But ye gods, I'd love to have seen Peter and Edmund's drumming. Heard. Both!
I DO like the personalized horn call. Snark aside, it's a practical way to announce who's coming-and I'm sure they can tailor it to how many of the four are together. I like the descriptions of the tunes for each of them...very fitting, in Peter, Edmund, and Lucy's case. Susan's? I don't know-it sounds to me like somebody wrote it for her moniker not her, given your disdain for "the Gentle". A source of irritation, perhaps, that even the Narnians don't really *know* her?
I was amused by your post-fight summary of Peter doing something, getting bawled out by Edmund who tells him all about how it could be done better and he could get himself killed etc etc-"and then they got drunk". *snorts*
(no subject)
Date: 2008-07-27 08:02 pm (UTC)My Narnia has a very elaborate system of horn calls. And Susan is a sweetheart, or she can be -- it's just that I always write the Narnians when they're in the midst of one crisis or another, so they don't seem all that nice.
(no subject)
Date: 2008-10-09 08:26 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2008-10-09 08:34 pm (UTC)