Narnia fic: "The False Knight"
Jul. 9th, 2008 12:07 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
bedlamsbardTitle: The False Knight
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
bedlamsbard
Fandom: Chronicles of Narnia (movieverse implied, but not stated)
Rating: PG
Summary: The man in the shark mask and his companions had come to Carnival to kill a king. A glimpse into the Golden Age of Narnia.
Disclaimer: The Chronicles of Narnia and its characters, settings, situations, etc., belong to C.S. Lewis. Certain characters, settings, situations, etc., belong to Walden Media. Inspired by Guy Gavriel Kay's The Lions of Al-Rassan.
Author's Notes: If this contradicts the books, then I suppose we shall consider it movieverse.
At the time of the departing, when the Sun fled the heavens and the Night reigned supreme until it was pushed back once more at dawn when the Sun rose resurrected, the setting sun struck the domes of the temples and lit them up as had not been seen for a hundred years, when the White Queen had first ordered the domes painted white in her honor. As they were meant to do, the light was reflected in turn down into the streets, where they struck sparks off the elaborately decorated Carnival masks. The man in the shark mask and his companions genuflected to the temples, but few others in the crowd did. In so-called gratitude to their new conquerors, too many Galmans had gone over to the demon-worship of the Lion. Sun willing, that would end today, before the resurrection.
The man in the shark mask and his companions had come to Carnival to kill a king.
There were those of his faith that disagreed with him, that spoke that this High King of the mainland, this boy king from Narnia, was not an another conqueror but instead a savior, but the most of his faith were in agreement with the man in the shark mask: Peter of Narnia and all his kin must die, and soon. Galma would never again submit to a foreign leader, not after the atrocities of the woman who claimed to be Queen of Narnia (well enough; Narnia was and always had been a heathen country) and Empress of the Eastern Isles. It did not matter that this Peter was but a boy, or that he had come to Galma and cleansed the island of the White Queen’s foul beasts; he had claimed Galma once again under the rule of Narnia, and the man in the shark mask and his companions would not let this be. Child this boy might be, but no matter; he would die for a free Galma the way Galmans had for the past hundred years.
He was here tonight, somewhere in the crowd, masked like all the rest but not hidden. So too was his brother, the child they called Silvertongue, and his sister, the girl-child said to be more beloved in Narnia than any save the High King himself. If the Sun was with them, all three would die tonight, but if the Sun shadowed His face, then it would be the High King alone for whom eternal Night fell. If their boy king died, then Narnia would come no more to Galma.
The man in the shark mask had bribed the maskmakers to tell him what masks the High King and his kin wore for Carnival. Even had he not spent the coin, it was known that the High King took guards with him wherever he went, and these guards were known, and could not pass among those true sons of Galma. As an amusement, the High King tonight wore the face of his guards, who were near in the flesh to that of his demon-god. Not even a Narnian would defile their god by daring to wear his face. The man in the shark mask had toyed with the idea, but amusing as the notion was, it was not his god the High King went to meet tonight, but the true terror of the Galman Night.
The masks of the High King’s kin were known as well. It was said that the boy Silvertongue had taken the face of that most perfidious of creatures, the treacherous fox – fitting enough, for a child that was said to have riddled a dragon out of its cave – and that the girl Lucy had blasphemously donned the face of a white owl, the favored creature of the Night. Only a Narnian heathen would do such a thing, and when the maskmaker had told the man in the shark mask this, he had wailed like a woman and cried and begged for a blessing from the Sun, in case the Night should take his craftwork as a true wish and come for him. The man in the shark mask had laughed at first, but then had seen the maskmaker’s real distress and assured him that the Sun would never allow a true believer to be stolen by the night for a heathen girl-child’s blasphemy.
A woman in a rabbit mask came up to him, laughing and smelling of wine, and tried to kiss him. The man in the shark mask submitted to her caresses, but when she tipped her head towards the buildings in obvious invitation, he shook his head, smiling beneath his mask. This was proper worship of the Sun on this carnival night, but tonight his purpose was not that of the Sun the Lover, but the Sun the Destroyer. He fended her off and moved forward once more, jostling those in the crowd as they jostled him, searching for the High King or his kin.
They were all three of them together, the tiger-who-was-the-High-King, the fox-who-was-Silvertongue, and the owl-who-was-the-girl-child. Unexpectedly, the royal guard was not in attendance, though the man in the shark mask had been led to understand they would be there, awkwardly underfoot and clearing space in the crowd around their sovereign. This would make things easier.
The man in the shark mask saw that he was not the only one of his people to see the High King. A man in a wolf mask – chosen in a fit of whimsy – approached, the glint of steel unseen in his clenched fist. The man in the shark mask knew this plan. First the High King, then Silvertongue and the girl. He approached closer. When the High King of Narnia died, he wanted all of Galma to know who had killed him and why.
The wolf was at the High King’s back now. The man in the shark mask held his breath, certain that the heathen boy king was about to die and that Galma would once more see the Sun. The wolf had barely raised his hand with the hidden dagger in it when the High King turned. Beneath the tiger’s mask, the man in the shark mask saw that the High King’s eyes were not those of a boy, but those of a born killer, cold and blue as the winter ice that had coated Narnia and Galma alike for a hundred years. He had his sword in his hand – Wolfsbane, it was called, or Rhindon in the old tongue. The man in the shark mask felt the chill of Night go down his back, and then wolf’s hand with the dagger in it was flying through the street, his head following in a single smooth sweep of silver blade.
Unthinkable! This heathen king had killed a man of Galma, a believer in the Sun. All around the High King and his kin, swords were being drawn by true Galmans, but the boy Silvertongue had a sword in his hand as well, and the girl a pair of daggers the length of her forearm. The man in the shark mask watched disbelievingly as the three children were rushed by Galmans uttering ululating cries, and never once shied. His men were cut down cleanly – even the girl could fight – first by the High King and his kin, then by the snarling members of the Narnian guard that appeared seemingly out of nowhere, spotted and striped bodies suddenly spattered with true Galman blood, ripping open throats and otherwise defiling the corpses.
Belatedly, the man in the shark mask drew his own sword. The High King was turned away, distracted and engaged in swordplay with a man in a bear mask. It was the girl who shrieked, “Peter!” turning her gaze briefly from the man she was fighting. The distraction cost her dearly; his sword cut sharply across her chest and she screamed. A jaguar sprang at him over her falling body and killed him, then turned its attention to the girl as she coughed blood. The boy they called Silvertongue fell to his knees beside her.
The High King turned to the man in the shark mask, and on his face – he’d thrown aside the striped tiger mask – was cold death. “Let us end this,” he said, raising a sword already covered in Galman blood.
“So we shall,” the man in the shark mask said, leaping forward. “For Galma!”
The High King’s battlecry was different. He shouted, “Lucy!”
They met in a great clash of swords. He was taller than the High King, and longer of arm, and perhaps stronger, but the High King had that quickness that was gifted only to children, and a skill with a sword that the man in the shark mask could only wish had been gifted to another more deserving. He had seen the White Queen once, a long time ago when he was but a child, and she had had this same quickness, something inhuman and unearthly, granted unnatural skill by the touch of demons. There was no other explanation for how someone as young as the High King – and seen as close as they were, swords locked briefly before they broke away and flew at each other once more – had such a skill. The man in the shark mask had a son no older than this boy who called himself High King by grace of the demon-god Lion.
The man in the shark mask heard his own sharp cry of pain as the boy king moved inhumanly fast, a long knife that appeared suddenly in his left hand blocking the curved Galman sword as Wolfsbane swung. The man in the shark mask was suddenly staring at the bleeding stump where his sword-hand had been; the Galman steel clattered to the ground with a ringing sound that seemed harsh to his ears.
“End it then, boy,” he said to the High King. “I am happy to die for Galma and for the Sun.”
“It pleases me to deny you your request,” the High King said coldly as a pair of Narnian fauns came up to take the man in the shark mask in hand. “I need someone to try for high treason. Hold him.”
He turned away, and the man in the shark mask saw that, unbelievably, the girl Lucy was on her feet, a little pale and covered with blood but seemingly unwounded. Something crystal glinted briefly in her hand, the torchlight flickering rainbow off its surface. She offered it to the High King as he handed back the long knife in his left hand, and he shook his head. “I’m all right,” he said, and crossed to the side of the street quickly, pulling down a lit torch. He came back to the man in the shark mask, Silvertongue following with an equally implacable look on his face. The boy was even younger than they’d heard, and the girl younger yet.
“I’m getting sick of people trying to kill me,” the High King said. “I wouldn’t want you to die before the trial.”
One of the fauns holding the man in the shark mask forced the stump of his sword-hand forward and the High King put the torch to it. The pain was unimaginable. I will not scream, the man in the shark mask thought. I will not scream – for the Sun is with me always, casting light on all who walk upon the Earth, and the Sun shall guard from the Eternal Night –
He screamed.
-
-
He was no longer known as the man in the shark mask. Instead, he was known as the man who had tried and failed to kill the High King of Narnia.
“– and for the crimes of high treason, conspiracy to commit murder, and attempt to commit murder, I, Peter, High King of Narnia, sentence Vahe Nain to death, to be executed by my hand.”
The High King held out his hand; the girl-child – he would not call her queen, not this child who barely seemed old enough to put aside dolls for a woman’s dress – put his sword Wolfsbane into it and stepped back, alongside her brother Silvertongue.
“By the laws of Narnia I ask if there is anything that can be done to ease your passage into Aslan’s country, or whatever afterlife your faith dictates.”
“You could die,” said the man who had tried and failed to kill the High King of Narnia.
“I am not, however,” the High King continued, “obliged to carry out your requests. Do you have any last words before I execute the sentence?”
“I go to meet the Sun, where I shall be ascended to a position of high honor at His side for my audacity,” said the man who had tried and failed to kill the High King of Narnia. “And I die for a free Galma! We would not suffer the White Queen, and we will not suffer you!”
Belatedly, he realized that the great hall of the Many-Colored Temple had gone silent, and that all who had gathered to see his death had gone to his knees. Even, he saw, the High King of Narnia, who put the point of his sword on the white marble and knelt down behind it, head bowed.
“Behold!” cried the man who had tried and failed to kill the High King of Narnia. “Even the heathen Narnians see the truth of the Sun! The day of reckoning shall come upon Galma, and those faithful shall be –”
“Be silent, son of Galma,” said the great Lion of Narnia, placing his paws upon the sacred marble said to be sculpted by the Sun Himself on the first day of the world.
The man who had tried and failed to kill the High King of Narnia tried to speak and found that no sound passed his lips. Thus foiled, he stared at the Lion, feeling blind hatred roiling in his veins. This was the demon who had taken Galma from the righteous worship of the Sun. Not even the White Queen had dared so far.
“You have almost done a great evil to your land, Vahe Nain,” said the Lion, so close that the man who had tried and failed to kill the High King of Narnia could feel his warm breath, like the play of sunlight on his face. It was a blasphemous thought. “You would kill those that brought peace to Galma?”
The man who had tried and failed to kill the High King of Narnia found he could speak, after a fashion. “I would kill those that conquered Galma,” he whispered. “For love of the Sun.”
“For love of the Sun?” the Lion repeated. “But you do not know what one of the ancient names of the King of Narnia is, do you? The White Witch burned this knowledge out of Galma and Narnia alike, but there are those that still remember. In the days before the White Witch came to Narnia, the King of Narnia was known as the Son of the Sun. Look at me, son of Galma.”
He looked, and was at once blinded with radiance beyond his wildest imaginings. Eyes streaming, the man who had tried and failed to kill the High King of Narnia bowed his head to the Lion.
“What do you see?” asked the Lion, his voice infinitely gentle.
“I see the Sun,” said the man who had tried and failed to kill the High King of Narnia.
“Do you understand what you have nearly done?”
“Succeeded. I nearly succeeded in killing the man I meant to kill.”
There was choked off sound beside him from the High King, but the boy did not speak.
“Do you repent of this?”
The Sun might wear the face of the Lion, but no Narnian would ever rule Galma again. “No,” said the man who had tried and failed to kill the High King of Narnia. “I would do it again.”
There was a sense of intimate sadness, and then the warmth of the Sun seemed to retreat. He opened his eyes, but the Lion had turned his attention away.
“Do your duty, Peter of Narnia,” the Lion said, and then, “It is a pity, but some things are necessary.”
“Yes, Aslan,” said the High King. There was a scrape of metal on marble as he stood up.
The man who had tried and failed to kill the High King of Narnia opened his eyes to see the Lion vanishing into the Sunlight. And then he saw nothing at all.
Author:
bedlamsbardFandom: Chronicles of Narnia (movieverse implied, but not stated)
Rating: PG
Summary: The man in the shark mask and his companions had come to Carnival to kill a king. A glimpse into the Golden Age of Narnia.
Disclaimer: The Chronicles of Narnia and its characters, settings, situations, etc., belong to C.S. Lewis. Certain characters, settings, situations, etc., belong to Walden Media. Inspired by Guy Gavriel Kay's The Lions of Al-Rassan.
Author's Notes: If this contradicts the books, then I suppose we shall consider it movieverse.
At the time of the departing, when the Sun fled the heavens and the Night reigned supreme until it was pushed back once more at dawn when the Sun rose resurrected, the setting sun struck the domes of the temples and lit them up as had not been seen for a hundred years, when the White Queen had first ordered the domes painted white in her honor. As they were meant to do, the light was reflected in turn down into the streets, where they struck sparks off the elaborately decorated Carnival masks. The man in the shark mask and his companions genuflected to the temples, but few others in the crowd did. In so-called gratitude to their new conquerors, too many Galmans had gone over to the demon-worship of the Lion. Sun willing, that would end today, before the resurrection.
The man in the shark mask and his companions had come to Carnival to kill a king.
There were those of his faith that disagreed with him, that spoke that this High King of the mainland, this boy king from Narnia, was not an another conqueror but instead a savior, but the most of his faith were in agreement with the man in the shark mask: Peter of Narnia and all his kin must die, and soon. Galma would never again submit to a foreign leader, not after the atrocities of the woman who claimed to be Queen of Narnia (well enough; Narnia was and always had been a heathen country) and Empress of the Eastern Isles. It did not matter that this Peter was but a boy, or that he had come to Galma and cleansed the island of the White Queen’s foul beasts; he had claimed Galma once again under the rule of Narnia, and the man in the shark mask and his companions would not let this be. Child this boy might be, but no matter; he would die for a free Galma the way Galmans had for the past hundred years.
He was here tonight, somewhere in the crowd, masked like all the rest but not hidden. So too was his brother, the child they called Silvertongue, and his sister, the girl-child said to be more beloved in Narnia than any save the High King himself. If the Sun was with them, all three would die tonight, but if the Sun shadowed His face, then it would be the High King alone for whom eternal Night fell. If their boy king died, then Narnia would come no more to Galma.
The man in the shark mask had bribed the maskmakers to tell him what masks the High King and his kin wore for Carnival. Even had he not spent the coin, it was known that the High King took guards with him wherever he went, and these guards were known, and could not pass among those true sons of Galma. As an amusement, the High King tonight wore the face of his guards, who were near in the flesh to that of his demon-god. Not even a Narnian would defile their god by daring to wear his face. The man in the shark mask had toyed with the idea, but amusing as the notion was, it was not his god the High King went to meet tonight, but the true terror of the Galman Night.
The masks of the High King’s kin were known as well. It was said that the boy Silvertongue had taken the face of that most perfidious of creatures, the treacherous fox – fitting enough, for a child that was said to have riddled a dragon out of its cave – and that the girl Lucy had blasphemously donned the face of a white owl, the favored creature of the Night. Only a Narnian heathen would do such a thing, and when the maskmaker had told the man in the shark mask this, he had wailed like a woman and cried and begged for a blessing from the Sun, in case the Night should take his craftwork as a true wish and come for him. The man in the shark mask had laughed at first, but then had seen the maskmaker’s real distress and assured him that the Sun would never allow a true believer to be stolen by the night for a heathen girl-child’s blasphemy.
A woman in a rabbit mask came up to him, laughing and smelling of wine, and tried to kiss him. The man in the shark mask submitted to her caresses, but when she tipped her head towards the buildings in obvious invitation, he shook his head, smiling beneath his mask. This was proper worship of the Sun on this carnival night, but tonight his purpose was not that of the Sun the Lover, but the Sun the Destroyer. He fended her off and moved forward once more, jostling those in the crowd as they jostled him, searching for the High King or his kin.
They were all three of them together, the tiger-who-was-the-High-King, the fox-who-was-Silvertongue, and the owl-who-was-the-girl-child. Unexpectedly, the royal guard was not in attendance, though the man in the shark mask had been led to understand they would be there, awkwardly underfoot and clearing space in the crowd around their sovereign. This would make things easier.
The man in the shark mask saw that he was not the only one of his people to see the High King. A man in a wolf mask – chosen in a fit of whimsy – approached, the glint of steel unseen in his clenched fist. The man in the shark mask knew this plan. First the High King, then Silvertongue and the girl. He approached closer. When the High King of Narnia died, he wanted all of Galma to know who had killed him and why.
The wolf was at the High King’s back now. The man in the shark mask held his breath, certain that the heathen boy king was about to die and that Galma would once more see the Sun. The wolf had barely raised his hand with the hidden dagger in it when the High King turned. Beneath the tiger’s mask, the man in the shark mask saw that the High King’s eyes were not those of a boy, but those of a born killer, cold and blue as the winter ice that had coated Narnia and Galma alike for a hundred years. He had his sword in his hand – Wolfsbane, it was called, or Rhindon in the old tongue. The man in the shark mask felt the chill of Night go down his back, and then wolf’s hand with the dagger in it was flying through the street, his head following in a single smooth sweep of silver blade.
Unthinkable! This heathen king had killed a man of Galma, a believer in the Sun. All around the High King and his kin, swords were being drawn by true Galmans, but the boy Silvertongue had a sword in his hand as well, and the girl a pair of daggers the length of her forearm. The man in the shark mask watched disbelievingly as the three children were rushed by Galmans uttering ululating cries, and never once shied. His men were cut down cleanly – even the girl could fight – first by the High King and his kin, then by the snarling members of the Narnian guard that appeared seemingly out of nowhere, spotted and striped bodies suddenly spattered with true Galman blood, ripping open throats and otherwise defiling the corpses.
Belatedly, the man in the shark mask drew his own sword. The High King was turned away, distracted and engaged in swordplay with a man in a bear mask. It was the girl who shrieked, “Peter!” turning her gaze briefly from the man she was fighting. The distraction cost her dearly; his sword cut sharply across her chest and she screamed. A jaguar sprang at him over her falling body and killed him, then turned its attention to the girl as she coughed blood. The boy they called Silvertongue fell to his knees beside her.
The High King turned to the man in the shark mask, and on his face – he’d thrown aside the striped tiger mask – was cold death. “Let us end this,” he said, raising a sword already covered in Galman blood.
“So we shall,” the man in the shark mask said, leaping forward. “For Galma!”
The High King’s battlecry was different. He shouted, “Lucy!”
They met in a great clash of swords. He was taller than the High King, and longer of arm, and perhaps stronger, but the High King had that quickness that was gifted only to children, and a skill with a sword that the man in the shark mask could only wish had been gifted to another more deserving. He had seen the White Queen once, a long time ago when he was but a child, and she had had this same quickness, something inhuman and unearthly, granted unnatural skill by the touch of demons. There was no other explanation for how someone as young as the High King – and seen as close as they were, swords locked briefly before they broke away and flew at each other once more – had such a skill. The man in the shark mask had a son no older than this boy who called himself High King by grace of the demon-god Lion.
The man in the shark mask heard his own sharp cry of pain as the boy king moved inhumanly fast, a long knife that appeared suddenly in his left hand blocking the curved Galman sword as Wolfsbane swung. The man in the shark mask was suddenly staring at the bleeding stump where his sword-hand had been; the Galman steel clattered to the ground with a ringing sound that seemed harsh to his ears.
“End it then, boy,” he said to the High King. “I am happy to die for Galma and for the Sun.”
“It pleases me to deny you your request,” the High King said coldly as a pair of Narnian fauns came up to take the man in the shark mask in hand. “I need someone to try for high treason. Hold him.”
He turned away, and the man in the shark mask saw that, unbelievably, the girl Lucy was on her feet, a little pale and covered with blood but seemingly unwounded. Something crystal glinted briefly in her hand, the torchlight flickering rainbow off its surface. She offered it to the High King as he handed back the long knife in his left hand, and he shook his head. “I’m all right,” he said, and crossed to the side of the street quickly, pulling down a lit torch. He came back to the man in the shark mask, Silvertongue following with an equally implacable look on his face. The boy was even younger than they’d heard, and the girl younger yet.
“I’m getting sick of people trying to kill me,” the High King said. “I wouldn’t want you to die before the trial.”
One of the fauns holding the man in the shark mask forced the stump of his sword-hand forward and the High King put the torch to it. The pain was unimaginable. I will not scream, the man in the shark mask thought. I will not scream – for the Sun is with me always, casting light on all who walk upon the Earth, and the Sun shall guard from the Eternal Night –
He screamed.
-
-
He was no longer known as the man in the shark mask. Instead, he was known as the man who had tried and failed to kill the High King of Narnia.
“– and for the crimes of high treason, conspiracy to commit murder, and attempt to commit murder, I, Peter, High King of Narnia, sentence Vahe Nain to death, to be executed by my hand.”
The High King held out his hand; the girl-child – he would not call her queen, not this child who barely seemed old enough to put aside dolls for a woman’s dress – put his sword Wolfsbane into it and stepped back, alongside her brother Silvertongue.
“By the laws of Narnia I ask if there is anything that can be done to ease your passage into Aslan’s country, or whatever afterlife your faith dictates.”
“You could die,” said the man who had tried and failed to kill the High King of Narnia.
“I am not, however,” the High King continued, “obliged to carry out your requests. Do you have any last words before I execute the sentence?”
“I go to meet the Sun, where I shall be ascended to a position of high honor at His side for my audacity,” said the man who had tried and failed to kill the High King of Narnia. “And I die for a free Galma! We would not suffer the White Queen, and we will not suffer you!”
Belatedly, he realized that the great hall of the Many-Colored Temple had gone silent, and that all who had gathered to see his death had gone to his knees. Even, he saw, the High King of Narnia, who put the point of his sword on the white marble and knelt down behind it, head bowed.
“Behold!” cried the man who had tried and failed to kill the High King of Narnia. “Even the heathen Narnians see the truth of the Sun! The day of reckoning shall come upon Galma, and those faithful shall be –”
“Be silent, son of Galma,” said the great Lion of Narnia, placing his paws upon the sacred marble said to be sculpted by the Sun Himself on the first day of the world.
The man who had tried and failed to kill the High King of Narnia tried to speak and found that no sound passed his lips. Thus foiled, he stared at the Lion, feeling blind hatred roiling in his veins. This was the demon who had taken Galma from the righteous worship of the Sun. Not even the White Queen had dared so far.
“You have almost done a great evil to your land, Vahe Nain,” said the Lion, so close that the man who had tried and failed to kill the High King of Narnia could feel his warm breath, like the play of sunlight on his face. It was a blasphemous thought. “You would kill those that brought peace to Galma?”
The man who had tried and failed to kill the High King of Narnia found he could speak, after a fashion. “I would kill those that conquered Galma,” he whispered. “For love of the Sun.”
“For love of the Sun?” the Lion repeated. “But you do not know what one of the ancient names of the King of Narnia is, do you? The White Witch burned this knowledge out of Galma and Narnia alike, but there are those that still remember. In the days before the White Witch came to Narnia, the King of Narnia was known as the Son of the Sun. Look at me, son of Galma.”
He looked, and was at once blinded with radiance beyond his wildest imaginings. Eyes streaming, the man who had tried and failed to kill the High King of Narnia bowed his head to the Lion.
“What do you see?” asked the Lion, his voice infinitely gentle.
“I see the Sun,” said the man who had tried and failed to kill the High King of Narnia.
“Do you understand what you have nearly done?”
“Succeeded. I nearly succeeded in killing the man I meant to kill.”
There was choked off sound beside him from the High King, but the boy did not speak.
“Do you repent of this?”
The Sun might wear the face of the Lion, but no Narnian would ever rule Galma again. “No,” said the man who had tried and failed to kill the High King of Narnia. “I would do it again.”
There was a sense of intimate sadness, and then the warmth of the Sun seemed to retreat. He opened his eyes, but the Lion had turned his attention away.
“Do your duty, Peter of Narnia,” the Lion said, and then, “It is a pity, but some things are necessary.”
“Yes, Aslan,” said the High King. There was a scrape of metal on marble as he stood up.
The man who had tried and failed to kill the High King of Narnia opened his eyes to see the Lion vanishing into the Sunlight. And then he saw nothing at all.