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bedlamsbardPart one of Be Like Water is done in draft, which is a moment of vast YAY, but the key word here would be "draft." I don't suppose there's anyone willing to submit to beta duty? For, yes, the nearly 70K of Narnia genderfuck, in which Caspian is whipped, Aslan's How turns into Parris Island, Miraz does not understand the harvest, and Peter is a girl?
Not hardcore beta duty, mind, just plot stuff. Possibly over the course of several months and at least two or maybe three drafts. Or just this first one, depending. But it is 69K of Narnia genderfuck and PC revisionism.
Asterius has the front, moving surprisingly silently for such a large creature, and Caspian follows shortly on his heels – though not too shortly, because it does no good to have the scouts too close together; Glozelle had warned him once that do so would alarm whatsoever he hunted, because one man alone could go unnoticed, but two might produce unnecessary noise or otherwise alert that which he hunted. He assumes that the same principle holds true for moving silently through a forest even without hunting, and when he mentioned it to Glenstorm, the centaur had nodded, approving, and had not protested when Caspian offered to take the front along with Asterius. He does not know these woods, not yet, but he will soon. He must, if he plans to take and hold this land; a king should know the lands he rules, and though no Telmarine has ventured this deep into the woods in his lifetime – not and lived – the whole of Narnia is Telmarine land, and Caspian is a Telmarine prince. Will be a Telmarine king if he succeeds in taking back what is rightfully his.
There is a wide web of scouts spread out before the bulk of the raiding party, all within eyeshot of each other. Asterius is on the edge of it, and Caspian the next; he loses sight of the minotaur for only a matter of minutes, his view disturbed by a thick growth of trees whose roots and branches are wrapped over and around each other. He does not know these trees, has never seen them further north, but when he looks closer, he sees that the three trees are actually four, and that the fourth is a strangled sapling wrapped within the arms of the greater, its bark pale, its leaves shriveled, its branches weak and tortured. The distinctive striations on its trunk are those of an oak tree, the heart of the Narnian woods, and Caspian shudders – though for what reason he knows not. He moves on, beyond the trees, and then he sees the man behind Asterius, drawing his sword from the scabbard at his hip in one smooth motion.
Caspian runs.
There are no men in these woods besides him, or there should not be, which means that this man must be a Telmarine of some sort – but the early morning sunlight strikes sparks of gold from it, and his skin is pale, not as dusky as the Telmarines. An intruder, then, some stranger from the south, of whom the Telmarines have stories but no proof, or nothing that the priests will believe, at least; he claims that they are the last men in the world and that the rest of it has been taken over by demons, creatures like the ones that now stalk Caspian’s heels, the folk that he will now call allies, if not friends, not yet. But Asterius is an ally, and a king should honor those, so Caspian runs.
He draws his sword smoothly; he means to put the blade at the throat of the man bearing down on Asterius and demand his business in these woods. He cannot think what a reasonable explanation would be, but it is owed to him to at least seek it; a king must be just. But as Caspian is raising his sword the man turns, and they meet in the horrible sound of steel on steel, and Caspian has a brief impression of big blue eyes, fine blond hair, soft-looking lips, before the swordsman disengages, slashing in a butterfly sweep meant to cut Caspian open from shoulder to hip. He parries, the move messy, and then barely manages to parry the man’s next blow. He feints right and strikes left, but the stranger’s sword is there, and while their blades are tangled together corps a corps the stranger draws back his left arm and punches him in the face.
Caspian staggers backwards, managing to hold onto his sword, and gets it up to ward off the next attack. The impact reverberates up his arm, but not as much as he expects, so he attacks.
The stranger spins away, sword fluid in the air, and then the hilt slams into the side of his face, sending him reeling against a tree. Fingers close around his wrist, trying to force open his grip on his sword, and Caspian gives up trying to see past the stars swimming before his eyes and grabs blindly for the stranger, getting his free hand around the man’s sword-hand. He’s lighter than Caspian expects, and the move throws them both off-balance; the stranger goes tumbling down and Caspian lands heavily on top of him, hearing his surprised oomph. They’ve both lost their swords; Caspian dredges up his lessons in wrestling and gets an arm across the stranger’s throat, settling his weight more heavily on him – and then he freezes.
He can see, now, though his vision is still flashing red and green with pain and the edges of what he thinks might be a fracture in his cheekbone, or maybe just an utterly wretched bruise. He can see well enough to realize that the man below him is no man at all, but a woman – a girl, her face is young and her body equally so; she’s little more than a child. Her hair is spilling free of its braid and her face is bloodied from her fall, or from some blow he managed to land, or from some old wound, but –
She slams her head forward into his and Caspian barely holds his shout of pain and surprise, but the moment of distraction is enough. Somehow, somehow, impossibly, she manages to flip them, and before Caspian’s vision can clear anew she’s holding his own dagger to his throat, straddling his thighs and breathing hard.
“Who are you?” she demands, the words overlaid by some faint, unfamiliar accent that has some distant similarity to that of the Narnians, though it’s hardly the same.
“I could ask you the same,” Caspian says, feeling the blade of his dagger – his own dagger! – bite at his throat.
She scowls. “Give me a reason not to kill you,” she invites, and Caspian swallows carefully, looks up over her shoulder, and says, “The archers with their sights trained on your back.”
There’s no hint of fear on her features when she turns her head briefly to see. “So there are,” she agrees, and then leans down over him again. “I could still kill you before they shoot,” she breathes. “But those are Narnians.”
Caspian blinks in astonishment. “What does that have to –”
“Prince Caspian?” she says abruptly.
“Yes,” he says – warily, because his name isn’t well-liked outside of Telmarine Narnia, thanks to Caspian the Conqueror. He’s learned this during his short exile; more than one Narnian has attacked him because of it, despite Glenstorm and Trufflehunter’s attempts to persuade them otherwise. He tilts his head up so he can look her in the eye, feels the blade nick his throat and the sudden hot spill of blood across his neck. “Who are you?”
*bats eyelashes* Please?
Not hardcore beta duty, mind, just plot stuff. Possibly over the course of several months and at least two or maybe three drafts. Or just this first one, depending. But it is 69K of Narnia genderfuck and PC revisionism.
Asterius has the front, moving surprisingly silently for such a large creature, and Caspian follows shortly on his heels – though not too shortly, because it does no good to have the scouts too close together; Glozelle had warned him once that do so would alarm whatsoever he hunted, because one man alone could go unnoticed, but two might produce unnecessary noise or otherwise alert that which he hunted. He assumes that the same principle holds true for moving silently through a forest even without hunting, and when he mentioned it to Glenstorm, the centaur had nodded, approving, and had not protested when Caspian offered to take the front along with Asterius. He does not know these woods, not yet, but he will soon. He must, if he plans to take and hold this land; a king should know the lands he rules, and though no Telmarine has ventured this deep into the woods in his lifetime – not and lived – the whole of Narnia is Telmarine land, and Caspian is a Telmarine prince. Will be a Telmarine king if he succeeds in taking back what is rightfully his.
There is a wide web of scouts spread out before the bulk of the raiding party, all within eyeshot of each other. Asterius is on the edge of it, and Caspian the next; he loses sight of the minotaur for only a matter of minutes, his view disturbed by a thick growth of trees whose roots and branches are wrapped over and around each other. He does not know these trees, has never seen them further north, but when he looks closer, he sees that the three trees are actually four, and that the fourth is a strangled sapling wrapped within the arms of the greater, its bark pale, its leaves shriveled, its branches weak and tortured. The distinctive striations on its trunk are those of an oak tree, the heart of the Narnian woods, and Caspian shudders – though for what reason he knows not. He moves on, beyond the trees, and then he sees the man behind Asterius, drawing his sword from the scabbard at his hip in one smooth motion.
Caspian runs.
There are no men in these woods besides him, or there should not be, which means that this man must be a Telmarine of some sort – but the early morning sunlight strikes sparks of gold from it, and his skin is pale, not as dusky as the Telmarines. An intruder, then, some stranger from the south, of whom the Telmarines have stories but no proof, or nothing that the priests will believe, at least; he claims that they are the last men in the world and that the rest of it has been taken over by demons, creatures like the ones that now stalk Caspian’s heels, the folk that he will now call allies, if not friends, not yet. But Asterius is an ally, and a king should honor those, so Caspian runs.
He draws his sword smoothly; he means to put the blade at the throat of the man bearing down on Asterius and demand his business in these woods. He cannot think what a reasonable explanation would be, but it is owed to him to at least seek it; a king must be just. But as Caspian is raising his sword the man turns, and they meet in the horrible sound of steel on steel, and Caspian has a brief impression of big blue eyes, fine blond hair, soft-looking lips, before the swordsman disengages, slashing in a butterfly sweep meant to cut Caspian open from shoulder to hip. He parries, the move messy, and then barely manages to parry the man’s next blow. He feints right and strikes left, but the stranger’s sword is there, and while their blades are tangled together corps a corps the stranger draws back his left arm and punches him in the face.
Caspian staggers backwards, managing to hold onto his sword, and gets it up to ward off the next attack. The impact reverberates up his arm, but not as much as he expects, so he attacks.
The stranger spins away, sword fluid in the air, and then the hilt slams into the side of his face, sending him reeling against a tree. Fingers close around his wrist, trying to force open his grip on his sword, and Caspian gives up trying to see past the stars swimming before his eyes and grabs blindly for the stranger, getting his free hand around the man’s sword-hand. He’s lighter than Caspian expects, and the move throws them both off-balance; the stranger goes tumbling down and Caspian lands heavily on top of him, hearing his surprised oomph. They’ve both lost their swords; Caspian dredges up his lessons in wrestling and gets an arm across the stranger’s throat, settling his weight more heavily on him – and then he freezes.
He can see, now, though his vision is still flashing red and green with pain and the edges of what he thinks might be a fracture in his cheekbone, or maybe just an utterly wretched bruise. He can see well enough to realize that the man below him is no man at all, but a woman – a girl, her face is young and her body equally so; she’s little more than a child. Her hair is spilling free of its braid and her face is bloodied from her fall, or from some blow he managed to land, or from some old wound, but –
She slams her head forward into his and Caspian barely holds his shout of pain and surprise, but the moment of distraction is enough. Somehow, somehow, impossibly, she manages to flip them, and before Caspian’s vision can clear anew she’s holding his own dagger to his throat, straddling his thighs and breathing hard.
“Who are you?” she demands, the words overlaid by some faint, unfamiliar accent that has some distant similarity to that of the Narnians, though it’s hardly the same.
“I could ask you the same,” Caspian says, feeling the blade of his dagger – his own dagger! – bite at his throat.
She scowls. “Give me a reason not to kill you,” she invites, and Caspian swallows carefully, looks up over her shoulder, and says, “The archers with their sights trained on your back.”
There’s no hint of fear on her features when she turns her head briefly to see. “So there are,” she agrees, and then leans down over him again. “I could still kill you before they shoot,” she breathes. “But those are Narnians.”
Caspian blinks in astonishment. “What does that have to –”
“Prince Caspian?” she says abruptly.
“Yes,” he says – warily, because his name isn’t well-liked outside of Telmarine Narnia, thanks to Caspian the Conqueror. He’s learned this during his short exile; more than one Narnian has attacked him because of it, despite Glenstorm and Trufflehunter’s attempts to persuade them otherwise. He tilts his head up so he can look her in the eye, feels the blade nick his throat and the sudden hot spill of blood across his neck. “Who are you?”
*bats eyelashes* Please?