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bedlamsbardTrying out the crossposting gig on DW...
Edmund and Mehcal (the mother of his illegitimate daughter), and their first meeting. Golden Age, before the Natare fiasco, about eight years in.
Either Susan is getting better at throwing balls or she’s exceptionally pissed at Peter; this one eclipses the last few by quite a lot, and there are enough important types here that Peter has no choice but smile and charm and mingle, probably thinking daggers at Su the entire time. Edmund’s done more than enough of that for the time being; the court has the rare experience of having the High King at their disposal, which means that he can disappear for a few minutes and let Peter take the brunt of the socializing. Which serves him right; it’s payback for Peter avoiding everything that he can and trying to load it onto Edmund.
The hallway outside the Great Hall is cool and quiet; Edmund can still hear the music through the closed door behind him, along with the raised crush of voices, but it’s no longer pressing in on him; that’s the pertinent point. He takes off his crown so he can run his hand through his hair, ordering it, and then straightens it by touch, wiping the sweat from his face. So many people packed in one place keeps the room far hotter than pleasant.
He tugs the cuffs of his sleeves down, checking that the knives strapped to his wrists are still in place, and glances up as one of his bodyguards nudges his leg gently. There’s a woman at the far end of the hallway, standing by the big window there that looks out over the ocean, flanked by a pair of stained glass windows featuring two rearing centaurs in full war regalia. Edmund can only see the back of her head, a spill of dark curls, but there’s something familiar about her – he’s been introduced to her, at the very least. Maybe even spoken with her, though he thinks he’d remember her name then. He’s got a good memory for names and faces.
“Not enjoying the party?” Edmund says, approaching her. Susan would be able to tell the cut of her dress immediately, but all Edmund can’t tell anything about it except that it’s pale red. There are nobles in Cair Paravel from all across the Eastern Ocean and the continent right now; she could be from anywhere, although he thinks he knows all the Narnian nobles.
She turns and smiles at him. Very pretty, he notes; she has a heart-shaped face and huge dark eyes like a seal. Maybe some nonhuman blood; Narnia’s not the only country on the continent with nonhuman citizens, and many of them intermarry with humans. “Enjoying the view. It’s quite lovely, your majesty,” she says, and that lets Edmund put a finger on her accent. Lycoran. He knows everyone with the embassy, which means that she’s not a politician; it means that she’s one of the merchants that sailed into the Strangers’ Marina two days ago. And a woman, which narrows it down slightly; seven of the ten are men.
“I’m glad you think so, my lady,” he says, stalling for time; usually he doesn’t have a problem remembering the names of beautiful women. “I hope I’m not interrupting anything.”
“Hardly,” she says, smiling at him. Her teeth are very white, her lips full and very red; Edmund shoves down the mental image of what they might look like wrapped around his cock. Her black eyes glint mischievously. “I hear you’re charming company, your majesty.”
“So I’ve been told,” Edmund says, smiling back at her. “So tell me, my lady, what brings you to Narnia?”
“Trade,” she says, raising her wine glass. It’s Lycoran Light – pale orange, tasting faintly of citrus, and glowing slightly. Two of the Lycoran merchants export liquor from Lycoris, Lord Corwin and Lord Dichen. Clearly she’s neither of those two, Dichen’s unmarried, but Corwin’s wife came to Narnia with him. “My husband has connections amongst the best vintners in Lycoris; Narnia has the greatest market north of Calormen. It seems a natural combination, don’t you think?”
“And Lord Corwin thinks to broaden his market by letting the court of Narnia sample his vintages,” Edmund finishes, her smile answer enough to let him know he’s gotten the right merchant, though he still can’t remember her name. “You’ll do good business here, I assure you. My brother favors stronger liquors, but my sister Susan holds the keys to Cair Paravel’s wine cellars.”
“Corwin will be pleased,” she says. “And what of yourself, King Edmund? What do you think of our Lycoran liquors?”
“I like them,” Edmund says. “I like them very much. We’ve nothing of the sort here in Narnia.”
“Exactly why we’re here,” she says, and then she laughs. “This is really my husband’s forte and not mine. All I know about it is what I’ve picked up from my in-laws, I’m afraid; my father sits on the Council of Lords.”
“High or Low?” Edmund asks.
“High. My husband has a seat on the Low Council.” She swirls her wine around in the glass, making it glow brighter, then takes a sip, smiling at Edmund over the edge of it. The glasses are from the glassblowers in the Shuddering Wood; Narnia has more than a few wares of her own to offer in the Shifting Market, and this ball is as good an excuse for Narnian merchants to display them to potential buyers as it is for foreigners. “My brother is in the embassy here; he has connections in Narnia.”
“Would I know him?” Edmund asks. He gestures at the glass she’s holding. “I haven’t tried that vintage.”
“I thought they called you Silvertongue, your majesty,” she says, smiling. “You are somewhat less than subtle.” She holds the glass at him; Edmund takes it from her, his fingers brushing hers, and tries a sip of the liquid. He hands it back to her.
“This will sell well here,” he says. “Faun vintners are purists, but there’s a market here for something that’s not strong enough to take your head off after a few cups. You don’t even see it coming until you wake up the next morning.”
“Corwin might be interested in exporting it to Lycoris, then,” she tells him. She winks at him. “It’s all my husband’s been talking about for weeks. Incidentally,” she adds, “my brother is Captain Bichir of His Grace the Archon of Lycoris’s Army. He’s in charge of the embassy’s security.”
Edmund snaps his fingers. “Bichir,” he repeats. “I don’t know him personally, but my sister Lucy’s quite familiar with him, and I think he plays cards with my brother a few times a month when Peter’s in Cair Paravel.”
Her eyebrows go up. “I suppose he does have connections, then. And now,” she adds, “I do too.” She takes a step closer to him and murmurs, “I suppose they must be missing you out there.”
“I suppose your husband must be missing you,” Edmund says, and this close he can smell her perfume, something exotic that isn’t found in Narnia. There’s a market for that, too, he’s certain. Today is just a nice for peddlers of all wares, isn’t it.
Her smile widens. “Oh, Corwin isn’t missing me at all. He has other concerns this evening. I’m just another accessory. He forgets sometimes that I’m an accessory with a mind of my own, I think.”
“I’m more than content to leave my brother to the wolves for the time being,” Edmund says. “He’s not at court often enough; he’s out of practice at the business. Besides, the company’s more pleasant here.”
“Yes, it is,” she says. She drinks the last of the Lycoran Light and sets the wine glass down on the windowsill, then reaches for his hands and puts them on her waist.
Edmund dips his head to kiss her, tasting the liquor on her tongue as he does. Her hands slide up his back to tangle in the short hair at the back of his neck; Edmund smoothes his thumbs over her hipbones and deepens the kiss.
There’s a cough from behind him; Edmund pulls back slightly and says without turning around, “What is it?”
“The High King’s asking for you,” a Royal Guard member named Guinee says, in that bland tone that means he’s not judging Edmund at all, oh no.
Edmund closes his eyes, opening them again to see the bemused look on the woman’s face. “It’s not important,” he tells her. “Pete’s just looking for an excuse to leave as quickly and quietly as he can.”
She reaches up to straighten his crown. “I won’t be responsible for keeping the High King of Narnia waiting,” she says, then stands up on tiptoe to whisper in his ear, “Besides, I’m not much for exhibitionism.”
Edmund glances over his shoulder; his bodyguards Cajero and Desai, along with Guinee, who’s on guard in the Great Hall, are all staring at him accusingly. “Maybe after the ball,” he offers, smiling at her.
She laughs. “My husband’s going out into the country to visit the vineyards or the hop fields or some such thing tomorrow. I have rooms in the embassy. And,” she adds, her smile turning mischievous, “my name is Mehcal, King Edmund.” She pats the front of his tunic and steps around him, turning her head over her shoulder to say, “But I do think you owe me a dance.”
“That,” Edmund says, “I’ll be more than happy to give as soon as I’ve handcuffed my brother to my sister so that he doesn’t go anywhere.”
“Surely he’s not that bad,” Mehcal says.
“Oh, but he is,” Edmund says, “and I did know your name. It would have come to me eventually.”
“I’m sure it would have,” she tells him cheekily. “I’d be hurt if we’d actually been introduced, but you only met my husband, not me.”
“Your majesty,” Guinee says impatiently. “The High King?”
“I owe you a dance,” Edmund tells Mehcal, “And perhaps we’ll see each other tomorrow.”
She touches the tip of her tongue to her lower lip, then smiles. “Perhaps we will.”
Edmund and Mehcal (the mother of his illegitimate daughter), and their first meeting. Golden Age, before the Natare fiasco, about eight years in.
Either Susan is getting better at throwing balls or she’s exceptionally pissed at Peter; this one eclipses the last few by quite a lot, and there are enough important types here that Peter has no choice but smile and charm and mingle, probably thinking daggers at Su the entire time. Edmund’s done more than enough of that for the time being; the court has the rare experience of having the High King at their disposal, which means that he can disappear for a few minutes and let Peter take the brunt of the socializing. Which serves him right; it’s payback for Peter avoiding everything that he can and trying to load it onto Edmund.
The hallway outside the Great Hall is cool and quiet; Edmund can still hear the music through the closed door behind him, along with the raised crush of voices, but it’s no longer pressing in on him; that’s the pertinent point. He takes off his crown so he can run his hand through his hair, ordering it, and then straightens it by touch, wiping the sweat from his face. So many people packed in one place keeps the room far hotter than pleasant.
He tugs the cuffs of his sleeves down, checking that the knives strapped to his wrists are still in place, and glances up as one of his bodyguards nudges his leg gently. There’s a woman at the far end of the hallway, standing by the big window there that looks out over the ocean, flanked by a pair of stained glass windows featuring two rearing centaurs in full war regalia. Edmund can only see the back of her head, a spill of dark curls, but there’s something familiar about her – he’s been introduced to her, at the very least. Maybe even spoken with her, though he thinks he’d remember her name then. He’s got a good memory for names and faces.
“Not enjoying the party?” Edmund says, approaching her. Susan would be able to tell the cut of her dress immediately, but all Edmund can’t tell anything about it except that it’s pale red. There are nobles in Cair Paravel from all across the Eastern Ocean and the continent right now; she could be from anywhere, although he thinks he knows all the Narnian nobles.
She turns and smiles at him. Very pretty, he notes; she has a heart-shaped face and huge dark eyes like a seal. Maybe some nonhuman blood; Narnia’s not the only country on the continent with nonhuman citizens, and many of them intermarry with humans. “Enjoying the view. It’s quite lovely, your majesty,” she says, and that lets Edmund put a finger on her accent. Lycoran. He knows everyone with the embassy, which means that she’s not a politician; it means that she’s one of the merchants that sailed into the Strangers’ Marina two days ago. And a woman, which narrows it down slightly; seven of the ten are men.
“I’m glad you think so, my lady,” he says, stalling for time; usually he doesn’t have a problem remembering the names of beautiful women. “I hope I’m not interrupting anything.”
“Hardly,” she says, smiling at him. Her teeth are very white, her lips full and very red; Edmund shoves down the mental image of what they might look like wrapped around his cock. Her black eyes glint mischievously. “I hear you’re charming company, your majesty.”
“So I’ve been told,” Edmund says, smiling back at her. “So tell me, my lady, what brings you to Narnia?”
“Trade,” she says, raising her wine glass. It’s Lycoran Light – pale orange, tasting faintly of citrus, and glowing slightly. Two of the Lycoran merchants export liquor from Lycoris, Lord Corwin and Lord Dichen. Clearly she’s neither of those two, Dichen’s unmarried, but Corwin’s wife came to Narnia with him. “My husband has connections amongst the best vintners in Lycoris; Narnia has the greatest market north of Calormen. It seems a natural combination, don’t you think?”
“And Lord Corwin thinks to broaden his market by letting the court of Narnia sample his vintages,” Edmund finishes, her smile answer enough to let him know he’s gotten the right merchant, though he still can’t remember her name. “You’ll do good business here, I assure you. My brother favors stronger liquors, but my sister Susan holds the keys to Cair Paravel’s wine cellars.”
“Corwin will be pleased,” she says. “And what of yourself, King Edmund? What do you think of our Lycoran liquors?”
“I like them,” Edmund says. “I like them very much. We’ve nothing of the sort here in Narnia.”
“Exactly why we’re here,” she says, and then she laughs. “This is really my husband’s forte and not mine. All I know about it is what I’ve picked up from my in-laws, I’m afraid; my father sits on the Council of Lords.”
“High or Low?” Edmund asks.
“High. My husband has a seat on the Low Council.” She swirls her wine around in the glass, making it glow brighter, then takes a sip, smiling at Edmund over the edge of it. The glasses are from the glassblowers in the Shuddering Wood; Narnia has more than a few wares of her own to offer in the Shifting Market, and this ball is as good an excuse for Narnian merchants to display them to potential buyers as it is for foreigners. “My brother is in the embassy here; he has connections in Narnia.”
“Would I know him?” Edmund asks. He gestures at the glass she’s holding. “I haven’t tried that vintage.”
“I thought they called you Silvertongue, your majesty,” she says, smiling. “You are somewhat less than subtle.” She holds the glass at him; Edmund takes it from her, his fingers brushing hers, and tries a sip of the liquid. He hands it back to her.
“This will sell well here,” he says. “Faun vintners are purists, but there’s a market here for something that’s not strong enough to take your head off after a few cups. You don’t even see it coming until you wake up the next morning.”
“Corwin might be interested in exporting it to Lycoris, then,” she tells him. She winks at him. “It’s all my husband’s been talking about for weeks. Incidentally,” she adds, “my brother is Captain Bichir of His Grace the Archon of Lycoris’s Army. He’s in charge of the embassy’s security.”
Edmund snaps his fingers. “Bichir,” he repeats. “I don’t know him personally, but my sister Lucy’s quite familiar with him, and I think he plays cards with my brother a few times a month when Peter’s in Cair Paravel.”
Her eyebrows go up. “I suppose he does have connections, then. And now,” she adds, “I do too.” She takes a step closer to him and murmurs, “I suppose they must be missing you out there.”
“I suppose your husband must be missing you,” Edmund says, and this close he can smell her perfume, something exotic that isn’t found in Narnia. There’s a market for that, too, he’s certain. Today is just a nice for peddlers of all wares, isn’t it.
Her smile widens. “Oh, Corwin isn’t missing me at all. He has other concerns this evening. I’m just another accessory. He forgets sometimes that I’m an accessory with a mind of my own, I think.”
“I’m more than content to leave my brother to the wolves for the time being,” Edmund says. “He’s not at court often enough; he’s out of practice at the business. Besides, the company’s more pleasant here.”
“Yes, it is,” she says. She drinks the last of the Lycoran Light and sets the wine glass down on the windowsill, then reaches for his hands and puts them on her waist.
Edmund dips his head to kiss her, tasting the liquor on her tongue as he does. Her hands slide up his back to tangle in the short hair at the back of his neck; Edmund smoothes his thumbs over her hipbones and deepens the kiss.
There’s a cough from behind him; Edmund pulls back slightly and says without turning around, “What is it?”
“The High King’s asking for you,” a Royal Guard member named Guinee says, in that bland tone that means he’s not judging Edmund at all, oh no.
Edmund closes his eyes, opening them again to see the bemused look on the woman’s face. “It’s not important,” he tells her. “Pete’s just looking for an excuse to leave as quickly and quietly as he can.”
She reaches up to straighten his crown. “I won’t be responsible for keeping the High King of Narnia waiting,” she says, then stands up on tiptoe to whisper in his ear, “Besides, I’m not much for exhibitionism.”
Edmund glances over his shoulder; his bodyguards Cajero and Desai, along with Guinee, who’s on guard in the Great Hall, are all staring at him accusingly. “Maybe after the ball,” he offers, smiling at her.
She laughs. “My husband’s going out into the country to visit the vineyards or the hop fields or some such thing tomorrow. I have rooms in the embassy. And,” she adds, her smile turning mischievous, “my name is Mehcal, King Edmund.” She pats the front of his tunic and steps around him, turning her head over her shoulder to say, “But I do think you owe me a dance.”
“That,” Edmund says, “I’ll be more than happy to give as soon as I’ve handcuffed my brother to my sister so that he doesn’t go anywhere.”
“Surely he’s not that bad,” Mehcal says.
“Oh, but he is,” Edmund says, “and I did know your name. It would have come to me eventually.”
“I’m sure it would have,” she tells him cheekily. “I’d be hurt if we’d actually been introduced, but you only met my husband, not me.”
“Your majesty,” Guinee says impatiently. “The High King?”
“I owe you a dance,” Edmund tells Mehcal, “And perhaps we’ll see each other tomorrow.”
She touches the tip of her tongue to her lower lip, then smiles. “Perhaps we will.”
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(no subject)
Date: 2009-05-02 05:38 am (UTC)I just wanted to say, in your icon Edmund totally looks like the guy who runs around charming married women into his bed. It is good to be king.
(no subject)
Date: 2009-05-02 05:53 am (UTC)I realized I had a shortage of Edmund icons! It was quite the shock. Edmund has probably cuckolded so many men in Cair Paravel. (And the question is, how many of the wives have slept with Edmund and how many of the husbands have slept with Peter?)
(no subject)
Date: 2009-05-02 07:05 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2009-05-02 09:35 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2009-05-02 04:15 pm (UTC)I'm glad you like Mehcal! I was kind of worried about her because it's not like the words "original female character" are a thing of death or anything, you know?