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bedlamsbardI was trying to make this a full-fledged fic, but there's not enough there for it to happen. (Also, I am pretty sure my ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
cliche_bingo card wanted, you know, canon characters for the "minor characters" square.) So, ficbit! Written to the chorus of most of these songs. I keep thinking of this as a Lucy character portrait, but Lucy's passed out through the entire thing. Early-mid Golden Age.
“Lu?” Peter says, rubbing at his eyes as he steps out of his rooms.
Osumare freezes where he is, Queen Lucy warm in his arms and clinging to his neck with the unbreakable of the dead drunk.
Peter blinks at him, his expression bemused, and revises his question. “Osumare?”
“Your majesty,” Osumare says after a moment. “I woke you.”
“I was already awake,” Peter says wryly. He’s in hose and shirtsleeves, the laces of his shirt undone and ink stains in a rainbow of colors spotting his fingers. There’s a streak of green ink on his cheek; he doesn’t appear to notice. “I was wondering if Lu was going to come in tonight. I suppose this answers my question.”
“One of my midshipmen just made ensign,” Osumare explains. “Queen Lucy came to celebrate with us.”
“Rónán, isn’t it?” Peter says, approaching. He pries Lucy’s fingers away from the collar of Osumare’s shirt, ignoring her murmured protest, and takes her with a slight oof. Osumare surrenders her gratefully; every inch of Lucy’s small body is either soft curves or rock-hard muscle. “Selkie. Saiorse clan, from the southern part of Narnia, around Heresceaft Point. Do you know which door is Lu’s?”
Osumare does, and goes to open it while Peter follows him carrying his sister. He says over his shoulder, “I wasn’t aware you kept up with the inner workings of the Navy, your majesty.”
“All the commissioning and promotion orders go through me,” Peter explains, and adds dryly, “Yes, I actually do sign those sheets of parchment you hand out before you dump a bucket of salt-water over their heads and give them an officer’s sword. I don’t just have a stamp.”
“I knew you signed them,” Osumare says, pushing the door open and watching one of the members of the Royal Guard rouse herself from her place in front of Peter’s door and come down the hall to join them, yawning hugely. Nuala, he thinks her name is. “I just didn’t know you read them.”
Peter grins and steps past him. “That too.”
He’s never been inside Queen Lucy’s private chambers before, but he’s been inside Peter’s many times, and they’re more or less of the same design - one main room, a number of others branching off it. Lucy’s desk is a mess, folders and papers scattered liberally across it with no sign of order; it doesn’t look like it’s ever been used for anything but storage space. There are a pair of handmade blankets draped over the back of her couch, another one half made and spilling out of a basket balanced precariously on the arm of an overstuffed armchair. The white stone walls don’t feature the usual tapestries or wood paneling; they’ve been painted on directly, bright splashes of color. Osumare looks and sees the tightly capped cans of paint stacked on the floor near one of the walls that’s only half-finished.
“Her majesty did this herself?” he asks.
Peter nods, nudging a door open with one bare foot. “Cair Paravel kept wiping them clean every night for a week; Lu finally ended up staying up all night for three nights straight with a paintbrush in one hand and a bottle of stimulants in the other. I think the castle understood after that - or at least she stopped getting rid of Lu’s paintings; I’m not sure how much Cair Paravel actually understands.”
He lays Lucy down on her neatly-made bed - Osumare thinks that the chances are good Lucy never actually touched her own sheets given the state of her sitting room; the castle has servants for that - and leans down to start pulling off her shoes. “Do I really want to know how much she had to drink?” he asks without turning his head.
Lucy snores loudly; Osumare chokes off his laughter on his fist. “Not really, your majesty,” he says. She’d drunk two of his officers and one of his petty officers under the table, the ones new enough to know that trying to match Queen Lucy of Narnia drink for drink was a losing matter.
“I didn’t think so,” Peter says, pulling a comforter out from his sister and tucking it around her. He leans down and kisses her forehead. “See you when you come complaining to me about the hangover, Lu,” he says.
Outside in Queen Lucy’s sitting room, her bedroom door shut tight behind them, Peter leans against the doorjamb and knuckles his forehead with one hand, looking tired. “Where’s the Guard, Osumare?” he asks. “She should have had at least two members with her. Nuala -”
The lioness that had followed them in clears her throat and says, “Faran and Thekla.”
“Drunk at the Painted Mermaid,” Osumare says. “I thought it might be best if I brought her back to the castle myself.”
“I’ll kill them,” Nuala says.
“Race me,” Peter says, rubbing a hand over his face. “Get someone up here to watch the door, will you? Preferably someone who’ll give those two a royal chewing out when they wander in completely panicked that they’ve let my sister get kidnapped or murdered or something equally unsavory.”
“With pleasure.” She seems far too pleased by the notion; Osumare spares a moment of sympathy for the two jaguars, who he’d last seen snoring in front of the fireplace in the tavern. Then it passes; something could have gone very wrong far too easily.
“Thank you for bringing my sister back, Admiral,” Peter says to him.
Osumare bows slightly. “My pleasure, your majesty. With your permission -” He tilts his head at the open hall door.
Peter smiles slightly. “Of course. Get some sleep, Osumare. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“And yourself, your majesty,” Osumare says, his gaze flickering towards the dark shadows under the High King’s eyes. He resists the urge to touch them; they’ve ended their affair, at least for the time being, and he has no right anymore. He never had much, not with the High King of Narnia.
“Work to do,” Peter says lightly. “Give your new ensign my compliments and congratulations.”
“Your majesty,” Osumare says, and bows again before he leaves the room, pacing down the long dark hallways of Cair Paravel, quiet this late at night, with moonlight spilling through the tall stained glass windows.
The naval quarters are just as dark and quiet, one lantern burning and the poor marine who’s drawn the night’s watch nodding off over his knitting. He starts to stand up as Osumare approaches, but Osumare claps him on the shoulder and says, “Evening, Private,” before he goes to find his own rooms in the senior officers’ shore quarters.
He’d stayed more or less sober throughout the evening, but he’d had enough to drink that the alcohol is still a warm memory in the pit of his stomach; he heels off his boots and gets his trousers off, lying down on his bed in nothing but his shirt. He gets up a moment later to open the shutters and the windows, then lies back down, letting the sound of the waves in the harbor lull him to sleep.
cliche_bingo card wanted, you know, canon characters for the "minor characters" square.) So, ficbit! Written to the chorus of most of these songs. I keep thinking of this as a Lucy character portrait, but Lucy's passed out through the entire thing. Early-mid Golden Age.“Lu?” Peter says, rubbing at his eyes as he steps out of his rooms.
Osumare freezes where he is, Queen Lucy warm in his arms and clinging to his neck with the unbreakable of the dead drunk.
Peter blinks at him, his expression bemused, and revises his question. “Osumare?”
“Your majesty,” Osumare says after a moment. “I woke you.”
“I was already awake,” Peter says wryly. He’s in hose and shirtsleeves, the laces of his shirt undone and ink stains in a rainbow of colors spotting his fingers. There’s a streak of green ink on his cheek; he doesn’t appear to notice. “I was wondering if Lu was going to come in tonight. I suppose this answers my question.”
“One of my midshipmen just made ensign,” Osumare explains. “Queen Lucy came to celebrate with us.”
“Rónán, isn’t it?” Peter says, approaching. He pries Lucy’s fingers away from the collar of Osumare’s shirt, ignoring her murmured protest, and takes her with a slight oof. Osumare surrenders her gratefully; every inch of Lucy’s small body is either soft curves or rock-hard muscle. “Selkie. Saiorse clan, from the southern part of Narnia, around Heresceaft Point. Do you know which door is Lu’s?”
Osumare does, and goes to open it while Peter follows him carrying his sister. He says over his shoulder, “I wasn’t aware you kept up with the inner workings of the Navy, your majesty.”
“All the commissioning and promotion orders go through me,” Peter explains, and adds dryly, “Yes, I actually do sign those sheets of parchment you hand out before you dump a bucket of salt-water over their heads and give them an officer’s sword. I don’t just have a stamp.”
“I knew you signed them,” Osumare says, pushing the door open and watching one of the members of the Royal Guard rouse herself from her place in front of Peter’s door and come down the hall to join them, yawning hugely. Nuala, he thinks her name is. “I just didn’t know you read them.”
Peter grins and steps past him. “That too.”
He’s never been inside Queen Lucy’s private chambers before, but he’s been inside Peter’s many times, and they’re more or less of the same design - one main room, a number of others branching off it. Lucy’s desk is a mess, folders and papers scattered liberally across it with no sign of order; it doesn’t look like it’s ever been used for anything but storage space. There are a pair of handmade blankets draped over the back of her couch, another one half made and spilling out of a basket balanced precariously on the arm of an overstuffed armchair. The white stone walls don’t feature the usual tapestries or wood paneling; they’ve been painted on directly, bright splashes of color. Osumare looks and sees the tightly capped cans of paint stacked on the floor near one of the walls that’s only half-finished.
“Her majesty did this herself?” he asks.
Peter nods, nudging a door open with one bare foot. “Cair Paravel kept wiping them clean every night for a week; Lu finally ended up staying up all night for three nights straight with a paintbrush in one hand and a bottle of stimulants in the other. I think the castle understood after that - or at least she stopped getting rid of Lu’s paintings; I’m not sure how much Cair Paravel actually understands.”
He lays Lucy down on her neatly-made bed - Osumare thinks that the chances are good Lucy never actually touched her own sheets given the state of her sitting room; the castle has servants for that - and leans down to start pulling off her shoes. “Do I really want to know how much she had to drink?” he asks without turning his head.
Lucy snores loudly; Osumare chokes off his laughter on his fist. “Not really, your majesty,” he says. She’d drunk two of his officers and one of his petty officers under the table, the ones new enough to know that trying to match Queen Lucy of Narnia drink for drink was a losing matter.
“I didn’t think so,” Peter says, pulling a comforter out from his sister and tucking it around her. He leans down and kisses her forehead. “See you when you come complaining to me about the hangover, Lu,” he says.
Outside in Queen Lucy’s sitting room, her bedroom door shut tight behind them, Peter leans against the doorjamb and knuckles his forehead with one hand, looking tired. “Where’s the Guard, Osumare?” he asks. “She should have had at least two members with her. Nuala -”
The lioness that had followed them in clears her throat and says, “Faran and Thekla.”
“Drunk at the Painted Mermaid,” Osumare says. “I thought it might be best if I brought her back to the castle myself.”
“I’ll kill them,” Nuala says.
“Race me,” Peter says, rubbing a hand over his face. “Get someone up here to watch the door, will you? Preferably someone who’ll give those two a royal chewing out when they wander in completely panicked that they’ve let my sister get kidnapped or murdered or something equally unsavory.”
“With pleasure.” She seems far too pleased by the notion; Osumare spares a moment of sympathy for the two jaguars, who he’d last seen snoring in front of the fireplace in the tavern. Then it passes; something could have gone very wrong far too easily.
“Thank you for bringing my sister back, Admiral,” Peter says to him.
Osumare bows slightly. “My pleasure, your majesty. With your permission -” He tilts his head at the open hall door.
Peter smiles slightly. “Of course. Get some sleep, Osumare. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“And yourself, your majesty,” Osumare says, his gaze flickering towards the dark shadows under the High King’s eyes. He resists the urge to touch them; they’ve ended their affair, at least for the time being, and he has no right anymore. He never had much, not with the High King of Narnia.
“Work to do,” Peter says lightly. “Give your new ensign my compliments and congratulations.”
“Your majesty,” Osumare says, and bows again before he leaves the room, pacing down the long dark hallways of Cair Paravel, quiet this late at night, with moonlight spilling through the tall stained glass windows.
The naval quarters are just as dark and quiet, one lantern burning and the poor marine who’s drawn the night’s watch nodding off over his knitting. He starts to stand up as Osumare approaches, but Osumare claps him on the shoulder and says, “Evening, Private,” before he goes to find his own rooms in the senior officers’ shore quarters.
He’d stayed more or less sober throughout the evening, but he’d had enough to drink that the alcohol is still a warm memory in the pit of his stomach; he heels off his boots and gets his trousers off, lying down on his bed in nothing but his shirt. He gets up a moment later to open the shutters and the windows, then lies back down, letting the sound of the waves in the harbor lull him to sleep.