![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
bedlamsbardBecause I, uh, watched The Guardian last night and the Coast Guard was on my mind? I'm just glad I'm writing again. This is how the concept of the Narnian Coast Guard (which probably remained part of the Navy throughout the rest of the Golden Age) was pitched to Peter. Mid-Golden Age.
“Chin up,” Osumare tells Ayme, straightening the young captain’s jacket and rubbing his thumb over the top button to make it shine. Ayme’s in full formal fig, shaking a little with nerves; Osumare’s in regular shore dress himself, which doesn’t bother with showing any sign of officer’s rank except for the embroidered stripes and lion’s heads on his cuffs and the crossed sword and trident pins on his collar. Ayme’s uniform has that and more; his jacket is dark blue and unstained by saltwater, his buttons are immaculately gleaming gold with raised lion’s paws on them, his officer’s sash is picture-perfect, and the hilt of his sword (a proper sailor’s basket-hilted saber, with a pattern of waves and seashells worked into the metal to strengthen it) shows no sign of tarnish or rust. “His majesty isn’t so bad as all that.”
“If you say so, Admiral,” Ayme says, sounding dubious. He tugs at his cuffs, rubbing his thumb over the four stripes embroidered there in gold thread, a lion’s head impressed at the top. “Maybe this wasn’t the best idea, sir -”
“Too late, Captain,” Osumare tells him ruthlessly. To the Royal Guard who have been watching them with amusement, he says, “Is the High King in?”
“For you, Admiral?” Halmi says, sitting up and curling her spotted tail around her feet. “Always. There’s no one else in there,” she adds, leering, and her partner laughs.
“Not that kind of visit, I’m afraid,” Osumare says easily, ignoring the expression of growing panic on Ayme’s face - the man has faced Terebinthian warships and Calormene pirates; surely he can’t be that terrified of his own sovereign - and knocks twice on the door.
“Come in,” the High King calls, sounding distracted, and Osumare opens the door and steps in before Ayme loses his nerve and makes a run for it.
Peter’s sitting on his couch, papers spread out over the long, low table in front of him. His crutches are discarded on the floor for the moment; there’s a dagger lying in plain sight on top of a pile of loose papers - either an easy weapon at hand or a paper weight. Or both. He looks up and smiles as Osumare comes in.
“How are you, Osumare?” he asks. “Forgive me for not standing; the doctors say I’m to stay off the ankle for at least another week.”
“A week?” Osumare asks, raising an eyebrow, and Peter grins.
“Two,” he corrects himself, unabashed at the lie, “but they’re always overly cautious outside of a battlefield. Both of you come around so I don't get a crick in my neck looking at you."”
He’d broken the ankle falling off a horse during the army’s spring training; his attempt to screen young horse recruits for more intense training had gone worse than any of them had expected. They’d been worried about the horses getting injured.
“I’m well, your majesty,” Osumare says, answering the earlier question and moving to stand in front of Peter, Ayme following him mutely and trying to hide his terror. “If you’ve the time, I have a captain who has a proposal he’d like to put to you.”
“Your majesty,” Ayme says woodenly, white around the eyes. He bows from the waist and stays that way, frozen.
Peter clicks his tongue in distaste. “Straighten up, Captain,” he says. “It’s Ayme, isn’t it? Captain Diakun Ayme, out of the Lone Islands, commanding the Kingfisher. Given a brevet promotion during the Terebinthian conquest last year when Captain Addai took three arrows in the chest onboard the Glory; confirmed afterwards on Admiral Seaworth’s recommendation.”
“Yes, your majesty,” Ayme says, straightening up and standing at parade rest, hands clasped tightly behind his back, and Osumare spares the usual moment to wonder at Peter’s encyclopedic memory. He can’t remember half of what the High King carries around in his head on a regular basis.
“Congratulations on the promotion, Captain,” Peter says, tapping his pen absently against his chin before he notices and puts it down. “A bit belated, but deserved nonetheless.”
“Thank you, your majesty.”
Osumare raises his eyebrows at Peter, and the High King adds, “As you can see,” gesturing at the spread of papers in front of him, “I have nothing but time. Go on, Captain.”
For a moment Ayme just gawks at him; he probably hadn’t considered actually getting this far.
“Captain,” Peter prods, a faint play of irritation on his face briefly.
“Ah,” Ayme says, “your majesty, I - er.”
“I assume you were somewhat more articulate at Terebinthia, Captain,” Peter says.
“Yes, sir, er, I mean, your majesty,” Ayme says hurriedly, blushing.
“Tell the High King what you told me, Diakun,” Osumare says.
Ayme takes a deep breath. “Yes, sir,” he says, and then takes another deep breath before he goes on, “There are twenty percent more merchant ships making the run to the Shifting Market during the spring storms this year than there were last year. Only about a third of them make it to harbor; the rest of them founder in the Bight or run aground around Heresceaft Point.”
“I know,” Peter says. “The merchants are gambling that even if one ship makes it to the Market, they’ll make twice over the worth of two sunk ships in profit, especially in spring. Most of the merchants in the Market in spring come by land, not sea; the Bight’s too dangerous.”
“There’s also been an increase in smuggling,” Ayme goes on hurriedly, but he’s calming down slightly with every word. “Especially from Calormen and the Narnian islands, but it’s gone up with all ships. And last month there was a territory dispute between a nix family and a selkie clan.”
Peter fixes him with his unnerving blue gaze, cold and clear as winter ice. “Go on, Captain,” he says.
“The Navy deals with all that, your majesty,” Ayme says, “as well as with pirates and enemy ships. We’re stretched thin. I thought that maybe there could be a few ships that are specially designated to deal with - with domestic things, search and rescue, smuggling, that sort of thing. To free the Navy up.”
For a moment Peter doesn’t answer, then he leans forward and sorts through the papers in front of him, finally coming up with folded sheet that he passes to Osumare.
He flicks it open, skimming it before he meets Ayme’s anxious gaze. “It’s a letter of thanks,” he says, “from a Alvaradan merchant captain whose ship capsized during the spring storms three months ago; all but two men in his crew were saved by a Narnian naval ship that was close enough to see their distress signal. If there hadn’t been a Corps patrol out, they all would have gone to Tethys. He writes, No other naval force would exert itself for civilians in this manner, and offers his grateful thanks to the High King and to the captain of the ship that saved him - a Captain Ayme, of the Royal Narnian Ship Kingfisher.”
“That came yesterday,” Peter says, seeing Ayme blush. “I meant to have a bird take it to naval quarters later today, but since you’re here -”
Osumare passes him the letter; Ayme clutches it in his fist, looking gratified. “Thank you, your majesty.”
“Thank you, Captain,” Peter says. “It’s men like you and your crew that make Narnia what she is.” He finds a blank sheet of parchment and a pen. “I’m inclined to grant your request, Captain, at least on an experimental basis. Shadowsinger is about to come out of dry-dock; she’s kitted out to supply an Aerial Corps half-wing. Osumare, you know the captains better than I do; you make the decision who’ll command the ‘Singer. I’ll give you Kingfisher - she's already configured to carry a quarter-wing, at least; I don’t dare give you an aerial carrier at the time being - and, hmm, the Black Pearl, the Sea Queen, and the Red Summer, as well as their captains, crews, and Marines. They answer to you; you answer to Admiral Seaworth.” He scribbles the order on the parchment and signs it, then reaches for the box of sealing wax and heats a stick of it over a candle flame before he drips it onto the bottom of the parchment, pressing his signet ring into the soft wax, then finds another sheet and scribbles something else, ignoring the way Ayme is gaping. “Have you been to the White Cliffs before? No? Osumare, you take him; give that to Faryion. He’ll know who in the Corps is best-suited for that kind of work. And I know it's a bother, but make sure you file the proper paperwork and send me regular reports - weekly, Captain. I'll make sure you're given as much of a stipend from the treasury as I consider proper for the time being; let me know if it's not enough, but you'll have to justify it on paper. I know," he adds, grinning slightly, "an empire of green hills and blue water and it's run by paper and paper-pushers rather than us honest soldiers. I try not to think about it."
“Your majesty,” Ayme says faintly as Osumare takes the parchment, blinking. He’d known the High King would listen, had been fairly certain he’d acquiesce, but he hadn’t thought Ayme would get so much so fast.
Peter grins. “Say thank you, Captain.”
Ayme blinks rapidly. “Thank you, your majesty,” he says.
“Good,” Peter says, turning away. “Now go out and save lives.”
“Chin up,” Osumare tells Ayme, straightening the young captain’s jacket and rubbing his thumb over the top button to make it shine. Ayme’s in full formal fig, shaking a little with nerves; Osumare’s in regular shore dress himself, which doesn’t bother with showing any sign of officer’s rank except for the embroidered stripes and lion’s heads on his cuffs and the crossed sword and trident pins on his collar. Ayme’s uniform has that and more; his jacket is dark blue and unstained by saltwater, his buttons are immaculately gleaming gold with raised lion’s paws on them, his officer’s sash is picture-perfect, and the hilt of his sword (a proper sailor’s basket-hilted saber, with a pattern of waves and seashells worked into the metal to strengthen it) shows no sign of tarnish or rust. “His majesty isn’t so bad as all that.”
“If you say so, Admiral,” Ayme says, sounding dubious. He tugs at his cuffs, rubbing his thumb over the four stripes embroidered there in gold thread, a lion’s head impressed at the top. “Maybe this wasn’t the best idea, sir -”
“Too late, Captain,” Osumare tells him ruthlessly. To the Royal Guard who have been watching them with amusement, he says, “Is the High King in?”
“For you, Admiral?” Halmi says, sitting up and curling her spotted tail around her feet. “Always. There’s no one else in there,” she adds, leering, and her partner laughs.
“Not that kind of visit, I’m afraid,” Osumare says easily, ignoring the expression of growing panic on Ayme’s face - the man has faced Terebinthian warships and Calormene pirates; surely he can’t be that terrified of his own sovereign - and knocks twice on the door.
“Come in,” the High King calls, sounding distracted, and Osumare opens the door and steps in before Ayme loses his nerve and makes a run for it.
Peter’s sitting on his couch, papers spread out over the long, low table in front of him. His crutches are discarded on the floor for the moment; there’s a dagger lying in plain sight on top of a pile of loose papers - either an easy weapon at hand or a paper weight. Or both. He looks up and smiles as Osumare comes in.
“How are you, Osumare?” he asks. “Forgive me for not standing; the doctors say I’m to stay off the ankle for at least another week.”
“A week?” Osumare asks, raising an eyebrow, and Peter grins.
“Two,” he corrects himself, unabashed at the lie, “but they’re always overly cautious outside of a battlefield. Both of you come around so I don't get a crick in my neck looking at you."”
He’d broken the ankle falling off a horse during the army’s spring training; his attempt to screen young horse recruits for more intense training had gone worse than any of them had expected. They’d been worried about the horses getting injured.
“I’m well, your majesty,” Osumare says, answering the earlier question and moving to stand in front of Peter, Ayme following him mutely and trying to hide his terror. “If you’ve the time, I have a captain who has a proposal he’d like to put to you.”
“Your majesty,” Ayme says woodenly, white around the eyes. He bows from the waist and stays that way, frozen.
Peter clicks his tongue in distaste. “Straighten up, Captain,” he says. “It’s Ayme, isn’t it? Captain Diakun Ayme, out of the Lone Islands, commanding the Kingfisher. Given a brevet promotion during the Terebinthian conquest last year when Captain Addai took three arrows in the chest onboard the Glory; confirmed afterwards on Admiral Seaworth’s recommendation.”
“Yes, your majesty,” Ayme says, straightening up and standing at parade rest, hands clasped tightly behind his back, and Osumare spares the usual moment to wonder at Peter’s encyclopedic memory. He can’t remember half of what the High King carries around in his head on a regular basis.
“Congratulations on the promotion, Captain,” Peter says, tapping his pen absently against his chin before he notices and puts it down. “A bit belated, but deserved nonetheless.”
“Thank you, your majesty.”
Osumare raises his eyebrows at Peter, and the High King adds, “As you can see,” gesturing at the spread of papers in front of him, “I have nothing but time. Go on, Captain.”
For a moment Ayme just gawks at him; he probably hadn’t considered actually getting this far.
“Captain,” Peter prods, a faint play of irritation on his face briefly.
“Ah,” Ayme says, “your majesty, I - er.”
“I assume you were somewhat more articulate at Terebinthia, Captain,” Peter says.
“Yes, sir, er, I mean, your majesty,” Ayme says hurriedly, blushing.
“Tell the High King what you told me, Diakun,” Osumare says.
Ayme takes a deep breath. “Yes, sir,” he says, and then takes another deep breath before he goes on, “There are twenty percent more merchant ships making the run to the Shifting Market during the spring storms this year than there were last year. Only about a third of them make it to harbor; the rest of them founder in the Bight or run aground around Heresceaft Point.”
“I know,” Peter says. “The merchants are gambling that even if one ship makes it to the Market, they’ll make twice over the worth of two sunk ships in profit, especially in spring. Most of the merchants in the Market in spring come by land, not sea; the Bight’s too dangerous.”
“There’s also been an increase in smuggling,” Ayme goes on hurriedly, but he’s calming down slightly with every word. “Especially from Calormen and the Narnian islands, but it’s gone up with all ships. And last month there was a territory dispute between a nix family and a selkie clan.”
Peter fixes him with his unnerving blue gaze, cold and clear as winter ice. “Go on, Captain,” he says.
“The Navy deals with all that, your majesty,” Ayme says, “as well as with pirates and enemy ships. We’re stretched thin. I thought that maybe there could be a few ships that are specially designated to deal with - with domestic things, search and rescue, smuggling, that sort of thing. To free the Navy up.”
For a moment Peter doesn’t answer, then he leans forward and sorts through the papers in front of him, finally coming up with folded sheet that he passes to Osumare.
He flicks it open, skimming it before he meets Ayme’s anxious gaze. “It’s a letter of thanks,” he says, “from a Alvaradan merchant captain whose ship capsized during the spring storms three months ago; all but two men in his crew were saved by a Narnian naval ship that was close enough to see their distress signal. If there hadn’t been a Corps patrol out, they all would have gone to Tethys. He writes, No other naval force would exert itself for civilians in this manner, and offers his grateful thanks to the High King and to the captain of the ship that saved him - a Captain Ayme, of the Royal Narnian Ship Kingfisher.”
“That came yesterday,” Peter says, seeing Ayme blush. “I meant to have a bird take it to naval quarters later today, but since you’re here -”
Osumare passes him the letter; Ayme clutches it in his fist, looking gratified. “Thank you, your majesty.”
“Thank you, Captain,” Peter says. “It’s men like you and your crew that make Narnia what she is.” He finds a blank sheet of parchment and a pen. “I’m inclined to grant your request, Captain, at least on an experimental basis. Shadowsinger is about to come out of dry-dock; she’s kitted out to supply an Aerial Corps half-wing. Osumare, you know the captains better than I do; you make the decision who’ll command the ‘Singer. I’ll give you Kingfisher - she's already configured to carry a quarter-wing, at least; I don’t dare give you an aerial carrier at the time being - and, hmm, the Black Pearl, the Sea Queen, and the Red Summer, as well as their captains, crews, and Marines. They answer to you; you answer to Admiral Seaworth.” He scribbles the order on the parchment and signs it, then reaches for the box of sealing wax and heats a stick of it over a candle flame before he drips it onto the bottom of the parchment, pressing his signet ring into the soft wax, then finds another sheet and scribbles something else, ignoring the way Ayme is gaping. “Have you been to the White Cliffs before? No? Osumare, you take him; give that to Faryion. He’ll know who in the Corps is best-suited for that kind of work. And I know it's a bother, but make sure you file the proper paperwork and send me regular reports - weekly, Captain. I'll make sure you're given as much of a stipend from the treasury as I consider proper for the time being; let me know if it's not enough, but you'll have to justify it on paper. I know," he adds, grinning slightly, "an empire of green hills and blue water and it's run by paper and paper-pushers rather than us honest soldiers. I try not to think about it."
“Your majesty,” Ayme says faintly as Osumare takes the parchment, blinking. He’d known the High King would listen, had been fairly certain he’d acquiesce, but he hadn’t thought Ayme would get so much so fast.
Peter grins. “Say thank you, Captain.”
Ayme blinks rapidly. “Thank you, your majesty,” he says.
“Good,” Peter says, turning away. “Now go out and save lives.”