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bedlamsbardThree different ficbits, too short to bother putting into different posts.
"You're drinking," Susan chides, her voice sharp, and Peter laughs.
"I'm the High King," he says, knowing the words are slurring slightly but unable to keep them from doing so. "Who's going to stop me? Who's going to say that I'm too young for liquor or that I'm up past my bedtime --"
"I am," Susan declares, advancing further into the room, and Peter sees her gaze flick around from the burning coals in the fireplace, banked for the night, to Rhindon and his shield hanging on the wall, to the stack of documents he's pushed off his desk and onto the floor, to the half-empty wine bottle and the glass in front of him. Her mouth forms a moue of distaste. "Look at yourself, Peter."
"Maybe I don't want to, little sister." He puts special emphasis on the word little, just in case she forgets who's in charge around here, that she isn't his mother. The way she acts sometimes --
"Whether you want to or not doesn't matter," she says, putting her hands on the edge of the table as she leans over and glares at him. "You're fourteen, Peter. You shouldn't be drinking at all, Peter, let alone by yourself and in the dark."
"I won't be by myself if you juoin me," Peter points out, nudging the wine bttle towards her with the back of his hand.
Susan picks up the bottle and for a moment he thinks she's going to drink, then she turns it upside down and pours the remainder of the wine onto the floor. "The staff may have my head later," she remarks, "but you, brother, are going to bed to sleep it off and tomorrow Oreius may beat you to bits in the salle."
Peter/Susan, backstory for this incident; I have been informed that this is not in fact a miscarriage but a premature birth. Nothing explicit, just aftermath.
He hears the locks turn in the door as he approaches; it opens at his touch and Peter steps inside.
His first impression is of a cave, close and dark, and his old claustrophobia bites automatically at the back of his skull, making Peter clutch at the edge of the door for balance. The fireplace is cold, the lamps are dark, and the drapes are drawn; Sherrod, lying across the doorway to Susan's bedroom with a lion cub nearly hidden at her side, raises her head tiredly and says, "Your majesty."
"Is she in there?" Peter asks, crossing the room.
"She hasn't left," Sherrod says, moving aside as he reaches for the door, picking the cub up carefully in her mouth, "in a month."
"A month?" he demands, and pushes the door open, the locks turning under his palm. "Su?"
"Go away."
Her voice is muffled by the sheets; she's curled in the middle of the bed with a pillow held against her stomach and the blankets wrapped around her. Rivasoa and Chane't are at the foot of the bed, with Rivasoa's leggy cubs sleeping by Susan.
"I'm not going anywhere," Peter says quietly, going to her. He picks up one of Rivasoa's cubs in both hands and puts her down by Rivasoa's side, then the other one, the baby lion shocking soft between his palms as he squirms and yawns, revealing needle-sharp white teeth. "Susan?"
She curls tighter around herself, pulling the blanekts over her shoulders. "I said go away."
"No," he says firmly, tugging the blankets away from her. "Su, look at me."
"I want you to go away," Susan whispers.
Up close, she's shockingly pale, her hair hanging lank and greasy around her face, her eyes huge and dark and red from tears. She flinches away from Peter when he settles on the bed beside her and reaches for her, turning her face towards him. He wipes the tears carefully from her cheeks and pulls her toward him, kissing her forehead.
Susan is stiff in his arms, then she lets out a shuddering sob and curls against him, putting her face into his shoulder as she cries.
"Shh," Peter murmurs, stroking her back. "Shh, Su, it's all right. It's all right." He kisses her hair and glances over her head at the Guard; Rivasoa shakes her head and picks up one of her cubs, carrying her out into the study. Chane't follows with the other cub.
"No, it's not," Susan whispers against the skin of his neck. "It's not, it's not, it's not goign to be all right ever again."
"Yes, it will," he tells her, kissing her hair again. She's wearing nothing more than thin nightgown; he can feel every bone in her back.
And he can smell blood.
He tips her chin up and looks her in the eye. "What happened, Su?" he asks quietly.
Her lower lip trembles, but she's stopped crying now. She folds his hands around hers, as if trying to disguise the way they're shaking. "I -- I lost the baby," she says.
Peter freezes. "What?" he says. "What baby?"
Susan starts crying again.
The very last prospective fiancee! And one who will remain prospective, because she comes from a tiny country that is nowhere near Narnia, and is also about twelve. Maybe thirteen.
"Hello," Zuniga says shyly, approaching Queen Susan from behind.
The older woman turns around and smiles at her. "Hello, Princess," she says. "How are you?"
"I am fine, thank you," she replies, taking a moment before she answers to form the words in her mind. "And you, your majesty?"
"I'm quite well," the queen says. She flicks a hand out at the countryside spread out beneath them, just starting to turn from green to burnished gold. "Sad to see the summer end."
That's right; her own people call her Queen of Spring, so perhaps it makes sense that the first tidings of winter make her uncomfortable. "But autumn is a lucky time," Zuniga offers after a moment. "The gods walk the earth with their hounds and horses. If you see them, they will give you luck."
It's the longest string of words she's put together since she arrived at Cair Paravel; Zuniga takes a deep breath and holds it, terrified that she's said the wrong thing.
"That is good," Queen Susan says, and Zuniga lets out her breath. The queen goes on without seeming to notice. "Many people in Narnia are not fond of autumn. It reminds them of something that happened here a long time ago, something terrible. There is always the fear that it will happen again."
The White Witch and the Long Winter, Zuniga realizes after a moment of puzzlement. Even on Demelza, hundreds of leagues away from the western edge of the Narnian border, they've heard of that abomination. To subvert the natural course of life so is a sin against all the gods, not just the Huntsman and the Huntress, who are Demelt gods and may hold no sway in Narnia anyway.
"Are you afraid?" Zuniga hears herself ask, immediately wishing she could take the words back. It's not the sort of question you ask a woman, especially a queen.
There's a hardness to Susan's voice when she answers, like the sharp edge of a broadhead hunting arrow. "No," she says. "The White Witch is long dead, and the dead do not return."
But they do, Zuniga wants to say. When he was a mortal man, the Huntsman chased the White Stag into the deep woods, where he lost it. When he saw a patch of white amongst the brush, he raised his bow and shot an arrow, only it was not the White Stag he'd seen, but his sister's white skin as she bathed in a forest spring, and his true arrow had pierced her heart. The Huntsman had clasped her body in his arms and wept, begging the great gods to restore her life. The great gods had been touched by his love and agreed, on the condition that both brother and sister served the gods on earth until the end of all things. And so the Huntsman and Huntress had come to Demelza.
She does not tell the story to Susan, because the Huntsman and the Huntress are Demelt gods and perhaps things are different in Narnia. Perhaps in Narnia the dead do not return, but instead pass away and are gone forever. Perhaps in Narnia there is no Long Hunt.
She's silent for too long; Susan gives her a faintly worried look and asks, "Is everything all right, your highness?"
"You're drinking," Susan chides, her voice sharp, and Peter laughs.
"I'm the High King," he says, knowing the words are slurring slightly but unable to keep them from doing so. "Who's going to stop me? Who's going to say that I'm too young for liquor or that I'm up past my bedtime --"
"I am," Susan declares, advancing further into the room, and Peter sees her gaze flick around from the burning coals in the fireplace, banked for the night, to Rhindon and his shield hanging on the wall, to the stack of documents he's pushed off his desk and onto the floor, to the half-empty wine bottle and the glass in front of him. Her mouth forms a moue of distaste. "Look at yourself, Peter."
"Maybe I don't want to, little sister." He puts special emphasis on the word little, just in case she forgets who's in charge around here, that she isn't his mother. The way she acts sometimes --
"Whether you want to or not doesn't matter," she says, putting her hands on the edge of the table as she leans over and glares at him. "You're fourteen, Peter. You shouldn't be drinking at all, Peter, let alone by yourself and in the dark."
"I won't be by myself if you juoin me," Peter points out, nudging the wine bttle towards her with the back of his hand.
Susan picks up the bottle and for a moment he thinks she's going to drink, then she turns it upside down and pours the remainder of the wine onto the floor. "The staff may have my head later," she remarks, "but you, brother, are going to bed to sleep it off and tomorrow Oreius may beat you to bits in the salle."
Peter/Susan, backstory for this incident; I have been informed that this is not in fact a miscarriage but a premature birth. Nothing explicit, just aftermath.
He hears the locks turn in the door as he approaches; it opens at his touch and Peter steps inside.
His first impression is of a cave, close and dark, and his old claustrophobia bites automatically at the back of his skull, making Peter clutch at the edge of the door for balance. The fireplace is cold, the lamps are dark, and the drapes are drawn; Sherrod, lying across the doorway to Susan's bedroom with a lion cub nearly hidden at her side, raises her head tiredly and says, "Your majesty."
"Is she in there?" Peter asks, crossing the room.
"She hasn't left," Sherrod says, moving aside as he reaches for the door, picking the cub up carefully in her mouth, "in a month."
"A month?" he demands, and pushes the door open, the locks turning under his palm. "Su?"
"Go away."
Her voice is muffled by the sheets; she's curled in the middle of the bed with a pillow held against her stomach and the blankets wrapped around her. Rivasoa and Chane't are at the foot of the bed, with Rivasoa's leggy cubs sleeping by Susan.
"I'm not going anywhere," Peter says quietly, going to her. He picks up one of Rivasoa's cubs in both hands and puts her down by Rivasoa's side, then the other one, the baby lion shocking soft between his palms as he squirms and yawns, revealing needle-sharp white teeth. "Susan?"
She curls tighter around herself, pulling the blanekts over her shoulders. "I said go away."
"No," he says firmly, tugging the blankets away from her. "Su, look at me."
"I want you to go away," Susan whispers.
Up close, she's shockingly pale, her hair hanging lank and greasy around her face, her eyes huge and dark and red from tears. She flinches away from Peter when he settles on the bed beside her and reaches for her, turning her face towards him. He wipes the tears carefully from her cheeks and pulls her toward him, kissing her forehead.
Susan is stiff in his arms, then she lets out a shuddering sob and curls against him, putting her face into his shoulder as she cries.
"Shh," Peter murmurs, stroking her back. "Shh, Su, it's all right. It's all right." He kisses her hair and glances over her head at the Guard; Rivasoa shakes her head and picks up one of her cubs, carrying her out into the study. Chane't follows with the other cub.
"No, it's not," Susan whispers against the skin of his neck. "It's not, it's not, it's not goign to be all right ever again."
"Yes, it will," he tells her, kissing her hair again. She's wearing nothing more than thin nightgown; he can feel every bone in her back.
And he can smell blood.
He tips her chin up and looks her in the eye. "What happened, Su?" he asks quietly.
Her lower lip trembles, but she's stopped crying now. She folds his hands around hers, as if trying to disguise the way they're shaking. "I -- I lost the baby," she says.
Peter freezes. "What?" he says. "What baby?"
Susan starts crying again.
The very last prospective fiancee! And one who will remain prospective, because she comes from a tiny country that is nowhere near Narnia, and is also about twelve. Maybe thirteen.
"Hello," Zuniga says shyly, approaching Queen Susan from behind.
The older woman turns around and smiles at her. "Hello, Princess," she says. "How are you?"
"I am fine, thank you," she replies, taking a moment before she answers to form the words in her mind. "And you, your majesty?"
"I'm quite well," the queen says. She flicks a hand out at the countryside spread out beneath them, just starting to turn from green to burnished gold. "Sad to see the summer end."
That's right; her own people call her Queen of Spring, so perhaps it makes sense that the first tidings of winter make her uncomfortable. "But autumn is a lucky time," Zuniga offers after a moment. "The gods walk the earth with their hounds and horses. If you see them, they will give you luck."
It's the longest string of words she's put together since she arrived at Cair Paravel; Zuniga takes a deep breath and holds it, terrified that she's said the wrong thing.
"That is good," Queen Susan says, and Zuniga lets out her breath. The queen goes on without seeming to notice. "Many people in Narnia are not fond of autumn. It reminds them of something that happened here a long time ago, something terrible. There is always the fear that it will happen again."
The White Witch and the Long Winter, Zuniga realizes after a moment of puzzlement. Even on Demelza, hundreds of leagues away from the western edge of the Narnian border, they've heard of that abomination. To subvert the natural course of life so is a sin against all the gods, not just the Huntsman and the Huntress, who are Demelt gods and may hold no sway in Narnia anyway.
"Are you afraid?" Zuniga hears herself ask, immediately wishing she could take the words back. It's not the sort of question you ask a woman, especially a queen.
There's a hardness to Susan's voice when she answers, like the sharp edge of a broadhead hunting arrow. "No," she says. "The White Witch is long dead, and the dead do not return."
But they do, Zuniga wants to say. When he was a mortal man, the Huntsman chased the White Stag into the deep woods, where he lost it. When he saw a patch of white amongst the brush, he raised his bow and shot an arrow, only it was not the White Stag he'd seen, but his sister's white skin as she bathed in a forest spring, and his true arrow had pierced her heart. The Huntsman had clasped her body in his arms and wept, begging the great gods to restore her life. The great gods had been touched by his love and agreed, on the condition that both brother and sister served the gods on earth until the end of all things. And so the Huntsman and Huntress had come to Demelza.
She does not tell the story to Susan, because the Huntsman and the Huntress are Demelt gods and perhaps things are different in Narnia. Perhaps in Narnia the dead do not return, but instead pass away and are gone forever. Perhaps in Narnia there is no Long Hunt.
She's silent for too long; Susan gives her a faintly worried look and asks, "Is everything all right, your highness?"