Narnia fic: "Make and Break Harbor"
May. 3rd, 2011 01:47 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
bedlamsbard...apparently, I have committed fic when I should have been (a) studying or (b) sleeping. Fortunately my final is on Wednesday, not Tuesday. At least it's Golden Age fic, which I haven't written in more than a year?
A follow-up to The Coastwise Lights, no pairings, no warnings. The surrender of the Prince of Terebinthia to the High King of Narnia.
(Note: posted to DW alone for![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
three_weeks_for_dw; I'll post a notification on LJ after the three weeks are up.)
The last time Osumare Seaworth had been in Waterside Hill it had been under different circumstances.
The castle looked no different than it had before; the fighting had never touched the Port of Paradise. By the time the first Narnian ships had made it through the Labyrinth everyone knew the war was lost for Terebinthia. When the Poison Rose had docked at the Golden Steps, no one had even put up a token protest; Waterside Hill had already dropped its flags.
The doors to the throne room are three times a man’s height, made from hardwoods from the heart of Terebinthia. They’re covered in elaborate carvings – stories out of Terebinthian myth and legend, the gods of the sea and the goddess that lies sleeping at the heart of the volcano, waiting to be woken by the last prince of Terebinthia. Osumare had grown up with those stories; they fall aside as the guards pull open the doors and Osumare walks into the throne room, letting his gaze drift over the room in case someone decides to be a hero, a patriot, and a suicide. At the other end of the room sits Prince Seabright, straight-backed and upright in his throne. Above his head the first light of dawn filtered in through the stained glass, painting colors on the marble floor.
As early as it is, the morning is hot, heavy with humidity so that Osumare’s shirt sticks to his skin beneath his uniform jacket. If Prince Seabright feels the heat, he doesn’t show it. Only the slight rise of his chest beneath his court finery shows he’s alive, waiting on his throne for his conqueror to arrive. Osumare almost feels sorry for him. The members of the prince’s court fidget on either side of the hall, some of them marked by the brutal fighting that had gone on inside and outside the Labyrinth. Most of them are women, their husbands and brothers killed or held captive by the Narnian Navy. The live ones will be released soon enough, Osumare supposes, unless Peter decides he wants to ask for ransoms. The Terebinthian nobility can certainly afford it.
His survey complete, Osumare nods slightly to the prince and stands to the side, resting his left hand on the hilt of his sword. The High King enters the room without any pomp or circumstance, bare-headed and in leathers, like a common fighting man except for the golden lion’s head pommel on his sword. Only a fool would take him for a commoner.
He strides up the aisle towards the throne, Osumare following at a discreet distance along with Hazhir, the current head of Peter’s Guard. Soldiers in Narnian colors file into the throne room behind them, bows at the ready in case of treachery. A few of the Terebinthians shift, their expressions unhappy; Hazhir bares her teeth delicately in warning and they subside.
Peter stops in front of the throne, looking up at Prince Seabright. Osumare can’t remember what his given name is; there has always been a Prince Seabright in Waterside Hill. This one is tall and slim, like his forefathers before him, with dusky skin and close-cropped dark curls that hold his crown in place. The pearl crown of Terebinthia, said to be given to the first Prince Seabright by Okeanos himself, and never once worn by any man not a legitimate prince of Terebinthia. He and the High King stare at each other, blue eyes and black eyes locked, and then Prince Seabright rises, descending the steps of the dais. He and the High King are the same height; the Prince of Terebinthia is older than Peter by only a year.
The room is silent. Osumare is stiff with tension, his left hand clenched on his sword hilt; a prince of Terebinthia has never before knelt to a foreign king and he can’t imagine the young Prince Seabright has any desire to be the first of his name to do so. If he has a dagger up his sleeve, this could go very wrong, very quickly.
The light from the rising sun spreads over the floor, illuminating Prince Seabright from behind and painting Peter’s fair hair green. Prince Seabright takes the crown slowly from his head, and the waiting crowd lets out a soft sigh, like the tide washing gently up on the shore after a storm. When he starts to kneel, Peter stops him, his fingers brushing across the insides of the prince’s wrists.
“You fought well, your grace,” says the High King.
“You fought better, your majesty,” returns the Prince of Terebinthia, holding the pearl crown in his hands. Both men look down at it, and then the High King lifts it lightly from the grip of the Prince. Silver and gold, pearls and emeralds; all the colors of the sea and the rainforest, those two opposites that define Terebinthia.
The High King looks at the crown. It is as delicate as his own, a crown untouched by the hand of man in the forging, made for one bearer and one bearer alone. It was never meant to be worn by anyone other than the Prince of Terebinthia.
Osumare sees Prince Seabright take a breath, composing himself before he speaks. He does not attempt to kneel again. “Your majesty, to your benevolent mercy I surrender myself and my people,” he says simply. “Terebinthia and all her possessions are yours.”
“This is a fine crown, your grace,” says the High King. “A fine crown should be worn by he who deserves it.”
“Your majesty,” Prince Seabright murmurs. His poker-face is very good; only a twitch of the smallest finger on his left hand betrays his confusion.
“I am High King of Narnia,” says Peter. “I and my siblings are not so insecure on our thrones that we see the need to strip the prince of Terebinthia of his. Do you bear any reservation in your heart to swear your oath to Narnia, to remain prince of Terebinthia under the dominion of the kings and queens of Narnia, to support Narnia in war and in peace, to keep your own gods and your own laws?”
To become a client-state, like Galma or the Seven Isles, Osumare translates quietly to himself. It’s the best offer that Prince Seabright is likely to get; if he had been very unlucky he would have been stripped of his crown and Terebinthia would have become a hereditary possession of the Narnian throne just as the Lone Islands are now.
Prince Seabright sighs, soft. “No, your majesty,” he murmurs, and kneels. His voice reverberates through the room as he speaks. “In the names of the gods Calypso and Okeanos, who raised Terebinthia from the depths, and the gods Tethys and Njord, who guard her harbors, and in the name of the Emperor-Over-the-Sea and his son Aslan, I, Udeme Seabright, the seventeenth of my name, do solemnly pledge and bind my loyalty and the sacred honor of my house to that of the High King of Narnia, now and to the end of days, until the sea rises and the sky falls, and the Deep Magic fails.” He breathes in, his eyes downcast.
Osumare feels something like disappointment thrum in his veins, sorrow for a land that hasn’t been his for two decades now. The entire room seems to sigh with the Prince of Terebinthia, any dreams of defying the power of the lion broken.
Peter holds the crown in his scarred hands. “I, Peter, High King over all Kings of Narnia by election, by conquest, and by the will of Aslan, solemnly swear in my name and in the name of my family to keep faith and life and sacred honor with Terebinthia, now and to the end of days, until the sea rises and the sky falls, and the Deep Magic fails.” He adapts the oath effortlessly, the way that Osumare has heard him do a hundred times before, and leans forward to replace the crown on Prince Seabright’s brow before he draws his dagger. The blade slices effortlessly across his palm; Osumare winces for him, though Peter doesn’t hesitate. He smears the fresh blood across the prince’s forehead, just beneath the emerald said to have come from the heart of the island.
“May Aslan and the gods of the sea witness and keep faith,” says the High King. He raises Prince Seabright to his feet, kissing both cheeks. “Welcome to Narnia, cousin. We’ll work out the details later."
end
A follow-up to The Coastwise Lights, no pairings, no warnings. The surrender of the Prince of Terebinthia to the High King of Narnia.
(Note: posted to DW alone for
three_weeks_for_dw; I'll post a notification on LJ after the three weeks are up.)The last time Osumare Seaworth had been in Waterside Hill it had been under different circumstances.
The castle looked no different than it had before; the fighting had never touched the Port of Paradise. By the time the first Narnian ships had made it through the Labyrinth everyone knew the war was lost for Terebinthia. When the Poison Rose had docked at the Golden Steps, no one had even put up a token protest; Waterside Hill had already dropped its flags.
The doors to the throne room are three times a man’s height, made from hardwoods from the heart of Terebinthia. They’re covered in elaborate carvings – stories out of Terebinthian myth and legend, the gods of the sea and the goddess that lies sleeping at the heart of the volcano, waiting to be woken by the last prince of Terebinthia. Osumare had grown up with those stories; they fall aside as the guards pull open the doors and Osumare walks into the throne room, letting his gaze drift over the room in case someone decides to be a hero, a patriot, and a suicide. At the other end of the room sits Prince Seabright, straight-backed and upright in his throne. Above his head the first light of dawn filtered in through the stained glass, painting colors on the marble floor.
As early as it is, the morning is hot, heavy with humidity so that Osumare’s shirt sticks to his skin beneath his uniform jacket. If Prince Seabright feels the heat, he doesn’t show it. Only the slight rise of his chest beneath his court finery shows he’s alive, waiting on his throne for his conqueror to arrive. Osumare almost feels sorry for him. The members of the prince’s court fidget on either side of the hall, some of them marked by the brutal fighting that had gone on inside and outside the Labyrinth. Most of them are women, their husbands and brothers killed or held captive by the Narnian Navy. The live ones will be released soon enough, Osumare supposes, unless Peter decides he wants to ask for ransoms. The Terebinthian nobility can certainly afford it.
His survey complete, Osumare nods slightly to the prince and stands to the side, resting his left hand on the hilt of his sword. The High King enters the room without any pomp or circumstance, bare-headed and in leathers, like a common fighting man except for the golden lion’s head pommel on his sword. Only a fool would take him for a commoner.
He strides up the aisle towards the throne, Osumare following at a discreet distance along with Hazhir, the current head of Peter’s Guard. Soldiers in Narnian colors file into the throne room behind them, bows at the ready in case of treachery. A few of the Terebinthians shift, their expressions unhappy; Hazhir bares her teeth delicately in warning and they subside.
Peter stops in front of the throne, looking up at Prince Seabright. Osumare can’t remember what his given name is; there has always been a Prince Seabright in Waterside Hill. This one is tall and slim, like his forefathers before him, with dusky skin and close-cropped dark curls that hold his crown in place. The pearl crown of Terebinthia, said to be given to the first Prince Seabright by Okeanos himself, and never once worn by any man not a legitimate prince of Terebinthia. He and the High King stare at each other, blue eyes and black eyes locked, and then Prince Seabright rises, descending the steps of the dais. He and the High King are the same height; the Prince of Terebinthia is older than Peter by only a year.
The room is silent. Osumare is stiff with tension, his left hand clenched on his sword hilt; a prince of Terebinthia has never before knelt to a foreign king and he can’t imagine the young Prince Seabright has any desire to be the first of his name to do so. If he has a dagger up his sleeve, this could go very wrong, very quickly.
The light from the rising sun spreads over the floor, illuminating Prince Seabright from behind and painting Peter’s fair hair green. Prince Seabright takes the crown slowly from his head, and the waiting crowd lets out a soft sigh, like the tide washing gently up on the shore after a storm. When he starts to kneel, Peter stops him, his fingers brushing across the insides of the prince’s wrists.
“You fought well, your grace,” says the High King.
“You fought better, your majesty,” returns the Prince of Terebinthia, holding the pearl crown in his hands. Both men look down at it, and then the High King lifts it lightly from the grip of the Prince. Silver and gold, pearls and emeralds; all the colors of the sea and the rainforest, those two opposites that define Terebinthia.
The High King looks at the crown. It is as delicate as his own, a crown untouched by the hand of man in the forging, made for one bearer and one bearer alone. It was never meant to be worn by anyone other than the Prince of Terebinthia.
Osumare sees Prince Seabright take a breath, composing himself before he speaks. He does not attempt to kneel again. “Your majesty, to your benevolent mercy I surrender myself and my people,” he says simply. “Terebinthia and all her possessions are yours.”
“This is a fine crown, your grace,” says the High King. “A fine crown should be worn by he who deserves it.”
“Your majesty,” Prince Seabright murmurs. His poker-face is very good; only a twitch of the smallest finger on his left hand betrays his confusion.
“I am High King of Narnia,” says Peter. “I and my siblings are not so insecure on our thrones that we see the need to strip the prince of Terebinthia of his. Do you bear any reservation in your heart to swear your oath to Narnia, to remain prince of Terebinthia under the dominion of the kings and queens of Narnia, to support Narnia in war and in peace, to keep your own gods and your own laws?”
To become a client-state, like Galma or the Seven Isles, Osumare translates quietly to himself. It’s the best offer that Prince Seabright is likely to get; if he had been very unlucky he would have been stripped of his crown and Terebinthia would have become a hereditary possession of the Narnian throne just as the Lone Islands are now.
Prince Seabright sighs, soft. “No, your majesty,” he murmurs, and kneels. His voice reverberates through the room as he speaks. “In the names of the gods Calypso and Okeanos, who raised Terebinthia from the depths, and the gods Tethys and Njord, who guard her harbors, and in the name of the Emperor-Over-the-Sea and his son Aslan, I, Udeme Seabright, the seventeenth of my name, do solemnly pledge and bind my loyalty and the sacred honor of my house to that of the High King of Narnia, now and to the end of days, until the sea rises and the sky falls, and the Deep Magic fails.” He breathes in, his eyes downcast.
Osumare feels something like disappointment thrum in his veins, sorrow for a land that hasn’t been his for two decades now. The entire room seems to sigh with the Prince of Terebinthia, any dreams of defying the power of the lion broken.
Peter holds the crown in his scarred hands. “I, Peter, High King over all Kings of Narnia by election, by conquest, and by the will of Aslan, solemnly swear in my name and in the name of my family to keep faith and life and sacred honor with Terebinthia, now and to the end of days, until the sea rises and the sky falls, and the Deep Magic fails.” He adapts the oath effortlessly, the way that Osumare has heard him do a hundred times before, and leans forward to replace the crown on Prince Seabright’s brow before he draws his dagger. The blade slices effortlessly across his palm; Osumare winces for him, though Peter doesn’t hesitate. He smears the fresh blood across the prince’s forehead, just beneath the emerald said to have come from the heart of the island.
“May Aslan and the gods of the sea witness and keep faith,” says the High King. He raises Prince Seabright to his feet, kissing both cheeks. “Welcome to Narnia, cousin. We’ll work out the details later."
end