FIC: With the Garments of Her Gladness,
Title: With the Garments of Her Gladness
Fandom: Chronicles of Narnia - Prince Caspian (book)
Author: Ineptshieldmaid
Pairing: Susan/Caspian
Rating: M (PG-13 if you're in the States)
Dedication: I didn't write xxlucyferxx a birthday fic, but I made a Solemn Promise to write Suspian. It's been nearly half a year in the making, but here it is. For Lucy, with much love.
Credit Where Credit Is Due: Plot and characters, as well as some direct dialogue, are drawn from C.S. Lewis' Prince Caspian. Some ideas, up to and including the Susan/Caspian pairing, belong to and originate from the Disney and Walden Media movie of the same name. In addition, I owe a conceptual debt to lassiterfics and her fic And Do Not Learn from/Experience for its influence on my characterisation of Susan, here and elsewhere. The digression on female dwarfs is riffing off the genius of Terry Pratchett. The title, for my own obscure reasons, is taken from the Book of Judith 10.3, Douay-Rheims translation, and the poetry Caspian recites is lifted from Chaucer's Book of the Duchess.
Notes: 1) This fic contains so many strange and unexpected bits. I take no responsibility for any of the Strangeness: I blame relocation stress. (For any passing medievalists or religious iconographers, the enclosed garden wrote itself in there without my orders, but I did know what I'd done and was suitably disturbed. And then exploited it.)
2) You might consider this part of my ongoing arc, Of Heroes and Queens.
3) Love and adoration to tea_fiend, anachronisma and agenttrojie for dedicated beta-work.
'Is it a Romp, Aslan?' You let yourself be pulled into the midst of the mad dance, and this part at least is familiar. Not comfortable, not by far. Bacchus has you by the hand, and then you are spinning, and there are arms about your waist and leafy, twiggy hair brushing your shoulders, a dryad face inches from your own. Her breath is sweet as berries, at once too close and half a lifetime apart. Someone - Bacchus, again - takes you by the shoulder and propels you forward, crying for you to dance. His Maenads are clapping out a wild rhythm, and you recognise the challenge in Bacchus' eyes. Something in you longs to answer: something old and fierce, something you found a thousand years ago and have not forgotten entirely.
And so you dance, the ring of Maenads closing in around you. You are unsure, at first - in England you know only dances with steps laid out for you to follow. Bacchus matches his own wild dance to your tempo, and exultance rises as your feet fly faster, your body swings more loosely, and the space between he and you is but music and air. Your mail shirt is heavy on your shoulders, and fear curls up beneath it, pressing down on your chest until you can breathe only shallowly. When Silenus breaks into your circle, his donkey braying and Aslan leaping after, the Maenads scatter and the insistent beat of their clapping shifts to something lighter, less terrifying and at the same time... less. Lucy tumbles from Aslan's back and into your arms, and then you are spinning around, sisters and queens, laughing together like little children.
When Susan first saw King Caspian, he was leaning rather heavily on Edmund, the two of them standing a little apart as the Narnian captains collected up the Telmarine army's weapons. They were both running with sweat and blood, blond hair and dark plastered to their foreheads, and Susan thought for a heartbeat that Caspian were Peter. Bile rose in the back of her throat, although she had seen her brothers this way too many times before. She had begun to think that she would never see them so again.
The Talking Beasts surrounded Aslan, and Susan and Lucy with him, each with her hand still wrapped in his mane. They were buffeted about, Lucy laughing and kissing everyone within reach. Susan touched the head of a badger, in a sort of benediction, before she saw a great centaur looming over her. She learned later that his name was Glenstorm, but for now, she smiled her thanks up at him and let him lift her bodily over the mass of animals and set her on firm ground beyond.
Edmund came to stand beside her, and she realised that it had not been Peter she saw with him earlier, but Caspian, for Peter was now leading Caspian by the hand, clearing a path to stand before the Lion.
Edmund touched her shoulder gently.
'All right, Su?'
'You smell,' she offered back, with a shadow of a smile.
Edmund gave her a rare hug, one-armed. 'You smell like Lion,' he said, and rested his head on her shoulder for a moment.
'Welcome, Prince,' Aslan's voice rolled through the clearing. 'Do you feel yourself sufficient to take up the Kingship of Narnia?'
Caspian's shoulders dropped visibly. 'I - I don't think I do, Sir,' he said. 'I'm just a kid.' And he was, too, she realised, for all that he looked like Peter. He was young, younger than Peter, younger even than Peter had been when they took their thrones (and she found it hard to think of Peter as a boy at all, although by all accounts he was only a little over a year older now than he had been then).
The afternoon and evening disappeared in celebrating and feasting. Bacchus and his Maenads whirled around the clearing, faster and faster, and where their feet fell there sprang up a feast, the sort one could only dream of in England during the war. Lucy sprawled on her stomach, surrounded by Talking Beasts, her face dripping with juice as Reepicheep and his Mice trotted back and forth to bring her the best fruits as they sprang from the ground. Peter was over on the far side of the glade, waving a big wooden goblet around and recounting some obviously entertaining tale to a gaggle of giggling dryads. The rest of the tree folk were clustered around the Moles, who were digging up earth for their supper. The soil by Beruna ought by rights to have been a rocky alluvium, courtesy of the nearby river - or at least it had been when Lucy had her manor there, and Susan had worked with her in the garden on long summer evenings. By the time the meal was done, and the tree folk were standing about mocking Edmund gently in their low swishy voices (he had tried the first course of their meal, and liked it not at all), the Moles had dug a trench a hundred feet long, and only a few feet wide, and from this one entrenchment they had brought forth a staggering array of soils, from dark loam to light sand. Susan had watched in awe, and when unease curled in her belly, she pushed it away: had not Aslan done stranger things in the Narnia of their day?
One of the Red Dwarfs - not Trumpkin, but perhaps a cousin of his - came past bearing a tray (and where had he found a tray?) of vegetable pasties. Susan took one, and Glenstorm, beside her, took two.
'One for each hand,' he told her solemnly, but with a twinkle in his eye, and in that moment her imposing new friend reminded Susan so much of her father that she did not know whether to laugh or cry. She settled for wrapping both hands around her pasty and biting into it slowly, savouring the rich flavour which only Narnian vegetables truly have.
'Better than school dinners, by far,' she told Glenstorm, between bites. The centaur furrowed his brow.
'Does Your Majesty attend school?' he rumbled.
'Of course.' Susan plucked a slice of bacon from a passing platter, and then had to juggle it between her fingers until someone passed her a plate and fork from somewhere. 'We all do, at home. In England,' she qualified, suddenly unsure. 'Where we are when we're not here.'
Glenstorm looked displeased. 'I've heard about schools,' he said. 'The Telmarines send their children to school. All due respect, Majesty -' he dipped his head to Caspian, who had appeared beside them with his hands full of grapes - 'but I do not think they are good places.'
Caspian looked wistful. 'I wish I had gone to school,' he said, holding out the fruit to both Glenstorm and Susan. 'I should have liked to know more of other children, I think.'
Glenstorm rumbled his disapproval again. 'Better to learn from one wise man, such as your tutor, Majesty, than to be taught lies alongside many others.'
Somehow, as the music died down and the food was almost eaten up, Susan found herself leaning back against a tree trunk with Caspian beside her. On the near side of the fire, Lucy and Peter had fallen asleep with their arms about each other and Reepicheep lying across their feet. Bacchus' Maenads had spread themselves in a heap by the fire, but Bacchus himself was nowhere to be seen; the tree folk were all asleep now (the light sleep of contented trees, not the deep slumber of the last several centuries), and if Edmund was with them still, he could not be seen for all the branches and trunks on that side of the fire. Glenstorm and Dr Cornelius, not far off, had their heads bowed together and were talking at length about astronomy or alchemy or something equally dull. And he doesn't like schools, Susan thought, with a little shake of her head.
Caspian was resting his chin on his knees, and watching the fire instead of her.
'Glenstorm's right,' he said quietly. 'If I had been to school - with other children, with the sons of noblemen - we wouldn't be here now. If not for Dr Cornelius,' he swallowed, and then went on, 'I'd be dead now. But this war would never happened, and a lot of other people would still be alive.'
'They didn't die for you,' Susan said, and flinched, because her words sounded harsher than she had meant. Caspian turned his head a little, not so much that he was looking at her, but enough that she could tell he was listening. 'That's the first thing you need to learn about Narnia,' she went on, keeping her voice low for fear that it would wobble and give way. 'It's not about you. You can rule her and love her and serve her, but you can't own her or keep her, because she's never really yours.'
'Because I'm a Telmarine,' Caspian said, his voice flat. 'The Beasts accepted me as king,' he added, turning his head to look at her at last. There was a flash of anger in his eyes and a stubborn set to his jaw. 'Aslan accepted me.'
'Because you're a Man,' Susan said, and found she could not look him in the eye. 'Narnia, this Narnia...' She waved her hand at the army sleeping in the clearing, from Glenstorm to their left to Lucy and Peter and the Talking Beasts by the fire, to the trees beyond and Aslan keeping his own counsel. 'This isn't about you. Maybe when you get back to your castle, when you're sitting on your father's throne, that might be about you. But this... this is about Narnia, and Narnia needs a king, which is all you are. Narnia will follow you, even love you, but never think for a moment that you own her.'
Caspian regarded her silently for a minute or so, and then nodded. 'Thank you, Your Majesty,' he said, in what Susan recognised instantly as his Court Voice. 'Your advice is appreciated.' She watched him from the corner of her eye, and he pretended to watch the fire, although she knew he was watching her. Not just a kid, she thought, and found herself pleased. Older than either Edmund or Lucy had been on their coronation day, and though younger in years, far less a child than she or Peter had been on that day. Of course - neither Finchley nor boarding school (and far less the Professor's house) could teach you as much of self-reliance and intrigue as a year in a hostile court, and Caspian had spent his whole life at court.
Susan woke shortly after dawn - the Talking Beasts were moving about, although trying their best to keep quiet out of respect. The first thing she saw was the sun on the leaves above her, but the second, as she rolled onto her side, was Caspian. He was sitting up a few feet away from her, and his face wrinkled in displeasure as he tried to comb knots out of his hair with his fingers. She blinked sleepily at him for a moment. He would have very nice hair, she reflected, if it wasn't looking like a bird's nest.
'You're very beautiful,' Caspian said, dreamily, and then looked horrified at himself. 'My lady! I - I don't mean... Not that you're not... I mean, I don't wish to offend you.' Susan had definitely received more eloquent compliments, even in England. It was probably because she was feeling tired and crumpled and very much in need of a hot bath that this particular compliment settled warm in her belly and had her lips twitching and threatening to give way to a most undignified grin.
'Here,' she said, fumbling around for her quiver. Caspian frowned at her in bemusement, but she didn't bother explaining. Explanations were for after breakfast. She snapped a catch and popped open a small compartment in the outside case of the quiver, and handed him a small bone comb. Caspian took it and held it gingerly between his fingers.
'Thank you,' he said, seriously, regarding the comb as if it were very precious.
'You comb your hair with it,' Susan told him.
'It'll get dirty!' Caspian held up a hank of his hair, which was, sure enough, crusted with dirt. Susan rolled her eyes and told him to shut up and comb his hair. She, at least, had the sense to plait her hair before sleeping on the ground.
Aslan was in command, for the moment, and sent messengers out over the country proclaiming Caspian to be King of the Narnians and the Telmarines, and giving orders that any Telmarines who did not wish to share their country with the true Narnians should present themselves to Aslan and the Kings at Beruna five days hence. Susan wondered when the formula had ceased to be 'Kings and Queens', but there was too much else going on to bother about that, and truth be told, she had not often felt less like a queen than she did today. Susan, of all the Pevensies, had never got the knack of feeling like a queen in mussed clothes and without a bath in sight (and she felt just the same in England, where she wasn't a queen at all).
Lucy, who never seemed to worry about her hair or her clothes, had gone off without even finishing her breakfast, following the badger Trufflehunter back to the How, where the most injured of Caspian's army had spent the night. They had taken with them Caspian's old nurse, the child Gwendolen, and the former schoolmistress. Susan and her brothers knew very well that Lucy's cordial could heal all of their injured in as little as an hour, and have them on their feet again, but when Caspian pointed out that they could not be sure of their reception at the hands of Miraz's court - and the castle would of course be guarded still - Peter's lips thinned, and he suggested that Lucy and some of the less warlike Beasts should take refuge in the How with the wounded, and join them at the castle the following day. Aslan, who certainly knew that Lucy could have the wounded walking again in a matter of hours, said nothing on the matter, and Susan felt a little better knowing that, should their march on the castle turn out badly, they would have a safe retreat waiting for them. Provided no one ransacked the How in their absence and cut down every one of Lucy's recently healed warriors, but Susan pushed that thought away. She knew why she was being taken along with the army: to talk to women and flirt with men, to organise banquets (because somehow neither Peter nor Edmund had managed, in fifteen years, to organise a decent party on their own, and she had no higher hopes for Caspian) and listen in to gossip.
Susan rode at the head of the army, between Caspian and Peter. They had discovered many years ago that an army looks less like an army if it has a pretty woman in the vanguard. Pretty, well-dressed and gracious would be preferable, but for now, they would have to make do with pretty, crumpled, and out of sorts.
''Long live the King!' The shout went up from the city gates as soon as they came into view. 'Long live the King! Long live King Caspian!'
Peter shot Caspian a look of distinct irritation. 'What is going on here?' he demanded, just low enough that Caspian could catch his words. Edmund, on Caspian's far side, nudged his horse in closer to the others.
Caspian looked bemused. 'I... It looks like they're welcoming me. Us.'
'You,' Edmund corrected. 'The question is: why?'
King Miraz's standing among his so-called supporters had, apparently, taken a serious blow during Caspian's absence - or perhaps his uncle's power base had never been as monolithic as it seemed to the young prince. Exactly what had transpired was difficult to grasp at first (and Susan was not entirely sure that Lady Prunaprismia was telling the truth), but Lord Rocillian, Miraz's seneschal, had come to a bad end. There had been an attempt to marry Prunaprismia by force, apparently as soon as word came of King Miraz's death; and at the same time, or shortly after, there had been an attempt on the young Prince Tyrian's life, and the upshot of it all was that Prunaprismia had shot Rocillian through the heart when he came to her bed. With the aid of the Captain of the town Guard, who fortuitously appeared in the castle at the time, she had Rocillian's men imprisoned and his family placed under arrest awaiting execution, and so was in command of the castle when Aslan's proclamation had arrived that morning.
'And knowing your Majesty to be the true and rightful heir to the throne of Caspian the Conqueror -' here, Susan could sense Trumpkin and Glenstorm bristling behind her - 'I did resolve me to surrender the castle unto you, knowing that Your Majesty will be kind and most merciful to myself and to Your Majesty's own cousin, my son Tyrian.'
Caspian swallowed. Susan could see his eyes flicker from one side to the other, but he wisely kept himself from turning to Peter or Edmund for guidance.
'Your husband,' he said clearly, so that both the Telmarines and the Narnians gathered in the throne room could hear him, 'killed his brother and rightful sovereign, my father, King Caspian the Ninth. This much has been widely known in the court, though little spoken of; and furthermore, it was established in combat not one day past, by my noble cousin Peter, High King of the Narnians.' Susan did not fail to note the change in wording, and nor did the Beasts, shifting uneasily behind her.
'Furthermore,' Caspian went on, 'being placed as Lord Protector in my stead, your husband did conspire to assume the throne and to deprive me of the inheritance which by rights is mine. Do you deny these things, Prunaprismia?'
The lady held her head high. 'I do not, King Caspian, although I was not Miraz's wife at the time of which you speak, and had neither knowledge of nor complicity in his treason.'
'Is it not the law and custom of this kingdom that the wives and children of traitors shall share their fate, namely, execution?'
Prunaprismia blanched, but said only, 'I have known Your Majesty since you were a child, and I trust in your kindness towards your own kin.'
The silence hung heavy over the hall, and Susan watched Caspian carefully. He had schooled his face into impassivity, which was a good start. She remembered the first time she had held a man's life in the balance, without one of her siblings there to share the judgement and the fault. It was one thing to know that men had died because of choices you did or did not make: died on battlefields and at sea, in famines and border raids, with great pomp and heroism and quiet ignobility. It was another to make these clear and irrevocable choices with a single life in front of you. She watched Caspian watch his aunt, and there it was, a sudden panic battering at her. She had made those decisions, made them publicly and privately, for fifteen years, and now she could not remember how. How many men, how many Beasts and other creatures, how many women and children, would be alive today if it were not for Queen Susan, if not for King Edmund and Queen Lucy and High King Peter?
None. The enormity of it hit her just as Aslan rumbled low in his throat, and took the floor between Caspian and his aunt. None. All those hard-fought battles and impossible choices, lives saved and lives damned... all for nothing, all crumbled and lost into dust and history.
'You and your son are safe, dear one,' Aslan told the former Queen, who sank to her knees and let him breathe on her. 'Hear me!' the Lion cried out, and the gathering - both Man and Beast - quailed before him. 'Neither man, woman nor Beast shall suffer in Narnia for another's crime!'
And that, Susan supposed, was that.
She found the former queen in a garden which Susan recognised at once. It was not at all like her own bower: hemmed in by heavy stone walls, its beds carefully laid out with roses and shrubs, but entirely devoid of trees; it had neither spring nor fountain, and its sanctity was protected by a heavy iron gate rather than the courteous privacy which Cair Paravel had granted its Queen. Despite all this difference, or perhaps because of it, Susan knew at once that this garden had been the Queen's retreat and refuge, that she had tended it with her own hands, that she had come here in joy and sorrow and pain and fear.
Now, she had come here with Aslan. Susan found the great Lion sprawled on his side, sunning himself in the afternoon warmth. She had the distinct impression that he would be purring if there had been no man or woman about to witness. Prunaprismia sat, her skirts spread about her and her son sleeping in her lap, in the space between the Lion's forepaws. She had pulled her hair out of its formal braids, and her eyes were red as though she had been crying.
'Susan,' Aslan rumbled, his big eyes barely opening. 'Come in, dear one.' The gate was open, but Susan nevertheless hesitated until Prunaprismia nodded for her to enter.
'What ails you, child?'
Susan slipped to her knees by Aslan's head - the old familiar gesture tugging at her heartstrings, so that she longed, not for the high golden past when they were all kings and queens and very much grown-up, but for the past which really was little more than a year ago, when Aslan had waited for all of them, even Edmund, who least deserved it. She and Lucy had wept over Aslan on the Stone Table, then, and there had been no question of who saw first, or who believed most.
'The banqueting hall must be rearranged, Sir,' she began, 'in order to best accommodate our army as well as our new allies.' Aslan blinked lazily at her. 'The castle servants won't listen to me,' she went on, all in a rush, 'and they say this is Caspian's castle and they won't have it turned inside out for a load of carnival beasts, and they keep asking if I'm Peter's wife, and making, making... lewd jokes about Caspian, and...' she trailed off, suddenly aware that she ought to be more than a match for a few dozen impertinent servants. 'I had hoped to seek Lady Prunaprismia's aid,' she finished, trying to sound dignified.
'Prunaprismia and I have much to talk of,' the Lion answered. Susan raised her eyes to meet Prunaprismia's, and realised that the woman was barely older than she herself was - older, that is, than Susan was counted in England (older than she had begun to count herself) but many years younger than Susan ought to have been in Narnia.
'Stay and talk with us,' Aslan urged. Prince Tyrian woke, blinking sleepily and then waving tiny fists at the golden Lion above him. A tiny baby, innocent of all wrongs, and yet as sure as chickens lay eggs, Susan knew that there lay the end of all Caspian had fought for, all they had won for him, everything they had left England again to restore.
'Banquets do not organise themselves,' she said sadly, and when she left, Prunaprismia did not follow her.
Susan folded her big Telmarine skirts around herself and perched on the edge of the dais, at the front of the banquet hall. She had left a long table set up there for Caspian, herself, and her siblings, but none of them had sat there all night. The feast, as the best Narnian feasts do, had spilled out of the hall, tumbled across the courtyard, and extended down into the town itself, where someone had arranged for roast meats and barrels of ale at the Crown's expense. Outside, beyond the wide-flung doors, the Talking Beasts had raised a bonfire, and she could see the familiar silhouettes of fauns and dryads, whirling and capering about it. A little closer in, Bacchus and his Maenads had dragged an assortment of Narnians and Telmarines into their mad dance: there was Peter's golden hair in the firelight; and yes, that was the Captain of the town guard; and there, with his arms about two Maenads and his cape all askew, was that particularly supercilious butler who had commanded the brigade of servants making her life miserable.
Inside the hall, the Telmarine nobility had evidently resolved to go on, as far as they could, as if nothing much had changed. Minstrels had set up in one of the galleries; a group of young people, girls in stiff wide skirts and lads done up in silk and ruffles like so many English schoolgirls in their Sunday best, were taking Edmund through the steps of a complicated square dance. In clusters along the walls and around the tables, the older nobility were talking, jockeying with each other in a now-uncertain hierarchy. Buffet dining had been declared a charming innovation (although of course one could not eat like that all time), the Pevensies and Caspian alike were lovely children, and didn't His Majesty look like his father? These circus animals were rather endearing, after all, and, it was murmured through the hall, if that great brute of a lion were to stay about, the Archenlanders would think twice about taking Narnia lightly.
Men, Susan reflected, were the same no matter where or when you went, and women doubly so.
'Will you dance?' Caspian had come up behind her. His formal garb, as splendidly ornate as her own dress, seemed to dwarf him. He smiled nervously, and Susan was both amused and flattered to note that he was fretting at the tassel on his doublet, twisting it anxiously in his fingers. She could hardly refuse.
The flock of young people gave way as they approached, making space in the set as a new tune struck up. To Susan's surprise, Caspian danced well and confidently: he dispensed with nerves and shy smiles as the dance struck up, tripping lightly through the steps while Susan struggled to mimic the other women in the set and fought against the heavy weight of her unaccustomed gown. Once, twice through the routine she went, missing steps and almost colliding with other people's dresses. On the third repetition, when the women dancing all spun back into the hands of their partners, she came back to Caspian beaming wildly, her feet suddenly in time and herself in harmony with the set. Oh, she definitely did not get to dance enough in England. Caspian looked momentarily startled, as if a grinning Susan were not on his list of contingencies; and if the smile he gave back - at once mischievous and unsure, as if he thought they might be sharing a secret, but was not entirely certain - made her stomach flip over, well, she was already grinning and giddy as they spun.
'I think we missed the last dance.' Caspian hesitated for a moment, and then settled himself down beside her, their backs against a tree which had certainly not been there earlier in the day. Susan patted the trunk lazily, and thought she felt a sleepy stirring in the wood below her hand. She had the sudden mental image of the dryad curled up in the bole like a contented kitten, and hoped it was so.
'Bacchus is still dancing,' she said, but Caspian shook his head. He didn't have to elaborate: Bacchus and his girls were intimidating, if you were not used to them. Even if you were used to them, Susan added to herself. 'You're the King,' she said aloud, instead. 'He'll respect that.'
Caspian flushed. 'He certainly, er, respects King Edmund.' And then Susan had to laugh, her head tipping back against the tree trunk, because she'd forgotten that particular detail of their past life.
'I liked your dancing,' she said, when her amusement faded. 'Although the style is a lot more elaborate than it was in our day.'
'I liked dancing with you.'
She turned her head and found Caspian watching her, his eyes wide. His uncertainty lent her surety, and she leaned across to brush her lips against his cheek. 'Tomorrow,' she said, following the touch of her lips with the tips of her fingers, 'remind me to teach you to waltz.'
Tomorrow brought its own problems, the first of which was that Reepicheep challenged one of the Telmarine noblemen to a duel. One of the Squirrels woke Susan, chittering with excitement, and cried that she must come quickly, Reepicheep was going to kill Squire Costes, come quickly, come quickly. Susan had neither the time nor the two maids necessary to don any of the Telmarine gowns which had been found for her, and her own dress had been speedily vanished by the laundry staff. It needed less than a moment's consideration to determine that, while Cair Paravel had not infrequently seen Queen Susan in her nightgown, Caspian's court would not be so kindly disposed. She flung the wardrobe doors open, and turned out the drawers, and discovered that this room had once been a man's, or rather, a boy's. She pulled on soft trousers which pulled in all the wrong places and yet had to be tightly belted at the waist, and dragged on one of the silly, heavy doublets hanging in the wardrobe - it turned out to be nearly as difficult to secure as the dresses, especially with only the aid of an agitated Squirrel.
By the time she made it to the castle forecourt, Reepicheep and his whole battalion of Mice were being forcibly restrained by an assortment of moles, badgers and dwarfs. Glenstorm and his sons were looming over Squire Costes and his fellows. A small crowd had gathered - Susan gave them only a quick glance, and then ignored them as they tittered at her ridiculous garb.
'My lady!' Reepicheep struggled against the two Red Dwarfs who held him. 'Release me, you craven eaters of dirt! My lady, fair Queen Susan, I beg your pardon. I would have avenged the insult at once, but these unchivalrous dwarfs prevented me!'
'I will not lower myself to contest with vermin,' the young fellow who must be Costes snapped.
'Funny,' Glenstorm rumbled, 'There's hundreds dead and captive at Beruna who didn't share your scruples.'
'Enough,' Susan commanded, and found herself suddenly pleased: she could still make her voice carry without shouting. 'Reepicheep. We will not have you causing disharmony in His Majesty's court. Explain yourself, Sir.'
Reepicheep's countenance settled into the most wounded expression a Mouse can bear, his ears twitching and his tail drooping. 'Believe you me, O fair Queen, I had no intent to cause disharmony. And yet what chivalrous knight could stand by when this cretinous Telmarine speaks such dishonour against your own person, my Queen?'
'Perhaps not a chivalrous knight, but a prudent one,' Susan informed the Mouse. Reepicheep looked, if possible, even more hurt.
'But your majesty! This impudent squire uttered slander most vile, upon your majesty's honour, your virtue...' he trailed off, apparently overcome with the horror of it all. Susan stared at him in confusion: on the one hand, there was a comfortable familiarity, which she did not entirely like, to the old ritual of contests and quarrels for her favour and in name of her honour (although it was unsettling to realise that she had done nothing to warrant it, not in this specific instance, and in fact not at all in this lifetime). On the other, such games had always been the province of Men - visitors and diplomats and traders and newcomers. Their native Narnian subjects had always been more concerned with the failure of any of the Kings and Queens to bring forth children than whether or not they had company in their beds at night (or behind the stables, or in the woods or on the beaches in broad daylight). She sighed, and indicated that Reepicheep's keepers should let him go.
'Oh, Mouse,' she said, and pried his rapier out of his paws, 'you have become more like Men than you can know.'
At this juncture, one of Squire Costes' friends decided it was his turn to stir the pot. 'See!' he cried, pointing, 'the Narnian whore will not deny the truth!'
'And is she not wearing His Majesty's trousers and doublet, showing her legs like a pantomime tart?'
Susan spun around, horrified to find herself blushing again. 'These clothes were in the room I was given!' she began to protest, falling silent as the Centaurs stepped back to make way for Peter, Edmund, and, trailing behind them, Caspian. All three were wearing rough breeches and had their sleeves rolled up to the shoulders.
'Insult my sister again, and you answer to me,' Peter said, pulling the unfortunate Costes (who was not blessed with great height) up onto his tiptoes by the collar.
'Suits you, Su,' Edmund declared, with a hint of a smirk at her outfit, and elbowed her in the ribs.
'You smell,' Susan informed him. 'Again.'
'Practice courts,' Edmund answered, while Peter released young Costes and glowered at the crowd until the better part of the gathering decided they had more important things to do, and slunk away.
'Why are you wearing Caspian's clothes?' Peter turned back to Susan, one eyebrow raised.
'Your Majesty, I assure you,' Caspian spluttered, 'I have only the most noble respect for Queen Susan...'
The three Pevensies regarded him in surprise for a moment. 'Yes, very well,' Peter said, and left it at that. 'Susan?'
She proceeded to explain: the clothes, despite scurrilous rumour, were not Caspian's; she had been unable to don a Telmarine gown on her own, and had dressed herself in whatever was to hand.
'I suppose the clothes belong to some boy being held at Beruna now,' she finished. Or dead, she did not add, but the words hung in the air anyway.
Caspian, red to the ears, owned that the clothes were, in fact, his, and the room Susan slept in had not been the province of some unknown nobleman's son, but a lonesome prince.
'Ah.' Susan smoothed her hands down the sides of the quilted doublet. 'My apologies, Caspian. I shall change at once.'
'Do not trouble yourself on my account,' Caspian hastened to assure her. 'You are welcome to them, as long as you wish.' He bit his lip, and added, 'The colour becomes you, my lady.'
Once again, the three Pevensies stared at him.
'I prefer dresses,' Susan told him gently. 'They tend to fit better.' Turning to Peter, she added, 'I feel ridiculous.'
'And you look it,' her brother said, easily. 'How much do you wager that Lu balks at those big dresses, though?'
'Foregone conclusion,' Susan said. 'No bet. When do you suppose she'll be here?'
'Before sundown,' Edmund put in. 'We had a messenger bird an hour ago saying that they were leaving the How.'
'Excellent. Caspian?'
'Milady?'
'If I am to get dressed at all, I shall require the services of two maidservants for such time as I am resident here.' The Squirrel who had woken her, still waiting by Susan's side, almost jumped out of her skin in her eagerness to volunteer. 'Two maidservants with opposable thumbs,' Susan clarified. Many years afterwards, the Narnians would wonder why the Squirrels alone maintained that pride was Queen Susan's great fault, and that she preferred the company of Men to Beasts. Certainly, no other creatures in Narnia ever countenanced the idea, for, as you know, Squirrels are flighty and given to baseless gossip.
Dinner on the second evening was served as a banquet, again, to celebrate the arrival of Queen Lucy, Trufflehunter, and the remainder of the Narnian army. Caspian was a little worried about the castle's stores, but the Pevensies assured him that, as long as Aslan was resident with them, not so much as a dent in the larder would be made by any Man or Beast. Sure enough, when Caspian enquired of the Head Cook, it seemed that last night's revelry had not diminished their supplies at all, and the proportion of the castle staff who were delighted with this was equal to the proportion of those who were thoroughly disconcerted.
'We're losing people,' Caspian said to her, as they sat at the table on the dais. The others had eaten with them and then dispersed. Immediately beyond the hall doors, Lucy, resplendent in a simple gown borrowed from a kitchen-maid, was whirling about to the faun pipes, her hands in Edmund's and the pair of them spinning, spinning, until Susan was sure that they would both be sick when they stopped.
'Squire Costes is not here,' Susan observed, 'nor half the young folk we danced with.'
Caspian nodded. 'The older lords, too. They all have sudden pressing business on their estates.' Susan nodded, not needing to ask what that meant. Caspian went on, 'We're missing a good portion of the domestic staff, too. Cook tells me a few claimed to have sick relatives or other such business, but for the most part...' he trailed off, and Susan, again, understood.
'Aslan has offered them a passage out of Narnia,' she pointed out, and Caspian merely raised one eyebrow.
'Would you take such an unknown path, my Queen?'
Susan's laugh sounded more bitter in her ears than she had intended. 'Caspian, I am dragged down such unknown paths without warning.'
They did not dance again that night, but Caspian walked with her to her room. He looked as if he had something he wanted desperately to say, and Susan was silent and left him to say it, but in the end, he said nothing at all. He kissed her, instead, a soft brush of lips against lips. Susan sighed into him, and for a moment all she felt was relief. It was not her first kiss, not by far, but it was the first in this second youth: one instance in which she lagged a little less behind herself. She cupped Caspian's face (soft, beardless, but with a new-healed scar under her fingers) and pulled him closer, remembering and rediscovering the tease of another's breath against her lips, doomed and playing catch-up with the tangle of fingers in her hair and the yield of lips beneath hers.
Caspian broke away from her and stood for a moment, just an arm's length away. His breathing was ragged, Susan noted with a sense of victory, before she realised that her own breath was coming unevenly, and, had the hallway been properly lit, they would both have been equally red-faced.
'Sleep well,' Caspian said, adding, 'Susan,' before he turned and disappeared.
Go hither for part two
Fandom: Chronicles of Narnia - Prince Caspian (book)
Author: Ineptshieldmaid
Pairing: Susan/Caspian
Rating: M (PG-13 if you're in the States)
Dedication: I didn't write xxlucyferxx a birthday fic, but I made a Solemn Promise to write Suspian. It's been nearly half a year in the making, but here it is. For Lucy, with much love.
Credit Where Credit Is Due: Plot and characters, as well as some direct dialogue, are drawn from C.S. Lewis' Prince Caspian. Some ideas, up to and including the Susan/Caspian pairing, belong to and originate from the Disney and Walden Media movie of the same name. In addition, I owe a conceptual debt to lassiterfics and her fic And Do Not Learn from/Experience for its influence on my characterisation of Susan, here and elsewhere. The digression on female dwarfs is riffing off the genius of Terry Pratchett. The title, for my own obscure reasons, is taken from the Book of Judith 10.3, Douay-Rheims translation, and the poetry Caspian recites is lifted from Chaucer's Book of the Duchess.
Notes: 1) This fic contains so many strange and unexpected bits. I take no responsibility for any of the Strangeness: I blame relocation stress. (For any passing medievalists or religious iconographers, the enclosed garden wrote itself in there without my orders, but I did know what I'd done and was suitably disturbed. And then exploited it.)
2) You might consider this part of my ongoing arc, Of Heroes and Queens.
3) Love and adoration to tea_fiend, anachronisma and agenttrojie for dedicated beta-work.
'Is it a Romp, Aslan?' You let yourself be pulled into the midst of the mad dance, and this part at least is familiar. Not comfortable, not by far. Bacchus has you by the hand, and then you are spinning, and there are arms about your waist and leafy, twiggy hair brushing your shoulders, a dryad face inches from your own. Her breath is sweet as berries, at once too close and half a lifetime apart. Someone - Bacchus, again - takes you by the shoulder and propels you forward, crying for you to dance. His Maenads are clapping out a wild rhythm, and you recognise the challenge in Bacchus' eyes. Something in you longs to answer: something old and fierce, something you found a thousand years ago and have not forgotten entirely.
And so you dance, the ring of Maenads closing in around you. You are unsure, at first - in England you know only dances with steps laid out for you to follow. Bacchus matches his own wild dance to your tempo, and exultance rises as your feet fly faster, your body swings more loosely, and the space between he and you is but music and air. Your mail shirt is heavy on your shoulders, and fear curls up beneath it, pressing down on your chest until you can breathe only shallowly. When Silenus breaks into your circle, his donkey braying and Aslan leaping after, the Maenads scatter and the insistent beat of their clapping shifts to something lighter, less terrifying and at the same time... less. Lucy tumbles from Aslan's back and into your arms, and then you are spinning around, sisters and queens, laughing together like little children.
When Susan first saw King Caspian, he was leaning rather heavily on Edmund, the two of them standing a little apart as the Narnian captains collected up the Telmarine army's weapons. They were both running with sweat and blood, blond hair and dark plastered to their foreheads, and Susan thought for a heartbeat that Caspian were Peter. Bile rose in the back of her throat, although she had seen her brothers this way too many times before. She had begun to think that she would never see them so again.
The Talking Beasts surrounded Aslan, and Susan and Lucy with him, each with her hand still wrapped in his mane. They were buffeted about, Lucy laughing and kissing everyone within reach. Susan touched the head of a badger, in a sort of benediction, before she saw a great centaur looming over her. She learned later that his name was Glenstorm, but for now, she smiled her thanks up at him and let him lift her bodily over the mass of animals and set her on firm ground beyond.
Edmund came to stand beside her, and she realised that it had not been Peter she saw with him earlier, but Caspian, for Peter was now leading Caspian by the hand, clearing a path to stand before the Lion.
Edmund touched her shoulder gently.
'All right, Su?'
'You smell,' she offered back, with a shadow of a smile.
Edmund gave her a rare hug, one-armed. 'You smell like Lion,' he said, and rested his head on her shoulder for a moment.
'Welcome, Prince,' Aslan's voice rolled through the clearing. 'Do you feel yourself sufficient to take up the Kingship of Narnia?'
Caspian's shoulders dropped visibly. 'I - I don't think I do, Sir,' he said. 'I'm just a kid.' And he was, too, she realised, for all that he looked like Peter. He was young, younger than Peter, younger even than Peter had been when they took their thrones (and she found it hard to think of Peter as a boy at all, although by all accounts he was only a little over a year older now than he had been then).
The afternoon and evening disappeared in celebrating and feasting. Bacchus and his Maenads whirled around the clearing, faster and faster, and where their feet fell there sprang up a feast, the sort one could only dream of in England during the war. Lucy sprawled on her stomach, surrounded by Talking Beasts, her face dripping with juice as Reepicheep and his Mice trotted back and forth to bring her the best fruits as they sprang from the ground. Peter was over on the far side of the glade, waving a big wooden goblet around and recounting some obviously entertaining tale to a gaggle of giggling dryads. The rest of the tree folk were clustered around the Moles, who were digging up earth for their supper. The soil by Beruna ought by rights to have been a rocky alluvium, courtesy of the nearby river - or at least it had been when Lucy had her manor there, and Susan had worked with her in the garden on long summer evenings. By the time the meal was done, and the tree folk were standing about mocking Edmund gently in their low swishy voices (he had tried the first course of their meal, and liked it not at all), the Moles had dug a trench a hundred feet long, and only a few feet wide, and from this one entrenchment they had brought forth a staggering array of soils, from dark loam to light sand. Susan had watched in awe, and when unease curled in her belly, she pushed it away: had not Aslan done stranger things in the Narnia of their day?
One of the Red Dwarfs - not Trumpkin, but perhaps a cousin of his - came past bearing a tray (and where had he found a tray?) of vegetable pasties. Susan took one, and Glenstorm, beside her, took two.
'One for each hand,' he told her solemnly, but with a twinkle in his eye, and in that moment her imposing new friend reminded Susan so much of her father that she did not know whether to laugh or cry. She settled for wrapping both hands around her pasty and biting into it slowly, savouring the rich flavour which only Narnian vegetables truly have.
'Better than school dinners, by far,' she told Glenstorm, between bites. The centaur furrowed his brow.
'Does Your Majesty attend school?' he rumbled.
'Of course.' Susan plucked a slice of bacon from a passing platter, and then had to juggle it between her fingers until someone passed her a plate and fork from somewhere. 'We all do, at home. In England,' she qualified, suddenly unsure. 'Where we are when we're not here.'
Glenstorm looked displeased. 'I've heard about schools,' he said. 'The Telmarines send their children to school. All due respect, Majesty -' he dipped his head to Caspian, who had appeared beside them with his hands full of grapes - 'but I do not think they are good places.'
Caspian looked wistful. 'I wish I had gone to school,' he said, holding out the fruit to both Glenstorm and Susan. 'I should have liked to know more of other children, I think.'
Glenstorm rumbled his disapproval again. 'Better to learn from one wise man, such as your tutor, Majesty, than to be taught lies alongside many others.'
Somehow, as the music died down and the food was almost eaten up, Susan found herself leaning back against a tree trunk with Caspian beside her. On the near side of the fire, Lucy and Peter had fallen asleep with their arms about each other and Reepicheep lying across their feet. Bacchus' Maenads had spread themselves in a heap by the fire, but Bacchus himself was nowhere to be seen; the tree folk were all asleep now (the light sleep of contented trees, not the deep slumber of the last several centuries), and if Edmund was with them still, he could not be seen for all the branches and trunks on that side of the fire. Glenstorm and Dr Cornelius, not far off, had their heads bowed together and were talking at length about astronomy or alchemy or something equally dull. And he doesn't like schools, Susan thought, with a little shake of her head.
Caspian was resting his chin on his knees, and watching the fire instead of her.
'Glenstorm's right,' he said quietly. 'If I had been to school - with other children, with the sons of noblemen - we wouldn't be here now. If not for Dr Cornelius,' he swallowed, and then went on, 'I'd be dead now. But this war would never happened, and a lot of other people would still be alive.'
'They didn't die for you,' Susan said, and flinched, because her words sounded harsher than she had meant. Caspian turned his head a little, not so much that he was looking at her, but enough that she could tell he was listening. 'That's the first thing you need to learn about Narnia,' she went on, keeping her voice low for fear that it would wobble and give way. 'It's not about you. You can rule her and love her and serve her, but you can't own her or keep her, because she's never really yours.'
'Because I'm a Telmarine,' Caspian said, his voice flat. 'The Beasts accepted me as king,' he added, turning his head to look at her at last. There was a flash of anger in his eyes and a stubborn set to his jaw. 'Aslan accepted me.'
'Because you're a Man,' Susan said, and found she could not look him in the eye. 'Narnia, this Narnia...' She waved her hand at the army sleeping in the clearing, from Glenstorm to their left to Lucy and Peter and the Talking Beasts by the fire, to the trees beyond and Aslan keeping his own counsel. 'This isn't about you. Maybe when you get back to your castle, when you're sitting on your father's throne, that might be about you. But this... this is about Narnia, and Narnia needs a king, which is all you are. Narnia will follow you, even love you, but never think for a moment that you own her.'
Caspian regarded her silently for a minute or so, and then nodded. 'Thank you, Your Majesty,' he said, in what Susan recognised instantly as his Court Voice. 'Your advice is appreciated.' She watched him from the corner of her eye, and he pretended to watch the fire, although she knew he was watching her. Not just a kid, she thought, and found herself pleased. Older than either Edmund or Lucy had been on their coronation day, and though younger in years, far less a child than she or Peter had been on that day. Of course - neither Finchley nor boarding school (and far less the Professor's house) could teach you as much of self-reliance and intrigue as a year in a hostile court, and Caspian had spent his whole life at court.
Susan woke shortly after dawn - the Talking Beasts were moving about, although trying their best to keep quiet out of respect. The first thing she saw was the sun on the leaves above her, but the second, as she rolled onto her side, was Caspian. He was sitting up a few feet away from her, and his face wrinkled in displeasure as he tried to comb knots out of his hair with his fingers. She blinked sleepily at him for a moment. He would have very nice hair, she reflected, if it wasn't looking like a bird's nest.
'You're very beautiful,' Caspian said, dreamily, and then looked horrified at himself. 'My lady! I - I don't mean... Not that you're not... I mean, I don't wish to offend you.' Susan had definitely received more eloquent compliments, even in England. It was probably because she was feeling tired and crumpled and very much in need of a hot bath that this particular compliment settled warm in her belly and had her lips twitching and threatening to give way to a most undignified grin.
'Here,' she said, fumbling around for her quiver. Caspian frowned at her in bemusement, but she didn't bother explaining. Explanations were for after breakfast. She snapped a catch and popped open a small compartment in the outside case of the quiver, and handed him a small bone comb. Caspian took it and held it gingerly between his fingers.
'Thank you,' he said, seriously, regarding the comb as if it were very precious.
'You comb your hair with it,' Susan told him.
'It'll get dirty!' Caspian held up a hank of his hair, which was, sure enough, crusted with dirt. Susan rolled her eyes and told him to shut up and comb his hair. She, at least, had the sense to plait her hair before sleeping on the ground.
Aslan was in command, for the moment, and sent messengers out over the country proclaiming Caspian to be King of the Narnians and the Telmarines, and giving orders that any Telmarines who did not wish to share their country with the true Narnians should present themselves to Aslan and the Kings at Beruna five days hence. Susan wondered when the formula had ceased to be 'Kings and Queens', but there was too much else going on to bother about that, and truth be told, she had not often felt less like a queen than she did today. Susan, of all the Pevensies, had never got the knack of feeling like a queen in mussed clothes and without a bath in sight (and she felt just the same in England, where she wasn't a queen at all).
Lucy, who never seemed to worry about her hair or her clothes, had gone off without even finishing her breakfast, following the badger Trufflehunter back to the How, where the most injured of Caspian's army had spent the night. They had taken with them Caspian's old nurse, the child Gwendolen, and the former schoolmistress. Susan and her brothers knew very well that Lucy's cordial could heal all of their injured in as little as an hour, and have them on their feet again, but when Caspian pointed out that they could not be sure of their reception at the hands of Miraz's court - and the castle would of course be guarded still - Peter's lips thinned, and he suggested that Lucy and some of the less warlike Beasts should take refuge in the How with the wounded, and join them at the castle the following day. Aslan, who certainly knew that Lucy could have the wounded walking again in a matter of hours, said nothing on the matter, and Susan felt a little better knowing that, should their march on the castle turn out badly, they would have a safe retreat waiting for them. Provided no one ransacked the How in their absence and cut down every one of Lucy's recently healed warriors, but Susan pushed that thought away. She knew why she was being taken along with the army: to talk to women and flirt with men, to organise banquets (because somehow neither Peter nor Edmund had managed, in fifteen years, to organise a decent party on their own, and she had no higher hopes for Caspian) and listen in to gossip.
Susan rode at the head of the army, between Caspian and Peter. They had discovered many years ago that an army looks less like an army if it has a pretty woman in the vanguard. Pretty, well-dressed and gracious would be preferable, but for now, they would have to make do with pretty, crumpled, and out of sorts.
''Long live the King!' The shout went up from the city gates as soon as they came into view. 'Long live the King! Long live King Caspian!'
Peter shot Caspian a look of distinct irritation. 'What is going on here?' he demanded, just low enough that Caspian could catch his words. Edmund, on Caspian's far side, nudged his horse in closer to the others.
Caspian looked bemused. 'I... It looks like they're welcoming me. Us.'
'You,' Edmund corrected. 'The question is: why?'
King Miraz's standing among his so-called supporters had, apparently, taken a serious blow during Caspian's absence - or perhaps his uncle's power base had never been as monolithic as it seemed to the young prince. Exactly what had transpired was difficult to grasp at first (and Susan was not entirely sure that Lady Prunaprismia was telling the truth), but Lord Rocillian, Miraz's seneschal, had come to a bad end. There had been an attempt to marry Prunaprismia by force, apparently as soon as word came of King Miraz's death; and at the same time, or shortly after, there had been an attempt on the young Prince Tyrian's life, and the upshot of it all was that Prunaprismia had shot Rocillian through the heart when he came to her bed. With the aid of the Captain of the town Guard, who fortuitously appeared in the castle at the time, she had Rocillian's men imprisoned and his family placed under arrest awaiting execution, and so was in command of the castle when Aslan's proclamation had arrived that morning.
'And knowing your Majesty to be the true and rightful heir to the throne of Caspian the Conqueror -' here, Susan could sense Trumpkin and Glenstorm bristling behind her - 'I did resolve me to surrender the castle unto you, knowing that Your Majesty will be kind and most merciful to myself and to Your Majesty's own cousin, my son Tyrian.'
Caspian swallowed. Susan could see his eyes flicker from one side to the other, but he wisely kept himself from turning to Peter or Edmund for guidance.
'Your husband,' he said clearly, so that both the Telmarines and the Narnians gathered in the throne room could hear him, 'killed his brother and rightful sovereign, my father, King Caspian the Ninth. This much has been widely known in the court, though little spoken of; and furthermore, it was established in combat not one day past, by my noble cousin Peter, High King of the Narnians.' Susan did not fail to note the change in wording, and nor did the Beasts, shifting uneasily behind her.
'Furthermore,' Caspian went on, 'being placed as Lord Protector in my stead, your husband did conspire to assume the throne and to deprive me of the inheritance which by rights is mine. Do you deny these things, Prunaprismia?'
The lady held her head high. 'I do not, King Caspian, although I was not Miraz's wife at the time of which you speak, and had neither knowledge of nor complicity in his treason.'
'Is it not the law and custom of this kingdom that the wives and children of traitors shall share their fate, namely, execution?'
Prunaprismia blanched, but said only, 'I have known Your Majesty since you were a child, and I trust in your kindness towards your own kin.'
The silence hung heavy over the hall, and Susan watched Caspian carefully. He had schooled his face into impassivity, which was a good start. She remembered the first time she had held a man's life in the balance, without one of her siblings there to share the judgement and the fault. It was one thing to know that men had died because of choices you did or did not make: died on battlefields and at sea, in famines and border raids, with great pomp and heroism and quiet ignobility. It was another to make these clear and irrevocable choices with a single life in front of you. She watched Caspian watch his aunt, and there it was, a sudden panic battering at her. She had made those decisions, made them publicly and privately, for fifteen years, and now she could not remember how. How many men, how many Beasts and other creatures, how many women and children, would be alive today if it were not for Queen Susan, if not for King Edmund and Queen Lucy and High King Peter?
None. The enormity of it hit her just as Aslan rumbled low in his throat, and took the floor between Caspian and his aunt. None. All those hard-fought battles and impossible choices, lives saved and lives damned... all for nothing, all crumbled and lost into dust and history.
'You and your son are safe, dear one,' Aslan told the former Queen, who sank to her knees and let him breathe on her. 'Hear me!' the Lion cried out, and the gathering - both Man and Beast - quailed before him. 'Neither man, woman nor Beast shall suffer in Narnia for another's crime!'
And that, Susan supposed, was that.
She found the former queen in a garden which Susan recognised at once. It was not at all like her own bower: hemmed in by heavy stone walls, its beds carefully laid out with roses and shrubs, but entirely devoid of trees; it had neither spring nor fountain, and its sanctity was protected by a heavy iron gate rather than the courteous privacy which Cair Paravel had granted its Queen. Despite all this difference, or perhaps because of it, Susan knew at once that this garden had been the Queen's retreat and refuge, that she had tended it with her own hands, that she had come here in joy and sorrow and pain and fear.
Now, she had come here with Aslan. Susan found the great Lion sprawled on his side, sunning himself in the afternoon warmth. She had the distinct impression that he would be purring if there had been no man or woman about to witness. Prunaprismia sat, her skirts spread about her and her son sleeping in her lap, in the space between the Lion's forepaws. She had pulled her hair out of its formal braids, and her eyes were red as though she had been crying.
'Susan,' Aslan rumbled, his big eyes barely opening. 'Come in, dear one.' The gate was open, but Susan nevertheless hesitated until Prunaprismia nodded for her to enter.
'What ails you, child?'
Susan slipped to her knees by Aslan's head - the old familiar gesture tugging at her heartstrings, so that she longed, not for the high golden past when they were all kings and queens and very much grown-up, but for the past which really was little more than a year ago, when Aslan had waited for all of them, even Edmund, who least deserved it. She and Lucy had wept over Aslan on the Stone Table, then, and there had been no question of who saw first, or who believed most.
'The banqueting hall must be rearranged, Sir,' she began, 'in order to best accommodate our army as well as our new allies.' Aslan blinked lazily at her. 'The castle servants won't listen to me,' she went on, all in a rush, 'and they say this is Caspian's castle and they won't have it turned inside out for a load of carnival beasts, and they keep asking if I'm Peter's wife, and making, making... lewd jokes about Caspian, and...' she trailed off, suddenly aware that she ought to be more than a match for a few dozen impertinent servants. 'I had hoped to seek Lady Prunaprismia's aid,' she finished, trying to sound dignified.
'Prunaprismia and I have much to talk of,' the Lion answered. Susan raised her eyes to meet Prunaprismia's, and realised that the woman was barely older than she herself was - older, that is, than Susan was counted in England (older than she had begun to count herself) but many years younger than Susan ought to have been in Narnia.
'Stay and talk with us,' Aslan urged. Prince Tyrian woke, blinking sleepily and then waving tiny fists at the golden Lion above him. A tiny baby, innocent of all wrongs, and yet as sure as chickens lay eggs, Susan knew that there lay the end of all Caspian had fought for, all they had won for him, everything they had left England again to restore.
'Banquets do not organise themselves,' she said sadly, and when she left, Prunaprismia did not follow her.
Susan folded her big Telmarine skirts around herself and perched on the edge of the dais, at the front of the banquet hall. She had left a long table set up there for Caspian, herself, and her siblings, but none of them had sat there all night. The feast, as the best Narnian feasts do, had spilled out of the hall, tumbled across the courtyard, and extended down into the town itself, where someone had arranged for roast meats and barrels of ale at the Crown's expense. Outside, beyond the wide-flung doors, the Talking Beasts had raised a bonfire, and she could see the familiar silhouettes of fauns and dryads, whirling and capering about it. A little closer in, Bacchus and his Maenads had dragged an assortment of Narnians and Telmarines into their mad dance: there was Peter's golden hair in the firelight; and yes, that was the Captain of the town guard; and there, with his arms about two Maenads and his cape all askew, was that particularly supercilious butler who had commanded the brigade of servants making her life miserable.
Inside the hall, the Telmarine nobility had evidently resolved to go on, as far as they could, as if nothing much had changed. Minstrels had set up in one of the galleries; a group of young people, girls in stiff wide skirts and lads done up in silk and ruffles like so many English schoolgirls in their Sunday best, were taking Edmund through the steps of a complicated square dance. In clusters along the walls and around the tables, the older nobility were talking, jockeying with each other in a now-uncertain hierarchy. Buffet dining had been declared a charming innovation (although of course one could not eat like that all time), the Pevensies and Caspian alike were lovely children, and didn't His Majesty look like his father? These circus animals were rather endearing, after all, and, it was murmured through the hall, if that great brute of a lion were to stay about, the Archenlanders would think twice about taking Narnia lightly.
Men, Susan reflected, were the same no matter where or when you went, and women doubly so.
'Will you dance?' Caspian had come up behind her. His formal garb, as splendidly ornate as her own dress, seemed to dwarf him. He smiled nervously, and Susan was both amused and flattered to note that he was fretting at the tassel on his doublet, twisting it anxiously in his fingers. She could hardly refuse.
The flock of young people gave way as they approached, making space in the set as a new tune struck up. To Susan's surprise, Caspian danced well and confidently: he dispensed with nerves and shy smiles as the dance struck up, tripping lightly through the steps while Susan struggled to mimic the other women in the set and fought against the heavy weight of her unaccustomed gown. Once, twice through the routine she went, missing steps and almost colliding with other people's dresses. On the third repetition, when the women dancing all spun back into the hands of their partners, she came back to Caspian beaming wildly, her feet suddenly in time and herself in harmony with the set. Oh, she definitely did not get to dance enough in England. Caspian looked momentarily startled, as if a grinning Susan were not on his list of contingencies; and if the smile he gave back - at once mischievous and unsure, as if he thought they might be sharing a secret, but was not entirely certain - made her stomach flip over, well, she was already grinning and giddy as they spun.
'I think we missed the last dance.' Caspian hesitated for a moment, and then settled himself down beside her, their backs against a tree which had certainly not been there earlier in the day. Susan patted the trunk lazily, and thought she felt a sleepy stirring in the wood below her hand. She had the sudden mental image of the dryad curled up in the bole like a contented kitten, and hoped it was so.
'Bacchus is still dancing,' she said, but Caspian shook his head. He didn't have to elaborate: Bacchus and his girls were intimidating, if you were not used to them. Even if you were used to them, Susan added to herself. 'You're the King,' she said aloud, instead. 'He'll respect that.'
Caspian flushed. 'He certainly, er, respects King Edmund.' And then Susan had to laugh, her head tipping back against the tree trunk, because she'd forgotten that particular detail of their past life.
'I liked your dancing,' she said, when her amusement faded. 'Although the style is a lot more elaborate than it was in our day.'
'I liked dancing with you.'
She turned her head and found Caspian watching her, his eyes wide. His uncertainty lent her surety, and she leaned across to brush her lips against his cheek. 'Tomorrow,' she said, following the touch of her lips with the tips of her fingers, 'remind me to teach you to waltz.'
Tomorrow brought its own problems, the first of which was that Reepicheep challenged one of the Telmarine noblemen to a duel. One of the Squirrels woke Susan, chittering with excitement, and cried that she must come quickly, Reepicheep was going to kill Squire Costes, come quickly, come quickly. Susan had neither the time nor the two maids necessary to don any of the Telmarine gowns which had been found for her, and her own dress had been speedily vanished by the laundry staff. It needed less than a moment's consideration to determine that, while Cair Paravel had not infrequently seen Queen Susan in her nightgown, Caspian's court would not be so kindly disposed. She flung the wardrobe doors open, and turned out the drawers, and discovered that this room had once been a man's, or rather, a boy's. She pulled on soft trousers which pulled in all the wrong places and yet had to be tightly belted at the waist, and dragged on one of the silly, heavy doublets hanging in the wardrobe - it turned out to be nearly as difficult to secure as the dresses, especially with only the aid of an agitated Squirrel.
By the time she made it to the castle forecourt, Reepicheep and his whole battalion of Mice were being forcibly restrained by an assortment of moles, badgers and dwarfs. Glenstorm and his sons were looming over Squire Costes and his fellows. A small crowd had gathered - Susan gave them only a quick glance, and then ignored them as they tittered at her ridiculous garb.
'My lady!' Reepicheep struggled against the two Red Dwarfs who held him. 'Release me, you craven eaters of dirt! My lady, fair Queen Susan, I beg your pardon. I would have avenged the insult at once, but these unchivalrous dwarfs prevented me!'
'I will not lower myself to contest with vermin,' the young fellow who must be Costes snapped.
'Funny,' Glenstorm rumbled, 'There's hundreds dead and captive at Beruna who didn't share your scruples.'
'Enough,' Susan commanded, and found herself suddenly pleased: she could still make her voice carry without shouting. 'Reepicheep. We will not have you causing disharmony in His Majesty's court. Explain yourself, Sir.'
Reepicheep's countenance settled into the most wounded expression a Mouse can bear, his ears twitching and his tail drooping. 'Believe you me, O fair Queen, I had no intent to cause disharmony. And yet what chivalrous knight could stand by when this cretinous Telmarine speaks such dishonour against your own person, my Queen?'
'Perhaps not a chivalrous knight, but a prudent one,' Susan informed the Mouse. Reepicheep looked, if possible, even more hurt.
'But your majesty! This impudent squire uttered slander most vile, upon your majesty's honour, your virtue...' he trailed off, apparently overcome with the horror of it all. Susan stared at him in confusion: on the one hand, there was a comfortable familiarity, which she did not entirely like, to the old ritual of contests and quarrels for her favour and in name of her honour (although it was unsettling to realise that she had done nothing to warrant it, not in this specific instance, and in fact not at all in this lifetime). On the other, such games had always been the province of Men - visitors and diplomats and traders and newcomers. Their native Narnian subjects had always been more concerned with the failure of any of the Kings and Queens to bring forth children than whether or not they had company in their beds at night (or behind the stables, or in the woods or on the beaches in broad daylight). She sighed, and indicated that Reepicheep's keepers should let him go.
'Oh, Mouse,' she said, and pried his rapier out of his paws, 'you have become more like Men than you can know.'
At this juncture, one of Squire Costes' friends decided it was his turn to stir the pot. 'See!' he cried, pointing, 'the Narnian whore will not deny the truth!'
'And is she not wearing His Majesty's trousers and doublet, showing her legs like a pantomime tart?'
Susan spun around, horrified to find herself blushing again. 'These clothes were in the room I was given!' she began to protest, falling silent as the Centaurs stepped back to make way for Peter, Edmund, and, trailing behind them, Caspian. All three were wearing rough breeches and had their sleeves rolled up to the shoulders.
'Insult my sister again, and you answer to me,' Peter said, pulling the unfortunate Costes (who was not blessed with great height) up onto his tiptoes by the collar.
'Suits you, Su,' Edmund declared, with a hint of a smirk at her outfit, and elbowed her in the ribs.
'You smell,' Susan informed him. 'Again.'
'Practice courts,' Edmund answered, while Peter released young Costes and glowered at the crowd until the better part of the gathering decided they had more important things to do, and slunk away.
'Why are you wearing Caspian's clothes?' Peter turned back to Susan, one eyebrow raised.
'Your Majesty, I assure you,' Caspian spluttered, 'I have only the most noble respect for Queen Susan...'
The three Pevensies regarded him in surprise for a moment. 'Yes, very well,' Peter said, and left it at that. 'Susan?'
She proceeded to explain: the clothes, despite scurrilous rumour, were not Caspian's; she had been unable to don a Telmarine gown on her own, and had dressed herself in whatever was to hand.
'I suppose the clothes belong to some boy being held at Beruna now,' she finished. Or dead, she did not add, but the words hung in the air anyway.
Caspian, red to the ears, owned that the clothes were, in fact, his, and the room Susan slept in had not been the province of some unknown nobleman's son, but a lonesome prince.
'Ah.' Susan smoothed her hands down the sides of the quilted doublet. 'My apologies, Caspian. I shall change at once.'
'Do not trouble yourself on my account,' Caspian hastened to assure her. 'You are welcome to them, as long as you wish.' He bit his lip, and added, 'The colour becomes you, my lady.'
Once again, the three Pevensies stared at him.
'I prefer dresses,' Susan told him gently. 'They tend to fit better.' Turning to Peter, she added, 'I feel ridiculous.'
'And you look it,' her brother said, easily. 'How much do you wager that Lu balks at those big dresses, though?'
'Foregone conclusion,' Susan said. 'No bet. When do you suppose she'll be here?'
'Before sundown,' Edmund put in. 'We had a messenger bird an hour ago saying that they were leaving the How.'
'Excellent. Caspian?'
'Milady?'
'If I am to get dressed at all, I shall require the services of two maidservants for such time as I am resident here.' The Squirrel who had woken her, still waiting by Susan's side, almost jumped out of her skin in her eagerness to volunteer. 'Two maidservants with opposable thumbs,' Susan clarified. Many years afterwards, the Narnians would wonder why the Squirrels alone maintained that pride was Queen Susan's great fault, and that she preferred the company of Men to Beasts. Certainly, no other creatures in Narnia ever countenanced the idea, for, as you know, Squirrels are flighty and given to baseless gossip.
Dinner on the second evening was served as a banquet, again, to celebrate the arrival of Queen Lucy, Trufflehunter, and the remainder of the Narnian army. Caspian was a little worried about the castle's stores, but the Pevensies assured him that, as long as Aslan was resident with them, not so much as a dent in the larder would be made by any Man or Beast. Sure enough, when Caspian enquired of the Head Cook, it seemed that last night's revelry had not diminished their supplies at all, and the proportion of the castle staff who were delighted with this was equal to the proportion of those who were thoroughly disconcerted.
'We're losing people,' Caspian said to her, as they sat at the table on the dais. The others had eaten with them and then dispersed. Immediately beyond the hall doors, Lucy, resplendent in a simple gown borrowed from a kitchen-maid, was whirling about to the faun pipes, her hands in Edmund's and the pair of them spinning, spinning, until Susan was sure that they would both be sick when they stopped.
'Squire Costes is not here,' Susan observed, 'nor half the young folk we danced with.'
Caspian nodded. 'The older lords, too. They all have sudden pressing business on their estates.' Susan nodded, not needing to ask what that meant. Caspian went on, 'We're missing a good portion of the domestic staff, too. Cook tells me a few claimed to have sick relatives or other such business, but for the most part...' he trailed off, and Susan, again, understood.
'Aslan has offered them a passage out of Narnia,' she pointed out, and Caspian merely raised one eyebrow.
'Would you take such an unknown path, my Queen?'
Susan's laugh sounded more bitter in her ears than she had intended. 'Caspian, I am dragged down such unknown paths without warning.'
They did not dance again that night, but Caspian walked with her to her room. He looked as if he had something he wanted desperately to say, and Susan was silent and left him to say it, but in the end, he said nothing at all. He kissed her, instead, a soft brush of lips against lips. Susan sighed into him, and for a moment all she felt was relief. It was not her first kiss, not by far, but it was the first in this second youth: one instance in which she lagged a little less behind herself. She cupped Caspian's face (soft, beardless, but with a new-healed scar under her fingers) and pulled him closer, remembering and rediscovering the tease of another's breath against her lips, doomed and playing catch-up with the tangle of fingers in her hair and the yield of lips beneath hers.
Caspian broke away from her and stood for a moment, just an arm's length away. His breathing was ragged, Susan noted with a sense of victory, before she realised that her own breath was coming unevenly, and, had the hallway been properly lit, they would both have been equally red-faced.
'Sleep well,' Caspian said, adding, 'Susan,' before he turned and disappeared.
Go hither for part two