Fic: My Best Friend's Girl 1/3 PG13 (for this part)
Title: My Best-Friends’ Girl
Author: Rhion
Rating: PG13 for now
Summary: She had made off with his best friend, what was he to do?
Disclaimer: I own one of the characters, though some people have problems separating him from cannon. That’s fine with me. The Lewis Estate can keep the rest - I’ll return them. They may need to wipe the drool off of Caspian, and do something with Su’s mussy hair and her new wardrobe, but hey - I’ll return them. Undamaged… Mostly..
Catagory: FLUFF! FLUFF! FLUFF!
AN: There’s no fluff onlist. I need fluff, we all need some fluff. (At least at the time I started writing this, this was true.) So I’ve dusted off Bear and L!C (or his grownup version, GLC - Giant Little Caspian) for some fluffy stuff. For those of you who don’t know who Bear is, well, my recommendation is to read the stories that take place before this one. They are as follows, A Mother’s Love, To Be A Prince, and A Thousand Words. I still need a tag for the series, the Princely Ways series *hinthintremindshint* so you’ll have to find them under my author tag or click the linkylinks.
AN2: I've decided to say "screw it" because I'm gonna post this in two sections. Part one's not got any sexings in it, but part two will. Little!Caspian is all grown up, but deep inside he's still that cute little guy. And very much so not cool with anyone being sent away. I'll post the second part tomorrow, after I get it done and get some sleep.
XXX
Tugging his covers up to his chin, Caspian stared at the canopy of his bed. Huffing as he kicked his foot under the sheets, then he grasped some of the material between his big toe and his smaller toes, rubbing it as he lay there. Just staring up at the heavy green-black velvet canopy. With a growl Caspian rolled over, uncomfortable, trying once more to get situated. He couldn’t. Something just didn’t feel right. Not right at all. Hugging his pillow, then beating it with his fist to fluff it, Caspian pressed his face into the thick downy pillow making a muffled sound of irritation.
Was he too hot? Well that was a possibility, the hearth was putting off a good deal of heat and his window wasn’t open, and he was still clothed in his night-things. Thinking that perhaps that may be the issue, Caspian struggled to disentangle himself from his covers, his exceedingly loose tunic and leggings catching, wrapped in the covers forcing him to squirm like he was dancing a jig. Cursing irritably Caspian wished for the simpler times of childhood when if he’d been too hot he’d just strip naked and sleep atop his blankets, the protection of large fluffy pillows and Bear more than enough to keep his little self from catching cold. Now as an adult he had to be ‘proper’ and with the presence of the Kings and Queens of Old watching each of his moves, Caspian felt that he had no recourse but to be ‘proper’ at all times. Gone were the times when a maid would blush and move about in a flurry if she came in on him as he was in the all-together, because what sort of proper gentleman would he be if he was attired in such a fashion? Or unattaired to be exact.
Well he was certain that then he’d be declared unseemly and thus unfit, and have to sit through one of High King Peter’s lectures on propriety. Frankly, he’d rather not have to deal with that at all. So, he wore a pair of tattered leggings and loose tunic to bed, and did his best to sleep like a normal and proper king. Going to his window he flung the panes wide, and sucked in a great lungful of the heavy moist night air. There was at least a sparse breeze and with mischievous fingers it twisted into his room, playing gently with the hem of his shirt. It was as though the wind was telling him to just throw damnable propriety out the window and go ahead and make himself comfortable. But what would Queen Susan say if she ever found out his predilection? That stopped him in his tracks and he pondered that for a few moments.
He’d been losing sleep for days now, constantly uncomfortable in his own bed, in his own room, feeling as though something was missing while something else was weighing him down. That was it! Bear, he was missing Bear. Well of course he was missing Bear, Bear was his friend and constant companion throughout most of his life. But the Gentle Queen had run off with his best friend, leaving Caspian no comfort in the blastedly hot evenings, and no one to console him while urging him to maintain social decorum.
Queen Susan had seen him speaking with Bear though, and she probably thought him quite mad. And so he had been fighting all his regular urges of late, ever since the Kings and Queens had appeared. He’d curbed his need for solitude, forcing himself to be sociable at all times, he’d done his best to be dressed as was expected of him, and now he’d even stopped speaking to himself. Correcting himself in his mind, speaking with Bear that is, if one were to talk to oneself that usually implied insanity. And insanity wasn’t proper at all. This being proper thing was mindbogglingly difficult, and Caspian prided himself on his intelligence and fortitude as a general rule of thumb, but at the moment all Caspian wanted was to throw it all to the wind.
As though to mock him further, or tempt him depending on his point of view at the moment, the breeze became a short gust, tousling his already tousled being. Wrinkling his nose, Caspian truly wished he had Bear to speak with. At least he’d care about Caspian’s discomfort. Even if he was nothing more than a worn out collection of stuffing and fuzzy cloth. The Kings and Queens seemed utterly at home with all that propriety, all the trappings of rulership. Caspian, while more than happy to work hard and well educated in the leading of others, was also aware that he was human. And that as any normal, sane, rational human, he had a certain amount of silliness to his personality. In all truth he had a personality. High King Peter, as wise and experienced as he was, was… well… stuffy. Utterly lacking in the personality department, reminding Caspian more of some crotchety herald weighing everything down with rules, regulations, and more rules.
Edmund, now that was a man he could identify with. The snarkiness, the humour, the superiority complex… Grinning out into the night, Caspian leaned on his windowsill letting the night air ease his fevered skin. Crossing his arms, Caspian refrained from thinking aloud, but it was a near thing. To make things easier he moved his lips in time to his thoughts but let no sound pass. King Edmund the Just. More like King Edmund the Face-Rearrange-er. Unable to stop a giggle from leaking out, Caspian did his best to keep it quiet. There was no need to alert any of the Talking Beasts who patrolled the night of their King’s proclivities. Or quite possibly, as he pressed his hand over his mouth to quiet himself, King Edmund the Arsekicker.
Whispering, “Most certainly not the sort of fellow I would want to meet in a dark ally.”
Realizing what he had done, talk to himself that is, Caspian stomped his foot in irritation. And stubbed his toe in the doing. Hopping back with a foul curse that he’d picked up from Glozelle, Caspian hoisted his foot up, holding it as he jiggled up and down, swearing up a quiet storm, calling on all Telmarine, Narnian - courtesy of Trumpkin and Nikabrik - and a few from Edmund that were in something called ‘English’ - resources. Done venting on nothing in particular, mostly his discomfort, the night, propriety, and the lack of Bear, Caspian moodily went back to bed hoping to get some sleep. Finally.
XXX
“Are you not hungry Caspian?” startled by Lucy’s voice, Caspian jerked in his chair, looking about wildly having nodded off into a light doze.
“Of course he’s not hungry Luce,” it came out as a peevish growl, “this is the fourth day he’s been late for breakfast. You’d think he didn’t want to come and see us. Talk about impropriety…” Jabbing the air in Caspian’s direction, “Or is it you just don’t like breakfast?”
“Really now Caspian, aren’t you hungry?” Lucy leaned towards him, looking worried.
Attempting to gather his wits, Caspian nodded, “Most certainly, I am quite hungry and breakfast looks quite…” he looked down and trailed off.
Lucy leaned over in her chair and poked his side, “You’re too skinny, you need to eat more! Eat your eggs - I worked very hard on them.”
Smiling weakly at the small Queen, dutifully Caspian picked up his fork and moved the gelatinous yellow mass around on his plate, “I did not know I was lacking my dear little Queen.”
She gave him a look, her russet brows arching high on her forehead, “Oh don’t be silly! You just need to eat more. Like Pete does.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” it came out somewhere between amused and aggravated.
On the other end of the small table Peter had been packing the eggs, bread with preserves, and sausages away like he hadn’t eaten in years. Trying to hide his wince, Caspian remembered when he had first started to grow into his body, and it had demanded a truly rude amount of food to keep it fueled. He had always been half-starved, never satisfied. Now, while he thought of himself as a healthy eater, Caspian didn’t feel the need for five or six helpings of food the way King Peter still did.
Attempting to be diplomatic, and proper of course, “My appetite has never been so healthy Queen Lucy, His Majesty’s gastronomic powers are truly awe inspiring, but I fear I shall never quite be on that level. Not any longer, but when I was his age - “
“My age? Caspian,” it was level, and the High King gesticulated with a large round dark loaf that he’d coated in butter and preserves, “I’m near twice your age.”
“To be true in the chronological fashion, and I bow to your greater wisdom and experience, but Your Majesty, your body is….” Trying to put it delicately, “still not quite finished developing. You are physically in your…. What? Fifteenth year?”
Blue eyes widened, and Caspian realized he may have miscalculated, but the High King looked quite young to him visually, “Eighteen. I’m eighteen. The same age as you.”
“Boys,” Lucy snorted, grabbing their attention, and rescuing Caspian from the High King, “behave. Peter, you know that last time in Narnia you ate like a pig until you were twenty-four. And that you wound up aging totally differently too. You looked older by the time you were seventeen when you were here than you did back in England. Caspian,” a playful swat, “you don’t pay him any mind, and eat up.”
Both Kings chastened, they went back to their meals. Caspian doing his best to make happy faces as the food hit his tongue. Truly he would much rather just eat some bread with butter and honey, perhaps a hardboiled egg to top it off. But, he wouldn’t dare to hurt the young girl’s feelings, thankful for her sweet disposition and kindness. He’d never had anyone make him breakfast just because they wanted to before, so he’d do his best to relish it. Even if it did give him indigestion.
Perhaps later he could see if she’d like to play a game of hide-and-seek, much like how he had played with Queen Lucy as a child. But this time he’d have the real person there to entertain and be entertained by. Grown he may be, but he saw nothing wrong with a bit of childish play. And it would please the tiny Queen, which would in turn bring smiles to all who saw her - a bit of indigestion, indignity and being winded were very small prices to pay to Caspian’s way of thinking. He just hoped he didn’t run into Peter - there was no way the High King was going to swing Caspian in the air like a little boy, and giving the King a glance, Caspian realized he thought that that bit of his earlier years was best left alone.
Otherwise he’d never live it down.
But maybe it would be worth mentioning it, just for the look of peeved horror on King Peter’s face…. Caspian would have to keep that in mind… Especially when the King realized that that meant Caspian had viewed him as a father figure, and that now the King was acting like one. With a very rebellious son. And Caspian was just perverse enough to gain a great deal of pleasure from that idea, and tucked into his breakfast not even tasting the excess lard that had been used to make the meal, so distracted was he by his happy thoughts.
XXX
“King Edmund,” hailing the dark haired youthful King.
Edmund perked up, looking over the racks of armor, having to stand on his toes as physically he wasn’t a full adult. But Caspian couldn’t see the King for anything but the man he was, a likeminded equal.
The rapidly becoming shaggy dark mop of hair stuck up at odd angles as he cocked his head, pursing his lips in query, “Brother, you know I prefer a simple ‘Edmund’ or ‘Ed’. But, what can I do for you anyway?”
Shrugging as he moved to join him, “I am told a proper king is supposed to stand on protocol at all times, even with his friends.”
“Bullocks,” snorting, “You’ve been listening to Pete too much. He’s gotten self-important since coming back. Not that I don’t understand it.”
“And why would that be?” curious, as he usually was about all things, as to why the High King would act like that.
Rolling his eyes, Edmund selected a halberd from the rack, testing its weight in his hands, “In England, things… were different. We’re children there Caspian, we have no standing or importance.”
Understanding dawned, “To go from such a high status, having so much responsibility to having… nothing. And to be so… discounted.” Shaking his head, “It must have been painful.”
“If that were all,” frowning down at the black haft of the weapon, rolling it between his hands, “then things would be simple.”
Blinking, Caspian tried to figure out Edmund’s meaning. Conceding his defeat, “Please, elaborate.”
“Caspian, as great as it is to be back, we may not be staying,” grip going white-knuckled, “the last time we were here for many years. Enough to create a golden era, though it didn’t feel all that golden while we were doing it. Was a right pain in the arse. But we still left, Caspian. And when we went back… we were children again.”
Reeling back as though from a heavy handed blow, Caspian reached out, snagging the rack for support, “Surely you will not be leaving? Surely Aslan will not…” the words burnt his throat, “will not send you away?”
Feeling the blood drain from his face, Caspian saw the room spin, and only realized once he was flat on his back that he’d gone into some form of a faint. He couldn’t conceive of the Kings and Queens leaving. Of leaving him all by himself to rule, he needed them. Needed his family. The ceiling was in need of a cleaning, he thought distantly, and the sound of rushing was in his ears. It was painful.
“Caspian?” Edmund came into his line of sight, cutting off the sooty rafters. “Caspian, come on, get up, I know you can hear me.”
“You cannot be sent away, I will not allow it,” and it came out as a scared little whisper.
Scuffing of boot and clothes on wood flooring as Edmund sat beside him, “Aslan is the one who decides if we stay or go Caspian. He is the true ruler of Narnia, we only function as His Voice amongst the people. We’re here on His sufferance you know.”
None of Edmund’s words comforted Caspian. But they made sense, and he knew them to be true. He just didn’t want anyone to have that power over him ever again. The power to take those people that he cared for away. Shaking off the odd dizziness that had come over him, Caspian sat up, not looking at Edmund, but at his hands where they rested in his lap. Callus and scar tissue was heavy on his hands, but nothing that hindered his range of motion, all of it from long years of learning the sword. Some of it came from learning to play the lap harp from Lady Prunaprismia, the thickest callous on his fingertips built up from plucking and strumming the strings. Studying the lines on his palm Caspian heaved another great sigh, feeling utterly powerless.
It was as though he were a small child all over again. And it compounded his fears, and his knowledge of how horrible it was to be sent away. Newfound sympathy rose up in Caspian for High King Peter, it was his fear too to be forced to leave that which was his home. The place in which he belonged. To be torn from that, that was a hell unlike any other, and Caspian knew very well how bad that could be. But, how could Aslan do that to them? Didn’t the Kings and Queens truly belong here? With him?
Edmund reached out, laying his hand on Caspian’s shoulder, “Caspian, don’t worry, He loves us. In the end, He’ll be there for us, be there for you. But sometimes you have to ask for His help, instead of just blindly expecting it.”
“Like King Peter did?”
“Yeah, like Pete,” nodding. “And sometimes,” a cynical little twist to his lips, “you just have to show Him that you’re ready for something.”
Brows bouncing on his forehead, “Sometimes Edmund, you are a bit difficult to understand.”
To that Edmund grinned, patting his shoulder a few times before rising, “Well then, you just think about that until it’s all sorted.”
Listening as Edmund left, Caspian had long since forgotten why he had sought out the Just King. Staying where he was seated, Caspian drummed his fingers on his knee, chewing his lip, deep in thought. Now he could very much use someone to talk to, someone who would listen and wouldn’t instill such horrible fears in his breast. Truly, Edmund was only trying to prepare him, Caspian understood that. But it still hurt and was a terrible thing. Clambering to his feet, his kneecap popping as he got up too fast making him cringe at the loud sound, he was still recovering from the battle of a month ago it seemed. Not only that but his ribs were still tender, and when it had rained a week ago, body parts had ached that had never ached before.
“This war thing was not a very good idea I think,” muttering as he straightened his back, pushing his palm into his spine hoping it would stop making him feel like a steel bar was pinned to it.
The hair on the back of his neck rose, and Caspian ducked to the side at the last moment as a crossbow bolt snapped through the air. Rolling up quickly, sword drawn with the motion, Caspian was dodging side to side in a dive towards his assailant. But he stopped as soon as he registered who it was. Glozelle stood there, crossbow held in a relaxed grip smirking.
Smirking of all things!
Snarling, “What is the meaning of this Glozelle?”
“Seeing if my best student was truly so foolish as he appeared, presenting such a splendid target for an assassin,” his beard splitting into a larger grin.
Letting the point of his sword dip to the floor, Caspian watched Glozelle warily, “I was not aware I was still your student Glozelle. And I did not think that there were any assassins left of any note other than yourself.”
To that Glozelle snorted, “Do not discount your abilities.”
“I rarely do,” evenly. “Now, explain this disruption to my thoughts Glozelle and I might ignore such an attack on my person.”
Glozelle shrugged, laying the crossbows’ body over his shoulder so that there was little threat from it, “You should check to see where the quarrel went. But, then again that would mean you would have to take your eyes off of me,” not answering his question at all.
Caspian turned partially, while taking a few steps forward - close enough that he could lunge and strike Glozelle, but far enough that Glozelle would have a problem returning the favor with his much shorter stature, “That is an interesting spot to use as a target,” glancing to where the head was buried in a rack.
“I thought so too,” chuckling.
The deadly bolt had been shot a good distance away from Caspian. It was clear that he had never been a target at all. Glozelle was up to his old tutoring games it seemed, testing him constantly, reminding him to stay on his toes. Such familiarity was welcome, missed and far from being a good idea. After all, Glozelle had sided with Miraz. Caspian tried to hide the wince at the name, he hadn’t let himself think about his uncle at all since his… death.
Jingling of hauberk, signaling Glozelle’s movements, and Caspian’s gaze snapped up, pinning him once more, “Answer my question Glozelle - what is the meaning of this?”
“You already figured it out boy,” grunting as he went to a rack, putting the weapon down. “And I already told you, to ensure that my best student is wary enough to rule. You must stay on your toes at all times. There is no time when someone will not come for you, could not come for you.” Pausing he thought for a moment, “Unless you are glued to that massive lions’ side, then nothing is sacred when it comes to death dealing.”
That hurt, and it was the second time in not as many hours that such a pain had hit him. Glozelle truly had stopped being his friend and tutor. What he was doing was a last act, a last reminder to Caspian that there were always going to be enemies that sought to control him or kill him for his power. But he wasn’t powerful. He wasn’t in some enviable position, if only others would understand that. Power over many left it so he was powerless over himself, powerless to prevent others from leaving him, from being sent away.
Glozelle brought him back to the here and now, “Yet again your mind has wandered Caspian.”
Muscle ticking in his jaw, “I have much to think on.”
“Do not let your natural inclinations weigh you down with too many weighty thoughts,” leaning on the wall with one shoulder, legs crossed at the ankle as he hooked his thumbs in his swordbelt. “You will do yourself no good at all if you let that happen. And while you are a king, you must also look after yourself, or you will be unable to look after your people.”
Frowning, Caspian resheathed his sword, still suspicious from years of ingrained training finally becoming active, “That is my concern.”
“Oh? Really?” glancing around as though in surprise, “Here I thought I was your tutor and mentor, a person to which you mean a great deal and I bear much concern for. But,” raising a brow, “I might be wrong in that assumption. Am I?” Sighing, “Then I am to be exiled I take it. I understand, as King you cannot allow any who did not support you in the war near you.” Straightening up, Glozelle bowed deeply, “My King, if you would excuse me, I must then see to some affairs if I am to leave.”
Growling, “Glozelle! Stop this foolishness at once!”
“What foolishness would that be Sire?” curiously Glozelle watched him, seemingly confused by Caspian’s irritation. “You do not wish the counsel of your one time tutor, as he has betrayed your personal trust. And that I can understand. But I could not betray my word. It was my bond, and I gave it to your father, then to Miraz when he became your guardian.”
“Why did you not defend me?” unable to stop the question, “Why did you not protect your protégé?”
Muscles twitched in Glozelle’s face, and he couldn’t maintain eye contact, shame making him slump, “Because I had not, could not, was not free to give you my word. My honour is the only thing I have in the end Caspian. It is a cold mistress, and leaves me few choices when it comes down to it. I worked around it how I could. I gave - no. I will not speak of it,” waving a hand and turning away from Caspian. “Please, if you bear me any care you will let me go into exile as you cannot afford to trust me. It would set a bad example for others. For those in the Council they will watch you, looking for any opening, any weakness.”
Now Caspian did approach, grabbing hold of Glozelle’s arm in a crushing grip, forcing him to stay in place, “And I will need those I can trust by my side. There are few that have that.” It seemed as though Glozelle would say something more, something to justify his actions other than his word. There was something else, as though betraying Caspian wasn’t the only shame he bore. But Caspian dismissed it, Glozelle would tell him if he were ready to. So instead Caspian fought to use logic to keep his mentor with him, even if Caspian could well understand the older man’s viewpoint, “I would have you pledge me your life, and then to my children. My sons would learn the sword from the man who taught me, they would learn honour at not just my knee, but yours. There are so few I would allow such a thing, so few I would know would do justice to the task.”
“Sire,” he swallowed once, some odd light making his Telmarine black eyes shine like obsidian before he scrunched them closed, turning his face aside once more, “you do me great good.”
Shaking Glozelle’s arm once, firmly, “Glozelle, pledge me your life. Give me your word. Swear that the Throne and the good of all the peoples is what you live for.”
To that Glozelle made a pained sound, then pulled his arm from Caspian’s grip, “That I cannot do Sire. I can pledge my life to you, but I cannot pledge it to anything else. There is no room for such things. I have not enough energy in this weary body to uphold so many promises. I am truly sorry.”
For a moment Caspian stayed still, not wanting to hear, not wanting to understand. His teacher was tired. He’d lived through enough years to see four kings. Caspian’s grandfather, his father, his uncle, and now himself. Realizing that it would break Glozelle to see an end to his reign, Caspian sighed, finally having put the clues together. Moving even closer, Caspian wrapped Glozelle into a tight hug, squeezing him hard and not letting go. This man had been his father, his mentor, in ways that Miraz couldn’t have let himself be and Cornelius would never have understood. Oiled chain and leather filled Caspian’s nose, a thick scent that hit the back of his mouth and was so strong and familiar he could taste it. Hay was a sweet undertone, and the oils that Glozelle used to keep his beard neat. Hesitant arms came around Caspian’s back then moved with more surety, squeezing in return.
They stood there for long minutes, how long Caspian didn’t know, and he didn’t care. All he could hear was the ragged breathing in his ear, and from his own sore throat. He didn’t like how his emotions were going up and down, and his head was filled with so many words that just wanted to explode outwards. And he couldn’t say any of them, he didn’t even know where his mouth and mind would take him if he were to let anything leak out. But he hung on, and only noticed after quite some time that Glozelle was rocking him side to side where they stood, and that tears were spilling from his hot eyes. He didn’t want Glozelle to feel tired, he didn’t want Glozelle to leave, to be sent away - not by the Council, and not by his own will, let alone Caspian’s. It spoke of the sort of man Caspian was that he made himself accept it, and gather his courage to let go, of the sort of man he’d been raised to become. The sort of man that Glozelle had helped him grow into.
Forcing his arms to relax, Caspian started to straighten up, to step back. Glozelle’s hold tightened, making his ribs hurt, but Caspian paid no heed to it. He was just thankful that Glozelle didn’t want to be too old, too tired, too careworn to stand at his side. And so he hugged Glozelle tighter, and tried to store it all up. After this, Caspian didn’t know what Glozelle would do - he may leave, he may stay, but he’d never be General Glozelle again. Except in Caspian’s mind.
XXX
Singing carried down the hallway as Caspian walked along. Yet another poor sleepless night had assaulted Caspian, and he was beyond tired. And he was lonely, needing someone to unload on, to see if he could get all his thoughts in order. So his unconscious mind followed the singing as he meandered aimlessly. Surely he had some state business to attend to, but for once most things seemed to be taking care of themselves without him, or one of the other monarchs was overseeing it. The melody was familiar, but the voice was of a different timber and pitch, and Caspian tried to recall where he’d heard such singing before. Everything was distant, the foggy fatigue and stress weighing on him, yet onwards his feet led him.
The heavy stone walls that made up the castle seemed particularly oppressive today, the gray-black closing in on Caspian, and his maudlin thoughts fit well with the atmosphere. Yet the bright happy sound had a source, and Caspian was drawn like a moth to the flame, and when he came into his lady aunt’s solar, he found its origin. It was with some surprise, but really he shouldn’t have been at all, to see her rocking his small cousin in her arms as she sang before the open window. Her thick dark hair was rolled into heavy coils that rested atop her head and the look of serene peace on her still lovely face made the aching fatigue in his bones ease. Blinking as he stood in the doorway to her solar, his hand on the frame as he watched Prunaprismia step side to side, Caspian found the laconic scene unknotting the worst of his headache.
Caspian hesitated, should he enter in on this private moment between mother and child, or should he leave? His decision was taken from him as she turned, and the smile that formed on Prunaprismia’s face while she continued singing was the reason for it. Motioning with her head she pulled him forward, and he didn’t resist. Picking one of the wooden chairs that had been piled with cushions, Caspian moved a hoop that held stretched linen in its frame, setting the delicate embroidery aside. Slouching, Caspian folded his hands over his stomach, cocking his head so that he could continue listening and watching. As the song ended, his aunt placed Corsiken in his cradle, fussing quietly over the infant.
Once she was satisfied, Prunaprismia turned gracefully, the heavy mint silk of her dress rustling with the motion, “Caspian, my dear, how have you been? I have seen so little of you lately.”
“I have been busy,” moving to rise so that he could sweep into a low bow, “please forgive your nephews’ lack of manners.”
“Nonsense sweetling,” she had come over, her hands framing his cheeks as she forced him up from his obeisance, “you are King now. You have so much to see to, so much to take care of. And you,” pulling his face closer she kissed his forehead, “dear, are never lacking in any way. Let no one ever say otherwise.”
His lips twitched into a vague smile, “Still, I have not taken my duties to my family very well. There are many things I have been quite remiss in.” Taking hold her hands, Caspian let his bangs fall forward, covering his eyes, “I have so little kin left, I should take better care to watch for them.”
Prunaprismia ‘hmm’ed softly, gesturing for him to be seated once more, “You have more cousins and in-laws than a fig tree has fruit on its limbs. Soon they shall be coming out of the woodwork for you, pressing this or that case calling you ‘Cousin’ and ‘Brother’.” Bustling over to the fire, Prunaprismia swung the iron kettle out and wrapped her hand in a towel, and took it over to her teapot, “Tea?”
“I could have done that for you,” but he made no motion to do so, knowing that his aunt preferred to do things for herself sometimes. But he felt it was only polite to point that out. “But yes, certainly I would love some,” trying not to sound too hopeful, “Would there be a chance of any cakes or biscuits to go with that?”
A tinkling laugh that verged on a giggle, “Do you never get enough sweets into you sweetling?”
Unable to stop the cheeky grin that pinched his face up, “Not hardly,” reaching for one of the lavender and honey biscuits on the plate she set down.
Caspian quieted, munching on the subtly sweet sweetbread, waiting for the tea to finish steeping. Prunaprismia picked up her embroidery, her tapered fingers holding the silver needle with practiced skill. Light flashed off the metal now and again as it darted rapidly in and out of cloth, and Caspian felt as he had as a small child. Fragrant flowers sat in pots, growing as they would out in the garden, but held safe in heavy terracotta jars. There were no dead things in this bower, just green growing ones, some budding, some open, and many leafy herbs made for a lush setting.
Basking in the homey backdrop, Caspian checked the teapot, lifting the lid, then poured for first his aunt then himself. In reward he got a glowing smile, and Caspian wondered if perhaps there were some way to immortalize her in the histories as anything other than the wife of a usurper. Truly she should bear the title of Prunaprismia the Graceful, or maybe the Kind. Taking a sip, Caspian let himself slouch even further, his booted feet sticking out straight before him, crossed at the ankles, bad manners and boyish charm in one. He knew his aunt wouldn’t mind, she never did, only that when it was required of him that he be the perfect gentleman. Otherwise he was always allowed to be who he was - a young man with no mother, thankful for any sanctuary he could receive.
When he had started to drowse, “Caspian, would you like to speak of what troubles you so much?”
Nose crinkling, Caspian decided to pour himself another cup of tea one handed and shook his head, “I would not wish to burden you. Besides, it is nothing, not really.”
She didn’t say anything, leaning over her work, the picture of acceptance. Twisting in his seat, Caspian made himself more comfortable, wishing in passing that he was still small enough to curl up like a puppy in the chair. Beneath Prunaprismia’s hands thick strands of ivy formed, made from saffron threads on the nutmeg linen. He wondered who it was for, it was a very fine piece, the linen of a thicker variety, made for wearing under nothing more than a vest or a loose doublet. Fighting back a yawn, Caspian scanned the solar, noting that everything was in its place. The room hadn’t really changed much since he was very young, more cushions had been added through the years, and the large potted plants. It had once upon a time been his mother’s sanctum, but he didn’t really remember what that had been like then.
“Do you know what I miss sweetling?”
“And what would that be?” cocking his head, Caspian saw that he was being scrutinized.
“Music,” laying her hoop in her lap, “it has been so very long since I have heard you play.”
Snorting softly, “I am not much of a musician, no matter how patient of an instructor you were, Aunt.”
“Not true,” arching her brow high on her forehead, “you were far better than many of the minstrels who have graced the feasthall.”
Shrugging, Caspian got up, taking the hint, “That is because they sang of war. And their lutes were off key.”
“And their voices had no training, it was all raw, and offkey,” seemingly satisfied that he was looking for his harp. “And once the polite ladies left, their songs were more than off key, they were off colour.”
Choking on his laughter, trying to stay quiet so as to not wake his sleeping cousin, “Aunt!”
“Well it is true,” studiously prim. “I am sure an alehouse hears cleaner material than what was sung at table some evenings.”
Finally finding his harp, Caspian went back to his seat, shaking his head, “There I think I may have to disagree with you.”
“Oh?” giving him a very curious look, “And how many alehouses have you visited Caspian?”
Now Caspian blushed beet red not wanting to admit how often he’d frequented such places. With Glozelle of course - who else would he have gone with? And there was no way he’d go into what went on in one of those… establishments, let alone the fact that at least one barmaid had made free with her hands upon his royal person. Or on Glozelle’s not-so-royal person.
Coughing into his hand, Caspian sat quickly seeking to change the subject, “And what would you care to hear as you work?”
“Oh Caspian dear, have I embarrassed you?”
Eyes widening, “Aunt, you could never do such a thing. I have nothing to be embarrassed over…”
She sniffed once, “Then why is the tip of your nose red? It always got red when you were embarrassed when you were a little one.”
Mortified Caspian’s hand flew up to cover his nose as his eyes crossed attempting to check it, “It is not red!”
“And your cheeks, they do look a bit rosy, or were you playing in my rouge pots again?” bringing up one of those many abysmally awkward instances that happen in childhood. “Show me your ears, and I will wager five ducats that they are as bright as your nose. My little sweetling you are discomforted, do not continue denying it,” leveling her needle at him like some absurdly small rapier. But it was just as deadly and cutting when combined with her keen observational skills. “You would not perchance have visited such places more than once, now would you?”
“Please, might we not change the subject?” crying desperately, heel of his hand pressed to his forehead.
Tisking as she shook her head, Prunaprismia let her needle dart back into linen, “As I thought. That Glozelle carting you off into so much troublesome places.”
Curling over his harp, Caspian groaned, “Aunt, how in the forefathers names did we get onto this subject?”
“Well since you will not speak of what ails you,” the hint of a smirk graced her face, the onyx of her eyes twinkling, “then we shall speak of your youthful exuberance.”
Sighing, “Not so youthful any longer,” slumping again, head tilted over the back of his chair, the very essence of abject fatigue.
Setting aside her needlepoint, Prunaprismia scooted her small footstool towards him and made herself comfortable on the low seat, “Well now,” taking his chin in her hand, she turned his head this way and that, “I see few lines at the corners of your eyes.”
“But you see them?” leaning closer so they were almost nose to nose.
“That I do,” a fingernail traced the outside of his eyes, then at the corners of his mouth, “and I see a few here. So perhaps you truly are not so youthful. Or,” she tweaked Caspian’s nose, “perhaps you sleep uneasily, leaving you the signs of an on old man as the days wear on with no rest?”
“My sleep has been particularly poor,” resituating the small harp once his aunt relinquished her hold on him, plucking out a spritely tune that didn’t fit his mood one whit.
“And has been for some time?”
Caspian nodded, letting his fingertips rapidly over the strings, the wood of the instrument almost the same honey-gold of his skin, “Many days, yes.”
Tutt-tutting Prunaprismia tipped her head back, tapping her cheek in thought, “You will not speak of those many thoughts that run deep in your mind?” Before he could answer, she shook her head, “No of course not. You rarely do speak to those who could use your words against you.” Rising, she sailed around the room, one arm crossed over her chest, the other propped to the side, hand to her cheek, muttering to herself, more than loud enough to hear. “Such a guarded boy, such a sweet boy, such a honest and lonely child you were. And you still are,” sighing sadly. Turning to him, skirts fluffing outwards with the motion, she stilled them one handed, “Then there is nothing for it. You should talk to the one you always spoke to when troubled or had too many thoughts flitting through your head like mad butterflies.” Then she huffed, “More like wasps with their stinging to your mind, not allowing you any rest.”
Straightening, Caspian continued playing, “And who would you suggest I speak with? There has never been -“
“That is untrue my little sweetling,” cutting Caspian off. “When you were little, at night you would talk to Bear,” stiffening, Caspian stared wide-eyed, no one knew about Bear, or well he figured no one would remember Bear, “until you fell asleep. Whispering as you snuggled him close to you, all about your day, all about what you were thinking on.”
“I do not know what you are talking about,” fingers stilling on the strings of the harp, Caspian tamped the notes with his palm, “my dear Aunt, I should take my leave. I have things I must attend to…”
Catching sight of his aunt’s face, he knew she wasn’t fooled for one moment. She stood there, lips pursed, head cocked to the side, her gentle gaze measuring him. Then her words fully registered - she had listened to him talk to Bear as he fell asleep? When would that have happened? Confused and curious, Caspian kept staring at Prunaprismia debating the wisdom of actually asking when it was she could have heard such a thing. And what could have possibly made her think he still did such a… frankly childishly strange thing?
The odd tableau held with them holding the other’s gaze, Caspian trying to put the puzzle pieces together, and Prunaprismia waiting patiently for him to do so. Caspian was the first to drop his eyes, glowering darkly at his black leather boots with their intricate silver tooling. At any point in his life his aunt could have heard him speak to Bear as he fell asleep - it was a regular nightly occurrence, something that eased his fractious, busy mind into some semblance of peace. But Caspian always thought he’d been far too quiet for anyone to hear him, or that he would have heard someone entering his room unbidden. Chewing his lip until it was sore, picking at the hem of his teal tunic, Caspian brooded in the ever present cacophony of his mind.
“You are doing it again,” it came out as annoyed as Prunaprismia ever got, just a vague crossness.
Jerking once, “Pardon?”
“Wandering off into the gardens of your mind, listening to those stinging wasps,” patting her skirt, giving him a firm look, “And if you would listen to me, you would release all that pressure in your poor head before it explodes. You must let all that out, like a teakettle with steam.”
Rubbing at his forehead, “I would if I could.”
“And why in the forefather’s names can you not? Is Bear too damaged? If so, I shall fix him for you,” coming back to him, taking the harp from Caspian’s lax grasp, “Every child should have a friend to talk to. Even if that child is all grown up into a fine man.”
Not wanting to admit to Bear’s existence, not quite yet, despite the fact that it was more than evident that his aunt already knew, and quite well, about Bear, he just wasn’t comfortable saying anything aloud. Shifting side to side in the chair, Caspian fretted, trying to come up with some way to sidestep but could find none at all. Grumbling, “The Queen is in possession of Bear at the moment.”
The arms that went about his shoulders surprised Caspian, and the kiss to his temple, “Oh, Caspian sweetling, that is so kind of you! To give Bear to Queen Lucy, oh that is just the dearest thing I have ever heard you do.” An almost girlish twitter came out of Prunaprismia’s mouth, surprising Caspian further, “Well one of the more adorable things.”
Giving his aunt a one armed hug, Caspian shuddered, “Please, no tales of my childhood. And perhaps you could refrain from speaking of them with either of the Queens?”
“Oh why ever not?” another kiss pressed to his forehead before she withdrew finally, her silliness tucked aside. Women could be strange creatures, and found an obscure pleasure in regaling one another with tales of various men’s childhoods. “I am sure that Queen Susan would love to hear about you telling Bear all about a certain pretty Queen you had a crush on as a boy.”
Face going pale, “Aunt no! And how in the, how… did you? When.. when?” sputtering.
Another laugh, head thrown back in her mirth, “Oh sweetling, you are so precious!” Watching as she picked up one of the teacakes he had little time to react before she pushed it at his mouth, “When you were little, I worried over you so much. So little, so serious,” sitting once more, and Caspian munched the cake somewhere between peeved, tired, and curious, “and I would go to check on you.” She reached out, running her hand through his hair, and Caspian tried not to flinch - he always hated it when people did that, even when it was Lady Prunaprismia. His aunt hid the hurt quickly, and continued, “At hours a little boy should be asleep, you were usually awake, laying in that too large bed, whispering to your teddy-bear. Sometimes I thought you must be truly asleep, for so much of what you said made little to no sense. But on and on your piping voice would mutter, until it would drift in and out, in and out, until nothing but the sound of your soft breathing would fill the room.”
Looking at her wide-eyed, “How often did you keep your vigil?”
“Often enough,” going back to her embroidery, “and often enough to know that your small head was so full, full to bursting. As you got older I visited less often, but even then you would whisper, your arms wrapped tight about Bear. Truly sweetling, I know you wish to be good to Queen Lucy, but you are in sore need of your confidant as you will take no new one.”
Finally, Caspian disabused her of Bear’s locale, “The Gentle Queen is in possession of Bear at the moment and has been for some time.”
Understanding lit his aunt’s face, “Ah.”
Frowning, “What?”
“Did she come upon you while you ranted?”
Turning so his back was to her, Caspian crossed his arms, “I do not rant.”
“Yes you do,” chuckling, “and I suppose she must have for you to react like that.”
“She did no such thing,” wriggling uncomfortably.
“Silly boy, go find your Queen and all will be well.”
Caspian wondered if that was a slip in her speech or not, but said nothing in reply.
.
Author: Rhion
Rating: PG13 for now
Summary: She had made off with his best friend, what was he to do?
Disclaimer: I own one of the characters, though some people have problems separating him from cannon. That’s fine with me. The Lewis Estate can keep the rest - I’ll return them. They may need to wipe the drool off of Caspian, and do something with Su’s mussy hair and her new wardrobe, but hey - I’ll return them. Undamaged… Mostly..
Catagory: FLUFF! FLUFF! FLUFF!
AN: There’s no fluff onlist. I need fluff, we all need some fluff. (At least at the time I started writing this, this was true.) So I’ve dusted off Bear and L!C (or his grownup version, GLC - Giant Little Caspian) for some fluffy stuff. For those of you who don’t know who Bear is, well, my recommendation is to read the stories that take place before this one. They are as follows, A Mother’s Love, To Be A Prince, and A Thousand Words. I still need a tag for the series, the Princely Ways series *hinthintremindshint* so you’ll have to find them under my author tag or click the linkylinks.
AN2: I've decided to say "screw it" because I'm gonna post this in two sections. Part one's not got any sexings in it, but part two will. Little!Caspian is all grown up, but deep inside he's still that cute little guy. And very much so not cool with anyone being sent away. I'll post the second part tomorrow, after I get it done and get some sleep.
XXX
Tugging his covers up to his chin, Caspian stared at the canopy of his bed. Huffing as he kicked his foot under the sheets, then he grasped some of the material between his big toe and his smaller toes, rubbing it as he lay there. Just staring up at the heavy green-black velvet canopy. With a growl Caspian rolled over, uncomfortable, trying once more to get situated. He couldn’t. Something just didn’t feel right. Not right at all. Hugging his pillow, then beating it with his fist to fluff it, Caspian pressed his face into the thick downy pillow making a muffled sound of irritation.
Was he too hot? Well that was a possibility, the hearth was putting off a good deal of heat and his window wasn’t open, and he was still clothed in his night-things. Thinking that perhaps that may be the issue, Caspian struggled to disentangle himself from his covers, his exceedingly loose tunic and leggings catching, wrapped in the covers forcing him to squirm like he was dancing a jig. Cursing irritably Caspian wished for the simpler times of childhood when if he’d been too hot he’d just strip naked and sleep atop his blankets, the protection of large fluffy pillows and Bear more than enough to keep his little self from catching cold. Now as an adult he had to be ‘proper’ and with the presence of the Kings and Queens of Old watching each of his moves, Caspian felt that he had no recourse but to be ‘proper’ at all times. Gone were the times when a maid would blush and move about in a flurry if she came in on him as he was in the all-together, because what sort of proper gentleman would he be if he was attired in such a fashion? Or unattaired to be exact.
Well he was certain that then he’d be declared unseemly and thus unfit, and have to sit through one of High King Peter’s lectures on propriety. Frankly, he’d rather not have to deal with that at all. So, he wore a pair of tattered leggings and loose tunic to bed, and did his best to sleep like a normal and proper king. Going to his window he flung the panes wide, and sucked in a great lungful of the heavy moist night air. There was at least a sparse breeze and with mischievous fingers it twisted into his room, playing gently with the hem of his shirt. It was as though the wind was telling him to just throw damnable propriety out the window and go ahead and make himself comfortable. But what would Queen Susan say if she ever found out his predilection? That stopped him in his tracks and he pondered that for a few moments.
He’d been losing sleep for days now, constantly uncomfortable in his own bed, in his own room, feeling as though something was missing while something else was weighing him down. That was it! Bear, he was missing Bear. Well of course he was missing Bear, Bear was his friend and constant companion throughout most of his life. But the Gentle Queen had run off with his best friend, leaving Caspian no comfort in the blastedly hot evenings, and no one to console him while urging him to maintain social decorum.
Queen Susan had seen him speaking with Bear though, and she probably thought him quite mad. And so he had been fighting all his regular urges of late, ever since the Kings and Queens had appeared. He’d curbed his need for solitude, forcing himself to be sociable at all times, he’d done his best to be dressed as was expected of him, and now he’d even stopped speaking to himself. Correcting himself in his mind, speaking with Bear that is, if one were to talk to oneself that usually implied insanity. And insanity wasn’t proper at all. This being proper thing was mindbogglingly difficult, and Caspian prided himself on his intelligence and fortitude as a general rule of thumb, but at the moment all Caspian wanted was to throw it all to the wind.
As though to mock him further, or tempt him depending on his point of view at the moment, the breeze became a short gust, tousling his already tousled being. Wrinkling his nose, Caspian truly wished he had Bear to speak with. At least he’d care about Caspian’s discomfort. Even if he was nothing more than a worn out collection of stuffing and fuzzy cloth. The Kings and Queens seemed utterly at home with all that propriety, all the trappings of rulership. Caspian, while more than happy to work hard and well educated in the leading of others, was also aware that he was human. And that as any normal, sane, rational human, he had a certain amount of silliness to his personality. In all truth he had a personality. High King Peter, as wise and experienced as he was, was… well… stuffy. Utterly lacking in the personality department, reminding Caspian more of some crotchety herald weighing everything down with rules, regulations, and more rules.
Edmund, now that was a man he could identify with. The snarkiness, the humour, the superiority complex… Grinning out into the night, Caspian leaned on his windowsill letting the night air ease his fevered skin. Crossing his arms, Caspian refrained from thinking aloud, but it was a near thing. To make things easier he moved his lips in time to his thoughts but let no sound pass. King Edmund the Just. More like King Edmund the Face-Rearrange-er. Unable to stop a giggle from leaking out, Caspian did his best to keep it quiet. There was no need to alert any of the Talking Beasts who patrolled the night of their King’s proclivities. Or quite possibly, as he pressed his hand over his mouth to quiet himself, King Edmund the Arsekicker.
Whispering, “Most certainly not the sort of fellow I would want to meet in a dark ally.”
Realizing what he had done, talk to himself that is, Caspian stomped his foot in irritation. And stubbed his toe in the doing. Hopping back with a foul curse that he’d picked up from Glozelle, Caspian hoisted his foot up, holding it as he jiggled up and down, swearing up a quiet storm, calling on all Telmarine, Narnian - courtesy of Trumpkin and Nikabrik - and a few from Edmund that were in something called ‘English’ - resources. Done venting on nothing in particular, mostly his discomfort, the night, propriety, and the lack of Bear, Caspian moodily went back to bed hoping to get some sleep. Finally.
XXX
“Are you not hungry Caspian?” startled by Lucy’s voice, Caspian jerked in his chair, looking about wildly having nodded off into a light doze.
“Of course he’s not hungry Luce,” it came out as a peevish growl, “this is the fourth day he’s been late for breakfast. You’d think he didn’t want to come and see us. Talk about impropriety…” Jabbing the air in Caspian’s direction, “Or is it you just don’t like breakfast?”
“Really now Caspian, aren’t you hungry?” Lucy leaned towards him, looking worried.
Attempting to gather his wits, Caspian nodded, “Most certainly, I am quite hungry and breakfast looks quite…” he looked down and trailed off.
Lucy leaned over in her chair and poked his side, “You’re too skinny, you need to eat more! Eat your eggs - I worked very hard on them.”
Smiling weakly at the small Queen, dutifully Caspian picked up his fork and moved the gelatinous yellow mass around on his plate, “I did not know I was lacking my dear little Queen.”
She gave him a look, her russet brows arching high on her forehead, “Oh don’t be silly! You just need to eat more. Like Pete does.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” it came out somewhere between amused and aggravated.
On the other end of the small table Peter had been packing the eggs, bread with preserves, and sausages away like he hadn’t eaten in years. Trying to hide his wince, Caspian remembered when he had first started to grow into his body, and it had demanded a truly rude amount of food to keep it fueled. He had always been half-starved, never satisfied. Now, while he thought of himself as a healthy eater, Caspian didn’t feel the need for five or six helpings of food the way King Peter still did.
Attempting to be diplomatic, and proper of course, “My appetite has never been so healthy Queen Lucy, His Majesty’s gastronomic powers are truly awe inspiring, but I fear I shall never quite be on that level. Not any longer, but when I was his age - “
“My age? Caspian,” it was level, and the High King gesticulated with a large round dark loaf that he’d coated in butter and preserves, “I’m near twice your age.”
“To be true in the chronological fashion, and I bow to your greater wisdom and experience, but Your Majesty, your body is….” Trying to put it delicately, “still not quite finished developing. You are physically in your…. What? Fifteenth year?”
Blue eyes widened, and Caspian realized he may have miscalculated, but the High King looked quite young to him visually, “Eighteen. I’m eighteen. The same age as you.”
“Boys,” Lucy snorted, grabbing their attention, and rescuing Caspian from the High King, “behave. Peter, you know that last time in Narnia you ate like a pig until you were twenty-four. And that you wound up aging totally differently too. You looked older by the time you were seventeen when you were here than you did back in England. Caspian,” a playful swat, “you don’t pay him any mind, and eat up.”
Both Kings chastened, they went back to their meals. Caspian doing his best to make happy faces as the food hit his tongue. Truly he would much rather just eat some bread with butter and honey, perhaps a hardboiled egg to top it off. But, he wouldn’t dare to hurt the young girl’s feelings, thankful for her sweet disposition and kindness. He’d never had anyone make him breakfast just because they wanted to before, so he’d do his best to relish it. Even if it did give him indigestion.
Perhaps later he could see if she’d like to play a game of hide-and-seek, much like how he had played with Queen Lucy as a child. But this time he’d have the real person there to entertain and be entertained by. Grown he may be, but he saw nothing wrong with a bit of childish play. And it would please the tiny Queen, which would in turn bring smiles to all who saw her - a bit of indigestion, indignity and being winded were very small prices to pay to Caspian’s way of thinking. He just hoped he didn’t run into Peter - there was no way the High King was going to swing Caspian in the air like a little boy, and giving the King a glance, Caspian realized he thought that that bit of his earlier years was best left alone.
Otherwise he’d never live it down.
But maybe it would be worth mentioning it, just for the look of peeved horror on King Peter’s face…. Caspian would have to keep that in mind… Especially when the King realized that that meant Caspian had viewed him as a father figure, and that now the King was acting like one. With a very rebellious son. And Caspian was just perverse enough to gain a great deal of pleasure from that idea, and tucked into his breakfast not even tasting the excess lard that had been used to make the meal, so distracted was he by his happy thoughts.
XXX
“King Edmund,” hailing the dark haired youthful King.
Edmund perked up, looking over the racks of armor, having to stand on his toes as physically he wasn’t a full adult. But Caspian couldn’t see the King for anything but the man he was, a likeminded equal.
The rapidly becoming shaggy dark mop of hair stuck up at odd angles as he cocked his head, pursing his lips in query, “Brother, you know I prefer a simple ‘Edmund’ or ‘Ed’. But, what can I do for you anyway?”
Shrugging as he moved to join him, “I am told a proper king is supposed to stand on protocol at all times, even with his friends.”
“Bullocks,” snorting, “You’ve been listening to Pete too much. He’s gotten self-important since coming back. Not that I don’t understand it.”
“And why would that be?” curious, as he usually was about all things, as to why the High King would act like that.
Rolling his eyes, Edmund selected a halberd from the rack, testing its weight in his hands, “In England, things… were different. We’re children there Caspian, we have no standing or importance.”
Understanding dawned, “To go from such a high status, having so much responsibility to having… nothing. And to be so… discounted.” Shaking his head, “It must have been painful.”
“If that were all,” frowning down at the black haft of the weapon, rolling it between his hands, “then things would be simple.”
Blinking, Caspian tried to figure out Edmund’s meaning. Conceding his defeat, “Please, elaborate.”
“Caspian, as great as it is to be back, we may not be staying,” grip going white-knuckled, “the last time we were here for many years. Enough to create a golden era, though it didn’t feel all that golden while we were doing it. Was a right pain in the arse. But we still left, Caspian. And when we went back… we were children again.”
Reeling back as though from a heavy handed blow, Caspian reached out, snagging the rack for support, “Surely you will not be leaving? Surely Aslan will not…” the words burnt his throat, “will not send you away?”
Feeling the blood drain from his face, Caspian saw the room spin, and only realized once he was flat on his back that he’d gone into some form of a faint. He couldn’t conceive of the Kings and Queens leaving. Of leaving him all by himself to rule, he needed them. Needed his family. The ceiling was in need of a cleaning, he thought distantly, and the sound of rushing was in his ears. It was painful.
“Caspian?” Edmund came into his line of sight, cutting off the sooty rafters. “Caspian, come on, get up, I know you can hear me.”
“You cannot be sent away, I will not allow it,” and it came out as a scared little whisper.
Scuffing of boot and clothes on wood flooring as Edmund sat beside him, “Aslan is the one who decides if we stay or go Caspian. He is the true ruler of Narnia, we only function as His Voice amongst the people. We’re here on His sufferance you know.”
None of Edmund’s words comforted Caspian. But they made sense, and he knew them to be true. He just didn’t want anyone to have that power over him ever again. The power to take those people that he cared for away. Shaking off the odd dizziness that had come over him, Caspian sat up, not looking at Edmund, but at his hands where they rested in his lap. Callus and scar tissue was heavy on his hands, but nothing that hindered his range of motion, all of it from long years of learning the sword. Some of it came from learning to play the lap harp from Lady Prunaprismia, the thickest callous on his fingertips built up from plucking and strumming the strings. Studying the lines on his palm Caspian heaved another great sigh, feeling utterly powerless.
It was as though he were a small child all over again. And it compounded his fears, and his knowledge of how horrible it was to be sent away. Newfound sympathy rose up in Caspian for High King Peter, it was his fear too to be forced to leave that which was his home. The place in which he belonged. To be torn from that, that was a hell unlike any other, and Caspian knew very well how bad that could be. But, how could Aslan do that to them? Didn’t the Kings and Queens truly belong here? With him?
Edmund reached out, laying his hand on Caspian’s shoulder, “Caspian, don’t worry, He loves us. In the end, He’ll be there for us, be there for you. But sometimes you have to ask for His help, instead of just blindly expecting it.”
“Like King Peter did?”
“Yeah, like Pete,” nodding. “And sometimes,” a cynical little twist to his lips, “you just have to show Him that you’re ready for something.”
Brows bouncing on his forehead, “Sometimes Edmund, you are a bit difficult to understand.”
To that Edmund grinned, patting his shoulder a few times before rising, “Well then, you just think about that until it’s all sorted.”
Listening as Edmund left, Caspian had long since forgotten why he had sought out the Just King. Staying where he was seated, Caspian drummed his fingers on his knee, chewing his lip, deep in thought. Now he could very much use someone to talk to, someone who would listen and wouldn’t instill such horrible fears in his breast. Truly, Edmund was only trying to prepare him, Caspian understood that. But it still hurt and was a terrible thing. Clambering to his feet, his kneecap popping as he got up too fast making him cringe at the loud sound, he was still recovering from the battle of a month ago it seemed. Not only that but his ribs were still tender, and when it had rained a week ago, body parts had ached that had never ached before.
“This war thing was not a very good idea I think,” muttering as he straightened his back, pushing his palm into his spine hoping it would stop making him feel like a steel bar was pinned to it.
The hair on the back of his neck rose, and Caspian ducked to the side at the last moment as a crossbow bolt snapped through the air. Rolling up quickly, sword drawn with the motion, Caspian was dodging side to side in a dive towards his assailant. But he stopped as soon as he registered who it was. Glozelle stood there, crossbow held in a relaxed grip smirking.
Smirking of all things!
Snarling, “What is the meaning of this Glozelle?”
“Seeing if my best student was truly so foolish as he appeared, presenting such a splendid target for an assassin,” his beard splitting into a larger grin.
Letting the point of his sword dip to the floor, Caspian watched Glozelle warily, “I was not aware I was still your student Glozelle. And I did not think that there were any assassins left of any note other than yourself.”
To that Glozelle snorted, “Do not discount your abilities.”
“I rarely do,” evenly. “Now, explain this disruption to my thoughts Glozelle and I might ignore such an attack on my person.”
Glozelle shrugged, laying the crossbows’ body over his shoulder so that there was little threat from it, “You should check to see where the quarrel went. But, then again that would mean you would have to take your eyes off of me,” not answering his question at all.
Caspian turned partially, while taking a few steps forward - close enough that he could lunge and strike Glozelle, but far enough that Glozelle would have a problem returning the favor with his much shorter stature, “That is an interesting spot to use as a target,” glancing to where the head was buried in a rack.
“I thought so too,” chuckling.
The deadly bolt had been shot a good distance away from Caspian. It was clear that he had never been a target at all. Glozelle was up to his old tutoring games it seemed, testing him constantly, reminding him to stay on his toes. Such familiarity was welcome, missed and far from being a good idea. After all, Glozelle had sided with Miraz. Caspian tried to hide the wince at the name, he hadn’t let himself think about his uncle at all since his… death.
Jingling of hauberk, signaling Glozelle’s movements, and Caspian’s gaze snapped up, pinning him once more, “Answer my question Glozelle - what is the meaning of this?”
“You already figured it out boy,” grunting as he went to a rack, putting the weapon down. “And I already told you, to ensure that my best student is wary enough to rule. You must stay on your toes at all times. There is no time when someone will not come for you, could not come for you.” Pausing he thought for a moment, “Unless you are glued to that massive lions’ side, then nothing is sacred when it comes to death dealing.”
That hurt, and it was the second time in not as many hours that such a pain had hit him. Glozelle truly had stopped being his friend and tutor. What he was doing was a last act, a last reminder to Caspian that there were always going to be enemies that sought to control him or kill him for his power. But he wasn’t powerful. He wasn’t in some enviable position, if only others would understand that. Power over many left it so he was powerless over himself, powerless to prevent others from leaving him, from being sent away.
Glozelle brought him back to the here and now, “Yet again your mind has wandered Caspian.”
Muscle ticking in his jaw, “I have much to think on.”
“Do not let your natural inclinations weigh you down with too many weighty thoughts,” leaning on the wall with one shoulder, legs crossed at the ankle as he hooked his thumbs in his swordbelt. “You will do yourself no good at all if you let that happen. And while you are a king, you must also look after yourself, or you will be unable to look after your people.”
Frowning, Caspian resheathed his sword, still suspicious from years of ingrained training finally becoming active, “That is my concern.”
“Oh? Really?” glancing around as though in surprise, “Here I thought I was your tutor and mentor, a person to which you mean a great deal and I bear much concern for. But,” raising a brow, “I might be wrong in that assumption. Am I?” Sighing, “Then I am to be exiled I take it. I understand, as King you cannot allow any who did not support you in the war near you.” Straightening up, Glozelle bowed deeply, “My King, if you would excuse me, I must then see to some affairs if I am to leave.”
Growling, “Glozelle! Stop this foolishness at once!”
“What foolishness would that be Sire?” curiously Glozelle watched him, seemingly confused by Caspian’s irritation. “You do not wish the counsel of your one time tutor, as he has betrayed your personal trust. And that I can understand. But I could not betray my word. It was my bond, and I gave it to your father, then to Miraz when he became your guardian.”
“Why did you not defend me?” unable to stop the question, “Why did you not protect your protégé?”
Muscles twitched in Glozelle’s face, and he couldn’t maintain eye contact, shame making him slump, “Because I had not, could not, was not free to give you my word. My honour is the only thing I have in the end Caspian. It is a cold mistress, and leaves me few choices when it comes down to it. I worked around it how I could. I gave - no. I will not speak of it,” waving a hand and turning away from Caspian. “Please, if you bear me any care you will let me go into exile as you cannot afford to trust me. It would set a bad example for others. For those in the Council they will watch you, looking for any opening, any weakness.”
Now Caspian did approach, grabbing hold of Glozelle’s arm in a crushing grip, forcing him to stay in place, “And I will need those I can trust by my side. There are few that have that.” It seemed as though Glozelle would say something more, something to justify his actions other than his word. There was something else, as though betraying Caspian wasn’t the only shame he bore. But Caspian dismissed it, Glozelle would tell him if he were ready to. So instead Caspian fought to use logic to keep his mentor with him, even if Caspian could well understand the older man’s viewpoint, “I would have you pledge me your life, and then to my children. My sons would learn the sword from the man who taught me, they would learn honour at not just my knee, but yours. There are so few I would allow such a thing, so few I would know would do justice to the task.”
“Sire,” he swallowed once, some odd light making his Telmarine black eyes shine like obsidian before he scrunched them closed, turning his face aside once more, “you do me great good.”
Shaking Glozelle’s arm once, firmly, “Glozelle, pledge me your life. Give me your word. Swear that the Throne and the good of all the peoples is what you live for.”
To that Glozelle made a pained sound, then pulled his arm from Caspian’s grip, “That I cannot do Sire. I can pledge my life to you, but I cannot pledge it to anything else. There is no room for such things. I have not enough energy in this weary body to uphold so many promises. I am truly sorry.”
For a moment Caspian stayed still, not wanting to hear, not wanting to understand. His teacher was tired. He’d lived through enough years to see four kings. Caspian’s grandfather, his father, his uncle, and now himself. Realizing that it would break Glozelle to see an end to his reign, Caspian sighed, finally having put the clues together. Moving even closer, Caspian wrapped Glozelle into a tight hug, squeezing him hard and not letting go. This man had been his father, his mentor, in ways that Miraz couldn’t have let himself be and Cornelius would never have understood. Oiled chain and leather filled Caspian’s nose, a thick scent that hit the back of his mouth and was so strong and familiar he could taste it. Hay was a sweet undertone, and the oils that Glozelle used to keep his beard neat. Hesitant arms came around Caspian’s back then moved with more surety, squeezing in return.
They stood there for long minutes, how long Caspian didn’t know, and he didn’t care. All he could hear was the ragged breathing in his ear, and from his own sore throat. He didn’t like how his emotions were going up and down, and his head was filled with so many words that just wanted to explode outwards. And he couldn’t say any of them, he didn’t even know where his mouth and mind would take him if he were to let anything leak out. But he hung on, and only noticed after quite some time that Glozelle was rocking him side to side where they stood, and that tears were spilling from his hot eyes. He didn’t want Glozelle to feel tired, he didn’t want Glozelle to leave, to be sent away - not by the Council, and not by his own will, let alone Caspian’s. It spoke of the sort of man Caspian was that he made himself accept it, and gather his courage to let go, of the sort of man he’d been raised to become. The sort of man that Glozelle had helped him grow into.
Forcing his arms to relax, Caspian started to straighten up, to step back. Glozelle’s hold tightened, making his ribs hurt, but Caspian paid no heed to it. He was just thankful that Glozelle didn’t want to be too old, too tired, too careworn to stand at his side. And so he hugged Glozelle tighter, and tried to store it all up. After this, Caspian didn’t know what Glozelle would do - he may leave, he may stay, but he’d never be General Glozelle again. Except in Caspian’s mind.
XXX
Singing carried down the hallway as Caspian walked along. Yet another poor sleepless night had assaulted Caspian, and he was beyond tired. And he was lonely, needing someone to unload on, to see if he could get all his thoughts in order. So his unconscious mind followed the singing as he meandered aimlessly. Surely he had some state business to attend to, but for once most things seemed to be taking care of themselves without him, or one of the other monarchs was overseeing it. The melody was familiar, but the voice was of a different timber and pitch, and Caspian tried to recall where he’d heard such singing before. Everything was distant, the foggy fatigue and stress weighing on him, yet onwards his feet led him.
The heavy stone walls that made up the castle seemed particularly oppressive today, the gray-black closing in on Caspian, and his maudlin thoughts fit well with the atmosphere. Yet the bright happy sound had a source, and Caspian was drawn like a moth to the flame, and when he came into his lady aunt’s solar, he found its origin. It was with some surprise, but really he shouldn’t have been at all, to see her rocking his small cousin in her arms as she sang before the open window. Her thick dark hair was rolled into heavy coils that rested atop her head and the look of serene peace on her still lovely face made the aching fatigue in his bones ease. Blinking as he stood in the doorway to her solar, his hand on the frame as he watched Prunaprismia step side to side, Caspian found the laconic scene unknotting the worst of his headache.
Caspian hesitated, should he enter in on this private moment between mother and child, or should he leave? His decision was taken from him as she turned, and the smile that formed on Prunaprismia’s face while she continued singing was the reason for it. Motioning with her head she pulled him forward, and he didn’t resist. Picking one of the wooden chairs that had been piled with cushions, Caspian moved a hoop that held stretched linen in its frame, setting the delicate embroidery aside. Slouching, Caspian folded his hands over his stomach, cocking his head so that he could continue listening and watching. As the song ended, his aunt placed Corsiken in his cradle, fussing quietly over the infant.
Once she was satisfied, Prunaprismia turned gracefully, the heavy mint silk of her dress rustling with the motion, “Caspian, my dear, how have you been? I have seen so little of you lately.”
“I have been busy,” moving to rise so that he could sweep into a low bow, “please forgive your nephews’ lack of manners.”
“Nonsense sweetling,” she had come over, her hands framing his cheeks as she forced him up from his obeisance, “you are King now. You have so much to see to, so much to take care of. And you,” pulling his face closer she kissed his forehead, “dear, are never lacking in any way. Let no one ever say otherwise.”
His lips twitched into a vague smile, “Still, I have not taken my duties to my family very well. There are many things I have been quite remiss in.” Taking hold her hands, Caspian let his bangs fall forward, covering his eyes, “I have so little kin left, I should take better care to watch for them.”
Prunaprismia ‘hmm’ed softly, gesturing for him to be seated once more, “You have more cousins and in-laws than a fig tree has fruit on its limbs. Soon they shall be coming out of the woodwork for you, pressing this or that case calling you ‘Cousin’ and ‘Brother’.” Bustling over to the fire, Prunaprismia swung the iron kettle out and wrapped her hand in a towel, and took it over to her teapot, “Tea?”
“I could have done that for you,” but he made no motion to do so, knowing that his aunt preferred to do things for herself sometimes. But he felt it was only polite to point that out. “But yes, certainly I would love some,” trying not to sound too hopeful, “Would there be a chance of any cakes or biscuits to go with that?”
A tinkling laugh that verged on a giggle, “Do you never get enough sweets into you sweetling?”
Unable to stop the cheeky grin that pinched his face up, “Not hardly,” reaching for one of the lavender and honey biscuits on the plate she set down.
Caspian quieted, munching on the subtly sweet sweetbread, waiting for the tea to finish steeping. Prunaprismia picked up her embroidery, her tapered fingers holding the silver needle with practiced skill. Light flashed off the metal now and again as it darted rapidly in and out of cloth, and Caspian felt as he had as a small child. Fragrant flowers sat in pots, growing as they would out in the garden, but held safe in heavy terracotta jars. There were no dead things in this bower, just green growing ones, some budding, some open, and many leafy herbs made for a lush setting.
Basking in the homey backdrop, Caspian checked the teapot, lifting the lid, then poured for first his aunt then himself. In reward he got a glowing smile, and Caspian wondered if perhaps there were some way to immortalize her in the histories as anything other than the wife of a usurper. Truly she should bear the title of Prunaprismia the Graceful, or maybe the Kind. Taking a sip, Caspian let himself slouch even further, his booted feet sticking out straight before him, crossed at the ankles, bad manners and boyish charm in one. He knew his aunt wouldn’t mind, she never did, only that when it was required of him that he be the perfect gentleman. Otherwise he was always allowed to be who he was - a young man with no mother, thankful for any sanctuary he could receive.
When he had started to drowse, “Caspian, would you like to speak of what troubles you so much?”
Nose crinkling, Caspian decided to pour himself another cup of tea one handed and shook his head, “I would not wish to burden you. Besides, it is nothing, not really.”
She didn’t say anything, leaning over her work, the picture of acceptance. Twisting in his seat, Caspian made himself more comfortable, wishing in passing that he was still small enough to curl up like a puppy in the chair. Beneath Prunaprismia’s hands thick strands of ivy formed, made from saffron threads on the nutmeg linen. He wondered who it was for, it was a very fine piece, the linen of a thicker variety, made for wearing under nothing more than a vest or a loose doublet. Fighting back a yawn, Caspian scanned the solar, noting that everything was in its place. The room hadn’t really changed much since he was very young, more cushions had been added through the years, and the large potted plants. It had once upon a time been his mother’s sanctum, but he didn’t really remember what that had been like then.
“Do you know what I miss sweetling?”
“And what would that be?” cocking his head, Caspian saw that he was being scrutinized.
“Music,” laying her hoop in her lap, “it has been so very long since I have heard you play.”
Snorting softly, “I am not much of a musician, no matter how patient of an instructor you were, Aunt.”
“Not true,” arching her brow high on her forehead, “you were far better than many of the minstrels who have graced the feasthall.”
Shrugging, Caspian got up, taking the hint, “That is because they sang of war. And their lutes were off key.”
“And their voices had no training, it was all raw, and offkey,” seemingly satisfied that he was looking for his harp. “And once the polite ladies left, their songs were more than off key, they were off colour.”
Choking on his laughter, trying to stay quiet so as to not wake his sleeping cousin, “Aunt!”
“Well it is true,” studiously prim. “I am sure an alehouse hears cleaner material than what was sung at table some evenings.”
Finally finding his harp, Caspian went back to his seat, shaking his head, “There I think I may have to disagree with you.”
“Oh?” giving him a very curious look, “And how many alehouses have you visited Caspian?”
Now Caspian blushed beet red not wanting to admit how often he’d frequented such places. With Glozelle of course - who else would he have gone with? And there was no way he’d go into what went on in one of those… establishments, let alone the fact that at least one barmaid had made free with her hands upon his royal person. Or on Glozelle’s not-so-royal person.
Coughing into his hand, Caspian sat quickly seeking to change the subject, “And what would you care to hear as you work?”
“Oh Caspian dear, have I embarrassed you?”
Eyes widening, “Aunt, you could never do such a thing. I have nothing to be embarrassed over…”
She sniffed once, “Then why is the tip of your nose red? It always got red when you were embarrassed when you were a little one.”
Mortified Caspian’s hand flew up to cover his nose as his eyes crossed attempting to check it, “It is not red!”
“And your cheeks, they do look a bit rosy, or were you playing in my rouge pots again?” bringing up one of those many abysmally awkward instances that happen in childhood. “Show me your ears, and I will wager five ducats that they are as bright as your nose. My little sweetling you are discomforted, do not continue denying it,” leveling her needle at him like some absurdly small rapier. But it was just as deadly and cutting when combined with her keen observational skills. “You would not perchance have visited such places more than once, now would you?”
“Please, might we not change the subject?” crying desperately, heel of his hand pressed to his forehead.
Tisking as she shook her head, Prunaprismia let her needle dart back into linen, “As I thought. That Glozelle carting you off into so much troublesome places.”
Curling over his harp, Caspian groaned, “Aunt, how in the forefathers names did we get onto this subject?”
“Well since you will not speak of what ails you,” the hint of a smirk graced her face, the onyx of her eyes twinkling, “then we shall speak of your youthful exuberance.”
Sighing, “Not so youthful any longer,” slumping again, head tilted over the back of his chair, the very essence of abject fatigue.
Setting aside her needlepoint, Prunaprismia scooted her small footstool towards him and made herself comfortable on the low seat, “Well now,” taking his chin in her hand, she turned his head this way and that, “I see few lines at the corners of your eyes.”
“But you see them?” leaning closer so they were almost nose to nose.
“That I do,” a fingernail traced the outside of his eyes, then at the corners of his mouth, “and I see a few here. So perhaps you truly are not so youthful. Or,” she tweaked Caspian’s nose, “perhaps you sleep uneasily, leaving you the signs of an on old man as the days wear on with no rest?”
“My sleep has been particularly poor,” resituating the small harp once his aunt relinquished her hold on him, plucking out a spritely tune that didn’t fit his mood one whit.
“And has been for some time?”
Caspian nodded, letting his fingertips rapidly over the strings, the wood of the instrument almost the same honey-gold of his skin, “Many days, yes.”
Tutt-tutting Prunaprismia tipped her head back, tapping her cheek in thought, “You will not speak of those many thoughts that run deep in your mind?” Before he could answer, she shook her head, “No of course not. You rarely do speak to those who could use your words against you.” Rising, she sailed around the room, one arm crossed over her chest, the other propped to the side, hand to her cheek, muttering to herself, more than loud enough to hear. “Such a guarded boy, such a sweet boy, such a honest and lonely child you were. And you still are,” sighing sadly. Turning to him, skirts fluffing outwards with the motion, she stilled them one handed, “Then there is nothing for it. You should talk to the one you always spoke to when troubled or had too many thoughts flitting through your head like mad butterflies.” Then she huffed, “More like wasps with their stinging to your mind, not allowing you any rest.”
Straightening, Caspian continued playing, “And who would you suggest I speak with? There has never been -“
“That is untrue my little sweetling,” cutting Caspian off. “When you were little, at night you would talk to Bear,” stiffening, Caspian stared wide-eyed, no one knew about Bear, or well he figured no one would remember Bear, “until you fell asleep. Whispering as you snuggled him close to you, all about your day, all about what you were thinking on.”
“I do not know what you are talking about,” fingers stilling on the strings of the harp, Caspian tamped the notes with his palm, “my dear Aunt, I should take my leave. I have things I must attend to…”
Catching sight of his aunt’s face, he knew she wasn’t fooled for one moment. She stood there, lips pursed, head cocked to the side, her gentle gaze measuring him. Then her words fully registered - she had listened to him talk to Bear as he fell asleep? When would that have happened? Confused and curious, Caspian kept staring at Prunaprismia debating the wisdom of actually asking when it was she could have heard such a thing. And what could have possibly made her think he still did such a… frankly childishly strange thing?
The odd tableau held with them holding the other’s gaze, Caspian trying to put the puzzle pieces together, and Prunaprismia waiting patiently for him to do so. Caspian was the first to drop his eyes, glowering darkly at his black leather boots with their intricate silver tooling. At any point in his life his aunt could have heard him speak to Bear as he fell asleep - it was a regular nightly occurrence, something that eased his fractious, busy mind into some semblance of peace. But Caspian always thought he’d been far too quiet for anyone to hear him, or that he would have heard someone entering his room unbidden. Chewing his lip until it was sore, picking at the hem of his teal tunic, Caspian brooded in the ever present cacophony of his mind.
“You are doing it again,” it came out as annoyed as Prunaprismia ever got, just a vague crossness.
Jerking once, “Pardon?”
“Wandering off into the gardens of your mind, listening to those stinging wasps,” patting her skirt, giving him a firm look, “And if you would listen to me, you would release all that pressure in your poor head before it explodes. You must let all that out, like a teakettle with steam.”
Rubbing at his forehead, “I would if I could.”
“And why in the forefather’s names can you not? Is Bear too damaged? If so, I shall fix him for you,” coming back to him, taking the harp from Caspian’s lax grasp, “Every child should have a friend to talk to. Even if that child is all grown up into a fine man.”
Not wanting to admit to Bear’s existence, not quite yet, despite the fact that it was more than evident that his aunt already knew, and quite well, about Bear, he just wasn’t comfortable saying anything aloud. Shifting side to side in the chair, Caspian fretted, trying to come up with some way to sidestep but could find none at all. Grumbling, “The Queen is in possession of Bear at the moment.”
The arms that went about his shoulders surprised Caspian, and the kiss to his temple, “Oh, Caspian sweetling, that is so kind of you! To give Bear to Queen Lucy, oh that is just the dearest thing I have ever heard you do.” An almost girlish twitter came out of Prunaprismia’s mouth, surprising Caspian further, “Well one of the more adorable things.”
Giving his aunt a one armed hug, Caspian shuddered, “Please, no tales of my childhood. And perhaps you could refrain from speaking of them with either of the Queens?”
“Oh why ever not?” another kiss pressed to his forehead before she withdrew finally, her silliness tucked aside. Women could be strange creatures, and found an obscure pleasure in regaling one another with tales of various men’s childhoods. “I am sure that Queen Susan would love to hear about you telling Bear all about a certain pretty Queen you had a crush on as a boy.”
Face going pale, “Aunt no! And how in the, how… did you? When.. when?” sputtering.
Another laugh, head thrown back in her mirth, “Oh sweetling, you are so precious!” Watching as she picked up one of the teacakes he had little time to react before she pushed it at his mouth, “When you were little, I worried over you so much. So little, so serious,” sitting once more, and Caspian munched the cake somewhere between peeved, tired, and curious, “and I would go to check on you.” She reached out, running her hand through his hair, and Caspian tried not to flinch - he always hated it when people did that, even when it was Lady Prunaprismia. His aunt hid the hurt quickly, and continued, “At hours a little boy should be asleep, you were usually awake, laying in that too large bed, whispering to your teddy-bear. Sometimes I thought you must be truly asleep, for so much of what you said made little to no sense. But on and on your piping voice would mutter, until it would drift in and out, in and out, until nothing but the sound of your soft breathing would fill the room.”
Looking at her wide-eyed, “How often did you keep your vigil?”
“Often enough,” going back to her embroidery, “and often enough to know that your small head was so full, full to bursting. As you got older I visited less often, but even then you would whisper, your arms wrapped tight about Bear. Truly sweetling, I know you wish to be good to Queen Lucy, but you are in sore need of your confidant as you will take no new one.”
Finally, Caspian disabused her of Bear’s locale, “The Gentle Queen is in possession of Bear at the moment and has been for some time.”
Understanding lit his aunt’s face, “Ah.”
Frowning, “What?”
“Did she come upon you while you ranted?”
Turning so his back was to her, Caspian crossed his arms, “I do not rant.”
“Yes you do,” chuckling, “and I suppose she must have for you to react like that.”
“She did no such thing,” wriggling uncomfortably.
“Silly boy, go find your Queen and all will be well.”
Caspian wondered if that was a slip in her speech or not, but said nothing in reply.
.