What You Might Have Been for priscipixie
Title: What You Might Have Been
Author: tantella
Recipient priscipixie
Rating: K+
Content/Warnings: None
Summary: A knight finds atonement while adrift at sea.
What You Might Have Been
"As soon as he saw he was certain to be overhauled, Bar had given me to one of his knights and sent us both away in the ship's boat. And that boat was never seen again. But of course that was the same boat that Aslan (he seems to be at the center of all stories) pushed ashore at the right place for Arsheesh to pick me up. I wish I knew that knight's name, for he must have kept me alive and starved himself to do it." -- Prince Cor, The Horse and His Boy
"It's never too late to be what you might have been." -- George Eliot
He could have sworn he heard a hiss as the final sliver of blazing, red-orange sun disappeared into the darkness of the waters at the world's end.
He wondered if he would see it rise again.
Nightfall was bittersweet, as usual. His skin, scorched and blistered and painful, relished the cool kiss of evening even as he began to shiver. The darkness obscured the horizon, eliminating until the next morning the chance to catch sight of the land he had been praying for with increasing desperation. Night crept closer and closer, eating away at leagues and leagues of ocean until the world was reduced to the boat and its occupants and the waves that lapped against the wooden hull. The moon was rising, no more than a tiny crescent now where that first night it had been so bright and full that he could see almost as clearly as day. Like himself, it seemed weak now and nearing the end of its journey.
His throat burned, and he caught himself staring longingly at the little moonlight-capped waves around him.
The water was gone.
He'd rationed it as long as he could, even drinking seawater on occasion just to have something to wet his mouth. He knew he shouldn't, but he had never been a man of great self-control. If he had been...
He had a weakness for that fiery red sort of hair, and he'd never seen eyes of such a piercing green as those that stared back at him. The moment their hands had brushed when she passed him that tankard of ale, the instant that mischievous half-smirk turned the corner of her red lips, he knew he was done for.
The sea was calm tonight; for that, at least, he was grateful. He was nauseated enough without having to endure dark hours of bobbing like a cork again. He was a knight, not a sailor, and the seasickness that had plagued the first few days of their voyage -- escape, really -- was exacerbated now that he had traded a sturdy ship for a rickety rowboat.
She made him feel alive, like the strongest and most important man in all of Archenland rather than the second son of an impoverished noble house. He even found himself, as he lay exhausted in her bed, thanking whatever gods were listening that he was the second son, and therefore called up with Lord Bar's bannermen to accompany him to Anvard while his older brother Dal stayed home as steward of the family and estate. He drank toasts to green-eyed girls and endured the ribbing of his fellows-in-arms, walking about the city like a fool in a love-drunk daze.
The oars had snapped off during the squall, the one on the night of the second day. The one that had nearly capsized the boat more times than his terrified mind could register. Most of the scarce provisions had been lost that night, and without the oars he was at the mercy of the currents.
Then, it had all come crashing down.
There hadn't been food for two days, and he hadn't eaten in five. The dull and ever-present ache of hunger fought with the nausea of dehydration and seasickness, waging war in the pit of his belly amidst cramps that pained his entire body.
He had heard it as a rumor first, a warning from a fellow knight and regular patron of the Ram's Head. The word hit him like an armored fist to the stomach, knocking the wind out of him and causing his stomach to heave so that he tasted bile in the back of his throat.
The days were so hot, hotter than anything he had experienced even in the warmest days of midsummer. Archenland was a mountainous land, and the heat of day was always tempered by a cool breeze off the northern glaciers or the sweet kiss of the gathering evening. Here, there was rarely a cloud to block the blazing sun, which reflected off the surface of the water to sting his eyes until his face was sore from the squinting. The air was thick with humidity, so that in the first few days -- before the water ran low -- the sweat that poured from his body clung to his clothing until he wondered if he would ever be properly dry again.
He avoided her for days, staying close to the little garrison of the Lord Chancellor's men. He volunteered for extra watches and duties. His throat was dry for want of ale, but he dared not visit any of their usual taverns and especially not the Ram's Head. She had come looking for him at the Black Gryphon, they said, and the old woman at the Iron Cloud had asked after him on her behalf.
And then there were the nights. For all that he prayed for a cool breeze during the long hours of heat and haze, the nights were worse. At night the wind picked up, and the air turned cold. He would sit shivering, his teeth chattering during the worst hours, rubbing his goosefleshed skin through a thin and tattered jerkin. The stars were strange here, he'd noticed in all of his hours spent studying them during these sleepless nights. He wondered what their stories were, or if they were so far from land that no one had ever seen them or taken the time to think up their stories. While at first they were a comfort to him, pinpricks of light to pierce the wide and lonely darkness, he hated them now. What he wouldn't have given for them to be obscured by some dark cloud. The thought of rainwater splattering on his upturned face, falling into his open mouth, was nearly enough to drive him mad.
In the end, though, she came to him at the garrison, screaming his name through the gates when her polite inquiries were unanswered. Her fiery red hair was a mess, and her cheeks pale and hollow from weeks of sickness. The men called him a coward, and in the end he was dragged out by the arm like a naughty schoolboy to face her.
He wondered when he had last slept. His thoughts were foggy, like he had drunk too much ale or received an especially heavy blow in a tournament sparring ring. Sometimes he would drift off, drowsy from the heat or exhausted at the end of a day, but for the most part any real and refreshing rest had eluded him. A couple of hours here and there were the best he could hope for anymore.
There were accusations, pleas, and tears, and all in all the most horrible conversation he had ever had in his life. She slapped him hard when he threw up his hands and told her that he didn't know what she expected him to do, and harder still when he suggested one way they might get rid of the problem. In the end the men tired of the spectacle. She screamed curses at him as they carried her away.
He had screamed his own curses, crying out to the waves and the stars and anything that might listen. He had raged until he was hoarse, broken down and wept, and once had even spent the better part of the morning tying and untying a slipknot and wondering if he could ever muster the strength to pull so hard that it all would end.
It was the last time he saw her. Months later, the Iron Cloud crone told him that the baby had come too early and there was nothing anyone could do, especially for a girl with no money to pay a midwife.
He turned now from the gathering darkness toward the bow of the ship, where the baby lay tucked inside the open mouth of a small firkin. It was almost time to wrap him up for the night. There was only one blanket, but the little prince needed it more than the knight did. Swaddled tightly against the cold, the infant might possibly stay sleeping for enough time to allow him to rest as well.
He hadn't known the reason for the sea voyage, only that he and some of his fellow men-at-arms had been given orders to go. To the annoyance of the crew, the knights had spent the first evening drinking toasts to exotic women waiting in foreign ports and the acts of bravery they would all perform in the event of a pirate attack. The songs grew bawdier as the night went on and the grog flowed more and more freely. Lord Bar and three or four of his closest companions were late in joining them, but that only served to heighten the festive atmosphere onboard.
He had stopped eating five days ago, to save the remaining food for the prince. He had given the baby the last of it yesterday, mashing it up as best as he could so that the child could gum it down. The little thing only had a couple of teeth, and didn't quite know how to use them yet. There was one horrifying moment when he thought the child was choking and went into a panic, but the morsel was coughed out in the end. The child had wailed in hunger for most of the day.
The next thing he remembered was waking up with the sun in his eyes and the hard wooden deck below his pounding head. At first he thought that the heaving of his stomach was due to his alcoholic overindulgence, but after he found the strength and will to hoist himself up he was shocked to find that that rolling feeling was a result of the waves through which the ship was crashing. They had pulled away from the harbor in the night, and land was nowhere in sight.
The water was the most difficult sacrifice. He was keenly aware of the sandiness in his own mouth as he poured precious drops through the baby's lips. There were moments when he seriously contemplated just drinking his fill, but a pair of green eyes flashed before him and something twisted in the pit of his stomach.
They seemed to be in an awful hurry, but he didn't understand why until the sixth day, when the other ship appeared. When the lookout recognized the king's banner, the truth came out. Lord Bar produced the baby prince, who had been kept hidden away and drugged to remain silent. There was very nearly a revolt right there from those who had been in the dark as to the true purpose of the voyage, but the sound of a cannon bellowing a warning stayed the blades of crew and knights alike. There was little chance of any of them receiving clemency. Regardless of actual guilt, they would all be found guilty of aiding in the kidnapping of the Crown Prince of Archenland and sentenced to hang... or worse. The only chance for their lives was to turn traitor and do battle against their own king.
A shaft of weak moonlight fell across the boat, alighting on the baby's face.
The rising sun found the Anvard Steel almost within range, but as the other men scurried to prepare their battle positions he found himself being pulled aside by the Lord Chancellor. The baby was roughly shoved into his arms, orders barked, and before he knew it he was being lowered in a scantly provisioned boat and rowing like a madman in the opposite direction of the royal ship as the sounds of battle faded slowly behind him.
The night had not yet grown cold, and he prayed that the warmth would remain as long as possible before the chill set in. Every muscle, every fiber in his body, was completely and utterly spent, and his eyes were so heavy.
Then, suddenly, as soft as the wind, he heard his name.
His tired eyes shot open. There was a moment of silence, and then he heard it again. The voice was deep, as if from the depths of the sea itself. He wanted to respond, to ask who was there, but his tongue was so thick and dry in his mouth. He soon became aware of a soft light, more warm and golden than that of the moon, like the first rays of dawn in the meadows back home.
He heard his name again, and following the sound turned his head over his shoulder toward the golden light. It was growing stronger, and he raised a blistered hand to block the glare from his eyes. He licked his lips, sandpaper on dry dirt, and croaked out,
"Who's there?"
As his eyes adjusted, he saw a Lion, huge and majestic like the stories Nanny used to read to him a lifetime ago. The Beast stood on the water, the waves lapping at his enormous paws as if he was merely standing along the seashore. It considered him for a moment, its eyes deep and knowing, before it opened its great mouth and spoke.
"You have done well, my son. The child will owe you his life."
An image came into his mind, a red-haired girl and her child who never had the chance to live. A sob suddenly rose from the pit of his stomach and shook his frail body.
"Sleep now. I will finish the journey for you."
There was nothing he could say or do, only a peace and warmth that fell over him, more soothing than evenfall. As his heavy eyes drifted closed, he saw the Lion sink slowly into the water at the boat's edge. He felt a little nudge, and the boat began to move.
Original Prompt that we sent you:
What I want: I think I'd like Golden Age fic, as I'm currently revelling in HHB, the only book where the Pevensies are really adult monarchs. I'm game for any kind of fic inspired by that book, whether character-based, or plot-based.
I love, love, love world-building type fics, whether you choose to explore this with something immersed in Calormen and the Tisroc's court, or with some sort of flashback comparing the nature of monarchy and empire and foreign relations in England and Narnia. I'm also fascinated by the Aravis/Cor relationship (cross-cultural romances are always frustratingly fantastic!), the brotherly interactions between Cor and Corin, delving into Susan's state of mind...anything at all, really, that's in some random way inspired by HHB.
Prompt words/objects/quotes/whatever:
Go ahead and use these to inspire you in any way possible. Even if there's only a squint-and-you-can-see-it reference to any one of these prompt quotes, I'll be perfectly happy.
"I used to think that the interesting issue was whether we should have a monarchy or not. But now I think that question is rather like, should we have pandas or not? Our current royal family doesn't have the difficulties in breeding that pandas do, but pandas and royal persons alike are expensive to conserve and ill-adapted to any modern environment. But aren't they interesting? Aren't they nice to look at? Some people find them endearing; some pity them for their precarious situation; everybody stares at them, and however airy the enclosure they inhabit, it's still a cage...Is monarchy a suitable institution for a grown-up nation? I don't know." -- Royal Bodies, by Hilary Mantel
"It is never too late to be what you might have been." -- George Eliot
"Live the questions now. Perhaps then, someday far in the future, you will gradually, without even noticing it, live your way into the answer." -- Rainer Maria Rilke
Once the game is over, the King and the pawn go back in the same box. -- Italian proverb
Author: tantella
Recipient priscipixie
Rating: K+
Content/Warnings: None
Summary: A knight finds atonement while adrift at sea.
What You Might Have Been
"As soon as he saw he was certain to be overhauled, Bar had given me to one of his knights and sent us both away in the ship's boat. And that boat was never seen again. But of course that was the same boat that Aslan (he seems to be at the center of all stories) pushed ashore at the right place for Arsheesh to pick me up. I wish I knew that knight's name, for he must have kept me alive and starved himself to do it." -- Prince Cor, The Horse and His Boy
"It's never too late to be what you might have been." -- George Eliot
He could have sworn he heard a hiss as the final sliver of blazing, red-orange sun disappeared into the darkness of the waters at the world's end.
He wondered if he would see it rise again.
Nightfall was bittersweet, as usual. His skin, scorched and blistered and painful, relished the cool kiss of evening even as he began to shiver. The darkness obscured the horizon, eliminating until the next morning the chance to catch sight of the land he had been praying for with increasing desperation. Night crept closer and closer, eating away at leagues and leagues of ocean until the world was reduced to the boat and its occupants and the waves that lapped against the wooden hull. The moon was rising, no more than a tiny crescent now where that first night it had been so bright and full that he could see almost as clearly as day. Like himself, it seemed weak now and nearing the end of its journey.
His throat burned, and he caught himself staring longingly at the little moonlight-capped waves around him.
The water was gone.
He'd rationed it as long as he could, even drinking seawater on occasion just to have something to wet his mouth. He knew he shouldn't, but he had never been a man of great self-control. If he had been...
He had a weakness for that fiery red sort of hair, and he'd never seen eyes of such a piercing green as those that stared back at him. The moment their hands had brushed when she passed him that tankard of ale, the instant that mischievous half-smirk turned the corner of her red lips, he knew he was done for.
The sea was calm tonight; for that, at least, he was grateful. He was nauseated enough without having to endure dark hours of bobbing like a cork again. He was a knight, not a sailor, and the seasickness that had plagued the first few days of their voyage -- escape, really -- was exacerbated now that he had traded a sturdy ship for a rickety rowboat.
She made him feel alive, like the strongest and most important man in all of Archenland rather than the second son of an impoverished noble house. He even found himself, as he lay exhausted in her bed, thanking whatever gods were listening that he was the second son, and therefore called up with Lord Bar's bannermen to accompany him to Anvard while his older brother Dal stayed home as steward of the family and estate. He drank toasts to green-eyed girls and endured the ribbing of his fellows-in-arms, walking about the city like a fool in a love-drunk daze.
The oars had snapped off during the squall, the one on the night of the second day. The one that had nearly capsized the boat more times than his terrified mind could register. Most of the scarce provisions had been lost that night, and without the oars he was at the mercy of the currents.
Then, it had all come crashing down.
There hadn't been food for two days, and he hadn't eaten in five. The dull and ever-present ache of hunger fought with the nausea of dehydration and seasickness, waging war in the pit of his belly amidst cramps that pained his entire body.
He had heard it as a rumor first, a warning from a fellow knight and regular patron of the Ram's Head. The word hit him like an armored fist to the stomach, knocking the wind out of him and causing his stomach to heave so that he tasted bile in the back of his throat.
The days were so hot, hotter than anything he had experienced even in the warmest days of midsummer. Archenland was a mountainous land, and the heat of day was always tempered by a cool breeze off the northern glaciers or the sweet kiss of the gathering evening. Here, there was rarely a cloud to block the blazing sun, which reflected off the surface of the water to sting his eyes until his face was sore from the squinting. The air was thick with humidity, so that in the first few days -- before the water ran low -- the sweat that poured from his body clung to his clothing until he wondered if he would ever be properly dry again.
He avoided her for days, staying close to the little garrison of the Lord Chancellor's men. He volunteered for extra watches and duties. His throat was dry for want of ale, but he dared not visit any of their usual taverns and especially not the Ram's Head. She had come looking for him at the Black Gryphon, they said, and the old woman at the Iron Cloud had asked after him on her behalf.
And then there were the nights. For all that he prayed for a cool breeze during the long hours of heat and haze, the nights were worse. At night the wind picked up, and the air turned cold. He would sit shivering, his teeth chattering during the worst hours, rubbing his goosefleshed skin through a thin and tattered jerkin. The stars were strange here, he'd noticed in all of his hours spent studying them during these sleepless nights. He wondered what their stories were, or if they were so far from land that no one had ever seen them or taken the time to think up their stories. While at first they were a comfort to him, pinpricks of light to pierce the wide and lonely darkness, he hated them now. What he wouldn't have given for them to be obscured by some dark cloud. The thought of rainwater splattering on his upturned face, falling into his open mouth, was nearly enough to drive him mad.
In the end, though, she came to him at the garrison, screaming his name through the gates when her polite inquiries were unanswered. Her fiery red hair was a mess, and her cheeks pale and hollow from weeks of sickness. The men called him a coward, and in the end he was dragged out by the arm like a naughty schoolboy to face her.
He wondered when he had last slept. His thoughts were foggy, like he had drunk too much ale or received an especially heavy blow in a tournament sparring ring. Sometimes he would drift off, drowsy from the heat or exhausted at the end of a day, but for the most part any real and refreshing rest had eluded him. A couple of hours here and there were the best he could hope for anymore.
There were accusations, pleas, and tears, and all in all the most horrible conversation he had ever had in his life. She slapped him hard when he threw up his hands and told her that he didn't know what she expected him to do, and harder still when he suggested one way they might get rid of the problem. In the end the men tired of the spectacle. She screamed curses at him as they carried her away.
He had screamed his own curses, crying out to the waves and the stars and anything that might listen. He had raged until he was hoarse, broken down and wept, and once had even spent the better part of the morning tying and untying a slipknot and wondering if he could ever muster the strength to pull so hard that it all would end.
It was the last time he saw her. Months later, the Iron Cloud crone told him that the baby had come too early and there was nothing anyone could do, especially for a girl with no money to pay a midwife.
He turned now from the gathering darkness toward the bow of the ship, where the baby lay tucked inside the open mouth of a small firkin. It was almost time to wrap him up for the night. There was only one blanket, but the little prince needed it more than the knight did. Swaddled tightly against the cold, the infant might possibly stay sleeping for enough time to allow him to rest as well.
He hadn't known the reason for the sea voyage, only that he and some of his fellow men-at-arms had been given orders to go. To the annoyance of the crew, the knights had spent the first evening drinking toasts to exotic women waiting in foreign ports and the acts of bravery they would all perform in the event of a pirate attack. The songs grew bawdier as the night went on and the grog flowed more and more freely. Lord Bar and three or four of his closest companions were late in joining them, but that only served to heighten the festive atmosphere onboard.
He had stopped eating five days ago, to save the remaining food for the prince. He had given the baby the last of it yesterday, mashing it up as best as he could so that the child could gum it down. The little thing only had a couple of teeth, and didn't quite know how to use them yet. There was one horrifying moment when he thought the child was choking and went into a panic, but the morsel was coughed out in the end. The child had wailed in hunger for most of the day.
The next thing he remembered was waking up with the sun in his eyes and the hard wooden deck below his pounding head. At first he thought that the heaving of his stomach was due to his alcoholic overindulgence, but after he found the strength and will to hoist himself up he was shocked to find that that rolling feeling was a result of the waves through which the ship was crashing. They had pulled away from the harbor in the night, and land was nowhere in sight.
The water was the most difficult sacrifice. He was keenly aware of the sandiness in his own mouth as he poured precious drops through the baby's lips. There were moments when he seriously contemplated just drinking his fill, but a pair of green eyes flashed before him and something twisted in the pit of his stomach.
They seemed to be in an awful hurry, but he didn't understand why until the sixth day, when the other ship appeared. When the lookout recognized the king's banner, the truth came out. Lord Bar produced the baby prince, who had been kept hidden away and drugged to remain silent. There was very nearly a revolt right there from those who had been in the dark as to the true purpose of the voyage, but the sound of a cannon bellowing a warning stayed the blades of crew and knights alike. There was little chance of any of them receiving clemency. Regardless of actual guilt, they would all be found guilty of aiding in the kidnapping of the Crown Prince of Archenland and sentenced to hang... or worse. The only chance for their lives was to turn traitor and do battle against their own king.
A shaft of weak moonlight fell across the boat, alighting on the baby's face.
The rising sun found the Anvard Steel almost within range, but as the other men scurried to prepare their battle positions he found himself being pulled aside by the Lord Chancellor. The baby was roughly shoved into his arms, orders barked, and before he knew it he was being lowered in a scantly provisioned boat and rowing like a madman in the opposite direction of the royal ship as the sounds of battle faded slowly behind him.
The night had not yet grown cold, and he prayed that the warmth would remain as long as possible before the chill set in. Every muscle, every fiber in his body, was completely and utterly spent, and his eyes were so heavy.
Then, suddenly, as soft as the wind, he heard his name.
His tired eyes shot open. There was a moment of silence, and then he heard it again. The voice was deep, as if from the depths of the sea itself. He wanted to respond, to ask who was there, but his tongue was so thick and dry in his mouth. He soon became aware of a soft light, more warm and golden than that of the moon, like the first rays of dawn in the meadows back home.
He heard his name again, and following the sound turned his head over his shoulder toward the golden light. It was growing stronger, and he raised a blistered hand to block the glare from his eyes. He licked his lips, sandpaper on dry dirt, and croaked out,
"Who's there?"
As his eyes adjusted, he saw a Lion, huge and majestic like the stories Nanny used to read to him a lifetime ago. The Beast stood on the water, the waves lapping at his enormous paws as if he was merely standing along the seashore. It considered him for a moment, its eyes deep and knowing, before it opened its great mouth and spoke.
"You have done well, my son. The child will owe you his life."
An image came into his mind, a red-haired girl and her child who never had the chance to live. A sob suddenly rose from the pit of his stomach and shook his frail body.
"Sleep now. I will finish the journey for you."
There was nothing he could say or do, only a peace and warmth that fell over him, more soothing than evenfall. As his heavy eyes drifted closed, he saw the Lion sink slowly into the water at the boat's edge. He felt a little nudge, and the boat began to move.
Original Prompt that we sent you:
What I want: I think I'd like Golden Age fic, as I'm currently revelling in HHB, the only book where the Pevensies are really adult monarchs. I'm game for any kind of fic inspired by that book, whether character-based, or plot-based.
I love, love, love world-building type fics, whether you choose to explore this with something immersed in Calormen and the Tisroc's court, or with some sort of flashback comparing the nature of monarchy and empire and foreign relations in England and Narnia. I'm also fascinated by the Aravis/Cor relationship (cross-cultural romances are always frustratingly fantastic!), the brotherly interactions between Cor and Corin, delving into Susan's state of mind...anything at all, really, that's in some random way inspired by HHB.
Prompt words/objects/quotes/whatever:
Go ahead and use these to inspire you in any way possible. Even if there's only a squint-and-you-can-see-it reference to any one of these prompt quotes, I'll be perfectly happy.
"I used to think that the interesting issue was whether we should have a monarchy or not. But now I think that question is rather like, should we have pandas or not? Our current royal family doesn't have the difficulties in breeding that pandas do, but pandas and royal persons alike are expensive to conserve and ill-adapted to any modern environment. But aren't they interesting? Aren't they nice to look at? Some people find them endearing; some pity them for their precarious situation; everybody stares at them, and however airy the enclosure they inhabit, it's still a cage...Is monarchy a suitable institution for a grown-up nation? I don't know." -- Royal Bodies, by Hilary Mantel
"It is never too late to be what you might have been." -- George Eliot
"Live the questions now. Perhaps then, someday far in the future, you will gradually, without even noticing it, live your way into the answer." -- Rainer Maria Rilke
Once the game is over, the King and the pawn go back in the same box. -- Italian proverb