Vert, a Lion Rampant Gules for october_26
Title: Vert, a Lion Rampant Gules
Author: pencildragon11
Recipient: october_26
Rating: K+ for violence
Content/Warnings: Spoilers for The Horse and His Boy
Summary: During the Siege of Anvard, Squire Carl, son of an Archen mother and a Narnian father, chooses which country he will serve.
Author's Notes With gratitude to [my betas] for beta and support.
Vert, a Lion Rampant Gules
OoOoO
Her hair is stuck with bits of straw, the Queen whose name is Lucy,
and though she's now a woman grown, her brother calls her Goosey.
With Dragon, Cordial, Friend, and King, she rides across the land
in judgement and in mercy, for there's healing in her hands--
But when another year is done and all the wrongs are fixed
she climbs up to the haymow and tells stories with my sis.
~ Carl Bearsclaw, fourteen years old
(The above was written when the bachelor knights of Anvard decided to teach the squires about courtly poetry and all the other squires insisted on writing about the golden-haired Queen's crystal blue eyes. Carl, newly arrived from Narnia and exasperated with Archen "courtly love," muttered something to the effect of "But she's not like that," and scribbled his own version.)
OoOoO
"Sire! They come to batter down the gate!"
Carl glanced sideways up at King Lune. Weariness lined the king's mouth and shadowed his eyes. "Shoot at will!" More softly, so that only his squire could hear, the king muttered, "Edmund and Susan in Tashbaan--and Corin with them--Peter up on the moors . . . if only Lucy wilt bring aid."
Thud. After the agony of waiting, watching the empty green around the castle and listening to the chopping of Calormene axes in the woods, the first blow was almost a relief.
Thud. The second blow sent terror thrilling through Carl's bones. Inside, a woman screamed. With a sudden movement, the king strode for the stairs and climbed to the battlements. Carl dashed after him.
Thud. Up here, the air buzzed: the tik of a nocked arrow, the twang-twang-twang of many bowstrings, the hss of oil heating, which all together could not drown out the chanting that rose from the army below.
Tash! Tash! Tash! Thud. Thud. Thud.
The gate could not hold forever. Like all the squires, Carl had studied his Archen history, and he knew Anvard had fallen more than once in its long existence. (The last time was forty-seven years before the Winter began, when the Duke of Drawchester broke down the gates and slaughtered King Sol's starved remnant of an army. The infant king escaped, smuggled out by his nurse. Few others did.)
Carl first read that story in the Anvard library, and when he asked about it during lessons, the other squires sniggered and called him Narnia goat for not knowing that it was pronounced Drowster, and not Draw-chester. How would he have known? But that was more than three years past, when he was fresh from the woods, able to tell at a glance a tree from a Tree but not the difference between a marquis and an earl. (A marquis held a march, and was expected to defend his section of Archenland's border. An earl held an inland shire. Thus, a marquis ranked slightly higher than an earl, but an earl had fewer cares.)
The first letter his mother wrote to him after he arrived in Anvard had read, in part: Thy brothers are Narnians all, but despite thy Narnian name thou art Archen-born, birthed in the same Castle Boltham that was my childhood home, and I trow thou wilt thrive in Anvard. And indeed, the desperate homesickness had passed and Carl had found his footing among the squires, though he still at odd moments thought it very strange to see a score of fair-haired, red-blooded Humans together and not a single Nymph or Beast. Then the moment would pass, leaving all normal in its wake.
Thud. Thud. Tash! Tash! The noise buzzed along his skin and through the bones of his head. Now the King turned from his survey of the attacking army and spoke to his squire. "Fetch my sword, esquire, and thine as well. We march out to engage our enemies. Dar! Darrin! Knights of Anvard, to me!"
"With a good will, Sire." Carl turned from the wall, his heart racing, for he had never yet been in battle. Now he would ride behind King Lune as his personal squire; he would fight for his home, his castle, and the king who would one day be his liege lord--firm, stalwart, unweeping, for he was a squire of Archenland--and if he comported himself well, then in another year or two or three, King Lune would dub him a knight. Sir Carl Bearsclaw, of Archenland.
Just then a great roar went up from the walls, and Carl turned back, his foot upon the stair, to see what had happened. The pounding of the ram and the vulgar shouting of the Calormenes mixed together and he could not understand the words, but all the squires were pointing, and then he saw--an army, coming over the crest of the ridge like a breaking wave. For one horrible moment he thought it was Calormene reinforcements come to strengthen Prince Rabadash's line.
But no! Those were Giants on the left, lifting spiked boots high in the air with each step, and the bright flashes to the right were Great Cats, streaking toward the enemy cavalry and terrifying their horses. The wind caught and spread the army's banner--vert, a lion gules rampant--against the green of the trees, and suddenly Carl could not breathe.
There, leading the Narnian archers, was a mail-clad figure on horseback who shone in the western light. The Narnian cavalry was galloping down the ridge, as Rabadash hastily re-formed his line and all those on the wall cried The Narnians have come! The Narnians have come! and shot with renewed will at the backs of the Calormenes.
But Carl stood stock-still, overcome with relief and a homesickness he thought he had long ago mastered, staring at the woman on the ridgetop who loosed more arrows than any other archer. Her mail coif had fallen back, and her long golden hair streamed on the wind, and there, did you see? Queen Lucy just shot that big Calormene through the eye!
"We must make haste," said the king in his ear, and Carl jumped, feeling his face grow hot. Only a few moments had passed as he gaped, but each heartbeat counted in such a time and below the knights were already double-checking their shields and assembling in formation. He ran down the stairs, heart pounding; behind him King Lune chuckled.
OoOoO
Tash! The bolt of Tash falls from above!
The Lion! The Lion! Aslan!
Yaaaah! Thomp! Raowwrrrr! Aiii!
The ground quaked under Giant feet, and a last straggling horse screamed as a Cat landed on its back. There is no sound worse than a horse's scream. It shook the pit of Carl's stomach and made his knees waver, but he set his teeth and sucked in a breath. He had not imagined a battlefield would be so loud, or such a confusing welter of Men and Beasts. His eyes darted here and there--Calormenes, Narnians, Archenlanders--and lighted on Queen Lucy where she was picking off the fleeing Calormenes, before flicking back to the melee on the green before him.
It was rather like a great tournament, with Tarkaans and Knights fighting individual battles all over the field. There was Lord Darrin, dueling a Calormene whose mouth twisted in a horrible smirk, and there was King Lune, his sword flashing like summer lightning as he fought a short Tarkaan with a spiked helmet, and there--
Carl's breath caught. Then he was running, running pell-mell across the field to King Lune and drawing his sword from its sheath as he ran. No, no, no, no, why was he not by the king's side as his squire? He skidded on the grass, tried not to think about whatever made it so slippery, and brought his shield up just in time for a scimitar to ring off it.
"Get thee back!" Carl yelled as he slid between the crimson-bearded Tarkaan and King Lune and blocked another thrust with his sword, clenching his hand as the shock shivered up his arm.
Fighting against a curved scimitar was different from fighting with straight swords, but they'd trained with scimitars once in awhile and he was able to defend himself. Thrust. Counter-thrust. Twist. Parry. He shifted into that deep focus he'd felt before when dueling with one of the bachelor knights under the weaponmaster's eye, a pure concentration on the moment--breathe deeply and feel your heart pounding and the drop of sweat trickling down the back of your thigh as your arm moves without being told.
Snatch a glance back when you have a moment, and don't let anyone sneak up on you, but never forget the Calormene in front of you--cling clang thwung--and there's a thousand thoughts racing through your mind but don't think about anything else because this isn't a training exercise and if you make one mistake it will be the last--THERE, THERE!
First blood, first blood--except no, his own cheek had been grazed and he'd forgotten, no time to think about that, for the Tarkaan brought his arm around and Carl had to leap into the air to save his knees. His breath came quick and fast and his heart pounded with something just shy of panic and I must, I can't, what if I--lionssake don't flub it now you must.
He stole a glance at the red Lion of Narnia where it reared over Lucy's head, and then drove hard and fast into his opponent, using everything he could remember in the strange hazy-clearness of the moment. Once--twice did the crimson-bearded Tarkaan catch Carl's blade in the barest nick of time; the third time he moved too slowly and Carl's sword slid edgewise across living flesh.
There was no training, nothing in the endless dull-bladed practice duels that could really prepare him for that, and he shut his eyes as the blood sprayed out. For a long moment he fought, teeth clenched, against the horror that rose in his throat--no, don't think of butchering steers back home in Narnia--then he opened his eyes. The crimson-bearded Calormene lay dead before him.
OoOoO
Carl was still standing over the body, trying not to look at the dead man's open eyes, when King Lune turned from dispatching his short Tarkaan.
"My thanks to thee, esquire Carl," said the king, and raised his bloody sword in salute. " 'Twas well and bravely fought."
Carl could not find breath to answer.
OoOoO
Some of the Narnian archers were down, but Queen Lucy had dismounted and stood sideways on the crest of the hill, hair flying and mail gleaming against the trees as she shot arrow after arrow at Prince Rabadash.
OoOoO
Then it was over. Lucy lowered her bow and shook her hair out of her face, and Carl found that he could breathe again, great gasps of air. He knelt to wipe his sword. King Lune and King Edmund were shaking hands across the battering ram, and there was Queen Lucy pelting down the hill to embrace the both of them, but Carl could not see for the tears in his eyes.
"Be not ashamed of your tears," said a deep voice, "for you are a Narnian man and we Narnians do not fear to weep."
He rubbed the back of his hand across his eyes and blinked hard. Roongrath the Centaur stood before him, carrying the Lion banner. "B-but," he stammered. "I'm a squire of Anvard, and it ill becometh such a one to snivel like a babe in arms."
"Carl Bearsclaw. Son of Carl Bearsclaw, descended from Prince Charles the third son of Frank the First. You are a Man of Narnia."
There did not seem to be anything else to say. Carl gulped. "Yes, General."
Apparently satisfied, Roongrath trotted on, taking the Narnian banner into the castle.
OoOoO
"Didst comport thyself nobly in the battle," said King Lune the next morning when he was finished dressing. "We shall have a grand feast of celebration this even, and I am of a mind to make thee a knight. What sayest thou?"
Carl blinked. "It would be a great honor, Sire," he said, thinking of his mother's hopeful letters these several years; how pleased she would be, and how proud. Then his father came to his mind, and he imagined the quiet smile spreading across that weathered face. All at once there was a great hunger in him to hunt rabbits again in the woods, to coax a wild horse from its herd, to sit by the fire of an evening and listen to Lucy tell stories.
"It would be a great honor," he said again, "but I fear I must decline."
The King raised his eyebrows and looked at his squire for a long moment; then he nodded slowly. "I see where thy heart lieth," he said at last. "Go, saddle my horse and two others, for I will ride out with my sons and see the village."
OoOoO
The stable door opened while he was adjusting the stirrups on the new Crown Prince's horse.
"Carl! I didn't know you were here."
He made himself thread the strap through the buckle with excruciating care and pull it snug before he turned. "Queen Lucy." He swept her one of the elaborate Archen bows it had taken him so long to learn. "Well met, Your Majesty, and in a barn once more."
"It does seem to happen to us a lot, doesn't it?" She looked so like she had that first time, when he saw the dragon wings in the garden and came to put up the horses, only to find Queen Lucy in the barn, her hair wind-blown and her cheeks pink from flying.
"Every year you are lovelier." If not for the animal smells of the barn, he could almost have imagined himself one of the debonair bachelor knights, trading pretty words with his lady.
"And you're taller! I do believe you've grown since Christmas, Little Carl."
"Have I? I think you call me that more now than you ever did when I was the shorter."
"Even the twins are taller than I am now." She grinned up at him. "Perhaps you should call me Little Lucy."
Little Lucy?
"But don't let me hinder you from your work! I only came to see how Ashtiel is getting on."
The great charger whickered softly when he heard his name and she went to him, taking an apple from her pocket and breaking it on the edge of the half-wall. As he picked the pieces out of her palm, she crooned and scratched along his jaw; then she glanced back at Carl.
He was still rooted to his spot, and she laughed.
"I met Lune on my way, and he'll be awaiting you."
His face warmed. "My lady--Your Majesty--may we speak further when my duties permit?"
"Oh yes, I would like that, and your family sends their love! It is good to see you again, Carl."
OoOoO
"Do--do you wish me to accompany you, Your Majesty?" Carl said when the Princes were both mounted. Please say no.
The King swung himself up, his gaze hardly straying from his sons. "Nay, we shall return before the hourglass is twice turned. Take for thyself a half-day's liberty."
Carl bowed. "My thanks, Sire."
OoOoO
"I wish you'd dispense with this Majesty business," she said, without turning around, when he entered. "You used to call me Lucy."
He pushed the door shut behind him. "That was a long time ago, Queen Lucy."
"Is four years so long?"
"Much has changed." Four years. Long enough to think he was an Archenlander, but not long enough to forget the touch of Lucy's hand on his forehead when she came to the barn for a bucket of milk and worried, briskly older-sisterish, that his flushed face meant fever.
She wiped her palms on her skirt and crossed to where he stood. "You have grown," she murmured, tilting her head to look up at him. "Again." Her braid fell over her shoulder, wispy with escaping curls and pieces of straw, and horsehair speckled her skirt.
"I cannot help it, my lady."
"If you are always this much taller with every meeting of ours, I'll start thinking you a Centaur. Your mother always said you ate enough to be one." She perched on a barrel and swung her foot in the hay. "So, shall you be knighted this evening? Lune said he intended to dub you at the feast."
"No, my lady. He offered and I...declined."
"Oh! Whyever not?"
"I..." He had not allowed himself to freely speak his mind since the Incident With the Poetry, when he got two black eyes and a sprained wrist. Not that Lucy of the Healing Hands would do him any injury, but he himself could not yet say why he had declined the king's offer. He knew only that the sight of the Narnian Lion had lit a heady flame in him never sparked by the Archen Cross. "Won't you tell me all the news of Na...of home, Lucy?"
"The apple trees we planted this spring have taken root and are growing splendidly. Peter's still up on the moors, but the latest word is very encouraging, and Susan's not marrying Rabadash, so she's back and I don't have to run the Cair anymore." She grinned. "Mrs. Twinkletacks's daughter Nellie has finally chosen a mate, and we expect their first litter of piglets next week. . . ."
He leaned against the wall, peeling a straw into threads. It was almost like old days to hear the familiar rhythms of her voice recounting all the latest doings of the many Narnians she knew personally.
". . . but we still haven't any heirs, so Edmund's talking about making Peridan and Elinda the Prince and Princess of Narnia, for after all Peridan is the next in line by blood," she finished at last.
"Indeed."
There was a pause. "But I want to know why you told Lune you would not be knighted. I saw you fighting that Tarkaan and it was bravely done!"
"You saw...?" He wanted to say, I saw you on the ridge and you looked like Aravir, the Evening Star. He wanted to say, Durante was an idiot who worshiped an image of a lady he hardly knew, but I'd like to read his poems to you anyway. He'd killed a Tarkaan and now he wanted the bravery to say, I wrote a poem for you, once.
He said, "When I enrolled as squire, my father said that I stood balanced between Archenland and Narnia and the day would come when it fell to me to choose which land to call my own. I thought I was an Archenlander. Until the battle."
"And you're a Narnian?"
He nodded, staring at the floor. " 'Twill grieve my mother, I fear, that I am not a knight."
"But your father is a knight and could make you one himself!" She frowned. "Or Peter or Edmund could do it at Cair Paravel, if your mother is keen on a king's dubbing."
He looked up sharply. He had long denounced the elaborate coquettes and falsities of courtly love as explained and practiced by the young knights of Anvard, but ever since seeing Lucy silhouetted against the trees, he felt that he understood some of the intent buried in the poetry and neatly numbered rules. Dare he ask? He took a deep breath, straightened, and...said it.
"Queen Lucy, will you? Will you knight me?"
It was her turn to look up in surprise. "Are you not still squire to Lune?"
"I took no oaths to him as squire. I--" He squared his shoulders, "I wish to swear my allegiance to Narnia."
"Right here? I left my sword in my chamber."
With a ring of steel, he drew his and dropped to his knees on the barn floor, offering her the naked blade across his palms. "Please, my lady."
A smile quirked her lips as she stood. "How very Narnian you look, kneeling in the old straw, with Ashtiel for witness. I left my crown inside, too," she added, almost as an afterthought. She hefted the sword, twirled it, and stuck it in a bale of hay. "That is a good blade. Now, Squire Carl..."
He clasped his hands before him and she placed her own around his...smaller, cooler hands, but even without her sword or crown she wore her signet ring on her smallest finger and stood in queenly attitude. "Repeat as I say."
I, Carl son of Carl of the Bearsclaw family, swear by the Lion Aslan, by his Father the Emperor-over-the-Sea, and by mine own honor to serve and be subject to the Kings and Queens of Narnia: Peter the High King, Queen Susan called the Gentle, King Edmund called the Just, and Queen Lucy called the Valiant. I swear to obey their commands, defend their persons, be faithful to their heirs, and live peaceably with all the people of Narnia from this day forth. And most especially do I swear to serve and defend the Queen Lucy, to whom I make this oath today.
Line by line, head bowed, he repeated the words of fealty, blinking hard to hold back the threatening tears.
"And I, Lucy, Queen of Narnia, Duchess of Warrens and Plains, Keeper of the Cordial, Finder of the Knife, and Lady of the Most Noble Order of the Lion, do accept your oath this day. On behalf of my brother, the King Edmund, my sister, the Queen Susan, and our eldest brother, Peter the High King, I swear to protect you, Carl son of Carl, and to consider you a Narnian subject, with every right, privilege, and duty accorded such. By the Lion Aslan, by his Father the Emperor-over-the-Sea, and by mine own honor, I swear today."
She released his hands and let him kiss her ring. Then she took up his sword.
He closed his eyes, not caring about the tears that trickled down his cheeks, for he had made his choice and could call himself a Narnian. He had sworn his oath...and not one of those teasing promises the bachelor knights made to the young ladies, playing at being Durante and Bice as children play at being bandits...a true vow of fealty to his queen.
He felt the soft touch of the sword-tip, first on his right shoulder and then his left, and then heard his lady's voice saying,
"Rise, Sir Carl Bearsclaw, Knight of Narnia."
~ end ~
Original Prompt that we sent you:
What I want: Lucy-centric fic. Worldbuilding in Narnia.
Prompt words/objects/quotes/whatever: I love plotty fic, fleshing out Lucy, politics, worldbuilding, unlikely friendships, slowburn romance, cultural clashes, crossovers. I'm open to any 'ship but Lucy/Tumnus.
Here's a little prompt collage of screen caps from various stuff I've watched and found pretty or interesting: http://ic.pics.livejournal.com/october_26/1183873/27867/27867_original.png
Author: pencildragon11
Recipient: october_26
Rating: K+ for violence
Content/Warnings: Spoilers for The Horse and His Boy
Summary: During the Siege of Anvard, Squire Carl, son of an Archen mother and a Narnian father, chooses which country he will serve.
Author's Notes With gratitude to [my betas] for beta and support.
Vert, a Lion Rampant Gules
OoOoO
Her hair is stuck with bits of straw, the Queen whose name is Lucy,
and though she's now a woman grown, her brother calls her Goosey.
With Dragon, Cordial, Friend, and King, she rides across the land
in judgement and in mercy, for there's healing in her hands--
But when another year is done and all the wrongs are fixed
she climbs up to the haymow and tells stories with my sis.
~ Carl Bearsclaw, fourteen years old
(The above was written when the bachelor knights of Anvard decided to teach the squires about courtly poetry and all the other squires insisted on writing about the golden-haired Queen's crystal blue eyes. Carl, newly arrived from Narnia and exasperated with Archen "courtly love," muttered something to the effect of "But she's not like that," and scribbled his own version.)
OoOoO
"Sire! They come to batter down the gate!"
Carl glanced sideways up at King Lune. Weariness lined the king's mouth and shadowed his eyes. "Shoot at will!" More softly, so that only his squire could hear, the king muttered, "Edmund and Susan in Tashbaan--and Corin with them--Peter up on the moors . . . if only Lucy wilt bring aid."
Thud. After the agony of waiting, watching the empty green around the castle and listening to the chopping of Calormene axes in the woods, the first blow was almost a relief.
Thud. The second blow sent terror thrilling through Carl's bones. Inside, a woman screamed. With a sudden movement, the king strode for the stairs and climbed to the battlements. Carl dashed after him.
Thud. Up here, the air buzzed: the tik of a nocked arrow, the twang-twang-twang of many bowstrings, the hss of oil heating, which all together could not drown out the chanting that rose from the army below.
Tash! Tash! Tash! Thud. Thud. Thud.
The gate could not hold forever. Like all the squires, Carl had studied his Archen history, and he knew Anvard had fallen more than once in its long existence. (The last time was forty-seven years before the Winter began, when the Duke of Drawchester broke down the gates and slaughtered King Sol's starved remnant of an army. The infant king escaped, smuggled out by his nurse. Few others did.)
Carl first read that story in the Anvard library, and when he asked about it during lessons, the other squires sniggered and called him Narnia goat for not knowing that it was pronounced Drowster, and not Draw-chester. How would he have known? But that was more than three years past, when he was fresh from the woods, able to tell at a glance a tree from a Tree but not the difference between a marquis and an earl. (A marquis held a march, and was expected to defend his section of Archenland's border. An earl held an inland shire. Thus, a marquis ranked slightly higher than an earl, but an earl had fewer cares.)
The first letter his mother wrote to him after he arrived in Anvard had read, in part: Thy brothers are Narnians all, but despite thy Narnian name thou art Archen-born, birthed in the same Castle Boltham that was my childhood home, and I trow thou wilt thrive in Anvard. And indeed, the desperate homesickness had passed and Carl had found his footing among the squires, though he still at odd moments thought it very strange to see a score of fair-haired, red-blooded Humans together and not a single Nymph or Beast. Then the moment would pass, leaving all normal in its wake.
Thud. Thud. Tash! Tash! The noise buzzed along his skin and through the bones of his head. Now the King turned from his survey of the attacking army and spoke to his squire. "Fetch my sword, esquire, and thine as well. We march out to engage our enemies. Dar! Darrin! Knights of Anvard, to me!"
"With a good will, Sire." Carl turned from the wall, his heart racing, for he had never yet been in battle. Now he would ride behind King Lune as his personal squire; he would fight for his home, his castle, and the king who would one day be his liege lord--firm, stalwart, unweeping, for he was a squire of Archenland--and if he comported himself well, then in another year or two or three, King Lune would dub him a knight. Sir Carl Bearsclaw, of Archenland.
Just then a great roar went up from the walls, and Carl turned back, his foot upon the stair, to see what had happened. The pounding of the ram and the vulgar shouting of the Calormenes mixed together and he could not understand the words, but all the squires were pointing, and then he saw--an army, coming over the crest of the ridge like a breaking wave. For one horrible moment he thought it was Calormene reinforcements come to strengthen Prince Rabadash's line.
But no! Those were Giants on the left, lifting spiked boots high in the air with each step, and the bright flashes to the right were Great Cats, streaking toward the enemy cavalry and terrifying their horses. The wind caught and spread the army's banner--vert, a lion gules rampant--against the green of the trees, and suddenly Carl could not breathe.
There, leading the Narnian archers, was a mail-clad figure on horseback who shone in the western light. The Narnian cavalry was galloping down the ridge, as Rabadash hastily re-formed his line and all those on the wall cried The Narnians have come! The Narnians have come! and shot with renewed will at the backs of the Calormenes.
But Carl stood stock-still, overcome with relief and a homesickness he thought he had long ago mastered, staring at the woman on the ridgetop who loosed more arrows than any other archer. Her mail coif had fallen back, and her long golden hair streamed on the wind, and there, did you see? Queen Lucy just shot that big Calormene through the eye!
"We must make haste," said the king in his ear, and Carl jumped, feeling his face grow hot. Only a few moments had passed as he gaped, but each heartbeat counted in such a time and below the knights were already double-checking their shields and assembling in formation. He ran down the stairs, heart pounding; behind him King Lune chuckled.
OoOoO
Tash! The bolt of Tash falls from above!
The Lion! The Lion! Aslan!
Yaaaah! Thomp! Raowwrrrr! Aiii!
The ground quaked under Giant feet, and a last straggling horse screamed as a Cat landed on its back. There is no sound worse than a horse's scream. It shook the pit of Carl's stomach and made his knees waver, but he set his teeth and sucked in a breath. He had not imagined a battlefield would be so loud, or such a confusing welter of Men and Beasts. His eyes darted here and there--Calormenes, Narnians, Archenlanders--and lighted on Queen Lucy where she was picking off the fleeing Calormenes, before flicking back to the melee on the green before him.
It was rather like a great tournament, with Tarkaans and Knights fighting individual battles all over the field. There was Lord Darrin, dueling a Calormene whose mouth twisted in a horrible smirk, and there was King Lune, his sword flashing like summer lightning as he fought a short Tarkaan with a spiked helmet, and there--
Carl's breath caught. Then he was running, running pell-mell across the field to King Lune and drawing his sword from its sheath as he ran. No, no, no, no, why was he not by the king's side as his squire? He skidded on the grass, tried not to think about whatever made it so slippery, and brought his shield up just in time for a scimitar to ring off it.
"Get thee back!" Carl yelled as he slid between the crimson-bearded Tarkaan and King Lune and blocked another thrust with his sword, clenching his hand as the shock shivered up his arm.
Fighting against a curved scimitar was different from fighting with straight swords, but they'd trained with scimitars once in awhile and he was able to defend himself. Thrust. Counter-thrust. Twist. Parry. He shifted into that deep focus he'd felt before when dueling with one of the bachelor knights under the weaponmaster's eye, a pure concentration on the moment--breathe deeply and feel your heart pounding and the drop of sweat trickling down the back of your thigh as your arm moves without being told.
Snatch a glance back when you have a moment, and don't let anyone sneak up on you, but never forget the Calormene in front of you--cling clang thwung--and there's a thousand thoughts racing through your mind but don't think about anything else because this isn't a training exercise and if you make one mistake it will be the last--THERE, THERE!
First blood, first blood--except no, his own cheek had been grazed and he'd forgotten, no time to think about that, for the Tarkaan brought his arm around and Carl had to leap into the air to save his knees. His breath came quick and fast and his heart pounded with something just shy of panic and I must, I can't, what if I--lionssake don't flub it now you must.
He stole a glance at the red Lion of Narnia where it reared over Lucy's head, and then drove hard and fast into his opponent, using everything he could remember in the strange hazy-clearness of the moment. Once--twice did the crimson-bearded Tarkaan catch Carl's blade in the barest nick of time; the third time he moved too slowly and Carl's sword slid edgewise across living flesh.
There was no training, nothing in the endless dull-bladed practice duels that could really prepare him for that, and he shut his eyes as the blood sprayed out. For a long moment he fought, teeth clenched, against the horror that rose in his throat--no, don't think of butchering steers back home in Narnia--then he opened his eyes. The crimson-bearded Calormene lay dead before him.
OoOoO
Carl was still standing over the body, trying not to look at the dead man's open eyes, when King Lune turned from dispatching his short Tarkaan.
"My thanks to thee, esquire Carl," said the king, and raised his bloody sword in salute. " 'Twas well and bravely fought."
Carl could not find breath to answer.
OoOoO
Some of the Narnian archers were down, but Queen Lucy had dismounted and stood sideways on the crest of the hill, hair flying and mail gleaming against the trees as she shot arrow after arrow at Prince Rabadash.
OoOoO
Then it was over. Lucy lowered her bow and shook her hair out of her face, and Carl found that he could breathe again, great gasps of air. He knelt to wipe his sword. King Lune and King Edmund were shaking hands across the battering ram, and there was Queen Lucy pelting down the hill to embrace the both of them, but Carl could not see for the tears in his eyes.
"Be not ashamed of your tears," said a deep voice, "for you are a Narnian man and we Narnians do not fear to weep."
He rubbed the back of his hand across his eyes and blinked hard. Roongrath the Centaur stood before him, carrying the Lion banner. "B-but," he stammered. "I'm a squire of Anvard, and it ill becometh such a one to snivel like a babe in arms."
"Carl Bearsclaw. Son of Carl Bearsclaw, descended from Prince Charles the third son of Frank the First. You are a Man of Narnia."
There did not seem to be anything else to say. Carl gulped. "Yes, General."
Apparently satisfied, Roongrath trotted on, taking the Narnian banner into the castle.
OoOoO
"Didst comport thyself nobly in the battle," said King Lune the next morning when he was finished dressing. "We shall have a grand feast of celebration this even, and I am of a mind to make thee a knight. What sayest thou?"
Carl blinked. "It would be a great honor, Sire," he said, thinking of his mother's hopeful letters these several years; how pleased she would be, and how proud. Then his father came to his mind, and he imagined the quiet smile spreading across that weathered face. All at once there was a great hunger in him to hunt rabbits again in the woods, to coax a wild horse from its herd, to sit by the fire of an evening and listen to Lucy tell stories.
"It would be a great honor," he said again, "but I fear I must decline."
The King raised his eyebrows and looked at his squire for a long moment; then he nodded slowly. "I see where thy heart lieth," he said at last. "Go, saddle my horse and two others, for I will ride out with my sons and see the village."
OoOoO
The stable door opened while he was adjusting the stirrups on the new Crown Prince's horse.
"Carl! I didn't know you were here."
He made himself thread the strap through the buckle with excruciating care and pull it snug before he turned. "Queen Lucy." He swept her one of the elaborate Archen bows it had taken him so long to learn. "Well met, Your Majesty, and in a barn once more."
"It does seem to happen to us a lot, doesn't it?" She looked so like she had that first time, when he saw the dragon wings in the garden and came to put up the horses, only to find Queen Lucy in the barn, her hair wind-blown and her cheeks pink from flying.
"Every year you are lovelier." If not for the animal smells of the barn, he could almost have imagined himself one of the debonair bachelor knights, trading pretty words with his lady.
"And you're taller! I do believe you've grown since Christmas, Little Carl."
"Have I? I think you call me that more now than you ever did when I was the shorter."
"Even the twins are taller than I am now." She grinned up at him. "Perhaps you should call me Little Lucy."
Little Lucy?
"But don't let me hinder you from your work! I only came to see how Ashtiel is getting on."
The great charger whickered softly when he heard his name and she went to him, taking an apple from her pocket and breaking it on the edge of the half-wall. As he picked the pieces out of her palm, she crooned and scratched along his jaw; then she glanced back at Carl.
He was still rooted to his spot, and she laughed.
"I met Lune on my way, and he'll be awaiting you."
His face warmed. "My lady--Your Majesty--may we speak further when my duties permit?"
"Oh yes, I would like that, and your family sends their love! It is good to see you again, Carl."
OoOoO
"Do--do you wish me to accompany you, Your Majesty?" Carl said when the Princes were both mounted. Please say no.
The King swung himself up, his gaze hardly straying from his sons. "Nay, we shall return before the hourglass is twice turned. Take for thyself a half-day's liberty."
Carl bowed. "My thanks, Sire."
OoOoO
"I wish you'd dispense with this Majesty business," she said, without turning around, when he entered. "You used to call me Lucy."
He pushed the door shut behind him. "That was a long time ago, Queen Lucy."
"Is four years so long?"
"Much has changed." Four years. Long enough to think he was an Archenlander, but not long enough to forget the touch of Lucy's hand on his forehead when she came to the barn for a bucket of milk and worried, briskly older-sisterish, that his flushed face meant fever.
She wiped her palms on her skirt and crossed to where he stood. "You have grown," she murmured, tilting her head to look up at him. "Again." Her braid fell over her shoulder, wispy with escaping curls and pieces of straw, and horsehair speckled her skirt.
"I cannot help it, my lady."
"If you are always this much taller with every meeting of ours, I'll start thinking you a Centaur. Your mother always said you ate enough to be one." She perched on a barrel and swung her foot in the hay. "So, shall you be knighted this evening? Lune said he intended to dub you at the feast."
"No, my lady. He offered and I...declined."
"Oh! Whyever not?"
"I..." He had not allowed himself to freely speak his mind since the Incident With the Poetry, when he got two black eyes and a sprained wrist. Not that Lucy of the Healing Hands would do him any injury, but he himself could not yet say why he had declined the king's offer. He knew only that the sight of the Narnian Lion had lit a heady flame in him never sparked by the Archen Cross. "Won't you tell me all the news of Na...of home, Lucy?"
"The apple trees we planted this spring have taken root and are growing splendidly. Peter's still up on the moors, but the latest word is very encouraging, and Susan's not marrying Rabadash, so she's back and I don't have to run the Cair anymore." She grinned. "Mrs. Twinkletacks's daughter Nellie has finally chosen a mate, and we expect their first litter of piglets next week. . . ."
He leaned against the wall, peeling a straw into threads. It was almost like old days to hear the familiar rhythms of her voice recounting all the latest doings of the many Narnians she knew personally.
". . . but we still haven't any heirs, so Edmund's talking about making Peridan and Elinda the Prince and Princess of Narnia, for after all Peridan is the next in line by blood," she finished at last.
"Indeed."
There was a pause. "But I want to know why you told Lune you would not be knighted. I saw you fighting that Tarkaan and it was bravely done!"
"You saw...?" He wanted to say, I saw you on the ridge and you looked like Aravir, the Evening Star. He wanted to say, Durante was an idiot who worshiped an image of a lady he hardly knew, but I'd like to read his poems to you anyway. He'd killed a Tarkaan and now he wanted the bravery to say, I wrote a poem for you, once.
He said, "When I enrolled as squire, my father said that I stood balanced between Archenland and Narnia and the day would come when it fell to me to choose which land to call my own. I thought I was an Archenlander. Until the battle."
"And you're a Narnian?"
He nodded, staring at the floor. " 'Twill grieve my mother, I fear, that I am not a knight."
"But your father is a knight and could make you one himself!" She frowned. "Or Peter or Edmund could do it at Cair Paravel, if your mother is keen on a king's dubbing."
He looked up sharply. He had long denounced the elaborate coquettes and falsities of courtly love as explained and practiced by the young knights of Anvard, but ever since seeing Lucy silhouetted against the trees, he felt that he understood some of the intent buried in the poetry and neatly numbered rules. Dare he ask? He took a deep breath, straightened, and...said it.
"Queen Lucy, will you? Will you knight me?"
It was her turn to look up in surprise. "Are you not still squire to Lune?"
"I took no oaths to him as squire. I--" He squared his shoulders, "I wish to swear my allegiance to Narnia."
"Right here? I left my sword in my chamber."
With a ring of steel, he drew his and dropped to his knees on the barn floor, offering her the naked blade across his palms. "Please, my lady."
A smile quirked her lips as she stood. "How very Narnian you look, kneeling in the old straw, with Ashtiel for witness. I left my crown inside, too," she added, almost as an afterthought. She hefted the sword, twirled it, and stuck it in a bale of hay. "That is a good blade. Now, Squire Carl..."
He clasped his hands before him and she placed her own around his...smaller, cooler hands, but even without her sword or crown she wore her signet ring on her smallest finger and stood in queenly attitude. "Repeat as I say."
I, Carl son of Carl of the Bearsclaw family, swear by the Lion Aslan, by his Father the Emperor-over-the-Sea, and by mine own honor to serve and be subject to the Kings and Queens of Narnia: Peter the High King, Queen Susan called the Gentle, King Edmund called the Just, and Queen Lucy called the Valiant. I swear to obey their commands, defend their persons, be faithful to their heirs, and live peaceably with all the people of Narnia from this day forth. And most especially do I swear to serve and defend the Queen Lucy, to whom I make this oath today.
Line by line, head bowed, he repeated the words of fealty, blinking hard to hold back the threatening tears.
"And I, Lucy, Queen of Narnia, Duchess of Warrens and Plains, Keeper of the Cordial, Finder of the Knife, and Lady of the Most Noble Order of the Lion, do accept your oath this day. On behalf of my brother, the King Edmund, my sister, the Queen Susan, and our eldest brother, Peter the High King, I swear to protect you, Carl son of Carl, and to consider you a Narnian subject, with every right, privilege, and duty accorded such. By the Lion Aslan, by his Father the Emperor-over-the-Sea, and by mine own honor, I swear today."
She released his hands and let him kiss her ring. Then she took up his sword.
He closed his eyes, not caring about the tears that trickled down his cheeks, for he had made his choice and could call himself a Narnian. He had sworn his oath...and not one of those teasing promises the bachelor knights made to the young ladies, playing at being Durante and Bice as children play at being bandits...a true vow of fealty to his queen.
He felt the soft touch of the sword-tip, first on his right shoulder and then his left, and then heard his lady's voice saying,
"Rise, Sir Carl Bearsclaw, Knight of Narnia."
~ end ~
Original Prompt that we sent you:
What I want: Lucy-centric fic. Worldbuilding in Narnia.
Prompt words/objects/quotes/whatever: I love plotty fic, fleshing out Lucy, politics, worldbuilding, unlikely friendships, slowburn romance, cultural clashes, crossovers. I'm open to any 'ship but Lucy/Tumnus.
Here's a little prompt collage of screen caps from various stuff I've watched and found pretty or interesting: http://ic.pics.livejournal.com/october_26/1183873/27867/27867_original.png
