Fic: With A Clouded View, - Various Interludes (Narnia - Lucy/Susan - PG)
Title: With A Clouded View: Various Interludes
Fandom: Chronicles of Narnia
Pairing(s): Lucy/Susan
Rating: PG for this part, NC-17 overall.
Summary: Just a few little scenes, from various POVs
Word count: ~2000
Warnings: None
A/N: Chapter 1 and initial notes are here, and Chapter 2 is here. Other parts can be found on the "fic: with a clouded view" tag.
These originally formed a bridge in part 9 between Lucy's return from the forest and her meeting with Susan and the centaurs on Christmas eve. They were intended as a revisiting of some of the other characters I'd grown fond of but in the end they completely unbalanced the chapter so I had to remove them. I still kind of like them though and didn't want to delete them entirely so I'm posting them as a kind of appendix :)
Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4
Part 5
Part 6
Part 7
Part 8
Part 9, and Epilogue
Appendix (Various Interludes)
(For those of you who find white on black annoying, there are also copies at my Archive of Our Own page).
Interludes
There is a certain cave to the north of Cair Paravel. On a day such as this, its approach is hard and dangerous, not by any means for the faint of heart. A careless person may be tempted to take too much note of the bleak beauty of the Great Eastern Ocean, the way the sun is struggling so gamely to chase away the glowering darkness of snow-laden clouds.
There is no snow on the air this morning; still, yesterday's fall has done its worst. The figure who emerges, blinking owlishly, a hand raised to shield eyes that are dazzled even by the wan light of a December morning, would be unrecognisable even to his own siblings. Bundled and wrapped, a hat of fur and thick mittens, knee high boots (fur-lined), his features are muffled so that only those watering eyes are visible. There is no one, human or beast, to watch him emerge though, and he is thankful that he does not have to make his entry in to this frozen, deserted landscape alone.
“Hurry up, you lot,” Peter calls, in good spirits if a little tired. “We have a hard day ahead of us if we are to have any chance of a warm bed tonight.”
He waits, only slightly impatient, as first Tumnus then Rhyddion steps from the shadows of the cave onto the precarious track. Sounds of clinking, whuffling, coughing, and muttering on Rhyddion's heels tell Peter all he needs to know. The rest of his retinue are there, just waiting to make that frankly terrifying traverse from hill-top to solid, safe ground. Once they reach the shelter and relative safety of the tree-line he'll be much easier in his heart.
If anything, Rhyddion is muffled even more heavily than Perter, yet still he shivers, rubbing gloved hands together vigorously.
“Well, much as it is good to see the sun again, Underland is certainly a little more comfortable than this damnable weather. Tell me, my prince, have you never thought that it would be pleasant to over-winter in more temperate climes? I have heard that southern Archenland is lovely at this time of year.”
“Indeed, my Lord Rhyddion,” Mr Tumnus says, blowing on his fingers delicately. “There is certainly a most refreshing bite to the air. But a hard day's travel will no doubt warm us up a treat.” He pulls his scarf just a little tighter around his neck. He is otherwise entirely naked. Just looking at him makes Peter shiver all the more.
“Well, the quicker we get on, the quicker we can get warm. Slow and careful now, if you please.”
A serpent of colour and cheer, beast and human, furred and clothed and naked, Peter and his entourage wend and wind their way, down, and again down. More than anything else, Peter wants a good hot cup of really strong tea. They don't have tea in Underland.
**
It's been a challenging mission, though not, perhaps, for the usual reasons. The people of Underland are - have always been - peaceable and courteous to a fault. No, the challenges have lain rather closer to home on this particular venture. Rhyddion can't understand it. Peter is still young, of course, yet he's rarely anything other than the consummate statesman. These last few weeks, however, he has been irritable, distracted, churlish even. Rhyddion doesn't wonder why. He's not sure he has to.
He pulls off his boots with a sigh. It's good to be home.
It's late, but there's one more thing that he has to do. A change of clothing (such a relief to be free of those furs) and just a little bit of luck, and …
As so often, the Small Hall is near deserted. A fire dances in the great stone fireplace, reflected and intensified in the hair of the two women sitting almost on top of it. Bent over a chess board, he can't see their faces. With hair like that he doesn't need to. He approaches quietly, with just a cough to alert them of his presence. It is enough.
“Rhyddion!” Harry says (well, squeals would be a better description, he thinks). She is up and at him in a moment (the chess pieces scattered everywhere, mostly in the lap of her rather startled looking sister). And then she is in his arms, her head nuzzled into his neck, his face in her hair, soft and fragrant.
“I've missed you, you idiot,” she says, her lips moving against his neck, her voice hardly audible. “If you ever leave without saying goodbye again, I'll give you such a hiding.”
He tightens his arms around her, all silent contrition. From the only corner of his eye that isn't obscured by red curls he can see that Rhiannon has completely given up on trying to sort out the chess pieces and is looking on, an indulgent smile on her lips. Clearly aware that she has at least a part of his attention, her smile broadens into a grin.
“I was losing anyway,” she says quietly.
Harry ignores her.
**
Gruffle sidesteps the snowball with ease, a smile on his too-often serious face.
“Really, old friend,” he says with a laugh. “You don’t have to prove to me that badgers can’t throw. It’s common knowledge, you know.”
Thornfoot takes the jibe good spiritedly, laughing his low, whuffling laugh. “That’s as may be, but there are some dwarfs around here who don’t know when they’re well off.” And snarling (playfully, though only someone close to him would know that for sure) he is on top of Gruffle before he has a moment to react. Another moment and both creatures are barely recognisable, rolling back and forth in the crisp white blanket, cursing and hollering. Half a minute more, perhaps, and they break apart, coming to rest in the snow, guffawing, uproarious, between gasps for air.
“Daff is pregnant,” Gruffle says, so sudden, apropos of exactly nothing, that Thornfoot is caught completely off guard. His breath catches in his throat, becomes a cough, stays that way for seconds that, all the same, seem endless. It is a while before he can respond in any coherent way.
“Well, it’s about time.” His voice is brusque but his eyes are shining. “I was beginning to think you were neglecting your duties.”
Gruffle’s responding snort is visible in the cold air.
They say nothing more, lying side by side, apparently entirely oblivious to the elements. (Dwarfs and badgers are hardy folk, after all. It is a matter of pride). Thornfoot reaches out, squeezes his friend’s shoulder hard. Gruffle’s smile puts the winter sun to shame.
**
Derren is, at least, a less challenging opponent than her sister. Rhiannon smiles wickedly as she manoeuvers him one move closer to an ignominious defeat. Derren cares not one jot, it would seem. His mind is on other things.
“Should you really be telling me this?” Rhee is struggling to keep up.
“Oh, it’s all right,” Derren says with a chuckle. “Lucy only did it because she didn’t want to deal with all the pomp and ridiculousness. The birthday ball was never her idea anyway. She just wanted it over with as little fuss as possible.”
Derren’s expression is sunny enough, but a shadow passes across it, a cloud across a summer sky, plain to see.
“I was hoping to at least get a kiss. She just vanished the whole night, and she’s barely spoken to me since.”
It is all Rhee can do not to roll her eyes extravagantly at him. For such a bright lad he does seem to be remarkably dense at times. She schools her own expression, locking her exasperation below the surface.
“Oh darling, do you really not see it?” she says. She really just wants to hug him. The cloud has come to stay, it seems. It is joined by a quizzical expression.
“See what? Really, Rhee, could you not be so cryptic? It’s annoying.”
Rhiannon does roll her eyes now, but she still manages to keep her exasperation from her voice. “Derren dear, you really are a lovely boy and I know there are lots of girls who would return you interest.” (And now it is Derren’s turn to roll his eyes.) “I’m just not sure that a boy is exactly who Lucy is looking for.”
“I’ll have you know I’m a man not a boy,” Derren says with some heat but no real rancour.
And really, she should have known that that point would be well and truly missed. She sighs deeply. There is a click and a slight squeal of hinges. The library door (is it really so rarely used?) creaks ponderously open. Rhee’s heart skips a beat. She had thought that that was a mere turn of phrase, silly, meaningless words from the stories, but no. Edmund, looking tired, dishevelled, his dark hair matted, his clothing travel-stained, stands in the doorway and simply beams at her.
Derren doesn’t have to look behind him. One look at Rhee’s face and he is on his feet.
“Well, it’s been lovely. Perhaps you can chase me around a chess board again some time. Edmund. Your Majesty,” he says, finally looking back. “Welcome home. We’ve missed you. Some more than others, perhaps.” And he turns the most infuriating smirk on Rhee as he says that. “I shall leave you two to get, um, reacquainted.”
Rhiannon would have kicked him but she finds she can’t stop beaming. Edmund has a slight cut about one eye. The eye itself is swollen but his grin is easy, care free. She grins back.
**
“Shall I be mother?” Mr Tumnus asks with a smile.
He doesn't wait for a reply, pouring - one, two, three - into intricately decorated china teacups. A little milk in each - “there are people who will tell you the milk should go first. Those people are wrong” - and sugar for Mr Beaver, and he's done. Mrs Beaver takes the proffered cup and saucer gratefully.
“Thank you, Mr Tumnus.” She settles further into the armchair, shoulders slumping. “I think that if I was to tell you how much I need this I wouldn't have time to drink it.”
“Ah yes,” Mr Tumnus says, feeling much the same. “The Christmas season is ever a whirl. So much to do. And who knows, perhaps Aslan will grace our celebrations this year.”
Mr Beaver snuffles - the first sound he's made in quite some time. “Ha, you say that every year and he never comes. He'll come when he's needed and not before.” He takes a long, indelicate gulp of his tea. The cup is almost empty when he lowers it. “You know as well as I do, he's not a tame lion.”
Tumnus nods his response, knowing it to be true but disappointed still. Mrs Beaver reaches out a paw to pinch her husband.
“Who's been getting under your fur then, Mr Beaver? There's no call to be rude now, is there? Especially not to old friends.”
Mr Beaver says nothing for a moment, looking merely rueful. And then, as if in explanation, “I miss our dam. It's not right to abandon the old place for so long. Who knows what sort of state it will be in now?”
Mr Beaver pats her husband's arm. Mr Tumnus nods his own sympathy.
“I know what you mean, old friend. I've had a hankering to go home recently, if only for a visit. Perhaps when spring comes we can go together.” He doesn't say, though he thinks it, that, so recently returned from Underland, no force in Narnia or Over the Sea could send him abroad again at least until the days are much longer and much, much warmer.
“Aslan knows how much there'll be to do to get them back up to scratch again.” Despite the pessimism in his words, Mr Beaver appears to view the prospect with relish.
Mrs Beaver struggles out of the plump old armchair. (Tumnus has done much to make his apartments feel homely which, for him, has always meant comfy, and cluttered.) She pours Mr Beaver another cup of tea and tops up her own. She takes a much more dainty sip than her husband.
“Well, it's all very well talking about what you're going to do 5 or 6 months away but really. Christmas is in two days. Don't you think there are more important things to be worrying about. The Christmas ball won't organise itself you know.”
“It's just that you're so efficient, Mrs Beaver,” Tumnus says, a twinkle in his eye. “You always make it seem like it does.”
She glares at him, but she can't help looking just a little pleased.
This entry was originally posted at http:http://prunesquallormd.dreamwidth.org/100956.html. Comment wherever you like :)
Fandom: Chronicles of Narnia
Pairing(s): Lucy/Susan
Rating: PG for this part, NC-17 overall.
Summary: Just a few little scenes, from various POVs
Word count: ~2000
Warnings: None
A/N: Chapter 1 and initial notes are here, and Chapter 2 is here. Other parts can be found on the "fic: with a clouded view" tag.
These originally formed a bridge in part 9 between Lucy's return from the forest and her meeting with Susan and the centaurs on Christmas eve. They were intended as a revisiting of some of the other characters I'd grown fond of but in the end they completely unbalanced the chapter so I had to remove them. I still kind of like them though and didn't want to delete them entirely so I'm posting them as a kind of appendix :)
Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4
Part 5
Part 6
Part 7
Part 8
Part 9, and Epilogue
Appendix (Various Interludes)
(For those of you who find white on black annoying, there are also copies at my Archive of Our Own page).
Interludes
There is a certain cave to the north of Cair Paravel. On a day such as this, its approach is hard and dangerous, not by any means for the faint of heart. A careless person may be tempted to take too much note of the bleak beauty of the Great Eastern Ocean, the way the sun is struggling so gamely to chase away the glowering darkness of snow-laden clouds.
There is no snow on the air this morning; still, yesterday's fall has done its worst. The figure who emerges, blinking owlishly, a hand raised to shield eyes that are dazzled even by the wan light of a December morning, would be unrecognisable even to his own siblings. Bundled and wrapped, a hat of fur and thick mittens, knee high boots (fur-lined), his features are muffled so that only those watering eyes are visible. There is no one, human or beast, to watch him emerge though, and he is thankful that he does not have to make his entry in to this frozen, deserted landscape alone.
“Hurry up, you lot,” Peter calls, in good spirits if a little tired. “We have a hard day ahead of us if we are to have any chance of a warm bed tonight.”
He waits, only slightly impatient, as first Tumnus then Rhyddion steps from the shadows of the cave onto the precarious track. Sounds of clinking, whuffling, coughing, and muttering on Rhyddion's heels tell Peter all he needs to know. The rest of his retinue are there, just waiting to make that frankly terrifying traverse from hill-top to solid, safe ground. Once they reach the shelter and relative safety of the tree-line he'll be much easier in his heart.
If anything, Rhyddion is muffled even more heavily than Perter, yet still he shivers, rubbing gloved hands together vigorously.
“Well, much as it is good to see the sun again, Underland is certainly a little more comfortable than this damnable weather. Tell me, my prince, have you never thought that it would be pleasant to over-winter in more temperate climes? I have heard that southern Archenland is lovely at this time of year.”
“Indeed, my Lord Rhyddion,” Mr Tumnus says, blowing on his fingers delicately. “There is certainly a most refreshing bite to the air. But a hard day's travel will no doubt warm us up a treat.” He pulls his scarf just a little tighter around his neck. He is otherwise entirely naked. Just looking at him makes Peter shiver all the more.
“Well, the quicker we get on, the quicker we can get warm. Slow and careful now, if you please.”
A serpent of colour and cheer, beast and human, furred and clothed and naked, Peter and his entourage wend and wind their way, down, and again down. More than anything else, Peter wants a good hot cup of really strong tea. They don't have tea in Underland.
**
It's been a challenging mission, though not, perhaps, for the usual reasons. The people of Underland are - have always been - peaceable and courteous to a fault. No, the challenges have lain rather closer to home on this particular venture. Rhyddion can't understand it. Peter is still young, of course, yet he's rarely anything other than the consummate statesman. These last few weeks, however, he has been irritable, distracted, churlish even. Rhyddion doesn't wonder why. He's not sure he has to.
He pulls off his boots with a sigh. It's good to be home.
It's late, but there's one more thing that he has to do. A change of clothing (such a relief to be free of those furs) and just a little bit of luck, and …
As so often, the Small Hall is near deserted. A fire dances in the great stone fireplace, reflected and intensified in the hair of the two women sitting almost on top of it. Bent over a chess board, he can't see their faces. With hair like that he doesn't need to. He approaches quietly, with just a cough to alert them of his presence. It is enough.
“Rhyddion!” Harry says (well, squeals would be a better description, he thinks). She is up and at him in a moment (the chess pieces scattered everywhere, mostly in the lap of her rather startled looking sister). And then she is in his arms, her head nuzzled into his neck, his face in her hair, soft and fragrant.
“I've missed you, you idiot,” she says, her lips moving against his neck, her voice hardly audible. “If you ever leave without saying goodbye again, I'll give you such a hiding.”
He tightens his arms around her, all silent contrition. From the only corner of his eye that isn't obscured by red curls he can see that Rhiannon has completely given up on trying to sort out the chess pieces and is looking on, an indulgent smile on her lips. Clearly aware that she has at least a part of his attention, her smile broadens into a grin.
“I was losing anyway,” she says quietly.
Harry ignores her.
**
Gruffle sidesteps the snowball with ease, a smile on his too-often serious face.
“Really, old friend,” he says with a laugh. “You don’t have to prove to me that badgers can’t throw. It’s common knowledge, you know.”
Thornfoot takes the jibe good spiritedly, laughing his low, whuffling laugh. “That’s as may be, but there are some dwarfs around here who don’t know when they’re well off.” And snarling (playfully, though only someone close to him would know that for sure) he is on top of Gruffle before he has a moment to react. Another moment and both creatures are barely recognisable, rolling back and forth in the crisp white blanket, cursing and hollering. Half a minute more, perhaps, and they break apart, coming to rest in the snow, guffawing, uproarious, between gasps for air.
“Daff is pregnant,” Gruffle says, so sudden, apropos of exactly nothing, that Thornfoot is caught completely off guard. His breath catches in his throat, becomes a cough, stays that way for seconds that, all the same, seem endless. It is a while before he can respond in any coherent way.
“Well, it’s about time.” His voice is brusque but his eyes are shining. “I was beginning to think you were neglecting your duties.”
Gruffle’s responding snort is visible in the cold air.
They say nothing more, lying side by side, apparently entirely oblivious to the elements. (Dwarfs and badgers are hardy folk, after all. It is a matter of pride). Thornfoot reaches out, squeezes his friend’s shoulder hard. Gruffle’s smile puts the winter sun to shame.
**
Derren is, at least, a less challenging opponent than her sister. Rhiannon smiles wickedly as she manoeuvers him one move closer to an ignominious defeat. Derren cares not one jot, it would seem. His mind is on other things.
“Should you really be telling me this?” Rhee is struggling to keep up.
“Oh, it’s all right,” Derren says with a chuckle. “Lucy only did it because she didn’t want to deal with all the pomp and ridiculousness. The birthday ball was never her idea anyway. She just wanted it over with as little fuss as possible.”
Derren’s expression is sunny enough, but a shadow passes across it, a cloud across a summer sky, plain to see.
“I was hoping to at least get a kiss. She just vanished the whole night, and she’s barely spoken to me since.”
It is all Rhee can do not to roll her eyes extravagantly at him. For such a bright lad he does seem to be remarkably dense at times. She schools her own expression, locking her exasperation below the surface.
“Oh darling, do you really not see it?” she says. She really just wants to hug him. The cloud has come to stay, it seems. It is joined by a quizzical expression.
“See what? Really, Rhee, could you not be so cryptic? It’s annoying.”
Rhiannon does roll her eyes now, but she still manages to keep her exasperation from her voice. “Derren dear, you really are a lovely boy and I know there are lots of girls who would return you interest.” (And now it is Derren’s turn to roll his eyes.) “I’m just not sure that a boy is exactly who Lucy is looking for.”
“I’ll have you know I’m a man not a boy,” Derren says with some heat but no real rancour.
And really, she should have known that that point would be well and truly missed. She sighs deeply. There is a click and a slight squeal of hinges. The library door (is it really so rarely used?) creaks ponderously open. Rhee’s heart skips a beat. She had thought that that was a mere turn of phrase, silly, meaningless words from the stories, but no. Edmund, looking tired, dishevelled, his dark hair matted, his clothing travel-stained, stands in the doorway and simply beams at her.
Derren doesn’t have to look behind him. One look at Rhee’s face and he is on his feet.
“Well, it’s been lovely. Perhaps you can chase me around a chess board again some time. Edmund. Your Majesty,” he says, finally looking back. “Welcome home. We’ve missed you. Some more than others, perhaps.” And he turns the most infuriating smirk on Rhee as he says that. “I shall leave you two to get, um, reacquainted.”
Rhiannon would have kicked him but she finds she can’t stop beaming. Edmund has a slight cut about one eye. The eye itself is swollen but his grin is easy, care free. She grins back.
**
“Shall I be mother?” Mr Tumnus asks with a smile.
He doesn't wait for a reply, pouring - one, two, three - into intricately decorated china teacups. A little milk in each - “there are people who will tell you the milk should go first. Those people are wrong” - and sugar for Mr Beaver, and he's done. Mrs Beaver takes the proffered cup and saucer gratefully.
“Thank you, Mr Tumnus.” She settles further into the armchair, shoulders slumping. “I think that if I was to tell you how much I need this I wouldn't have time to drink it.”
“Ah yes,” Mr Tumnus says, feeling much the same. “The Christmas season is ever a whirl. So much to do. And who knows, perhaps Aslan will grace our celebrations this year.”
Mr Beaver snuffles - the first sound he's made in quite some time. “Ha, you say that every year and he never comes. He'll come when he's needed and not before.” He takes a long, indelicate gulp of his tea. The cup is almost empty when he lowers it. “You know as well as I do, he's not a tame lion.”
Tumnus nods his response, knowing it to be true but disappointed still. Mrs Beaver reaches out a paw to pinch her husband.
“Who's been getting under your fur then, Mr Beaver? There's no call to be rude now, is there? Especially not to old friends.”
Mr Beaver says nothing for a moment, looking merely rueful. And then, as if in explanation, “I miss our dam. It's not right to abandon the old place for so long. Who knows what sort of state it will be in now?”
Mr Beaver pats her husband's arm. Mr Tumnus nods his own sympathy.
“I know what you mean, old friend. I've had a hankering to go home recently, if only for a visit. Perhaps when spring comes we can go together.” He doesn't say, though he thinks it, that, so recently returned from Underland, no force in Narnia or Over the Sea could send him abroad again at least until the days are much longer and much, much warmer.
“Aslan knows how much there'll be to do to get them back up to scratch again.” Despite the pessimism in his words, Mr Beaver appears to view the prospect with relish.
Mrs Beaver struggles out of the plump old armchair. (Tumnus has done much to make his apartments feel homely which, for him, has always meant comfy, and cluttered.) She pours Mr Beaver another cup of tea and tops up her own. She takes a much more dainty sip than her husband.
“Well, it's all very well talking about what you're going to do 5 or 6 months away but really. Christmas is in two days. Don't you think there are more important things to be worrying about. The Christmas ball won't organise itself you know.”
“It's just that you're so efficient, Mrs Beaver,” Tumnus says, a twinkle in his eye. “You always make it seem like it does.”
She glares at him, but she can't help looking just a little pleased.
This entry was originally posted at http:http://prunesquallormd.dreamwidth.org/100956.html. Comment wherever you like :)