Fic: With A Clouded View, Part 5 of 9 (Narnia - Lucy/Susan - PG)
Title: With A Clouded View (Part 5 of 9)
Fandom: Chronicles of Narnia
Pairing(s): Lucy/Susan
Rating: PG for this part. NC-17 overall
Summary: In which our heroine finally gets her wish, and it is not quite as she imagined. Also, more ridiculous cross-dressing shenanigans. What? I just like cross-dressing, ok? Cross-dressing and incest. Yeah, you can judge me now.
Word count: 4619
Warnings: Incest, although only implied so far. Don't like? Don't read.
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.
(For those of you who find white on black annoying, there are also copies at my Archive of Our Own page).
I wrote most of this (all but the first few hundred words) in about 5 days at the beginning of November. Thus far, my most productive week, fiction-wise, ever. It's been stalled for lack of a beta since then, so once again I'd like to say massive thanks to likecharity, who helped out loads. Thank you! ♥♥♥
So far, this whole thing has been about 20 months in the writing. It's hit 20000 words as of this chapter and I'm still not sure how long - in words or time - it will be. I've never finished anything this long before, and even if no one at all reads it, I'm absolutely determined to finish this, for personal satisfaction as much as anything else. Wish me luck :)
Dedication: And because it's her birthday this month, I'm going to dedicate this to perverbially. If you see this, a very early Happy Birthday! Have fun :) ♥
Disclaimer: Obviously all the characters and pretty much everything else belong to the estate of C.S. Lewis, and Walden Media. This is just for fun!
Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4
Part 6
Part 7
Part 8
Part 9, and Epilogue
Appendix (Various Interludes
With a Clouded View, Part 5
She will always remember it. When she is old and grey, in the soft twilight of her years, she will reminisce as everyone must, on things done and things regretted, on her triumphs and defeats. She’ll count it among the best of her memories. She hadn’t known at the time what would follow, but then neither had she cared. She will not might-have-been, will not what-if. If she regrets her mistakes, at the very least she has made them, and gloriously. Even - especially - after the miracle that had nearly taken all their lives, she has gloried in them. (She has always thought of it as a miracle; how else could anyone explain the fact that every single person on that train had walked, unharmed, unscratched even, from the wreck).
And her first mistake? Her most unashamed act of folly? There are so many to choose from, but if she had to choose, it would go something like this …
They walk arm in arm through near-silent halls, Derren stumbling every so often as he struggles with his unfamiliar clothing. He curses her choice of dress roundly, but Lucy simply smiles, unapologetic. Truth be told, it hadn't been her choice and she had never intended to wear it. And besides, she still believes that Derren looks more lovely in it than she ever could.
The walk from her room is long, tension building with every step. The moon lights the night softly, a blanket of silver. They stand at the grand staircase of the Residence for a while - she couldn’t say how long, it is so easy to lose track of time. Windows pierce the walls. In daylight the peninsula they overlook is beautiful, lush and green, bright with flowers in spring and summer, green and gold in autumn. Only in winter does it seem harsh, bare trees and dark, almost black earth stark and unforgiving.
Tarva and Alambil, twin red eyes, wink faintly high above, almost overwhelmed by the eager radiance of the moon. There are few other stars visible, moonlight and high, scudding clouds have done for them tonight, and Lucy is sorry for that. A sky thronged with stars would have been so much more romantic, magical even. Dark and gentle, something to hide in, to embrace in and be embraced by. Instead there is this, bright and accusing, revealing everything, showing all her secrets. She is not quite ready for that. If her plans unfold as she has pictured them for so very long, before the night has ended she will have loosened her grip on her most closely guarded secret, but still she would like to keep it close to her if she can. She has faith in Susan, trusts her above all. The rest of her family? Her friends? Her subjects? She is less certain of them than she would like.
The more accustomed her eyes become, the brighter the night seems. She is grateful for all the secluded places that Cair Paravel holds within its walls. She'll have more need of them than ever.
Derren tuts quietly beside her. “You’re shaking. Not cold, surely? It couldn’t be that guilty conscience of yours come to get you, could it?” His face is barely visible beneath his veil, but she can see a glint of teeth. He’s grinning.
“Hey, enough of that, you. My conscience is clear as clear can be, thank you.” It is only partly a lie.
They begin the slow descent of the staircase, treacherous in the gloom and enough to stem further conversation, for the moment at least.
Lucy wonders for the first time about the lack of illumination. The sun is an hour beneath the horizon, every torch in the castle should be blazing by now, but there is nothing, and no one. Tonight, all of the castle’s inhabitants are focused on the Great Hall above and the kitchens below. Queasy already, the thought makes her stomach heave. It is all she can do to concentrate on reaching the final step, one hand on the banister, the other clutching her companion’s. She is fairly certain that Derren’s other hand is gripping the banister quite as grimly.
“It’s so quiet.” Lucy can’t help whispering, the stillness is almost oppressive. “We can’t be the last to arrive, surely.”
Derren’s reply comes just as quietly, on the heels of the smallest chuckle. “Don’t you think so, my lord? I think perhaps we took a little longer in our preparations than most. So much to hide, after all.” Again, the chuckle. Lucy wonders briefly whether she has not made a misjudgement in her choice of co-conspirator. His every laugh grates on her already frayed nerves. She has to force her teeth together to stop them from chattering.
What is she doing? What?
As they reach the bottom of the stairs, Derren is before her, pulling insistently. She pulls back, desperate for a little respite, at least, but he is relentless.
“Come, come. I won’t have you late to my birthday party.” That chuckle, again. She wants to slap him just to get him to shut up. “Didn’t anyone ever tell you that it’s rude to keep a queen waiting?”
“Derren, so help me, if you keep on like this I’ll have you thrown in the dungeons. I’m nervous enough as it is and you’re really not helping.”
He pauses for a moment then, and turns back to face her, mercifully serious for once. Well, mostly serious.
“Lucy, look at me.” She does so, hard though it is. No hint of his teeth are visible now. “You think too much. Haven’t I told you before that that’s a weakness?
“There’s nothing that can go wrong tonight. You’re queen and it’s your party. So you’ve decided to have a little fun with our guests. Who’d begrudge you that? “
“I... well, nobody, I suppose. But ...”
“But nothing. You’re among friends. Nothing will change that. Now stop worrying and can we please get to somewhere that has wine. And light too. I swear to you, if I don’t break something tripping over this blasted dress it’ll be a miracle.
“Well? Are you ready?”
Lucy’s heart is still pounding. The point of no return is rushing towards her; she could step aside, and avoid it with ease. And live with the constant ache of longing, and the regret of mistakes unmade.
That’s not her way though, and it never has been. She grasps her mistakes with both hands, and hang the consequences. She pulls away from him, suddenly playful again
“You think I worry too much? We’ll see about that. Now, I think a race is called for, and we’ll see how well you can run in that dress. Last one there gets to kiss the Calormene ambassador!”
She hears Derren cursing, a steady stream that recedes into the evening behind her. He doesn’t stand the slightest chance, but Lucy really doesn’t care. She’s too busy enjoying the return of her good mood. She’s no way of knowing how long it will last.
**
Grudging though she is, Lucy can't help the joy that surges over her as she sees the double doors of the Great Hall, thrown open so that she can look into the hall beyond. She stands, breathless for a moment, and not simply from the sudden exercise, and surveys the length of the Lower Gallery stretching before her. Columns line it, delicately carved into a forest of stone, dryads peering from among the branches. Tonight, they've been tied with bright silken streamers, red and green and gold. Boughs of holly and juniper, red and black with berries, hang among them. Some kind of fragrant resin has been mixed with the torches it seems; there is a spicy sweetness to the air that Lucy hasn't experienced before.
Used as Lucy has become to the deathly still of the rest of the castle, the noise is almost overwhelming, though she knows, really, that it is not so very much. Groups of people - human and beast - congregate in the shadows of the columns. The torchlight, where it falls, illuminates their finery, a riot of colour. Where possible, each wears a mask. Some simply cover the eyes, decorative affairs that do little to conceal face or identity. Others, though, are fabulous creations, both grotesque and beautiful: beak-like noses; wide, staring eyes; soft down and feathers; creatures that are mere myth, even in Narnia.
Through the doors, the colours and costumes are all the more riotous, the steady buzz of conversation all the louder and apparently increasing by the minute. As she approaches, forcing one foot before the other, Lucy sees Shatterstaff - his only concession to the proceedings a simple though beautifully decorated eye-mask - standing a little to the side of the entrance to the hall, deep in conversation with Merry, his mate. (Properly, she is Merrymeet, though Lucy can never bring herself to call her that, however well it suits her character. She is as warm and light-hearted as Shatterstaff is dour and serious). Her own mask is more elaborate, a delicate tracery of feathers and black lace, and she wears a cloak the colour of the holly leaves adorning the hall.
Lucy is at once disappointed and relieved. Centaurs, like dryads, rarely wear clothes and Lucy finds it a struggle to know where to look when she speaks with Merry. She more than suspects that Merry is aware of it. Certainly she seems to make every effort to stay mesmerisingly mobile in Lucy's presence.
Lucy swallows convulsively, a low-down tingle making common cause with the butterflies in her belly.
Concentrate. The night will be complicated enough without that.
And the first complication, the first test of her disguise, is upon her. Centaurs are famously observant. If she can fool them, she can fool anyone.
A cough at her back makes Lucy jump so violently that it is a wonder that she doesn't fall on her backside. She's almost certain that she let out an audible - and less than masculine - squeal.
“I beg pardon, my lord,” a voice rumbles from behind her, low and good-humoured but solicitous. King Lune's voice. Oh. Perhaps not the first complication, then.
Lucy turns to face him, trying for what she hopes is a confident, friendly, forgiving but respectful smile. It’s something of a tall order for a mouth that has become so unused to such exercise of late.
“No pardon is necessary, Your Majesty, but of course you should have it were it to be so,” she says with a slight bow, taking in his apparel. “And may I say how fine you look tonight. I’m sure our host will be most touched.” It’s true, on both counts, though Lucy can’t help but wince at the stilted formality of her words. Her voice has never sounded more girlish to her ears.
Lune acknowledges the compliment with a smile and a nod. “Our royal host is worthy of all the effort a person could muster, wouldn’t you agree?” His mask - the green, gold and red of the harvest king exactly matching the scheme that Susan has chosen - obscures all but his mouth. It fails to disguise him for a moment, though, his bear-like frame and apparently storm-tossed hair and beard won’t stand for that. Lucy struggles for a moment with the strongest urge to throw her arms around him and squeeze.
“I don’t believe I know you, my lord, though I confess that you seem somehow familiar. My eyes fail me in this light, it would appear. “
And so it comes.
“I’m Derren, Majesty. Perhaps you know my brother, Rhyddion? We’re very much alike, I’m told.”
Her heart is a drum.
The pause that follows seems neverending. His eyes have her pinioned, laid-bare, revealed for a liar. And then, “Hmmm, yes, I recall. Though the resemblance is less strong than once it was, I think.
Will you accompany me into the hall, my lord Derren? It would not do to keep our host waiting.”
“It would be a privilege, Your Majesty. Perhaps you’ll allow me to be your honour guard.” She keeps her voice low and quiet, just loud enough to be heard over the throng, and ends on a bow, a full bend at the waist, a flourish of her hand. Her hat, however, remains firmly on her head.
As she rises to a hearty laugh from Archenland’s king, there is a skitter of feet and a vehement curse. She sees Derren, tangled in his skirts, muttering, drawing to a halt mere feet from them. She sees him register the identity of her companion and look to the shadows, seeking out some sort of escape. Far too late.
“A very good day to you, my lady. Allow me to compliment you on your costume. You are the very picture of radiance.” It is Lune’s turn to bow now, ever gallant.
Lucy’s breath catches in her throat. She can do nothing but wait. Thankfully she does not have to wait for long. Having disentangled himself somewhat, Derren’s responding curtsey is shallow but surprisingly graceful. (She hasn’t forgotten his last attempt. Apparently he had been toying with her. She won't forget that).
“My thanks, Your Majesty. But is my disguise so good that you fail to recognise me?”
Oh, Aslan, no. Lucy is beginning to think her heart won’t survive the night, and if her imposture remains intact for even an hour of it she’ll be fortunate.
“My lady? I’m afraid I am at a loss. Perhaps you can assist me?”
Derren giggles (oh no...) and yet when he speaks again, there is a change in timbre and tone that stuns her. She hears herself in the boy before her, and her relief is intense.
“Really, my dear Lune? Has another year changed me beyond all recognition? That makes me sad. I had thought that you, at least, would know me.” Derren's lips, barely visible, form into a pout. (She grits her teeth. Another thing to discuss with Derren later. She most certainly does not pout).
As clear as day, she sees it. Lune turns his head, so very slightly. She can’t see his eyes behind his mask, but she knows with a certainty that he is looking at her. A small smile plays around his lips for the ghost of a moment. And then it is gone, to be replaced by the broadest grin and a booming laugh. She slumps inwardly as he bows again, his attention on Derren once more.
“Forgive me, Lucy. Your Majesty. It is certainly a remarkable disguise. No one would ever know you.
“Allow me to wish you joy on your birthday. And I know that my lord Derren would be as honoured as I to escort you into the festivities.”
Derren is all smiles. “Why thank you, my dear. I could think of no finer escorts, and no better start to the celebrations.” He pauses, offering an arm to Lune before looking at Lucy, something just short of a smirk on his lips. Oh, he's enjoying this far too much. “My lord Derren? Would you do me the honour of taking my other arm? It is hardly good etiquette, I know, but it would please me no end to enter between two such fine men.”
She takes his arm. It is all she can do.
She had planned everything so that she would not have to enter her own party on a fanfare. It’s the first of her plans to go awry. She prays that it will be the last.
**
She makes her excuses, and her escape, as soon as the opportunity presents itself. Where it had seemed colourful and noisy from the Lower Gallery, inside the Great Hall itself it is utterly bewildering. Lucy can't recall having seen quite so many people in one place, well, ever. (Not, that is, when they weren't actively trying to kill each other).
Here also, boughs of holly and juniper, and streamers of red and gold silk, adorn the walls.
Music - by turns sentimental and joyful - overlays the hubbub of voices and laughter. The musicians themselves occupy a dais at the one end of the hall, opposite the doors. They are dwarfs all, Gruffle among them. (Dwarfs are almost invariably consummate musicians, a fact that they mostly keep very much to themselves). They stop regularly to pull at mugs that are kept constantly full. Lucy has spent the last few minutes just watching them and she is growing increasingly doubtful that any of them will reach the end of the evening in anything other than a horizontal position. She is less concerned about their ability to continue playing throughout; it seems to be a source of some pride that nothing short of unconsciousness or death can silence them. She does, however, feel a pang of sympathy for the poor souls who will have to deal with the aftermath of their revelry.
Long tables creak with delicate pastries; fruit of a score of types and shades; sherberts, sweetmeats and wines from Calormene; and dark dwarfen ales (that mostly find its way down the throats of Gruffle and his companions, it would seem). There are eye-wateringly powerful spirits from the lands to the north - to keep out the harsh Northern winters, Lucy has heard, though having sneaked a sip just a few moments earlier, she is certain that death by cold would be preferable.
And there are decorations, woodland animals and birds, formed of twig and leaf, precious metals and gemstones. And on an on.
Despite everything, Lucy is touched beyond words that it is all for her.
The people - the guests, her guests - are no less brilliant and exotic. Even the Calormene ambassador has bowed to her whim, and he is as arrogant and sour-face a man as Lucy has ever had the misfortune to meet. She is uncertain whether to be amused or insulted by the attempt, some sort of hook-beaked Calormene carrion bird, perhaps, or one of the more unattractive classes of demon.
Looking him up and down as he does his best to dominate Derren's attention, she wonders whether he somehow believes that that monstrosity will reflect well on his suit. Even from this distance she can almost feel the intensity of his determination, barely disguised by a cloak of unctuous courtesy. She does not envy Derren one little bit.
A familiar guffaw breaks across the hall at that moment, briefly drowning out the sentimental air that Gruffle and his compatriots have just now embarked on. It is King Lune, playing court even so far from home; Lucy will probably always envy how comfortable he seems in his own skin. Her brothers hang on his every word, along with, apparently, the entirety of the Terebinthian delegation (all done out in a nautical theme; even Lucy would be forced to admit that they look dashing).
A flash of sky blue distracts her as Prince Corin, all of 8 years old and a firebrand in the making, zigzags away from his father. Perhaps he is bored by the King’s anecdotes, more likely he is drawn by the trove of sweet things so close at hand. She observes his bewilderingly agile progress, smiling fondly as he pauses a moment to exchange a few words with Tumnus before continuing towards his goal. The faun seems almost as overwhelmed by the whole affair as she is. And then, once more her eye is caught, this time by an all-too familiar flash of red and, oh, finally...
Susan had not been present when Lucy had first entered with Derren and Lune, she had looked close and hard enough to be certain of that. She is here now, however, perched upon the musician’s dais. (Lucy smirks to herself; there are some who would suggest that Susan's pose is less than seemly). Her slippered feet are crossed at the ankles, just visible.
Lucy has long since been unable to differentiate the Susan of her days from the images that grace (haunt) her nights, the fantasies that do her bidding as quick fingers ease her towards sleep and the dreams that await her, all unbidden, after. She is sometimes afraid that she has moved to a place where they are, simply, the same to her, that love has made her mad. Tonight (most times, if she is entirely honest with herself) she doesn't care. If her dreams melt into reality now, well it's what she's hoped and planned for all these months.
As Susan turns her head to speak to the twins, Angharad and Rhiannon, at her side, Lucy sees it all drawing out of reach.
They are as lovely as ever, matching green gowns setting off the red of their hair. On another day Lucy would be unable to resist simply watching them, her eyes ever ready to flick away, her face a picture of studied indifference. Susan laughs as one of them (Rhiannon - Lucy is more than able to tell them apart by now) speaks, a wicked smile on her face, and Lucy's heart sinks. Perhaps this is a dream, another fantasy to soothe another sleepless night.
As Lucy frowns, her lips drawing into a thin line, her sister's gaze finds her and holds her. Her mask, never intended to hide her identity, still yet obscures her expression. Lucy cannot tell what the quirk of her lips signifies. With a few words to her companions, she straightens up and begins to cut across the hall with a familiar determination.
The Small Door from the Great Hall, artfully concealed behind one of the columns that line its walls, is mercifully clear. Within a few moments she feels the elaborately carved oak beneath her hand and, looking behind her to be certain, she pushes with all her weight. It is not much; hardly used, hinges creek in protest yet it swings open almost immediately. She doesn't look back. That one last look at her sister's face, a silent “wait” on her lips, is enough. She will follow. She has no more choice than Lucy, now.
**
The night is chill, the moon high and unforgiving, but the walled garden (Lilyglove's pride and joy) feels safe, sheltered even. Still, Lucy hugs herself, shivering a little, though she would be hard-pressed to say whether from the cold or sheer trepidation.
And then it's upon her. The click of a gate, a barely audible patter, coming closer and closer. Susan. Oh Aslan, is this it?
Don't think.
She sits and waits. The stone bench is cold against her thighs. An owl calls, to be answered moments later. She lets all the night noises soothe her, and she waits.
She doesn't have to wait long. “My … lord?” Susan's voice is hesitant, questioning. “You did not wait for me.” There is an edge there, perhaps, yet she sounds amused.
“But I did, Your Majesty.” Lucy tries for low, soft, a touch of gravel. The result is not what she would have wished. “I have been waiting for you here.”
As her sister takes her place beside her, the smallest space between them, she forgets the cold. The flush rolls over her, all too familiar but welcome now.
“It was not very gallant to make me chase you, nor to abandon my sister's festivities for your own assignations. Or perhaps you know her mind better than I do? I wonder, my lord, how could that be possible?” Her words are - should be - reproachful, but for all the world she sounds amused, as if she is playing a game. “Well? Do you think you know my sister's mind better than I?”
“Ah, um, of course not. My lady,” she stutters out a response, entirely unprepared. She had not imagined such a conversation. Conversation is the last thing she has imagined. “Ah, Queen Lucy seemed like she would not be too upset by my absence. Among so many guests I will not be missed, I think.”
“And do you not think that all those guests deserve the presence of their host? Though I will admit that you have provided a most convincing stand-in. Who would have thought that our little Derren would make such a pretty girl?”
Oh.
Oh no.
“You, on the other hand, are far too pretty to be a boy, mask or no mask. The costume becomes you well enough, mind. You look very, ah, dashing.” Susan giggles gently as Lucy watches all her plans collapse around her ears. She can't speak, she can hardly look Susan in the eye. Quickly enough, she decides against it anyway, staring instead at the dark sliver of bench that separates them. That, now, will always separate them.
For a moment there is silence. Lucy can hear the sea, far away, hundreds of feet below. The night is so peaceful. Her hands are starkly white on the bench before her.
“Honestly, Lu, you could have told me. I really wouldn't have minded. I don't mind. It's your party, after all, and it's quite funny really, watching all those eager little boys fighting for your attention. Poor Derren. However did you persuade him to go along with it? I fear he'll crack before the evening's out, and you'll find yourself inconveniently betrothed.”
Lucy smiles tightly. “Oh, don't worry. I've already warned him that if that happens I'll have him thrown in the dungeons.”
Her sister tuts slightly in response. “I fear that would simply encourage him. Take care, I'm not quite sure how far he'll go for the sake of mischief. He does enjoy it so. I suppose that's why he allowed himself to be talked into it.
“You though, what were you thinking?” She sighs. “Oh, I don't know. I despair sometimes. Would it have killed you to let me in on your little joke?”
“It's not a joke.” Lucy feels obliged to defend herself, though she has no inkling of how else she could possibly begin to explain it. “I just needed to, ah, I wanted to ..” No. Not that.
She feels fingers beneath her chin, gently, barely touching and easily resisted. Susan is so close, Lucy can hear her teeth chattering ever so slightly. She is swaying just a little. She's rather drunk, apparently.
“You wanted what? Look at me. Tell me. Since when haven't you been able to tell me everything?”
Lucy stops resisting and lifts her chin. She answers the question in the only way she can think of. Susan is so close, it feels entirely natural to reach out and circle her waist, steadying her slightly. She is soft and warm, smiling, pleased perhaps but quizzical too.
It feels all the more natural to lean forward, no matter how clumsy she is as she presses her mouth to Susan's own. Susan's lips move against hers, curving upwards in a smile, parting just a little; the smallest moan vibrates against her mouth (and Lucy couldn't say what that signifies, she can hardly think at all). It finds an echo in her own throat.
She had dreamed of caressing her skin, stroking her hair, nibbling at her throat, rocking her gently. When it comes to it, all she can do is cling to her, hold on for dear life.
She wants to hold on forever. She knows she can't.
This entry was originally posted at http://prunesquallormd.dreamwidth.org/72957.html. Comment wherever you like :)
Fandom: Chronicles of Narnia
Pairing(s): Lucy/Susan
Rating: PG for this part. NC-17 overall
Summary: In which our heroine finally gets her wish, and it is not quite as she imagined. Also, more ridiculous cross-dressing shenanigans. What? I just like cross-dressing, ok? Cross-dressing and incest. Yeah, you can judge me now.
Word count: 4619
Warnings: Incest, although only implied so far. Don't like? Don't read.
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.
(For those of you who find white on black annoying, there are also copies at my Archive of Our Own page).
I wrote most of this (all but the first few hundred words) in about 5 days at the beginning of November. Thus far, my most productive week, fiction-wise, ever. It's been stalled for lack of a beta since then, so once again I'd like to say massive thanks to likecharity, who helped out loads. Thank you! ♥♥♥
So far, this whole thing has been about 20 months in the writing. It's hit 20000 words as of this chapter and I'm still not sure how long - in words or time - it will be. I've never finished anything this long before, and even if no one at all reads it, I'm absolutely determined to finish this, for personal satisfaction as much as anything else. Wish me luck :)
Dedication: And because it's her birthday this month, I'm going to dedicate this to perverbially. If you see this, a very early Happy Birthday! Have fun :) ♥
Disclaimer: Obviously all the characters and pretty much everything else belong to the estate of C.S. Lewis, and Walden Media. This is just for fun!
Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4
Part 6
Part 7
Part 8
Part 9, and Epilogue
Appendix (Various Interludes
With a Clouded View, Part 5
She will always remember it. When she is old and grey, in the soft twilight of her years, she will reminisce as everyone must, on things done and things regretted, on her triumphs and defeats. She’ll count it among the best of her memories. She hadn’t known at the time what would follow, but then neither had she cared. She will not might-have-been, will not what-if. If she regrets her mistakes, at the very least she has made them, and gloriously. Even - especially - after the miracle that had nearly taken all their lives, she has gloried in them. (She has always thought of it as a miracle; how else could anyone explain the fact that every single person on that train had walked, unharmed, unscratched even, from the wreck).
And her first mistake? Her most unashamed act of folly? There are so many to choose from, but if she had to choose, it would go something like this …
They walk arm in arm through near-silent halls, Derren stumbling every so often as he struggles with his unfamiliar clothing. He curses her choice of dress roundly, but Lucy simply smiles, unapologetic. Truth be told, it hadn't been her choice and she had never intended to wear it. And besides, she still believes that Derren looks more lovely in it than she ever could.
The walk from her room is long, tension building with every step. The moon lights the night softly, a blanket of silver. They stand at the grand staircase of the Residence for a while - she couldn’t say how long, it is so easy to lose track of time. Windows pierce the walls. In daylight the peninsula they overlook is beautiful, lush and green, bright with flowers in spring and summer, green and gold in autumn. Only in winter does it seem harsh, bare trees and dark, almost black earth stark and unforgiving.
Tarva and Alambil, twin red eyes, wink faintly high above, almost overwhelmed by the eager radiance of the moon. There are few other stars visible, moonlight and high, scudding clouds have done for them tonight, and Lucy is sorry for that. A sky thronged with stars would have been so much more romantic, magical even. Dark and gentle, something to hide in, to embrace in and be embraced by. Instead there is this, bright and accusing, revealing everything, showing all her secrets. She is not quite ready for that. If her plans unfold as she has pictured them for so very long, before the night has ended she will have loosened her grip on her most closely guarded secret, but still she would like to keep it close to her if she can. She has faith in Susan, trusts her above all. The rest of her family? Her friends? Her subjects? She is less certain of them than she would like.
The more accustomed her eyes become, the brighter the night seems. She is grateful for all the secluded places that Cair Paravel holds within its walls. She'll have more need of them than ever.
Derren tuts quietly beside her. “You’re shaking. Not cold, surely? It couldn’t be that guilty conscience of yours come to get you, could it?” His face is barely visible beneath his veil, but she can see a glint of teeth. He’s grinning.
“Hey, enough of that, you. My conscience is clear as clear can be, thank you.” It is only partly a lie.
They begin the slow descent of the staircase, treacherous in the gloom and enough to stem further conversation, for the moment at least.
Lucy wonders for the first time about the lack of illumination. The sun is an hour beneath the horizon, every torch in the castle should be blazing by now, but there is nothing, and no one. Tonight, all of the castle’s inhabitants are focused on the Great Hall above and the kitchens below. Queasy already, the thought makes her stomach heave. It is all she can do to concentrate on reaching the final step, one hand on the banister, the other clutching her companion’s. She is fairly certain that Derren’s other hand is gripping the banister quite as grimly.
“It’s so quiet.” Lucy can’t help whispering, the stillness is almost oppressive. “We can’t be the last to arrive, surely.”
Derren’s reply comes just as quietly, on the heels of the smallest chuckle. “Don’t you think so, my lord? I think perhaps we took a little longer in our preparations than most. So much to hide, after all.” Again, the chuckle. Lucy wonders briefly whether she has not made a misjudgement in her choice of co-conspirator. His every laugh grates on her already frayed nerves. She has to force her teeth together to stop them from chattering.
What is she doing? What?
As they reach the bottom of the stairs, Derren is before her, pulling insistently. She pulls back, desperate for a little respite, at least, but he is relentless.
“Come, come. I won’t have you late to my birthday party.” That chuckle, again. She wants to slap him just to get him to shut up. “Didn’t anyone ever tell you that it’s rude to keep a queen waiting?”
“Derren, so help me, if you keep on like this I’ll have you thrown in the dungeons. I’m nervous enough as it is and you’re really not helping.”
He pauses for a moment then, and turns back to face her, mercifully serious for once. Well, mostly serious.
“Lucy, look at me.” She does so, hard though it is. No hint of his teeth are visible now. “You think too much. Haven’t I told you before that that’s a weakness?
“There’s nothing that can go wrong tonight. You’re queen and it’s your party. So you’ve decided to have a little fun with our guests. Who’d begrudge you that? “
“I... well, nobody, I suppose. But ...”
“But nothing. You’re among friends. Nothing will change that. Now stop worrying and can we please get to somewhere that has wine. And light too. I swear to you, if I don’t break something tripping over this blasted dress it’ll be a miracle.
“Well? Are you ready?”
Lucy’s heart is still pounding. The point of no return is rushing towards her; she could step aside, and avoid it with ease. And live with the constant ache of longing, and the regret of mistakes unmade.
That’s not her way though, and it never has been. She grasps her mistakes with both hands, and hang the consequences. She pulls away from him, suddenly playful again
“You think I worry too much? We’ll see about that. Now, I think a race is called for, and we’ll see how well you can run in that dress. Last one there gets to kiss the Calormene ambassador!”
She hears Derren cursing, a steady stream that recedes into the evening behind her. He doesn’t stand the slightest chance, but Lucy really doesn’t care. She’s too busy enjoying the return of her good mood. She’s no way of knowing how long it will last.
**
Grudging though she is, Lucy can't help the joy that surges over her as she sees the double doors of the Great Hall, thrown open so that she can look into the hall beyond. She stands, breathless for a moment, and not simply from the sudden exercise, and surveys the length of the Lower Gallery stretching before her. Columns line it, delicately carved into a forest of stone, dryads peering from among the branches. Tonight, they've been tied with bright silken streamers, red and green and gold. Boughs of holly and juniper, red and black with berries, hang among them. Some kind of fragrant resin has been mixed with the torches it seems; there is a spicy sweetness to the air that Lucy hasn't experienced before.
Used as Lucy has become to the deathly still of the rest of the castle, the noise is almost overwhelming, though she knows, really, that it is not so very much. Groups of people - human and beast - congregate in the shadows of the columns. The torchlight, where it falls, illuminates their finery, a riot of colour. Where possible, each wears a mask. Some simply cover the eyes, decorative affairs that do little to conceal face or identity. Others, though, are fabulous creations, both grotesque and beautiful: beak-like noses; wide, staring eyes; soft down and feathers; creatures that are mere myth, even in Narnia.
Through the doors, the colours and costumes are all the more riotous, the steady buzz of conversation all the louder and apparently increasing by the minute. As she approaches, forcing one foot before the other, Lucy sees Shatterstaff - his only concession to the proceedings a simple though beautifully decorated eye-mask - standing a little to the side of the entrance to the hall, deep in conversation with Merry, his mate. (Properly, she is Merrymeet, though Lucy can never bring herself to call her that, however well it suits her character. She is as warm and light-hearted as Shatterstaff is dour and serious). Her own mask is more elaborate, a delicate tracery of feathers and black lace, and she wears a cloak the colour of the holly leaves adorning the hall.
Lucy is at once disappointed and relieved. Centaurs, like dryads, rarely wear clothes and Lucy finds it a struggle to know where to look when she speaks with Merry. She more than suspects that Merry is aware of it. Certainly she seems to make every effort to stay mesmerisingly mobile in Lucy's presence.
Lucy swallows convulsively, a low-down tingle making common cause with the butterflies in her belly.
Concentrate. The night will be complicated enough without that.
And the first complication, the first test of her disguise, is upon her. Centaurs are famously observant. If she can fool them, she can fool anyone.
A cough at her back makes Lucy jump so violently that it is a wonder that she doesn't fall on her backside. She's almost certain that she let out an audible - and less than masculine - squeal.
“I beg pardon, my lord,” a voice rumbles from behind her, low and good-humoured but solicitous. King Lune's voice. Oh. Perhaps not the first complication, then.
Lucy turns to face him, trying for what she hopes is a confident, friendly, forgiving but respectful smile. It’s something of a tall order for a mouth that has become so unused to such exercise of late.
“No pardon is necessary, Your Majesty, but of course you should have it were it to be so,” she says with a slight bow, taking in his apparel. “And may I say how fine you look tonight. I’m sure our host will be most touched.” It’s true, on both counts, though Lucy can’t help but wince at the stilted formality of her words. Her voice has never sounded more girlish to her ears.
Lune acknowledges the compliment with a smile and a nod. “Our royal host is worthy of all the effort a person could muster, wouldn’t you agree?” His mask - the green, gold and red of the harvest king exactly matching the scheme that Susan has chosen - obscures all but his mouth. It fails to disguise him for a moment, though, his bear-like frame and apparently storm-tossed hair and beard won’t stand for that. Lucy struggles for a moment with the strongest urge to throw her arms around him and squeeze.
“I don’t believe I know you, my lord, though I confess that you seem somehow familiar. My eyes fail me in this light, it would appear. “
And so it comes.
“I’m Derren, Majesty. Perhaps you know my brother, Rhyddion? We’re very much alike, I’m told.”
Her heart is a drum.
The pause that follows seems neverending. His eyes have her pinioned, laid-bare, revealed for a liar. And then, “Hmmm, yes, I recall. Though the resemblance is less strong than once it was, I think.
Will you accompany me into the hall, my lord Derren? It would not do to keep our host waiting.”
“It would be a privilege, Your Majesty. Perhaps you’ll allow me to be your honour guard.” She keeps her voice low and quiet, just loud enough to be heard over the throng, and ends on a bow, a full bend at the waist, a flourish of her hand. Her hat, however, remains firmly on her head.
As she rises to a hearty laugh from Archenland’s king, there is a skitter of feet and a vehement curse. She sees Derren, tangled in his skirts, muttering, drawing to a halt mere feet from them. She sees him register the identity of her companion and look to the shadows, seeking out some sort of escape. Far too late.
“A very good day to you, my lady. Allow me to compliment you on your costume. You are the very picture of radiance.” It is Lune’s turn to bow now, ever gallant.
Lucy’s breath catches in her throat. She can do nothing but wait. Thankfully she does not have to wait for long. Having disentangled himself somewhat, Derren’s responding curtsey is shallow but surprisingly graceful. (She hasn’t forgotten his last attempt. Apparently he had been toying with her. She won't forget that).
“My thanks, Your Majesty. But is my disguise so good that you fail to recognise me?”
Oh, Aslan, no. Lucy is beginning to think her heart won’t survive the night, and if her imposture remains intact for even an hour of it she’ll be fortunate.
“My lady? I’m afraid I am at a loss. Perhaps you can assist me?”
Derren giggles (oh no...) and yet when he speaks again, there is a change in timbre and tone that stuns her. She hears herself in the boy before her, and her relief is intense.
“Really, my dear Lune? Has another year changed me beyond all recognition? That makes me sad. I had thought that you, at least, would know me.” Derren's lips, barely visible, form into a pout. (She grits her teeth. Another thing to discuss with Derren later. She most certainly does not pout).
As clear as day, she sees it. Lune turns his head, so very slightly. She can’t see his eyes behind his mask, but she knows with a certainty that he is looking at her. A small smile plays around his lips for the ghost of a moment. And then it is gone, to be replaced by the broadest grin and a booming laugh. She slumps inwardly as he bows again, his attention on Derren once more.
“Forgive me, Lucy. Your Majesty. It is certainly a remarkable disguise. No one would ever know you.
“Allow me to wish you joy on your birthday. And I know that my lord Derren would be as honoured as I to escort you into the festivities.”
Derren is all smiles. “Why thank you, my dear. I could think of no finer escorts, and no better start to the celebrations.” He pauses, offering an arm to Lune before looking at Lucy, something just short of a smirk on his lips. Oh, he's enjoying this far too much. “My lord Derren? Would you do me the honour of taking my other arm? It is hardly good etiquette, I know, but it would please me no end to enter between two such fine men.”
She takes his arm. It is all she can do.
She had planned everything so that she would not have to enter her own party on a fanfare. It’s the first of her plans to go awry. She prays that it will be the last.
**
She makes her excuses, and her escape, as soon as the opportunity presents itself. Where it had seemed colourful and noisy from the Lower Gallery, inside the Great Hall itself it is utterly bewildering. Lucy can't recall having seen quite so many people in one place, well, ever. (Not, that is, when they weren't actively trying to kill each other).
Here also, boughs of holly and juniper, and streamers of red and gold silk, adorn the walls.
Music - by turns sentimental and joyful - overlays the hubbub of voices and laughter. The musicians themselves occupy a dais at the one end of the hall, opposite the doors. They are dwarfs all, Gruffle among them. (Dwarfs are almost invariably consummate musicians, a fact that they mostly keep very much to themselves). They stop regularly to pull at mugs that are kept constantly full. Lucy has spent the last few minutes just watching them and she is growing increasingly doubtful that any of them will reach the end of the evening in anything other than a horizontal position. She is less concerned about their ability to continue playing throughout; it seems to be a source of some pride that nothing short of unconsciousness or death can silence them. She does, however, feel a pang of sympathy for the poor souls who will have to deal with the aftermath of their revelry.
Long tables creak with delicate pastries; fruit of a score of types and shades; sherberts, sweetmeats and wines from Calormene; and dark dwarfen ales (that mostly find its way down the throats of Gruffle and his companions, it would seem). There are eye-wateringly powerful spirits from the lands to the north - to keep out the harsh Northern winters, Lucy has heard, though having sneaked a sip just a few moments earlier, she is certain that death by cold would be preferable.
And there are decorations, woodland animals and birds, formed of twig and leaf, precious metals and gemstones. And on an on.
Despite everything, Lucy is touched beyond words that it is all for her.
The people - the guests, her guests - are no less brilliant and exotic. Even the Calormene ambassador has bowed to her whim, and he is as arrogant and sour-face a man as Lucy has ever had the misfortune to meet. She is uncertain whether to be amused or insulted by the attempt, some sort of hook-beaked Calormene carrion bird, perhaps, or one of the more unattractive classes of demon.
Looking him up and down as he does his best to dominate Derren's attention, she wonders whether he somehow believes that that monstrosity will reflect well on his suit. Even from this distance she can almost feel the intensity of his determination, barely disguised by a cloak of unctuous courtesy. She does not envy Derren one little bit.
A familiar guffaw breaks across the hall at that moment, briefly drowning out the sentimental air that Gruffle and his compatriots have just now embarked on. It is King Lune, playing court even so far from home; Lucy will probably always envy how comfortable he seems in his own skin. Her brothers hang on his every word, along with, apparently, the entirety of the Terebinthian delegation (all done out in a nautical theme; even Lucy would be forced to admit that they look dashing).
A flash of sky blue distracts her as Prince Corin, all of 8 years old and a firebrand in the making, zigzags away from his father. Perhaps he is bored by the King’s anecdotes, more likely he is drawn by the trove of sweet things so close at hand. She observes his bewilderingly agile progress, smiling fondly as he pauses a moment to exchange a few words with Tumnus before continuing towards his goal. The faun seems almost as overwhelmed by the whole affair as she is. And then, once more her eye is caught, this time by an all-too familiar flash of red and, oh, finally...
Susan had not been present when Lucy had first entered with Derren and Lune, she had looked close and hard enough to be certain of that. She is here now, however, perched upon the musician’s dais. (Lucy smirks to herself; there are some who would suggest that Susan's pose is less than seemly). Her slippered feet are crossed at the ankles, just visible.
Lucy has long since been unable to differentiate the Susan of her days from the images that grace (haunt) her nights, the fantasies that do her bidding as quick fingers ease her towards sleep and the dreams that await her, all unbidden, after. She is sometimes afraid that she has moved to a place where they are, simply, the same to her, that love has made her mad. Tonight (most times, if she is entirely honest with herself) she doesn't care. If her dreams melt into reality now, well it's what she's hoped and planned for all these months.
As Susan turns her head to speak to the twins, Angharad and Rhiannon, at her side, Lucy sees it all drawing out of reach.
They are as lovely as ever, matching green gowns setting off the red of their hair. On another day Lucy would be unable to resist simply watching them, her eyes ever ready to flick away, her face a picture of studied indifference. Susan laughs as one of them (Rhiannon - Lucy is more than able to tell them apart by now) speaks, a wicked smile on her face, and Lucy's heart sinks. Perhaps this is a dream, another fantasy to soothe another sleepless night.
As Lucy frowns, her lips drawing into a thin line, her sister's gaze finds her and holds her. Her mask, never intended to hide her identity, still yet obscures her expression. Lucy cannot tell what the quirk of her lips signifies. With a few words to her companions, she straightens up and begins to cut across the hall with a familiar determination.
The Small Door from the Great Hall, artfully concealed behind one of the columns that line its walls, is mercifully clear. Within a few moments she feels the elaborately carved oak beneath her hand and, looking behind her to be certain, she pushes with all her weight. It is not much; hardly used, hinges creek in protest yet it swings open almost immediately. She doesn't look back. That one last look at her sister's face, a silent “wait” on her lips, is enough. She will follow. She has no more choice than Lucy, now.
**
The night is chill, the moon high and unforgiving, but the walled garden (Lilyglove's pride and joy) feels safe, sheltered even. Still, Lucy hugs herself, shivering a little, though she would be hard-pressed to say whether from the cold or sheer trepidation.
And then it's upon her. The click of a gate, a barely audible patter, coming closer and closer. Susan. Oh Aslan, is this it?
Don't think.
She sits and waits. The stone bench is cold against her thighs. An owl calls, to be answered moments later. She lets all the night noises soothe her, and she waits.
She doesn't have to wait long. “My … lord?” Susan's voice is hesitant, questioning. “You did not wait for me.” There is an edge there, perhaps, yet she sounds amused.
“But I did, Your Majesty.” Lucy tries for low, soft, a touch of gravel. The result is not what she would have wished. “I have been waiting for you here.”
As her sister takes her place beside her, the smallest space between them, she forgets the cold. The flush rolls over her, all too familiar but welcome now.
“It was not very gallant to make me chase you, nor to abandon my sister's festivities for your own assignations. Or perhaps you know her mind better than I do? I wonder, my lord, how could that be possible?” Her words are - should be - reproachful, but for all the world she sounds amused, as if she is playing a game. “Well? Do you think you know my sister's mind better than I?”
“Ah, um, of course not. My lady,” she stutters out a response, entirely unprepared. She had not imagined such a conversation. Conversation is the last thing she has imagined. “Ah, Queen Lucy seemed like she would not be too upset by my absence. Among so many guests I will not be missed, I think.”
“And do you not think that all those guests deserve the presence of their host? Though I will admit that you have provided a most convincing stand-in. Who would have thought that our little Derren would make such a pretty girl?”
Oh.
Oh no.
“You, on the other hand, are far too pretty to be a boy, mask or no mask. The costume becomes you well enough, mind. You look very, ah, dashing.” Susan giggles gently as Lucy watches all her plans collapse around her ears. She can't speak, she can hardly look Susan in the eye. Quickly enough, she decides against it anyway, staring instead at the dark sliver of bench that separates them. That, now, will always separate them.
For a moment there is silence. Lucy can hear the sea, far away, hundreds of feet below. The night is so peaceful. Her hands are starkly white on the bench before her.
“Honestly, Lu, you could have told me. I really wouldn't have minded. I don't mind. It's your party, after all, and it's quite funny really, watching all those eager little boys fighting for your attention. Poor Derren. However did you persuade him to go along with it? I fear he'll crack before the evening's out, and you'll find yourself inconveniently betrothed.”
Lucy smiles tightly. “Oh, don't worry. I've already warned him that if that happens I'll have him thrown in the dungeons.”
Her sister tuts slightly in response. “I fear that would simply encourage him. Take care, I'm not quite sure how far he'll go for the sake of mischief. He does enjoy it so. I suppose that's why he allowed himself to be talked into it.
“You though, what were you thinking?” She sighs. “Oh, I don't know. I despair sometimes. Would it have killed you to let me in on your little joke?”
“It's not a joke.” Lucy feels obliged to defend herself, though she has no inkling of how else she could possibly begin to explain it. “I just needed to, ah, I wanted to ..” No. Not that.
She feels fingers beneath her chin, gently, barely touching and easily resisted. Susan is so close, Lucy can hear her teeth chattering ever so slightly. She is swaying just a little. She's rather drunk, apparently.
“You wanted what? Look at me. Tell me. Since when haven't you been able to tell me everything?”
Lucy stops resisting and lifts her chin. She answers the question in the only way she can think of. Susan is so close, it feels entirely natural to reach out and circle her waist, steadying her slightly. She is soft and warm, smiling, pleased perhaps but quizzical too.
It feels all the more natural to lean forward, no matter how clumsy she is as she presses her mouth to Susan's own. Susan's lips move against hers, curving upwards in a smile, parting just a little; the smallest moan vibrates against her mouth (and Lucy couldn't say what that signifies, she can hardly think at all). It finds an echo in her own throat.
She had dreamed of caressing her skin, stroking her hair, nibbling at her throat, rocking her gently. When it comes to it, all she can do is cling to her, hold on for dear life.
She wants to hold on forever. She knows she can't.
This entry was originally posted at http://prunesquallormd.dreamwidth.org/72957.html. Comment wherever you like :)