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bantha_fodderA Fragment of Cascade Stars by Pen
Narnia, PG, Caspian at the revelries after Beruna
I do not own
warning for: some hints of pevencest
With thanks to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
lassiterfics and liminalliz
Peter interrupts, bumping his sister. "The Queen is naught but a wine thief with her laces loosened before the celebrations have properly progressed, a crime she knows is unpunishable at revelries."
***
Caspian kneels and, with Aslan by his side, Bacchus lowers the crown onto Caspian's head. Bacchus' hands are warm against his ears, and he shivers as they slide down his neck. When Bacchus turns and draws his pipes to his lips, excitement flutters in Caspian's stomach, and the last of the sunlight fades.
The fire sparks, and Caspian turns his head at the sound of shouts, and when he looks back, Aslan has disappeared into the night.
**
Later, Caspian sits in the darkness, leans against a tree. The crown is heavy upon his head and so he removes it, holds it in his hands, feels its weight and wonders at its history, wonders whose heads it sat on before his. He watches Edmund and Lucy dancing wildly about the fire, holding hands with centaurs and fauns and mice, no care for height or size or ability. The dances are unlike those he is used to, no steady minuet or graceful flamenco. The pipes play, and though their steps are sure, Caspian finds the tunes unfamiliar. He waits fruitlessly for them to stumble.
In the distance, he watches Peter tilt his head, wrap his hand around Susan's fingers. She shakes her head and pulls away but Peter follows, and her hair is illuminated by the firelight, golds and browns and reds.
The Nymphs are light upon the breeze, light on their feet and they weave about the dancers. "My Lord," a Dryad says, approaching him. Her petals are purple and her voice is like a thousand leaves rustling. He curls his fingers into the bark at his back. "You do not wish to celebrate with us?" Her look is coy, and inviting, and Caspian glances over to Peter and Susan, their heads bent together.
"I am celebrating, I promise," he says, as he looks up at the Dryad, "But I would fall if I kept on dancing, I must rest a moment." The Dryad leans forward, her hand extended.
"The dance helps," she says, and through her petals he sees Lucy, spinning faster than he thought possible.
"I am old for my kind, and out of practice with the dance," Cornelius says from behind, startling him. "Lady, let me rest with our King before he joins you in the circle." The Dryad frowns, but inclines her head and dances away, back into the firelight. "Do you mind if I sit beside you?" Cornelius continues.
Caspian shuffles over, though there is room aplenty, and Cornelius settles himself. They sit, silent, watching the dancers cavort about the fire. Bacchus stands tall, his commands clear, and Edmund's laughter drifts towards them.
"They are very lively," Caspian says, after a moment.
"The ways of Narnia are different from the ways of Telmar, Caspian. You must be careful not to offend."
"Are you talking about the dancing?" Caspian asks, defensive. "I can dance!"
"It's not the dance, Caspian. These revelries are tradition," Cornelius says. "They are celebration and relief and I remember when I was young, a revelry to celebrate the end of winter, and we leapt over the fire, and there was this woman." Cornelius trails off into silence, and Caspian watches his tutor, confused. Cornelius shakes his head, shakes off the fugue of the past, and rests his hand on Caspian's wrist.
"To be Narnian means many things. You must learn the ways of Old Narnians, Caspian, or you will never really be King."
"I am King of Narnia, now, with Aslan's blessing," Caspian says, slowly, thinking. "And our ways are similar. Isn't that enough?"
"Oh, no," Cornelius says quickly, "Not for Narnians," and Caspian wonders what Cornelius is hiding, wonders what ways he has yet to learn.
Lucy shrieks, and Caspian looks up, watches as Lucy throws herself at Edmund and they fall to the ground, narrowly missing the fire, a tangle of limbs and giggles and the lilt of the pipes into the night.
"Be our King," Cornelius says, and there is an unfamiliar light in his tutor's eyes. He has never thought of Cornelius as anything other than Telmarine, but in the firelight he is real, and he is Narnian, and Caspian wonders how this old dwarf could have lived his whole life a lie.
"I'm not sure I can," Caspian says, and Cornelius sighs, struggles to his feet.
"Of course you can," he says, and steps into the dance.
Caspian watches Cornelius' steady steps, watches the fire, stands up.
He wanders away.
**
He is King, and he wanders through the night, his hood drawn across his shoulders. Silent, he watches the way the Narnians sing and then eat, the way they dance as they sing and the slow shedding of clothing in the darkness. He wonders where they will stay, what livelihoods they will establish, and he wonders what it is like to have been banished from one's home for thirteen hundred years.
"You're not happy?" he hears, and he looks down, looks across, looks up. Pattertwig offers him a nut. "It'll make you feel better."
"Where will you live?" Caspian asks, and blushes at his skittish words.
"Where we've always lived," Pattertwig replies. "In Narnia."
"It's not as simple as that," Caspian insists. "We will need to build, to move things."
"We're home," Pattertwig says. "And Aslan is here, and it is not winter. Narnians have never cared much for buildings."
Their revelries are ecstatic, joyous, and he wonders what it is like to not care about roofs and logistics, what it must be like to love the land and love these people.
He knows that he must learn these things, and he is afraid.
He wanders back to the fire, watches the dance, tries to memorise the steps.
**
He wakes, surprised that he has slept, and looks up. He meets Susan's eyes, her smile lighting up her face. She sits on a log, Peter beside her, and she taps patterns on her brother's knee.
"Telmarines cannot hold their wine, then," she says, turning to her brother.
"So it would seem," he replies, as if Caspian is not awake to hear. "I wonder how he can be king, if he cannot commit to our revelries."
"Perhaps some practice, Brother. We have been such a short time away ourselves, and yet here we are, already resting away from the fire with our goblets full and our laces loosened."
Peter, his goblet to his mouth, inhales suddenly and coughs, laughing. "Perhaps your laces are loosened, Sister," he says, and draws himself up tall. "But it is far too early in the evening for that sort of behaviour from me. Honestly."
She laughs, steals the goblet from her brother's hand and tilts her head back, drinks to his protestations.
"Caspian," she says, turning as if she has just noticed Caspian's presence. "You mustn't let him sully your name so. Come dance with me."
"Come dance with me," Peter interrupts, bumping his sister. "The Queen is naught but a wine thief with her laces loosened before the celebrations have properly progressed, a crime she knows is unpunishable at revelries."
Caspian looks at them, each one offering a hand, and he blinks.
"I do not know," he begins, and pauses.
"You see?" Peter says, turning back to Susan, tangling his fingers with hers. "Dance with me, Sister. This Telmarine needs further rest."
"I am Narnian!" he interrupts, unsure but sure of this new thing, that he is King and he is worthy, and they turn to him as one, their faces still.
"Narnians dance," Peter says, his voice soft, used to being obeyed. "They don't hide by trees."
"Well, unless they ask the tree very nicely."
"And I did see a Dryad over here earlier."
He watches them, confused by the way their thoughts so easily drift away into unfamiliar territory, unsure of their words.
"Come celebrate, Caspian," Susan says, leans forward, kisses his cheek, her lips brushing by the corner of his mouth. "This is what Narnians do."
"You are Narnian, Caspian," Peter says. "And I am High King, after all, so I ought to know." He too leans forward, kisses Caspian's forehead, and his breath is like blessing, like benediction, like belief.
Susan laughs, and he watches the line of her throat as she presses her forehead against Peter's, watches Peter's lips draw into a smile. "Brother," she says, and they rise. They dart into the light, hands clasped, and they do not look back. They are greeted by laughter and the volume of the singing increases, joyful.
Susan's laces look just as tight as always, and her smile is the invitation of Narnia, and Peter laughs, long and deep and proud. Caspian climbs to his feet, joins the circle.
Susan's hand is warm, and Peter's too, and he smiles.
**
The steps are new, but clasped between Peter and Susan, Caspian dances, and later, Susan presses him against a tree, and this is new, too, but he is Narnian and he is learning.
"Should we ask for permission?" he asks, the bark catching on his shirt; Susan's brow furrows, and behind him, Peter laughs.
"Good call," Peter says, and drops to the ground, pulls them down with him.
The grass is scratchy, and damp with dew, but Caspian does not mind.
He will get used to it.
**
The fire has died, and the air is chill in the pre-dawn. Caspian hears the rustling of sleepers, the whisper of flesh and a giggle from off to the left.
"The stars are all wrong," Caspian hears, and he turns his head to see Lucy, her head pillowed on Edmund's back. Edmund lies on his stomach, rests his head upon his arms, his eyes closed, and the rise and fall of his body is hypnotic, like a lullaby.
"It's been thirteen hundred years, Lu," he replies. "Haven't you studied astronomy yet in that school of yours?"
"We never learn anything fun. Not like we did in Narnia."
"Well, things are different in Narnia."
"Oh, Ed, I know that!"
"Dancing, for example." Edmund's eyes flicker across to Caspian, and Caspian closes his eyes, shuffles as if to say he's harmless, asleep, and doesn't pause to question his actions. He's new to this royalty thing, and listening is learning. "Do you remember dancing quite like that?"
Lucy does not answer, and in the distance, Caspian hears the birds calling. He wonders if Lucy has fallen asleep.
"Do you remember Cor and Corin of Archenland?" Lucy asks, eventually, and Caspian remembers the stories his old nurse told, the tale of the twin and the lost prince of Archenland and his beautiful wife.
Edmund makes a very unattractive sound. "I shall never forget those troublemakers."
"Do you remember when Corin declared war on Galma, and issued trial by combat and you accidentally fought on his behalf?" Edmund hums his acknowledgement. "And do you remember the celebrations afterward, that lovely Oceanid with the warm hands and that Satyr from the South?"
"Oh," Edmund says after a pause. "Yes. Oh."
"So there you are," Lucy says, knowing that she has won. A rustle follows her triumph, and Caspian opens his eyes to see Lucy wandering away, her footsteps soft and her brother, carefully treading behind, wandering into the dawn.
Caspian closes his eyes, Susan's breath warm against his shoulder. He wonders about the Satyr, about these little children with memories longer than his own, their intimate knowledge of old legends.
Beside him, Peter stirs, the lion rampant upon his coats and his hand flexing for his sword, and Caspian wonders if he will ever really be Narnian.
**
He thinks to himself, I will try.
**
They disappear, these Kings and Queens of old, back into history and legend and this odd world where they are nobodies, children. Quietly, Telmarines file past him, old friends he knew as a child, old maids he watched selling fruits in the square, people who are scared to go but too scared to stay. He does not plead with them, does not ask them to trust him, because some things cannot be argued, just watches until the last is gone and the tree winds back in upon itself.
"Well, King Caspian," Aslan says, turning to him. "What now?"
Caspian looks out across the square, and though the Telmarines now number less than a quarter, the square is slowly filling with Old Narnians, centaurs and fauns and minotaurs and they mingle together, Old Narnians and New Narnians alike, and he has no idea what he is doing but he is their king. He reaches for the horn, some tangible evidence that he is not alone, but his hand flexes, empty.
"Caspian," Aslan says, almost reproach, and the lion is fierce but Caspian loves him.
"Narnians," he says, because it is expected of him, and they are in Narnia, now, and he loves them. "Let us settle back into our land."
The laughter and cheering spreads like a ripple as they dance their way into the castle and into the lands beyond, the pipes echoing through the streets, and they are all Narnians, and they are his, and they are home.
END
Narnia, PG, Caspian at the revelries after Beruna
I do not own
warning for: some hints of pevencest
With thanks to
lassiterfics and liminallizPeter interrupts, bumping his sister. "The Queen is naught but a wine thief with her laces loosened before the celebrations have properly progressed, a crime she knows is unpunishable at revelries."
***
Caspian kneels and, with Aslan by his side, Bacchus lowers the crown onto Caspian's head. Bacchus' hands are warm against his ears, and he shivers as they slide down his neck. When Bacchus turns and draws his pipes to his lips, excitement flutters in Caspian's stomach, and the last of the sunlight fades.
The fire sparks, and Caspian turns his head at the sound of shouts, and when he looks back, Aslan has disappeared into the night.
**
Later, Caspian sits in the darkness, leans against a tree. The crown is heavy upon his head and so he removes it, holds it in his hands, feels its weight and wonders at its history, wonders whose heads it sat on before his. He watches Edmund and Lucy dancing wildly about the fire, holding hands with centaurs and fauns and mice, no care for height or size or ability. The dances are unlike those he is used to, no steady minuet or graceful flamenco. The pipes play, and though their steps are sure, Caspian finds the tunes unfamiliar. He waits fruitlessly for them to stumble.
In the distance, he watches Peter tilt his head, wrap his hand around Susan's fingers. She shakes her head and pulls away but Peter follows, and her hair is illuminated by the firelight, golds and browns and reds.
The Nymphs are light upon the breeze, light on their feet and they weave about the dancers. "My Lord," a Dryad says, approaching him. Her petals are purple and her voice is like a thousand leaves rustling. He curls his fingers into the bark at his back. "You do not wish to celebrate with us?" Her look is coy, and inviting, and Caspian glances over to Peter and Susan, their heads bent together.
"I am celebrating, I promise," he says, as he looks up at the Dryad, "But I would fall if I kept on dancing, I must rest a moment." The Dryad leans forward, her hand extended.
"The dance helps," she says, and through her petals he sees Lucy, spinning faster than he thought possible.
"I am old for my kind, and out of practice with the dance," Cornelius says from behind, startling him. "Lady, let me rest with our King before he joins you in the circle." The Dryad frowns, but inclines her head and dances away, back into the firelight. "Do you mind if I sit beside you?" Cornelius continues.
Caspian shuffles over, though there is room aplenty, and Cornelius settles himself. They sit, silent, watching the dancers cavort about the fire. Bacchus stands tall, his commands clear, and Edmund's laughter drifts towards them.
"They are very lively," Caspian says, after a moment.
"The ways of Narnia are different from the ways of Telmar, Caspian. You must be careful not to offend."
"Are you talking about the dancing?" Caspian asks, defensive. "I can dance!"
"It's not the dance, Caspian. These revelries are tradition," Cornelius says. "They are celebration and relief and I remember when I was young, a revelry to celebrate the end of winter, and we leapt over the fire, and there was this woman." Cornelius trails off into silence, and Caspian watches his tutor, confused. Cornelius shakes his head, shakes off the fugue of the past, and rests his hand on Caspian's wrist.
"To be Narnian means many things. You must learn the ways of Old Narnians, Caspian, or you will never really be King."
"I am King of Narnia, now, with Aslan's blessing," Caspian says, slowly, thinking. "And our ways are similar. Isn't that enough?"
"Oh, no," Cornelius says quickly, "Not for Narnians," and Caspian wonders what Cornelius is hiding, wonders what ways he has yet to learn.
Lucy shrieks, and Caspian looks up, watches as Lucy throws herself at Edmund and they fall to the ground, narrowly missing the fire, a tangle of limbs and giggles and the lilt of the pipes into the night.
"Be our King," Cornelius says, and there is an unfamiliar light in his tutor's eyes. He has never thought of Cornelius as anything other than Telmarine, but in the firelight he is real, and he is Narnian, and Caspian wonders how this old dwarf could have lived his whole life a lie.
"I'm not sure I can," Caspian says, and Cornelius sighs, struggles to his feet.
"Of course you can," he says, and steps into the dance.
Caspian watches Cornelius' steady steps, watches the fire, stands up.
He wanders away.
**
He is King, and he wanders through the night, his hood drawn across his shoulders. Silent, he watches the way the Narnians sing and then eat, the way they dance as they sing and the slow shedding of clothing in the darkness. He wonders where they will stay, what livelihoods they will establish, and he wonders what it is like to have been banished from one's home for thirteen hundred years.
"You're not happy?" he hears, and he looks down, looks across, looks up. Pattertwig offers him a nut. "It'll make you feel better."
"Where will you live?" Caspian asks, and blushes at his skittish words.
"Where we've always lived," Pattertwig replies. "In Narnia."
"It's not as simple as that," Caspian insists. "We will need to build, to move things."
"We're home," Pattertwig says. "And Aslan is here, and it is not winter. Narnians have never cared much for buildings."
Their revelries are ecstatic, joyous, and he wonders what it is like to not care about roofs and logistics, what it must be like to love the land and love these people.
He knows that he must learn these things, and he is afraid.
He wanders back to the fire, watches the dance, tries to memorise the steps.
**
He wakes, surprised that he has slept, and looks up. He meets Susan's eyes, her smile lighting up her face. She sits on a log, Peter beside her, and she taps patterns on her brother's knee.
"Telmarines cannot hold their wine, then," she says, turning to her brother.
"So it would seem," he replies, as if Caspian is not awake to hear. "I wonder how he can be king, if he cannot commit to our revelries."
"Perhaps some practice, Brother. We have been such a short time away ourselves, and yet here we are, already resting away from the fire with our goblets full and our laces loosened."
Peter, his goblet to his mouth, inhales suddenly and coughs, laughing. "Perhaps your laces are loosened, Sister," he says, and draws himself up tall. "But it is far too early in the evening for that sort of behaviour from me. Honestly."
She laughs, steals the goblet from her brother's hand and tilts her head back, drinks to his protestations.
"Caspian," she says, turning as if she has just noticed Caspian's presence. "You mustn't let him sully your name so. Come dance with me."
"Come dance with me," Peter interrupts, bumping his sister. "The Queen is naught but a wine thief with her laces loosened before the celebrations have properly progressed, a crime she knows is unpunishable at revelries."
Caspian looks at them, each one offering a hand, and he blinks.
"I do not know," he begins, and pauses.
"You see?" Peter says, turning back to Susan, tangling his fingers with hers. "Dance with me, Sister. This Telmarine needs further rest."
"I am Narnian!" he interrupts, unsure but sure of this new thing, that he is King and he is worthy, and they turn to him as one, their faces still.
"Narnians dance," Peter says, his voice soft, used to being obeyed. "They don't hide by trees."
"Well, unless they ask the tree very nicely."
"And I did see a Dryad over here earlier."
He watches them, confused by the way their thoughts so easily drift away into unfamiliar territory, unsure of their words.
"Come celebrate, Caspian," Susan says, leans forward, kisses his cheek, her lips brushing by the corner of his mouth. "This is what Narnians do."
"You are Narnian, Caspian," Peter says. "And I am High King, after all, so I ought to know." He too leans forward, kisses Caspian's forehead, and his breath is like blessing, like benediction, like belief.
Susan laughs, and he watches the line of her throat as she presses her forehead against Peter's, watches Peter's lips draw into a smile. "Brother," she says, and they rise. They dart into the light, hands clasped, and they do not look back. They are greeted by laughter and the volume of the singing increases, joyful.
Susan's laces look just as tight as always, and her smile is the invitation of Narnia, and Peter laughs, long and deep and proud. Caspian climbs to his feet, joins the circle.
Susan's hand is warm, and Peter's too, and he smiles.
**
The steps are new, but clasped between Peter and Susan, Caspian dances, and later, Susan presses him against a tree, and this is new, too, but he is Narnian and he is learning.
"Should we ask for permission?" he asks, the bark catching on his shirt; Susan's brow furrows, and behind him, Peter laughs.
"Good call," Peter says, and drops to the ground, pulls them down with him.
The grass is scratchy, and damp with dew, but Caspian does not mind.
He will get used to it.
**
The fire has died, and the air is chill in the pre-dawn. Caspian hears the rustling of sleepers, the whisper of flesh and a giggle from off to the left.
"The stars are all wrong," Caspian hears, and he turns his head to see Lucy, her head pillowed on Edmund's back. Edmund lies on his stomach, rests his head upon his arms, his eyes closed, and the rise and fall of his body is hypnotic, like a lullaby.
"It's been thirteen hundred years, Lu," he replies. "Haven't you studied astronomy yet in that school of yours?"
"We never learn anything fun. Not like we did in Narnia."
"Well, things are different in Narnia."
"Oh, Ed, I know that!"
"Dancing, for example." Edmund's eyes flicker across to Caspian, and Caspian closes his eyes, shuffles as if to say he's harmless, asleep, and doesn't pause to question his actions. He's new to this royalty thing, and listening is learning. "Do you remember dancing quite like that?"
Lucy does not answer, and in the distance, Caspian hears the birds calling. He wonders if Lucy has fallen asleep.
"Do you remember Cor and Corin of Archenland?" Lucy asks, eventually, and Caspian remembers the stories his old nurse told, the tale of the twin and the lost prince of Archenland and his beautiful wife.
Edmund makes a very unattractive sound. "I shall never forget those troublemakers."
"Do you remember when Corin declared war on Galma, and issued trial by combat and you accidentally fought on his behalf?" Edmund hums his acknowledgement. "And do you remember the celebrations afterward, that lovely Oceanid with the warm hands and that Satyr from the South?"
"Oh," Edmund says after a pause. "Yes. Oh."
"So there you are," Lucy says, knowing that she has won. A rustle follows her triumph, and Caspian opens his eyes to see Lucy wandering away, her footsteps soft and her brother, carefully treading behind, wandering into the dawn.
Caspian closes his eyes, Susan's breath warm against his shoulder. He wonders about the Satyr, about these little children with memories longer than his own, their intimate knowledge of old legends.
Beside him, Peter stirs, the lion rampant upon his coats and his hand flexing for his sword, and Caspian wonders if he will ever really be Narnian.
**
He thinks to himself, I will try.
**
They disappear, these Kings and Queens of old, back into history and legend and this odd world where they are nobodies, children. Quietly, Telmarines file past him, old friends he knew as a child, old maids he watched selling fruits in the square, people who are scared to go but too scared to stay. He does not plead with them, does not ask them to trust him, because some things cannot be argued, just watches until the last is gone and the tree winds back in upon itself.
"Well, King Caspian," Aslan says, turning to him. "What now?"
Caspian looks out across the square, and though the Telmarines now number less than a quarter, the square is slowly filling with Old Narnians, centaurs and fauns and minotaurs and they mingle together, Old Narnians and New Narnians alike, and he has no idea what he is doing but he is their king. He reaches for the horn, some tangible evidence that he is not alone, but his hand flexes, empty.
"Caspian," Aslan says, almost reproach, and the lion is fierce but Caspian loves him.
"Narnians," he says, because it is expected of him, and they are in Narnia, now, and he loves them. "Let us settle back into our land."
The laughter and cheering spreads like a ripple as they dance their way into the castle and into the lands beyond, the pipes echoing through the streets, and they are all Narnians, and they are his, and they are home.
END
