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prunesquallormdTitle: With A Clouded View (Part 4 of 9)
Fandom: Chronicles of Narnia
Pairing(s): Lucy/Susan
Rating: PG for this part. NC-17 overall
Summary: In which Lucy hatches a plan, and there is cross-dressing.
Word count: 3177
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.
Erm yeah. Apparently I posted the last part of this on May 23 of last year. Fail! I guess it's lucky that I only write as a hobby XD.
I can't really imagine anyone is particularly interested in this any more, I'm mostly just writing for myself really. It's been written for a little while actually but for one reason or another it hasn't really been in a fit state to post. Plus, it was a complete bitch to get on paper and I wanted to have the next part ready to roll just in case this one seemed like complete filler!
Loads and loads of thanks to my beta, who this time round was likecharity, who stepped in at the last minute, despite not really enjoying beta-ing. Thank you so much ♥♥♥
Dedication: This is for jules2112, just because :) ♥
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 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).
With a Clouded View, Part 4
That night, she sleeps the sleep of the blessed dead: black, dreamless and utterly restful. She awakes with a smile on her lips, stretching luxuriously. Of course she can recall how she felt before, she just doesn't remember precisely why.
She has so much to do. So much to do and so little time. She curses the months of her indecision, curses Aslan in the most affectionate terms for allowing her to become so lost in her own guilt, and for so long. (She has only the most shadowy memory of their conversation. She would dismiss it as a dream but for the other signs of his presence: the joy and peace she felt on awakening, the merest sensation of a breath on her forehead, the ghost of a kiss. They are signs more compelling and more real than any her eyes could provide).
It's two weeks till the autumn equinox. Two day after that is the day. It seems a pitifully short time to work the alchemy that will be required to transmute the predicted evening of leaden despair into something far more precious. Oh, for the Lion's sake, she can name it now can't she? A kiss. The dream of it consumes her, it's all she wants. All she needs for her life to be complete.
One kiss. That's all she needs.
It seems so simple. It doesn't for one moment occur to her that she may be unable to stop at one.
**
The Council Chamber of Cair Paravel is as far from the grandeur of the nearby throne-room as it is possible to be. Not one of them thinks that the throne-room serves any but a ceremonial purpose – as well as being rather useful to put the wind up any number of foreign dignitaries. This is where the business of government actually happens, where the real decisions are made.
It is not without its comforts. Large, bright and airy, stone walls and heavy draperies keep it warm in winter and cool in summer. Gorgeous tapestries line the walls, a gift from King Lune in the early days of their reign. The chairs that surround the council table are upholstered in rich red velvet. (Edmund's original suggestion – that the upholstery be decorated with the royal arms – had been gently overruled by Susan, who had patiently explained to him that it might be considered disrespectful to be seen to be sitting on Narnia's patron. It had taken him longer than he will now admit to accept the argument with good grace).
The table is round, so ancient that the wood has been worn marble-smooth and almost black. Thirteen chairs circle it, one of which is kept permanently empty. Peter likes to call it their siege perilous, Lucy has never understood why. Often she believes that he does it simply to irritate her.
**
Lucy conceals a yawn in her sleeve and simultaneously attempts to scratch her itching nose. Council seems interminable, all the more so because she has tried so hard to focus properly on the proceedings. It has not been an eventful session; it so rarely is. Lucy has struggled through discussions of border security (the Giants are restless; the Giants are always restless) and the endless trade negotiations. (She is certain now that most of the delegations are simply drawing out the talks to ensure their presence at her birthday celebrations. The rumours, despite all efforts, have been damnably persistent). She has even been able to engage in the debate at times. She is proud of that, at least.
Edmund's comments on Narnia's internal affairs are brief and to the point. His bafflement is charming to behold, really.
“No crime. No dissent. No unrest of any sort. The last petition I dealt with was three months ago, and that was in relation to mining operations in the Southern Mountains. And honestly, that's only a problem because the border's always been a little hazy round there and, well, we really don't want to go stepping on dear old Lune's toes.”
“You seem a little disappointed, brother,” Susan says with a laugh (and something low in Lucy's belly thrums at the sound, causing her to press her thighs together just that little bit too hard and shift uncomfortably in her seat). “Is our home a little too idyllic for your liking? Not enough excitement for you, perhaps?”
Edmund's brow climbs towards his hairline as he fixes his sister with the faintest look of reproach. She meets it with an easy smile, her chin in her palm. The scritch of Derren's quill ceases for a moment as his eyes flicker between the two. Genuine arguments are rare in Council but Edmund has been known on occasion to be perhaps a little oversensitive to even the most playful of his older siblings' jibes.
It passes in moments. Edmund's pursed lips relax into a smile. Susan winks at him.
“I'm merely bringing to the notice of the Council our rather remarkable good fortune. Or, who knows, perhaps we're actually good at this after all? Which would be a wonder, quite frankly. Ours was hardly an ideal ascension.”
Peter harrumphs (it is a word that Lucy had thought meaningless but nothing could come closer to describing the sound. For a moment he seems three times his age).
“Well, we have had a little practice by now, Ed. I hope you're not implying that we're entirely hopeless,” he says, sounding a little put out. “And I do think that putting our peace and prosperity down to mere good fortune is less than fair to our excellent advisers, for one thing.” The sweep of Peter's arm takes in the whole table though, truth be told, today's session could hardly be said to be well-attended. It rarely is, except in times of crisis, and those are mercifully few.
As her eyes follow her brother's rather exaggerated gesture, Lucy takes a moment to study each of the councillors there present. With so little time until her birthday she can ill afford to delay any longer. She could have wished for an even poorer attendance, but still, it could be more uncomfortable. She has known most of them for as long as she can remember. In many ways they are like family, which is to say that, as often as not, they make Lucy want to scream.
Her siblings are arrayed at the cardinal points. Peter, as the eldest, had insisted on north, which still baffles her. Her own seat – to the rising sun, and Aslan's country – has always seemed to her to be far more prestigious. The fact that she faces her sister has only recently become a matter of enjoyment to her. It seems fitting, somehow, that Susan holds the west; of evening, and soft moonlight, and aching dreams (Lucy pinches herself on the leg as hard as she can through her breeches. Stop that). Edmund has the south - opposite his brother, though rarely opposing him in anything but jest – all light and warmth and bluster. He goes to such lengths to hide the shadows that haunt him, even now. She respects that, as they have none of them respected her own privacy.
Of the remaining places, four are empty on this particularly blustery September morning; four, that is, besides the 13th always empty (purely-there-to-be-a-constant-source-of-private-jokes-to-irritate-their-youngest-sibling) chair. (Lucy is certain that that is both its name and its function. She will remain certain of it for as long as she lives).
And of the others? They deserve to be named, at the very least. There is Tumnus (in Lucy's eyes first and forever foremost of all the Narnians) who sits at her right hand, ever ready with advice, insight, and a gently penetrating wit.
Rhyddion sits at Peter's right (the ever-infuriating 13th chair is to the High King's left), pale haired, soft of voice, and yet with a steeliness of determination that is belied by his habitual gentleness. Derren – Rhyddion's younger brother, Lucy's putative partner (oh, how she cringes to think of it) – occupies the chair to his brother's right. The quill that is the most obvious badge of his secretarial duties rarely pauses, yet still he seems to take in the smallest nuance of the proceedings.
The Lady Angharad takes the position of trust at Susan's right. Susan is ten years the junior of Angharad and Rhiannon, her twin, whose own seat to Susan's left is currently vacant, but they remain her closest friends and most trusted advisors. Lucy's anxiety in their presence has waxed until the spring tide of her guilt has more than once threatened to overwhelm her yet again. She has to force herself to meet Angharad's eyes with a smile, her heart pounding the while.
Mr Beaver rounds out today's session, ever the voice of reason at Edmund's side. He and his wife had once occupied the space between Lucy and her youngest brother, that is until the entire Council had demanded their separation in an attempt to mitigate their endless, if entirely good-natured, marital bickering. Shatterstaff, when he is present, has come to act as a more than adequate shield between the two. His place (a chair in name only, of course. Centaurs do not hold with chairs) is empty today, however, and Mrs Beaver, or so her husband has been told to inform the Council, has Important Things To Do. No one would dare gainsay her.
Mr Tumnus laughs. He is little changed since their first meeting, for all that he now has the ear of monarchs and is powerful in his own right. His laughter still has the tinkle of bells on a summer's evening.
“I'm sure your royal brother wouldn't be so remiss as to undervalue the work of this august body, Your Majesty,” he says, his eyes sparkling with amusement. “His point is well made and well taken, I think. Perhaps, after a hundred years of misfortune, Narnia has earned the good luck that she now enjoys.”
A gentle murmur of agreement meets his words. It is all too easy to forget how it was before. Guilt nags at her, an itch she can never quite seem to scratch. She sees it in the faces of the other humans in Council. A century of suffering and fear. And the hunger. Tumnus has told her about it, once and once only, and only then because she insisted, refused to accept any answer but yes. For one night, he had answered every question she had to ask, his voice measured and clear, his eyes on hers. He held her in the end, as she wept, for the pity and horror of it all, for the pain and the shame. She has never forgotten.
She takes his hand where it lies on the table and squeezes it wordlessly. His smile is bright in response. He leaves his hand where it is, however.
“Come now, Your Majesties, gentlemen, My Lady.” (And Angharad returns his smile with one even brighter than his own. Lucy is almost certain that Harry's eyes don't flicker towards her in that moment, but her heart still thuds uncomfortably in her chest). “Come. I believe we have far more joyous matters to discuss. After all, it is not every day that the best of our number comes of age.”
Angharad's eyes most certainly do fall on Lucy now, seven other pairs of eyes with them, and it is all that Lucy can do not to slump under their combined assault. By the Lion, she's a queen and the equal of every single person here. She will not cower like a schoolgirl.
She forces herself to sit straighter, lift her chin just a little higher, and resolutely ignore the heat flowing up her chest and neck and into her cheeks. She smiles, grace personified. At least, she can only hope so.
“Thank you, Tumnus.” It seems petulant to withdraw her hand now, and yet surely she can't leave it there. Oh god.
She takes a deep breath and starts again. “That's really very sweet of you, if a little too generous. I'm sure I'm not the best of anyone's number, for one thing. And I don't recall 17 being of any particular significance?”
The chamber is still, eight people hanging courteously on her words. Wherever she looks she is forced to meet someone's eyes. She smiles briefly at Susan and is rewarded by a look, all cheer and encouragement, that she feels all the way to her toes. Just at the lower edge of her vision she can see the swell of her sister's breasts beneath the green of her dress. She flicks her eyes away quickly, all too aware of the scrutiny that she is under. If she looks left she will be forced to meet Harry's gaze, all piercing blue and endlessly questioning, that seems always to see more than Lucy would like. Instead, she looks right.
Derren's quill has paused for a moment and his lips quirk in a smile as their eyes lock. He doesn't drop his gaze and she feels no need to, taking in, as if for the first time, the softness of yellow hair hanging to his shoulders, the delicate, almost feminine features. She's been told more than once that he resembles her far more than any of her siblings do.
It comes to her out of clear air then, the final piece of her design sliding into place. She grins at him, prompting a slightly quizzical look in return. It's perfect, really, and it is all Lucy can do not to smirk at her own cleverness.
**
It's not like looking at her reflection, not exactly like that, at least. Lucy can't help thinking (worrying) that Derren makes a more convincing girl than she ever could.
He had taken a little persuading, although actually far less than she had feared. “Pretty but wicked,” that's how Susan describes him and for all that he is by no means a child any longer his fondness for mischief is unabated. He has not even enquired after the details of her design, much less its purpose.
“Well, Your Majesty.” He twirls before her once more. “Do I look the part?”
“I think I should be calling you 'Your Majesty'.” Lucy giggles, delighted beyond all expectations. “It's a wonder. My own sister could not tell the deception.” (She offers up a brief, silent prayer. Please let it be true.)
“I fear that the same could not be said of you. You're far too pretty to be mistaken for me.” Derren lifts her chin, locking eyes with her through the black leather of her mask. He bites his lip, thoughtful and, perhaps, just the slightest bit anxious. His own mask is a thing of beauty – feathers and lace, a swans visage to complement the silk and feathers of his – her – dress. A simple white veil covers his head, obscuring his outline and, she hopes, concealing the unfortunate reality that Narnia's youngest queen has, it seems, grown at least three inches overnight.
“And you're far too kind, and far too modest. You wear that better than I ever could,” she says, absolutely sincere.
“I don't really know what to think of that.” Derren laughs. “Are you saying that I look like a girl?” But there is no rancour in his tone.
Lucy ignores the question. She checks herself in the mirror of her chamber for the last time, setting her wide-brimmed hat with its own single feather at an angle that Derren assures her is sufficiently jaunty. She ignores the discomfort of her bound breasts beneath the black leather of her jerkin and the silk of her tunic – black also – and rests her left hand on the pommel of her sword. Black breeches and black knee-high boots complete her costume (disguise). The yellow of her hair – braided and pinned though it is – is shocking against the otherwise unrelieved starkness, yet Lucy is pleased. She looks dashing almost, and entirely unlike herself.
“Your Majesty” she says, offering her free arm to her companion. “It would be my honour to escort you on this happy day.”
“The honour is all mine, My Lord,” Derren responds with a laugh and a somewhat graceless curtsey that makes Lucy wince. Her heart is pounding now, but she refuses to let the sheer lunacy of her plans overwhelm her. She takes Derren's hand and threads his arm through her own.
“Thankfully, a queen never curtseys. Remember that, please.” She can hear an edge to her voice and feels guilty immediately. “Just, oh, I don't know, stay in the shadows and look uncomfortable and awkward, and, and like you'd rather be anywhere else in the world. And whatever else you may do, please, please, please don't accept any offers of marriage. If I awaken tomorrow to discover that I'm betrothed to some obnoxious Calormene princeling I'll be most displeased.” She is shaking; it is the more obvious now because Derren is so completely steady. He places a hand on her elbow where it visibly quakes in the crook of his arm.
“Hush. I will be the very soul of discretion, you know you can have complete faith in me.” He tries to catch her gaze but she's staring at the floor, desperately battling the roiling mass of worms that seems suddenly to be threatening to force its way up into her throat. “If you'll forgive me for saying so, I cannot help but be concerned that the threat to your honour, and, might I say, your heart, does not come from me tonight.”
She does meet his eyes now. She feels like an insect transfixed on a needle.
“It's not too late to turn back from this course. Whatever it is that you plan you can stop it now, if you would.”
But Lucy stands a little straighter and forces her brightest, sunniest smile. Whatever else happens tonight, she is more determined than she has been about anything in her life. She will have her kiss.
“What's the matter, Derren, my dear? Don't you have the stomach for the sport?”
His answering smile is positively luminous. Derren never was one to be outdone. “As you wish. Well, my lord” (and his voice is a little softer than usual, and just that little bit lighter. Not Lucy's voice, perhaps, but not his own, either. Perhaps it will be enough) “I believe you have a ball to escort me to. Please do so.”
Lucy grins and almost yanks him towards the door. She catches their reflections from the corner of her eye and struggles to suppress the thrill that surges through her.
The corridor outside her rooms is empty and silent. The moon, full and bright through the windows, throws unrecognisable shadows onto the wall.
Fandom: Chronicles of Narnia
Pairing(s): Lucy/Susan
Rating: PG for this part. NC-17 overall
Summary: In which Lucy hatches a plan, and there is cross-dressing.
Word count: 3177
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.
Erm yeah. Apparently I posted the last part of this on May 23 of last year. Fail! I guess it's lucky that I only write as a hobby XD.
I can't really imagine anyone is particularly interested in this any more, I'm mostly just writing for myself really. It's been written for a little while actually but for one reason or another it hasn't really been in a fit state to post. Plus, it was a complete bitch to get on paper and I wanted to have the next part ready to roll just in case this one seemed like complete filler!
Loads and loads of thanks to my beta, who this time round was likecharity, who stepped in at the last minute, despite not really enjoying beta-ing. Thank you so much ♥♥♥
Dedication: This is for jules2112, just because :) ♥
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 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).
With a Clouded View, Part 4
That night, she sleeps the sleep of the blessed dead: black, dreamless and utterly restful. She awakes with a smile on her lips, stretching luxuriously. Of course she can recall how she felt before, she just doesn't remember precisely why.
She has so much to do. So much to do and so little time. She curses the months of her indecision, curses Aslan in the most affectionate terms for allowing her to become so lost in her own guilt, and for so long. (She has only the most shadowy memory of their conversation. She would dismiss it as a dream but for the other signs of his presence: the joy and peace she felt on awakening, the merest sensation of a breath on her forehead, the ghost of a kiss. They are signs more compelling and more real than any her eyes could provide).
It's two weeks till the autumn equinox. Two day after that is the day. It seems a pitifully short time to work the alchemy that will be required to transmute the predicted evening of leaden despair into something far more precious. Oh, for the Lion's sake, she can name it now can't she? A kiss. The dream of it consumes her, it's all she wants. All she needs for her life to be complete.
One kiss. That's all she needs.
It seems so simple. It doesn't for one moment occur to her that she may be unable to stop at one.
**
The Council Chamber of Cair Paravel is as far from the grandeur of the nearby throne-room as it is possible to be. Not one of them thinks that the throne-room serves any but a ceremonial purpose – as well as being rather useful to put the wind up any number of foreign dignitaries. This is where the business of government actually happens, where the real decisions are made.
It is not without its comforts. Large, bright and airy, stone walls and heavy draperies keep it warm in winter and cool in summer. Gorgeous tapestries line the walls, a gift from King Lune in the early days of their reign. The chairs that surround the council table are upholstered in rich red velvet. (Edmund's original suggestion – that the upholstery be decorated with the royal arms – had been gently overruled by Susan, who had patiently explained to him that it might be considered disrespectful to be seen to be sitting on Narnia's patron. It had taken him longer than he will now admit to accept the argument with good grace).
The table is round, so ancient that the wood has been worn marble-smooth and almost black. Thirteen chairs circle it, one of which is kept permanently empty. Peter likes to call it their siege perilous, Lucy has never understood why. Often she believes that he does it simply to irritate her.
**
Lucy conceals a yawn in her sleeve and simultaneously attempts to scratch her itching nose. Council seems interminable, all the more so because she has tried so hard to focus properly on the proceedings. It has not been an eventful session; it so rarely is. Lucy has struggled through discussions of border security (the Giants are restless; the Giants are always restless) and the endless trade negotiations. (She is certain now that most of the delegations are simply drawing out the talks to ensure their presence at her birthday celebrations. The rumours, despite all efforts, have been damnably persistent). She has even been able to engage in the debate at times. She is proud of that, at least.
Edmund's comments on Narnia's internal affairs are brief and to the point. His bafflement is charming to behold, really.
“No crime. No dissent. No unrest of any sort. The last petition I dealt with was three months ago, and that was in relation to mining operations in the Southern Mountains. And honestly, that's only a problem because the border's always been a little hazy round there and, well, we really don't want to go stepping on dear old Lune's toes.”
“You seem a little disappointed, brother,” Susan says with a laugh (and something low in Lucy's belly thrums at the sound, causing her to press her thighs together just that little bit too hard and shift uncomfortably in her seat). “Is our home a little too idyllic for your liking? Not enough excitement for you, perhaps?”
Edmund's brow climbs towards his hairline as he fixes his sister with the faintest look of reproach. She meets it with an easy smile, her chin in her palm. The scritch of Derren's quill ceases for a moment as his eyes flicker between the two. Genuine arguments are rare in Council but Edmund has been known on occasion to be perhaps a little oversensitive to even the most playful of his older siblings' jibes.
It passes in moments. Edmund's pursed lips relax into a smile. Susan winks at him.
“I'm merely bringing to the notice of the Council our rather remarkable good fortune. Or, who knows, perhaps we're actually good at this after all? Which would be a wonder, quite frankly. Ours was hardly an ideal ascension.”
Peter harrumphs (it is a word that Lucy had thought meaningless but nothing could come closer to describing the sound. For a moment he seems three times his age).
“Well, we have had a little practice by now, Ed. I hope you're not implying that we're entirely hopeless,” he says, sounding a little put out. “And I do think that putting our peace and prosperity down to mere good fortune is less than fair to our excellent advisers, for one thing.” The sweep of Peter's arm takes in the whole table though, truth be told, today's session could hardly be said to be well-attended. It rarely is, except in times of crisis, and those are mercifully few.
As her eyes follow her brother's rather exaggerated gesture, Lucy takes a moment to study each of the councillors there present. With so little time until her birthday she can ill afford to delay any longer. She could have wished for an even poorer attendance, but still, it could be more uncomfortable. She has known most of them for as long as she can remember. In many ways they are like family, which is to say that, as often as not, they make Lucy want to scream.
Her siblings are arrayed at the cardinal points. Peter, as the eldest, had insisted on north, which still baffles her. Her own seat – to the rising sun, and Aslan's country – has always seemed to her to be far more prestigious. The fact that she faces her sister has only recently become a matter of enjoyment to her. It seems fitting, somehow, that Susan holds the west; of evening, and soft moonlight, and aching dreams (Lucy pinches herself on the leg as hard as she can through her breeches. Stop that). Edmund has the south - opposite his brother, though rarely opposing him in anything but jest – all light and warmth and bluster. He goes to such lengths to hide the shadows that haunt him, even now. She respects that, as they have none of them respected her own privacy.
Of the remaining places, four are empty on this particularly blustery September morning; four, that is, besides the 13th always empty (purely-there-to-be-a-constant-source-of-private-jokes-to-irritate-their-youngest-sibling) chair. (Lucy is certain that that is both its name and its function. She will remain certain of it for as long as she lives).
And of the others? They deserve to be named, at the very least. There is Tumnus (in Lucy's eyes first and forever foremost of all the Narnians) who sits at her right hand, ever ready with advice, insight, and a gently penetrating wit.
Rhyddion sits at Peter's right (the ever-infuriating 13th chair is to the High King's left), pale haired, soft of voice, and yet with a steeliness of determination that is belied by his habitual gentleness. Derren – Rhyddion's younger brother, Lucy's putative partner (oh, how she cringes to think of it) – occupies the chair to his brother's right. The quill that is the most obvious badge of his secretarial duties rarely pauses, yet still he seems to take in the smallest nuance of the proceedings.
The Lady Angharad takes the position of trust at Susan's right. Susan is ten years the junior of Angharad and Rhiannon, her twin, whose own seat to Susan's left is currently vacant, but they remain her closest friends and most trusted advisors. Lucy's anxiety in their presence has waxed until the spring tide of her guilt has more than once threatened to overwhelm her yet again. She has to force herself to meet Angharad's eyes with a smile, her heart pounding the while.
Mr Beaver rounds out today's session, ever the voice of reason at Edmund's side. He and his wife had once occupied the space between Lucy and her youngest brother, that is until the entire Council had demanded their separation in an attempt to mitigate their endless, if entirely good-natured, marital bickering. Shatterstaff, when he is present, has come to act as a more than adequate shield between the two. His place (a chair in name only, of course. Centaurs do not hold with chairs) is empty today, however, and Mrs Beaver, or so her husband has been told to inform the Council, has Important Things To Do. No one would dare gainsay her.
Mr Tumnus laughs. He is little changed since their first meeting, for all that he now has the ear of monarchs and is powerful in his own right. His laughter still has the tinkle of bells on a summer's evening.
“I'm sure your royal brother wouldn't be so remiss as to undervalue the work of this august body, Your Majesty,” he says, his eyes sparkling with amusement. “His point is well made and well taken, I think. Perhaps, after a hundred years of misfortune, Narnia has earned the good luck that she now enjoys.”
A gentle murmur of agreement meets his words. It is all too easy to forget how it was before. Guilt nags at her, an itch she can never quite seem to scratch. She sees it in the faces of the other humans in Council. A century of suffering and fear. And the hunger. Tumnus has told her about it, once and once only, and only then because she insisted, refused to accept any answer but yes. For one night, he had answered every question she had to ask, his voice measured and clear, his eyes on hers. He held her in the end, as she wept, for the pity and horror of it all, for the pain and the shame. She has never forgotten.
She takes his hand where it lies on the table and squeezes it wordlessly. His smile is bright in response. He leaves his hand where it is, however.
“Come now, Your Majesties, gentlemen, My Lady.” (And Angharad returns his smile with one even brighter than his own. Lucy is almost certain that Harry's eyes don't flicker towards her in that moment, but her heart still thuds uncomfortably in her chest). “Come. I believe we have far more joyous matters to discuss. After all, it is not every day that the best of our number comes of age.”
Angharad's eyes most certainly do fall on Lucy now, seven other pairs of eyes with them, and it is all that Lucy can do not to slump under their combined assault. By the Lion, she's a queen and the equal of every single person here. She will not cower like a schoolgirl.
She forces herself to sit straighter, lift her chin just a little higher, and resolutely ignore the heat flowing up her chest and neck and into her cheeks. She smiles, grace personified. At least, she can only hope so.
“Thank you, Tumnus.” It seems petulant to withdraw her hand now, and yet surely she can't leave it there. Oh god.
She takes a deep breath and starts again. “That's really very sweet of you, if a little too generous. I'm sure I'm not the best of anyone's number, for one thing. And I don't recall 17 being of any particular significance?”
The chamber is still, eight people hanging courteously on her words. Wherever she looks she is forced to meet someone's eyes. She smiles briefly at Susan and is rewarded by a look, all cheer and encouragement, that she feels all the way to her toes. Just at the lower edge of her vision she can see the swell of her sister's breasts beneath the green of her dress. She flicks her eyes away quickly, all too aware of the scrutiny that she is under. If she looks left she will be forced to meet Harry's gaze, all piercing blue and endlessly questioning, that seems always to see more than Lucy would like. Instead, she looks right.
Derren's quill has paused for a moment and his lips quirk in a smile as their eyes lock. He doesn't drop his gaze and she feels no need to, taking in, as if for the first time, the softness of yellow hair hanging to his shoulders, the delicate, almost feminine features. She's been told more than once that he resembles her far more than any of her siblings do.
It comes to her out of clear air then, the final piece of her design sliding into place. She grins at him, prompting a slightly quizzical look in return. It's perfect, really, and it is all Lucy can do not to smirk at her own cleverness.
**
It's not like looking at her reflection, not exactly like that, at least. Lucy can't help thinking (worrying) that Derren makes a more convincing girl than she ever could.
He had taken a little persuading, although actually far less than she had feared. “Pretty but wicked,” that's how Susan describes him and for all that he is by no means a child any longer his fondness for mischief is unabated. He has not even enquired after the details of her design, much less its purpose.
“Well, Your Majesty.” He twirls before her once more. “Do I look the part?”
“I think I should be calling you 'Your Majesty'.” Lucy giggles, delighted beyond all expectations. “It's a wonder. My own sister could not tell the deception.” (She offers up a brief, silent prayer. Please let it be true.)
“I fear that the same could not be said of you. You're far too pretty to be mistaken for me.” Derren lifts her chin, locking eyes with her through the black leather of her mask. He bites his lip, thoughtful and, perhaps, just the slightest bit anxious. His own mask is a thing of beauty – feathers and lace, a swans visage to complement the silk and feathers of his – her – dress. A simple white veil covers his head, obscuring his outline and, she hopes, concealing the unfortunate reality that Narnia's youngest queen has, it seems, grown at least three inches overnight.
“And you're far too kind, and far too modest. You wear that better than I ever could,” she says, absolutely sincere.
“I don't really know what to think of that.” Derren laughs. “Are you saying that I look like a girl?” But there is no rancour in his tone.
Lucy ignores the question. She checks herself in the mirror of her chamber for the last time, setting her wide-brimmed hat with its own single feather at an angle that Derren assures her is sufficiently jaunty. She ignores the discomfort of her bound breasts beneath the black leather of her jerkin and the silk of her tunic – black also – and rests her left hand on the pommel of her sword. Black breeches and black knee-high boots complete her costume (disguise). The yellow of her hair – braided and pinned though it is – is shocking against the otherwise unrelieved starkness, yet Lucy is pleased. She looks dashing almost, and entirely unlike herself.
“Your Majesty” she says, offering her free arm to her companion. “It would be my honour to escort you on this happy day.”
“The honour is all mine, My Lord,” Derren responds with a laugh and a somewhat graceless curtsey that makes Lucy wince. Her heart is pounding now, but she refuses to let the sheer lunacy of her plans overwhelm her. She takes Derren's hand and threads his arm through her own.
“Thankfully, a queen never curtseys. Remember that, please.” She can hear an edge to her voice and feels guilty immediately. “Just, oh, I don't know, stay in the shadows and look uncomfortable and awkward, and, and like you'd rather be anywhere else in the world. And whatever else you may do, please, please, please don't accept any offers of marriage. If I awaken tomorrow to discover that I'm betrothed to some obnoxious Calormene princeling I'll be most displeased.” She is shaking; it is the more obvious now because Derren is so completely steady. He places a hand on her elbow where it visibly quakes in the crook of his arm.
“Hush. I will be the very soul of discretion, you know you can have complete faith in me.” He tries to catch her gaze but she's staring at the floor, desperately battling the roiling mass of worms that seems suddenly to be threatening to force its way up into her throat. “If you'll forgive me for saying so, I cannot help but be concerned that the threat to your honour, and, might I say, your heart, does not come from me tonight.”
She does meet his eyes now. She feels like an insect transfixed on a needle.
“It's not too late to turn back from this course. Whatever it is that you plan you can stop it now, if you would.”
But Lucy stands a little straighter and forces her brightest, sunniest smile. Whatever else happens tonight, she is more determined than she has been about anything in her life. She will have her kiss.
“What's the matter, Derren, my dear? Don't you have the stomach for the sport?”
His answering smile is positively luminous. Derren never was one to be outdone. “As you wish. Well, my lord” (and his voice is a little softer than usual, and just that little bit lighter. Not Lucy's voice, perhaps, but not his own, either. Perhaps it will be enough) “I believe you have a ball to escort me to. Please do so.”
Lucy grins and almost yanks him towards the door. She catches their reflections from the corner of her eye and struggles to suppress the thrill that surges through her.
The corridor outside her rooms is empty and silent. The moon, full and bright through the windows, throws unrecognisable shadows onto the wall.
