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prunesquallormdTitle: With A Clouded View (Part 7 of 9)
Fandom: Chronicles of Narnia
Pairing(s): Lucy/Susan
Rating: PG for this part. NC-17 overall
Summary: In which our heroine has an altercation and discovers that she has a lot to learn on the subject of diplomacy.
Word count: ~4800
Warnings: Incest, although only implied so far. Don't like? Don't read.
Also, the briefest of moments of suicidal thoughts, but you could blink and miss them, I'm glad to say :)
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.
And still I fail at writing, apparently!
This part took about two months, and this is the first part I've posted since the end of June!
I'd say that I'd like to finish this by the summer at the latest, but then I really wanted to finish it by 2013, and well, as 2013 starts in 3 hours and 26 minutes (though not by my laptop. My laptop has gained time ever since I managed to pour half a cup of tea into it. Whoops! But it's a miracle that it still works at all and isn't just a very expensive piece of wire, metal and plastic so I should be grateful for that, I guess!) that seems rather unlikely! But hey, I have the rest planned out quite closely now and at the most it's going to be 2 more parts and an epilogue so, erm, done by next Christmas? Let's call it that, shall we, and then I can feel all pleased with myself if I get it finished before.
I fear that I'm trying the patience of even the most tolerant reader at this point (and not just with my rambling) but this long ago turned into an exercise in shear determination to finish what I started so all I can do is apologise for that, I'm afraid :)
But even after so long, I'm still loving the characters and I'm enjoying writing them, and that's the whole point of writing as a hobby, so :)
I'll stop waffling now!
As always, I'd like to thank likecharity, for her betaing and encouragement. You're fabulous! Thank you ♥♥♥
Dedication: For anyone who reads this far (and I don't actually expect many (or any) people on my f-list to actually read the story :D) I want to dedicate this to all of you, in hopes that you have a wonderful New Year and a fabulous 2013 full of happiness, joy and love ♥♥♥
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 5
Part 6
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 7
Autumn crawls towards winter and still it gets no better. She had thought she would stop being surprised that it doesn't, that every flickering light of hope is extinguished long before it can take hold, leaving the darkness all the more profound, and yet. She's done the only thing she could think of, the thing she'd dreamed of for so long. Perhaps she should have thought past that but she simply wasn't able.
She feels so stuck, paralysed with indecision, waiting breathlessly for something – anything – to happen. When it does, it's a little too late for her to say, 'Anything but that'. Will she never learn?
**
There's no escape, none. Lucy isn't sure how she managed to miss that hateful bray. Is she really that self-involved? (She chooses not to answer that).
Perhaps she's being punished.
Aslan knows, I deserve it.
She can't turn and flee. That would be an indignity too far. She grits her teeth and rounds the corner. She'd been so close to safety. Just not close enough.
The Calormene ambassador, Imenes bin Imredin, looks, if possible, more unpleasant than ever and sounds even worse. He halts himself in the middle of a furious verbal careen (the young Calormene whom he's been berating, at least, must be grateful for that) and hails Lucy.
“The felicitations of a cold, dark day to you, your little Highness. May Tash the Overwhelming bring you joy of it,” he says.
Even from half a corridor away, Lucy can see the smile on his lips. Her mood is less than good as it is. She clamps down on the response she so desperately wants to give - “little highness” indeed! - and smiles coolly at him.
“Ambassador Imenes. How delightful. I have so recently been thinking that I've missed your charm and wit. You've been so busy, and so absent.”
“It grieves me also that I may not honour the most charming of my host more often, Highness,” he says, taking her lie at face value apparently. The way his eyes flicker over her suggest a truth in his own words that makes her flesh crawl and her hackles rise.
“As ever, you are too kind,” Lucy says, through clenched teeth. “But I'm sure that you are a busy man. I would not wish to keep you from your duties any longer than necessary. I wish you a good day.”
She inclines her head (regally, she hopes) and makes to walk past.
Be dignified. Don't rush.
Imenes takes the slightest step to the side and with that makes it impossible for her to pass without brushing hard against him.
“But surely nothing is so important as pleasing Your Highness. I stand ready to serve you in any way that I can,” he says, showing his teeth in a smile that Lucy can't help but think of as wolfish.
The crawling of her flesh is joined by a coldness in the pit of her stomach. She stops and forces herself to meet his eyes. She is not smiling now, not even a little bit.
“That will be quite unnecessary. And obviously I must remind you that you are to call me Majesty, not Highness. Your Excellency,” she says.
Her heart is beating faster, blood is roaring in her ears. Suddenly she has no idea at all how this will end. She only knows that she can't back down now.
The ambassador's smile -grin, almost – is fixed. He doesn't speak for some moments. Only a few seconds but it feels like forever. And then,
“But of course,” he says. “Forgive me. I oft-times forget the formalities of your little kingdom. They are passing strange to one such as me.”
Lucy smiles again, her cold, tight smile, choosing to overlook the slight to her home.
“In my own land, I submit, no queen would allow herself to be accosted and kissed by a masked man in a moonlit garden. Clearly the dignity and virtue of queens in Narnia is something that is far beyond the understanding of your humble servant. Your Majesty.”
It takes a small while for her to fully comprehend his meaning because surely he wouldn't dare … When she does, it's like a punch in the gut; she can't breathe, the roaring in her ears reaches a crescendo.
“I beg your pardon, Your Excellency,” she says, feigning a calm she most certainly doesn't feel. “I'm not sure to what you could possibly be referring. Because I'm certain you could not be attempting to cast aspersions on my royal sister.”
She doesn't give him any opportunity to respond. The ambassador's companion looks like his dearest wish is for the ground to swallow him whole. For all Lucy cares, he may not even exist.
“Her Majesty Queen Susan is a free woman of Narnia.” Lucy can't stop the rising edge of cold fury in her voice. “Her dignity and virtue, as you put it, are beyond reproach. How dare you! How dare a snivelling little worm like you stand there and even try to question them?”
Oh Aslan, that's torn it.
“Do you think that, just because you've managed to creep and toady your way into the good graces of that monster you call a master you can stand there with impunity and insult my family, my country and my home? That just because I'm a woman you can say what you please? What is wrong with you?”
There's a part of her that can't help but enjoy the way the smirk vanishes from his face, the way his mouth falls open in shock. It's not the part of her that's speaking the words though. That part is past caring.
“Listen to me very carefully, you putrescent pig.” Oh no. “Because you obviously haven't learnt anything at all in your time here. When you insult a creature of Narnia, be they human or beast, you insult us all, and when you insult my family you had better be sure of what you do because I will be sure that you will pay for it.” Her voice is hoarse now. She realises that, all unknowing, she has been advancing on the ambassador who, at a loss as to how else to respond, has backed himself to the end of the corridor. He can go no further.
“Now get out! Get out of my sight. And if you ever dare to speak to me again I shall have you thrown in the dungeons and we'll see if your Tisroc even cares enough to ask for your release.”
She wants to just turn and run – Aslan knows, it's what she usually does – but she's determined not to give him an inch. She steels herself, staring him down.
For a moment it seems like he'll protest. He stands taller, shoulders squared. He sucks in his breath, his face twisted in fury. And then he blinks and his eyes slide downwards from her own. He slumps, just the slightest deflation but it's all that Lucy can do not to crow, in victory and relief.
“My master, the Tisroc, may he live forever, will hear of this outrage. You will live to regret what has transpired here this day, Your Majesty,” he says, his voice a hiss.
With the very slightest of bows he does his best to slip out of the corner that Lucy has backed him into. She doesn't move, doesn't step back; watching him edge along the wall to free himself makes her victory feel, if anything, even sweeter. Free at last, Imenes bin Imredin advances on his countryman and, before the poor man can flinch (and long before Lucy can believe what she's seeing) there is blood on his face. The sound of the blow, the sight of the young man's broken lip, it is all becoming too much for Lucy. She just wants to go. Anywhere.
“Azarin, you snivelling dog,” Imenes's voice is fraught with pent-up fury. “Are you a statue that you stand so mute? Move your stinking carcase or I shall ensure that you are never able to again.”
Neither of them look back. Holding herself very straight Lucy watches them go, a stream of invective in their wake. They vanish from sight in less than a minute. It seems far longer.
Safe and alone, for now at least, Lucy draws in one long, ragged, breath and slumps. It's as if all her bones have turned to water; it's all she can do to stop herself crumpling completely. Instead, a hand on the wall at her side, she sinks slowly to the ground.
**
She doesn't know how long she's been there. Not that long, surely? The door to the library is bare feet away, and well, the library of Cair Paravel may not be as well-frequented as it could be, but even so. She licks her lips. They're salt, wet with her own tears, freely streaming down her face, yet she's not crying. All her fury and tension, all her indignation, washes out of her. She shakes, tears flow, her breathing is ragged. She knows it would seem to anyone who found her like this that she's sobbing uncontrollably. That will never do.
Pull yourself together. You're being ridiculous.
She wipes her eyes and pulls herself to her feet. Truth be told, she's feeling a little pleased with herself. It's a feeling she suspects no one else will share.
Oh, what has she done?
**
Lucy awakes next morning to a very quiet uproar. Her morning walk from her own chambers to the kitchen takes her past any number of whispering couples. She's convinced that, more than once, concerned, angry, judging looks are thrown in her direction. She's not stupid. She can see what's coming before it hits, but she still curses to herself as, her hand poised to push open the great kitchen door, she hears her name.
“Lucy, there you are. By the Lion, what have been playing at?” Of course it had to be Peter. She's never heard him so angry.
She has to force herself to turn to face him, guilt and embarrassment fighting righteous indignation within her, but when she does she comes out fighting.
“Peter, honestly, aren't you going to ask my side before you get on your high horse?” she asks (and she hopes with all her heart that her voice doesn't sound as petulant as it does to her own ears). “He was being insufferably rude, and he insulted Susan. What would you have me do? Just stand there and let him?”
Peter's face is thunderous. His jerkin is half unlaced, his hair unruly.
“Well you plainly don't think you behaved properly or else why would you know what I'm talking about?” he doesn’t quite scream. Even so Lucy can't tell if he's furious or simply exasperated. A little of both, she suspects.
“Of course I know what you're talking about. Or what? Are you saying that I mess up so much that I'd have to ask you to tell me which of my endless mistakes you're angry about today? I know I'm a disappointment to you. I know anyone else in Cair Paravel could do a better job of this than me, but don't you dare suggest I don't at least try. And don't make out that I'm stupid either. Do you think that helps?” She can feel herself losing control again. She's not quite screaming yet, either, but she's close.
“Aslan, Lu, you're hearing things again. When did I say you're stupid?” Peter asks her, a little more quietly now. He can never maintain his full, righteous fury in the face of Lucy's own anger. Being the youngest does have some benefits (though Lucy can never see it). “But really, you threaten to clap the Calormene ambassador in irons and you don't expect anyone is going to be even a little annoyed at you?”
“I didn't say anything at all about clapping him in irons!” she says furiously (because of course, clearly that's the most important point to get across). “You see, he's a liar as well as being insufferably arrogant.”
Peter raises his eyebrows and waits for her to continue. He has his arms crossed and he's drumming the fingers of his right hand against his left bicep. Lucy can never withstand that look for long.
“Oh, all right. I said I'd have him thrown in the dungeons,” she says, far more calmly and more than a little sheepish.
“And that's obviously entirely different, and by no means a ridiculous thing to say.” His exasperation is clear now, it's drowned out the anger almost completely. He looks so, so tired. “Why did you do it? At least help me understand that.”
“Oh you know what he's like,” Lucy says, fumbling for the words. “He's just so rude, and he said that Susan was kissing strange men, and, and, the way he looks at me. It's like ...”
She's struggling. She had felt so certain of her reasons before but as she grasps for them, tries to force them into words, she can feel them slipping away.
“He's just horrible.”
And yet again, she just manages to seem utterly pitiful.
Peter sighs heavily, his shoulders slumping. She wishes she could tell him what he needs to hear. It feels like years since that's been even remotely possible.
**
Barely half way through October and already the wind cuts to the bone. A couple of hours past noon, the light is wan, feeble, nothing more than the herald of the approaching twilight. As much as Lucy loves her home, on days like this, the sea a constant crash and roll, the clouds low and angry, she can't help the bleakness that settles over her. She hugs herself, her hands numbing even through gloves; hood and cloak near useless. She's ten feet or more from the cliff, she hadn't trusted herself, or the wind, to go closer, but ice still settles in her belly. A few steps, that's all it would take. A few steps, a few seconds, and then nothing.
It's a fleeting thought, nothing more. She can't unravel the feelings it awakes in her and she doesn't want to try.
“Ho, Your Majesty!” Even over the bluster of the wind the voice manages to sound both powerful and good-humoured. “Tis a wild day to be braving these cliff-tops.”
Lune's voice. Hearing it somehow always makes Lucy smile and she smiles now, her bleak mood momentarily forgotten. Turning from the expanse of sky and ocean she can see him struggling up the headland towards her. Cair Paravel in the distance seems pure white in the gloom, reflecting what little light there is. She so often forgets how beautiful it is.
Taking pity, Lucy doesn't force Lune to struggle all the way to meet her. He turns as she reaches him, offering her his arm as he does so. As so often when matters of state don't dictate otherwise, he's dressed simply, in hunting leathers. Lucy takes the proffered arm, curtseying playfully. He makes her feel young again and she's ever grateful for it.
“You are too kind, Your Majesty,” she says, trying (failing) to school her face into seriousness. “I do hope that you haven't braved the cold and wind on my account. I would hate for you to catch a chill for my sake.”
Smiling as he is he still looks troubled. He makes no pretence at maintaining Lucy's attempt at playful formality. “I would risk more than a chill for you, Lucy, you may forever be assured of that,” he says. “And though I do love to be abroad on days such as this, the ocean has never been a favourite vista of mine. The forest and the mountains will always hold the first place in my heart.
”
“Do you miss Archenland terribly?” Lucy asks.
“Every day. But it has been a few short weeks only, and I will see my home again soon enough. Sooner, perhaps, than I ever anticipated.” There is the slightest edge to this voice, a thing so unusual in him that it makes Lucy stop and turn to face him. She says nothing but she's certain that her face asks all the questions that she could ever want to.
“Ah yes, perhaps news of the most recent development has failed to reach this cliff top,” Lune says, a small smile on his lips. “It appears that his esteemed Excellency Imenes bin Imredin has been causing a great stir yet again. He appears to have taken some sort of offence at something.” He shakes his head. His look of exasperation is very much the twin to Peter's though in Lune it makes Lucy feel guilty rather than infuriated. “Whatever did you say to him, my dear? Whatever it was, it was really most effective. I haven't seen that amount of self-righteous outrage in many a moon.”
He has a way of asking questions without seeming to criticise that her brothers and Susan can never seem to manage (at least, not where Lucy is concerned). She knows she should feel guilt (and it is, after all, her most practised response) but instead there is mostly relief. Yes, she's ruined everything, again, and caused endless trouble for everyone, again, but at the very least Lune will understand. Won't he?
**
The King of Archenland has had his own private apartments at Cair Paravel for as long as anyone can remember, just as Narnia's rulers have their chambers at the castle at Anvard (so long unused , waiting forlorn and empty, during that long, hard Winter). Lune – unpretentious and seemingly ever cheerful – has stamped his own personality in every little part of the rooms that Lucy follows him into. They are grand and imposing yet Lune has managed to make them feel warm and comforting. Very much, in fact, like himself.
Speaking a few words to a pleasant-looking young secretary (and Lucy wonders how it's possible that she could never have noticed him before) Lune ushers her into a rather cluttered and cosy drawing room. It feels so long since she was last here. She remembers playing with Corin here when she was barely older than the prince is now. She smiles, wondering what mischief he's getting himself into. There's always something.
Brightly coloured tapestries cover the walls; there are thick, fluffy rugs on the floor and draped over settles that a person could just sink into and never want to leave. The castle at Anvard graces one of the walls, so delicately sewn that Lucy has always fancied that, if she were to put an eye to one of the windows, she could see the hustle and bustle of activity within. It's a scene of high summer, Anvard at its most beautiful, the sun high in the sky, a hunting party gathered just before the gate. Lush, green forests; lofty peaks that leave Lucy feel more than a little light-headed; valleys and rivers and sparkling blue meres. All this and more is spread across the walls before her, in warp and weft. It almost makes her homesick for Archenland herself.
A queen in her own castle, she knows she need not wait for permission to sit but she does so anyway. She loves the old king more than enough to show him that courtesy. Lune points Lucy to an overstuffed settle (all greens and golds and browns. Forest colours, Lune's favourites). She curls into it, tucking her feet under her, as unselfconscious, for once, as a cat. Lune himself takes a straight-backed and rather uncomfortable looking chair at a desk laden with neatly arranged parchment rolls and books; he clears a space for his elbows and leans heavily forward, his eyes fixed on Lucy's, a reassuring smile on his lips.
“Well, my dear. It has been far too long since we have spoken at length. I have been remiss, I think. But so, perhaps, have you,” he says, with a twinkle in his eye. “We've hardly seen each other since I arrived, and you were sadly absent for your own birthday ball. Not that it wasn't a most enjoyable and eventful affair, all the same.”
Lucy winces (inwardly only, she hopes) and smiles rather weakly.
“Um, yes, it was certainly lively,” she says. “It's strange that you didn't see me though. I saw you. You looked wonderful. Very dashing.”
“Why, thank you. I did my best to honour your special day. Though I think that your mind was on more pressing things than the celebration of another year survived.” Lune's eyes are clear and bright and they bore into her own as he speaks.
Lucy can feel a prickly heat flowing upwards, from her chest, up her neck, until her whole face burns. She swallows reflexively, but of a sudden her mouth is dust-dry. It is all she can do not to drop her eyes and stare at the floor, shamefaced. Shatterstaff, at least, would be proud of her. How long has he spent drumming it into her? No free creature, and assuredly no queen of Narnia, should ever be ashamed to meet another's gaze. Though, honestly, she should at least be able to say something too, shouldn't she? Staring dumbly does no one much good.
There is a rap on the door, followed momentarily by the bustling of Lune's secretary, returning with a tray on which he bears two steaming goblets. The smell of hot, spiced wine hits Lucy's nostrils.
“Ah, Dara, my good man,” Lune says, mercifully releasing Lucy's eyes. “Thank you, thank you. You are just in time. I think Her Majesty's throat is a little parched. Leave them on the table, would you? I do hope you have a goblet for yourself? No? You really must. It's far too bitter a day to be undefended from the elements, even indoors. Do go and fetch one for yourself. And perhaps you could be so good as to retrieve the rest of the flagon while you're about it?”
Unable to do anything but nod and smile over his king's unceasing chatter, it is mere seconds before Dara is absent once more, leaving only the wine in his wake.
Rising from his chair and taking up a goblet with a little flourish Lune bears it over to Lucy. He waits, rather solicitously, watching intently as she takes a long draught. Red and rich, the wine warms her to her toes. It does little to loosen her tongue, though, nor to calm the patter of her heart. At least now she'll have something on which to blame the flush in her cheeks.
Seemingly at least partly satisfied, Lune seats himself once more as Lucy lowers the cup and wipes stray droplets of wine fastidiously from her lips with thumb and forefinger.
“It's not so long ago that I forget what it's like to be young, you know,” Lune says. His eyes are half-closed. “Life is .. confusing. No less so for a monarch than a commoner, I suspect. Though, of course, at your age I was simply a younger son with little enough idea of my future. Not that I ever wanted to be king.”
His smile is sad, just a little. It is Lucy's turn to fix him with her gaze now. He stares ahead, apparently entirely unaware of the room around him. Perhaps the images that grace the walls have formed a brightly coloured window into his past. Lucy is perfectly aware that he is deliberately putting her at her ease and she loves him for it all the more.
“I was a little younger than you are now when I fell in love for the first time.” And while there's still something of wistfulness in his tone his eyes are back on hers, far too quickly for her to look away.
“Um, love?” She feels like a rabbit in that moment of frozen indecision before it flees the fox. She tries desperately to think of something else to say, and fails.
“My dear Lucy! I'm sure you think that I'm far too old for such things,” (she doesn't; she never has,) “but I do recognise the signs, you know. It's a positive wonder to me that Susan and your brothers didn't realise. Oh, don't worry,” he continues, as Lucy's eyes widen in alarm. “They have learned nothing from me, though they've all asked my advice in the last few weeks.
“Really, I don't know what the world's coming to. They're sensitive, intelligent young people, and yet they can't see what's in front of their faces. I really don't know.”
Lune harrumphs to himself and takes a long pull on his wine.
“Would it be very rude of me to ask the name of the fortunate young gentleman in question?”
She knows she should lie. It would be so easy to make something – anything – up. But she's hidden the truth for so long. The idea that she can tell at least a small part of it is far too much for her. Perhaps the wine has loosened her tongue after all. It certainly hasn't hurt.
“Not a gentleman,” she mumbles, feeling the heat redouble in her cheeks.
“Ah, a commoner then?” Lune asks, with barely a pause. “A matter of no consequence. If you consider him to be worthy then the matter of his birth is as nothing.”
The words come before she can stop them.
“Not a him, either.” Hmm, that could have been expressed more eloquently, but that's the least of her concerns now.
She studies the goblet in her hands intently. It is silver, simply formed but delicately engraved, trees and deer flowing across its surface. She is more than grateful that she can only see her reflection in the most fragmented way. Lune's reply is longer in coming this time, but only by a handful of seconds.
“Ah, well, that’s...”
Unable to look him in the face, Lucy can still hear the surprise in his voice. He’s struggling to find the right words; he’s not a man who’s easily surprised so the speed of his recovery is surprising in itself.
“Well I never!” At least there is good humour rather than shock in his exclamation. “I will admit that I had not quite expected that response. Although I’ll tell you a secret.” (He is playfully conspiratorial now, taking the revelation in his stride after only the smallest stumble.) “I suspect that the court would have had far greater difficulty accepting a commoner as your paramour than they will a woman. Or is she a commoner also? No matter if she is. All these things can be dealt with, one way or another.”
She still cannot look at him. Obviously she can’t look at him. What had she expected?
“Well now, how very intriguing. And you don’t feel able to share her identity yet? I understand. I’m sure just that admission was difficult enough.” And now, Aslan bless him, smoothly if rather obviously, he changes the subject. “But I’ve pried into the affairs of your heart long enough, don’t you think? Mayhap we should discuss matters of state? There is much that would bear discussion. The Calormene ambassador for one.”
Lucy listens, making all the right responses, her heart pounding, her teeth chattering, in shock or relief, she doesn’t know which. (She can’t decide whether she would have told him more had he asked. She almost wishes he had.) Thankfully, Lune, sensitive to her state of mind, requires little in the way of coherent replies.
“Well, it would seem that his Excellency has a greater store of self-regard than any one of us might have imagined. No, really, it’s not the best trait, even for a representative of a man like the Tisroc.”
“Whatever has he done? What would he dare do?” She tries to shake off her own self-involvement long enough to show some sort of interest.
“Ah yes, well that’s the crux of it, you see. He’s done the only thing he could do to fully express his dissatisfaction, apparently. He has left Cair Paravel.”
It’s as if she’s watching her own life from outside, able to see and hear, able to watch everything that happens in painful detail. And entirely unable to do a thing to stop it.
Fandom: Chronicles of Narnia
Pairing(s): Lucy/Susan
Rating: PG for this part. NC-17 overall
Summary: In which our heroine has an altercation and discovers that she has a lot to learn on the subject of diplomacy.
Word count: ~4800
Warnings: Incest, although only implied so far. Don't like? Don't read.
Also, the briefest of moments of suicidal thoughts, but you could blink and miss them, I'm glad to say :)
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.
And still I fail at writing, apparently!
This part took about two months, and this is the first part I've posted since the end of June!
I'd say that I'd like to finish this by the summer at the latest, but then I really wanted to finish it by 2013, and well, as 2013 starts in 3 hours and 26 minutes (though not by my laptop. My laptop has gained time ever since I managed to pour half a cup of tea into it. Whoops! But it's a miracle that it still works at all and isn't just a very expensive piece of wire, metal and plastic so I should be grateful for that, I guess!) that seems rather unlikely! But hey, I have the rest planned out quite closely now and at the most it's going to be 2 more parts and an epilogue so, erm, done by next Christmas? Let's call it that, shall we, and then I can feel all pleased with myself if I get it finished before.
I fear that I'm trying the patience of even the most tolerant reader at this point (and not just with my rambling) but this long ago turned into an exercise in shear determination to finish what I started so all I can do is apologise for that, I'm afraid :)
But even after so long, I'm still loving the characters and I'm enjoying writing them, and that's the whole point of writing as a hobby, so :)
I'll stop waffling now!
As always, I'd like to thank likecharity, for her betaing and encouragement. You're fabulous! Thank you ♥♥♥
Dedication: For anyone who reads this far (and I don't actually expect many (or any) people on my f-list to actually read the story :D) I want to dedicate this to all of you, in hopes that you have a wonderful New Year and a fabulous 2013 full of happiness, joy and love ♥♥♥
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 5
Part 6
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 7
Autumn crawls towards winter and still it gets no better. She had thought she would stop being surprised that it doesn't, that every flickering light of hope is extinguished long before it can take hold, leaving the darkness all the more profound, and yet. She's done the only thing she could think of, the thing she'd dreamed of for so long. Perhaps she should have thought past that but she simply wasn't able.
She feels so stuck, paralysed with indecision, waiting breathlessly for something – anything – to happen. When it does, it's a little too late for her to say, 'Anything but that'. Will she never learn?
**
There's no escape, none. Lucy isn't sure how she managed to miss that hateful bray. Is she really that self-involved? (She chooses not to answer that).
Perhaps she's being punished.
Aslan knows, I deserve it.
She can't turn and flee. That would be an indignity too far. She grits her teeth and rounds the corner. She'd been so close to safety. Just not close enough.
The Calormene ambassador, Imenes bin Imredin, looks, if possible, more unpleasant than ever and sounds even worse. He halts himself in the middle of a furious verbal careen (the young Calormene whom he's been berating, at least, must be grateful for that) and hails Lucy.
“The felicitations of a cold, dark day to you, your little Highness. May Tash the Overwhelming bring you joy of it,” he says.
Even from half a corridor away, Lucy can see the smile on his lips. Her mood is less than good as it is. She clamps down on the response she so desperately wants to give - “little highness” indeed! - and smiles coolly at him.
“Ambassador Imenes. How delightful. I have so recently been thinking that I've missed your charm and wit. You've been so busy, and so absent.”
“It grieves me also that I may not honour the most charming of my host more often, Highness,” he says, taking her lie at face value apparently. The way his eyes flicker over her suggest a truth in his own words that makes her flesh crawl and her hackles rise.
“As ever, you are too kind,” Lucy says, through clenched teeth. “But I'm sure that you are a busy man. I would not wish to keep you from your duties any longer than necessary. I wish you a good day.”
She inclines her head (regally, she hopes) and makes to walk past.
Be dignified. Don't rush.
Imenes takes the slightest step to the side and with that makes it impossible for her to pass without brushing hard against him.
“But surely nothing is so important as pleasing Your Highness. I stand ready to serve you in any way that I can,” he says, showing his teeth in a smile that Lucy can't help but think of as wolfish.
The crawling of her flesh is joined by a coldness in the pit of her stomach. She stops and forces herself to meet his eyes. She is not smiling now, not even a little bit.
“That will be quite unnecessary. And obviously I must remind you that you are to call me Majesty, not Highness. Your Excellency,” she says.
Her heart is beating faster, blood is roaring in her ears. Suddenly she has no idea at all how this will end. She only knows that she can't back down now.
The ambassador's smile -grin, almost – is fixed. He doesn't speak for some moments. Only a few seconds but it feels like forever. And then,
“But of course,” he says. “Forgive me. I oft-times forget the formalities of your little kingdom. They are passing strange to one such as me.”
Lucy smiles again, her cold, tight smile, choosing to overlook the slight to her home.
“In my own land, I submit, no queen would allow herself to be accosted and kissed by a masked man in a moonlit garden. Clearly the dignity and virtue of queens in Narnia is something that is far beyond the understanding of your humble servant. Your Majesty.”
It takes a small while for her to fully comprehend his meaning because surely he wouldn't dare … When she does, it's like a punch in the gut; she can't breathe, the roaring in her ears reaches a crescendo.
“I beg your pardon, Your Excellency,” she says, feigning a calm she most certainly doesn't feel. “I'm not sure to what you could possibly be referring. Because I'm certain you could not be attempting to cast aspersions on my royal sister.”
She doesn't give him any opportunity to respond. The ambassador's companion looks like his dearest wish is for the ground to swallow him whole. For all Lucy cares, he may not even exist.
“Her Majesty Queen Susan is a free woman of Narnia.” Lucy can't stop the rising edge of cold fury in her voice. “Her dignity and virtue, as you put it, are beyond reproach. How dare you! How dare a snivelling little worm like you stand there and even try to question them?”
Oh Aslan, that's torn it.
“Do you think that, just because you've managed to creep and toady your way into the good graces of that monster you call a master you can stand there with impunity and insult my family, my country and my home? That just because I'm a woman you can say what you please? What is wrong with you?”
There's a part of her that can't help but enjoy the way the smirk vanishes from his face, the way his mouth falls open in shock. It's not the part of her that's speaking the words though. That part is past caring.
“Listen to me very carefully, you putrescent pig.” Oh no. “Because you obviously haven't learnt anything at all in your time here. When you insult a creature of Narnia, be they human or beast, you insult us all, and when you insult my family you had better be sure of what you do because I will be sure that you will pay for it.” Her voice is hoarse now. She realises that, all unknowing, she has been advancing on the ambassador who, at a loss as to how else to respond, has backed himself to the end of the corridor. He can go no further.
“Now get out! Get out of my sight. And if you ever dare to speak to me again I shall have you thrown in the dungeons and we'll see if your Tisroc even cares enough to ask for your release.”
She wants to just turn and run – Aslan knows, it's what she usually does – but she's determined not to give him an inch. She steels herself, staring him down.
For a moment it seems like he'll protest. He stands taller, shoulders squared. He sucks in his breath, his face twisted in fury. And then he blinks and his eyes slide downwards from her own. He slumps, just the slightest deflation but it's all that Lucy can do not to crow, in victory and relief.
“My master, the Tisroc, may he live forever, will hear of this outrage. You will live to regret what has transpired here this day, Your Majesty,” he says, his voice a hiss.
With the very slightest of bows he does his best to slip out of the corner that Lucy has backed him into. She doesn't move, doesn't step back; watching him edge along the wall to free himself makes her victory feel, if anything, even sweeter. Free at last, Imenes bin Imredin advances on his countryman and, before the poor man can flinch (and long before Lucy can believe what she's seeing) there is blood on his face. The sound of the blow, the sight of the young man's broken lip, it is all becoming too much for Lucy. She just wants to go. Anywhere.
“Azarin, you snivelling dog,” Imenes's voice is fraught with pent-up fury. “Are you a statue that you stand so mute? Move your stinking carcase or I shall ensure that you are never able to again.”
Neither of them look back. Holding herself very straight Lucy watches them go, a stream of invective in their wake. They vanish from sight in less than a minute. It seems far longer.
Safe and alone, for now at least, Lucy draws in one long, ragged, breath and slumps. It's as if all her bones have turned to water; it's all she can do to stop herself crumpling completely. Instead, a hand on the wall at her side, she sinks slowly to the ground.
**
She doesn't know how long she's been there. Not that long, surely? The door to the library is bare feet away, and well, the library of Cair Paravel may not be as well-frequented as it could be, but even so. She licks her lips. They're salt, wet with her own tears, freely streaming down her face, yet she's not crying. All her fury and tension, all her indignation, washes out of her. She shakes, tears flow, her breathing is ragged. She knows it would seem to anyone who found her like this that she's sobbing uncontrollably. That will never do.
Pull yourself together. You're being ridiculous.
She wipes her eyes and pulls herself to her feet. Truth be told, she's feeling a little pleased with herself. It's a feeling she suspects no one else will share.
Oh, what has she done?
**
Lucy awakes next morning to a very quiet uproar. Her morning walk from her own chambers to the kitchen takes her past any number of whispering couples. She's convinced that, more than once, concerned, angry, judging looks are thrown in her direction. She's not stupid. She can see what's coming before it hits, but she still curses to herself as, her hand poised to push open the great kitchen door, she hears her name.
“Lucy, there you are. By the Lion, what have been playing at?” Of course it had to be Peter. She's never heard him so angry.
She has to force herself to turn to face him, guilt and embarrassment fighting righteous indignation within her, but when she does she comes out fighting.
“Peter, honestly, aren't you going to ask my side before you get on your high horse?” she asks (and she hopes with all her heart that her voice doesn't sound as petulant as it does to her own ears). “He was being insufferably rude, and he insulted Susan. What would you have me do? Just stand there and let him?”
Peter's face is thunderous. His jerkin is half unlaced, his hair unruly.
“Well you plainly don't think you behaved properly or else why would you know what I'm talking about?” he doesn’t quite scream. Even so Lucy can't tell if he's furious or simply exasperated. A little of both, she suspects.
“Of course I know what you're talking about. Or what? Are you saying that I mess up so much that I'd have to ask you to tell me which of my endless mistakes you're angry about today? I know I'm a disappointment to you. I know anyone else in Cair Paravel could do a better job of this than me, but don't you dare suggest I don't at least try. And don't make out that I'm stupid either. Do you think that helps?” She can feel herself losing control again. She's not quite screaming yet, either, but she's close.
“Aslan, Lu, you're hearing things again. When did I say you're stupid?” Peter asks her, a little more quietly now. He can never maintain his full, righteous fury in the face of Lucy's own anger. Being the youngest does have some benefits (though Lucy can never see it). “But really, you threaten to clap the Calormene ambassador in irons and you don't expect anyone is going to be even a little annoyed at you?”
“I didn't say anything at all about clapping him in irons!” she says furiously (because of course, clearly that's the most important point to get across). “You see, he's a liar as well as being insufferably arrogant.”
Peter raises his eyebrows and waits for her to continue. He has his arms crossed and he's drumming the fingers of his right hand against his left bicep. Lucy can never withstand that look for long.
“Oh, all right. I said I'd have him thrown in the dungeons,” she says, far more calmly and more than a little sheepish.
“And that's obviously entirely different, and by no means a ridiculous thing to say.” His exasperation is clear now, it's drowned out the anger almost completely. He looks so, so tired. “Why did you do it? At least help me understand that.”
“Oh you know what he's like,” Lucy says, fumbling for the words. “He's just so rude, and he said that Susan was kissing strange men, and, and, the way he looks at me. It's like ...”
She's struggling. She had felt so certain of her reasons before but as she grasps for them, tries to force them into words, she can feel them slipping away.
“He's just horrible.”
And yet again, she just manages to seem utterly pitiful.
Peter sighs heavily, his shoulders slumping. She wishes she could tell him what he needs to hear. It feels like years since that's been even remotely possible.
**
Barely half way through October and already the wind cuts to the bone. A couple of hours past noon, the light is wan, feeble, nothing more than the herald of the approaching twilight. As much as Lucy loves her home, on days like this, the sea a constant crash and roll, the clouds low and angry, she can't help the bleakness that settles over her. She hugs herself, her hands numbing even through gloves; hood and cloak near useless. She's ten feet or more from the cliff, she hadn't trusted herself, or the wind, to go closer, but ice still settles in her belly. A few steps, that's all it would take. A few steps, a few seconds, and then nothing.
It's a fleeting thought, nothing more. She can't unravel the feelings it awakes in her and she doesn't want to try.
“Ho, Your Majesty!” Even over the bluster of the wind the voice manages to sound both powerful and good-humoured. “Tis a wild day to be braving these cliff-tops.”
Lune's voice. Hearing it somehow always makes Lucy smile and she smiles now, her bleak mood momentarily forgotten. Turning from the expanse of sky and ocean she can see him struggling up the headland towards her. Cair Paravel in the distance seems pure white in the gloom, reflecting what little light there is. She so often forgets how beautiful it is.
Taking pity, Lucy doesn't force Lune to struggle all the way to meet her. He turns as she reaches him, offering her his arm as he does so. As so often when matters of state don't dictate otherwise, he's dressed simply, in hunting leathers. Lucy takes the proffered arm, curtseying playfully. He makes her feel young again and she's ever grateful for it.
“You are too kind, Your Majesty,” she says, trying (failing) to school her face into seriousness. “I do hope that you haven't braved the cold and wind on my account. I would hate for you to catch a chill for my sake.”
Smiling as he is he still looks troubled. He makes no pretence at maintaining Lucy's attempt at playful formality. “I would risk more than a chill for you, Lucy, you may forever be assured of that,” he says. “And though I do love to be abroad on days such as this, the ocean has never been a favourite vista of mine. The forest and the mountains will always hold the first place in my heart.
”
“Do you miss Archenland terribly?” Lucy asks.
“Every day. But it has been a few short weeks only, and I will see my home again soon enough. Sooner, perhaps, than I ever anticipated.” There is the slightest edge to this voice, a thing so unusual in him that it makes Lucy stop and turn to face him. She says nothing but she's certain that her face asks all the questions that she could ever want to.
“Ah yes, perhaps news of the most recent development has failed to reach this cliff top,” Lune says, a small smile on his lips. “It appears that his esteemed Excellency Imenes bin Imredin has been causing a great stir yet again. He appears to have taken some sort of offence at something.” He shakes his head. His look of exasperation is very much the twin to Peter's though in Lune it makes Lucy feel guilty rather than infuriated. “Whatever did you say to him, my dear? Whatever it was, it was really most effective. I haven't seen that amount of self-righteous outrage in many a moon.”
He has a way of asking questions without seeming to criticise that her brothers and Susan can never seem to manage (at least, not where Lucy is concerned). She knows she should feel guilt (and it is, after all, her most practised response) but instead there is mostly relief. Yes, she's ruined everything, again, and caused endless trouble for everyone, again, but at the very least Lune will understand. Won't he?
**
The King of Archenland has had his own private apartments at Cair Paravel for as long as anyone can remember, just as Narnia's rulers have their chambers at the castle at Anvard (so long unused , waiting forlorn and empty, during that long, hard Winter). Lune – unpretentious and seemingly ever cheerful – has stamped his own personality in every little part of the rooms that Lucy follows him into. They are grand and imposing yet Lune has managed to make them feel warm and comforting. Very much, in fact, like himself.
Speaking a few words to a pleasant-looking young secretary (and Lucy wonders how it's possible that she could never have noticed him before) Lune ushers her into a rather cluttered and cosy drawing room. It feels so long since she was last here. She remembers playing with Corin here when she was barely older than the prince is now. She smiles, wondering what mischief he's getting himself into. There's always something.
Brightly coloured tapestries cover the walls; there are thick, fluffy rugs on the floor and draped over settles that a person could just sink into and never want to leave. The castle at Anvard graces one of the walls, so delicately sewn that Lucy has always fancied that, if she were to put an eye to one of the windows, she could see the hustle and bustle of activity within. It's a scene of high summer, Anvard at its most beautiful, the sun high in the sky, a hunting party gathered just before the gate. Lush, green forests; lofty peaks that leave Lucy feel more than a little light-headed; valleys and rivers and sparkling blue meres. All this and more is spread across the walls before her, in warp and weft. It almost makes her homesick for Archenland herself.
A queen in her own castle, she knows she need not wait for permission to sit but she does so anyway. She loves the old king more than enough to show him that courtesy. Lune points Lucy to an overstuffed settle (all greens and golds and browns. Forest colours, Lune's favourites). She curls into it, tucking her feet under her, as unselfconscious, for once, as a cat. Lune himself takes a straight-backed and rather uncomfortable looking chair at a desk laden with neatly arranged parchment rolls and books; he clears a space for his elbows and leans heavily forward, his eyes fixed on Lucy's, a reassuring smile on his lips.
“Well, my dear. It has been far too long since we have spoken at length. I have been remiss, I think. But so, perhaps, have you,” he says, with a twinkle in his eye. “We've hardly seen each other since I arrived, and you were sadly absent for your own birthday ball. Not that it wasn't a most enjoyable and eventful affair, all the same.”
Lucy winces (inwardly only, she hopes) and smiles rather weakly.
“Um, yes, it was certainly lively,” she says. “It's strange that you didn't see me though. I saw you. You looked wonderful. Very dashing.”
“Why, thank you. I did my best to honour your special day. Though I think that your mind was on more pressing things than the celebration of another year survived.” Lune's eyes are clear and bright and they bore into her own as he speaks.
Lucy can feel a prickly heat flowing upwards, from her chest, up her neck, until her whole face burns. She swallows reflexively, but of a sudden her mouth is dust-dry. It is all she can do not to drop her eyes and stare at the floor, shamefaced. Shatterstaff, at least, would be proud of her. How long has he spent drumming it into her? No free creature, and assuredly no queen of Narnia, should ever be ashamed to meet another's gaze. Though, honestly, she should at least be able to say something too, shouldn't she? Staring dumbly does no one much good.
There is a rap on the door, followed momentarily by the bustling of Lune's secretary, returning with a tray on which he bears two steaming goblets. The smell of hot, spiced wine hits Lucy's nostrils.
“Ah, Dara, my good man,” Lune says, mercifully releasing Lucy's eyes. “Thank you, thank you. You are just in time. I think Her Majesty's throat is a little parched. Leave them on the table, would you? I do hope you have a goblet for yourself? No? You really must. It's far too bitter a day to be undefended from the elements, even indoors. Do go and fetch one for yourself. And perhaps you could be so good as to retrieve the rest of the flagon while you're about it?”
Unable to do anything but nod and smile over his king's unceasing chatter, it is mere seconds before Dara is absent once more, leaving only the wine in his wake.
Rising from his chair and taking up a goblet with a little flourish Lune bears it over to Lucy. He waits, rather solicitously, watching intently as she takes a long draught. Red and rich, the wine warms her to her toes. It does little to loosen her tongue, though, nor to calm the patter of her heart. At least now she'll have something on which to blame the flush in her cheeks.
Seemingly at least partly satisfied, Lune seats himself once more as Lucy lowers the cup and wipes stray droplets of wine fastidiously from her lips with thumb and forefinger.
“It's not so long ago that I forget what it's like to be young, you know,” Lune says. His eyes are half-closed. “Life is .. confusing. No less so for a monarch than a commoner, I suspect. Though, of course, at your age I was simply a younger son with little enough idea of my future. Not that I ever wanted to be king.”
His smile is sad, just a little. It is Lucy's turn to fix him with her gaze now. He stares ahead, apparently entirely unaware of the room around him. Perhaps the images that grace the walls have formed a brightly coloured window into his past. Lucy is perfectly aware that he is deliberately putting her at her ease and she loves him for it all the more.
“I was a little younger than you are now when I fell in love for the first time.” And while there's still something of wistfulness in his tone his eyes are back on hers, far too quickly for her to look away.
“Um, love?” She feels like a rabbit in that moment of frozen indecision before it flees the fox. She tries desperately to think of something else to say, and fails.
“My dear Lucy! I'm sure you think that I'm far too old for such things,” (she doesn't; she never has,) “but I do recognise the signs, you know. It's a positive wonder to me that Susan and your brothers didn't realise. Oh, don't worry,” he continues, as Lucy's eyes widen in alarm. “They have learned nothing from me, though they've all asked my advice in the last few weeks.
“Really, I don't know what the world's coming to. They're sensitive, intelligent young people, and yet they can't see what's in front of their faces. I really don't know.”
Lune harrumphs to himself and takes a long pull on his wine.
“Would it be very rude of me to ask the name of the fortunate young gentleman in question?”
She knows she should lie. It would be so easy to make something – anything – up. But she's hidden the truth for so long. The idea that she can tell at least a small part of it is far too much for her. Perhaps the wine has loosened her tongue after all. It certainly hasn't hurt.
“Not a gentleman,” she mumbles, feeling the heat redouble in her cheeks.
“Ah, a commoner then?” Lune asks, with barely a pause. “A matter of no consequence. If you consider him to be worthy then the matter of his birth is as nothing.”
The words come before she can stop them.
“Not a him, either.” Hmm, that could have been expressed more eloquently, but that's the least of her concerns now.
She studies the goblet in her hands intently. It is silver, simply formed but delicately engraved, trees and deer flowing across its surface. She is more than grateful that she can only see her reflection in the most fragmented way. Lune's reply is longer in coming this time, but only by a handful of seconds.
“Ah, well, that’s...”
Unable to look him in the face, Lucy can still hear the surprise in his voice. He’s struggling to find the right words; he’s not a man who’s easily surprised so the speed of his recovery is surprising in itself.
“Well I never!” At least there is good humour rather than shock in his exclamation. “I will admit that I had not quite expected that response. Although I’ll tell you a secret.” (He is playfully conspiratorial now, taking the revelation in his stride after only the smallest stumble.) “I suspect that the court would have had far greater difficulty accepting a commoner as your paramour than they will a woman. Or is she a commoner also? No matter if she is. All these things can be dealt with, one way or another.”
She still cannot look at him. Obviously she can’t look at him. What had she expected?
“Well now, how very intriguing. And you don’t feel able to share her identity yet? I understand. I’m sure just that admission was difficult enough.” And now, Aslan bless him, smoothly if rather obviously, he changes the subject. “But I’ve pried into the affairs of your heart long enough, don’t you think? Mayhap we should discuss matters of state? There is much that would bear discussion. The Calormene ambassador for one.”
Lucy listens, making all the right responses, her heart pounding, her teeth chattering, in shock or relief, she doesn’t know which. (She can’t decide whether she would have told him more had he asked. She almost wishes he had.) Thankfully, Lune, sensitive to her state of mind, requires little in the way of coherent replies.
“Well, it would seem that his Excellency has a greater store of self-regard than any one of us might have imagined. No, really, it’s not the best trait, even for a representative of a man like the Tisroc.”
“Whatever has he done? What would he dare do?” She tries to shake off her own self-involvement long enough to show some sort of interest.
“Ah yes, well that’s the crux of it, you see. He’s done the only thing he could do to fully express his dissatisfaction, apparently. He has left Cair Paravel.”
It’s as if she’s watching her own life from outside, able to see and hear, able to watch everything that happens in painful detail. And entirely unable to do a thing to stop it.
