Too Darn Hot

epilogue

burntozone@googlemail.com — Sat, 30 May 2009 17:56:10 GMT

Susan fingers the dress hanging up on the door. "Fifteen years of refusing and negotiating proposals and now I'm getting married to keep the kingdom together."

"he's better looking and has a better sense of self-preservation than most of your suitors." Edmund says from his seat. "And it'll keep at least some of the others away." He picks at a thread on his trousers. "At least this one won't underestimate you *too* much."

"Mmm." Susan lets the dress go, turning and sitting next to him, drawing her knees up to rest her chin on them, looking childish for a rare moment since they came here. She blows a strand of hair out of her vision. "I'm sure I vaguely remember a time when I thought I'd marry for love. And that royalty could."

Edmund pats her on the shoulder. "Fairy tales are nice, true. We managed to put it off for fifteen years, I'm sure that's a record."

"At least it'll keep them quiet for a bit." Lucy says. "Then we just have to wait for the next crisis to pop up."

Susan raises an eyebrow. "Oh? What's that, then?"

"When the Telmarines pitch a fit when it's clear your little blond babies haven't a drop of Telmarine blood in them." She grins, then adds "Course, the Narnians won't mind."

Susan narrows her eyes, then very calmly hits her sister in the face with a cushion.

Out by the tree, Glenstorm and Peter are standing by Caspian as he fidgets, waiting for Susan.

"She's hardly going to run." Peter says.

"I woke up in a cold sweat this morning." Caspian groans.

"I think that was probably the hangover." Peter says, amused. "Look, there she is. No backing out now."

Susan sweeps up the path in front of the assembled crowd, looking utterly radiant. "Glad they managed to drag you up from the pit of your hangover." She grins.

"Thankyou, I think." Caspian says. "So how do we do this?"

Glenstorm coughs, and then projects across the crowd. "We are gathered here to witness the joining of hands of these two. Does anyone have any objections that are in any way shape or form reasonable?"

There's a general silence. Caspian doubts anyone would be that foolhardy, and besides, peter is glaring at the crowd, hand on Rhindon.

"Good. Do you, Caspian Telmar, take Susan Helen Pevensie as your lawfully wedded wife?"

"I do."

"And you, Susan Helen Pevensie?"

"I do."

"You're wed." The crowd erupts in cheers as they turn to face them. Glenstorm turns to Peter. "Isn't that a bit short for a wedding ceremony?"

Edmund shakes his head. "We find the shorter the possible is best."

arrival of the Archenland court

burntozone@googlemail.com — Sat, 30 May 2009 17:53:44 GMT

The great hall in the castle is tense. Everyone's fidgeting. At one end, the Narnian monarchs, the pevensies and Caspian. They're looking calm and regal. Everyone else is ... unsure. It's been a long time since there was a state visit from another country, and they are uncertain as to how to react. The Telmarine reign of Narnia had not welcomed contact with other countries. Some say fiercely independent and wishing to stand on their own without corruption. The pevensies tend to sneer and say that it's no way to run a country - cutting yourself off only means that you never learn from the example of others. The new monarchs have been changing them and there is no going back.

At the other end of the hall, the doors. A minotaur and centaur open them, and in sweeps the Archenland contingent, King Llyr and his soldiers and advisers in the livery of Archenland. Amongst these? Wolves and centaurs and satyrs. The indrawn breath and murmurs that follow the appearance of the beasts is an unhappy one, that the Archenlanders collaborated in the Telmarine self deception.

The Archenlanders make an impressive sight as a group. Previously dismissed and sneered at for being savage, backward, and barbaric. Now Narnia is ruled by monarchs who are far more so than the Archenlanders ever seemed. Wildness is, as they have learnt very quickly, not incompatible with political savvy. Lack of formality and protocol does not mean lack of experience and control. A refusal to bow and keep yourself above the subjects does not mean lack of power.

King Llyr grasps the forearm of High King Peter in greeting. "Welcome to Narnia." Peter says.

"We're honoured that you asked." Llyr replies.

Once the formal greetings are over, Llyr casts his eye over the new power structure in Narnia. the new monarchs - the pevensies of olden times, the time of Lune and Corin and Cor, confirmed as really the historical figures they claim to be several times over. Youths. Clearly soldiers and experienced politicians in young bodies. The beasts dotted amongst their retinue, along with the cats and wolves that lurk at the edges. Some humans, but not many, which show very clear signs of what they're comfortable with and where their first loyalties lie. It'll be interesting to see how they'll get the country to work when they clearly favour the Narnians. Caspian, engaged to Queen Susan in what was clearly a political move, is a freshly blooded young man who from first glance is still uncomfortable just standing there under scrutiny. Who knows what the Telmarine boy will grow into. Under miraz, they weren't sure if he would ever achieve his crown. As for who makes up the balance of the new power... to one side is General Glozelle, as is his right as High King peter's right hand man and leader of his armies.

Llyr's familiar with Glozelle, and had a healthy respect for him in his position as a soldier and one who railed against an unreasoning ruler. Few liked Miraz, and Sopespian was an odious toad of a man, so he can't say he's sorry to see the back of either. The reports he's had indicate that Glozelle swore fealty to High King Peter almost immediately, and Peter in return trusts and listens to him as a seasoned general. What no-one can figure out is why Glozelle went from resenting Miraz but being outwardly loyal to the seemingly utterly loyal right hand man of the High King, a seeming youth 15 years his junior. All reports tell that he has no such regard for Caspian. Loyal to the point of no longer associating with the Telmarine lords. Whether it was because he could see which way the wind was blowing or because he fell under some spell, Llyr will see what he can find. That he kept his position as leader speaks more of Peter than Glozelle - it indicates an inclination to see people as weapons and resources. A soldier's perspective. After all, Glozelle had the army, and they would have taken that first. That Glozelle would bend the knee to someone younger than him - from the histories, Peter reached the age of thirty, which still makes him considerably younger than Glozelle - is impressive. Even if they had just defeated him.

At the feast in the Archenlanders' honour, there are blessedly few speeches. One very short one from the High King in welcome and one from Queen Susan that stated their hopes that the relationship between Archenland and Narnia would be a cordial and fruitful one. Of course, those two words can be taken any way you choose. King Llyr keeps his just as short, glad that his first impressions and intelligence - that the Pevensies are blunt, to the point, and despise flowery protocol - are correct.

The High King smiles. "And now that's done, I think the celebrations can start." he gestures to the musicians, who start playing something simple. Llyr cocks his head. It's not telmarine. he's heard Telmarine music. It sounds a little like their really old tunes, but different. Narnian music. Not something that's been heard in the Narnian court for a long time. The monarchs are tapping theri fingers along to it idly. he wonders how close it is to what they knew, but unless they start writing out the music themselves, they won't know.

After an hour or so, it appears that the Narnians certainly know how to hold a feast. The talk is loud and the wine flows freely. Entertainment - fire breathers and dancers - perform in the middle. The kings and queens laugh easily and chat through it, exchanging pleasantries and stories. Llyr's not sure how many of them will help them get a better understanding of the Pevensies, but he's listens carefully all the same. It'll be good material for the bards and storytelling sessions around the fire in the evenings. of course, the historians will love it. Stories are history from a personal point of view. Enough of the stories seem to cover battles and fights and missions to tell him that the Golden age was only forged with iron wills and bloodshed. Still, they seemed to live life to the full.

A tune that can only be taken for a reel starts up, and Queen Susan stands, holding out a hand to Llyr, brushing a piece of hair behind her shoulder. "Care to dance, my lord?" She smiles. "In my day, Archenlanders could dance as well as Narnians. Willing to learn fast?"

Llyr smiles. "I'll try to keep up." He says, taking it and following her to the floor.

After the dancing starts, the feast becomes decidedly less formal. Groups of people stand or lounge, talking, and the dancing keeps going, the musicians changing when they take breaks. Sometimes it's Telmarine, sometimes this new music he's learning is Narnian. The groups of talkers shift and break, and he notes the way some of it seems to be guided. Certain Telmarines are never left alone or with too many of their own kind, which probably denotes them as not trusted to a certain extent. It's a new reign, and the pevensies are probably taking every precaution possible. his spies and diplomats are probably observing more than he is. Llyr is quite aware that he's not the best politician, but he's got other matters to attend to as king, hence why he employs those more observant. Queen Susan is certainly watchful, and King Edmund's eyes never stop straying, beasts and humans alike occasionally stopping for a quiet word with the King of Shadows. How many of these are his people and how many are merely messengers and well-wishers is hard to tell. It's more than stop to have a quiet word with the others, for certain. Wolves and big cats, the personal guard of the monarchs, prowl the edges of the floor. Their assigned job for this feast is somewhat obvious, reminding everyone to keep their peace and keep an eye out for any possible fights. Not a bad decision.

In the midst of the general gaiety, Llyr notes General Glozelle standing with some of the archenlander captains. getting closer, it's obvious that they're trading war stories. So he doesn't brood the entire time. Good to know. They'd not met in any circumstance that wasn't official, or sober.

"General Glozelle." Llyr says, tipping back the last of hios goblet and holding it out for a refill to the nearest servant with a jug.

"Your majesty." Glozelle replies.

"Good to see you. How are you finding your new lords?"

"Fair and competent." Glozelle replies. "They are considerably more experienced at war than any Telmarines."

"As the stories and histories would tell you." Llyr says. "Mind you, i never was sure how much Telmarines knew of that."

"A little." Glozelle says. "They're an education, though."

"And how is it taking orders from youths less than half your age?" Llyr presses.

Glozelle's face goes a little shuttered. he shrugs. "We all have to get used to it. I do not find it too difficult, considering their obvious experience. it is no dishonour to be commanded by someone so obviously experienced as High King peter."

"Our stories called the Pevensies some of the greatest warrior kings this world would ever see. is that true?"

Glozelle shakes his head. "You did not see them fight. i would call any man who willingly fought them thinking to win deluded."

Llyr raises an eyebrow. "They're that good? I'm impressed. So what got you to swear fealty as quickly as you did?"

"That is hardly a conversation for public." Glozelle says, with a hint of steel in his voice.

"So tell me the public version and we can save the rest for some other time."

"The High King had a clear head and was a worthy opponent." Glozelle says, glaring at him. "He and the Narnians had defeated us soundly and had the support of Aslan, emerging as the clearest leader. There was no other possible course of action. I haven't regretted it since." Pause. "Serving him is considerably less of a burden than serving Miraz."

Llyr nods. "Sounds reasonable."

After another dance, he notes King Edmund looking around, clearly searching for something. "Lost something, my lord?"

Edmund sighs. From this close, he looks to be about fourteen but with the weight of the world on his shoulders. Llyr's reminded of his overly serious cousin. "You haven't seen my sister, have you?"

"Queen susan is talking with some of the centaurs I brought with me." Llyr says, gesturing in their direction.

"Not her. Lucy. My little sister." edmund sighs.

"Not for some while. Is it urgent?"

"I find I'm considerably less paranoid when I've got some idea of what she's doing." Edmund says.

"Oh?" Llyr asks. "Take comfort. she's young. she's probably curled up in some corner by this stage. My children of a similar age are often found like that at celebrations."

"You don't know Lucy." Edmund says. "She used to have the well-deserved reputation of being one of the wildest creatures in the kingdom in our previous reign. And when it came to these kind of things? She was known to dance fauns and satyrs into the floor."

Llyr chuckles. "Then I think I'll help you find her. I presume she's trouble?"

"You have no idea." Edmund says grimly.

they find them in a corner, following the high-pitched giggles. Queen Lucy appears to be teaching his two youngest, Bran and Angharad, and two other children, some sort of card game.

"Oh, hello, Ed, King Llyr. Care to join us?" she asks cheerily. "Pass over a card, Isabella."

Edmund sighs the sigh of the long-suffering elder brother. "That looks like gin rummy to me. Please tell me you're not fleecing them." There's a pile of some nuts in the middle that it looks like they're using for tender.

Lucy picks up one of the nuts and pops it in her mouth. "Of course not, I'm teaching them to fleece other people. i can't believe this fell out of fashion." She grins at Angharad and Bran. "Now bluffing. You really have to learn this properly. Corin couldn't bluff to save his life." The Archenland twins giggle, since well, it's *corin*. their ancestor.

Edmund rolls his eyes. "We'd better leave them to it, my lord." he pauses. "Unless you have any objection."

"No, it sounds like a valuable skill." Llyr says, amused. "Though of course, if my court finds itself out of pocket -"

"Send Lucy the bill. We'll make her pay it."

there's commotion some time later in one corner of the hall. It's two Narnians, not Archenlander and Narnian as everyone had been anticipating. A satyr and telmarine soldier at swords drawn, the guard to far away to intercept them, when a knife flashes between them, burying itself in the chair by their faces.

The high king follows the weapon, looking icy. "Explain precisely what is going on."

"I'm not fighting alongside Telmarine scum -"

"They're not even human, and we're expected -"

"Save it for the enemy. While you're in this army, I don't give a damn what your species is, you're Narnian and you will answer to me." Jerks the knife out of the post. "if I find anyone else fighting, they will be made an example of. Personally." Stalks off.

Telmarine rubs his arm, muttering. "Don't know why we're following him , he's just a boy, I've got sons older than him."

The satyr gives him a sideways look. "You didn't grow up with the stories I did. High King Peter has been waging war since he was a boy and is the greatest general Narnia has ever seen." pause. "If you really object, you could always face him in a duel."

Telmarine blanches. "You'd have to be suicidal."

"Precisely."

Peter glances at Llyr "Sorry you had to see that. Old grudges will take a while to settle yet."

"it was certainly illuminating." Llyr says, as the musicians start playing again in the silence, and everyone starts talking again, warily glancing over their shoulders at the High King.

Border patrols and the Archenland problem

burntozone@googlemail.com — Sat, 30 May 2009 17:49:38 GMT

Peter and Edmund ride out to check the borders to Archenland. Considering the state of their other borders just from maps and reports, they're not holding up much hope for this one. It'd been lawless enough in their day, so Aslan knows what it's like these days due to neglect. A package of staying away from anything that might be wild and therefore contain Narnians, isolationism and internal fighting means it's almost certainly awful. However, Peter and Edmund would rather assess the situation with their own eyes first, before checking the reports.

"I really would advise against this, your majesties." Galduire cautions as Peter swings into the saddle of his horse. "The Archenland borders are not the safest place. The area is rife with brigands and highwaymen."

peter looks over at Edmund. "Looks like it might actually be interesting for once, then."

Edmund rolls his eyes. "Peter, you do realise that's supposed to be a curse, not a life philosophy. don't you?"

"...Sire, could I at least persuade you to take your guard along?" Galduire pleads. He'll stop getting headaches over the seeming death wish the High King has someday. he hopes. it doesn't help that all of the Narnian monarchs seem to enjoy dangerous situations and regard them as a challenge, but the younger ones at least have a modicum of common sense. The High King actively seeks out situations that involve certain death. The myths and ballads mentioned this, but you expect ridiculous odds and feats of derring-do of ballads, they come with the territory. Unfortunately, as with so many parts of the tales of the Narnian monarchs, all the more disbelievable bits are the ones likely to be true, and the mundane parts are the made-up bits.

Edmund looks up from putting supplies into a saddle bag. "Actually, Peter, that's not a bad idea. Especially one of them who knows the territory - Aethelstan's from the border country. We'll take him along as a guide."

They set out with Aethelstan trotting alongside them, the wolf a quiet presence alongside their horses. The countryside is still a little odd to Peter and Edmund's eyes, due to the way it seems to vary between large swathes of dark forest and open farmland, with very clear demarcation between the two. There's a lot of wood around any rivers, allowed to grow untrammelled.

Peter shakes his head. "I still can't believe this happened."

Aethelstan shrugs. "Just did, your highness. Telmarines feared the woods, so they made their bit as bloody civilised as they could, and we had the woods to ourselves. Long as we didn't venture out much during daytime, we mostly ignored each other." he cocks his head to look up at them. "How'd it look in your day, then?"

"No big towns, for a start. The farms went right up to the edges of the woods. Most people made their homes on the edges of the woods since that's where the shelter was. it wasn't so obviously them and us." Peter sighs. "What's done is done, we just have to get it working again."

"Dunno how you'll do it, your highness, but you can give it your best shot." Aethelstan shrugs.

As they get closer to the border, the Telmarine towns and villages get sparser until it's a few smallholdings with mostly sheep. Edmund frowns. "Well, this isn't too different from the old days, considering it's getting into hill farm territory, given the terrain... but I'm sure there were more villages here. It runs out a lot faster than i'd expected. There's barely even been an inn for the last stretch."

"Border country, your highness." Aethelstan says. "Too dangerous for the Telmarines' liking. Gets a bit too wild. Can't really tame it, so they didn't want to settle here. They never even bothered putting the patrols out that they do further north, so the farms don't have any protection. Lawless country, far as the humans're concerned. Lots of raids and you're bloody lucky if you don't get jumped by highwaymen on the road. I'd keep your eyes peeled, if I were you."

"Thanks for the advice." Edmund says dryly, scanning the horizon. "So how much of it is Archenland and how much Telmarine outlaws?"

"Just human, far as most've us're concerned." Aethelstan says. "They don't bother us for the most part since we're not normally carrying money and those've us who're out can normally defend ourselves." he bares his teeth. "Not many sodding highwaymen jump a wolf if they've got a lick of sense."

"True." Edmund returns. he adjusts his hood against the steady drizzle currently falling, and wipes some water off his face. it's cutting down on visibility a bit, but not too much. For the most part it's reducing the view to grey more than anything. "So at what point would you say was most likely for getting attacked?"

"Anywhere. Road's a prime spot for travellers. Villages get raided off and on. Farms lose sheep to them and us." Aethelstan grins savagely at that one. "No bugger of a lord or king's going to come out here, so bandits've got their pick of it. any merchant with money's got a small army with him."

"And you're sure about the not being able to tell the bandits apart from Telmarine or Archenlander?" Edmund presses.

"well..." The wolf hedges. "They mostly come from the border, so I'd say they're mostly
Archenlander. Got the accent the few times I've been anywhere close."

"Remind me to press for precisely what they think the rate is when we get back." Peter says, and nods at the surrounding country. "This is far worse than even directly after the White Witch."

"They didn't raid so openly then." Edmund replies. "What do you suppose is more responsible, the raids or the lack of trade?"

"Well, no bugger's going to try and settle out here with no protection, is what I reckon." Aethelstan says.

They're a bit further along the road - maybe three miles from the foot of the hills, where the land alternates between scrub and thickets of trees, when all three of them stiffen. Senses for the wolf, long experience for Edmund and peter. "Keep close and wait for them to attack. Don't warn them off." Peter says quietly, urging on his horse at a normal pace.

Several men on horseback burst from cover, going straight for Peter and Edmund. For two, they don't get much further than the first few steps out, since they fall from their horses with knives lodged in their throats.

The others don't seem to notice how quickly those two fell, pressing on, swords out. No crossbows, since the strings would get soaked too quickly in this weather to be of any use. The first to get close goes down as Aethelstan leaps at him, the horse rearing back in the face of the attacking wolf. Aethelstan snaps at his face and arms as he tries to bring his sword up, knocked back by the weight of the full-grown wolf as he hits the bandit, Aethelstan using the force of his leap and weight to knock him out of the saddle, and tearing at his throat and face as he goes down. The flailing of his arms doesn't last long - the wolf didn't even get cut, since the bandit'd had his sword knocked out of his hand as he fell off his horse. One down, more to go. Aethelstan turns to get involved with the rest
of the attack.

They'd got close enough to the kings when Aethelstan's finished with his to be in sword range. The High King keeps his horse stock still, drawing back and getting the first one to go for him with a parry, twist and swinging his sword again to catch the man across the throat on the backswing, the bandit riding forward several steps before he manages to clutch his hand to his spurting throat, but by then it's too late and he'd been dropping from his saddle. Edmund dodged the next one's swing, waiting for his momentum to get him off balance as he over-extended, having expected to hit something and finding nothing there, then turning his horse and coming in with his sword to knock the bandit from his saddle. His foot's still in the stirrup, so he's dragging from that on the floor, trying to avoid his horse's hooves and untwist his foot from the stirrup at the same time. aethelstan grins, pouncing, closing his jaws around the bandit's shoulder, and yanking hard enough to pull his foot from the stirrup as the man had been trying for, then silencing him by tearing his throat out.

Peter knocks another back, and the last makes a break for it, no longer fancying his odds in the face of these experienced soldiers. they'd looked like pretty easy pickings - two youngish riders with their wolfhound, from all appearances - but turned out to be nothing of the sort, and they'd got his mates easily enough. No-one plans for trained wolves, at least not unless you've got a crossbow in dry weather, or throwing knives. he doesn't manage to get far, as Edmund surges forward after him, kicking his horse into a run and riding him down, dodging the bandit's desperate swipe with his sword and knocking him from his saddle with his. the bandit falls from his saddle fairly cleanly without catching his feet in the stirrups, but he hits the track all the same, landing on his shoulder with a crunch and thwacking his head on the ground for good measure, and blacking out.

Edmund goes to round up the horses with the help of Aethelstan. "Good job." He comments. "Are they normally like that?"

Aethelstan nods. "Enough to get a few travellers, at any rate. Doubt they were expecting the likes of you, though."

Edmund smiles. "Well, few tend to expect Peter."

When they're back, Peter looks at the horses Edmund's got by the reins. "All of them? Good." He's standing over the bandit Edmund rode down, and nudges the bandit in the side, sword trained to his throat. "Time to wake up, I think."

Rhys emerges from the blackness of hitting his head as he hit the track, shoulder killing him. He'd been trying to escape this bloody trap that'd been set for them. They'd looked easy enough. Just two of them and a wolfhound, and well-dressed at that. obviously not peasants, so they'd have a purse on them. instead, the bastards had stopped and waited, taking two out with throwing knives before they'd got halfway to them, but they'd thought they still had a chance. The wolf - it was a wolf, not a wolfhound, but what wolf walks alongside humans in Narnia of all places - had leaped for the next, and he'd gone down in a blur of blood and his horse's scream. The taller of the men just sodding waiting for them, that's what they were doing, waiting, took out the next, and the shorter knocked the next from his saddle, poor bastard unable to get his foot out of the stirrup before the wolf was on him. The next went down on one last try against the taller one, he'd gone, so Rhys had decided to make his break now he was outnumbered, not fancying his chances in the slightest. Only they'd gone after him and he opens his eyes to see one of them standing over him, sword held so it's pointing at his throat. behind him, the shorter one and that bloody great wolf are bringing up the rear, grim faced for the human's part, mouth open to pant and show teeth on the wolf's.

The one standing over him, water dripping down his face from this drizzle says mildly "Now. Tell me why were you attacking us."

Rhys would shrug if his shoulder wasn't killing him. There's a chance he dislocated it from the angle he hit the ground at. "You looked like you had money. What kind of idiot rides so close to Archenland borders without protection anyway? Brought it on yourselves."

"Our kind of idiot, it seems." the other says, wiping water from his forehead with a swipe of his forearm. Still holding his sword. "Pity for you that we carry our own protection."

The one standing over him continues. "And you do this often?"

"Decent living." Rhys replies. he's no idea why they're questioning him. he's a bandit, what more do they want to know? His mother's name?

"Bandits." The wolf says, snorting. Oh bloody hell, that's all Rhys needs. It's a talking wolf. Not a dumb animal like most of them in Narnia. No idea why it's willingly aiding humans. The beasts of Narnia, the few that're left, they'd sooner kill a human than help them.

The human standing over him raises his eyebrow. "Archenlander, I take it?"

"Telmarines don't police the border, so why not take advantage of it?"

"Why not." The shorter one shrugs, then cocks his head. "You've heard that there's a new regime in Narnia?"

Everyone's bloody heard about it. The beasts rose up and defeated miraz with the help of Aslan and now there's some new monarchs on the throne. Doesn't make any difference to the border, though. "Yeah, supposed to be the Narnian kings of old come again. Like anybody'd believe that. We've been seeing more beasts walking around, true, but that's it."

The one standing over him says softly "Does this sound like a Telmarine accent?" he's right. he sounds like the Narnian beasts that you see in Archenland sometimes, the ones sensible enough to leave.

"Don't know many Telmarines accompanied by Narnians, either, mate." The wolf growls.

"No, but -" he stops, since the tall one touches his sword to his throat, pressing lightly,and he could swear he feels a trickle of warmth in amongst the drizzle on his throat.

"You had the misfortune to run into High King Peter." The shorter one says, amused. he's got a Narnian accent too. "he never did like Archenland raiders. I'd tell your friends if I were you." He glances round at the scatter of bodies around them. "Well, the ones still alive."

The taller one steps back, and Rhys staggers to his feet, clutching at his shoulder and getting out of there as fast as he can. They're not following him, retrieving their knives from the first ones they picked off, and checking their bodies over for more weapons. He wouldn't know them from whoever they say the new kings are, but he's not about to stick around to find out.

Susan's waiting for them with Trumpkin and Chiana when they get back to the city. "So how are the borders these days?"

"Oh, definitely interesting." Edmund says.

"Glad to hear it."

"Dunno why you bothered riding out." Trumpkin snorts. "Any fool could've told you the Archenland border's bandit country."

"Yes, but forgive us if we like to check things with our own eyes." Susan says. "We're not always inclined to trust the reports we get from the Telmarines. They're the ones that would have sworn blind that Narnians no longer existed some weeks back, remember?"

"Didn't have to go risking your lives -" Trumpkin stops and rolls his eyes. "Listen to me. Who'm I talking to again?"

Once inside the castle, Susan and Edmund convene a council of advisers on foreign policy. They're sitting around a table, and Susan taps her thumb on the table thoughtfully. "Tell me, how bad is the problem with the raids? My brothers find it quite lawless on inspection."

Galduire clears his throat. "it is considered to be quite a problem in the area."

"Hmm. Get me the Archenland ambassador, will you?"

It doesn't take long to get the Archenland ambassador there, but he does look somewhat reluctant to be there. unlike other ambassadors, the Archenlanders preferred to keep a distance and play a watch and wait game rather than jump straight in. After all, they're the ones who border Narnia, even if the Telmarines seemed to prefer to believe that there weren't any other countries of any note beyond its borders. And they preferred to wait it out, for these new monarchs to prove themselves as who they claimed to be. Archenlanders have just as good records of the old Narnian kings and queens, and portraits that are faster to check than the Calormene ones. Archenland's history with Narnia is far more complex and tangled than the Calormen one with Narnia ever was, and they're certainly in no rush to abase themselves in as shameful a manner as the Calormen did. The story of that one spread around certain areas of court nearly as fast as wildfire, since several have very good hearing. But then the Calormene culture does seem to consist of having no spine or pride on several occasions - their insistence on abasing yourself totally before any lord of sufficient rank has always brought a sneer to the Archenland face - and having utterly misplaced definitions of
what you should defend your honour against, not to mention the way they go about that. Time's proved that the Narnian monarchs are certainly the Pevensie family they claim to be, but still. Better to wait until confrontation is actually necessary.

Math opens the door to the room the council on Archenland is being held in. Queen Susan looks up and smiles, gesturing to an empty seat. "So glad you could join us, Math."

"Your majesty." The Archenland ambassador inclines his head and moves to sit down in the chair she indicated. "how may I be of service?"

He quite likes the Pevensies, personally. They're for the most part cheerful, pleasant, blunt and quite easy to get on with, far closer to Archenlanders in spirit, temperament and outlook than the Telmarines for the most part. They've got a sense of fair play and a decent sense of humour, and believe in living life to the full. They hate being tied down, and he's heard rumour that they're thinking of removing themselves from this Telmarine fortress and are focussed on opening up the trade and sea barriers, which is no bad thing. All of them have made it very clear that they despise most court protocol, and are actively halting anyone who tries to use it in front of them. it's cutting down on the time he used to waste dealing with it. Directer and simpler. Of course, they can be arrogant and distant, but in that respect, they're used to being obeyed and running armies. In general, better them on the throne and taking Caspian in hand than Miraz.

It turns out that the Archenland historians shared a lot of the opinions he's forming of them - keep your distance from High King Peter and never forget that he's a soldier first and foremost. Quick to anger, quick to laugh, and always deadly serious. Little patience for diplomacy. Queen Lucy is the one whose brain runs at an angle most won't consider, and will laugh as she runs you through. Very nice, very sunny, healing potion in one hand and dagger in the other. in pictures and stories it's her image that's used as the metaphor for the unpredictable. King Edmund the Just. Lawgiver, King of Shadows and spymaster. the history books described him as quiet, dark and devoted to expediency. There were hints of the Bacchus thing, so it wasn't as much a shock to Math as it had been the rest of the kingdom, but talking to him, you'd still not expect it, since he gives nothing away of his personal opinion or life unless he chooses it. Queen Susan, who he has the most business with in his position as ambassador, is graceful, insightful, and one of the purest diplomats he's ever met, and as history describes, perfectly icy and unknowable when she chooses, with a fist of steel inside the silken glove. he does thank his stars that she's got a sense of humour.

Susan gives him a considering look. "We feel it's time to discuss Narnia's current relationship with Archenland, since it is our closest neighbour. Telmarine policy towards it seems a little unsteady and practically non-existent in several areas. how would you sum up the current situation?"

Math considers his reply. "I'd say it was cordial, your majesty. For the most part, there is very little to disagree about -"

Queen Susan sighs. "Is it as bad as the rest of Telmarine foriegn policy?" The rest of the room exchange slightly embarrassed glances. The Pevensies' public scorn for that made most of those involved feel like chastised schoolchildren made to see the error of their ways, and they're all trying to put it behind them.

Math leans back slightly, trying to be politic. "We have regular trade set up."

Queen Susan's face smooths out in that expression that those often called in on council with her are learning is her slightly pained one. "I've heard about that trade policy. I'm certainly impressed by how restrictive it is. How did you manage to keep your face straight whenever the Telmarines insisted that all the Talking Beasts were dead or mythical?" she asks curiously, the Telmarines wincing. it's a sore point and probably will be for quite some time. Trumpkin the dwarf is snickering.

"Practice, your majesty." Math chuckles slightly. "In the mirror, every morning. My instructions were to allow them their illusions, since it meant for an easier life. As for visits by merchants, they were carefully picked and marshalled, and the Talking Beasts kept out of the way. It is certainly easier now." he pauses. "Though some are now considering what other branch of Archenland policy and life they can choose now to pull the wool of Narnia's eyes now that that amusement's no longer viable."

Susan raises an eyebrow. "Feel free to continue to provide amusement for me and my brother."
She traces a finger on the edge of the table. "However, there is something I'd like to establish. How often would you say the border raids are? The Telmarine intelligence is hazy on the subject since they preferred to ignore the borders and so have no real figures. Sheep farmers weren't of much concern since they don't provide much in the way of tax. Aethelstan of the guard has said it's somewhat frequent and a fact of life there. he'll attest to the fact that a large proportion of the raiders and highwaymen have Archenland accents."

Math coughs. "I'd say that it's probably as lawless as you can get."

"Not that accurate." her voice stays casual, but suddenly it becomes almost too casual. "Is it sanctioned or unsanctioned?"

Math freezes. It's not a question he'd expected. he should have. Archenlanders are raised with the story of what the Narnians refer to as the Golden age, a mythical time for them, but the Archenlanders record that period as a matter of history. records of battles and deals made document it, along with the more colourful tales of myth and song that were passed down in Narnia, albeit with an Archenland slant on it all. They're not mythic creatures, not heroes. The Narnian monarchs of Narnia's so-called golden age, the Pevensies, were youthful, beautiful, warlike, and ruthless in both politics and war. Their time on the throne was spent in almost constant sabre-rattling with Archenland. There was never outright war, but there were constant skirmishes and power plays. Narnia was recorded as an ally, but always one to be watched. The peace was forever uneasy and broken at a moment's notice. The records are accurate, as accurate as they can be for a period of history over a thousand years ago, but as everyone is finding out, having a historical figure in front of you always reminds you that many of the nuances are missing, and that a historian is always biased towards their own country and will skim over less than honourable practices done in the name of the home side. Archenland monarchs tend to turn a blind eye to the border raids, and claim that it's out of their hands and impossible to police the actions of a few of their subjects whenever Narnians bring a formal complaint. Queen Susan, however, has brought in a factor that appears to be missing from the histories. The possibility that it was sanctioned means that King Lune, and probably others, used it as a cover for other activities and on purpose.

he keeps his voice pleasant, even if he's sure that Susan - and certainly King Edmund, who's stayed quiet and in the shadows the whole time as an observer - saw his reaction. "Unsanctioned, your majesty. I think it's more that they turn a blind eye, but I can't say how much of it's because it made life difficult for the Telmarine merchants and any attempt to police the border."

"Hmm. Similar to our day." Edmund says, finally speaking up. "We'll have to check how much more serious it is and how much pressure we'll have to use to get Llyr to take steps to discourage it." He catches eyes with Math, and Math's curious expression over that point. "Yes, it is possible." he leans back in his chair, hooking an arm over the back of his chair to exchange glances with Queen Susan and ask casually. "How long do you suppose their memories are, Su?"

Susan considers that statement, or at least makes the appearance of doing so. "We can always
remind them."

"...Your majesties?" Math asks nervously. That's a threat if ever he heard one. And one thing that has always been very clear about the Pevensies is that they don't make idle threats and have no problem using force. Especially High King Peter, who prefers that option to words and council.

Edmund cocks his head at the rest of the council. "Tell me, because I haven't seen this covered by the records I've been going over. What's Telmar's experience in taking wards of court?"

Everyone stares at that one. Pevensie direct ruthlessness surprising everyone once again. Just when you think they're nice and pleasant and willing to talk it out, suddenly the table's kicked over or you find a large knife in middle of the bunch of flowers they handed you.

Math's mind is racing, suddenly putting a historical event in context. Every Archenland child knows about Prince Corin, brother of King Cor. Cor was kidnapped by traitor lords and stolen away to Calormen as a child for many long years - which resulted in the battle of Anvard. They still hold that one over the Calormen as a jibe about their beloved Rabadash the Wise. Prince Corin is always a favourite subject. The adventurer prince, who everyone knows learned to fight from the time he spent in the Narnian court under the tutelage of the Pevensies. Lune's court was made up of doughty warriors, but the histories and tales agree that the Pevensies were the ones deserving of the title warrior kings more than any before or since. But the histories and tales seem to have left out the salient fact about why Corin spent time at the Narnian court that is making Math feel a little sick to his stomach. Now he thinks about it - and he's been studying the histories quite extensively since they first appeared to make his life easier and get more of their references - they never gave a reason for the Crown prince of Archenland, as Corin was before his brother was returned, would
spend time at a court that shared a very uneasy friendship with his home. Corin had been taken as a hostage for good behaviour from Lune, a way to exert control when other avenues had failed. Oh, a well-treated one, to be certain, looked on as a favoured young cousin while he was there. Queen lucy's mentioned him and the escapades he got up to several times. But still a ward of court. And if Corin's ward status was a direct result of continual intentional border problems, his advice to his king will be to stop anything like that as soon as possible.

He lifts his chin. "I'm sure that any problems and disputes can be settled long before that is necessary, your majesty."

"Good." Edmund says. "Then i think we need to meet with your king, Math. Send message that we'd like to invite him to court formally. make a celebration of it while we hold the talks. I'll get a scribe to draft the official letter and send the messenger, but feel free to send your own birds ahead of it." he looks over at Susan. "I'm in the mood for another feast or two, and the Archenlanders were always good company." he looks back at Math. "How're the bards these days?"

Math grins, rightly proud. Archenland bards have a reputation they like to uphold. "They've been keeping up the traditions, your majesty."

"Good to hear."

"We'll have to see how much survived from our day in the way of tunes." Susan says. Math makes an internal note to tell the bards to look up as many of the ancient tunes as possible when they come.

Accusations of improper behaviour

burntozone@googlemail.com — Sat, 30 May 2009 17:39:18 GMT

Susan's in the courtyard, on her way out to archery practice when Lord Scythely joins her. The leopard by her side raises her hackles slightly. Susan flicks her fingers in the motion that means 'quiet - for now'. There's several gestures like that that were established in the personal guard of the royal family. they haven't had to use the more deadly ones yet, but they're waiting. And they'd be all too glad to test them out on the Telmarine lords. Not even a word. Just the correct gesture will be quite sufficient.

Susan inclines her head politely. "Lord Scythely? To what do we owe the pleasure?"

Lord Scythely looks down at the leopard warily. Just an instant's glance before his features rearrange themselves into a pleasant expression. The leopard, Chiana, smirks inwardly at this. She rather likes the fact that the Telmarines can never quite hide their fear of the fact that they have talking beasts amongst them. She hopes it doesn't go away any time soon. They're a threat, a very dangerous threat and they certainly cannot be contained. So if the humans fear her and her ilk, that is something she can cope with in her new job. The position of guard is an interesting one. The Kings and Queens of old started going through the ranks of the narnians who'd survived the battle almost straight away for those suitable for the position of guard, targeting the big cats and wolves above all others. Apparently the big cats and wolves had the reflexes, power and temperaments they valued in those who would be guarding their lives in public and private. Size was also a consideration, of course. never mind that they had known them only a short time. They needed guards since they were used to being attacked in their position as leaders, and had no intention of setting foot in the Telmarine stronghold without some sort of back-up, even under the banner of conquerors and in peace as they were intending. The guard are learning to tolerate certain of the lords that had power under Miraz. General Glozelle is not liked, but they concede he ss a good general and warrior, and appears to have given his loyalty to the High King without question. Of course, if he does show signs of turning, the guard will have the pleasure of attacking him first if the High King does not get there first. Others have learnt to walk quietly and only given counsel when asked. Some have not even learned that, holding barely veiled contempt for their new rulers. Scythely is one of those. Chiana's tail lashes, the only sign of her displeasure at the presence of this human being so close to the Queen.

he clears his throat, and smiles in an oily fashion. "I would request to bend the ear of your majesty. i have some news I wish to impart."

"And it could not wait for the next scheduled meeting?" Queen Susan asks, shifting her shoulders to accommodate the quiver and bow slung over them.

"I imagine you would wish to be apprised of it as soon as possible." he says. "After all, it does concern the royal family directly."

"Oh?" Susan raises her eyebrow. "Go ahead, Lord Scythely."

He bows his head. "As you wish. your majesty, I feel you should be made aware that someone has been spreading vile rumours of members of the royal family cavorting with the more ... bestial Narnians."

Chiana's fur bristles on this one. This lord has never made his contempt for the Narnians a secret, and every phrase out of his mouth that she's heard from him on the subject, and she's heard a lot in her position as the diplomat of the family's guard, is a thinly veiled insult.

Susan's fingers make the gesture for calm again. now is not the time. Instead, she says "And? they are Narnians, my lord. i presume you speak of the revels. Cavorting is a large part of them, if you hadn't heard tell, and is normal and to be expected. considering how many narnians there were at the revels, I'd be more surprised if they hadn't. Which of my siblings is it you hear these rumours of?"

Lord Scythely stiffens. "I did not mean celebration and dancing, your highness. There were rumours that they lay with the goat-footed."

"Really. Precisely who is it you heard indulged in this?"

He smiles again, oily. "I do not like to confirm it, but these particular rumours are of your royal brother King Edmund, my lady."

Chiana narrows her eyes. Ah, so it comes out. The lords little like the control of the King of Shadows. Attempting to spread rumour and falsehood against the master of rumours himself is possibly a little naive on the part of Lord Scythely, though.

"Hmm." Susan looks him full in the face, blank-faced. "And I should worry about this because?"

His tone turns earnest. Which automatically makes it sound like a lie. The most earnest the man ever is is about power. "It is a slur! A scandal, they wish to ruin the reputation of our monarchs by whispering that certain members of your family indulge in unnatural practices." He goes solemn-faced. "And you should know how ruinous a misplaced word or the wrong sort of secret getting out can be."

Chiana smiles slightly. Now it comes out. attempted threats. She glances up at the Queen,
interested to know how she's going to handle this one.

"You seem to have an interesting definition of 'unnatural practices'." Susan says, taking the skin of water from her waist and unplugging it, sipping from it before answering the rest, her tone calm and easy. "I and my siblings are Narnian, not Telmarine, and bedding other races is considered normal for Narnians."

The casual tone tells you all you need to know. Lord Scythely really ought to tread carefully from this point. Though it does confirm several rumours that have been going around since the revels for Chiana. Several said they saw it, but weren't convinced it was anything but the influence of Bacchus and the wine - everyone was fucking everyone that was compatible, regardless of species.

Lord Scythely doesn't look as though that statement's going to stop him, though. he just takes on a superior look. "Your majesty, you do not understand the seriousness of the situation." And now it's turned patronising. Another point he dislikes and rankles with his ego. The kings and queens of old appear much younger than they truly are, and Susan is female. Few women were seen at the Telmarine court or allowed a say, from what the narnians have gathered from comments and talk since they've been here. They don't even allow them to fight, several of the more high-born deeming it unnatural that Susan commanded the archers and fought alongside everyone else, considering her position. Chiana knows that the Telmarines are aware of the tales of olden times - they tell things differently, of course, but she still can't believe they missed the part about Queen Susan the Gentle being a fearsome archer as High King Peter was feared with any blade or fight. "Such practices are against all the laws of man -"

Susan's expression has started to turn quite chilly now. Lord Scythely, it appears, really has no concept of reading expressions or the mood around him. If the Telmarine court was as dangerous and delicate as Caspian said it had been under Miraz, Chiana's surprised he lasted as long as he did. perhaps he kept to the back, cowed by Miraz and the presence of Glozelle and more powerful lords killed at Beruna, and it's only now he's getting the chance to speak. Chiana thinks it's a pity that he did. There's be a lot less hot air, for a start.

Her next tone is positively frosty, even though it's still polite. "And perhaps you should remember that you are now subject to Narnian law and practice, as is everyone in this country. I'm sure you're aware of our re-institution of it, my lord. No matter what their race, the law applies to all."

Scythely smiles, still patronising, attempting integration. it really doesn't suit him. "I caution you, your majesty. I know the law of equality amongst races, but this is - to lie with the cloven-footed - the people will not stand for it. they will whisper and take it ill, once it becomes more widespread. it could damage your brother's reputation most grievously. I only tell you this in the deepest confidence, out of concern for your persons."

Susan smiles. Still slightly frosty. "Then it's a good thing we're not concerned about our reputation under Telmarine custom, isn't it?" She puts her hands to her waist, adjusting her belt. hand very, very close to the long dagger she wears on her hip. Not resting on the hilt, just brushing against it. "I'd be very careful of speaking of the cloven-hoofed in derogatory tones in public if I were you, Lord Scythely. During our previous reign my sister Lucy's consort was a faun. Would you like to tell her this?"

Chiana succeeds in not blinking at that one. Affecting a casual, unperturbed demeanour at news is part of her job as guard. She knows Queen Lucy and the faun Tumnus were close - very close indeed, she talks enough of him - but she wasn't aware that he was in fact her consort. It puts an interesting spin on several of the tales of her youth and then the stories the Kings and Queens of old tell themselves. And shows a definite other side to the youngest, for when she grows up to be considered adult. But it'll be interesting to see how the Telmarines react when it becomes public knowledge.

Lord Scythely, for instance, looks as though the wind has been taken out of his sails, and then he's personally been blown back a dozen yards. Mention Queen Lucy and most of them tend to deflate slightly. But the fact that she's the prime example of how much the Kings and Queens of old think of Telmarine strictures and codes appears to be a tad shocking for Lord Scythely. He thought he'd been attacking King Edmund, who involves himself in reputations and information. Lucy simply does not care. And to be seen attempting to besmirch the name of a seeming child would not be part of any civilised code of conduct.

"I - ah - your majesty, I-" He stammers.

Susan continues, smiling outright now. "Really, given the concern several of you have for the
consequences of the revels for society, I'd have thought you'd be more concerned that he's Bacchus' favourite."

Scythely's nearly gaping at this revelation. Chiana cocks her head with interest, smirking. The expression of disbelief going across his face, along with that familiar one of 'these narnian monarchs are quite possibly insane' are pretty impressive. Admittedly the Bacchus mention is a good way to put him off-balance even more, but she can tell his lordship is somewhat stunned that she thinks so little of letting such a fact out in a semi-public situation where anyone can hear. Chiana gets the feeling that the Telmarines opposed to the revels would probably try to use it as one more reason to disapprove and scream about them.

Susan adjusts the weight of her bow, smiling sweetly. "Since you appear to have nothing further to add, I take it our audience is over. Good day, Lord Scythely. Feel free to come to me with any more gossip you overhear and feels needs my ... attention." With that, she sweeps away, and Chiana trots after her. Not a bad result for the conversation, really.

In the afternoon when Susan's got back from her archery practice, Edmund calls a session of his siblings and fellow monarchs. he storms into the room with a face like thunder. Caspian is somewhat glad he's furthest from the door. Reepicheep and a few others are in the room anyway, having been on business, and get trapped when he slams the door behind him. The narnians and Caspian flinch slightly. The Pevensies don't but he's sure they're now looking interested.

Edmund plants his hands on the table, and says in an enraged tone "Who the hell told everyone
about me and Bacchus? I've heard it from seven different people!" Caspian raises an eyebrow. Surely a lot of people saw him with Bacchus at the revels, but - ah. It's not the revels. The narnians and everyone else have been taking their cue from the pevensies, in that what happens at the revels stays at the revels, so it has to be something else. Lucy did tell him that Edmund gets exceedingly annoyed about his relationship with Bacchus, so that must be it.

Reepicheep's the one who speaks first. The mouse coughs. "...My lord, it appears to have come from queen Susan. that is who I heard spoke of it. hence why it is being spoken of as confirmed rather than a rumour, to fall from the queen's own lips."

Edmund turns his glare on her. Susan just smiles and shrugs. "Guilty, sorry." She certainly doesn't look guilty. he's aware that the pevensies find Edmund's grumpiness about his relationship with Bacchus more amusing than anything. Caspian is wondering how it came up in conversation that others would overhear, though, if there were witnesses that weren't just servants.

The glare doesn't let off, but Edmund's posture relaxes slightly and he groans. "Deaths. many deaths. many painful deaths. pass me the wine. and never do that to me again."

Peter pours him some from the jug on the table, handing it to him. Edmund takes a noisy mouthful from it.

Susan sips at her own goblet. "Look at it this way. It'll absolve you of people thinking you're influenced by who you're bedding. especially when it comes to judgements."

Edmung groans again, covering his eyes. "Might I remind you that we're trying to assure them of my non-bias post the equality laws?"

Lucy says flatly. "Their version of equality being 'we let you into society, what more do they want?', of course..."

Peter sits down beside him and adds his own view. "Plus we are *narnian* kings, Ed. They think we're biased no matter what."

Edmund rolls his eyes, taking another gulp of wine and looking generally pained. "I spent enough time trying to live this down last time and it wasn't general hushed knowledge for a good several years of our reign, never mind confirmed. You bastards, it'll scare off all my other sex life. Narnians'll be scared of offending Bacchus. And if it's telmarine, all I'll get is the ones who think they can get to Bacchus." he gestures with the goblet, and then sinks into the chair next to him. "Not to mention there goes any possibility of alliance marriage if I'm seen as taken or some sort of figurehead."

Susan cocks her head and muses, finger to her lip. "Alliance marriages where they think it's an advantage, on the other hand..."

Caspian nods. "There are many who would welcome a marriage with someone who was connected to someone so powerful. Many more would be quite content with a consort whose attention was
diverted elsewhere when it came to the bedchamber."

Lucy pats him Edmund on the shoulder sympathetically. "There, there, Edmund you'll just have to stay off the pretty Telmarine courtiers out for power and content yourself with stableboys, Archenlanders and foreigners until the Narnians get over their fears."

Peter drawls "I'm sure it'll be such a hardship."

Edmund groans. "Thank you for the overwhelming vote of sympathy and reason."

Reepicheep raises his paw, looking distinctly uncomfortable at having had to witness this. Caspian doesn't blame him, dealing with the pevensies is not a calm life. "May we take your leave, your majesties? I believe we have somewhere else to be..."

protesting against the revels

burntozone@googlemail.com — Sat, 30 May 2009 17:31:27 GMT

It takes a few more days for everyone to get back to normal and the first petitions about the revels to come through and be put before the monarchs. The Pevensies are surprised it took them so long, frankly. what they didn't quite expect was that there were some representatives of the dwarves in with the Telmarine lords and community leaders. Apparently certain of the dwarves don't appreciate letting go that much. There's always some who don't like having their lives disrupted in any form in all communities. What the petitioners didn't quite expect was that the monarch who agrees to hear and consider the case is Queen Lucy.

when the letter's first put to them as request for an audience for the petition, Peter picks it up, snorting, about to put it in the fire. "Honestly, what do they think they can do?"

Lucy stops him, taking the paper from his hand. She grins. Evilly. "I don't know, but wouldn't it be fun to see?"

Susan eyes her. "Lucy, your tendencies are showing again."

"Isn't it fun?" Lucy smirks.

"But seriously, Lu, I'm with peter." She says. "they ought to learn that this kind of thing can and will be rejected out of hand for being entirely too ridiculous. It's like attempting to sue the sea for washing away your sandcastles. I refuse to get a headache from all the exceedingly stupid shouting of petty voices who don't understand the way the world works sometimes."

Lucy shrugs. "So let me hear the case." She turns the paper over. "They ought to be unnerved enough by me as it is, they always are when it's something serious, and I really want to see them twisting themselves up in knots when they try to allude to what goes on at the revels that they disapprove so much of." She looks over at Caspian. "really, why are your people such prudes?"

"they are not prudes so much as bound by codes of behaviour that they cannot, I suspect, throw off overnight." Caspian says, then grimaces. "Aren't you going to stop her doing this? I do not wish to see heavy drinking going on outside the main hall directly after. the servants complain since they have to clean up the aftermath."

edmund raises a sceptical eyebrow. "You'd know what the servants talk of? I am impressed, we're rubbing off on you."

"Hardly." Caspian snorts. "I learned my way around all the secret passageways of this castle as a boy, and did a lot of listening at doors and from the shadows."

"All those who think we should be fair to the servants?" Peter says, grinning, keeping his arms very firmly folded. The others glance amongst themselves, but don't raise their hands. "Let the brain scarring begin, Lu." Lucy looks triumphant, then goes outside to look for a messenger.

Blacktip appears. "My Queen?"

"oh good. Blacktip, if you could return a message to those who brought a petition against the revels - Lord Athos should do, he was one of the signatories - and tell them that Queen Lucy will hear their case in two days' time."

Blacktip stares at her. "Forgive me if i speak out of turn, my queen, but I would warn against something so patently ridiculous."

"Oh, I know it's ridiculous." She replies. "hence why I'm going to let them learn their lesson."

Blacktip trots off to deliver the message, shaking his head. The old Kings and Queens can truly be twisted at times, that's for certain.

The plaintiffs gather in the council room. Queen Lucy is sitting at the head of the table. Which still has a few rough edges in places from where the branches were sheared off it. She smiles politely, flicking through a few pieces of paper. "I understand you wish to complain about something?"

They really, really don't like facing Queen Lucy. Although they know King Edmund, the second youngest of the Narnian monarchs, is supposedly only a year or so older than her, he at least gives off the impression of being an adult, being close to his full growth. Queen Lucy, physically, is still very obviously a child, even if her mind and ways of thinking prove her far from it. facing a woman that appears to be a child is always, always unnerving.

Lord Athos bows before sitting. "We wish to complain about the mass gathering that took place earlier this week. the ones termed the Revels."

"Which you clearly didn't go to." Lucy says, leaning her chin on her hand. "Oh, sit, the rest of you."

"of course not." Lord Athos says stiffly.

"So what's your problem with them?" She asks. "Sad that you weren't invited or missed out?"

he almost goes purple, sputtering. "The revels are - they are savage! debauched! Days long celebration that take place in the open, with no care for civilised behaviour or reasonable code of conduct -" Everyone else around the table is nodding. Stiffly. And in Lucy's opinion, a little too full of themselves. "They need to be stopped from happening again, and the sooner -"

Lucy interrupts him. "Well, you'd hardly expect Bacchus to hold his revels indoors. You should go to one, lord Athos, it'd be good for you. Live a little. They're fun."

Lord Athos swallows, stopped just as he was getting free rein. "Your majesty has -" The fact that little Queen Lucy has been to them and professes to enjoy them, not to mention knows exactly who organises them, may hamper their efforts.

"My majesty is of the opinion that you need to stop listening to reports and experience such things for yourself." Lucy says. "I think the whole court does. It may even be mandatory at the next harvest."

"But there - they say there is not just wine -" he doesn't dare voice the next part. Tales of orgies and fights and non-stop drunkenness came back, told in whispered, disbelieving voices by those who'd been drawn there and caught up in it. And not just orgies. orgies between humans and Narnians, no-one caring precisely who they were twined around.

Lucy smiles at him and says in a cheerful voice "Well of course not. There wouldn't be much point otherwise." The other lords, dwarves and the like gathered around the table swallow. They really wish she'd stop using the reasonable little girl voice.

Lord Athos tries another tack. "My queen, I do not think you understand the danger they pose. They tear at the fabric of civilisation itself, causing people to forget themselves and all duty -"

Lucy gives him a look. "That's their entire point. I really do think you're missing it somewhat. Bacchus holds the revels to give people a release and remind them that civilisation is less than skin deep. I for one quite welcome that."

Attigon, one of the dwarves, thumps his hand on the table. "Well some of us don't! I'm sorry, your majesty, but there has to be some way to stop this Bacchus from doing this, no matter how enchanting you find it personally."

Lucy leans back. "and that is your opinion, Attigon?" She asks mildly.

"Yes it is, your majesty. And it's the opinion of all of us here." Attigon replies.

"My Lord Bacchus is a god, Attigon." She informs him. "He is an integral part of the Deep magic of this land. Do you have a suggestion how you'd like us to stop him? I'd encourage you to ask nicely at the next revel he brings, but I suspect he'll probably laugh in your face." She gets up from her chair, and they all rise automatically. She waves a hand dismissively. "Don't be silly, this isn't the throne room. I suggest you simply grit your teeth and learn to like it before he decides to make an example of you." With that, she walks from the room.

As the door clicks behind her, the hubbub starts. "What did she mean, god? She can't be serious."

"Their majesties did live in a different age."

"I personally reckon they have no intention of stopping it because they enjoy it too much." Attigon says, folding his arms. "That was bloody clear, I can tell you. probably in with this Bacchus, too. Anyone even know what he's supposed to look like?"

"I heard of a young man in animal skins with vines in his hair that walked around it." Lord Melenus says hesitantly.

Attigon snorts. "Should be easy enough to find, then. Can't be that many walking around dressed like that."

morning after the revels

burntozone@googlemail.com — Mon, 09 Feb 2009 20:04:31 GMT

Bacchus leans back against a tree, tipping his head back in the slight breeze as it stirs his hair and plays across his bare skin. The revels - the first of this age, heralded by the land's re-awakening with the return of Aslan and the Pevensie monarchs - have gone well. They crashed joyously through the woods and plains, gathering people as they went. All drawn by the siren call thrumming through the land itself, the creatures of Narnia, Telmarine human and native beasts alike dancing and running wild until they fall from exhaustion, only to get back up again and continue, coupling against trees and on the floors of forest glades, drunk on wine and his presence that urges them to greater heights of wildness. near Lantern Waste, the fauns and satyrs worked themselves into a frenzy, tearing apart a deer and leaving deep scratches on themselves as they fought, feasting on the succulent flesh and marrow. So smeared with blood that you couldn't tell which was theirs and which was deer. And the Telmarine humans, so stiff and scared when they came, unsure of what they were to find, by the end having thrown off as many trappings of their stifling 'civilisation' that they pride themselves so much as keeping them above the beasts as they could. Of course, now that the revels are over, they've limped back home and gone back into their cages, huddling together against the outer unknown, but they're now a little less stiff then before, and will gradually become less so. And they've learned what they're truly capable of once they let go and give in to the wild that he personifies. Even the Narnians, who at least had some knowledge of him, weren't prepared for how far they could go when given the right provocation.

The only ones who did know - who had full experience and knowledge of what Bacchus truly was and what wildness really was - were the Pevensies. Who as he expected, threw themselves into the revels head first and with open hearts, leading others in and pushing them onward. The Telmarine princeling being just one, for all that he asked so many questions and constantly watched and examined. Next time, Bacchus thinks he will have to drive him hard enough that he doesn't have time to consider and think. The way he watched he and Edmund is certainly no need for his concern, though it appears many of the Narnians were staring at that one - they had quite an audience. he forgets, as Edmund did, that none of them have knowledge of what Edmund is to him, for all that it's been many centuries since they've been together. But public claiming and lessons are no bad thing. They will learn who his favourite is and what that means as they'll learn what wildness is. A smile crosses his face as he thinks of his favourite. Back to being the youth he first encountered, only with all the thoughts and memories of the man. Still just as fascinating, struggling with the newness of this world as he re-learns it with his siblings, and throwing himself fully into the revels for once, desperate for the release from the pressures of this new kingdom they helm. But still his Edmund.

----

Caspian groans as he wakes up. he's wet and cold with the morning dew, curled around Susan - it's definitely her scent, that perfume only she has, combined with the slightest hint of blood and armour that all the Pevensies have, overlaid with the glue used on her arrows. A callused male hand is on his hip, and the hair on the arm it's attached to is blond. He raises his muzzy head slightly to see that the hand and arm belong to Peter, who's curled around his sister. All of them are naked. And have red bite marks and bruises and cuts littering their skin, evidence of precisely what they were doing. the memories of what he's been doing for the last while flood back, and he swallows slightly. At least some of it, anyway. and then swallows again as he realises precisely how long it went on for, the only measurement of time being the light and dark passing. This is the... third morning since the Pevensie siblings towed him here. They ran wild for three days? Without care for what was going on outside the revels? Impossible, surely.

Above him, a cheerful girlish voice rings out. "Oh, you're awake. finally." it has a Narnian accent. he turns his head slightly to see Queen Lucy standing over him, smiling cheerfully. Clothed and hair swept into sensible plaits, as though the past three days of non-stop dancing and merriment and raucous celebration had not happened.

"...Lucy?" he asks weakly.

"Yes, of course." She pokes him with her foot. "Come on, get up. Revels are over and we have to go back, Edmund'll be expecting us. And I know for a fact that you don't have a hangover." That's right, at least. he's not sure how, considering how much he drank.

An arm's reach away, Peter raises his head. "Lu? Have you got our clothes?" Caspian glares at him. Peter doesn't sound in the slightest bit sleepy or confused. But then he reminds himself that the Pevensies were the ones who dragged him here and knew precisely what was coming. they've done this many, many times before, unlike nearly everyone else here.

"got them right here." Lucy says cheerfully, dropping them on Susan's head.

There's a muffled curse from under the clothes, Susan having been wakened rather rudely. She
tears the clothes from her face, with the scold of "Lucy! How many times have I told you not to do that!"

Lucy puts on her innocent face. "Why are you accusing me?"

Susan glares at her. "Because you're the only one who's ever done it and no-one else would dare!" With her eyes sparking like that and the expression of fury on her face, breasts heaving in indignation, Caspian's not ashamed to say that she looks magnificent. and then realises what those thoughts are doing to him, and quickly grabs a piece of clothing to cover himself. Looking down, he notices that it's Peter's shirt.

"I... ah... could we perhaps get dressed?" Caspian asks weakly.

"I'm not stopping you." Lucy shrugs, then looks down and smiles evilly. "oh, don't be so
embarrassed. it's not like I haven't seen you in every possible state over the past few days."

"I'm trying not to think about that." Caspian winces, pulling his own shirt out of the pile on top of Susan and shrugging it on. When his head's through, he starts pulling the sleeves on, then pauses and says in horror "Was it really three days? I thought it merely seemed that long."

"Oh, three days is nothing." Susan assures him. "We've had ones that went on for a week. Not to mention that one that went on for two. The kingdom practically ground to a halt."

"Well, apart from Edmund." Peter interjects.

"Oh, yes." She said distractedly. "Edmund managed to get out of Bacchus that enough people had to be left to tend to things, so there was a sort of rota going on - Some of the kingdom stayed at their lives for the first week to make sure the nuts and bolts of it kept running, to be replaced the second week." She grins. "Mind you, Bacchus did get his own back on that one. he kidnapped Edmund for two weeks."

Caspian has to consider that one. So contrary to what he discussed with Lucy on the subject, it seems Edmund does have some influence or power over Bacchus as his favourite. But two weeks? How would that not be contested? They make it sound as though there was no choice in the matter. "May I ask how it is Bacchus was able to convince the entire kingdom to come to the revels? How does he have such power? I only saw a graceful young man in animal skins."

Susan looks at Peter, eyebrow raised. "Shall you break it to him or shall I?"

Peter shrugs. "You can. on the way back. Edmund'll be in a bad enough mood anyway if we don't get going."

They finish getting dressed. "Where is Edmund?" Caspian asks curiously as Lucy and Peter help
Susan lace up the back of her dress. "You said he had already left. When did he leave?"

"Yesterday evening." Lucy says. "Which is longer than he normally ever stays for. I think he needed the break."

"And Bacchus?" Caspian asks as they start on their way back to the castle, determined to get some sort of coherent answer from them on the subject, because he needs to know about a being that has this much influence, if not outright power. Even if it's just some odd details that he might be able to decipher with a lot of effort later. "How can he manage to convince so many to do this? He was just a man."

Susan smiles, tossing her hair. "Bacchus isn't a man, Caspian. he's a god. The god of wine and wildness in all things. he induces the frenzy and state of mind you've been experiencing for the last few days. Well, that and producing the wine and food that we were all drinking. how do you think we kept going if not for the wine and Bacchus?"

Caspian gapes. he hadn't been expecting that one. "A god? Surely not, that is not possible -"

Susan shrugs. "You've met Aslan, you've seen the River God, how is Bacchus so difficult? Narnia is not a tame land."

Caspian has to stop at that one. The word tame, that Narnians and especially the Pevensies use as an insult. That indicates that they're serious about this. and if Bacchus is truly the god of wildness, no wonder he can induce such on a whim. "So, ah, if he's a god, why is Edmund embarrassed about being known as his favourite?" Surely being the favourite of anyone powerful is an advantage, and not something normally hidden. And to be the favourite of the god who personifies the aspect that the Narnians most treasure - he would have thought Edmund would be proud of his status. it's not as though many of the Narnians he met before and after his time in the How favour or even like Aslan. Fear, yes. Acknowledge as a god, yes. Many of them, the more cynical ones resented him very publicly when he wasn't in their direct presence for abandoning the land and picking and choosing when he would return. After all, why now? Why not much earlier, when the Telmarines first took over Narnia under his ancestor? he sees their point, but finds it politic to keep his mouth shut. Especially around the Pevensies, whose relationship with Aslan is closer than any other. They
do seem to regard his presence a little more pragmatically than the ones who swing to extremes, though.

Peter groans. "It's Edmund. You've met him, Caspian. he doesn't like being seen as not in control." He pauses. "Well, that and it can make it a bit difficult to get things done when everyone's talking about your love life."

----

When they get back to civilisation, there's a marked number of people - human and Narnian - who are wandering around with confused, shocked expressions on their faces. As though they can't believe what's been happening for the past few days. And possibly what they did. Caspian still can't believe it, even though the others quite cheerfully accept it as part of the revels.

Peter muses at his side "You know, I never really expected to see this many people looking
shell-shocked after a revel. Not here."

Susan elbows him. "They've got no experience in it, what did you expect? I expect we looked a bit like that after our first one. The only difference is that everyone else treated the whole experience as completely normal. They'll get used to it."

Caspian raises an eyebrow. "Shell-shocked?" he can't think what any of this has to do with sea life, unless it's a name for the seasickness.

Susan waves her hand dismissively. "It's a name for a type of sickness induced by unending war. hard to explain. These people aren't truly shell-shocked - they'll get over it soon enough."

"True." Peter says. "At least we had a bit of warning that Bacchus was back and could prepare for it."

"Bacchus being back is hardly going to make any difference to when there's going to be a revel if they go back to their old patterns." Susan reminds him. "One bunch of vine leaves on a regular basis does not a warning make."

----
The aftershocks of the revels are still being felt across the kingdom a week after. Mostly it comes from people not being able to meet other's eyes, and immense amounts of gossip. As well as scandalised and condemning looks from those who resisted the call, or had their ears closed. The Narnians knew vaguely of the existence of Bacchus, but had no real idea of the real consequences of letting go, having lived in hiding for so long. The Telmarines had no inkling whatsoever. Bacchus tends not to come up at all in the filtered tales and myths of the Golden Age. The concept that such a thing could be induced in so-called 'civilised people' has sent shocks reverberating through their society. No-one's got organised enough yet to try to denounce it yet, though the Pevensies are waiting for that day, just so they can laugh in the faces of the denouncers. Because precisely what can you do in the face of a god? Aslan can at least be reasoned with occasionally. Attempting to censor or petition Bacchus to calm his efforts down would only result in it being escalated.

That said, it's not the first thing crossing Peter's mind when he's looking for his brother to check some papers over the morning after the revels are over.

Peter looks in at Edmund's study. Tidy, which means he hasn't been in it yet since last night. It's got the straight corners and paper stacking that indicates the last person in there was a servant doing the cleaning. They know not to touch the piles of paper beyond straightening them so they don't fall over. Anything important would be locked away elsewhere as it is - Edmund's never believed that anyone will respect the sanctity of someone else's room and things, so the only time he ever locks the door to his study is when he wants some peace and quiet. it's possible he might be sleeping in, or at least working in his bedroom, so Peter heads for the sleeping quarters. They're tidy as well, which indicates he's definitely not there. Again, no stray papers or items left out - the bed's made, the floor swept, clothing put away or hanging up, and a fresh covered jug of water's been put on the dresser. Combine that with how strong the smell of lemon is, not having had time to
fade, so it's been cleaned very recently. He comes out of Edmund's bedroom to hear the servants chatting idly as they come out of another room with a basket of linen. "And you would not believe what they found in the council room." He overhears.

Peter goes to investigate the council room. If something odd's been found in the council room, he wants to know about it. Even if it's interesting rather than important.

When he finally gets to the council room, the corridors are deserted, it being early in the day. Peter pokes his head in, blinks at the sight, and goes off to find Edmund. This one's definitely worth investigating.

He finds Edmund in the library, head bent over what look like old case reports of the telmarine legal system. Peter leans against the nearest set of shelves and waits for Edmund to indicate that he's not quite so immersed in his reading. Soon enough, Edmund does the tilt of his head to indicate that he's ready to give you at least part of his attention. Peter takes in a breath, then asks mildly "Edmund, did Bacchus shag you in the council room?"

Edmund looks up, puzzled. To his credit - and probably because this kind of thing is a somewhat regular query when it comes to chatting about this kind of thing - he doesn't take umbrage to being asked. "Of course not, I went to the revels. You saw me. I didn't stay quite so long as you did, though, but -" He pauses, face smoothing out into the long-suffering expression you see on him when it comes to Bacchus. "Bacchus only went near Cair Paravel on sufferance, and even then he had a fondness for disrupting the room he was shagging me in as much as possible." He looks at the sterile walls of rock around them, then back at Peter. "Mind you, he's probably going to take this place as a challenge. What happened?"

Peter grins. "Better see for yourself." He pulls Edmund along to the council room. Opening the doors reveals the table groaning under the weight of food and wine. Jellies, roasts, pies, cakes, and all manner of drinks and sweet things. The ancient table itself, with the centuries of varnish on it, is now quite clearly sprouting leaves and twigs. There's leaves underfoot, and bunches of grapes and vines hanging from the ceiling. All the hallmarks of a Bacchus calling card. It's not as overgrown as it could be, but it'll still take a fair while to clean up. it looks like Bacchus is making a point by targeting the council room.

Edmund just rolls his eyes. "Is it allowable to want to strangle a god for being true to his nature?"

"You're the one shagging him." Peter remarks, amused.

"...I'll get some servants to go and redistribute the food to the poor." Edmund says, shaking his head. "Then get the gardener to clean up the furniture."

"Remember to inform him that pruning furniture is going to be one of his regular tasks from now on." Peter says cheerfully. Edmund just glares at him.

and the revels commence

burntozone@googlemail.com — Mon, 09 Feb 2009 19:56:16 GMT

Caspian is alarmed, to say the least. The Pevensies roused him, grinning and declaring that they had something to attend, and he was coming, like it or not. The grinning is not something you tend to see on all of them at once, having so many cares. One thing you can certainly say for them is that they take their position seriously. Lucy grinning like this is nothing, but Susan breaks into smiles so rarely. Especially not smiles of this size. All of the Pevensies look almost giddy, as though they have no cares in the world any more. Well, aside from Edmund, who certainly looks more amused than usual. He pulled on clothes and was promptly dragged out of the castle, the girls taking him by hand and pulling him past the guards. They guide him out of the town, several of the Narnians at their heels, as well as some Telmarines, into the countryside, heading away from civilisation.

"Where are we going?" he asks. He hasn't been able to get a coherent answer out of them on this journey aside from their declaration at the beginning that he had to come with them. Occasionally they change the direction they're heading in slightly. There seems to be no particular original destination. In the distance, he can hear the slight traces of music and celebration. Which makes no sense, considering that they are heading away from the towns and villages.

"The Revels." Lucy grins, tugging on his hand. "Follow the music and the noise. Oh, I've missed this."

"And we cannot bring horses why?" he asks. They've been walking for some time now, yet for all their impatience, they have not brought horses. Surely they would get there quicker if they'd brought horses?

"Because we don't know how long we'll be." Lucy states. "If it was talking horses, we could leave them on their own, and they'd probably join in, but we don't want to tie up dumb horses when we don't know when someone might tend to them again."

"Speak for yourself." Edmund says.

"Well. Except for Edmund." She pulls a face. "Edmund's strange like that. But you definitely need to go to one of these."

"I might be more eager to get there if you would tell me what our destination was and what these revels are." Caspian states.

"Oh, we can't do that." Susan says, giving him a playful shove. "Live a little, Caspian."

Finally, they reach their seeming destination. It had got somewhat more obvious as they got closer - the noise had got louder. it's on the edges of what he's come to think of as 'Narnian territory', where the Telmarines are still afraid to go. Admittedly they're not afraid of it being haunted any longer, but it's still unknown territory. And the fact that it's definitely populated by talking beasts and fantastical creatures rather than possibly by ghosts does not make them feel any better about setting foot in it. The Telmarines may be getting used to seeing the Narnians in the places they live - nearly all the official messengers are now Narnians - but they're not about to venture into the woods and wild places yet. The only humans that feel comfortable walking into the forests are the Pevensies, who do so without fear. Caspian privately wonders if that comes from the knowledge that they're heavily armed at most times and are a proven match for most creatures they face in battle. he himself is incredibly cautious when entering the woods, and that's because he knows who's there. As for the soldiers and others the pevensies have been known to bring with them, the Pevensies have banned the bringing of crossbows due to how nervous the Telmarines tend to be. nervous trigger fingers near crossbows tend not to be a good idea

On the edge of the forest, there's a spill of people - humans and Narnian. From here, as they
approach the edges of the gathering, Caspian can see what appears to be a full scale celebration going on. As they get closer, he can see better the activities. Some people are making music. Others are dancing. Fast and wild, with complete abandon. There's what appears to be a drinking competition going on there. Acrobatic feats there. A wrestling match there. And that is definitely not wrestling, even if it resembles it superficially. Talking of the drinking, it seems to be involved in most of the activities he can see, the wine flowing freely or was flowing freely, since nearly everyone has a wine-stained mouth. Clothing seems to be optional. Some are fully clothed, some have shed coats, some seem to have shed all outer clothing to walk around in shirts and breeches, some are wearing what appears to be animal skins, and some have dispensed with clothing altogether. And that's just the humans present.

"What do I do?" Caspian asks plaintively as the Pevensies dive in, laughing.

"Dance. Drink. Let yourself go." Susan says, pushing him towards a group of willowy shapes, women with green and brown skin that looks like bark and leaves for hair, wrapped in ivy.

The women pull him in, grabbing and catching at him with mossy hands, pulling him this way and that until he's dizzy. One of them puts a wine skin to his mouth, upending it, and he swallows instinctively to ensure he doesn't choke. They laugh, their voices sounding as though they're made from the cumulative rustling of leaves. "Dance, human. This is no place for caution." With that, one of them starts clapping her hands together in a complex rhythm, and he's pulled into a dance, pushed one way and then the next, with no choice but to follow. he has no idea what he's doing, head spinning and buffeted as their hair whips across his hands and into his face, convinced that he's being guided through the dance merely by the effort to get out of the way of the next body, hands catching and pulling at him. At one point, one of them grabs his waist and throws him across the circle, two others catching him and grasping his hands as they make a full turn, and he's only just stopped when he finds himself catching a dryad from the other side of the circle, pulling her into a spin, repeating it again and again until all of them have had their turn.

He stumbles out of his third reel to see Susan and Lucy dancing in a complex spinning dance with fauns and mice. It seems to involve ducking under an arch of arms whenever they stop. And... is that a flash of knives he sees? Lucy throws her ever-present dagger in the air, spinning on the spot, catching it, and then the mouse next to her does the same with his. His flies even higher than hers, but before he can catch it on its way down, Susan grabs it out of the air and starts dancing with it in a graceful way that reminds him of nothing so much as the travelling entertainers, only instead of using hand movements to emphasise her grace and catch the eye, she's using the flash of the knife. What amazes Caspian is that the mouse hasn't objected to her stealing his blade, instead laughing and clapping and cheering. He learnt very, very quickly that the mice of Narnia are exceedingly possessive of their blades. The others in the circle join in the cheering, clapping to the staccato beat the mouse sets. Susan's dark hair flies as she turns her head and body this way and that, her face proud, cheeks flushed and eyes bright. Caspian swallows. The dance is beautiful and graceful, but all he can really think is that his fiancée is a woman never to cross, the very picture of deadliness as she skilfully manipulates the mouse's blade to her liking.

Turning his head away from that sight, he looks around for something he can latch onto as relatively comforting. Peter's drinking with centaurs. It doesn't seem to involve blades, so that's something. It might even be safer. Call him overly cautious, but he's not quite so comfortable with sharp steel that he's going to blunder into a group throwing them around as though they were toys. He goes over to him, seeking the familiar. Peter laughs, slinging his arm around Caspian's shoulders as Caspian joins their group. "Here. Drink." Peter says, passing him the wine skin in his hand, then turning his attention back to the conversation.

Caspian takes a long draught of it gratefully. All the dancing he was forced into has left him thirsty. It's got the same taste as the wine the dryads poured down his throat, sweet and rich. He feels like he could drink it all day. The centaurs debate the passage of the stars and demand tales from Peter of what the sky looked like in his day. Peter seems to be telling them of the Leopard rising earlier, and the Chariot passing closer to the Three Sisters. he's not quite sure, since it's so noisy with the constant cheering and drumming and clapping coming from all sides and he can only catch one or two clear words. In a gap in the conversation, he asks "What is this... celebration?" he's quite certain he never heard of any such thing in his life before, and there's certainly nothing about them in Cornelius' books or the tales he's heard from the Narnians.

"The revels. Let yourself go." One of the centaurs says with amusement. No-one seems to be inclined to give him any other explanation beyond 'the revels', and that could mean anything. Caspian almost pouts but catches himself in time. Everyone seems to know exactly what's going on, or at least doesn't look quite as confused as he feels. Even the Telmarines he can see appear to be throwing themselves into it wholeheartedly. Caspian reaches for the wineskin again.

He's quite drunk soon enough - the wine is possibly stronger than anything he's ever drunk before. Rich and filling and you feel as though you could drink it forever and not have enough. "Where's Edmund?" he's not quite sure that he even cares, but he's the only one of the Pevensie siblings he hasn't seen since they came in yet, and Caspian learned very quickly that you want to keep apprised of at least the vague location of Edmund, even if you have no hope of understanding what he's doing.

"Somewhere around." Peter says, caressing his stomach. At some point during the drinking and
talking, he'd sneaked a hand beneath Caspian's shirt. And since he'd been concentrating on other things, Caspian hadn't even noticed. Considering how aware he tends to be of Peter when he even touches him slightly - a brush of skin as they sit next to each other at the table, or the couple of times peter's sparred with him, let alone the few times he's bedded him - he has to conclude that he must definitely be drunk, his mind occupied elsewhere. The haze is pleasant, though, he'll admit. And the brush of skin on skin is even better.

A young man drops out of a tree dressed in animal skins, vine leaves in his hair. "He looks familiar." Caspian says hazily. He's not sure, due to the wine. Everything's magnified - all the sensation and events - but at the same time, anything outside the immediate sensations he's feeling seem distant. His cares and worries of the past few months seem unimportant compared to the here and now. Certainly that seems the case with everyone else here. It's entirely possible his memories are playing tricks due to that. And the feeling of having seen the youth is fuzzy. He can't pinpoint where he might have seen him before, and for someone dressed in animal skins, any memory seems indistinct. Not to mention it's highly probable that if he did see someone who looked like Bacchus, they were wearing normal clothes. Even the Narnians, for all the Telmarines would condemn them for being beasts and barbarians, would not wear animal skin beyond leather.

Peter glances in the direction Caspian's looking. "My lord Bacchus. These are his revels." Peter says, biting Caspian's ear. There's no more explanation than that. Caspian doesn't think Peter's being purposely obtuse, but rather, this is one of the things that the Pevensies don't think needs an explanation - the name is enough to encompass an entire library of documented thought for them. They probably don't have the words for it, as they don't for such things as Aslan if you ask them to explain anything about the Great Lion. So intrinsic and such a part of them in a way that they could no more explain the existence and purpose of their third finger. The fact that they're probably the only beings in the country aside from the most ancient of trees and the River God who do understand these concepts always seems to surprise them. Any attempted explanation from them will almost certainly leave him more confused than he originally was, so it's better to attempt to piece it together on his own observation. "You said you saw a glimpse of him the night after the battle talking to Edmund." Peter provides.

That triggers the hazy through the wine memory. A half-glimpsed figure in the dark and faint glimmer of distant firelight and shadowed moonlight dressed in animal skins, bare of foot so definitely human, with a Narnian accent. And it hadn't been so much talking as talking as a prelude to other activities. The ones Peter seems to be currently keen on, judging by the progression of his hands. "I... ah... this is public." Caspian swallows, as Peter's hand slips below his waistband. Groping under his shirt and kissing and biting above the neck is one thing and tolerable in public, but Caspian was raised in the full glare of court, and has had very specific rules and boundaries of public behaviour hammered into him from a young age. And from what he knows of the pevensie siblings, for all their disregard for other rules and codes of public behaviour - not so much breaking them as operating by an entirely different set of rules, hence why they grow impatient or flinch when presented with the courtly behaviour of the Telmarines and are constantly trying to train everyone out of it and into behaviour of far greater informality in their presence. Apparently some of the more formal gestures of the court remind them uncomfortably of the obsequience of the Calormen of their previous tenure in narnia. It may also be why they're more comfortable being surrounded by Narnians, who have no rules of polite public behaviour or hierarchy, and so would not even think of bowing low or keeping a specified distance from a monarch - they don't consider it polite to grope someone in public. Susan's held a knife on and demanded an explanation from a lord who took what she saw as a liberty too far with a servant before this. Quick hidden touches with someone who has given explicit permission in private, maybe, but not this level of hands under clothing. Even if everyone else at this gathering seems to have no problem with such behaviour.

"And this, Caspian is the revels." Peter grins, tugging at the laces of Caspian's breeches to allow his hand better access to its contents. "Welcome." At that, he pulls Caspian into a kiss, and Caspian stops trying to hold off, reasoning through the haze of wine that they won't be noticed amongst all the other couples, propriety and royal reputation be damned.

Bacchus walks through the crowd, lazily acknowledging everyone with a kiss or caress or laugh. From the way all faces turn towards him, pausing their activities to seek or acknowledge his attention, he is most certainly the lord of this gathering. In what capacity - the organiser, perhaps? - Caspian is unsure. But most certainly the lord and pre-eminent figure of it. His seeming youth is not a factor for questioning, as Caspian and a large portion of narnia have learnt very well that someone's apparent age cannot be trusted as a marker of actual age and experience. however, the animal skin outfit is distinctly odd, seeming to hark back to a primeval age of caves and wild men, but is probably ceremonial, along with the grapes and vines headdress he wears tangled through his hair. Like everyone else here, his mouth's stained with wine, and he has a grin promising mischief of the most extreme sort. Where he came from will almost certainly prove to be a puzzle, though the pevensies seemed to expect him as a presence here, since peter knows him from before and does not appear at all surprised at his reappearance over a thousand years after their previous time in Narnia. For all his human appearance, it's possible he's one of the elemental figures of narnia like the River God, merely waiting for the right moment to appear and make himself known in public again.

Bacchus continues on his way through the gathering until a familiar face appears out of the crowd. Even from this distance, Caspian can tell it's Edmund. The pale skin combined with the more usual dark hair that he shares with Susan mark him out somewhat in Narnia, along with his youth and beardless chin. Not as much as Peter, certainly, and there are a few Archenlanders in Narnia that have their colouring, more so since his coronation than under Miraz, but they're still rare enough that Edmund's colouring is distinctive amongst the other humans. The Narnians that have human features - well, the centaurs are simply bigger and flatter of nose, not to mention pointier of ear. The fauns, aside from their horns which some would consider a large sticking point, all have beards. So quite simply, Edmund is rather easy to spot in a crowd. Bacchus stops when he spots him, changing his languid meander to something more purposeful, his journey now containing a definite destination, which appears not to care who is in his way. It probably helps that the crowd of revellers part without question for him, and that he appears to have the grace to cope with any obstruction whilst making it look like he meant to move in a particular direction, rather than avoiding said obstacle. Caspian thinks he might be more graceful than even the dryads here. Bacchus even steps over some of the figures on the ground rather than going around them to get to Edmund's position. He ends up stopping his journey with his hands on Edmund's hips, leaning in to talk to him, then cocking his head to listen.

The general hubbub of the gathering is too confused to hear what they're saying to one another,
hands caressing each other's sides. Bacchus tilts his head, hand coming up to brush Edmund's mouth, Edmund leaning forward to rest his forehead against Bacchus's, closing his eyes. Bacchus continues to brush his mouth over and over with his fingers, before pulling back and tilting Edmund's head back to kiss him. it's not the casual benediction that he's bestowed on the rest of the revellers, and not the hurried joining he glimpsed after the battle of Beruna. This smacks of long intimacy and a deeper connection. the kiss is tender, but very clearly a mark of possession on Bacchus' behalf, even as edmund brings his hands up to slip around Bacchus' shoulders in an embrace as they sink into the kiss.

"Why does Bacchus act differently with your brother?" Caspian asks Lucy several hours later as she's throwing up handfuls of leaves and letting them drift down, watching their progress and laughing. he's not entirely sure about the passage of time, through the haziness that overlays this gathering, but he knows time has certainly passed. The wine is... he knows, somewhere, that he's drunk. Everyone is drunk. But somehow no-one is about to fall over. They can still speak without slurring, no matter how much they drink, and everyone has drunk a lot more than he imagined anyone could, and still they drink, the wine skins passed around in a never-ending supply. The only time anyone drank water was when some of them fell in a stream.

"Hmm?" Lucy says, giggling, and pointing at the slowest leaf to fall. "Look, that one looks like it's waltzing."

"The Lord Bacchus. We take our cue from him, do we not?" Cue being that anyone is available to touch if they are willing (the young ones seeming to be the exception - he thinks he heard Susan saying something about them simply choosing not to partake in that part), a couple may be fun but anyone may join in, the rule being hard and fast and luxurious and savage all at once. As long as pleasure is achieved, anything is permissible. All that matters is that is transitory, all sensation, and nothing matters but the here and now.

Lucy grins. "Indeed we do." She sits up, leaning her chin on her fist and looking at a faun being pleasured by a centaur as he does the same to a dryad who's kissing a human Caspian recognises through the wine as a stable boy from the castle. she sighs. "Oh, I remember that being so much fun. I want to grow up again soon."

Caspian tries not to listen to that one. Everyone but her siblings tries to very carefully ignore Lucy when she makes very adult personal comments - the ribald and filthy jokes are one thing, but they still can't quite cope with the girl-child relating somewhat personal tales. Theoretically they understand that like all of them, she's a grown woman in a young body, it is just that she's in a much younger body than the rest. The politics and war statements are easier to take from her than the ones about bed partners she's had. The other problem being that it's clear she remembers the fact that it was pleasurable or fun or disappointing, depending on the story, but there is no... adult connection, as though it was long ago or a story she'd heard from someone else. Susan and Peter and Edmund refer to it as 'hormones', the impulses that control your body as it starts to take on adult form. Lucy simply isn't grown enough to have them, thus the disconnection from such feelings.

She pauses as she throws another handful of leaves up in the air, then turns her head as she registers that he asked a question. "What about my brother?"

Caspian points to the sight at the base of a tree, where, contrary to his behaviour in the rest of the revels, Bacchus is relaxed, leaning against the tree. Edmund's in his lap, Bacchus' arms looped around him, whispering something in his ear as they watch everyone else. They're a small pool of relative stillness in the laughter and noise. Edmund smiles, leaning back and murmuring something back, kissing Bacchus on the cheek and settling back into the embrace. "This may be my first revel, but I am right in thinking that that is not normal behaviour for it, and certainly not for Bacchus, am I not?"

Lucy giggles, blowing a leaf off her arm. "Well, yes. he doesn't behave like that with anyone else. Edmund is Bacchus' favourite. mostly because he's so stubborn that Bacchus can't look away."

"Ah. I think I understand." Caspian nods. "he holds a fascination for Bacchus because he has to be chased? Edmund must like such attention. A sensible ploy." he's seen it employed plenty of times, a wise behaviour by women that do not want to be taken as a moment's enjoyment, rather seeking marriage or a settlement. he's not sure why Edmund would seek such a response from Bacchus, but then it's quite probable that Bacchus' position as lord of the revels holds more power in the land than is apparent here and now. In that case, Edmund is wise to seek his favour.

"Actually, he's more embarrassed by it. We normally have to drag him to the revels since he always thinks he should be working." Lucy grins. "If you ask him about it he tends to cringe. So we do it as much as possible. But they love each other. It's quite sweet, really."

Caspian blinks at this statement. If Edmund is embarrassed by the public connection with Bacchus, there cannot be any political advantage to the relationship, or possible shame that he got the connection this way rather than through his other skills. Only he's heard the Pevensies talk quite frankly of seducing someone or encouraging a seduction to gain power or trust. Which means the relationship is personal and possibly slightly disadvantageous to his standing, like a relationship with a servant. And Lucy is quite convinced that they love each other. For all that she holds some romantic notions, she wouldn't state that a sibling had feelings that ran in a particular direction so publicly if she wasn't entirely serious. Joke about it, perhaps, if she was teasing, but not state as fact.

Over at the base of the tree, Bacchus produces some grapes from somewhere, feeding a few to
Edmund, whispering something else. Edmund rolls his eyes, takes the grapes from Bacchus and
stands up, pulling Bacchus to his feet and towards the dancing.

a feeling on the air

burntozone@googlemail.com — Fri, 06 Feb 2009 23:20:30 GMT

Unusually since they got here, it's a quiet morning. Normally there's something that requires the High King's attention, or at least is clamouring for it. Courtiers, plaintiffs, busybodys, secretaries or fights. The whole kingdom appears to be calm for once, and has been for a couple of days since the engagement fuss died down, but it's a restless calm. Everyone else - the Telmarines and Narnians -are just thankful that it is calm for once, but the Pevensies are uneasy. the calm has something - an undercurrent of energy of some sort - to it. Something they know that they know, but feel they can't quite put a finger on due to having been away from Narnia for a year and out of step with its rhythms. They know it's the calm before the storm, but can't tell what. Peter has nothing particularly urgent to see to, so he decides to stop by his brother's study. Edmund, if he's there, is almost certainly busy, but it's fun to harass him when he is. Even the calm brushing off Edmund tends to do when Peter's trying to get a reaction because he's bored is at least entertaining, a master class in management and compartmentalising.

Edmund isn't there. His study is tidy, but something blows across the floor in front of the door. Peter picks it up out of curiosity to get a better look at the out of place object. It's a leaf. A vine leaf, to be specific.

Blacktip's making his regular circuit of the corridors of the Telmarine monstrosity of a castle. The walls are solid rock and it's entirely unnatural, feeling more like a prison than a place to live and defend. The How at least was raised from the earth.

But he has his reasons for being here. Nominally, he's a castle messenger, relaying messages within the castle and to and from the outside world. The Kings and queens of old are well known to prefer Narnians to Telmarines, which is entirely understandable, and in Blacktip's view, shows far better judgement and taste. From what they've let slip, the old Narnia had very few humans in it, and so any Narnians who wish employment at court are welcomed with open arms. Besides, the Telmarines are learning that the different races are simply better at certain things than humans. The monarchs' personal guard are wolves and big cats, and the royal guard - what Blacktip personally thinks of as the heavy lifting department - are minotaurs, centaurs and wolves. A fox or bird is, quite simply, a faster messenger, and far more unobtrusive and subtle than a human would be. His real job within the castle is his status as one of King Edmund's own. There's no precise name for them, though the king himself refers to them as 'the secret service'. The spy network. The more dramatic of them have proposed, somewhat mockingly, 'the shadow brethren' or 'the King of Shadows' own'. Blacktip, for his part, does not refer to them as anything. He is simply under King Edmund's employ. He uses his position as messenger to gather information and report it back. An exact report of what he sees and hears, and a second one - analyse it and give his opinions on what he think it means and what is happening in the castle and outside. And as a roving messenger, he is sent everywhere and expected to be found everywhere, in expectation of being called upon by those who need a message sent.

But his reasons for being here in this ugly place are not merely his job. The more prudent and cautious of the Narnians decided that when the kings and queens of old came, they were not to be trusted blindly. They were useful. They proved especially so when they took on the job of leading the fight and uniting everyone. Even more so when they won it with the help of Aslan, and then took power. So people were needed to keep an eye on them and the Telmarines. For after all, kings and queens of old they may be, favoured and chosen by Aslan, but they are still human and no-one knows their agenda. All they know about them are myths and legends, and the myths and legends are .... unreliable. What little did turn out to be true does not make them any more reliable as people and monarchs, no matter how many laws they bring in to restore Narnians to their rightful place. Savage warriors and cool diplomats and spy masters are not people any sane person would naturally trust. Possibly the only one of the old kings and queens they do trust to any extent is Lucy the healer, but Blacktip is inclined to remember that she is not just a healer. her mind works at angles you would not expect. And the more the Narnians know about the Telmarines - forewarning, really - the better.

One thing that interests him, though, is that King Edmund knows about this - knows his true purpose. He knew from the very beginning, confronted him with it and expected him to report all of it to his people. As the king himself said, "They'd be foolish not to take advantage of the position you've gained. I'd do the same in their position." he paused. "Blind faith in this kind of situation is not something I'm comfortable with." All he asks is that Blacktip continues to do the work he requires him to do.

He's not Reepicheep, another of King edmund's people, whose blind loyalty and faith disturbs him to his very core. For all he was one of the leaders of the Narnian resistance, header of a band of crack troops, his honour and bluster and willingness to throw his life away on a whim disguising the efficient infiltrator and assassin underneath, he seems to lack scepticism when it comes to the Kings and Queens of old. For a start, Blacktip is only willing to risk his own life when there's no other option to be had.

Passing by King Edmund's study - the king at a meeting with some of the centaurs - he notes the high King standing just inside the door of the study. he's not looking at any papers or rooting around, which he would apparently be disinclined to do at any rate. Edmund is little concerned that his brother will root for papers without express permission unless they contain a map. Blacktip stops to afford him a better view of precisely what the High King is doing. Perhaps gauge his mood, which would be a valuable message to anyone that asked if he'd seen him on his travels. The High King is twirling a leaf in his hand, staring at it, seemingly lost in thought. It's a position you often see the Pevensies in, lost in thought, or more likely, memory. Memories of how it used to look, or how it had or hadn't changed from their last rule in Narnia. To go by his expression, high King Peter doesn't appear to be in a bad mood. More contemplative, and certainly not upset. Which is a good thing in anyone's estimation.

Blacktip cocks his head to one side and assumes an expression of helpfulness. "Is there anything I can help you with or that you require, my lord?"

"Hmm?" The High King asks, reverie broken. He turns, holding the leaf out for Blacktip to see better. "Does this mean anything to you?"

It's a leaf. A vine leaf, he thinks, but vines don't really grow wild in most of Narnia. Grapes are cultivated on farms, and he never went near farms that grew them, living more in the forest. Or near farms that had more chickens and rabbits. King Edmund has yet to start sending message by token. He's occasionally seen leaves in King Edmund's study, blown in through the window, he presumes, but that's all. "Not that I'm aware of, my lord. Is it meant to?" He is aware that they find meaning in things the other Narnians don't, but it's a leaf. Nothing more. it is possible he's thinking of dryads, Blacktip supposes.

"It might." The High King says. "Do you know where my brother was last seen?"

"A meeting with the centaurs, my lord." Blacktip answers.

The High King nods. "Thank you." He goes on his way, still twirling the leaf. Blacktip shakes his head at the sometimes downright strangeness of their monarchs and carries on his rounds. It keeps nagging at him, though, that the High King asked if it meant anything. Not what what it was. Whether it meant anything, as though it was supposed to be a symbol or clue. Later he asks around his fellow observers, but they have no idea, and he knows there's even less point asking his master. Perhaps Queen Lucy? She's normally quite happy to enlighten puzzled Narnians. Telmarines she'll lead a merry dance, but Narnians, she tends to be tends to be somewhat cheerily blunt with, no matter what the subject.

For his part, Peter continues on his way, looking at the leaf and chuckling, having found a name for the odd feeling of calm before the storm they've had, that made his family so restless. he grins. it's certainly a calm before the storm, but a storm they learned long ago to welcome the approach of. It's not unease. There's no reason to be uneasy. it's anticipation thrumming through them. And he gets the feeling that Edmund has known exactly what it was all along, forewarned as he would be. Though Edmund is more familiar with the feeling than the rest of them, his normal reaction is an eyeroll and a groan, rather than a smile of pure glee that it normally induces amongst his siblings. Of course, that was back in the days of their first time in Narnia, and the world has changed drastically since then.

He comes across Susan outside the town gates, practicing her archery. Susan looks up as he
approaches, lowering her bow. She sighs. "You just had to interrupt my solitude, didn't you? This is the first time I've had properly alone to myself in over a week." She lifts an eyebrow. "You're grinning, Peter. I'm dreading to think what in Aslan's name made you grin like that." She pauses. "You're about thirty seconds away from tuneless whistling, if I'm any judge of that grin."

"I promise to refrain from the whistling." Peter grins. "I found the reason for that odd feeling in the air."

Susan raises an eyebrow. "Oh?" Then closes her eyes and presses her fingers to the bridge of her nose. "Please tell me it's not as bad as I'm thinking."

Peter really can't stop grinning. "Oh, it's worse. Far, far worse. And so much better." He produces the vine leaf. "I found this in Edmund's room."

Susan's eyes widen. "Oh. Oh... Are you sure it's not just him being -"

"Susan," he interrupts patiently. "Think about it. The feeling in the air. Familiar, isn't it?"

Susan grins. "It certainly is. do you want to break it to Lucy or shall I?"

"I'm quite happy to go find her and leave you to your archery." Peter points out.

Susan glances back at the archery butts, longing in her face. "You've got a point." She makes a shooing gesture. "Go, before you sprain something from grinning that much. She's probably down by the river."

The leopard and dwarf sitting by her exchange glances as peter goes off to find Lucy. "You got any idea what that was about?" Trumpkin asks.

The leopard huffs, resting her chin on her paws. "Absolutely none. I think they're going to be deliberately secretive right up until we all find out."

"What're our chances that it's going to be bloody scary?" Trumpkin asks, checking the fletching on his arrows.

"Probably high." The leopard sighs. "You know what they're like."

"Could be worse, could be the little 'un." Trumpkin says reflectively, watching Susan string and shoot three in quick succession in a neat row across the top of the butt.

Peter finds Lucy in a dell on the edge of the river, playing jacks with some fauns. "Oh hello, Peter." He doesn't even get a chance to get a word out before she sees the leaf. "Tell me you found that in Edmund's rooms."

Peter nods. "In his study."

"I'm going to kill him for not telling us, I really am." Then she grins wide enough to split her face. "This is going to be brilliant."

Caspian gets a marriage proposal.

burntozone@googlemail.com — Fri, 06 Feb 2009 23:12:25 GMT

"Slight problem." Edmund says, looking up from his reading in the chair by the window.

"Yes?" Peter asks, looking over maps of the boundaries of Narnia. He's been re-learning them by heart, often riding out in the early morning to explore. There's not that many around to see him, but those that do are often surprised by coming across the High King. He's a bit difficult to miss, since the only blond fair skinned people in Narnia tend to be Archenlanders, and there's precious few of those.

Edmund continues. "We overrule and out-rank Caspian."

Peter raises an eyebrow. it's clear he doesn't see any problem with that. After all, what other position does Edmund expect them to be in? He and his siblings were appointed - twice - kings and queens over all other kings and queens of Narnia, and he High King over them. "So?"

"It's not going over too well with the Telmarines, Peter." Susan sighs. "We crowned him, and need to figure out what we're going to do with him and precisely how much power we're going to let him have. Besides the fact that he's still learning and needs a constant leash anywhere near ambassadors and council. he needs some power and influence, otherwise he'll be king in name only. A figurehead monarch tends to be a liability and focus for rebellions and plots who want a figurehead of their own. Not to mention he'll start joining them if he feels he's being ignored, and we want him on our side. All of which won't help our position amongst the Telmarines. It's shaky enough as it is - we don't have total support amongst the Narnians, and they're a relative minority because they've got so little organisation, loath as we are to admit that state of affairs. We need to deal with and placate the Telmarines. Remember the first years of our reign?"

"Assassination attempts and coups made the man I am today." Peter grins.

"That's what worries me." Susan says, rolling her eyes. "I for one would rather that we kept such things to a minimum. We need to figure out how to involve Caspian, if nothing else. Give them at least a modicum of feeling that they've got influence in what they view as their land."

"A very little influence, perhaps." Peter concedes. "Glozelle's head of the army, that's not enough?"

"No, Peter, it really isn't." Susan says. "Especially since everyone knows he swore fealty to you immediately."

"The problem with Caspian is that he hasn't the first idea about ruling. Miraz kept him completely sheltered." Edmund provides. "He knows how the court works, and how to avoid intrigues, and what they look like, but the court has changed. We changed it. Partly because we refuse to tolerate a court like that, and most courtiers are worse than useless. The laws have changed it. he needs training, but it also needs to appear as though he's allowed to make some decisions and provide valid input."

Lucy looks up from turning a chess piece over in her hands, frowning. "We can always do a
place holder. You all seem to be forgetting the main way alliances get made amongst royalty. We engage him to Susan." The others stare at her. She gives them a look. "I can't believe you lot didn't think of it. it shows we're committed - which definitely needs seeing to as an issue. Especially amongst the Narnians. The one thing they all remember and really resent us for is that we disappeared without a trace and left nothing behind in the way of heirs and successors. Then once they're engaged, Susan can twist his arm in public, and the Telmarines can think he's influencing you. They already know that you're the one who controls the alliances. It's not like you have to go through with the marriage if it turns out you can't stand him beyond the occasional shag. And it's not like even that's got anything to do with it."

Peter winces. "I really have to keep reminding myself how sneaky you are and the weird turns your brain takes when you're this age, Lu."

She sticks her tongue out at him. Which is not a habit she ever grew out of in her previous
adulthood, which means they have little hope of it now. "And that's why Edmund's going to be
using me in his spy network."

"Edmund!" Susan scolds. "She's still a little girl! You didn't start using her until she was at least fifteen last time!"

Edmund closes his eyes and grimaces. "That has not been finalised, sis."

Lucy gives him a look. "Oh, please. the Telmarines underestimate me even more than the Narnians did last time. You know that one of them suggested I might like to run along and play with my dolls yesterday, and that another tried to introduce me to his daughter as a suitable playmate? I suggested that I might suggest one of the wolves' children as a playmate. At least they'd be the same age." She grins. "I can't think why they retreated so fast." She pauses. "Actually, that might not be a bad idea if we want faster integration and tolerance. Introduce the children. then the Telmarine children might start understanding what it is to be Narnian. Which would only help."

Edmund sighs. "Just tell me you didn't draw your knife on them."

Lucy shrugs. "It wasn't that irritating." She turns to Susan. "Well? What do you think?"

Susan shrugs. "It's not a bad idea." She concedes. "We'll need to speak to him about it rather than pushing him into it. It's entirely possible that Telmarines don't marry much for politics. Considering how isolationist they've been shown to be, I wouldn't find it surprising."

Lucy snorts. "He's nobility. Of course he understands it. And I'd hardly think he'd object to getting engaged to and marrying you, considering how much he likes you. At least superficially." She pauses. "How much have you and Peter been shagging him, anyway?"

"... A few times." Susan says, then looks over at Peter. "You think he'd be amenable to it?"

"As long as he understands that it doesn't mean he has any control over you or who's in your bed." Peter shrugs. "It might work."

"I don't think he's that stupid." Edmund says. "He's pretty and naive, but he has shown some sense."

Lucy nods. "So it's agreed? Good. Who wants to send the messenger to fetch Caspian?"

Peter straightens up. "I'll do it." He walks over to the door, opening it and looking around for the nearest servant or passer-by. It turns out to be a fox. "Blacktip, am I correct?"

"You are, sire." The fox nods. "How may I be of service?" He asks, cocking his head with interest.

"Could you send word to Caspian that we would request his presence here for a matter of some
import?" Peter asks.

"As you wish, my lord." The fox says, trotting off.

Peter turns round to see Lucy giving him a look. "What?"

"A matter of some import?" Lucy asks. "It really only does take you about five minutes to go all formal on us, doesn't it?"

Edmund leans back in amusement. "You know perfectly well he's got a compulsion, Lu. It's not to tease him about it."

Susan waves her hand. "Don't mind them, Peter, keep on talking as though you were composing official announcements for The Times social column. It's entertaining."

Peter glares at them. "You can stop now. Really."

Caspian gets there about half an hour later, knocking and opening the door. "You wished to see
me?"

"We did." Susan says. "I hope we didn't disrupt anything too important."

"I was reading a book." Caspian shrugs. "You were not disrupting much. What was the problem?" He says, noting that all four of them are there. "I take it it's important if all of you are gathered."

Everyone looks round, then Susan sighs. "It's like this. The Narnians are feeling a little insecure over the fact that we left without warning or heir last time we ruled here, and the Telmarines are worried that you're being left out of the power balance. That you're king in name only."

Caspian raises an eyebrow. "I thought that was indeed the case until I had taken in enough lessons at council and the like." it's no secret. He may resent it, but for now they're better positioned to take care of state matters. It may rile him, but he can wait.

"Perhaps, but you're going to be taking some decisions some time soon." Peter says. "That's the point of more than one monarch. The problem is - Su, you're better at explaining this kind of thing."

Susan glares at him. "Well, at least you're learning." She turns back to Caspian. "We're worried the Telmarines will become more restless than they already are, and we need something to placate them. Lucy thought that the best way might be the traditional way alliances are settled and agreed upon."

Caspian glances over at Lucy. He frankly has no idea what she might have suggested. Then his brain catches up with 'alliances'. "...Are you suggesting one of us marry? I do not understand how that would help anything. I thought you had agreed that we need to explore and strengthen our relations with other countries before any decision could be made about any alliances of that nature. And that our army had to be far more cohesive than it currently is."

"I wasn't talking about a marriage between different countries." Lucy puts in. "One of us marrying a foreign princess or prince is hardly going to do anything for the Telmarines worrying about you being put aside."

"Ah." Caspian says, then furrows his brow. She seems to specifically being obtuse. "I... see?"

Lucy rolls her eyes. "It's obvious you don't. Honestly, do I have to spell this out for everyone? Our best bet for at least short term stability is if you marry Susan. I know it doesn't solve all our problems, but it's a good stop gap. It'll remove some of our future bargaining tools with other countries, but I'm prepared to let that slide since we're more concerned about the here and now and internal revolt. We've still got three bargaining chips after that. That's what we brought you here to ask. What you think of marrying Susan."

Caspian blinks. He hadn't been prepared for that one at all. he can't say he's entirely opposed to the thought, since she's a very beautiful woman and a worthy queen - the last few weeks have certainly brought that aspect of her into perspective - but he hadn't expected to be asked about what he thought of the issue. The fact that they're thinking of marriage alliances already... He looks at peter. Peter just shrugs. "Don't look at me, Lucy thought of it. She is right, though. It's probably the fastest fix for our current problems with the Narnians and the Telmarines."

"Not to mention it would help provide a visible sign of stability and unification between the two peoples of Narnia to the outside world." Edmund says. "They're all aware - well, the more observant ones, at least - of the resurgence of the Narnians as a force to be reckoned with and no longer discounted. Showing a sign of marrying the warring factions shows a united front and means that they'll sit up and take notice. And take us more seriously."

Caspian swallows. "Ah, what did you mean to imply by bargaining chips?"

Lucy gives him a scornful look. "Oh, please tell me you're not that naive about politics. Do you know how many times we've all been engaged in the name of political alliance? We normally broke it off due to something they did, or at least due to how useless they were. Or something Peter did."

"Or the ones who it turned out had been inserted as an assassin." Edmund adds. "Don't forget
those."

"They were really annoying. Mind you, they normally went after Peter, no matter whose affianced they started out as. Whoever was controlling them had no imagination." Lucy acknowledges, then continues. "Anyway, Susan and Peter tended to be our best bargaining chip to dangle in front of their faces in those days, but you're pretty good too, since you're part of the Telmarine faction, which they'll at least know, or think they know how to deal with. Still, we can afford to lose you two since we've still got another three left to play with." She gestures at herself and her brothers. "That's what I meant. So what do you think, Caspian?"

Caspian thinks for a moment. The idea is not entirely unwelcome, he'll admit. Having Susan in his bed, at least occasionally, is definitely a welcome thought. he'll gain a lot of looks and respect for having such a beautiful and powerful woman bound to him, at least in public, no matter what the realities of their private situation are. he's not naive enough to think he'll be able to have any power over her, or influence her that much. The last few weeks have made that transparent. Not to mention that she outranks him, at least in their minds. And, apparently the laws of old Narnia, which they've been reintroducing and show every sign of sticking to. And he's not that naive about politics, especially with the crash course he's been given in the past few weeks - observing them in action has been an education in itself. They have been true to their word about letting him observe and learn, so there's a fair chance that this union will mean he'll be taken more seriously. Not to
mention as Susan's husband, he'll be expected by other dignitaries to be present, which means they won't be able to keep him out, if only to respect the boundaries of honour and protocol. Though he doesn't know if he can count on the last two when it comes to the Pevensies. They've made their position clear on honour and protocol - if it doesn't suit them, or they think it's stupid - they have been known to laugh in the face of some of it - it goes, to borrow a phrase from them, out the window.

He directs his gaze towards Susan. She's looking somewhat impassive. It's not the blank face she shows when she's trying not to show any emotion in front of outsiders, and it's not the face she shows when she finds something wholly unpleasant but is unfortunately necessary. he's spent enough time in close quarters with them that he's starting to recognise the subtle shifts in at least some of their expressions. Edmund, he'll admit, is harder than most, since he seems to disregard his emotions and feelings about the subject at hand as unimportant, and the intelligence training doesn't help. Peter, the entire court and subjects that have dealings with the inhabitants of the throne, are learning to read as fast as they possibly can. The variations of some of his more stony expressions have been noted and learned from, since everyone learnt very early on that you do not cross the High King. Lucy is practically a law unto herself since you can't tell what she'll come out with. Like her eldest brother, the emotions sometimes flicker so fast across her face that deciphering the present one will not help in any way, shape or form to tell you what her next mood and response will be. Caspian will admit that he's not entirely insensitive. He doesn't wish to force Susan into a marriage she doesn't want or is loathe to commit to, but like her siblings, it's quite possible she'll disregard her own feelings for the sake of Narnia. Narnia and its well being being apparently the siblings' first priority in all matters. From their stories, any behaviour or action, no matter how underhanded or bloody, is excusable if done in the name of or for the sake of Narnia's safety and well being.

Keeping his eyes on her face, he turns his next statement over in his head very carefully before speaking. "So long as Queen Susan gives her consent and is not opposed to the idea in any way, shape or form, I'm quite willing to give mine. I believe it to be a good idea to show a united front to our subjects and allies." He's been careful to use the 'any way, shape or form' phrase in his response. it comes up quite a lot in the contracts and laws the Pevensies draw up, as a binding tool. Invoking it seems to cover any eventuality, and in this case, will give her the excuse of backing out of the contract if she has any doubts or objections, no matter how small.

Susan nods, returning his gaze. the nod is accompanied by the slight smile that indicates she's pleased, and moreover, the pleasure of a teacher when their student had done something well. If this had been a less formal situation, he does not doubt that the expression would be accompanied by the phrase 'you're learning'. "Thank you. I consent to becoming your wife." With that, the tense mood dissipates, at least a little, as the edge of her mouth turns up further. "Though we will be laying some ground rules for the marriage, of course."

"of course." He says, smiling back and bowing slightly. "I expected no less."

Edmund folds his arms and leans back. "You do realise you're both insane and that this will cause all sorts of problems down the line."

"But not as many as it's going to fix." Susan replies. "We'll be making the announcement tomorrow, with the marriage scheduled for - hmm, three months?" She asks her siblings.

"Three months sounds about right. Possibly four." Edmund says. "It'll give us time to sort out any legal problems and for us to call it off without too much fuss if something comes up in the meantime. if in doubt, we can always re-schedule it." He pauses. "I don't think you're going to fall head over heels in love with a wandering knight or selkie within that period, are you?"

"You never know." Lucy shrugs. "Remember that engagement of yours that got called off because
they eloped three days before the wedding with the falconer?" She pauses, grinning to herself. "Mind you, Bacchus came through Narnia two days after that, so we'll never know if they would've used that as grounds for calling it off. It's a fairly good excuse in most marriage contracts."

"I and my ego try to suppress my memories of that particular one." edmund says pointedly, turning his attention back to Susan and Caspian and resting his chin on his hand, flicking his eyes to Caspian. "Though I'm stating right now that if you two have any arguments or spats, I'm siding with her. No offence, Caspian, but my sister scares me more than you do."

Caspian nods, smiling slightly. "None taken." He doesn't blame him. Queen Susan is truly a
dangerous woman, and certainly more fearsome in battle than he is, being a veteran of many. he'll have to join Peter in more of his practice bouts. he suspects the pevensies judge people just as much by their ability to fight as any other qualities they possess, being warrior kings in the truest sense of the term. Though he's still not sure why the Pevensies all seem to count Bacchus as such a factor to be considered when it comes to Edmund, if Edmund doesn't acknowledge the connection himself.

Peter gestures at a spare chair. "Sit. This might take a while."

Caspian does so. "I... thank you. What might?"

"The marriage provisos." Susan supplies. "First and foremost, this is not binding when it comes to who we bed, nor can you make any objections about who I bed. Unless you feel that the relationship is becoming too public and bringing the marriage into total disrepute. Affairs and favourites that everyone in the kingdom knows about are one thing, stupidity in front of ambassadors is quite another. Especially if you feel that the person is open to influence from outside sources or is trying to influence me in my decisions to the detriment of Narnia. This goes double, of course, if you think the person has any designs on or ill will towards the kingdom and its people. Then you go directly to Edmund. Of course, if the marriage breaks down irrevocably, divorce is fine as long as it's agreed upon by both sides." She glances at Edmund. "Are you getting this down?"

Edmund hasn't picked up pen or paper. "Standard marriage contract on our side, Susan. I'm fairly sure i remember it. I've written it out enough times."

"Second. Do not think this means you'll have any influence or command over me. Unless it's felt that I've taken leave of my senses by everyone. Any attempt at this in public will wreak full vengeance and retribution in private. You will, however, learn to keep your tongue and think before you speak when we are in public."

"Translation : don't piss her off." Peter says, looking amused. "If you feel a burning pain in your wrist, whatever you do, keep smiling. And shut up."

"Noted." Caspian says. He frowns. "She does that?" He'd have thought such childish actions had no place in public, but then he never thought that drawn blades were an acceptable norm for stopping an argument, either.

"Both of them do." Peter says. "Edmund and I grew fairly used to get our wrists twisted or burned where other people couldn't see. It's better than Lucy's penchant for kicking you in the ankles, since limping is never that dignified in public. Neither of them have any problems with using their daggers out of sight as a bargaining tool and forcible reminder either."

"Actually, pete, you're the only one who never uses their dagger unseen in public situations. Some of us just like to pay lip service to at least the notion of subtlety." Edmund reminds him.

"No, he just waves a naked blade in important people's faces to make a point instead." Susan sighs. "Each time, I'm convinced we'll never live it down."

"It's not like you've never done it, Su." Peter objects.

"Some of us don't use it as the preferred option, Peter." Susan replies. "Now, if we could back to the situation at hand?" She catches eyes with Caspian, and says apologetically "Apologies about this. It happens."

Caspian shakes his head, amused. "None taken. I'm getting used to it." He is. Watching the
Pevensies snipe at each other is like a spectator sport, and if you listen carefully, reveals much about their motivations and history. The last one was a very good forewarning for what would happen when a lord tried to make overtures towards Susan, thinking that because she was a woman, she'd be easier to influence than Edmund. Even those who hadn't heard the anecdote, but at least had taken notice of the power dynamics and Susan's general demeanour had been wincing on his behalf as soon as he did it.

----

The announcement of the engagement is done later that day, with a small celebration planned for it in two days' time. They're never quite sure why it's necessary, but any excuse for a party, they suppose. As the last syllables of the announcement die away, the Pevensies watch the crowd for the initial reaction. It mostly seems to be bemused acceptance and some pleased looks. They'll be watching the interested parties more carefully in the following days, of course.

Observations of the subsequent days reveal what they'd hoped - the factions of the Narnians that predicted they'd disappear on them when the Narnians least expected it are mollified, at least. The prospective marriage reduces the likelihood that they'll disappear from choice. Never mind that they've protested several times that leaving was not their choice, and they were just as unhappy about the situation as the long distant Narnians and Narnia they left behind. They're still blamed for the subsequent collapse of Narnia in those quarters. The Telmarines are happier, now that it looks like Caspian has had himself raised in the Narnian monarchs' estimation. To the point that they're taking him seriously enough to marry Susan to him. The fact that they think he'll be able to gain more influence is obviously misguided, but let them have their illusions. Caspian will get more influence when he's proved he's learnt his lessons sufficiently for them to trust him.

The celebration is quite something. The feast is rich, and the wine and beer flow freely. Fortunately there haven't been any fights yet. When the first round of courses are over, the couple get up and dance. None will say that they are not a well-matched couple - tall, dark haired and well-made. Handsome and beautiful respectively. Her pale skin that marks her as a Narnian, or possibly an Archenlander in this part of the world and his olive that marks him as a Telmarine making a pleasing contrast. They move together gracefully to the music, which is a good sign of their ability to make a good show in public, if nothing else. The first piece ends, and they bow and curtsy to each other, then return to their places. The music continues, as does the feast, with dancers and jugglers and actors, some of the Narnians taking a turn, as requested by the Narnian monarchs, who wished for faun music and whatever dances the Narnians would be willing to give them. It seems Queen Lucy is very fond of the music played on the fauns' pipes, dancing merrily with a young one, the two spinning around in the middle of the floor, then down and around the other dancers. King Edmund and Peter dance too, taking the hand of anyone who strikes their fancy.

The music plays on and the drink keeps flowing. The talk and laughter grow louder. And in a
corridor leading off the main hall, Caspian finds himself pushed up against the wall by the High King. They had been catching eyes all night, Peter watching the newly-engaged couple as they danced, swaying and turning. Caspian had felt the hot gaze of Peter's eyes as he danced with Susan, all too aware of his presence and regard. When Peter had cut in during one dance to take his sister's hand, Caspian had escaped, only to look back to see them both watching him in amusement. And Peter still watched him, and he knows precisely what that look means from Peter. he flushes, and Peter grins, somehow sensing the flush darkening his neck from across the room.

Later - maybe an hour, maybe more, time is a little fuzzy now - the celebration is still going in full swing, and Caspian finds himself in a corridor, having gone there for a little quiet and to clear his head with the slightly cooler air. he hadn't had a chance to go near a balcony, because the balconies had been crowded with revellers who were talking and laughing at the tops of their voices. So instead, this quiet little corridor. He leans back against the stone, letting the cool of it seep into his bones as he closes his eyes.

However, his respite is all too brief. An amused voice says "I thought I'd find you here. Getting a bit much out there, was it?"

Caspian's eyes slam open in alarm, and he stands up straight, coming away from the wall. "I - ah - King Peter. I did not expect you."

Peter folds his arms, looking amused. He's still got his sword strapped to his side, and somehow he still looks like a warrior, even in his court finery. The decidedly old fashioned court finery he and his siblings insist on wearing, refusing the Telmarine fashions they're offered, instead wearing clothing that apparently originates from the treasure room of Cair paravel, which none but they have been in, refusing access to it to Telmarines, and the island the castle stands on outright unless they come under the watchful eye of the Pevensies and several narnians as guard. It's not unspoken that they don't trust the Telmarines with what was once their castle, it's been stated outright and somewhat loudly. They hold a great deal of resentment and stifled anger in them that the Telmarines changed what was their country so much, even if they now find themselves in the position of monarchs once again. Sometimes it spills over. Often between hissed teeth in Peter's case, with occasional bouts of more ... physically expressed emotion. Susan, Edmund and Lucy are more politic, and mostly express themselves in disappointed or wistful looks, with the occasional curt statement in response to some situations. Some of the clothing they wear is new, fashioned under explicit instruction to the seamstresses, but they will still not countenance even the slightest hint of Telmarine current fashion. Admittedly it probably suits them more than Telmarine wear does.

The High King cocks his head, mouth curling a little at the edge. "Fine by me." He pauses, stepping forward. "Though if you were expecting me, that would be fine too."

More steps, and Caspian realises he's trapped, backing up into the wall as Peter advances. Brought to heel in the position Peter has probably been intending all night from the looks he was giving him. Peter keeps coming, pressing him into the wall and placing his hands on the wall on either side of him, trapping Caspian very firmly and smiling as he does. A predator's smile, full of devilment and heat, pleased at bringing his quarry to bear. Caspian feels all too aware of how many teeth that smile seems to contain as one of Peter's hands slides from its position on the wall to Caspian's hair, pulling his head down to claim his mouth in a kiss. And he's all too well and truly caught.

Peter seems to be taking his sweet time to explore Caspian's mouth thoroughly, Caspian responding helplessly and he's all too aware that that moan that just arose from their vicinity was from him. Peter grins against his mouth as he registers it, changing his grip on Caspian's hair to tilt his head into a different position, nipping his lower lip gently and tonguing that spot behind Caspian's teeth that set the fire in his belly that's been more like nervous candle flame all evening since Peter started eyeing him to something closer to the roaring fire in the great hall.

They break, Caspian gasping for air and clenching his fingers against the rock of the wall. Peter smiles, tracing a line up Caspian's throat with his spare hand. "Better, don't you think?"

"I - possibly." Caspian says, wall holding him upright for now. His head's spinning from the wine and the kiss and the heat, and he's suddenly wondering if he'd fall over if he wasn't being held against the wall by the press of Peter's body.

"Only possibly?" Peter asks, hand stilling the caress of his throat. "Have to see what we can do to fix that, then, hmm?" He pulls Caspian down into another kiss, tongue teasing Caspian's into play as Caspian levers his hands from their grip on the wall to bring them up to Peter's back, first grasping the folds of his doublet, then relaxing, hands spanning the muscles he can feel under Peter's doublet, their size still incongruous, not fitting the way he wields Rhindon with ease. Caspian's held Rhindon. Rhindon is not a light sword, not one of the fairy-made lighter than real steel swords of fairy tales. A heavy sword, solid and kept murderously sharp, fit for a warrior of many battles. But these muscles wield it with ease. Lucy assured him that Peter does in fact grow huskier and broader as he gets to his full growth, but he started wielding Rhindon as a boy and simply had to get used to the weight fast. Right now, Caspian still cannot see that older Peter in his minds' eye, senses too full up with the young man in front of him in his arms, mouth devouring his and hands directing him, the scent of blood and leather armour and sweat still rising from him after several probably quite thorough baths since they came to the castle.

They break gradually, lips still clinging to the other as Caspian feels Peter's hand catch the edge of his shirt, pulling it up so he can find skin, caressing his back as Peter kisses a path across his cheek to nibble at his jawline before biting gently on his earlobe. Caspian groans again at that, the sharp pain sending a spike to his cock, his hips jerking against peter's. Peter just chuckles, sucking on the just-bitten lobe, hand slipping below his waistband and down the back of his breeches to knead the skin and muscle off his arse, mouth moving to his neck.

Caspian fully blames the fact that his mouth isn't occupied on what comes out of his mouth next. As he's trying to open Peter's doublet, fingers fumbling with the unfamiliar fastenings, their clumsiness not helped by lust in his attempt to get to skin. "I'm engaged to your sister." He moans as Peter mouths a line down his neck.

Peter pulls back, looking at him in disbelief. "You honestly think she'd care?" He asks, hand still kneading his arse in a steady rhythm.

Caspian winces, still fairly disbelieving what came out of his mouth. He blames it on vestiges of court propriety not washed away by the wine. Considering the edicts laid down on him when he accepted the proposal they laid out, and what has already passed between them.. he opens his mouth again. "I rather suspect not. I apologise." He shifts his hand to grip Peter's doublet instead of concentrating on trying to take it off, tugging him in for another kiss.

Peter stills him just before he reaches his mouth. "Just so we're clear on that one." Caspian feels the grin against his lips before they join mouths to explore and claim.

Still kissing when Caspian becomes hazily aware of Peter fumbling at his belt, undoing the clasp and palming his cock, applying pressure to make Caspian moan into his mouth, hand moving and caressing and pulling at his cock as he kisses him.

From somewhere Caspian manages to grasp the presence of mind to lift his hands to Peter's
shoulders and push him away. Peter raises an eyebrow in query. Aside from his lips, he doesn't even look that affected. Caspian can feel himself breathing heavily. Bastard. "What's wrong this time? Attacks of guilt don't become you." he's starting to look a little annoyed, and well might he, if Caspian was really stopping this for such stupid reasons.

Caspian manages to get it out, hands still holding onto Peter's shoulder after gulping in some air. "I am wearing my best clothes, and I do not wish to spoil them. I have a perfectly good room, as do you, to continue this in." With that, he drags one hand down the front of Peter's doublet. "Where I also might have a chance to attempt to undo this properly. Currently it is frustrating my efforts."

Peter chuckles, twisting out of Caspian's grip to affix his mouth to Caspian's neck, sucking a bruise into it. "And here I thought you'd taken leave of your senses." He reaches out and grasps Caspian's hand, tugging him from the wall, straight into Peter's arms, and chuckles as he starts down the corridor. "We'll see if we can get rid of the rest tonight, then."

Some time later, Caspian's lying in his bed, staring up at the ceiling, drifting in that state of sated and not quite asleep yet. Next to him, peter's on his front, one arm slung around Caspian's waist, the sheets tangled round them.

The door to his room opens. Caspian turns his head, knowing he really should be more alert, but the person entering isn't attempting to be quiet, which probably means they're not about to attempt assassination. The grip of Peter's arm around his waist has tightened, though, which indicates Peter's tensed and noticed, but is currently choosing to wait.

The person enters, light spilling into the room from the torch in the hall, silhouetting them in the doorway and revealing them to be female with long dark hair, at the very least. "Oh, thought so." They say, revealing themselves to be Queen Susan. However, instead of leaving, she toes her slippers off, closes the door behind her, and then gets undressed. Caspian watches all of this through half-closed eyes, her silhouetted figure in the little light coming through the window crossing the floor to the bed. She pulls the covers out from where they're tangled around his and peter's feet and legs, shaking them out, then climbs in on Caspian's side.

"Shift over, will you?" Susan asks, echoing her brother's position on his other side by slinging an arm around Caspian's waist, resting on her brother's. She pokes Peter's arms. "You can let go of the knife now."

"You could be some sort of shapeshifter." Peter says.

"Knife?" Caspian asks, blinking a little, still a little too dozy to be properly alarmed. he knows he should be, but it's still a little dreamlike for him now.

"All of us sleep with a blade within reach." Susan informs him, still prodding Peter. "Stop being obstinate, peter."

"I thought that was Edmund's job." Peter says, teasing her.

"Only when it comes to his love life." Susan replies. "You, on the other hand, take the biscuit most other times. Do I have to tickle you?" She continues, exasperated.

"Try reaching me." Peter says.

"Oh, and here I was going to let it go." She says. Caspian can imagine the narrowed eyes accompanying that turn of phrase all too easily. "Excuse me, Caspian, I have to punish my brother."

With that, she sits up and gets her self into kneeling position, the bed dipping on that side as she does so, leaning over Caspian and attacking Peter, aiming for his ticklish spots.

Peter laughs, grabbing at one of her hands as he squirms away from her fingers. "close, Su, but not - aagh!"

"You fall for that feint so easily it's not true." Susan replies, sounding smug as her free hand darts over his body, Peter trying to pull away and roll onto his back so he can get better leverage of the situation. He won't let go of her wrist, though, so he drags her with him so she's now half on top of Caspian, but still attacking, the position giving her better access to more of Peter's ticklish spots.

"Su! Stop, I-" Peter yells, the knife falling to the floor with a clatter as he tries to block one of her attacks to his bicep. "Fine." he sighs. "I've dropped it. Will you please - argh!"

"Just getting started." She sing-songs, attacking his sides. Caspian can't resist what he does next. After all, her stomach is right there, and he knows she's ticklish in at least one spot to the left of her belly button. Susan squeals as he traces a line across it lightly. "Peter!"

"not me!" peter protests.

"Then how -" Realisation dawns. "Oh. Caspian!"

"I couldn't resist." Caspian grins, then aims for another spot he can reach from here, the bit just below her bum.

She squeals again. "This means war." Susan grumbles, attacking his armpit with her fingers. Peter uses the distraction to sit up and go for her sides, then detours for Caspian as he tries for both of their sides. From there they tumble into one wriggling, squealing, laughing mass.

In which Bacchus pays a visit

burntozone@googlemail.com — Thu, 05 Feb 2009 19:04:37 GMT

Edmund looks up from the reports he's been getting from Reepicheep and the eagles. The eagles have been collecting reports from the narnians and keeping an eye on narnia from above, and Reepicheep and his mice have been proving invaluable. Reepicheep may seem loud and brash, but it turns out he's very sneaky, knows the value of discretion, is extremely good at tactical planning - he was the one that planned and carried out the raid on Miraz' camp, after all - and of course, his size means that he can go unnoticed and listen in when other, larger creatures couldn't. Edmund's probably the person who knows best that the ability to fade into the background and go unnoticed is more valuable when gathering information than being merely small, but when the two traits are combined, that's only to be commended. The mouse also has the advantage of being a renowned fighter - no-one in the Narnian camp would denigrate his skill with a sword and precisely how deadly he is. Most Telmarines he encountered never had a second chance to apply their fast-earned knowledge. With that reputation, he's very good at quickly putting down arguments and quarrels with a word or short statement before they get to the point of blows or further discussion. Further discussion that might prove inconvenient. Of course, his outward reputation of being loud,
brash and overly concerned with honour has the advantage that no-one would suspect him of the
kind of activities Edmund specialises in organising.

Edmund ticks a few more items off his list. Getting back into doing this kind of thing after a year off has almost been relaxing. A challenge after a year of not being expected to use his brain. Getting looks from the schoolmasters or his parents when he provided an answer or observation he hadn't been expected to for a boy of his apparent age was discomforting to say the least. The stares were disquieting when you're used to being able to fade into the background at will, and being discounted or scoffed at when you're used to being listened to is never good for one's ego. Peter had the problem of being ignored and not instantly being obeyed, Edmund got attention he never wanted, and he can't think how the girls coped. Passed over and ignored doubly so for the mere fact of their gender. Lucy probably coped better than Susan, because she always enjoyed being underestimated and shocking people. He's not looking forward to some of the headaches he knows he'll be getting from this work, but it's familiar and he knows he's good at it.

Caspian's coronation went smoothly, at least. The Telmarines behaved themselves, even if they did attempt to swoop on Caspian straight after the ceremony to catch his ear. No-one was afflicted over much by a sense of the public and dramatic to try for an assassination attempt during the coronation, though they'd had guards posted and had swept the room for any hiding spaces.

There's a sound at the window. Specifically, the sound of someone scaling the wall outside. Edmund grabs his sword, since there's been enough assassins who feel that scaling the castle walls is de rigeur. Why they can't come in the door like normal people or attempt to attack him when he's not surrounded by a large amount of potential weapons is beyond him. Scaling walls - the sound of grating stone and creaking ropes - is not exactly a sound that isn't going to stand out, unlike walking along the corridor. Admittedly, you'll get the occasional flying assassin, but it tends to be impractical for opening windows and getting through it when you've a large wingspan. They've not had any attempts made on them by the Telmarines yet. It's a possibility he and his siblings aren't considered important enough yet, but he doubts that. it's public knowledge that they led the narnians into battle and put caspian on the throne. He's surprised the Telmarines didn't try for assassination before the battle, as soon as Miraz knew that they were finally a cohesive unit. Peter was expecting it every day, and posted guards accordingly. He suspects it may be down to arrogance and short-sightedness on the part of Miraz rather than a reluctance to do so. Caspian's informed them that the court is certainly treacherous (as they'd seen by Sopespian's back stabbing), but they deem spilling blood and drawn blades in court itself as barbarous. All the Pevenises had exchanged glances at that point, and Susan had conceded that it'd be a change.

Edmund takes up position at the wall next to the window, waiting for them to get to the sill. He's got the window open anyway, because this castle seems to go through phases of being stifling as well as being cold. Not to mention the stone walls are a bit oppressive at times. A hand comes over, grasping the sill, and a waft of wine scent, mixed with freshly turned earth, comes with it as the intruder hauls themselves up. Edmund frowns at the scent as he moves to hold his sword across whoever's attempting to come in the window, but says calmly "Try to come up with a good excuse to explain why the door was too much trouble for you to use."

"I think you spend too much time within stone walls." Comes the teasing reply. At the sound of that voice, Edmund feels like groaning but restrains himself. Bacchus pulls himself up to sit on the window sill, straddling it. He turns to grin at Edmund, ignoring the blade in front of him. "Well, my king? Is that reason enough?"

Edmund sighs, lowering his sword. "What're you doing here, Bacchus?"

"I need a reason?" The young god grins, reaching up to his hair and pulling a grape off the vines crowning his hair. He holds it out to Edmund, then when he doesn't take it, pops it in his own mouth, looking up at Edmund. "When have I ever needed a reason?"

"Sometimes I forget who I'm talking to, clearly." Edmund says dryly. "Perhaps I should ask what you're doing at my window."

Bacchus raises an eyebrow. "The reason I normally appear at your window." He swings his leg over the sill, so he's sitting with both legs inside the room, reaching out and brushing his fingers over the front of Edward's doublet. "Have you forgotten, my king?"

"it's been a thousand years since you last did this, need I remind you?" Edmund says, taking a half-step forward.

Bacchus raises an eyebrow "And yet we both still remember." He trails his hand up Edmund's doublet to the skin of his neck, caressing there, before latching his fingers into the collar of the doublet and using that to pull Edmund forward so he's close enough for their lips to touch but neither are taking that last step to close the gap. "The question you should be asking is why you even have to ask."

Edmund shrugs, warily. "I was trained to ask questions."

"So stop." Bacchus says, shifting his hands to cup Edmund's face. "For tonight, you stop."

"...I really shouldn't be wondering precisely when it is you're going to spring it on them, should I?" Edmund asks.

Bacchus grins savagely. "Wonder all you like. It will happen, whether they are prepared or no. And it will be beyond their imagining." He leans forward that last inch, kissing Edmund.

-----

Edmund opens his eyes to see Bacchus smiling at him, rubbing his chest lightly. "Awake, are we?"

"Possibly." Edmund hazards. He's still bleary, certainly. The first of the morning light's coming through the window. Just a bit, and it's not quite dawn yet.

"It's been some time since you've had a smooth chest." Bacchus comments, running his fingers up it. "Little differences about you. Less scars, of course."

"My voice and height weren't different enough?" Edmund asks, amused. The area on his chest
Bacchus is running his fingers up has a few traces of wine left on it, and not a few bite marks. "And it was never that hairy anyway."

"The difference between a boy and a man." Bacchus says, reaching up to touch his chin. "No stubble here yet, either."

Edmund lies back, turning his head to look around him. The room he's been assigned to since they got to this castle is oddly untouched. No vines, no leaves and branches growing out of the wooden furniture. Bacchus tends to delight in disrupting any man-made shelter that attempts to impose any sort of order on a place. Which normally meant Edmund's study and his bedroom at Cair Paravel whenever Bacchus didn't manage to pull him outside. Lucy used to make jokes about the servants keeping a scythe and fruit basket ready for whenever they cleaned Edmund's rooms. He turns his head to look at Bacchus. "You're losing your touch. Did you actually resist disrupting this place? I thought you'd jump at it." he waves at their surroundings, all dark rock and wood. "I never saw a place so devoted to dark and depressing in narnia."

Bacchus shifts a bit, stilling his hand on Edmund's chest. "I'm saving it. I think they need a rude awakening."

Edmund strokes his hand up Bacchus' back, before turning his head for a kiss. "Unlike you. Don't say you've mellowed since we were last here."

"Not mellowed." bacchus says, kissing him again and grinning into it. "Merely biding my time. Will you come?"

"I'll try." Edmund says.

"We'll see." Bacchus chuckles. "The man who avoided more of my revels than anyone in Narnia."

"It's not my fault you seem to turn up when I'm busiest." Edmund protests. "I did come. I just didn't stay long."

Caspian gets jumped by Pevensies. it's a risk of the job.

burntozone@googlemail.com — Thu, 05 Feb 2009 18:46:51 GMT

Caspian's studying one of the cases put before them - a land dispute between one of the nobles and the peasants farming it. The noble wants to turn them off it so he can put sheep on it. Under Telmarine law he has every right to. Under Narnian law, the length of time they've been working it gives them rights. Land rights and distribution alone has been causing some of the biggest problems in unifying the two types of law - Narnian wasn't made for a time when a large portion of the population lived in towns, and no-one even thought that they had a claim on land that they couldn't farm themselves. The Narnians simply didn't think like that. Land wasn't something you could own. Edmund groaned when he came across that small fact of Telmarine law and said something about 'going to take a lot of time to get the Telmarines around to that way of thinking, it's as bad as Saxon'. When Caspian had asked who the Saxons were - a people he'd never heard of - Edmund had merely shrugged and said not to worry. From that he gathers they're probably from the period that they previously reigned in, and simply died out or were absorbed into another country in the intervening time between their reign and the Telmarine era. They might even have been a people or tribe wiped out in the seemingly near-constant wars of the Golden age. Such things seemed to happen rather a lot. Either way, history lessons will probably not help.

After the third time of reading it over and still not being able to come to any new conclusions or decisions, he puts it down and goes to see if he can get any further insight from Susan on the matter. Edmund's currently in talks with what the Pevensies are privately referring to as 'the Secret Service', and not to be disturbed. checking with one of the messengers reveals that she was last seen heading for her room. Given that it's after dinner and there aren't any meetings or petitions that he knows of scheduled for this evening, he can't think why he didn't go there directly. When he gets there, the door's ajar, so he knocks and pushes it open.

Caspian instantly regrets not knocking more loudly. Queen Susan is ... clearly occupied. Occupied enough that soft knocks might not have drawn her attention sufficiently. The sight that greeted him was her kissing someone in a rather involved fashion. they're still fully clothed, but it wouldn't be amiss to suppose that clothing may come off soon given their embrace and that he really should leave. he can't see who the other person is aside from the fact that they're blond, which is very rare in Narnia, especially if human, but it's none of his business.

he coughs, then stammers "I, I'm sorry. I will come back another time." With that apology voiced for interrupting them, even if they don't hear it, he turns to leave - he's got enough court manners for that. Interrupting any further, or staring, would be unforgivable. Though he really does wish that she'd locked the door. Even if it hadn't crossed the pair's mind at the time. Walking in on this kind of thing is not something he wishes to do more than once if at all possible.

Behind him, he hears them break, the heavy breathing loud in the quiet. A voice sounds behind him, somewhat sharply, with the commanding tone all the Pevensies manage effortlessly. "Caspian." it's not Susan's voice, but it's a Narnian accent and the voice is very familiar, even if he can't quite put his finger on it yet. He turns without thinking at the sound of his name, and instantly regrets it. Susan and the person she was kissing are looking at him, both faces clear in the candle light. The person whose face was previously obscured is Peter. High King Peter. Who he really should have identified faster given the blond hair. Which means that Susan was kissing her brother, and what he observed was not a brotherly kiss in the sense that he's familiar with. It's entirely possible that Narnian practices and taboos are somewhat different to Telmarine, but in Telmarine society it's a taboo. And he certainly shouldn't be staring at their kiss-reddened mouths. His attraction to them both is not helping, and he should be leaving right now.

"I apologise, I did not mean to intrude, I-" he's having difficulty turning round due to being unable to look away, but he does start backing towards the door. The door and safety. As soon as he's out of the room, he's going to try and forget he ever saw this.

Susan raises an eyebrow, holds out her hand, and says "Caspian, don't be stupid. Come here."

Caspian freezes again, still unable to look away, gaze flicking between Susan's outstretched hand and her face, but not sure where to go right now. he still wants to flee very much, but the way she's looking at him has managed to freeze him to the spot. he's still not sure he wants to go any further forward either.

The sound of the door closing behind him is what finally unfreezes him, and he whips his head round to see that Peter's somehow snuck past him while he was staring at Susan and is leaning against it. Smiling in a way that seems to bode absolutely no-one well, especially not Caspian. "Well?" Peter asks, tone definitely archly amused. "Aren't you going to say anything to the lady?"

"I - um - I shouldn't - this is -" Caspian can't seem to stop stammering, let alone marshal his thoughts to do anything, or for that matter, make his limbs move in any coherent direction.

Peter sighs. "I think we may have broken him, Su."

"You may be correct." Susan replies in a rueful tone. "Which means we'll have to make sure he's at least coherent enough to leave the room at some point."

Peter stands up straight and strides forward, taking Caspian's jaw in a firm grip to make sure he's looking in the direction Peter intends. For now it's directly at Peter. "it's fairly simple, Caspian. Stay." He raises an eyebrow. "First, wipe your brain of anything you saw. What was the reason you came here? I presume you were looking for Susan."

Caspian swallows, all too aware of the calluses on peter's fingers. At least this is an answer that doesn't require him to think about the current situation. "I came to ask Queen Susan her opinion of a case of land rights. I'd not been able to think of a solution that would benefit either party successfully, and since King Edmund is in council now, I thought Susan's input would be best."

peter nods. "Sensible decision. Normally. However, it can probably wait until morning, and since you're here, we'll make the best of that."

"Ah. The best of what, may i ask?" Caspian asks in trepidation. At least the stammer is gone.

he feels a hand trail up his arm. "Oh, you know." Susan says quietly. She's come forward to join them while Peter took his attention, so they're either side of him. "The situation right now."

"and the situation is?" he still can't get a coherent thought out at this point, too confused by their presence either side of him to make sense of what they're talking about. he really should, but his mind is simply content to gibber still, stuck on what he walked into and their combined attention, to the point where he feels like a mouse stuck between two cats intent on playing a game that will almost certainly not benefit the mouse. If he's lucky, he might escape with some of his skin intact, but he doubts it at this rate. Attempting to break from peter would almost certainly be stupid, and attempting to break free from both would probably result in a dislocated arm at the very least.

Peter chuckles. "I think he's definitely addled." He glances at Susan. "Do you want to do this or shall I?"

"You're the one holding onto him." Susan says, amused tone in place.

"True." Peter says, thumb moving gently on Caspian's jaw. He smiles slightly, and Caspian looks at his mouth, then back up at his eyes. And notices that Peter's moving closer and tilting his head slightly and - oh. Peter's lips are on his, thumb still stroking his jaw gently, calluses catching on the stubble. In contrast, his lips are soft, and work against Caspian's insistently until Caspian responds, head spinning but finally able to confirm a course of action of some sort. Peter hasn't really attempted to touch him since that day after sparring beyond the occasional look that shortens his breath momentarily, but he can't say he hasn't thought about it. A lot. So he kisses back, lips moving against Peter's as Peter strokes his jaw lightly. They break, and Caspian takes in an unsteady breath, unsure what next. That is until he feels Peter's hand fall away and another takes its place on his jaw, turning his head round gently to face Susan, and it's her kissing him, now. Caspian closes his eyes, hand coming up to cup her jaw as they kiss. Susan breaks away after a
little, hands having moved from his arm to rest on his shoulder, body closer now, and Peter's close enough to his back that he can feel the heat radiating off him.

Caspian swallows again as he realises their nearness. Susan smiles. "So like we said. Stay."

Caspian's brain appears to be finally working, now, the kisses having shifted something in there - possibly shocked it enough out of gibbering. he's not sure if it would be considered coherent, but his brain has finally, as Lucy puts it, got the picture. "You are sure?"

"Well, we could just be doing this to distract you from working too hard on a legal problem." Peter says, hand stroking up Caspian's side and down again to rest on his hip. "But i think we're pretty certain in what we're intending to do with you at any rate."

"I could always refuse." Caspian says, tilting his head back to try to get a better view, warily looking at Susan's serene expression. She could be hiding anything behind that. it's not her hard, blank battle expression, but this one, it seems, can disguise anything.

She grins, pressing forward and placing her hands on his chest. "No you won't. i think we can safely say that." With that she leans up to kiss him softly, and at the same time, he feels Peter stroke his hands around peter's hips, lips caressing his neck as Caspian tilts it forward to meet Susan. Caspian's hands come up to rest on Susan's waist, and for a while they stand there kissing, hands moving slightly on each other. Then Susan opens her mouth, tongue seeking his as she deepens the kiss. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Caspian registers Peter chuckle against the back of his neck, but he definitely feels Peter's hands slip around to his front, pulling at his clothing to get to skin, caressing his stomach as Caspian kisses Susan, one of his hands coming up to bury itself in her hair. Peter's hands continue their quest upwards, unbuttoning Caspian's doublet and pulling it off Caspian's shoulders, forcing him to let go of Susan. They both work his shirt off, and before he can lean in to kiss Susan again, they spin him around and he finds himself kissing Peter, their hands stroking and rubbing his skin, Susan kissing and nipping at his shoulders and back as Peter explores his mouth. And then it's Susan's hands working at the front of his breeches and delving her hands inside to stroke his cock as Peter's hands slip down the back to stroke his arse, a finger slipping down his crack before withdrawing. Peter pulls back from the kiss to lick and kiss across his collarbones and chest as Susan does the same down his back, interspersing her kisses with little nips of teeth, both their hands tugging his breeches down, holding him upright as they pull his boots off, mouths going lower until Peter licks down his stomach to end with long stripes along his cock, Susan seemingly determined to find every sensitive spot on the backs of his thighs and arse. The licking and everything else is starting to drive him crazy with need, but they're stopping his hips from jerking forward with their strong hold on his body from both sides.

"Please, i beg you -" he gasps.

With that, they both pull off, standing, Susan trailing a hand round his hips, fingers lingering to tease in the hollows as she does, peter pulling her in by her waist to stand against him. "Did we just hear him say please?" Peter asks.

"I think we did." Susan replies, grinning.

"it was asked very nicely." Peter agrees.

"So you think we should." Susan says. Peter's answer is to kiss her, both of them working at the other's buttons and ties to rid themselves of their clothing as quickly as possible, then stepping forward and pulling Caspian to the bed, hands slipping and sliding over skin as they fall onto it.

Caspian wakes up with a warm body by his side. Lifting his head reveals the body is susan, who's curled around Peter, head on his shoulder. Peter cracks an eye open. "Su, you're on my arm."

"Don't care." Susan mumbles. "Is Caspian awake?"

"I, ah, yes." Peter says, lifting his head to look.

Susan rubs her face against Peter's shoulder, still not opening her eyes. "You're closest to the table. Did the maid bring water?"

Caspian turns his head to check. "Yes. Did you want a drink?"

"I'll want to wash." Susan yawns, and sits up, stretching. She pokes Peter. "You have work to do. Up."

Peter sits up and nuzzles her shoulder. "You're sure we can't sleep in? This is a really comfortable bed."

"You can enjoy it later. Up." She says, lifting her hand to touch his face, then clambers out over him, getting out of bed to wash, then flicking water at the two of them.

"All right, I'll get up." Peter groans. "Caspian, her majesty calls. It's easier if you obey, trust me." he gets out of bed to find Caspian looking at him curiously, the early morning sunlight glinting off his pale skin. "What?" he asks distractedly.

"it is nothing." Caspian flushes a little, embarrassed at being caught looking. Not so much looking at a bed partner, as trying to wrap his mind around the fact that he bedded both of them in a haze last night.

"It's always something." Susan says, coming to sit beside him and tracing his ear with a finger.

"You have fewer scars than i would expect for a warrior." Caspian replies, using something he'd noticed during the night.

Peter glances at himself, then shrugs. "We're back to having our younger bodies. We'll regain them over time." He stoops, sorting through the clothing the maid must have placed on the chair when she brought the water in.

"I won't miss that one that went right across your stomach." Susan comments, getting up again and helping Peter into his clothing, tucking hair behind her ear distractedly. Caspian watches Peter's flesh disappear into the clothing, Susan's nakedness like an ornament, all pale skin, dark hair and long-limbed curves circling him. "You were bleeding like a stuck pig and we almost lost you."

"The point there is almost." Peter corrects her, tying his sword belt on, then casting an amused glance at Caspian. "Are you going to sit in bed all morning or do we have to pour the water on you?"

---

Swordfighting practice. Edmund frowns as they stop for a drink, peter pouring some of the water into his palm and splashing it over the back of his neck. "How serious are you and Susan?"

"About what?" Peter asks, curious. Edmund raises an eyebrow. "Oh, that." Peter concedes. "We were never that serious. I don't see why it should be any different now."

Edmund sighs. "I meant the caspian thing."

Peter laughs. "That? Edmund, it's only happened once." he pauses, amending his answer. "Well, once with both of us. A couple of times separately. That's hardly serious."

"Hmm. As long as he knows that." Edmund takes a swig from the skin that peter passes him. "He was looking a little shell shocked a couple of mornings ago."

"First threesome?" Peter suggest, smiling. "Some can find it a bit overwhelming, I've heard."

"I suppose." Edmund passes the skin back. "Will it be happening again?"

Peter shrugs. "Don't know." he gives him a look as he drinks. "Don't tell me you're thinking."

Edmund grins. "I'm always thinking, Peter. Unlike some of us in this vicinity." he ducks the swat peter aims at his head easily.

Calormene ambassadors and intel

burntozone@googlemail.com — Mon, 02 Feb 2009 23:18:59 GMT

The pigeons fly back and forth from Miraz' castle to other countries and destinations during the days and weeks following the birth of Miraz' son. Some of them fly to Archenland. Others fly further south to Tashbaan in calormen, across the desert.

- Miraz is dead. The boy Caspian has claimed the crown of narnia, aided by an army of bestial narnians and the devil-lion Aslan.

- Observe. find who the boy's advisers are and thus who the true power is. Has Sopespian finally moved against Miraz, then? And truly Aslan? he left Narnia over a thousand years ago, as Tash did Calormen. This is no longer the mythic age. gods and monsters no longer walk the land.

- Sopespian was killed in the battle of Beruna. Glozelle has sworn fealty to Caspian but has little contact with him. he speaks to the humans with Caspian. I suspect that is the true alliance. This lion commands the trees and the very waters. It is Aslan.

- Caspian has been crowned by Aslan. At his side are youths with narnian accents - the same as the beasts, not too dissimilar from the accent of Archenland, of royal and warlike aspect who led the Narnian army and killed Miraz. They advise him, the whisper is that they are the returned kings and queens of old. I enclose sketches and description. Look to the records of the time. The Narnians are blinded by faith and the Telmarines know little but fairy tales.

- i enclose descriptions and copies of sketches from the time - the kings and queens as children and how the portraits from Rabadash's time. I presume they are clever Archenlanders and King Llyr is making a gambit. what officer or minor noble is missing from Archenland?

- Aslan has named them as the Pevensies of old, and they no longer hide their control. Advice, my lords, these are desperate times.

- Tread carefully. Make overtures. Find Glozelle's position.

- Glozelle holds no alliance with other countries. He swore fealty to the High King Peter and ignores Caspian. Archenland is angry and claims no knowledge of the strangers. If they are truly Archnlanders, they were very deep cover or they acted on their own. It is - they are either truly Pevensies, or coached by Aslan. Do our records not state that the original Pevensies were the creatures of Aslan too? Advice!

- Coda to previous : I have made overtures. They know too much of the time of Rabadash and speak with casual knowledge of the time, with too many insignificant irrelevant details for comfort. Be wary. They are content to be at peace now whilst they bring Narnia to heel and solidify their position, but I cannot give assurances. High King Peter, if it is indeed he, was the greatest acknowledged warrior of his time. Combine with the armies of Glozelle and the magic of the very earth, and I would advise against making a move against them. They welcome conflict. And do not cross King Edmund and Queen Susan. Queen Susan is not the mere ornamental beauty Rabadash thought her.

----

The rooms of the Tisroc in the palace of Tashbaan are cool, and the servants keep a steady breeze wafting over the most important inhabitant. The newcomer closes his eyes, then enters, holding his hands together, and bows in front of the Tisroc. He does not bow deeply, for he is no fawning courtier. his is a job more important. "News from narnia, my lord." the messenger states.

the Tisroc raises a hand, stilling the fans, and raises an eyebrow. "Oh? what do those barbarians play at now?"

"There is a new ruler." The messenger informs him, straightening.

The Tisroc yawns negligently in boredom. "Miraz has finally declared himself after so many years of de facto rule? This is no news, he is merely stating fact. It seems he has finally cast off the shackles of false humility now that he has an heir of his own."

The messenger shakes his head. Any fool knew that, and he wouldn't be so stupid as to declare it important news. "This is of far greater import, my lord. Miraz is dead."

The Tisroc raises an eyebrow in interest. This is news indeed. "The other lords' resentment grew too great finally, then? Any fool visitor to that dark cave they call a court could see the rumblings and tension in that place. it's so thick you could reach out and touch it as it hangs in the air. Was it Sopespian or did Glozelle tire of his orders?"

"I... neither, my lord Tisroc. The boy Caspian has taken the throne. There was an uprising of the beasts, and it is said that the demon Aslan has returned to stalk the land."

The Tisroc picks up the goblet of tea sitting next to him and takes a sip from it, tapping his fingers against it as he swallows. "So they used the boy as their helm and figurehead. No matter. We should make preparations to advance our armies, or at least extend the hand of friendship in his time of insecurity. And i have beautiful daughters."

The messenger nods in agreement. "You do indeed, my lord. Beautiful, intelligent daughters who are most loyal and obedient to their lord father as they should be."

The Tisroc's eyes narrow as he notes his messenger's complete lack of answer. It is an answer he'd expect of one of his court. Answers like that are not why he employs this man. "Tell me all, herald. I dislike surprises. Surprises, as you know, are not good for the ongoing health of Calormen and its inhabitants. We have endured where other kingdoms and nations fall and crumble to dust. Take care that you are not the cause."

The messenger swallows. "The boy Caspian is king in name only. Others led the battle and hold the power."

The Tisroc makes a dismissive gesture. "That is not hard to guess. It is common knowledge that he knows nothing of battle beyond play and the schoolroom and less of statecraft. miraz kept him so only as a last resort of heir. his only use is his name, as these others have clearly established. Tell me, who is the real power?"

The messenger clears his throat, shifting his weight in discomfort. "Understand that this comes from eyewitnesses who saw the battle, my lord." He pauses. "Four children. The oldest is a stripling youth of not two decades, younger than Caspian. They fought and commanded the battle as seasoned and excellent warriors, and they bear themselves as royalty and those used to such a command."

"Impossible." the Tisroc says. "Such do not exist. We would know and have heard of such that existed in any army, for they would stand out like black rock in the desert sands."

"Our ambassador sends assurance that they do indeed carry themselves - and give counsel - as seasoned warriors and rulers. The names - they refer to themselves as the lords that defeated and humiliated Rabadash, those said to be allied to the northern demon Aslan. High King peter, King Edmund, Queen Susan, and Queen Lucy. I checked the records we have of that time against the descriptions and sketches he sent me, and they do indeed resemble the pictures we have of them."

The Tisroc shakes his head in disbelief. "Usurpers using the names to stir the beasts to war. Our ambassador is growing gullible and soft in his time at that court to be taken in so."

the messenger shakes his head. "My lord, they are children that hold themselves and counsel as adults. And you know full well no Telmarine has such fair looks - the archenlanders deny all knowledge of such a ruse coming from them. the demon Aslan has been seen by the entire court and many commoners besides, giving his blessing. As a student of history, you know that they were his pawns, that they say he brought them to narnia to do his bidding."

"You are growing increasingly frantic, herald. What more do you have to assure me that this has a speck of truth in it beyond an ambassador's gullibility?"

"They have already begun to enforce the old laws. No laws that the telmarines or others would know. The High King Peter has been seen to enact the old barbarous law of King's Execution. Whether they are in fact that the legendary kings of old, it matters little. But they show every sign of acting as such. Which heralds a new age of savage barbarism and war-hungry policy for narnia."

-----

It's the third week of the new reign of the narnian kings - it's how they're being referred to differentiate them from the Telmarines. Their claim and the Narnian accent helps, admittedly. it's now known that they are of the family Pevensie, but since that means nothing here, Narnian is simpler. The ambassadors have started speaking up and approaching the Narnian kings to ascertain their position on the neighbouring countries. Admittedly this is more because they've received their orders from their home countries on how to deal with the new regime, with the position their monarchs have decided to take. It mostly appears to be 'wait and see'.

Edmund's sorting through some papers in his study. Sorting out the tangled web of laws and the situation miraz left narnia in, especially the foreign affairs, is a nightmare. The laws are bad enough, being somewhat draconian. But the foreign affairs - it seems Miraz cared nothing for what lay beyond his borders, and that was without the usual Telmarine tendency towards isolationism. Peter could be said to have a more delicate touch and subtle understanding of how to deal with such things than miraz did when it came to treaties. susan and he have been getting headaches and can only marvel at the slapdash quality to the treaties written down and their delicate nature.

There's a tentative knock at the door. Edmund raises his head from the paperwork and scrubs at his eyes. "Come in." The Calormen ambassador steps in. Most of the ambassadors have been looking nervous and somewhat dazed for the past few weeks. it appears Miraz had them cowed to the point of walking on eggshells the entire time. Then came the regime change, the reappearance of the native Narnians with interests of their own, and the realisation that the strangers were hardened, experienced rulers. So they've spent most of it trying to adjust and waiting for word from their respective rulers.

"My lord?" The Calormenes have been a little more nervous than the rest, since they have legends and records of the new monarchs from the last time they ruled, unlike the others. Detailed records and legends. More detailed and accurate to a certain point than the legends of the native narnians and Telmarines. Such are the benefits of living in a kingdom that has had no major upset or revolution or invasion in so long. the Tisrocs have endured like no others. "If i might beg a word?"

"Officially or unofficially?" Edmund asks. Ambassadors tend to be quite understanding people in his experience once you weed out the fools sent because their family was of import or similar. They normally have a far better grasp of the country they're stationed in than the so called foreign experts back in their native lands,

The ambassador dips his head slightly in a half bow. "partly officially. I understand you have little tolerance for the language of the court of the Tisroc, so I will not offend you by using it in this. I have received some slight word from my masters. the Tisroc extends his hand in friendly greeting, and the first thing we wish to assure you of is that we have no designs on the person of Queen Susan."

edmund looks amused. he hadn't expected that one to be the first thing out of his mouth. They've definitely got detailed records. Or at least a good memory for the more interesting bits of history. He does wonder how it's been twisted as legends and old history tends to become. he comments "Someone did their research."

"Rabadash's lesson is taught as a parable in schools, my lord." The ambassador says shamefacedly. "We have very detailed records still existing of the entire episode. We understand that it is a little more fresh in your minds than ours. The records of the episode of history are somewhat, ah, lurid. We wish to give as little offence as possible until more familiar relations are achieved."

Edmund chuckles, remembering previous dealings with Calormen. "How many times do the words 'bloodthirsty barbarians' appear in the texts about us? Just out of curiosity."

The ambassador swallows, then colours. He hadn't expected them to be so familiar with the general mood of the original documents. "Ah, several." He says, then reassures "But let it be known that we are open to trade and negotiation and that that was long ago."

Edmund tilts his head in acknowledgement. "So noted. I'll pass on your message to my sister, I'm sure she'll be pleased. We appreciate your eagerness to do your job. Was there anything further you wished to pass on?"

"No, my lord. Thank you." The Calomen ambassador backs out of the room and leaves, closing the door behind him.

Edmund shakes his head. He's got a feeling that'll be one of the more interesting encounters amongst those of his ilk.

first reaction to the official recognition of the Pevensies

burntozone@googlemail.com — Mon, 02 Feb 2009 23:13:07 GMT

It's the day after the recognition of the Pevensies by Aslan. The nation is in somewhat of an uproar as it is, and the castle even more so, being at the epicentre of the news. The word spread fast, runners being sent out across the country to the villages and towns by the Telmarines, heralds announcing it, and the Narnians sending birds and runners to the deepest forests. Everyone had felt the land awake when Aslan returned, but only the Narnians had been aware of what the shudder meant. Gossip had spread fast about the return of the Kings and Queens of old amongst the Narnians, as had the news of the battle of Beruna and the killing of Miraz, but this time everyone had wanted to make sure the news was known. Only a small percentage of the Narnians had heeded the call to war, being disillusioned or too far gone, or too concerned with their own territory. Most of these had been in the wild places that the Telmarines dared not set foot in, for good reason. It's always unwise to set foot in the deep forest or too close to the shore where there's a high chance of being set upon and torn to shreds because of your race. When Aslan had called and forcibly awoken and gathered the trees and river spirits from their slumber, more had come, but still many stayed and refused to believe. So when the official recognition had come, with the formal announcement that the children who led the Narnians to war were in fact the Kings and Queens of old, and that they would be taking their place as rulers again, many of the more politically interested Narnians made it their duty to spread the word, to try and involve the Narnians in the deep places in what was happening.

Celebration had broken out amongst a large amount of the Narnians who heard, glad that they had a voice, glad that the battle had been won and Miraz defeated, glad that Aslan was back, and glad that the kings and queens of legend were indeed here to save Narnia. Finally. after so many years.

Sending the runners and messengers was a risky business, since there was every chance that the more... territorial deep places would kill anyone who was a stranger, not just the occasional foolish human who dared enter. But they screamed the news as they came in, not caring for quiet, and waking everyone from hiding. Everyone was on edge as it was, as the magic thrummed through the land. Rumour had spoken of Bacchus being seen. The young god hadn't been heard of for centuries, not since the land was silenced, and the few memories people had were that he was the epitome of wildness. They were hazy. but the appearance of such denoted change.

A wolf crashed through the undergrowth of deep forest, howling fit to wake as many as she could from their hiding places. It was full meant, for she intended to spread the word as far as she could. Eventually a centaur stopped her, hand around her throat, holding her up off the floor. He was no stargazer, no dreamer, none of the clan of Glenstorm and his like. "Explain yourself, wolf. Why do you dare come so deep? We keep ourselves to ourselves and you know the penalty for trespass. all do, or learn all too quickly."

The wolf hung limp, not bothering to snap. "I bear witness and news. News that concerns us all."

"We care for no news." The centaur snarls. "The outside world concerns us not." From out of the dark and undergrowth, creatures start to emerge. All feral, all wild, all quite obviously willing to tear the wolf apart as soon as she stops speaking for disturbing their home.

So the wolf talks fast. "Aslan has come. Narnia has awakened. You have felt that, have you not?"

"We have, and it is good news." The centaur says, tilting his head. "But still, we do not need your news. Aslan left us to our own devices long ago, and we do not need his permission for anything."

"The Telmarines have been deposed and the Kings and Queens of old have returned and taken
power for the Narnians again. They rule. The land is ours once more. We no longer need live in hiding. Did you not hear of the call to arms and the subsequent battle?" The wolf asks, fully aware of the fact that so few heeded it. "They led us and we won. The land is ours." She repeats, trying to make them understand the good news.

"We heard the rumours and call, but dismissed it. we were not willing to risk our lives on a foolhardy enterprise like the dreamer Glenstorm. keeping separate is better than being slaughtered once more. And the Kings and Queens of old?" He sneers at the thought. "How can we be so sure they are the kings and queens of old?" The centaur snarls, clearly not believing it.

"They know so much and speak of olden times as though they are yesterday. They fight with the gifts given to them, the ones the legends speak of, that have not been seen in Narnia since they left. They are youths and children that fight as battle hardened warriors of twice their age and experience, and they command like no other." The wolf says, eyes shining. She'd seen them when they first challenged Caspian, the air of command shining out of them like no other she had ever seen. The hate the High King had borne for the Telmarines and what they'd done to the land, and the sorrow the others had clearly shown for a land long gone - Lucy's simple distress for the fact that the trees no longer moved - spoke volumes. "They are the Kings and Queens of old returned, and Aslan confirmed it. He has given them his blessing, and they rule once more."

"You believe and hope too easily, wolf. Kings and Queens of old they may be, but they are still human." The centaur adjusts his grip to take her by the scruff, not quite shaking her yet. "We remember that much. No humans shall rule over us and we owe them nothing." He smiles, and there is nothing warm in that smile. "Humans are not to be trusted and killed on sight. They promise prettily and stab us in the back as soon as they can. So pray forgive us for not sharing in your foolish, childish hope of being tame. Your Kings and Queens may be blessed by Aslan, but they will side with the other humans as soon as they can. And I presume you do not remember that they abandoned this land, leaving it to fall to flame and ruin?" He drops her. "So we take your news and spit on it. We'll grant you free passage to spread this false hope, but do not blame us if we keep to ourselves and none heeds you. Humans are no friends of ours and particularly no masters."

The wolf shakes herself as she gets up, holding her ground. Backing away before she's said her piece is not her mission, even with the promise of free passage. "We will have recognition. No longer will we be hunted down. We're no longer running and hiding, is that not something?"

The centaur folds his arms and stares down at her impassively for a moment, before curling his lip and pointing behind her at the path opening in the circle. "Take your naivety, wolf. we'll believe it when we see it."

The wolf bows her head. "As you wish." She edges slowly out of the circle and runs on, into other parts of the forest to spread her message. For it must be heard.

----

In the halls of the castle, the Telmarine lords are furious. They'd been prepared for Caspian - after all, Miraz was technically only regent until the last week or so of his reign. Caspian was a boy king, there to be manipulated by those whose power was greatest, and perhaps killed off when he grew too old to be silenced easily. As Miraz attempted once he had an heir. But even then the lords were moving to silence Miraz himself, having grown tired of his temper and seizing power that they wanted for themselves. They were in near outright revolt by the time of Beruna, only allying with Miraz to rid themselves of this Narnian nuisance once and for all. None would have wept bitter tears at the young fool that was Caspian getting killed in the battle. But then Miraz was killed by the narnians after the duel, after taking a wound that it's entirely possible he may have eventually died from, possibly during complications of recovery. Men have died from less while being treated, even without help. Even when the result of the battle became clear as the very forests rose up to join the fight and Sopesian was killed, the Narnians had taken Caspian as their nominal head, and announced him king after the battle.

The way ahead seemed clear. the narnians were quieted for the moment, and could be swept aside without problem. they would not be concerning themselves with real matters. Caspian was young and idealistic, and ripe for manipulation by the correct advice. thus the lords congratulated and reassured themselves as the young king rode into the capital, to the castle. But by his side were the children that had led the narnians to battle. Hard-faced youngsters that gathered round him and started to take control, clearly experienced in ruling and the ways of politics for all their youth. Experienced where Caspian was naive. And a week later they were announced by the great lion as the kings and queens of the past, of fairy tale. Clearly positioned above Caspian in power, and those are the three that do not have the title 'High King' as their leader does. While the Telmarine lords had not been looking, someone else had seen Caspian as their route to power and taken it.

The lords are staring at the group gathered on the dais, talking amongst themselves, after the lion has departed. He appears and disappears at will around the castle, though none can tell how a beast so large can hide himself with so many people present daily.

"And we are to accept these ... children as our new monarchs?" Lord Donnon sneers. he'd been
near to Sopespian before these newcomers took control.

"Children that won by right of arms." Lord Montoya reminds him softly. He'd seen them fight from close at hand, not far off as Donnon had been. As the weeks went by, with the occasional practice fight fought in the courtyard and halls, or archery session in full view of anyone who cared to watch, even those who had not seen the battle could attest to the fact that the hard-faced youths were not soldiers that those would sense would go up against. "And that is one of the oldest laws of succession there is. Or do you not remember that this is how our ancestors took Narnia originally?"

"Caspian should be king." Lord Scythley mutters.

"He defers." Lord Gregoire shrugs, to encompass the folly of youth - or perhaps the wisdom of one who recognises that he is not yet suited and that these four would take power even if he did not concede gracefully. "The boy is dazzled by his childhood stories come to life."

A week or so later, there is drinking. And wine raises the blood, certainly, and leads you to say things you never would otherwise. Especially not in company. So they are glad it is their company, and there are no outsiders in this room. This is not the drinking and celebration of Caspian's coronation, it is the quiet drinking and talk time. The subject has once again turned to the new monarchs. Who now that they are now publicly acknowledged, have begun to show their hand properly, rather than merely sitting in on councils and discussions and providing opinions, guiding the conversation subtly. Now they peruse maps and demand answers to long ago historical events. Quiz Glozelle on the army. Research laws. Discuss foreign policy. So many questions and all the answers, taking advice from beasts and precious few Telmarines. Aslan has disappeared. No-one saw him go, but go he certainly has, and the new monarchs are retaining their grip on the reins of power. While everyone else is in disarray with the sudden loss of two of their most powerful and a good portion of the army, as well as the resurgence of the Narnians, the new monarchs are moving smoothly through the disarray, with the might of the centaurs and giant cats at their heels and the support of the living woods and rivers at their backs. part of it is ruthlessly exploiting the confusion, to be sure, but exploiting it they are. Successfully. Which leaves the lords fuming.

"They were never crowned!" Lord Donnon exclaims as the climax and end to his rant, throwing his goblet at the door, just as there's a knock at it.

The door opens as the goblet rolls away, clattering over the flagstones. Standing behind it is the quiet dark one. King Edmund. He who delves into the law books and holds long discussions over what works and how it works in their justice system. the one that wants to know how everything works from the far corners of the kingdom to the castle. Who discusses foreign policy with Queen Susan and the ambassadors. Named the Just. Fitting, since he is so concerned with the law. But the stories of their childhood, that they have all been dredging up, called him King of Shadows. He whose informers and spies were scattered across the land and far into the depths of other lands, feeding him information and enabling him to reach out and turn events as he chose in the name of narnia. Assassinations right under the noses of armies and bodyguards. He certainly behaves like a shadow, rarely calling attention to himself until he has to, content to melt into them until you forget he's there, and then he says something and you have no option but to pay attention to him. Quiet strength and back up to his louder, more charismatic brother the High King. Taking care of details
so Peter doesn't have to. But just as deadly as his brother, as they all are.

Edmund stoops to pick up the goblet. "Pity to do that to a perfectly serviceable goblet." he turns it over, stepping into the room as he does, holding it up to the light the fire gives off. In the flickering light it's difficult to tell his age. Sometimes a boy, no older than one of their younger sons who trains and learns his lessons, and then the light changes and he's the cool, hard second in command, stating hard fact with his sister as they pull details from the advisers. "Doesn't look like you dented it, though." He looks up from the goblet, frown clearing. "I came to tell you that the High King will be expecting you tomorrow afternoon on the subject of the army."

Lord Gregoire nods. "My lord. Did he say where he would expect us?"

"The courtyard." He puts down the goblet. "Sorry for the intrusion. I'll leave you to your discussion. Though Lord Montoya, I wish to see you in the morning about that matter we didn't finish discussing yesterday. About the horse. I'll send a servant to find you."

"As you wish, my king." Lord Montoya says.

The youth turns to go, the firelight making him look young again, and they're reminded that he's only just old enough to be sent into battle, and even then as a page boy - part of the baggage. Not the experienced fighter who deals death with a sword in each hand that they've seen. At the door, he pauses, turning back slightly so they can see his turned head, the shadows over his face. "Oh, and before I go. Lord Donnon." The mentioned lord stiffens at the mention of his name. "In answer to your statement just before I entered." His voice changes from friendly to cool and hard. "We were crowned and invested as the kings and queens of Narnia above all other kings and queens of Narnia long before you were born. Peter is High King over all Kings and queens of Narnia. By right of conquest, fealty and acclaim." He pauses to let that statement and piece of history lodge, then carries on. "And Glozelle and the Narnians swore fealty to Peter and the rest of my siblings and I *before* they swore fealty to Caspian." With that closing statement, he closes the door behind him quietly, footsteps echoing away from the door up the corridor.

On this side of the door, the lords swallow and breathe out in the space he's left. That is... something they have been trying not to discuss, finding it uncomfortable to acknowledge. The support and blind faith of the Narnians was a given. The kings and queens of old were their heroes, the ones they near worshipped, who were supposed to save narnia from the darkness. And appear again they did to take it over. it is unlikely that they would have ever sworn any kind of fealty to Caspian without the presence of the Narnian monarchs. They were the ones who led them into battle, not Caspian. But then there is the matter of Glozelle. Glozelle, who was foremost amongst them aside from Sopespian, he who was one of the most riled at Miraz' heavy-handedness but kept his mouth shut, had turned and sworn himself to the High King's service. Right after the battle was finished, Peter had come to him and demanded his service and loyalty, still covered in the blood of the Telmarines he had cut a swathe through. Then it was on behalf of Caspian and the kingdom, to
not cause trouble whilst the shaky peace of resounding defeat was in place. Glozele gave it without a murmur. As the days went by, it was clear that it was Peter that he followed the lead of, barely acknowledging Caspian as Peter quizzed him on the army that he commanded and the defences of the kingdom. When Caspian was crowned, Glozelle may have bent his knee to Caspian but his eyes were on Peter. And since they were acknowledged as the true powers, Glozelle does not partake in the discussions or complaints they do, like this one. he concentrates on the army and puts his efforts into serving the High King as best he can. If Edmund is the High King's shadow, Glozelle is his strong right hand. And that is not at all easy on the mind, that one of the strongest of their number turned so fast. It is early days yet, and they can only hope that he is gaining the High King's trust with a plan in mind, but so far, it does not bode well.

Recognising the Pevensies

burntozone@googlemail.com — Sun, 01 Feb 2009 18:30:25 GMT

The throne room's relatively deserted when Caspian and the others walk in. Well, aside from Reepicheep, who's going through some drills with his mice. "Your majesties, I apologise. We will vacate ourselves."

Peter waves a hand graciously. "No, it's quite fine, Reepicheep. Constant practice to hone your skills is a commendable asset. Continue. We'll try not to disturb you too much."

"Though if you're not careful, Peter might start giving you pointers." Lucy grins.

"Pointers from the greatest warrior Narnia has ever known would be an honour, my Queen." Reepicheep says, then raises his rapier. "En garde, sir mouse."

They skirt the patch of floor the mice are practising on, watching the quick clash of swords. Peter sits down on the Telmar throne, shifting to attempt to get into a relatively comfortable position and failing. He looks up at Caspian. "We're going to have to get on with re-building Cair Paravel soon. This throne is awful. Not to mention fitting another four thrones onto this dais is going to be a right bugger."

Caspian starts. "You're staying?"

"Well, we were hardly going to leave, were we?" Peter says, smiling. "We're back home."

Caspian shakes his head to clear it. "I suppose I had not thought much beyond the first battle."

"And now you're crowned. Trust me, more than one monarch makes ruling far easier." Peter says, eyes going to the mice. "Peepiceek, you're dropping your shoulder. Keep your tail higher. On the battlefield, you'll catch it on whatever's behind you if you're not careful."

Peepiceek stumbles slightly on being given audible advice, but recovers quickly and renews his attack, lifting his tail as instructed.

"Peter, we're trying to discuss -" Susan sighs, and turns to Caspian. "Also another advantage of several rulers." She gestures at the mice. "When one is distracted by or busy with other things, the others can step in."

Edmund frowns. "Besides which, our Narnia was far bigger - how did your borders get so small?"

"the history I learnt talked of much infighting at one point. You'd be best asking Dr. Cornelius that." Caspian says.

"Mmm. It's something we'll need to look into, though." Edmund muses.

"Breaking it to the Telmarines will be interesting, certainly." Susan says. "However, there is one point you have to understand, Caspian."

"Which is?"

"Peter is High King. Which means his word is law. We can certainly bully and persuade him, but he is still High King. whatever disagreements you have with him can be kept for private." Susan says.

"I've seen you publicly chastise him." Caspian says, back stiffening.

"Which is different from disagreeing outright. There are several differences, which you'll learn in time." She pauses. "You'd do well to remember that for all our seeming youth, we have far more experience at ruling than you do."

On the floor in front of them, Reepicheep disarms Peepiceek rather spectacularly, sending his sword flying, producing cheers from Lucy. "Oh, very well done!"

Peter leans back on the throne. "Well done indeed. Though remember to keep the very flashy moves for exhibition and playfighting where they belong, Reepicheep."

"I live but to provide you with cheer, your majesties. And your comments and advice are most graciously received." Reepicheep says, bowing deeply and Peepiceek doing the same.

"We thank you for the spectacle." Lucy counters. "It is we who are honoured." She turns to Susan and Caspian. "I think our discussion is over, isn't it? We can leave them to practice in quiet, now."

Susan smiles. "Very true, Lucy. we shouldn't distract them further." She picks up her skirts and steps down from the dais, taking Caspian's hand and leading them out.

"Might I ask why you would discuss such things so freely in front of subjects?" Caspian asks once they're out of there. he's used to court silence and secrets. to discuss state matters and plans that have not been announced in front of subjects as though they are nothing - that is something you would only dare in front of servants, even then with caution, for who would believe their word? Yet these supposedly experienced monarchs did it without care. "I would have thought you would want such information kept secret for the formal announcement."

"Peepiceek is a great gossip." Edmund says, looking amused. "Some things I'd prefer not to be a massive shock amongst certain quarters before the official announcement."

"Ah." Caspian muses. "Interesting. Controlled release of information. It is not something I had thought of as a tactic."

Lucy grins and nudges him with her elbow. "There is nothing Edmund doesn't know about the gathering and release of information. You'll learn."

They use that phrase a lot. Caspian does sometimes wonder when precisely he'll stop hearing it as a coda to their comments. The fact that it is Lucy, the youngest who is still clearly a child, who would be playing with dolls if she was raised Telmarine noble, who is the one to let slip such insights and facts the most is still disconcerting. He doesn't know when that will stop, but he is becoming used to it. the too wise and often suddenly solemn child who comes out with adult pronouncements and understandings is becoming a figure in her own right. it's easier coming from her siblings, even if such things are still too old and hard to take from people who are younger than him. the courtiers and soldiers had not yet begun to treat him as a full adult yet. At least Peter and Edmund look old enough to fight and be treated as men, if not to have the experience they display, and Susan is old enough to have the bearing of a woman. Lucy is still very obviously a child to the eye. Of course, their natural command and charisma means that they automatically garner at least public respect and obedience from others, for you cannot - dare not - discount their presence. Everyone treads warily around them. The narnians in awe or respect of their prowess and the blessing of Aslan, even those who don't believe, and the Telmarines their unknown quantity.

----

Peter and Susan are in the courtyard, scene of the killing ground when Aslan appears. "I'll give them credit for their ability to get blood out of the stone." peter says.

"Almost as good as they were at getting blood out of Cair Paravel's floors?" Susan asks. "When you think about the amount of blood that was spilt in those halls during our reign..."

"I suppose. I'd just expect some trace so soon after, considering how many died at once." Peter says, crouching to pass his hand over one spot, where a minotaur was pushed back from the balcony and fell, hitting the ground to break his back. Probably. He hadn't had a chance to check at the time. Too busy fighting for their lives. "Too many battlefields. They don't normally clear up very fast."

"Well, people do have to live and work here. They can't have bodies scattered around, it's simply not practical." Susan wraps her arms around her waist. "Servants or the soldiers left over the morning after, I presume. Burned the bodies or threw them off the cliff."

Peter tuts. "Throwing them off the cliff would be somewhat stupid. It goes right down to the river, and I'm not sure what's downstream of here now. Throwing them into the ocean's all right, and it might have been fine to throw them into the deeper parts of the river in our day, since there'd often be something to eat them, but before Aslan re-awakened the River God? Probably not the wisest decision. You don't know if anyone was awake enough to eat or dispose of the bodies."

Susan nods. "it's probably not the first thing they were thinking of. I doubt Miraz - or this castle - was attacked that often to warrant them thinking about such a thing. Besides, they probably wanted to get rid of the bodies fast, to rid themselves of the idea that Talking Beasts existed. Most Telmarines believed that they were extinct until a few days ago."

Peter smiles. "Until they were confronted with them accompanying their new king up the streets of the main city. Though I do wonder how often the Telmarines of the past had civil wars or wars of succession if they were building castles like this in the middle of the country. Caspian hasn't said anything about such things. Or any forts on the borders. How far do you suppose the borders of Narnia extend these days?"

"I'm not sure. we'll have to find out." She eyes him as he gets up. "Which does not mean you're allowed to start picking fights with anyone on our borders just to test them. I'd like to find out precisely what our relations with their countries are first, and then we can decide."

"Spoil my fun." Peter grins, adjusting his sword back to a more comfortable position.

Susan's eyes narrow. "If you dare even talk to an ambassador or foreign dignitary without my or Edmund's permission, I will have words. Preferably with Reepicheep and his mice. I'm sure they'd be glad to serenade you into the night. Not to mention mice have no head for alcohol whatsoever."

Peter winces. "You didn't have to start with the threats so soon. We're only just back."

"And I'm enjoying the fact that I'm in a position to enact them properly." Susan grins. "I've a years' worth stored up, Peter. Be very, very careful."

"Between you and Ed, I'm not going to survive the month at this rate." Peter groans. "I suppose I should be glad Lucy's not grown enough to become the right royal terror I know she's going to grow into."

"Mmm." Susan agrees, smiling impishly. "Just wait until she gets her head for alcohol back. then we'll see."

"Don't remind me." Peter groans. "Do you think she'll just use her past experiences to skip straight to the worst parts or think about it this time?"

Susan raises a quizzical eyebrow. "Peter. Listen to what you're saying. This is our sister you're talking of."

"Trailing in at god knows what hour and waking everyone in the castle is going to be the least of it." He sighs, then grins. "It's good to be back and know that she's going to be able to grow up like that again. Can you imagine the grown-up Lucy without a dagger in her hand, like she'd have to be in England?"

Susan shudders. "It's not a pleasant image. it was bad enough for me, because i was just that much older."

Peter puts a hand on her shoulder. "Well, we're back. that enough to start with."

They're interrupted by a soft rumble and golden presence. "Peter. Susan. A word?"

Peter and Susan exchange glances. he appears to be in a serious mood. Certainly not a playful one, but then he's seemed somewhat solemn since Caspian's coronation. Lucy's been laughing around him, but even she's commented on his solemnity this visit. "Aslan." they greet him, going to his side.

"Children." They exchange glances. It's been a long time they felt like such, and being back in Narnia only reinforces that. Still, it's his way. "How are you faring?"

"Well, Aslan." Susan replies, bringing a hand up to rest on his mane. "Being back in Narnia is... well, we're back home again. There's a lot to do. Caspian has no idea what he's let himself in for."

"The country's in disarray and needs to be put back together." Peter shrugs. "As Susan says, there's a lot to do and Caspian has no experience in ruling. Miraz didn't teach him anything. He knows some of court politics, but that's about it."

Susan ducks her head. "I'm persuading Peter that we need to talk to the diplomats and ambassadors first before he rides out to confront anyone. Let Edmund and I handle this, since it's delicate at this stage." She looks off to the side, where a Telmarine servant is swallowing and trying to press himself and his basket into the shadows since he spotted Aslan. "We're going to have enough problems keeping a lid on the Telmarines and Narnians fighting without bringing other countries into the equation."

"We still have to." Peter points out.

"Yes, and it's not your job to ride out to meet them with sword aloft!" Susan sighs, then turns to Aslan "As you can see, Aslan."

"You are... settling in, I see." Aslan says. "I would not have thought you would be comfortable here after so long."

"It's Narnia. We belong here." Peter shrugs. "England and that life hasn't been home or us for a very long time. We're no longer schoolchildren. You saw to that."

"True." The great lion is silent for a long while. You can't tell what he's thinking for the most part, but he seems to be thinking something over. And a little irritated, but they're unsure on that front. Eventually he speaks. "As you said, there are some who will not be happy with the new situation."

"That's an understatement." Peter chuckles. "We've been this close from a fight breaking out sometimes, I think. The Narnians know that this land is theirs and that the Telmarines are interlopers who stole their land, and they were in hiding until recently. The Telmarines see the Narnians as beasts from myth. We'll be knocking a lot of heads together for a long while yet."

"They need to be reminded that they're all Narnians and have to share this land." Susan says firmly.

"As you say." Aslan nods. "But there may be a way to ease the burden of such quarrelling."

"Oh?" Peter asks in surprise. "Do tell."

"I will be allowing the Telmarines that wish it a new start." Aslan replies, calmly.

"A new start where?" Peter asks, sceptically. "Calormen? Telmar? I don't see where they can go, unless it's the Lone Islands. Telmar had a civil war and great famine which their ancestors fled from, from what Cornelius' books say of their history. I doubt Telmar - whoever's there now - would welcome refugees. Especially not in the numbers that would make any difference here."

"There is a place through a door I will be sending them to." Aslan pauses as though for breath rather than any hesitation, then continues. "It's in a part of your world. Where their people originally came from before they found Telmar."

Susan frowns. "You can't do that. They've never been there and have no idea -" She pauses. "Aslan, do you know what's going on in our world right now? The war spreads right across the globe, you'd be sending them to face bombs and all kinds of horrors, which this world doesn't have the slightest idea about. You'd be condemning them, not giving them a chance at a new start."

"Besides the war, this - Narnia is nothing like our world. The technology difference alone is horrendous." peter adds. "You can't do that, Aslan. They might want to leave, but a magical door out is no way to solve it or let them go. Not into the unknown. If they want so badly to leave the new rule of Narnia, they can, but i'd rather they left for somewhere in this world."

Aslan frowns. "You are so opposed to this?"

Susan lifts her hand to put it in his mane, but stops. "Yes. It may sound like a good idea, a fresh start, but it wouldn't work. You couldn't do that to them. Let them find their own way."

"You did such a thing, once." he reminds them gently. Gently, but sternly.

"We were children, had no idea what we were doing, and it was an accident." Peter says sharply. "It wouldn't work with a whole bunch of people. Refugees are an entirely different matter from a few children falling through the back of an enchanted wardrobe. We were barely aware of the dangers we faced then, but these people have lives. it will seem to them like no choice at all."

"Hmm." He shakes his mane. "I must think some more. Leave me now." he stops to let them continue ahead. "You have truly grown, indeed." With that, he trots off, tail lashing.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Peter asks once he's gone.

"Precisely that, I think." Susan says. "Honestly. what kind of a plan was that? it's a nice idea, but he just hadn't thought about it. i thought he was supposed to be wise."

"Wise in certain situations, maybe." Peter replies. "It's entirely possible he could've been testing us."

"True." Susan demurs, then catches his hand. "Come on. Let's go and see what gardens they have here."

Caspian catches up to them after a couple of corners. "Was that Aslan I saw?"

"Yes, it was." Susan replies.

"Did he have anything of import -" Caspian hesitates.

"No, he just wanted to talk." Susan reassures him, glancing at Peter. They're certainly not going to talk about that to anyone.

----

The crowd's milling around, awaiting the entrance of their new king and his ... retinue. The four strangers, the young men and women that led the Narnians into battle, killed Miraz and helped put Caspian on the throne. No-one knows where they came from - by their Narnian accents and pale skins and light eyes, it's suspected that they're Archenlanders that acquired a Narnian accent. Some claim that they're the old kings and queens of legend come to life in Narnia's time of need, summoned by some artefact, but that's so clearly far-fetched that only a naive child could bring themselves to believe it. No-one saw them arrive. Not even the most fervently loyal and faithful of the Narnians claim that anyone saw them arrive. Only that they came upon the Narnians and immediately assumed leadership as though it was theirs by right. Such was the force of their personality that everyone followed their lead. It's said that the weapons they wield like spare limbs are the ancient weapons of myth that the old kings and queens wielded, but since no trace of those have been seen in over a thousand years, who can say or confirm what those weapons looked like? They're almost as legendary and mythical as the figures of legend are themselves.

The only confirmed facts anyone can agree on is their savagery and ability in battle - including the girls - their charisma, and the way they carry themselves. Like people who expect to be obeyed at all times, with the arrogance that comes from such a mindset. True, it is a trait common to royalty, and aids their ability to lead, which they certainly have in spades. Whether this is due to experience or very good grooming, no-one can be sure. But the façade never, ever falls. They had a plan when none of the Narnians did. The only plan the Narnians had was a life of hiding in the woods and striking out against the Telmarines in a small way. Caspian had fled Miraz once Miraz' heir had been born for fear of his life, true, and that may have been a catalyst for a more mobilised, militaristic agenda, but there was still no concerted plan of attack against the Telmarines and Miraz. They would have remained rebels in the woods, gaining small victories and attacking small settlements and patrols. Then came the strangers. Those Narnians that saw them come upon the Narnian band that encountered them describe them as assuming command immediately. From their first breath. The eldest attacked Caspian, the other Narnians came to his aid, the strangers introduced themselves as the figures of legend, and assumed command in their next breath. Without asking or ascertaining who else might be leading the rag-tag band. Such was the force of their charisma that even those who had no faith in such legends immediately followed without question. Perhaps it was that they were willing to take a chance on the first people who had a good plan and would take it upon themselves to lead, uniting the squabbling factions. From there came the attack on the castle, an obviously well-planned one that came from an experienced tactical mind, and even after that failed, they stayed leaders when lesser beings that had failed so spectacularly with such a loss of life would have been deposed. When Miraz moved to wipe the rebel band out, they still led them. And volunteered to kill Miraz in single combat. After that, they led the battle against the Telmarines. It is is almost certain that they would have been annihilated without the trees coming to life and routing the Telmarine army, but the Narnians still followed their organisation without question during the battle.

No-one's quite sure precisely how much influence they have over Caspian. The whispers are that it's too much, as they are seen constantly shadowing him, and he constantly turns to them for advice. They've been sitting in on all meetings that involve a decision in the days following the coronation. Peter, their war leader, crowned Caspian at the direction of Aslan. the other factor that makes everyone highly uneasy is their connection to the great lion Aslan. A creature out of legend, last seen in Narnia in the time of the legendary kings and queens that some claim the strangers are, but unlike the strangers, no claim or belief is necessary. His presence is enough to convince any being, since a great lion that can command the very earth, rivers and trees to rise up cannot be impersonated as mortals can. As no other dares, they speak to him in familiar tones and approach him without fear, touching and embracing him on a whim. So it is entirely possible that they are his foot soldiers and lieutenants. certainly they are favoured and presume to speak for him. Strangers that come from nowhere and speak for such a powerful god-like being make everyone uneasy. and who knows the lion's agenda?

The crowd was assembled for an announcement. Standing on the escarpment is the great lion Aslan himself, but he says nothing, only standing there. Still, his mere presence is enough to keep the crowd quiet. Uneasy, to be sure, but quiet and obedient. none dares draw his attention, for who knows what would cause his ire?

The Telmarines are keeping an eye on the Narnians who've joined the court - fauns, centaurs, talking beasts, minotaurs, dwarves and so on. One of the dwarves and one of the centaurs are standing by the dais as what looks like a honour guard. the strangers favour Narnians as companions and guard above humans, but then they allied themselves with the Narnians from their first appearance, so that is to be expected. The Narnians are so feral and willing to draw steel in a civilised situation that the 'honour' part could be disputed. The Telmarines have no idea whether this savagery was present already before the strangers took their command, or whether it is inborn feralness, but no matter. They still threaten with teeth, claws and steel at the first slight or perceived threat. Who knows when a fight will break out, or they'll use their new found place in civilised society as a staging point for massacre?

for their part, the Narnians are keeping an eye on the Telmarines. it's been a bare few weeks since they accepted one human into their ranks that they didn't kill on sight. Centuries of bloodshed, repression and killings on sight isn't going to simply go away because the new king made promises of equality. The strangers - the kings and queens - treat them as equals without thought and trust them more than the humans, seeking their counsel first, unlike the new king Caspian, who still recoils and keeps them at arms' length. They're quite aware that a lifetime being told that they were feral myths and children's fairytale subjects will not be banished by a few weeks' immersion. he's certainly not one of them. Tolerated and acknowledged on each side for what they can do for each other, but still an invisible barrier exists. Really, the only humans who see no barrier and have their interests at heart are the strangers, and who knows how much influence they can or will have in the face of Caspian settling into being the Telmarine monarch? he's steady and safe now, embraced back into the bosom of his people. He may have made promises, but promises are easily broken. So they go armed and constantly wary, since they wouldn't put it past any Telmarine to attack any one of them as part of an imagined grudge. And after so long living in the wilds and depths of the forests, paved streets and stone walls seem to loom and close in on them. This is a human place, made for humans. Not Narnians.

The strangers and King Caspian emerge and move forward onto the dais to stand by Aslan. it's noticed by the crowd that the strangers are wearing the relatively delicate crowns and circlets that they were wearing at caspian's coronation. What precisely this augurs is... unknown to most. The whispers of who they are, or claim to be, is well known, but not acknowledged or announced.

The great lion opens his mouth to speak. "I come before you to make an announcement." he rumbles. "I cannot be here always. So before I go, I feel it necessary to leave narnia in good hands. None of you alive now will remember the last time I did such a thing." he bows his head, then raises it, turning to the strangers beside him. "Step forward, Sons of Adam and Daughters of Eve. King Caspian you know. I give you Queen Lucy the Valiant. King Edmund the Just. Queen Susan the Gentle. High King Peter the Magnificent." At that there's a slight indrawn breath. such things had been rumoured, suspected, named, referred to, but it had never been formally announced. the lion continues. "I entrust narnia to your care. Rule it wisely and well." The humans on the dais bow their heads to him, then straighten to face the crowd. The crowd start to clap, then cheer. What else can you do at such an announcement? It may not have had the ceremony of a coronation, but a coronation it was in all but name and deed. Once the cheering has died away, Aslan draws a breath and nods to himself, stepping off the dais and walking slowly through the crowd, an avenue opening before him, since none wishes to be in his way. The four centaurs who had been at the edges of the dais walk forward solemnly, drawing swords and forming an arch. The four newly-named monarchs walk forward as one through the arch, Caspian following them, following the great lion's path through the crowd and back into the castle.

Once they're gone, the whispering that had been halted by the cheering starts up.

"Are they truly the Kings and Queens of legend?" one Telmarine soldier who'd been raised with the old tales asks hesitantly. he'd heard of what they'd done on the battlefield and seen them walk the river, but then they were still just the ferocious leaders of the narnian rebels. the rumours of who they were supposed to be hadn't spread to the Telmarine camp. They'd only just started picking up their names at the river from overhearing them talk. The generals and lords hadn't known the new narnian leader's name until Edmund had presented the challenge.

"Aslan said so, it must be so." the merchant's daughter next to him says.

"But they're so young -"

A satyr next to them rubs his beard. "the legends said that they were crowned as children. I had not believed, but it seems that they have indeed come back. And they certainly fit the description and talk of the past as though it were yesterday."

"It still doesn't mean that they're who they say." The dwarf next to him grumbles. "Aslan could've just grabbed the nearest humans he wanted and decided they'd fit his purpose. Who's to say he didn't do that last time? The Golden Age monarchs're supposed to have appeared from nowhere too, they fought the witch's army, and then he crowned them. never mind the Narnians already there who'd been born there and suffered previously under her." he folds his arms. "Disappeared without a trace too. Still his bloody puppets whichever way you look at it."

The dryad next to him gives him a look, then turns her gaze back to where they were walking, the avenue just starting to close up in their wake. "They have Narnia in their very bones. You may not see it, but I do. And they have been named the kings and queens by Aslan, so what does it matter whether you believe that they are the monarchs of the Golden Age? They are our monarchs now."

the soldier rubs the back of his head in discomfort. "What I don't get is how this is going to work. How can you have five monarchs at once? I know the legends said four, and that Peter is the High King, but that's all they said. Legends don't bloody tell you about what happens in reality. It was difficult enough - what I heard, anyway - when it was the lords and Miraz, before they crowned him. Who makes the decisions? What do you do with five? Are the rest spares?"

"Don't bloody ask me, mate." The dwarf says. "I'd be happy without any sodding kings, narnian or Telmarine. We probably did fine without 'em before all of this. Not like you need 'em to live, is it?"

The satyr shrugs. "Well, High King makes the big decisions and unites them, I suppose the others handle different bits. Instead of giving the smaller tasks to viziers or nobles or courtiers because you can't keep an eye on everything, each one does a different bit. There's a reason they have titles. High King Peter is said to be the greatest warrior narnia has ever known. King Edmund was the lawgiver."

"My grandmother called him the King of Shadows, and that Queen Susan's title was a warning." The soldier says. "The girl's beautiful, but she was the one leading the archers at Beruna."

"Which leaves your Caspian as a bit of a leftover, doesn't it?" The dwarf smirks.

the dryad rolls her eyes. "This is not the time or place to be spreading such things. They will work it out." She says firmly.

"Long as they don't go back on their bloody promises." The dwarf grumbles, his fun spoiled. "they may say that they're Narnian and sound like it, but they're still human. And if they're who Aslan says they are, I remember they left without a word last time and Narnia fell apart. Would you trust that record?"

"Just have to wait and see." the merchant's daughter sighs, then grins. "they're certainly very handsome, though." Everyone in their little group gives her the same look and groan. "Oh, shush." She says, flushing. "A girl's allowed to dream."

"Now who's been listening to too many fairytales?" the satyr asks.

Peter, meet councillors

burntozone@googlemail.com — Sun, 01 Feb 2009 18:20:22 GMT

The day after the coronation, Peter's looking at maps of Narnia's borders and in discussion with the historians about precisely what happened to the borders of the Narnia that they created; most of it is vague, but a lot can be traced to internal squabbling that distracted their armies and efficacy to fend off attacks. Add in the fear of water, which meant their navy was next to useless, and leaving the woods to the Narnians and superstition - which cut down on border patrols - and Peter's looking at the maps in amazement. They progress from the ones he drew from memory of what Narnia's borders encompassed at the beginning of their reign and the ones he drew of what they ruled over by the time they left, and then graduate slowly across the years of Telmarine rule down to the present day. The telmarines started scoffing at the ones Peter drew as impossible and exaggerated until he lifted a hard eyebrow, and they remembered precisely who they're talking to. Or rather that they're *learning*, along with the rest of Narnia, that High King Peter does not joke in such matters. He has a sense of humour, albeit an odd one on occasion, as the things that they find funny are often completely different to everyone else, due to the place and time they come from being entirely different to everyone, Telmarine, Narnian, Archenlander, Calormen or other that is alive today. He can be inclined to brood, as the Narnians found out at the How, and has a habit of taking responsibility for everything. It's not uncommon to see King Edmund and Queen Susan telling him off for this, or at least referring to it, especially in discussion or council, the ones that took place after Caspian was crowned and the others started to show their hand as the guiding force behind him. For one who broods so much, his moods can occasionally be surprisingly mercurial - quick to yell, quick to laugh, quick to strike out. For all of this, they've learnt that he is always serious and means what he says. The Narnian royalty are for the most part level headed, but they've learned that crossing High King Peter or the others is not wise under any circumstances. He also does not exaggerate when it comes to war and territory. Old songs and myths are proving to be real, which is always disconcerting.

Every child of Narnia, Telmarine and Narnian, knows that once, long ago, there was a Golden Age of Narnia, ruled over by High King Peter, Queen Susan, King Edmund and Queen Lucy. As befits any fairy tale and legend, they were young, beautiful, handsome, and good in war. They went on fantastic adventures and fought giants and dragons. They went to war with impossible odds against their army. They snuck into enemy camps and brought down an entire monarchy with a threat and a knife. Old songs and lays exist, telling these tales in lurid detail with the head counts of how many High King Peter killed that day, or how Queen Lucy and King Edmund disguised themselves and assassinated a lord who terrorised Terebinthia right under the nose of his most trusted guard, and snuck away in the dead of night, taking the water road up the river with the help of the selkies. Of how Queen Susan brought an entire delegation of a far-off land to their knees with one word and her beauty. Historians and adults discount the more fantastic ones as metaphor, as old tales re-purposed with more popular characters for the audience. The battle happened, but not with such overwhelming odds. One man cannot kill that many by himself, no matter what his reputation as a soldier. Queen Susan didn't bring a delegation to its knees with a single word, but weeks and months of negotiation. It's not in doubt that High King Peter, Queen Susan, King Edmund and Queen Lucy existed as historical figures - the archenlanders and Calormenes have mentions of them in their records - but it's clear that much has been added to their legend. After all, their castles were destroyed and little remains of fact, merely the tales and fairy stories. Few believe that Aslan existed. Even amongst the Narnians there are several doubters of his existence. More believe that he did not walk amongst them so often as it is claimed. More reasoned thought holds that the Kings and Queens of Narnia were indeed young when they came to Narnia, but not children that had yet to gain adult shape or shave when they headed the army and then gained power after the defeat of the White Witch - who might not have been a witch at all. That is certainly an exaggeration for the tales. For what children could run kingdoms and head up armies? King Edmund was called the King of Shadows in the tales, said to run a great intelligence network, to hand down judgement on all, skilled in assassination and rebel and guerilla tactics. Queen Susan had the reputation of the greatest beauty in the lands, with legions of suitors and the skills of a great diplomat, brokering treaties and trade agreements, and utterly deadly with a bow. Queen Lucy was the greatest healer ever known, who also fought like a demon in battle, said to be laughing as she killed. High King Peter had the reputation of the greatest warrior and general ever known, conquering nations and fighting impossible odds to win. His blade craved blood and he never thought it too many. All of this is exaggerated, of course, and they were probably skilled at what they did, but not to that extent. And they certainly weren't children when they took the throne. The exaggerations are probably the attributes of lesser gods, amalgamated into the legendary figures that are the Kings and Queens - the trickster and healer gods into Queen Lucy, the war gods into High King Peter, and so on. Of all the tales told about them, they probably had a small hand in the story the Calormenes tell of Rabadash, but not that much of one. After all, he is legendary himself, being that it took place so long ago, and he's used as a parable. Parables are always exaggerated for the lesson they teach.

Be careful what you think you know is what is turning out to be the case when it comes to the
pevensies, as they call themselves - their family name, it turns out. Reasoned thought does not apply. Their ages are clear, though they say they are now barely a year older in body than when they first came to Narnia and defeated the White Witch. Queen Lucy is only thirteen. King Edmund is fourteen, close to fifteen. Queen Susan is sixteen. High King Peter is seventeen. Their minds and skills are all too obviously great. those who saw them fight give credence to the tales' description of their skills in battle. And if they defeated a great and powerful army before they had the experience of the years they now carry, think what they could do now, for all that they are once again in their former bodies. Those who've dealt with Queen Susan and King Edmund can confirm that they are in the presence of exceedingly good diplomats and if not brilliant, obviously experienced. They think of possible outcomes and variables that most would discount. As for King Edmund's nickname of 'King of Shadows', none has seen signs of an intelligence network, but in the short time they have been in Narnia, he already seems to know a great deal. Where else would he get it without a network of informers? It is early days yet. Glozelle swore fealty to the High King on the shore of Beruna. As others point out, a man who Glozelle swears fealty to must be great, or at the least a mighty and powerful man, as Miraz was. And he did not take the orders of Miraz until Miraz showed his hand of who the true power in Narnia was. The tale of how many Peter could kill in a short period is now easily believed by those who saw him cut a swathe through flesh and bone in the battle. Queen Lucy carries a potion that seems to heal all wounds with barely the trace of a scar, and she is certainly a merry child. A merry child who sees no great problem in killing and violence in the name of expediency.

And as for the content of the tales, the Narnian kings talk, as everyone does. As anyone would, they mention events in the past in offhand comments as comparison to now, or mention memories amongst themselves. In their case, battles they have seen. Feasts they attended. People they spoke to. Deals they brokered. And in all too many cases, such tales occasionally include moments or points that sound all too similar to the tales and lays of old that reasoned folk dismissed as exaggeration, or added to spice it up. In some cases it was an accident that caused it. In many cases the tale lost the details of why it happened, or that the teller was telling it from the other side. For instance, the tale of Queen Susan bringing an entire delegation to their knees with a word does not tell of the night before, or their treachery, or the fact that she stalked into the hall covered in blood, fresh from foiling an assassination attempt on Queen Lucy's consort. One of the battles where the numbers seemed ridiculously exaggerated does not state the conditions that helped them
- a narrow ploughed field after two weeks of heavy rain was the battlefield. The Narnians were light infantry and relied on archery and air strikes to thin the field, against heavily armoured cavalry who could not move in the mud and were hemmed in on all sides, unable to move or escape. It was slaughter. And planned. High King Peter had manoeuvred it so that he was able to choose the battlefield to his troops' advantage.

So their more sceptical subjects are starting to wish they paid more attention to the children's' tales. All of them are having to come to terms with the fact that legends walk amongst them. And the legends are not impressed by what has been done to their kingdom in their absence.

"Are you telling me that we have less territory now than when the White Witch held Narnia in thrall?" Peter asks in disbelief. he gestures across the maps on the table, stopping on the Northern border of the most current map that they have. He pulls over the maps he drew of the Narnias he knew - the one he first encountered and the one he left it as over thirteen hundred years prior to the current day, and then traces those borders on the current map. "The White Witch's Narnia extended to here." it's a line several miles to the North of the current border, below what he marked as Ettinsmoor. "the Narnia I and my siblings established by treaty and conquest extended to here." He traces far north of what is marked on the Telmarine map as 'The Wilds of the North'. "This is ... I don't even know what to say what it says for the incompetency of your rulers and the disarray Narnia's been in since we left. The White Witch held a larger Narnia than the Telmarine kings ever managed, and she cared nothing for anyone who lived here, but that they feared her. it was a police state held together by fear and spies, and you're telling me that your so-called civilised
society couldn't hold what she could?" he sighs, then passes his hand over the sea on the map.

"If that wasn't disgraceful enough, i hear that because of this stupid superstition of the sea and reluctance to hold any sort of navy, no collection of taxes or contact has been kept with the Lone Islands in nearly three hundred years, so they've gone their own way and almost certainly no longer acknowledge Narnian rule. I read records in my time and heard lays that said that the Lone islands have been Narnian since time out of mind, going back to just after Helen and Frank's time! What kind of incompetent mismanagement does that?"

The historians and advisors draw back. For all that they're in a situation and place where no civilised person would draw blade or shed blood, and most people would count themselves relatively safe, the Narnian monarchs appear to have no such compunction. Plenty of their stories seem to involve assassination attempts or killings in the throne room or off rooms of cair Paravel, the old palace, and they all go about with blades strapped at their waist. And they seem all to ready to use them at a moment's notice. in the case of High King Peter, less than that. They come from a warrior race and more turbulent and savage time and have no care for the social mores and niceties and strictures of a more civilised society. No man or beast wishes to anger High King Peter when he's got a blade in hand. he's the one that gets angry fastest, and is most likely to rage, so is the one who creates the most obvious rage. Others remember the reputation of the more quiet and inclined to keep their counsel in public Queen Susan and King Edmund, and fear of ever angering them, but when Peter is in front of you and ranting... well, you're inclined to become a little focussed.

Peter stabs the current map, right over the castle. "The Telmarines built this place close to the White Witch's house, which I can say does not fill me with any sort of confidence when it comes to omens. She kept up trade. You had to just to feed everyone during the Long Winter she created, and I know for a fact that few were starving then. She oppressed her own people at every turn. Were the Telmarines so concerned with oppressing the Narnians that they ignored everything else, and just let the borders rot? You have to trade. You have to keep up the borders, otherwise when you come to having to face an invading force, you have no idea that they've invaded, and you certainly have no idea of the lay of the land. Precisely how bad was the infighting between the lords during Miraz' time that it actually got worse?" He holds up a hand to forestall any contributions on that point of recent history. "Save that for my sister and brother, and another session. Now is not the time to discuss it." He sighs, pushing a hand through his hair. "Aslan save me from isolationists. it achieves absolutely nothing in the end aside from a people and nation that deludes itself into thinking that their armies and culture are perfect. When in fact they've normally stagnated and the outside world has passed them by."

There's a cough from the doorway. Peter looks up from the maps to see Queen Susan standing at the door. "Yes, Su?"

She looks faintly amused. it's an expression the elder queen seems to wear almost constantly, along with her brother Edmund. It's somewhat unnerving. Either there are too many jokes that their subjects will never have a hope of understanding, or worse, they keep getting the feeling that the new monarchs are finding their antics amusing. Like the games of children. Something you never want. Especially not coming from youths who physically aren't out of their teens, never mind their apparent - and rather obvious experience, which is growing more obvious day by day and situation by situation. It's not theory. They talk of too many realities and details, and ask too many awkward questions to mistake them for the inexperienced youths they appear for long, and woe betide the fool that does. Though admittedly, when you're being faced with one of them staring at you with an expression of exasperation on one of them across the table, it's somewhat difficult to put an age on the face. At least this time it seems to be directed at the actions of her brother.

"When you've quite finished scolding them on the behaviour of their forefathers, I need to gather intelligence from them on precisely who to talk to find out our political relations and current alliances." Susan says. "It's not all geography, Peter."

"As you constantly remind me." Peter says, amused. "From what I can gather, it's nearly
non-existent."

"And hopefully will not get worse. Remember, you're banned from foreign policy talk with
ambassadors unless you're given express permission." Susan says, with a definite pointed tone in that statement which seems to have rather a lot of history behind it.

Peter frowns, but it's clearly partly in jest. Which part you can never be sure of, unfortunately. "My way's more direct."

"Your way tends to start wars, or at least create utter havoc and week-long headaches for Edmund and I to sort out. I'd rather we avert the time Edmund was taking sleeping herbs due to what you said to the Tisroc."

"One time and they never let you forget it." Peter says, grinning at the historians in a way that implies he's sharing a confidence. They don't know that story, and weren't able to ferret out anything from the tales, but they've all decided that they need to interrogate the Calormenes and search their records of their dealings with the Narnian monarchs as soon as possible. Just so that they can forestall any possible repeats of it.

Susan raises an eyebrow. "Your ability for understatement amazes us all. And is frankly quite terrifying, under the circumstances. We've had ambassadors - the few there are at this court - already starting to look like they're about to approach us. Post and messengers have been flying out of court since Aslan confirmed us. we need intelligence on the current situation and the current relations the Telmarines had with its neighbours."

"Precious little, from what I can tell of their isolationist tendencies." He states flatly.

"They still need to trade, Peter." Susan says sharply. "And I know for a fact that they have contact with at the very least Archenland and Calormen. We need to establish at least some position with Calormen, because I do not want to caught wrong-footed when the Calormene ambassador comes to my door or tries to approach Caspian. He's already been looking nervous whenever he sees us, and I want to know precisely why that is."

"I believe you've got edmund for that." Peter drawls. Edmund. King of Shadows. Who knows
everything, so the stories say.

"Why I can find out soon enough. Our position after is something that needs to be established." She sighs. "Which, unfortunately, we'll have to consult you for. though we'll certainly have to get a feel for who else is actually competent enough to be trusted to consult on this kind of thing."

The advisers exchange glances. They're somewhat wary of nominating anyone. Part because few have established or confirmed the best way to approach the Narnian kings with suggestions, though it's clear they dislike anything that smacks of grovelling or court manners and obsequience. Part because they're unsure who the monarchs would consider suitable, or the opinions and rhetoric that they would be inclined to listen to and take seriously.

Coronation party

burntozone@googlemail.com — Sun, 01 Feb 2009 12:07:28 GMT

The aftermath of the coronation is strange. Not what Caspian ever imagined. But then, he'd hardly been able to imagine it before. He'd been a child when Miraz killed his father, and though technically he was due to be king someday, once he came of age, that always seemed so very distant, and almost out of the question while Miraz was in power. Miraz had been a forceful presence in his life as long as he could remember, and such an overbearing one that it was difficult to even think of anyone else being in power or holding the room once Miraz seized power. he doesn't know how Sopespian and Glozelle managed to think of it, but then they hadn't been dominated by the man since childhood. Outward rebellion whilst being careful was easy, but he'd never directly rebelled. Or spoken much of taking the throne in Miraz' presence as he consolidated power and the lords gradually got exiled or had accidents. There'd been the childish fantasies and grumblings that began with 'when I'm king, this will happen' - which started out as being able to to stay up late or get more sweet things, but gradually stopped. They seemed futile. He didn't see that there was anything he could do - perhaps be a little less harsh. and then came his aunt Prunaprisma's pregnancy. Of course he'd been happy for them. And then as the pregnancy went well, the atmosphere somehow changed. he fell out of - well, not exactly favour, Miraz never became more cruel towards him, but he got more considering stares from him. The babe was born and he had to flee for his life, but no matter what he'd said to the Narnians about getting his crown back, he'd known that that was a mere futile hope. it had no real plan behind it, no guarantee or faintest chance. Miraz controlled the lords, the country, and the army. The Narnians, although brave, were a rag-tag band in the woods. They could strike back here and there, make raids, but they'd never be more than a nuisance. He was the token human amongst them, there to be pitied, outright disliked and cursed - most of them had never made any secret of that - and was just another body. one that could wield a sword a bit, but of far less use than, say Reepicheep, who could be counted upon to kill and steal. He'd almost resigned himself to his reality, that he'd be a rebel in the woods for the rest of his probably very short life. the nuisance would be put down heavily by Miraz, like squashing a fly. He'd die here, or be dragged back to the castle and executed for treason - siding with the Narnians was grounds for treason, he knew that much of the law. Miraz would do it without qualm to his once-favoured nephew. the crossbow bolts in his old bed had told enough of that side of the story.

Then came the Pevensies. Youths and children who walked and fought as warrior kings, who took on the mantle of leadership without asking as their right. The Narnians who'd believed had fallen at their feet, and those that didn't, of which there had been plenty, recognised leaders with a plan when they saw them, and dutifully fell into step with barely a public murmur. Listening at the How's equivalent of doorways, he'd gathered easily enough that the ones of that stripe were quite content to have good leaders and let someone else take the brunt of blame and hard work. The cause needed battle-hardened warriors, which the Pevensies clearly were, even if no-one was sure if they really were the Kings and Queens of Old as they claimed. They certainly walked like Kings and Queens. Miraz had never taken everything as his right in such a way without qualm as they had, or commanded without not expecting to be obeyed without putting some sort of menace or threat behind it. The Pevensies simply assumed it and took control. it was in their every gesture and move, for all he sometimes saw them squabbling as the children they seemed, and the way peter looked like and acted like a hurt boy at times. One memory stuck in his mind. They'd come upon the How, and word had gone ahead of them that the Kings and Queens of Old had returned as prophesied. And facing them had been an honour guard of centaurs lining the path into the How. They'd waited until the party got close, then unsheathed their swords as one and held them aloft in salute in an arch for the returning monarchs. As one, the pevensies had stepped forward, heads held high and gracefully walked under the arch and down the column, Caspian stumbling after them. he'd realised that they were used to such treatment, and accepted it as their due. That was what confirmed to him that here were their new leaders. Warrior kings of youthful age and beauty,
savage and practical and commanding. Leading them into battle and dealing out death, and still commanding even as they were defeated. Fighting Miraz and killing him, fighting the losing battle at Beruna as one last stand, hoping to take as many as possible with them and do enough damage that Miraz might be weakened.

They'd promised to restore him to his throne, and fought theoretically in his name, but he knew they thought as much of him as the other Narnians. he was just there. They thought nothing of him. They despised his people, for this was their land, and the Telmarines, although they hadn't been completely responsible, had driven the beasts underground and killed them. Because they despised his people, they despised him to a certain extent. or at least made him into a presence that was to be tolerated and not trusted as far as they could throw him, to use a phrase of the Narnians. to be sure, Lucy was at least slightly nice to him, as the child was to everyone, but the best he could expect was tolerance. Peter, who the others acknowledged as High King peter, the legendary warrior of myth, certainly outright despised him and blamed him as the nearest Telmarine and descendant of the conquerors for what had happened to his country. His and theirs. Certainly not Caspian's. They'd not acknowledged that he might have any sort of claim on the land. Perhaps the Telmarine throne that they'd made mention of restoring him to, but no more than that. if they won - which seemed more hopeful now that they had proper leaders - it was certainly not him, a deposed
and barely tolerated prince, that would have risen to power.

then came Aslan, the River God, and the aftermath. Aslan had crowned him in name and everyone had bowed. Even Glozelle had bowed, but it was clear his eyes had been on Peter. As they'd marched on the castle, he still couldn't believe that they really did mean to crown him, even if they'd spoken of it happening soon. When. Not if. When. It simply made no sense. Not with the pevensies right there and obviously the leaders.

But he has the crown now. They crowned him as Caspian the Tenth of the Telmarine line, King of Narnia, as Peter placed the crown on his head. He's not foolish enough to think he really rules, he's mostly king in name only, and the Pevensies certainly have no intention of giving up the leadership, even if it's from behind the throne. Which looks highly unlikely. They have the crowns from Cair Paravel, and refer to themselves as kings and queens, even if they haven't been formally invested here. But still. he's king. he has a feeling it will take a long while to settle in. he still expects miraz to sweep from around a corner, stern and unforgiving and cruel, and ask Caspian what he thinks he's doing.

Still. They've been guiding him. Giving him advice on ruling as others try to bend his ear as the figurehead ruler of Narnia, trying to get their own interests in. Offer him things, offer him advice, get favour soon and quickly. he's familiar enough with the way the court operates to have expected that, but under that are the Narnians and the weight of their gaze and expectations upon him. he rose up to fight in their name, alongside them and under their banner, and promised to give them their country back, or at least let them live freely in the open and share it with his. But the Pevensies' words are ringing loudest in his ear. advice on how to rule. How to run the army. What not to do. Advice on how to react and how to take gifts and deal with ambassadors and foreign dignitaries. So much pouring into his head at the same time, coupled with the amazement that Miraz never taught him the most basic rules of ruling a kingdom.

Under it all had been Peter's quiet threat. he'd been leaning against a tree before they marched on the castle, and looked up, gaze fixing on Caspian as a wolf fixes on its prey, freezing it, speaking into a gap left by Susan and Edmund. "I'm sure you've considered that we came back to restore Narnia. Not you. I'm still not sure that you deserve any of this, no matter how much Aslan is prepared to forgive. Don't make us regret it." Susan and Edmund had said nothing. Their lessons had merely paused, and they hadn't made a contradictory statement, their silence speaking volumes in agreement.

There's still the mistrust from the Narnians and the Pevensies, because he still a Telmarine, no matter that he fought on their side and threw in his lot with theirs, despairing and last resort though it was. And the Narnians and Glozelle look to the Pevensies for orders and guidance. Glozelle barely acknowledges him, for all that he swore fealty to him in public twice. But that was only an afterthought, as a result of Peter telling him to. he's quite aware that Glozelle only spared him in the battle out of some lingering fondness for the child he taught and tolerated, and it will take many years, perhaps even a lifetime for Glozelle to see him as anything but a youth. Peter holds the true power when it comes to sheer might. The army will follow him, as it will the most powerful general. The army's general is Glozelle, and Glozelle follows Peter, for peter is a warrior and commands without thinking, most at ease on the battlefield. He and his siblings rule, and peter is first amongst them. It leaves a bitter taste in his mouth, but every silver lining has its cloud, indeed. A king can only hold power at the sufferance of others, after all. The lords rose against Miraz, and Sopespian helped him on his way after Peter defeated him. The pevensies have mentioned casually a tale from their histories, where the people and parliament rose up and imprisoned and finally beheaded their king after too many years of misrule. The Pevensies have given him advice about the army. He has no idea how he's supposed to deal with them. They acknowledged him on the banks of Beruna as their lord and king, but that was a defeated and cowed and injured band, easy to intimidate, especially after they'd seen close at hand the savage creatures of myth and the killing machines that the Pevensies were, that stalked amongst them, still bloody. And he knows no man of sense that would not be cowed by Aslan. The Great Lion cannot be gainsaid. he has no idea how he's supposed to command an army he fought against.

And now, the coronation feast, with music and dancing and feasting. Fauns play pipes with the minstrels, inciting people to dance and laugh when they're not dancing, their goblets swaying in time. The mice and smaller animals run around people's feet and Reepicheep at once point was dancing on the table in a jig. he's currently holding court on another table, declaiming to his audience. Around the edges of the hall prowl the bodyguards that the Pevensies recruited as soon as they could, the wolves and great cats, exuding quiet menace, their mere presence enough to remind most that the jollity will not spill over into fighting under their watch. The Telmarines gathered here spend some time glowering at the incomers, but the atmosphere does not brook even the most foolish to start a fight. Not now. There is too much jollity, brought on by the wine that flows freely. And the presence of the great cats and wolves is enough to silence, or at least quiet those who would turn nasty with too much wine.

he's called to dance again, the musicians starting a slower beat than the fast reel they last played. one that the women can dance and turn gracefully to, their skirts and arms and necks a long line as they move slowly. Susan slips into his arms on the next turn, and murmurs "How are you holding up?"

"I am well. I appear to be coping, as your brother puts it." Caspian says with a wry twist to his mouth. Queen Susan is so very lovely. So graceful, a born diplomat from what he's seen, but he's seen her take command of the troops and deal death without a thought, firing deadly arrow after arrow, as fast as the eye can see, face like cold, implacable stone. The warrior queen of legend. Sometimes he thinks they've exchanged glances of assessment and attraction, as any who meet might, but he cannot be sure. She's appreciative occasionally, as you would be with any handsome creature, but she's so often skittish and cool, holding him at arm's length and regularly dismissive. After all, from the tales he's heard, she was used to being courted and pursued by kings from far and wide who would compete for her hand. A young man they crowned and raised to the throne is nothing. There is another matter - he cannot tell how the pevensies are accustomed to courting, and what the signs of attraction they learned. he's well aware a gesture and look that is invitation in the Telmarine court is bare acknowledgement of existence in Archenland. The Archenlanders may be his starting point for understanding the Pevensies, for that is who they resemble most closely, the
accent not too far off. Certainly they are closer in ways to them than he is. But still. He should be glad such a desirable creature pays him attention.

They turn through the dance, Caspian letting her go so they may turn, into the others' arms again, then round other couples, and back again. Before they release again, to take other partners, Susan steps in close, whispering in his ear "Come find me later when this is over." he stills, not quite sure if that is the invite he thinks it is. perhaps it is only a chance for her to talk more of ruling with him, but as she draws back, she's smiling with a look on her face that is definitely assessing. "or perhaps I'll find you." With that, she spins off, as all the women do, and he's left staring in her direction as he automatically steps forward in the steps of the men.

After that dance, and another which is entirely Narnian in origin and unfamiliar, where everyone dances in a circle. Lucy and Edmund guide him through that, taking his hands and commanding him to kick and turn his body at particular upswings, hands raising and falling and twisting round. he knows he stumbles several times. "How is it you seem to learn new dances in a few moments?"

Lucy giggles. "Lots of practice. Most dances are just variations on others, and the Telmarine ones aren't that different to the ones in fashion when they were last here. You've just got to be quick on your feet."

"I am quick on my feet." Caspian protests. "This one is just so different to what I'm used to."

"Get the knack of learning fast then." Edmund replies, turning and ducking under the satyr next to him's arm, pulling the others with him. "I did say fast, didn't I?" He says as they come out of it.

Caspian glares at him. "Warn me next time."

Later - much later - he goes out for fresh air, stopping in the little walled garden. It's small, just a few trees and some bushes, kept tidy. Prunaprisma liked to retire there with her sewing. The Pevensies looked at it, wincing and making comments about how groomed it was and how that was just wrong. Apparently they like their nature and plants untramelled, only clipped when a branch blocks something or falls off. So Prunaprisma presumably still has it to herself. he's only caught a few glimpses of his aunt in the past day or so, with no time to exchange words. he doesn't even know how he's going to talk to her, since the last time he spoke to her she was holding a crossbow on him, and he's been involved in the killing of her husband and very firm dislodging of the chances of her son becoming king. It's not a good point to start a conversation from. he gets the feeling that Edmund and Susan will make him talk to her at some point.

He sits down on the bench, feeling the grain of the wood with his fingertips and relaxing. No having to keep his carriage perfect and no having to watch for who might be coming up to talk to him next or plead his ear. Best off all, no eyes watching him from all sides, expectant, judging or mistrusting.

He's been there a few minutes when someone else appears in the doorway. He looks up to see
Susan, a little way into the garden, hand still on the gate post. She smiles slightly, one of her quiet and relaxed ones. A private one, mostly seen when amongst family. "There you are. I'd begun to wonder if we'd worn you out."

"Just getting some air and a little peace. it's hot in there." Caspian replies, standing automatically as he would with any lady coming into the room, and smiles ruefully. "I've found such feasts and celebrations are better when you are not the focus. I'd no how idea how tiring constant attention could be."

Susan shrugs in response. "You get used to it. Pretty quickly, actually. At first it's unnerving, then it's just there. And then it's normal and you don't notice it unless it's been a really, really bad month."

"Bad month?" Caspian asks in surprise. "I thought the normal expression was 'bad day'."

"Like I said, it gets normal quite quickly. You've been handling it well, i thought." She reassures him, taking her hand from the gatepost and coming into the garden proper, rather than lingering at the gate, looking around. "I still find this place strange. Too tame. Artificial."

"I am not familiar with the word, I confess." Caspian says, not quite sure where she's going with that observation. "But it is quiet."

"All created by hands and tools, nothing natural about it. A thing of artifice." She clarifies, and considers his statement. "I suppose. I'd just normally go outside the castle for quiet. or my rooms."

"Each to their own." Caspian shrugs, careful to keep his replies neutral, because he honestly can't tell whether a conversation topic has any meaning for the pevensies sometimes. Occasionally they make utterly bland conversation about the weather, which to anyone normal would sound like code of some sort, a way of passing on information, but no, it turns out they truly find the weather a valid topic of polite conversation when you have little else to say - but will quite happily discuss it for some time once they start.

Susan steps closer, head tilted to one side, and then closer still, within hand's reach. "So how tired are you?" her tone has turned curious, and warmer. And definitely inviting, or he's no judge of women at all, Narnian or Telmarine.

Caspian lifts his hand to touch hers, and then to trace a line along her jaw. "Not that tired." he says, letting his tone go inviting itself.

"Good." Susan says, smiling. And if ever a smile looked more satisfied, he's hard pressed to
remember it, both stepping forward as he cups her jaw, leaning in to kiss, their mouths meeting, lips pressing together, then moving, hers opening slightly to let her tongue dart against his lower lip, then withdraw. Caspian opens his mouth to work hers open, and she responds eagerly, hand coming up to his neck, fingers cool as the settle across it. The kiss deepens as they sink into it, mouths parting and meeting, Susan nipping at his lower lip and then sucking on it, kissing the hurt away before kissing him deeply again.

The kiss ends, and Caspian's impressed he hasn't moved his hand further than her jaw. He strokes her cheek with his thumb carefully, watching her face and kiss-swollen lips. Such kisses do not always lead where you think they may in his experience. Too often the other person decides that's enough, or is an invitation for the next time. "I might even be fully awake soon."

Susan smiles again, with a good hint of mischievousness present. "Oh, I think you'll have to be for what I'm planning to do to you." She steps back, breaking the contact, and for a moment Caspian thinks that she's going to leave him there with the promise and hint of something more. That is until she takes his hand and leads him from the garden.

"is this an underhand way to get me back to the feast without me protesting?" he asks, raising an eyebrow.

Susan chuckles, low and pleasing. "Hardly." She leads him a different way, up to the rooms the pevensies were assigned. They stop at hers, and she pulls him inside, then pushes him up against the door, hands going into his hair and lips going to his, focussed on kissing his breath away. Caspian's hands come up to clutch at her back, trying not to crease her dress, ending up just holding her. he's glad for the air when Susan pulls away fractionally, smiling against his lips, noses brushing. "There. you still think I'm planning on getting you to go back to the feast?"

Caspian draws in an unsteady breath, drawing back a bit more to see her eyes sparkling in the
firelight and her grin, promising so much more than just the kiss does. "I think I could require some more convincing." He replies, hands stroking down her back to her waist.

"I think that could be arranged." Susan replies, trailing her hand down the front of his doublet, then turning so her back faces him, hands coming up to move her hair out of the way. "Unlace me and we can talk about it some more."

"Of course, if unlacing you will delay my return." Caspian says solemnly, fingers untying the ribbons holding the back of her dress together, fingers hooking into and tugging at the lacing, loosening it. His fingers brush the skin that shows at her neck above the back of the dress, rubbing there slightly.

She stills for a moment, then tosses her head, turning again and placing her palms on his doublet, palming down his chest. Susan raises an eyebrow. "Of course, talking might be even easier if we were to get this open."

"Of course." Caspian replies solemnly, hands coming up to undo the buttons. "I'd not given it
thought. Forgive me my lapse in judgement."

"Forgiven and noted." She grins, hands coming up to push at the shoulders of her dress to loosen it some more, then helping him get his doublet off, hands sliding inside to push it off his shoulders and off to the floor, then her fingers coming to play and undo the ties of his shirt, then pulling at where it's tucked into his breeches, seeking and finding skin. she lifts it, bunching in her hands, before releasing it to lay her palms against his sides, sliding the shirt up as she slides her hands up his sides.

Caspian raises his arms, helping her get the shirt off, and she slides it off over his head, hands skating down his arms and shoulders as it drops to the ground. he affects a surprised tone. "I had not thought that my shirt would be included as well."

"Oh, didn't I mention?" She asks, flicking an eyebrow. "I had to do a more thorough inspection than i'd first anticipated."

"I can understand your dilemma." Caspian nods as she runs her hands over his chest, feeling the muscle before settling at his waist. "Do I pass inspection?"

Susan frowns. "You know, I'm not entirely sure." She leans forward, kissing his neck and trailing a line up his jaw to his mouth, hands moving to his arms as he pulls her in again, wrapping one arm around her waist, the other at her jaw as they kiss. Not as deep this time, but full of heat, a prelude to what else this might contain. As they break, Susan purses her lips. "I'm still not sure what else might be required for the inspection. it seems to be escaping me."

Caspian cocks his head. "I... believe i might be able to help." he says hesitantly, letting go of her and putting both hands to her waist, turning her round. His hands come up to the neckline of the dress, pushing it carefully off her shoulders and down her arms, inch by careful inch, exposing her skin as it sags forward until it finally pools around her waist. And he's very careful to brush her skin as he does so. He trails a hand lightly down her exposed spine, then pulling her back towards him by the waist, kissing her shoulder gently and pressing the skin of his chest to her back. "Is that better?" he breathes in her ear, careful to keep the curious tone they've kept up throughout this negotiation.

Susan tilts her head to one side, as though thinking, and he trails his lips down her neck. "Possibly." She speaks, reaching back and plucking at his belt, nimble fingers undoing it with ease, finding the catches to his breeches and flicking them open, hand sliding in to brush the back of her fingers lightly against his cock. "Do you think these could come off too? It might help with the inspection and talk."

"A grave oversight indeed." Caspian says, stepping back to pull off his boots, socks and breeches, leaving them in a pile in the floor, before stepping back in to press himself back against her back, hands coming round to trace the skin of her stomach. Taut and silken, he notes. "Though I'd noticed something that might help even more."

"oh?" Susan queries, tilting her head back as he kisses a line up her neck. "I'm open to suggestions." Caspian pulls at the last of the fastenings, pushing the dress off her hips and sliding it down her legs to pool on the floor. She's not wearing anything underneath it, and he strokes his hands up her legs as he straightens, bringing his hands up to rest at her waist again. Susan turns in his arms, her arms sliding up to lock around his neck, kissing him again and pressing up against him. "That does seem better for conversation, I'll agree." she breathes as the kiss breaks, then puts her palms to his chest and shoves him, hard enough that he stumbles back - he'd forgotten how strong she is, and how many muscles you have to build to wield a longbow with ease. Caspian hadn't realised it, but each move had got them closer to the bed, and his backwards stumble is only a few steps before he comes up against the bed, collapsing onto it. Susan stalks towards him, firelight glinting off her skin.

Truly a magnificent sight. She stops in front of the bed, then gets on it, one knee each side of his, crouching over him, hair falling over one shoulder to brush his chest. "Now." She purrs. "I believe we were going to negotiate on whether or not I'd be dragging you back to the feast."

Caspian raises his hands to her stomach, fingers tracing up her ribcage and back down, repeating the pattern. "I think I can do that."

"Good." She grins, leaning in to kiss him again.

In the morning, Caspian's woken from his slumber by the door opening. Servants checking on him, no doubt. He'd been careful not to drink too much last night, or at least top it up with water and food to ensure he wasn't too hungover the next morning. So, a slight headache, but mostly just fuzzy from the wine. he decides that it must be a new one, since they're not normally this loud. A body shifts next to him in the bed, skin brushing up against his. He pauses, then the memory of last night comes back and he grins, even as he puts an arm over his eyes. Oh yes. he'd bedded Queen Susan last night after the coronation feast. A fine ending to the night indeed. he yawns, groaning slightly from the fuzzy feeling and speaks. "Leave the water by the side. We don't need attending yet."

"Sorry, your highness, I didn't bring water." A familiar voice says. Almost Archenland but not, the familiarity tugging at him through the fog.

Beside him, susan shifts, slinging and arm around his waist and grumbles "What is it you want, peter?"

Caspian freezes, then lowers his arm very slowly and carefully from his face, revealing that it is indeed high King peter leaning against the door with an amused look on his face. With the ever-present Rhindon strapped to his waist. It's not unsheathed yet, but he's seen how fast peter can draw it when he wants. And Caspian has just bedded his sister. In most noble families, that's normally cause for vengeance of some sort. not a duel, but with the pevensies, he cannot tell what was considered honourable in their day. Even if they say that they've never seen a use for honour, they have some codes of conduct. And most men do not take it gladly that you bedded their sister. especially if they walk in on you and her still naked and in bed together. The only way it could possibly be worse is if he'd walked in on them still engaged in the act. And he has absolutely no idea what it is warrior kings consider a suitable reaction, but it almost certainly involves blades of some sort. The amused look is absolutely no judge of what he's planning to do next. Considering it's peter, who scares him at the best of the times, he's wondering if Calormen is far enough away to take refuge in. perhaps the Lone Islands?

Caspian opens his mouth, frantically trying to apologise or seek forgiveness, or something. "Your highness, I was - this isn't - If I can - I promise -"

Susan puts a hand very firmly over his mouth, cutting off his speech. "Oh, do stop gabbling. Peter, get on with it and stop looming. Caspian's not used to it and you're scaring him."

"I came to tell you that Caspian had a meeting this morning." Peter raises an eyebrow. "Of course, if you want to tell me he's not available, I might understand, but probably not."

Susan sighs, then shoves Caspian. "Go on, up."

Caspian pulls on what he was wearing last night on frantically, then looks down at the doublet by the door. "I will need to stop by my room for fresh clothing."

Peter shrugs, still looking amused. "Fine by me."

From the bed, Susan yawns. "Will you two just go?"

"Her majesty speaks." Peter says, amused, and pulls Caspian out of the door, shutting it behind them. "She'll be in a better mood to talk later."

Peter looks at Caspian as they make the journey to Caspian's room. "Well, something's niggling at you. Go on, spit it out."

Caspian swallows,and tries not to stammer. "I -ah - I do not understand why you have made little comment on earlier. Most brothers would have reacted a little more strongly to the situation. You did not think that I had somehow -"

Peter snorts. "Oh, please, this is my sister. If she couldn't defend her own honour, she wouldn't be Susan."

Susan and Peter talking

burntozone@googlemail.com — Sun, 01 Feb 2009 11:58:26 GMT

The coronation itself is a seeming blur. The throne room is filled with Narnians and Telmarines, each group keeping as far away from the other as possible for now. Aslan and the Pevensies are standing on the dais when the doors open, and Caspian walks through the hall, past the crowds of Narnians and Telmarines alike, ascending the dais, seats himself, and Peter puts the crown on his head.

Aslan rumbles "Behold, Narnia, I give you King Caspian. May he reign well."

The room explodes into cheering. Caspian can't quite see their faces to gauge whether they're happy or calculating. But Edmund and Peter were right. The crown of Telmar is ridiculously heavy, seemingly far more so than when he tried it on earlier. He envies the others their light crowns, Susan and Lucy their circlets especially.

----

Peter's looking over the city, arms crossed. He's not quite brooding, but there's something going on in his brain. Susan pauses where she is, an arm's reach from him. "Peter?"

Peter doesn't turn round, but acknowledges her presence. "Susan."

Susan comes forward, leaning on the battlements. "What're you thinking about?" She smiles a little. "The coronation? Ours seems terribly long ago."

Peter doesn't reply for several moments, until he takes in a breath and lets it out. "Have you spoken to Aslan?"

Susan shakes her head. "I think Lucy has."

"I just want to know what he's thinking this time. Are we back to stay?"

Susan blinks. "I hadn't even thought about that."

"Do you want to go back?" Peter pushes his shoulders back. "We're not children. Trying to force us into childish bodies and England doesn't work, the last year's proved that. England's not home. It hasn't been for years."

"True. But we were trying."

"We tried. It didn't work. Do you honestly want to go back? To school and rationing and being treated like a child?"

"Some of us weren't getting into quite so many fights as you." Susan reminds him, then sighs as she remembers not being taken seriously because she's a girl, being constantly discounted, underestimated, where once she could silence gatherings with the raise of an eyebrow. She could see the life of secretary and someone's wife stretching out before her like a gaping maw at the end of school. "You're right. How do we break it to Caspian?"

"I think Caspian certainly wouldn't mind. Especially if you stayed." Peter smirks. "I've seen the looks he's been casting your way."

Susan rolls her eyes. "Peter. I was thinking more of the fact that he wouldn't be king, he'd be one king amongst many. Not to mention that you'd be High King. Does he have any idea what that means?" She pauses. "And don't think I haven't noticed the way you've been arguing with him."

"He's an idiot who doesn't have any idea how to fight a war." Peter frowns.

Susan gives him a look. "I'm not disputing that. He's never had to, Peter. Look at it from his side. You look younger than him, and he's getting ordered about by you, and of course he's inexperienced. What I was referring to was the way you're going out of your way to argue with him. He's arrogant and very good-looking, which clearly has nothing to do with it, either." Pause. "In your vocabulary, that's foreplay."

Peter glares at her. "Very funny."

After a little while, there's a cough. Edmund comes forward. "I think you might want to get back in here. Caspian's already having lords try to sneak up on him to make their interests known." He pauses. "I don't envy him, that's for certain."

"Well, it's not like he'll be on his own in this." Susan says, and then hooks her arm in Peter's. "Coming, my king?"

"Let's go rescue him." Peter answers.

Edmund raises an eyebrow. "Not on his own. Does that mean what I think it means?"

"Quite possibly." Susan says.

Inside, Caspian's quite easy to spot. He's the one with a small gathering of people trying to catch his ear.

Susan and Peter push through gracefully. "Excuse me, my lords, but I believe the King needs a moment to breathe. Do excuse us. We'll answer your queries when we return him." With that, they pull him out of the tangle.

"I didn't think they'd pounce so fast." Caspian gasps.

"Well, Miraz is gone and they want to establish their position fast." Susan says. "It's only natural. We might want to see about getting you a companion or two to help pull you out of such situations in future."

Coming to the city

burntozone@googlemail.com — Sat, 31 Jan 2009 14:14:42 GMT

A few days later, there comes the triumphal procession of the Narnians into the capital for the formal coronation of Caspian as king. New clothes have been found for he and the old monarchs, and the streets are lined with citizens cheering and throwing flowers as they ride up, followed by the Narnians. No-one can stop grinning, even though the Telmarines and Narnians have been sworn enemies for centuries, and he highly doubts anyone in the crowd even knows what they're cheering for.

Before they entered the city, he'd asked "But why must there be a march? I do not think they care one way or the other who is their king, Miraz or myself."

Susan straightens his doublet. Her hair has been teased and curled for this. "Because it's traditional. Any great victory seems to be accompanied by such a procession, even if it was you that got conquered. There's an old phrase for it - 'Hail the conquering hero'. They might not care, but they'll cheer you anyway. They might even throw flowers if you're lucky."

Peter leans against the door frame. "Of course, the ones who really dislike you tend to view this kind of thing as perfect cover for assassination and hide themselves in the crowd." He grins. "Though you shouldn't worry about that too much. We've got Edmund for that sort of thing - he'll be keeping an eye on the crowd and place people through it. Of course, if you get us grabbing you and tossing you to a nearby centaur, go limp. it's easier to explain once you're out of trouble rather than at the time."

"This is not very reassuring." Caspian says.

"It's a hazard of being royalty. Someone always wants to kill you." Susan shrugs. "Either personally or because you're a good figurehead." she tuts. "I still can't believe that Miraz gave you no training in statehood. He can't have been counting on having a surviving heir for that long."

"I think I want to go back to being a relatively sheltered prince." Caspian groans.

"Too late now." Peter grins. "Aslan already invested you as king. And you can't go back on your word to him."

Lucy comes in. "It always amazes me how fast they manage to get organised with the flowers and clear the streets of carts and horses and daytime traffic."

Susan tuts. "Leave that as the mystery it is, Lucy. I don't want that kind of thing organised unless it's feast day." She shudders slightly. "Remember that dreadful monarch who insisted that his people do it every time it was his birthday, or his wife's, or any excuse? His people used to dread it, since it disrupted trade so much."

Thanks to Edmund, they make it to the castle without incident. Rooms are apportioned.

Caspian, however, gets shown to Miraz' old room. "I cannot -" He says, backing out, and bumping into Peter.

"You're the king." Peter says firmly, shoving him back in. "Stop being so squeamish."

"What about my aunt?" He queries.

"Moved to another room with the baby, I presume. It's normal, Caspian, you'd have been given this room once you ascended the throne anyway, even without Miraz."

"I haven't got the throne yet."

"You will in the morning." Peter says, moving in behind him and sitting on the bed.

The servant murmurs "Your clothes are in the cupboard, your majesty."

"Thank you." Caspian says distractedly, moving to sit on the bed next to Peter. "I don't think I can cope with this."

"Nobody can." Peter says cheerfully. "At least not at first. Learn fast. Though we have to hammer out the details of your coronation. We'll get Su and Ed, they're best at protocol."

"I thought I'd be crowned as normal." Caspian says in surprise.

"That all depends." Peter says enigmatically. "I'll wait on their opinion first."

When the others are brought in, it's Susan who makes the first objection. "Well of course he can't be crowned in accordance with Telmarine tradition. Aslan's going to be presiding, for a start. You want to make a point of it being a new era."

"What did yours consist of?" Caspian asks.

"Aslan presented us to the kingdom and there was something about 'may they reign peacefully and wisely'." Edmund snorts. "I have my suspicions about whether the peacefully part was a joke."

"Was it not known as the Golden Age?" Caspian asks curiously.

"Only because we fought some very bloody wars to keep it that way." Edmund says. He picks up the crown. "I suggest simple. You ascend the dais, Peter crowns you as a backing up of the approval by Aslan. No swearing by anything. No-one swears their fealty right there and then, since that kind of thing can go on forever and can become a show of power for everyone *but* the monarch."

Caspian groans, covering his eyes. "I have no idea how I'm going to do this."

Lucy pats him on the knee and says sweetly. "Oh, that's fine. Either you'll cope or break down spectacularly, so worrying about it either way won't be of much use."

Caspian eyes her. "You are a very disturbing child."

Peter chuckles. "Lucy is always disturbing, and doesn't get any better with age. I think Narnia did something to her the first time around."

Lucy gives Peter a look. "You're one to talk about being disturbing."

Edmund turns the crown of Telmar over in his hands, weighing it speculatively. "This really is a spectacularly ugly crown. I suggest you melt it down as soon as possible and get a new one."

Caspian gapes a little, then bristles. "That is the crown of Telmar, worn by my ancestors for
generations -"

"It didn't used to look this ugly in our day, I can tell you that. Crowns change." Edmund says calmly. He passes it to Peter. "The country's going to be changing, and it's not just Telmarines you'll be ruling over."

Peter winces as he weighs it in his hands. "I'd definitely change it. It's more like a brick than a crown. It's heavy enough to get brain damage from it if you wore it for long." He turns to Susan. "This reminds me. Are we going to be wearing ours?"

"In the circumstances, yes." Susan says. "It'll give our presence more weight. One of us will have to fly down to Cair Paravel on a griffin to get them before tomorrow - I suggest Lucy, since she's less likely to be missed."

"And spare me from any well-meaning ladies of court." Lucy adds.

Caspian falls back on the bed to stare at the ceiling. "I have no say in any of this, do I?"

"Of course not." Lucy says. "I'm going to have to find a wind-proof jacket, do you know where I can find one?"

Caspian's watching Peter and Edmund sparring in the courtyard, the day before his coronation. There's quite a few watching the kings of old spar, actually. Glozelle is one of them, his eyes devouring every move Peter and Edmund make, noting the twists and turns of how they move. Like Caspian, he saw them fight in the battle, and against Miraz, so he knows they're excellent fighters, but that was out of the corner of his eye during the battle or when fighting for his life. this is practice, when they're relaxed. It's an opportunity to watch technique for Glozelle. For Caspian, it's interesting.

The first time he encountered Peter was when peter attacked the minotaur Asterius, and Caspian defended him against the attacker. Telmarine, he thought at first, except when he took a breath, he realised the attacker was blond and younger than him. And then he'd had to fend off a savage attack, right up until Peter got his sword stuck in a tree, then came after him with a rock. He's quite aware that probably all that saved him from getting his head staved in was Susan's appearance. At the How, he knows that they probably practised, but everyone was so busy that you simply didn't have time to stop and watch people fight. Stopping people from fighting was a bigger concern, tempers were running so high. During the attack on the castle and during the battle, he only ever caught Peter's movements out of the corner of his eye, a flash of golden hair, light on his blade and armour, and a spray of blood as more fell to his blade. He only caught the second half of the duel with Miraz, when both were injured. He's aware that Peter had his arm dislocated and put back into place by Edmund. He's never had to fight with a dislocated arm before, his lessons were always stopped when that happened. Not too many teachers wanted to risk further injury or tearing to the potential king. The rest of the duel was a blur of hacking and slashing, Peter sometimes on the floor, sometimes not, grappling and then fighting with fists and shield when they both lost their swords. That had been something he'd barely even considered. Peter had automatically switched to grappling, not afraid to hit Miraz in his wounded leg, which the rules of honour say you should not do. Then came the pause, and Miraz attacking from behind, with the blur as Peter grabbed the sword and used it to stab him in the armpit. After that, the point when Peter had offered him Miraz' death, and Caspian hadn't been able to take it. A chivalrous mistake, he knows, and he remembers peter and Edmund looking at him incredulously even as the Narnians cheered him for his chivalry. Since then he's heard more of the Pevensie opinions on chivalry and mercy. Apparently they're completely wasted and only fit for those who are unused to the nature of real battle. You never give quarter, and you always get rid of the threat. If the enemy has been disarmed, all the better. When in doubt, strike them from behind, use your fists, and go for the killing blow.

So this will be interesting. Seeing how they fight when they're not fighting for their lives or injured, and he is a disinterested observer this time, not half-watching the Telmarine army and not fully frightened out of his mind and out of his depth. He'll be able to see individual moves, for a start. He's aware High King Peter is supposed to be one of the best fighters of all time, so the legends say. He'd like to see it for himself.

Edmund steps back, making a beckoning gesture. Peter's fighting with sword and shield, while Edmund fights with two swords. They advance, go back, swoop and turn, finally clashing blades. They're fast. Edmund is fast, but Peter is faster still. They never stop for breath, hammering at each other, swords and shields clashing, ducking and dodging. Spinning one way to avoid a strike and using the momentum of the spin to strike under the other's arm, only just caught before it hits flesh. As they fight, they kick and elbow and knee, hitting out with the hilt of their swords if the other gets too close. Caspian's fairly sure they're breaking every rule of combat he was ever taught, but he can't say what specifically, because all he seems to see is the flow of motion. Dark figure against golden, and his attention's focussed on the way Peter moves. Movement flowing into movement, all deadly. Entrancing. Eventually they stop, far apart, at some pre-arranged sign. Caspian shakes his head to get rid of the spell they cast, relinquishing his place, intending to talk to Peter. About what he's not precisely sure.

When he comes across Peter, he's in the middle of removing his gloves, practice sword propped up against the wall. Peter looks up, meeting Caspian's gaze. "Was it a good fight?" Caspian asks.

"Not bad." Peter shrugs. "Not back to full fitness and skill, yet. We're working on it."

Caspian stares. "Full fitness? But your speed -"

Peter shifts his shoulders, grimacing. "Not quite used to this body yet. When I last fought properly, I had my full growth and I was practising near daily. I hadn't fought for a year prior to coming back to Narnia. I should be faster, for a start."

"Oh. I ... hope you regain your full skill soon." Caspian says. What do you say to something like that? And if he's this fast now, how fast will he be with more training? "Did you need anything?"

Peter shakes his head. The sweat collecting at his hairline shakes off slightly with the motion. "No, I'll be going to get this removed, but I'm fine."

Caspian nods, and turns to go. Before he can take more than a step, though, he finds himself turned and pushed up against the wall. He takes in a breath, suddenly faced with Peter up close and pressing him into the wall. Holding him there. Peter's smaller than him currently, but his muscles are stronger, and he's got the weight of armour on his side. Besides the physical, Caspian's quite sure that if he tried to slip out of the hold, he'd find himself on the floor in moments. Not to mention that the last time he had Peter anywhere near this close was when Peter was fighting him, the first time they met. Up close he's... Caspian can't look away. The smell of sweat and leather and metal is rising off Peter's armour, clouding his senses.

"My lord?" Caspian asks, trying to find his voice as Peter looks him over. Breathing him in.

Peter leans in closer, his chest pressing against Caspian's, the chain mail heavy and rigid. He dips his head to nuzzle Caspian's cheek, one thigh pressing insistently between Caspian's, shifting it so they're pressed hip to hip. Caspian swallows, not quite sure how to take this sudden change in move, frozen solid and breathing in the post-fight scent of Peter. "I saw you watching me." Peter says into his ear. "Impressed?"

"I - very." Caspian says. "You fight well."

Peter draws back, slowly, his cheek brushing against Caspian's as he does so, slowly enough that Caspian's aware of every brush of skin against his. "Good to know I provided entertainment." Peter says, face still close enough that if he leaned forward just a fraction, they'd be touching again. Peter lets go of one of Caspian's hands to trail the back of his fingers down Caspian's jaw, lightly enough to feel like it's on the verge of tickling. "Wouldn't you say?"

Caspian's aware that his own breath is starting to sound particularly loud - at least to his own ear. He doesn't know what to think, and he's having problems even forming coherent thought with Peter pressed up against him like this, hand stroking at his jaw. "...Possibly?"

"Perhaps I should make sure you're more entertained next time." Peter chuckles, and the weight of Peter pressing into him is suddenly gone, Peter backed away from him and no fingers brushing his jaw or hot breath on his face. He smiles slowly and is gone, leaving Caspian to sag against the wall and get his breath back. He's not sure what that was about, and can't think why. But he'd like his head to recover from the encounter soon, please. Knowing his luck he won't be able to get the feeling of being pressed against the wall out of his head with the accompanying images any time soon.

On the Shores of Beruna

burntozone@googlemail.com — Sat, 31 Jan 2009 14:08:31 GMT

so, er, this is a wee bit late - nano got written completely out of order this year so the story was a tad difficult to follow if you weren't me. Finally got round to sorting it out chronologically (no other editing besides spellcheck), so here you go..

(it's a what if the Pevensies stayed post-PC)

The morning's cold and wet. Caspian rolls over, head still a little bleary from the night and day before. His muscles are stiff from sleeping on the ground, which he doubts he'll ever get used to. They're stiffer from the battle. his memories of it are the carnage and confusion, the wonders and the horrors, and in the middle of it, them.

The Old Kings and Queens of Narnia. Children and youths that fight like battle-hardened soldiers, dealing out death with ease in the middle of the carnage. Glozelle once said that the mark of an experienced soldier was that he simply wasn't there when the blade fell, and the Pevensies never were. Where a blade or an axe fell, they were blocking it, or moving out of the way.

After the battle, once all of the surviving Telmarine soldiers had been pulled out of the river and secured, there'd been a small period of quiet. Quiet in that there was no fighting, but there has been plenty of bustle. Aslan sat by the shore, and certainly no-one was gong to try to to start a fight while he sat there. The giant lion of great power, the one that the Narnians worshipped as their god.

Lucy had headed the healers, going around the gravely wounded of the battlefield with a small
retinue - a centaur, two fauns, a dryad, and two Telmarines known for their battlefield medicine skills. Administering her potion, setting broken limbs, and binding wounds. The Narnians had had no problem being ordered around by a child, having been told tales from childhood of Lucy the healer, and having seen her in action after their unsuccessful attempt to storm the castle, but the Telmarines she'd treated had been a little wild-eyed at the imperious no-nonsense little girl ordering them about like a middle-aged nurse. They couldn't deny her skills or obvious experience, though. The Telmarines she'd taken under her wing for her team hung on her every word after half an hour of moving amongst the bodies awaiting attention. Peter had made a comment about 'more converts' to her when she'd been treating him. That had simply earned him a poke in the arm and a snort before she moved on.

Edmund had been seen speaking to a few of the smaller Narnians, small birds and squirrels, before sending them off to do some task. He and Susan had mostly been helping with getting the chaos of the battle's aftermath sorted and calm. Peter had gone straight to Glozelle, quizzing him about his legions and the way the Telmarine army worked and was marshalled.

"Your majesty gives me great honour by addressing me thus." Glozelle said as Peter sat by him, watching as the Telmarine healers bandaged his cuts. Caspian notes the way that Glozelle barely looks at Caspian, all his attention on Peter. He's quite aware Glozelle still sees him as a boy, having watched him grow up in Miraz' court and even been his teacher in weapons occasionally. Peter, though, is younger than Caspian, but Glozelle acknowledged his authority immediately, acting with more deference towards him than he ever did towards miraz. Miraz had his attention and seeming loyalty, but everyone knew Glozelle always begrudged miraz, even going so far as to hesitate when following his orders in public. In contrast, Peter has all his attention. possibly it's respect for his fighting skills that he'd seen, or maybe it's part of the way Peter holds himself. Youth he may seemingly be, but he always, always holds himself as one who expects to be obeyed at all times.

Peter snorts. "Hardly. You control the Telmarine armies and currently pose the most threat to us. What I want is your oath that you will not challenge Caspian's claim to the throne." he pauses. "Aslan supports it, but you control the soldiers and the lords as of this moment."

"The lords have their own minds." Glozelle says carefully. the rebellious lords tended to follow Sopespian's lead, but they had no problem voicing their objections during council or in public. Caspian doesn't know how quiet they've been in the past few weeks, after they crowned Miraz, but word is that Sopespian and Glozelle still goaded Miraz.

"But they will follow your lead." Peter states. "So do we have your oath? We intend to crown Caspian soon, but i do not want the beginning of this new reign to be challenged as soon as it begins."

Glozelle casts his eyes down as he nods. "We will follow your lead, my lord."

"Good. Now, I want to know about the army at your disposal." Peter states. "Precisely how many soldiers do you command?"

Soon enough - what seems all too little time, really - the healers have managed at least one round of the most seriously injured. Caspian's talking to Trumpkin, who's grumbling about having to deal with overgrown lunkheads.

"So am I one?"

"Probably." Trumpkin says, pulling off his helmet and scratching at his beard. "I suppose it's not your fault that you were born human, but you're still too tall."

"By your reckoning, perhaps the only one of us who is a reasonable height is Lucy, then."

"Well, she's not bad, but she's still going to grow. Still a child, that one."

Behind them, there's the rumble of a voice that they learned to pay attention to and identify
immediately. "Son of Adam." They both freeze and turn to face Aslan.

Caspian swallows, bowing his head. He's nowhere near daring to meet the great lion's eye with ease as the child Lucy and the others do. Lucy most of all. From what he hears, she is his favourite, or possibly it is that she is the youngest and thus has least appreciation of just how dangerous such a beast of such presence can be. A child that plays with her father the warlord's sword hilt. Yet it was clear on the bridge she was all too aware of what the lion could do. Trumpkin is skittish around the lion, barely able to believe he exists, let alone roared in his face a few hours previous. Caspian, on the other hand, is quite content to show due deference towards the beast. "My lord?"

"Your presence would be appreciated on the shore." With that, the great lion turns and pads
noiselessly towards the pevensies, Telmarine and Narnian alike scurrying to get out of his way.

Trumpkin gives him a shove. "Bloody get a move on, you going to keep him waiting?"

"What does he want with me?" Caspian asks, warily.

"Probably going to eat you but wants to make sure you're clean first." Trumpkin snorts. "I don't bloody know, but I do know it's not a wise idea to keep him waiting."

Caspian makes his way to the shore, picking his way along the small path and clear spots. After a little while, the Pevensies join him there. "What does he want of us?"

Susan smiles slightly in her mysterious way. She's beautiful, but you can't tell what she's thinking. Inscrutable is possibly the word. He wonders if it comes from reigning or whether she has always been thus. It was easy to tell what Miraz was thinking by the expression on his face, moods there and gone like summer storms. Peter and Lucy seem of Miraz' like, moods changing constantly. Susan and Edmund are more like the high born ladies of court, beautiful but keeping their faces like statues as much as possible lest their husbands find their true emotions or reactions to situations. he doubts Susan has much familiarity with playing the ornamental embellishment, though. Not with the way she is so at home in war and on the battlefield. Her siblings appear to be able to tell her moods without difficulty, and she's certainly relaxed more, so perhaps with time he'll be able to tell. Hopefully she'll relax some more in his presence. "I think I have some idea." She says, straightening the folds of her skirts.

Aslan comes to stand in front of them, turning and addressing the crowd. "If I could have your attention." he rumbles, raising it slightly from speaking tone. Everyone turns their head immediately, standing and pushing forward. Aslan turns his head to Caspian. "Kneel, my prince."

Caspian swallows. "My lord?" He asks, kneeling as he does.

"Do you find yourself ready to be king?" Aslan asks, fixing him with a stare.

Caspian draws a breath. he knew this was coming, some day, but it is still not something he feels he is ready for. "No, my lord, I'm not ready, I-"

"Then that is enough." Aslan breathes on him, filling him with warmth. "Rise, King Caspian of Narnia. rule wisely."

The clapping starts. Caspian gets up unsteadily to see the entire crowd clapping and cheering. Some of them are impassive, and some are gleeful. Others are grudging. But he feels no-one will argue in this moment. You don't dare argue with anyone that powerful, who can command the trees and water with a single roar. Susan, peter, Lucy and Edmund are smiling as they clap,which is at least something. He knows he somehow expected this in his brain, he was raised as heir to the throne , after all, but this seems unreal. Some come forward to swear their loyalty - Glozelle kneels before him and kisses his hand, and several of the Narnians bow to him. He's uncomfortably aware of the hard stare Peter and the others are giving them, though. And after a little while, everyone turns back to what they were doing - cataloguing the losses, trying to repair any immediately fixable things in their armour, and finding food, Or talking to their friends. Caspian's left standing there.

Edmund claps him on the shoulder. Lucy was the first to leave, going back to her healer duties and those that need her attention. "Never mind. It'll seem more real when they've crowned you in a proper ceremony."

"Are you sure?"

Edmund shrugs. "You've had more time to get used to it than we did. We found ourselves fighting for our lives with no training of any sort in our first battle, then before we knew it, we were being crowned in cair paravel. To say we found ourselves shell-shocked was a bit of an understatement. After your coronation you'll have so much to do that you won't have time to think about it any more, and by the time you have a moment to think about it, you'll just be used to it and it'll seem natural."

Susan steps forward on his other side. "I think we can probably get your formal coronation arranged within a few days. It'll be a more obvious sign than this to the Telmarines. How many problems will we have with the lords accepting you as king?"

"They will follow Glozelle." And he has no idea how he's going to bring himself to command
Glozelle. He may have sworn fealty to him personally and publicly, but it's Glozelle. he's always been wary of a man who's that good a general. Peter obviously respects him, and from what he's picked up from the others and how Peter behaves towards most, it's difficult to get Peter's respect, especially that fast.

She nods. "Good."

Edmund taps his fingers on the hilt of his sword. "From what I've been able to gather, that's mostly correct. You shouldn't have too many problems, at least at the beginning - Sopespian was the most powerful and vocal, and he's dead. We're not sure if his body's gone totally, but the naiads i spoke to haven't seen it. The troops aren't saying much. They're soldiers, not politicians. Keep them fed and you should be fine. The Narnians - well, I think they're not going to say much while Aslan's still around. You'll have to make sure that they're well represented and they'll be happier. there's a lot who'll take a lot of convincing about acknowledging a human."

"They didn't have any problem following you." Caspian says, frowning. That still smarts a little. he hadn't been expecting the Narnians to follow him, he was just about tolerated when he arrived at the How. he'd just been hoping for refuge, and maybe helping him get back the throne. The moment Peter, Susan, Lucy and Edmund arrived, the Narnians bowed before them and followed them near blindly. There wasn't any hesitation, and they didn't even have to prove themselves for the Narnians to be willing to follow them to their deaths. Even after their failed attack on the castle, they grieved for their dead but still followed without question.

"We're figures from legend and have a lot of experience in getting people to follow us." Edmund says, then twists his mouth wryly. "Not to mention Peter's got something about him that people have this urge to follow."

Susan gives him a look. "Precisely how much of the army have you canvassed, Edmund? Do
remember it's been a while since you've done this."

"You can never start early enough." Edmund shrugs. "I didn't see you telling Peter off for
cross-examining Glozelle on the army."

"That would be like attempting him to stop breathing." Susan replies.

The End. Also bad Star Wars jokes.

burntozone@googlemail.com — Sat, 01 Dec 2007 00:59:04 GMT

actual word count : 52,165
place I should be at : 50,000
reason for negligence : thppppbbt
word count for today : 3,076 this bit

They make their way out of the ravine - it turns out a little further along is a part that's a lot easier to climb up than come down, at least without a full set of ropes and grappling kit, and then it starts to level out a bit. Well, level out in the sense of 'path you can scramble up rather than climb with your hands.'. It all depends on your perspective, and scrambling's still a lot easier and less arduous than climbing. Once out of there, they make their way out of the jungle, towards the landing strip some ways south of Tiaret that they'd got a flight down to.

The pilot's been waiting around for them for the last couple of days, and looks up from whatever it was he was doing on their appearance. "You made it, then?"

"Rare plants are so difficult to come by for the university. We found several samples." Adam says with a straight face. Jack's seen him play academician before, but he's got to say that he never really pictured the man currently named Adam as a biologist. Mind you, considering he's probably done every job it's possible to do under the sun on this earth by this period - twice or three times in several cases - biologist certainly shouldn't be much a stretch. He's almost certainly done some farming and been a gardener.

The plane leaves the ground, and Jack relaxes back into his seat. At least this time he doubts the pilot is going to try to get the glove, or think that they're carrying anything of value. Not unless you were another biologist, at least.

The journey's quiet, and Jack spends most of it watching the scenery pass below them as Adam flicks through a tattered copy of a book that he found stuffed down the side of the seat when they took the plane down. "I don't think I've been down this way for years." Adam comments, looking out of the window. "It looks like we're coming up to... hmm, what was its name? Oh yes, Tataouine."

Jack perks up, then grins evilly. "You'll never find a more wretched hive of scum and villainy."

"You used to be able to get a decent drink there, actually." Adam says distractedly, then stops on seeing Jack's grin. He pauses and rolls his eyes. "And stop making obscure references, Jack. It's bad enough when I do it - at least mine have happened. How long do I have to wait to get that one? It took me five centuries to get the 'There are more things in heaven and earth, than are dreamt of in your philosophy' quote. I thought you were quoting something of Martial's until that Brummie's plays were everywhere." He taps his fingers against the book he'd been flicking through. "Catchy bugger with an ear for a line, I have to say." There's another pause, and then he asks, with a resigned tone "Another of your shags?"

Jack grins with the memory. "Hey nonny nonny. How could I resist?" He pauses, reminiscing. "Though it's not that often that I meet someone who flirts with as many people as I tend to. I mean, Mark Anthony was one thing, a complete force of nature, but -"

"I'm quite familiar with Mark Anthony." Adam says, smirking slightly.

Jack grins, the grin splitting his face this time. "Maybe there should be a club."

"There was a rather apt piece of graffiti." Adam supplies.

It's something rather inevitable about Jack, anyone who's known him for a while soon learns. Adam may have cultivated a life where he was fairly ordinary, for the most part - aside from a few specific things that he orchestrated, he's neither met nor known any more famous people or been involved in famous historical events, or at least events that grew famously historical in the re-telling, or turned out to be pivotal in hindsight than anyone else in history that lead a fairly normal person. Things can always be seen as pivotal in hindsight, but at the time it often just happened to be a boat getting sunk at the right time in the right place, or that drunken conversation you had with some friends where the seed of an idea got first planted, or that group of friends made an appointment to meet up somewhere later and do something, and it snowballed. Most people don't try to orchestrate their life around working at the same shop as the boy who went on to become a famous and important ambassador, or got his plays accepted by court and turned out to be wildly popular with the masses. You just became a soldier, and one of the battles you were present at turned out to the pivotal one in the war where the tide began to turn. Never mind the accidents, where you crossed the plaza every day and one day you went to cross the plaza and there was a demonstration or gathering going on, as there often was of some sort in that plaza, it was the only really big place for gatherings in the city. And then someone said something as you were trying to navigate the crowd, and the mood turned ugly, and they turned that around and the mob snarled - with enough force that something else tipped, and suddenly the government's swept away and there's a civil war. You just happened to be crossing the square or listening with half an ear.

Jack, on the other hand, is one of those people who either manages to turn up at the important events on purpose because he's the kind of person who makes sure he's near the powerful, and is good at taking the mood and telling which way the wind is about to blow, or he's got the distinct advantage that most people don't - the extensive knowledge of history and access to something that allows him to travel through time and space to the places and events he wanted to be present at. Even travelling through time and space the way most people do it, holding down work and a life, he still manages it. Sometimes it's foreknowledge, but most of the time he appears to be one of those people who always manages to be at that party that the stunt happened at that becomes the stuff of legends. And as it's Jack, often shags the famous person. It's somewhat inevitable, like he said. It's not exactly on purpose and not quite notches on the bedpost, he doesn't meet them and start flirting with them with the intent to shag, he just flirts with nearly everyone he meets as a matter of course, a lot do tend to flirt back and so his hit rate tends to be higher than most people's for getting them into bed.

Adam regards him lazily. "So how long do I have to wait to get this one?" It's almost like a puzzle. He's learned to tell when Jack's quoting; the tone is a little different, so something in his hindbrain clocks and records it, just waiting for the opportune moment when that piece of literature or speech comes to hand and gets recorded for future consumption. Admittedly it's often in another language entirely, and what Jack was quoting was the translation, which normally takes a while longer.

Jack leans back from the window. "Well, it's 1941 now, so... thirty years? maybe thirty five? Not that long. It'll be everywhere. Don;t worry, you'll love it. This one even starts a cult and one of the more popular life philosophies."

"Hmm." Adam taps the book under his fingertips. "Any wars?" Life philosophies often start that kind of thing, especially when they get to the religion platform. Forewarning's always nice.

Jack shakes his head. "Just friendly rivalries that were a part of the joke from the start."

"Ah, the non-destructive kind. Even better." Adam keeps on tapping at the book. "I have a horrible suspicion Nietzsche based that 'Behold, I teach you the superman' one on one of us. It sounds like something we'd have inspired."

"Definitely one of us." Jack replies.

Adam raises an eyebrow. "Odds on it being Macleod?" Macleod is another of those folk who happens to be in the right place, or at least the passed on gossip about him is that his sense of honour and desire to fight for the cause of justice has a habit of getting him into said situations. The fame and talent for making enemies brings the rest to his door.

Jack rubs his chin. "It's possible, but not a completely sure thing. He just gets about a bit. Ever met him?"

"No. I hope I never do. he's a little too showy for my liking, I'm rather fond of the quiet life." Adam shrugs. "You? I'm sure even you've got some sense of self preservation. You're one of the few of us I know who never carries a sword unless it was normal for the time period and situation." Jack's odd like that. Some immortals never carry swords for pacifist reasons, or because they try to stay as far away from life as possible, but in all the time Adam's known Jack, he's never even owned one unless it was common practice and he'd stand out, otherwise. It's a little hard to be a Roman soldier without one, for instance. However, he does normally have at least one knife and he's nearly always got a gun of one form or another. That he always had no matter what the situation or time period. Jack's constants : his flirtatiousness, his grin, his wristcuff and a gun of some sort. Adam's quite in favour of the gun, he'll admit.

Jack shakes his head. "Nope, different circles. That or I'd just miss him."

The pick-up point in Algiers Adam's due to meet his contact at is near the harbour. The plan is to meet them and tell them that someone else got there first, terribly sorry - it's not his fault the information was faulty, since Jack, a Dr Jones who definitely hasn't spoken a word about it himself, and the pilot are the only people who have even a vague knowledge of its location - and then go on to Britain. There's no real point in not meeting them. If nothing else, it'll show good faith on Adam's part. He went on the wild goose chase, was handsomely rewarded for his part in trying to get it for his employers, and came back empty handed, since it was, after all, a wild goose chase. Jack'll stay in the background, out of sight, with the glove, since there's no way Jack's letting it out of his sight, there to provide backup if needed.

The Gestapo agent's waiting there when they get there, Jack a good several yards behind and passing on by the meeting point before doubling back and waiting nearby. Close enough to listen in and watch, with time to intervene if the situation turns ugly, but not close enough to be seen.

He looks up as Adam gets close. "You seem in good spirits, my friend."

"I had a good journey." Adam replies.

"And was it successful?" He asks.

"Not really. I searched all over the location I was given, but it seems the information was faulty. The glove isn't there." Adam shrugs.

"And you didn't merely get another buyer and attempt to double cross us." The agent says dryly.

"There is no other buyer. You paid me well enough to stay loyal, and the money I would have got for successful location and retrieval was more than enough. I'm not a greedy man."

"A pity. Oh well, such things cannot be helped. Did anyone follow you down there?"

"Not that I noticed, unless you can slide down a ravine and get back up quietly. You'd said something about it being lost the first time? maybe the people who had it last retrieved it and then kept quiet about it."

The Gestapo agent nods. "Entirely possible, I'm afraid. Not all collectors wish to boast about their finds. Goodbye, my friend. We'll meet again when next I wish something to be found. Though perhaps with a little more success than this time. You are reliable and I would like our professional relationship to stay cordial. You were recommended, after all."

Adam nods. "Thank you for understanding."

They shake hands, Adam turns on his heel and goes.

Jack steps out and join him once they're a bit further down the street. "Think they bought it?" he murmurs.

"I believe so." Adam says.

The next thing Jack knows or feels is a sharp pain in his stomach, the crack of the gunshot echoing in his ears. Jack staggers back, touching his shirt, which is slowly turning wet with blood. He brings his fingers up in disbelief, the wetness glinting off his fingertips in what little moonlight there is, then looks up at Adam. "You double-crossing bastard."

Adam shrugs, still holding the gun. "Sorry, Jack, just business." With that, he shoots him again. Straight through the heart and once again through the head just to make sure. Jack's last thought as it all goes black is that Adam was always thorough.

As usual, it doesn't take him long to recover and wake up again, though as usual, it's still bloody painful where he got shot - it's always painful until the wounds heal, which fortunately, as they were wounds inflicted just before death, heal very quickly. He staggers up, touching the wound in his stomach and still wet patches of blood on his shirt as the wound closes and the skin heals to leave no trace that he was ever shot. His only scars are those he had before he died the first time, and he had very few of those as it was. It's not even been five minutes, but the area's clearly deserted and the bag with the glove's gone too, not that he expected any less. Jack's pretty sure that 'Bugger' sums it up pretty succinctly. He thought he'd convinced Adam that handing the glove over to the Nazis was a fairly stupid idea. Apparently not. Adam can be just as much of a double-crossing bastard who can lie through his teeth just as well, if not better than Jack. He's got far more experience at it than anyone Jack's met, after all. It seems Jack forgot that.

His other bag's by his feet, and his gun's still in its holster. They probably didn't think it was worth taking from a dead man. Asking around reveals that the Gestapo agent was heading for a boat at speed, and the boat didn't hang around. As for the other man, the tall one? No-one's seen him.

He sends a telegram ahead, reporting his failure, before he gets on the plane. If nothing else, it'll give then advance warning. There's nothing to be done about it now aside from what any bombers can do.

Back in England, the news of his failure isn't treated well. They'd been at least hoping that Hitler wouldn't get his hands on something that could be an internal propaganda device and very expensive toy, if nothing else. The device that they beat the British to. But they've lost worse, and Jack goes back to work.

A few months later, Jack's sitting outside a bar in Algiers. The mood's a lot more tense in this area than it was the last time he was here. The Americans have entered the war, and North Africa's being looked on as the next clashing point of the war to those in the know. A familiar figure exits the bar, and Jack gets up from his shady spot and follows him through the crowd. They turn into an alley, and as soon as they turn round to confront him - he made no secret of his following him - Jack pulls his gun and shoots him, pulling the body into the shadows while he waits for him to recover.

Adam coughs as he comes to, fingering the hole in his shirt where the bullet passed through. He squints up at Jack. "What was that for? I told you it was just business."

"You handed it over to the Nazis. I thought we'd agreed you wouldn't." Jack replies calmly.

Adam pulls himself up to a sitting position. "Like you can talk about different sides and double-crossing people, especially during a war. You've been displaying a disturbing amount of morals and loyalty to a side recently, Jack." He pauses, still wincing slightly. "Help me up, will you?"

Jack leans down and pulls him to his feet. "I like the side I'm on better than the Nazis. Simple as that. Why'd you do it?"

"The money was good." Adam shrugs. "Besides, I don't know what you're complaining about. Getting it back shouldn't be too hard, and it's not like it works properly."

"Did you tell them?" Jack asks, narrowing his eyes.

Adam brushes himself off. "No point, and it's not like they'd have expected me to have known. I was just told to retrieve the stupid thing, not what it was for. You were the one to tell me all the gory details, remember?"

"There weren't any gory ones, I'm afraid to say. I'll expect they'll have found out for themselves by now. There's been no traffic over the wireless and our spies have reported nothing, so I'm presuming they're keeping pretty quiet about it." he grins. "I'd love to have seen their faces when they found that one out."

"True." Adam agrees. "You still haven't told me why you shot me, though." he says, fingering the hole in his shirt.

"I was still annoyed with you and you ruined a perfectly good shirt. I thought I'd return the favour."

Adam makes a disbelieving sound. "I'll refrain from mentioning the amount of clothing of mine that you've ruined over the years." he brushes the last of the dust off his arms, putting his hands in his pockets. "I think that you still owe me a beer, or two, though. You can make this one up to me by standing your round for once."

"I stood my last round." Jack protests.

"Which was the first time in twenty years, I think you'll find. Coming?" Adam says, raising an eyebrow and heading back to the bar.

World's oldest immortal, meet glove

burntozone@googlemail.com — Sat, 01 Dec 2007 00:53:43 GMT

actual word count : 52,165
place I should be at : 50,000
reason for negligence : thppppbbbt
word count for today : 3,148 this bit

Jack's original fix was pretty close to where the glove's ended up - down a part of the ravine that's only accessible by sliding down a crevasse of gravel and rock, with the occasional decoration (more like an embellishment, really) of a scrubby tree or bush. Technically there's probably a path down into it, but you'd have to go days out of your way to find the end of, and thus the easy entrance to the ravine, and they're not really prepared to take that long to find it. Scrambling down in an undignified fashion takes less time. They end up at the bottom, having slid at least half of it, skidding and trying to keep their feet - or at least not go head over heels, mostly because as they're quite aware, that way broken limbs lies. Which no matter how fast you heal, is always an inconvenience, especially since you have to set it if you don't want it to heal crooked. Which means re-breaking it to get it to heal right, which is almost as bad as breaking it the first time round. Factor in the point that Jack doesn't heal nearly as fast as Adam - much closer, in fact, to normal people, unless you kill him, so breaking anything of Jack's would really slow them up, since he'd be hobbling on crutches or have something in a sling the entire rest of the journey. Coping with crutches and slings are not the best circumstances for getting across rough terrain, which jungle and ravine almost by definition is.

Adam lies back against the scree and gravel at the bottom, wincing from all the scrapes and bruises they've earned, and grimaces. "I'm starting to re-think this. Some things really aren't worth the money for the sheer amount of discomfort you have to go through. What's so bloody important about this thing?"

Jack brushes some gravel off his trousers. "Resurrects people."

Adam lifts his head and raises a highly sceptical eyebrow. "Impressive." he drawls. "And they're sure it's not one of us faking it?" The list of people who can't really die - or at least die and then come back to life pretty quickly - involved in several of the more legendary miracles and legends themselves is rather large. Some of it can't be proven, but eveyone who's aware of the phenomenon is also aware that immortals are not above ding things for the sake of a hoax, cash, or merely unlucky that there were observers who didn't realise what they were seeing and attributed it to an outside power. And we don't even start on the immortals throughout history who traded on the fact that they couldn't die permanently to set themselves up as gods and high priests. A glove that resurrects people sounds suspect, at the very least. Charlatans are just as prevalent amongst the long-lived, if not more, as after a while, their morals become somewhat flexible due to experience and time. What's considered moral and acceptable in one culture and time period is completely alien in another.

Jack shakes his head. "Nope. I've seen it working - my team discovered it. The first corpse was a couple of days old, and definitely not an immortal. Not to mention its real first test, though we didn't know it at the time? Flies." He grins. "I don't think anyone's going to fake flies."

"You just haven't come across the immortals of the animal kingdom." Adam says, looking amused. "They're even more secretive than the human immortals. And certainly get paid better for faking it."

Jack tilts his head in interest, then laughs. "Well, it's an idea. I've always wondered how lucrative it would be." Jack starts to get up, brushing the rest of the gravel off of him and picking up his bag.

Adam watches him thoughtfully. "I can see why the Nazis would want it, I'll give you that."

"There is a downside, though." Jack replies, twisting round to get the last of it. "Any left?"

"Well, you've proved that you like twisting into ridiculous positions to show your bum off to its best effect, I'll give you that." Adam says, stretching out on the scree. It's not comfortable, but he's getting used to it and he'll take any excuse and opportunity to lounge. he curls an arm behind his head. "I noticed you said that there's a downside. What does it do, leech life from the wielder to resurrect the corpse? I can see why that might be a problem. You'd have to have some very odd volunteers. Or prisoners and slaves to do that work. I presume that several people who'd want it would have no real problem with that."

Jack frowns, brushing at his hair. What can he say, no-one's ever accused him of not being vain and concerned with his image and appearance. "Hmm. It's not something we ever really thought about due to the other issue and none of the people who tested it had any side-effects."

"I'm sure you'll get to the point about what the other issue is sometime this century." Adam drawls. He's really starting to look like he's about to take root, but then it's a truth universally acknowledged amongst those who've ever spent time with him that he could beat all comers if they ever held sprawling as a competitive sport. On earth, at least. Other races might be better at it due to having a different body type, but the man occasionally known as Methos has had more time to practice and hone his innate natural talent at the pose than anyone currently alive and living, rather than visiting, on this ball of rock that's mostly covered with water.

Jack gives him a wry grin. "We only ever managed to get it to work for thirty seconds."

Adam looks interested. "Hmm. Would that be thirty seconds of battery life?"

"The things I could do with thirty seconds of battery life." Jack muses, then replies. "No, they'd be alive for thirty seconds and then die again." he says. "We couldn't get them to wake up again, no matter how many times we tried. And I'm sure you're aware more than anyone of the difference between a corpse and a mostly-dead but still with a spark of life body. They were corpses, never to rise again. Simple as that."

Adam leans his head back, looking at the walls of rock and overhanging scrubby brushes and trees above them "So basically it's essentially useless aside from its novelty value."

"It's pretty noisy, too. They scream a lot." Jack adds. "Not that useful unless you're the kind of person who gets off on it for the amusement value."

"Grates on the ears a little unless they're really reacting to something someone's doing, I've always found." Adam replies. "Unless they can control it, even the people who have a fascination for it tend to find it boring after a while or several goes. The novelty wears off." He pauses. "Did you manage to question any of them? You'd think you could get at least a few answers out of them."

"To be honest, it was mostly 'oh god I'm dead' and they're rather inclined to ignore anyone else. The screaming takes up most of the time, and occasionally we managed to get a name, but then they started screaming again." Jack says.

"I could see your dilemma." he pauses, cocking his head. "Do the Nazis know?"

Jack grins, shaking his head. "Doubt it. There were very few people who knew about that bit - the only thing most people who seem to have any idea about its existence knew was that it could bring people back to life. Which of course is the important bit that gets re-told. And if they're paying you, they really probably don't know. I doubt Hitler wants something that's only just a toy all that much." He sticks his hands in his pockets, and then pauses and asks, genuinely curious. "How much are they paying you, anyway?"

"Oh, an obscene amount, really." Adam grins. "It's a terribly burden on my conscience that I'm probably overcharging them. But then they set the price, and I did point out all the possible dangers."

"Of which there are many in a mission that consists of a plane and train ride and then hike across inhospitable jungle." Jack agrees.

"The inhospitable part was weighing greatly on my mind." Adam says. "And the airline food, too, of course."

"We can't possibly forget the food." Jack grins. "Did they include your beer bill?"

Adam taps his stomach, thoughtfully. "I honestly hadn't even factored that into the calculations. I really must make a note of that the next time someone hires me to go on a not very arduous wild goose chase."

"Expenses are an important part of any negotiation. Especially when they're essential expenses that count as survival tools." Jack says, then pokes him with the toe of his boot. "Are you considering getting up any time soon?"

"I'm not entirely sure, this is starting to feel comfortable." Adam replies. "But you're right, I really should consider my expenses next time."

"You mean you just can't be arsed to get up unless I help you." Jack says.

"I've no idea why you'd think that of me." Adam says, grin tugging at the corner of his mouth as he lazily raises his free hand for Jack to grasp.

They find the glove under a bush, courtesy of Jack's wrist device. Combing the area would have taken considerably longer, and unlike the journey to get here, he simply can't get the same amusement value out of combing several yards' worth of land for a not very big object. He's not exactly patient when it comes to this kind of thing. From where it is, it seems it fell out of the plane, rolled, and then wasn't disturbed since, unless it was by a passing animal or two that pushed it out of the way a few times in the intervening years.

Jack picks it up, examining it carefully as he brushes most of the last few years' worth of dirt off it. It appears to be made of something surprisingly resilient for all that it looks like it's made of common steel and in almost exactly the same fashion as a medieval armoured glove. There's not a dent or scratch on it from falling several hundred feet and bouncing, then rolling down a rocky ravine. It hadn't ever been tested for resilience when they'd had it, aside from an attempt to run tests to discover what type of metal it was made of, which had been fairly fruitless except to rule out that it wasn't steel or a steel derivative - at least it didn't react to any tests they had for identifying steel. It rather obviously wasn't bronze. The colour tends to give that kind of thing away. The most they knew about its resilience was that it could definitely survive a short-ish dip in salt water, so was probably fairly immune to rust. Since then it's mostly been sheltered from the worst of the elements, if it's spent most of its time under a bush and isn't in a climate where the ambient temperature varies much, and definitely doesn't freeze unless it's freak weather combined with some rather impressive climate change. And by virtue that it's survived a few years under a bush in journal means that it's almost certainly immune to anything that the animal world and plant world can throw at it.

Adam crouches down next to him as he retrieves it from under the bush, full of curiosity, and then watched as he examined it for damage and cleaned most of the dirt off of it. "That's it?"

"In the flesh." Jack says, holding it up to the light to squint inside it, before tentatively putting his hand inside to make sure that no passing animals have decided to leave a surprise or two in it. Fortunately for him, it's completely clean, if a little dusty. "We're lucky. Not a scratch on it."

Adam takes it from his hands, turning it over and examining it. "Oh good lord. are you sure someone's not having you on? I remember these very clearly. Cleaned the damn things - they were bugger to to oil properly and get the dirt off the hinges - helped people in and out of them, but I refused to ever wear the damn things or the suit of armour that came with it. Looked far too uncomfortable and heavy." He says disgustedly. "Not to mention that you had to have help getting in and out of it, no matter what. At least normal armour and a breast plate and backplate you could get out of it yourself with a bit of effort. You could barely move in the damn things, from what I saw, except creakily like one of those bloody clockwork toys. Not to mention if you fell over, you were stuck. Especially if you landed on your back. Looked like a sodding turtle on its back. Men used to be sitting ducks and either get stuck like pigs, trampled or drowned if the ground was too muddy. I really do give thanks for the invention of guns beyond the obvious reasons sometimes. It meant I'd never have to wear giant sheets of metal ever again as a means of protection. And then there's the sheer bloody noise of the things. Give me the position of an archer any day if I had to be somewhere near the battlefield in those days - you could at least move fast." He pauses. "It was quite amusing to watch the jousts, though." He turns the glove over again, poking at it. "As for armoured gloves themselves, I never figured out how you were supposed to keep a decent grip on your sword while using one."

Jack's looking amused. Adam going off on one is always entertaining. "They probably found a way. Are you quite finished being disgusted and reminiscing?"

"I can go on for days about the stupidities of plate armour, no matter how much protection they afforded you from weapons." Adam says dryly. "For starters, I'd be loathe to inflict that amount of weight on the poor horse, no matter how big they grew the things. And you were stuck in the saddle like lump. Couldn't move with it, couldn't go that fast or take too many turns, and heaven help you if you lost a stirrup." He frowns, peering inside it. "Are you sure it's not a joke and the original glove's not a small hand glove and someone swapped in the piece of armour to make it look more impressive for the gullible?"

"Quite sure." Jack says, still with the amused expression on his face. "I've seen it used. It won't work for me, but I've seen it used."

"So it doesn't even work for everyone. Interesting. Is there any way we can test it?"

"We tried it on a fly we'd swatted the first time." Jack provides. "Though we didn't know that we were testing it, since all it was that we managed to get them to buzz. In fly years, that's probably close to thirty seconds."

Adam starts looking for a dead beetle, finding one near the base of the bush, pulling it out and pulling the glove on, hovering over it before he touches it. "How does it work? Are there levers?"

"You just concentrate, apparently." Jack provides. "And it seems you're more likely to get a reaction if it's been killed rather than just died of natural causes. Mind you, the corpses it's normally easiest to get your hands on are the ones from murder scenes, so we don't know if we were just unlucky."

Adam gives him a look. "Very reassuring, I'll be sure to send you the doctor's bill if it all goes horribly wrong. And given that I am a doctor several times over, I know exactly how much I should be charging for something like this, including taking inflation into account and how much you as a person can technically afford."

Jack grins. "I'm looking forward to it. Will there be a stethoscope or prostate exam involved?"

"Only if you're especially good." Adam says, concentrating and touching the fly. After a couple of seconds, he recoils back, shaking his hand and pulling the glove offf hurriedly with the other. "Ouch! Did you put a bloody electric buzzer in there when I wasn't looking? I wouldn't put it past you."

Jack grins again. "I could say that you're entirely too trusting for a man of your age and experience, especially considering the circumstances and know me pretty well."

"It's my downfall." Adam says, then he narrows his eyes. "You knew it was going to happen, didn't you? You've been bloody monitoring it with that wrist device thing." He points out.

"No, I was checking the energy readings with this. Seeing if it turned on or not. This will normally detect that kind of energy." He replies, holding up his wrist for proof of why he was checking his wrist. "You managed to just about turn it on, if that helps."

"Oh, I'm very reassured." Adam says. "It still doesn't help the fact that you knew it was going to happen."

"I had my suspicions." Jack admits. "It did the same to me. The others who couldn't get it to work didn't get shocked, it just stayed lifeless. Apparently you're supposed to feel a mild surge up your arm when it's active. I think it dislikes those with an excess of life handy."

"And it still doesn't work for more than half a minute when you do get it to work. Does it at least go some way to healing the wounds of the corpse?" Adam asks.

"Not a sausage." Jack shrugs. "We'd examined them before and after, there was no difference."

Adam picks it up, turning it this way and that bemusedly. "Well, I've seen people spend more money on something ten times as useless and half as decorative. At the very least you could use it as a paperweight, or possible use to when you wanted to hit something really hard." He pauses. "Mind you, I'd probably advise using padded gloves if you wanted to put your hand inside it and hit someone with it. Unpadded armour gives you almost as many cuts and bruises as getting hit with something." With that, he wraps it in a cloth he pulls out of his bag, then rearranges the items in his bag so he can put it at the bottom so it won't jostle about too much, hefting the bag for weight. "And still just as bloody heavy as I remember them being." He grumbles.

Lookit! sighting of 'just a guy'! Finally!

burntozone@googlemail.com — Sat, 01 Dec 2007 00:48:22 GMT

actual word count : 52,165
place I should be at : 50,000
reason for negligence : thpppppbbbbbbbbbt
word count for today : 2,801 this bit

Jack gets on the train at Algiers, spotting a familiar face as he makes his way down the carriage, sitting down opposite him. "What brings you to this part of the world, then?"

"Flitting around. You know how it is." The seated man says, putting his ticket in his book as a bookmark. "How've you been, Jack? War treating you well?"

Jack shrugs. "It's treating me like war. What name are you going at the moment?"

"Adam Daniels will do for now." The man says, smiling slightly and leaning back, long fingers toying with the edge of the ticket sticking out of its place between the pages.

"I'm sensing a trend here." Jack says, putting his elbows on the table. "We've had Benjamin Adams, Adam - Rhys was it? There was Adam Carter back in the fifteenth century, I remember that. And the Arabian variation in the eleventh century."

The slight smile stays on. "I've got a strange sense of humour."

"Bamboozle them with the truth for all to see." Jack says.

"Unlike some people who haven't bothered changing their name for the past several decades." Adam observes. "What happened there? What's so special about Jack Harkness as a name?"

Jack shrugs. "I got attached to it."

"Like this time period? I always did mean to ask you why you seem to have settled in Britain and adopted that agency."

"Suppose I just wanted to settle down for a bit." Jack says. "Happens to us all. The agency was something to do, and it's not like I'm around them all the time."

"Yes, let's not forget the way you seem to seek out any wars in the area. You can choose other professions aside from soldiering and secret agent, Jack, it is possible. Though perhaps you're still working the danger addiction out of your system."

"You can talk." Jack grins. "Who spent all that time as a Horseman?"

Adam inclines his head in acknowledgement. "Touche, Jack." They pass the rest of the journey talking confortably of old times and stories. It's not often you can have the first time someone met you being the second time you'd met them, and they're younger now than they are the first time round. The man currently known as Adam just learned to accept it whenever the man appeared in his life. He'd been in Cardiff when he found a changed version last century, barely been there three hours and looking somewhat shocked. Your first death tends to do to you. Not to mention totally innappropriately dressed for the period, which was unheard of for the man currently calling himself Jack Harkness. Leather trousers weren't quite de rigeur in Victorian Cardiff, at least not in that part of town. He'd settled into the situation soon enough, but those first couple of hours of Jack being shocked and numb were a different experience for Adam, to say the least. Jack had seen him in all kinds of states, but Jack had always been the irrepressible confident trickster no matter what, who never, ever stuck around for longer than the job required. From there he suddenly became rooted, at least for Jack, and possibly a little more serious underneath it. It's been interesting, if nothing else.

They say their goodbyes at Tunis. Jack's overnighting and then catching the morning train to Gabes. "Want to get a drink? I'm buying."

"Good lord, it does seem to happen occasionally." Adam says.

"Unlike your habit of showing up and drinking whatever I've got in stock dry." Jack says. "I've always wondered what might happen if you ever ran a brewery. There'd be no profits."

"I've run a brewery, and it was quite successful, thankyou." He shakes his head. "Unfortunately, I can't stop. I have to meet a man."

"I think the miracle has really happened if you're refusing a free drink and a chance to get me back for all the times I left you with the bill." Jack grins. "See you around."

Adam nods, hefting his bag and walking out of the station.

Jack checks for any messages at the post office. There's not been any updates in the information they've managed to intercept, so he'll continue on and try to get the glove before the Nazis can.

However, he's on his way to Gabes when he sees Adam in the corridor. On spotting him at the other end of the carriage, he leans against the wall of his end and just waits. A few things seem to be falling into place, since Jack has never believed in coincidences. Spending a formative part of your life as a time agent does that to you. When Adam gets to him, he says "Fancy seeing you here, Jack. We seem to be travelling in the same direction. So what's a nice boy like you doing on a train like this?" He's not giving an ounce away from his expression, seemingly pleasantly surprised.

Jack just raises an eyebrow. "Very funny. I should've known. You're who they hired to get the glove. Why?"

"They pay exceedingly well for what amounts to a wild goose chase." Adam says. "Would you prefer to continue this in a compartment? It's far more comfortable."

"Lead on." Jack says, shoving his hands into his pockets and sauntering after him as the train rattles along its way.

In Adam's compartment, Jack leans against the door. "Axis, though? I thought you had better taste." He can guarantee he doesn't hold with most of their cause and beliefs, and as for the Third Reich concept - well, he's certain Adam probably laughed himself sick when he heard that one.

"You of all people should know that wars are just a matter of sides. I've been on every possible side you could think of in wars, sometimes three at once. They're paying me very well to retrieve an artefact that only a few people have seen, one of them being you - it wasn't much of a stretch to figure out that you were on a mission to get it if you were appearing in Algiers and heading in the same direction I was." He settles more comfortably in his seat. "I've got a plane waiting for me at Gabes. Fancy some company on your journey to Tiaret?" He grins. "I believe the phrase you're looking for is 'may the best man win'."

Jack grins back. "I don't think either of us could claim that title."

As they make their way from the landing strip at Tiaret, Adam looks at Jack as they make the journey on foot. "Are you following me or am I following you?"

Jack shrugs. "I'm seeing if you know where it is and how good the intel the Nazis got was." It's true. He's been strolling along beside Adam, careful not to direct their progress. It's partly for his own amusement, and partly to track exactly how well the Nazis plotted and extrapolated the intelligence they somehow managed to extract from anyone the original thieves told or the pilot managed to gibber out.

He's still wondering exactly why he was in such a forgiving mood on that day. If he'd been sensible, he'd have found some way to kill the pilot - pushing him out of the plane would have been easy enough, and it's not as though he hasn't done something like that before, and he's had enough experience to know that leaving people alive like that always comes back to bite you on the arse later, at the most inconvenient times - misplaced mercy and misplaced leniency especially are stupid, stupid human emotions. On the one hand, he's slightly amazed that anyone managed to get anything coherent out of them or gave credence to their stories, but on the other hand, he knows the potency of any slight rumour like that. people will always pass on a tale about a glove that has the power to resurrect someone from the dead. So on it went, barman to campfire tale to joke to the ears of people willing and desperate enough to ferret out the truth of such a rumour. The Nazis are willing, desperate, have the money and the sheer bull-headed efficiency and pedanticness to track such a story to its bare bones of truth and origins. They can be equally self-deluding - they're normally held up as one of the most self-deluding examples of history when it comes to invented mythic origins, see the concept of the master race or Aryan purity, and then the sheer amount of Jewish ancestry several of their leaders had - but they're like bloodhounds sometimes when it counts.

Adam looks amused. "Very clever. Feel like giving me any pointers?"

"Only if you go spectacularly wrong." Jack rejoins. "You'll know when I start laughing at you."

"Not an uncommon experience with you, so you might want to be a little more specific when I do." Adam says, knocking some grass to the side with his foot. "I'm quite aware you're doing this for your own amusement."

"Self-awareness is a great trait to have in the field." Jack says.

They're tracking along a fairly heavily wooded path that leads to a clearing. In the clearing, Adam stops, consults the map again and then his compass, then the angle of the sun as it comes through the trees. Jack's been hanging a bit, and walks into the centre of the clearing, tipping his hat back to squint into the sun, then leaning down to trace a vine with his finger. "You take me to all the best places, Adam." He flips open his wrist computer and taps a couple of buttons, before closing it again.

Adam gives him a look. "What about now?"

Jack shrugs and sticks his hands in his pocket, adjusting his hat. "Well, the last time I saw it in the flesh, it was before it fell out of the plane. There was a fight in the back, the door got kicked open, and the glove fell out when I was trying to level the plane out. We did a bit of a recce and I got a fix on its co-ordinates and location at the time, but that's about it."

Adam raises a rather expressive eyebrow. "And that was..."

"Oh, about nineteen thirty-something. Nineteen thirty seven?" Jack hazards breezily. "Of course, it's possible it's moved since then. Not that likely, what with the fact that it's the middle of the jungle and its last co-ordinates were half-way down a ravine. Within, oh, about twenty yards at the distance I was getting the readings from. You've got to be closer to be more accurate, and it's a bit more difficult to get perfect readings when you're above it rather than getting them at the same latitude." He flips his wrist, the one with the distinctly odd leather wrist cuff that Adam's never seen him without in all the time he's known him. Well, except for when he was bathing, but even then it rarely left his side. Adam doesn't know what on earth it shows. It seems to show different things at different times, and Jack managed to get all kinds of meaning from it. Everything from the weather in three days' time to what kind of poison an otherwise appetising looking meal contained to an entire library seemed to be on that wrist cuff with the pressing of a couple of buttons. He wasn;t above using whatever information he got from it to appear mysterious and superior - Adam had looked on with amusement several times over the years and seen him bamboozle someone or gain access quite easily to somewhere after absorbing whatever information the device had stored on it had given him. "I've got a reading and fix now, if that reassures you." he grins. "Not that I'm going to tell you what the reading is." The grin turns dirty, one side of his mouth curling up. "No matter what you do to me."

"The list is long and varied." Adam says dryly, with just a hint of innuendo in his voice.

"And you're very good at all of it, I know." Jack replies, just this side of impish. "Which one're you going to try to get it out of me."

"At this rate I'm not going to do any of them, just to see you explode with frustration, Jack." Adam replies, then glances at the wrist cuff. "I have never understood that bloody wrist thing. It's not actually magical, is it?"

He'd thought it was magical for a very long time. The sheer range of uses only bolstered the case for it being magical - just because he'd seen it in action several times and knew exactly where Jack got all of his information that he hadn't absorbed from his experiences and learning (and it had always been very, very clear that Jack Harkness was a man of extensive learning, no matter what his experience at the times Adam had met him throughout the ages) and could pull off the top of his head, didn't make it any less magical. There'd been nothing like it that he'd seen in his long travels and really extensive experience, so its best fit and description was some sort of extraodinarily accurate and wide-ranging of use seer device that only Jack knew how to manipulate and call forth wonders from. Calling forth wonders was accurate, at least - the projection of pictures made of light of solid objects he'd seen a few times when Jack had wanted fast results and to hell with what anyone thought of his possible witch or blessed status could definitely be described as a wonder. He's still only seen such detail in photography and cinema, and that still doesn't explain the fact that the image seems to be viewable from all angles as though it was an object rather than a light projection, completely leaving aside the fact that a few extra touches of the buttons can get the image of the object to open up to show the insides and zoom in like a strange combination of architects' model and microscope. As science advanced down the ages, a couple of the tricks of it seemed a little less magical, but most of it's still entirely a mystery. A man he met in the pub once came up with a concise turn of phrase that sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic, which seems to describe most scientific advances to the layman in Adam's experience.

Jack grins at that, looking slightly impressed. It's probably the first time Adam's come out and said it, even though the industrial revolution has kicked in and stayed around for quite a while now, showing no signs of fading and being crushed by ignorance and backlash any time soon. "Good old fashioned science." He says. "You'll get there some day."

Adam raises an eyebrow. "So if you're using it like a particularly advanced compass, what's to stop me using it in exactly the same way?"

Jack unbuckles the cuff and hands it to him. "Be my guest." He grins. "Just return it when you're done, I like my toys in good condition and I'm pretty attached to them." His wrist looks oddly naked without it, since it's so rarely off, the flesh underneath always pale and hairless due to practically no exposure to the elements or sun for decades.

Adam undoes the poppers of the top flap, and pulls it back to reveal the screen and set of buttons next to it that he's seen Jack use many, many times. Tentatively pressing a button brings up graphs and calculations and scientific diagrams and what appear to be numbers in several different languages with alphabets he hasn't the first clue about scrolling across the screen. He sighs, shaking his head in good-natured defeat, handing it back to Jack, who puts it back on his wrist. "Might as well be cuneiform to an illiterate Elizabethan pig farmer."

"You missed out the advanced algebra to a courtier portion." Jack says, still looking amused, since he knew Adam had no chance in hell of reading it.

"You're a smug bastard when you want to be."

Jack grins. "I take all my cues from the master of the artform before me." He pauses. "Don't worry, the basics of this thing are being worked out this century."

Adam raises an eyebrow. "Precisely how basic are we talking about?"

"Pretty basic." Jack admits. "But they'll understand the principles of it and how it works."

"Hmm. And how far in the future did you get it?"

"A few thousand years." Jack says.

"Very reassuring."

"It's not the latest model." Jack shrugs.

"Makes me feel so much better." Adam says dryly.

Jack grins cheekily. "I try."

Seeing Jack off. Also, bacon sandwiches

burntozone@googlemail.com — Tue, 27 Nov 2007 01:38:48 GMT

actual word count : 43,569. oh yeah.
place I should be at : 43,333
reason for negligence : hah! did it!
word count for today : this bit, 1,267

The airfield's cold in the early morning hours. Dawn's a fair way off yet - a good couple of hours, at least. The late autumn part doesn't help, as the cold has really started to set in. There's no snow just yet, but the frost is getting entrenched and declaring its intentions to stick around and refusal to be shifted. It's coating pretty much everything, and the ground crews are having fun making sure it doesn't start to get on the cockpit windows once the planes are brought out from under cover in their hangars. In the meantime, everyone else is stamping their feet to keep warm.

An RAF pilot - not currently dressed in his uniform, rather, in his civilian clothing - walks through the hangars and crew to the door of one of the hangars, where a female figure's standing outside it, watching the bustle to and from the planes and smoking a fag. She's not in uniform either, but holds the rank of colonel. She hasn't had a drink yet, desperately needs one, and has so far smoked her way through three fags, is on her fourth, and has told a total of sixteen assorted ground crew, army officers, and aides to fuck off because she's not interested in talking right now. She doesn't turn around when the pilot arrives by her side.

"Took you long enough." She states, blowing another stream of smoke into the cold air. Everyone looks like they're smoking in this weather, even the few who don't. "Where've you been? Let me guess, someone else's bed, right?"

"You know me too well, Jenny." Jack Harkness grins, rummaging in the pocket of his coat for the package in there.

"Which one was it this time? That singer down the Pigalle? One of your nancy boy pilots?" Jenny Sparks asks, turning to face him.

"Nope, the MI5 agent with the great bone structure." Jack says.

"That Wigram? The one you said has amazingly bloody talented fingers?" She says, taking another drag. Jack grins in response. "Surprised you can walk straight from the stories you've told me about what he's like in the sack."

"And they're all true." Jack says, still grinning. "I've really got to shag him more often."

"Dunno how he'd fit into your busy schedule of being sneaky for your agency and falling out of everyone else's bed." Jenny replies. "Anyway, you were nearly late this morning."

"Jenny, I'm rarely late. I'm on time." Jack says, finishing rummaging in his pockets for the package, finally getting it out. "Anyway, I brought you these." he passes the package to her, which looks and smells exactly like bacon sandwiches wrapped in greaseproof paper. Unwrapping the package proves that the senses don't lie. At least not when it comes to bacon sandwiches. "Bet you haven't had breakfast yet."

Jenny takes them gratefully. "You, sunshine, I suspect of being an angel in human form. A fallen one who's been thoroughly debauched, admittedly, but there's a few angelic qualities hiding in there." She pauses. "Don't suppose you could see your way to producing a drink, could you?"

"The greasy spoon I got these from doesn't stock it. And the pubs weren't open at this time of the morning." Jack says, shoving his hands back in his pockets as Jenny stubs out her fag and puts the unsmoked part back in the packet to smoke later. Right now, the bacon sandwiches are taking priority. Bacon sandwiches take priority in most people's book. They may not be a luxury - or at least they won't be until rationing sets in properly - but they have a special place in the British psyche, due to their effect on the tastebuds and hindbrain. Few are the times in recent history that someone has refused a bacon sandwich. Those who prefer tomato sauce over brown sauce have a cool understanding with those who prefer brown sauce, having come to an agreement many years ago that all-out war is unprofitable and might affect the quality of the sandwiches, which would cause both sides to go into revolt.

"You couldn't have stolen some from the officer's mess?" Jenny asks, taking a bite of her sandwich.

"Also closed at this hour of the morning." Jack says, amused. He waits for her to finish that half before speaking again. "Where're you off to?"

"Mission in Europe." Jenny says. "Being dropped over Germany. Heard you're off to retrieve some artifact Hitler wants and you bastards lost in the thirties."

Jack nods, smirking. "Mmm. The warm, sunny climes of Africa beckon, I'm afraid to say."

"Bastard." Jenny says, with feeling. "The snow's going to be at least five inches on the ground in Germany, from what the weather reports say."

"Well, think of it this way, if it helps. I'll be coming straight from Africa straight into a British winter, if it takes as long as I think it will." Jack replies.

"Any idea where you'll be going or're you chasing someone?" Jenny inquires, unwrapping the second half of the sandwich and biting into it.

"I know where the bloody thing is, it's just stopping their agent that's my mission." Jack says, then says in aggreieved tones. "It'd be better for all of us if it got destroyed, then we wouldn't have to worry about it getting nicked or targetted. We don't want to bloody use it."

Jenny raises an eyebrow as she finishes chewing and swallowing that mouthful. "One of those bleeders, is it? More trouble than it's worth?"

"And then some." Jack sighs, shaking his head. "What time's your flight?"

"Whenever these bastards get their act together." Jenny says, gesturing at the ground crews. "Yours?"

Jack looks at his watch. "Twenty minutes or so, it looks like. Passenger flight, not a special one."

"Drink any drinks they offer in my name, sunshine. Doesn't look like I'm going to get any until I land at this rate." Jenny sulks, tucking into the last of her sandwich.

"You can't get any off the ground crew?" Jack asks.

"We're not all like you, sunshine, able to charm the knickers off the nearest breathing thing." Jenny replies once she's finished that, screwing up the paper and tucking it into her pocket. "Think I called too many of 'em tossers earlier for that."

"You brought it on yourself." Jack smiles.

"Curse I have to bear." She shrugs, pulling out her fags and lighting the one she'd only got partway into last time, before the bacon sandwiches appeared and took her attention away from it. She takes a puff on it, gesturing with it in the cold air. "Looks like you'd better get your arse in gear; don't think your lot'd be too happy if you missed your plane."

Jack shoulders his bag. "Good luck on your mission and see you around, Jenny." He says.

"Not if I bloody see you first." Jenny retorts.

"Depends which of us can get the jump on the other." Jack grins, picking her up and hugging her tightly.

Jenny pushes at the embrace. "Shove off, you over emotional Yank imitating tosser." Jack squeezes her harder and puts her down, smirking. She narrows her eyes and sends an electric spark up his arse, shocking him.

"Ow! What was that for?" He asks, rubbing at the derriere in question.

" 'S what you get for nearly crushing me fag." Jenny retorts, taking another drag on it.

"Never change, Colonel Sparks." Jack says, turning and leaving across the sparkling airfield, the frost twinkling with a harsh gleam in the dark and remnants of starlight.

Jenny watches him go, finishing off her fag.

It has a point, honest. plot merit. Special Journalistic Purposes.

burntozone@googlemail.com — Tue, 27 Nov 2007 01:29:32 GMT

actual word count : 42,302 with this bit
place I should be at : 43,333
reason for negligence : shush. look at the very pretty men.
word count for today : this bit, 4,662

The room's dimly lit, only one lamp on in the corner. On the hatstand, there's two coats - one RAF greatcoat, heavy and practical, complete with the bars on the epaulettes that indicate the man who owns this coat has the rank of Group Captain. The other one is a well tailored, obviously expensive one, which probably isn't quite as warm as the greatcoat, but will certainly do for the depths of a British winter. Above it on the coatstand are one fedora and an RAF cap, hanging above their respective coats. On the small table next to the hatstand are two pairs of gloves and two scarves, tossed on there carelessly. On the chair next to it, there's two Jackets - one RAF with the Group Captain stripes on the sleeves, one suit Jacket, tailored beautifully to fit with the coat and fedora it belongs with. They're folded over it carefully.

The owners of the clothing are in their shirtsleeves. Earlier they'd been drinking - the heavy glasses are on another table in another room, still with some brandy in them, but they'd been abandoned. Their previous users are otherwise occupied in more interesting pursuits than sipping brandy, however good it is.

Jack Harkness is currently engaged in the pursuit of kissing an MI5 agent against the inside of the door of his room. They'd walked into the room, Wigram shutting and locking the door behind them, calmly hung up their hats and coats and placed their Jackets on the chair, then Jack had stepped forward, cupping Wigram's face and kissing him, before moving his hands to the spy's waist and pushing him up against the door, one hand going up to his shoulder to keep him there while he explores his mouth, Wigram kissing back open mouthed, absorbed in the first moment of the heat of their mouths connecting and re-connecting, not even at the tongue's stage yet, just kissing, pressed together, hands shifting restlessly across the other's backs and shoulders, cupping a shoulderblade here, the other's lower back there, the heat of their palms skating over shirt material. Wigram's is far better quality, fine linen, while Jack's is a rougher cotton. It's much finer than the shirt of an army man, most parts of the RAF officers' uniform are, but still not anything you'd get on Jermyn Street or Saville Row. Hands smooth across it, clutching here and there momentarily no matter what the quality, though.

Eventually, they pause, Jack leaning his forehead against Wigram's, both breathing heavily in the quiet, the crackle of the fire at the wall barely punctuating the blanketing silence. Otherwise, the only sound they can hear is the pounding of blood in their ears, the first flush of want fading a little as they regain their demeanour and get their breath back. Jack drags his palms from where they've currently settled on Wigram's shoulders, pressing in heavily, up to Wigram's neck to hold him still as he kisses him again, a bit less frantically, thumbs pressing into his jawline, fingers cupping the base of his skull and holding him still as he kisses him, Wigram tilting his head back slightly and kissing back before drawing back, shifting his hands so they're more firmly placed on Jack's hips, where they'd slipped to, then getting a decent grip. With that, he takes a breath, pushing Jack back a step, and using the leverage he's got on Jack's hips to turn him around and shove him into the wall, pinning Jack against the wall with his hips, skating his hands up Jack's sides before cupping his head and positioning it at the the right angle for him to dive in and take control of the kiss, long fingers threading through the short clipped hair at the base of Jack's neck.

Jack brings his hands back up to where they'd been on Wigram's neck before their positions against the door had been reversed. He grins inwardly. Wigram's always been a bit of a control freak, to use a term from another age. Underneath the smooth demeanour, not that far at all underneath, is an absolute hatred of not being in control of any situation. It's quite well known amongst the spy community; he uses the smooth demeanour to skate over topics and situations, guiding them gently with a deft hand and smooth tones, a raised eyebrow and languid but firm gestures, rarely letting his temper overcome him. Because rare is the situation that the loss of temper keeps control of the situation - it's normally the indicator that you've lost your grip on it. So, quite simply, Wigram likes to stay in control and keep the upper hand in any situation, whether it's the direction of a conversation, questioning a witness or suspect - several times the two are interchangeable - running an investigation, or during sex or any form of dalliance that comes close to it. Especially sex. He has no problem with the sex of his partners and is just as picky in his choice of them as he is in his choice of clothing, never settling for anything but the best or a specific reason for it. If it's not his choice or idea he's almost certainly not going to go along with the situation, even during seduction he has no problem with stopping it right then and there if he considers it beneath him or not of interest.

Jack Harkness has absolutely no problem with Wigram's need to be in control and rather enjoys it; was looking forward to it, in fact, from the first moment they'd agreed with looks and glances and turns of phrases and emphases on words that this would be what the evening was leading up to. He's happy with most directions of sex, and pushing against a partner who's taking control of the direction is fine by him. Wigram's always been intense under the louche demeanour, both of which are definite turn-ons under any circumstances. Combine that with the instance of control when the man loses the languid demeanour and it's even more of a turn-on. He's looking forward to it. Helps that Wigram's really good in bed too, of course.

They kiss in silence, less frantically than before, but with more purpose, fingers tangling in hair and in each other's grip until Wigram shifts the focus of his mouth, one hand sliding to the base of Jack's head and cupping it, tilting it back as their mouths break, then applying his mouth to the side of Jack's neck, biting and licking up it, before sucking at the point just under Jack's ear, moving onto worry at the rest of that side of his neck. Jack groans slightly at the sensation, hands slipping down to his shoulders and holding on. He grins a little, as there's a definite focus to this. "Had a bad day?" Jack asks, as Wigram's thumb presses into the point under his other ear, well-manicured thumbnail digging in slightly.

Jack lets a groan slip again at that move as Wigram mouths back up to his ear, taking the lobe in his mouth and nipping it before moving back just enough to murmur "Frustrating, rather."

Jack grins. "Thought so."

Wigram takes his earlobe in his teeth again, worrying it slightly before releasing it and licking up the rest of his ear, dipping into the whorls, pausing in his path back down the side of Jack's neck again. "Do shut up, Jack."

"Got it." Jack murmurs, just loud enough to hear as his hands shift to Wigram's back, palming and clutching at the shift and play of his back muscles. Wigram tilts his chin back up, kissing him and nipping at his lower lips as his other hand palms down Jack's front, fingertips dragging slightly before he hits Jack's belt, pausing before he turns the hand around, twisting his wrist before cupping Jack's cock, pressing his palm in with just enough pressure to hear Jack groan, breaking the kiss as he does so. Wigram smirks, moving his head to one side slightly, nipping at Jack's lower lip. Then he moves his palm on Jack's cock, rubbing slightly with the heel of of his hand to get another groan out of Jack. He's always enjoyed getting this kind of response out of Jack, learning quickly how to elicit some of the more enjoyable sounds out of the oh so experienced captain who's seen and done everything, if all the rumours and the way he carries himself are anything to go by. He's quite aware that learning how to turn Jack on quickly and knowing his hot spots isn't uncommon, far from it - in fact, the man's been known to get turned on very fast by damn near anything, but knowing how to elicit those groans is always good. And Jack groans very satisfyingly. Jack, as he can assure anyone, has no problem with Wigram learning how to push his buttons and using that knowledge to his advantage.

Wigram shifts his hand from Jack's cock back up to his neck, dragging his thumb up the center of his chest roughly, pausing to brush his fingertips across Jack's nipple before taking hold of his tie, pulling at the knot to loosen it enough that it's hanging down, undoing the buttons of the shirt carefully, pressing forward with his hips slightly to keep Jack in place while his hands are busy with his shirtfront, pulling the shirt out of his trousers and then pushing at the vest, rumpling it up enough that it comes free from the trousers as well, slipping his fingers up under the vest to get at the skin of Jack's stomach, pressing in and skating up his stomach with a firm touch, nipping firmly at Jack's neck as he does so, licking slightly at the hollow above his collarbone before biting, open mouthed, at it. Jack's got his head tilted back against the door, hands on Wigram's arse as Wigram rubs his fingers against the skin of Jack's stomach and ribs, exploring around and pushing his vest up by increments. Jack makes a pleased sound somewhere deep in his throat, leaning forward again and kissing Wigram, getting a firmer grip on his arse as he kneads the muscles there, cupping it and then shifting a little further down to rub at the sensitive spots where it joins his legs. Wigram closes his eye momentarily against the sensation before shifting his stance, nudging Jack's thighs further apart than they are with his knee, getting a thigh firmly between Jack's, shifting his balance and weight slightly to grind his weight against Jack's hips, to hear Jack do that throaty sound he always does when you do that particular action to him - not too much pressure, but just enough. He smiles to himself, and pulls back.

Jack opens his eyes to see the grin, breathing slightly more heavily due to the groaning that Wigram's been working out of him. "Enjoying yourself?" Jack asks, grinning cheekily.

"You might say that." Wigram drawls, stepping further back, disconnecting from Jack's body completely, leaving him leaning against the wall, shirt open, tie askew and vest rucked up, hair out of its smoothed configuration and with several red marks up his neck and mouth bruised by kissing, satisfied smirk in place. He thinks the best description of that picture might be debauched. Wigram smirks, raising an eyebrow. "Looks good on you, Jack."

Jack grins. "I try." He tucks his hands into his pockets. "Were you planning on doing anything about that?"

"Quite possibly." Wigram steps forward, taking hold of the tie and tugging Jack gently forward from the wall, before pulling it loose entirely, pushing his braces down and pushing the shirt down off his shoulders, thumbs stroking his well-muscled shoulders before letting go again. "If you'd see to your cuffs?" He asks, hands reaching for Jack's belt and undoing that Jack's fly, giving the trousers enough of a shove to let them fall as Jack gets rid of his shirt, bending quickly to undo Jack's laces before straightening again and helping him get his vest off, then shoving his shorts down as Jack steps out of those and his trousers, leaving them pooled on the floor. "Not bad." He comments. Jack's body really is a work of art, well-muscled and broad, tapering down to nice hips and a truly fabulous bum, muscled thighs and good calves and feet. And he's graceful with it. "Go sit on the bed, will you?"

"You joining me?" Jack asks cheekily as he walks toward it, swaying slightly to show off his arse. Wigram's eyes follow it a little. Jack's well known to have one of the best rear ends in the spy service or military.

"I somehow doubt that you're doubting that fact, Jack." Wigram replies dryly. He strips efficiently, refusing to make a show of it as he's seen Jack do on occasion. But then, Jack loves to put on a show and draw all eyes to him at all times. The man was really born for the stage, and he's heard that he did indeed spend some time on it. It wouldn't surprise him, even though he's clearly an agent and soldier through and through at times. Jack's lounging back on the bed when he's finished, clothing laid on a chair neatly folded.

As Wigram gets on the bed next to Jack, Jack asks "Have anything in mind?" Wigram sighs, leaning forward and kissing him to shut him up for a moment. Jack moves into the kiss gladly, arms coming up to embrace him slightly, before moving to his sides, caressing the skin there, a motion up down from there to his hips, then back up, down again, thumbs digging slightly into his hipbones and moving to whisper over the delicate skin over them. Wigram suppresses the shudder that threatens to go through him at that sensation. He licks into Jack's mouth, getting a quick sweep in before disengaging and reaching for the draw, pulling out the vial of oil in there. He coats his fingers, then gets Jack to lift up a bit, drawing his fingers down the cleft of his arse before circling the hole there, dipping his fingers inside before breaching the entrance. Jack makes a 'mmm' sound against his neck as he pushes first one, then two in there. "Oh, yeah." he sighs throatily.

Wigram licks a trail up his neck before taking his mouth again, exploring it fully and devouring it hungrily as he spans Jack's stomach with his other hand, feeling the muscles jump as he twists his fingers inside him. From there, he scrapes his fingernails down those same stomach muscles, feeling the shudder there and Jack flick his tongue against the top of Wigram's mouth as he does so, moving his fingers down to grasp Jack's cock, Jacking it as he works his fingers inside him. Reaching in a bit further and crooking them gets Jack to groan into his mouth and clutch at him spasmodically, cock leaking a bit. A few more jerks, ending with a twist at the top really gets Jack groaning into his mouth, spurting come across their bellies, chest pressing against his before sinking back down into the bed, Wigram removing his fingers as he does so, wiping them on a cloth kept on the nightstand for just such a purpose. He releases Jack's mouth, cupping his face as he does so, taking one last careful bit at his lower lip. Jack stretches lazily, hands reaching above his head before coming down to rest his hands on Wigram's arse. "Feel free to do that to me any time." He grins lasciviously, looking like the cat that got not just the cream, but probably the entire dairy. "And what were we going to do to you?"

Wigram rests his hand on Jack's chest, stroking it thoughtfully and circling a nipple with his thumb. "We'll get to that in a moment."

They lie there for a few moments, Jack cupping Wigram's arse, thumbs stroking the skin under them. After a bit he begins to move his hands in long strokes, lifting them a bit so that sometimes it's his entire hand in contact with the skin of his arse, sometimes just his fingers. He increases the strokes' range, moving them up to his back before starting the sweep to his arse, each time, the strokes going higher. One trail of his fingers follows the trails of sweat down Wigram's shoulderblades before becoming the full-palmed sweep when they reach his arse, then going further down so his fingers rub along the crease of where his bum meets the top of his legs, dipping down into the space between his thighs. From there he starts rubbing the part of the inner thighs where Wigram's very sensitive, enjoying the barely-stifled shudder that he gets from Wigram against his body. He moves his fingers back up to the top of his legs, rubbing there again before going back to the sweeps across his back and arse.

Wigram resumes the kissing, barely making contact sometimes, scattering them across Jack's jaw and neck and lips as he palms Jack's arms, echoing Jack's sweeps across his body with ones up Jack's arms and shoulders. He brushes the hair that's flopped over Jack's forehead back delicately as Jack regards him lazily, brushing another kiss across his jaw after he does so. Jack's a picture like this; he's utterly masculine, but is impossibly handsome, straying into gorgeous. Not a few someones in the service have pondered using him as a poster boy for recruitment and adverts - a dashing RAF pilot with the classic looks of a matinee idol could do the services no harm, unless of course you know what he's like. The last time it was raised, they'd pointed out they didn't want a bloody army full of fairies, which is what he'd probably well attract. Still, it's not a bad idea. Jack can flirt with the camera and cameraman all he wants, they just have to keep him away from the public. With his current agency work, that shouldn't be too hard.

Wigram's hard against Jack's hip, not anywhere near leaking yet, but Jack likes seeing how far he can get him before Wigram stops him from going any further, control freak to the end. He's very specific about coming at a time of his own choosing. Jack's pondered tying him to the bed or just putting handcuffs on him and going at him until he's helpless, which is a lot of fun with some of the stifled or controlling types, but most of the time he doesn't even bother thinking about it beyond said straight thought, let alone think of following through on the thought. Wigram's far too much fun like this as it is and has yet to get anywhere approaching boring. With the control issues in mind, Jack ceases his lazy stroking and follows the trail of sweat down Wigram's spine with his fingers, following it down into the crease of his arse, and down across his arsehole, just brushing it before stroking across the skin behind his balls, pressing in slightly before trailing back up to the crease, lazily following the path from base of his spine to just above the entrance, occasionally just brushing the edge of it. His other hand's engaged in teasing the skin on his inner thigh with light strokes. The fingers brushing down Wigram's arse-crack keep trailing up and down, now sometimes pressing lightly as they do and dipping into the entrance slightly. He can feel Wigram having to start control his breath and responses and starts to grin into the light kisses and bites Wigram's bestowing on his jaw and neck. As he starts to shift his hips slightly against Jack's hips - the real sign that he's really starting to be affected - Wigram draws back, glaring at him and panting slightly, pulling
Jack's arms back to the bedsheets. "Stop that."

Jack grins unrepentantly, enjoying the sight of the flush across Wigram's cheekbones, the high colour accenting them. Jack may be acknowledged by entire races as gorgeous, but Wigram's bone structure has always been something to behold, especially as it is currently, with the flush and sweat beading his skin. He pulls one hand from Wigram's grip and cups his face, stroking one thumb across a cheekbone. "But why should I?"

Wigram sighs, taking a long, controlled breath and letting it out again, the next words coming out more as a command than a request, as he tends to frame such things. "There's no hope for you, is there?" He shifts his weight off Jack and onto one hip. "Get onto your side, would you?" It's not exactly a request, since he's using his free hand to shift Jack as he says the words.

Jack complies readily with another grin as he's shifted into position, Wigram at his back and nestled in comfortably, one of his arms on the pillow above Jack's head, and the other ending up on his hip, stroking a line up his side before trailing it back down. He shifts his grip slightly, thumb pressing into Jack's back slightly as he completes another trail back up and down, this time palming his arse, trailing his thumb down the crease down the centre, and pressing down a little to feel Jack tense and shudder. He smirks to himself, since two can play at that game and Jack Harkness is a very responsive partner. He drags it down further, pressing into Jack's entrance where the muscles are still a little loose from where he had his fingers up there earlier, and then moves his finger on that path to stroke across Jack's cock and balls, cupping them and dragging the edge of his thumbnail up the side of Jack's cock. Jack was half-hard before then, his sensitivity tending to mean quicker recovery times than most men. This motion gets it to full hardness. Jack groans a bit, hissing out a breath. Wigram palms it, and says "Shhh, Jack. Quiet for a moment." He removes his hand from there, shifting Jack's leg up a bit to a better position for him, and then realises he can't quite reach what he needs from here. "Pass the oil, would you?"

Jack chuckles softly, reaching for the oil, his position giving him those extra few necessary inches of reach. "Your wish is my command." Somehow when he rolls back, he manages to shift so that Wigram's cock's nestled between his arse cheeks, rubbing slightly.

Wigram takes the oil from him, pushing him back a little with a reproving sigh of "Jack." Jack chuckles in response. he uses the oil to slick up his cock and fingers Jack, stretching him slightly before pushing in. There's not much resistance there after the earlier stretching and he slides in easily. Once he's in and got used to the sensation of the heat and tightness, he focusses his attention on the back of Jack's neck, biting and sucking a bruise into the base of it before paying attention to any other points. Jack groans at the slight pain, and hisses when Wigram runs his teeth over it, before moving onto Jack's shoulders and the rest of his neck, licking, biting and sucking lightly at points that take his fancy. He starts to move his hips slowly, in measured strokes that aren't too far off from rocking, really, rather than fully fledged hip movements. It's lazy, controlled fucking, which suits Wigram entirely. He strokes his other hand up Jack's thigh, stroking around his inner thigh and bypassing his cock, trailing his fingers up Jack's chest, toying with his nipples lazily as he rocks and explores Jack's upper back with his mouth. After a bit, the sensation - particularly after Wigram pinches one of his nipples and licks right across one of the more sensitive spots on his shoulder blades, Jack reaches for his cock. He'd previously been quite good, taking the sensation and letting it
build without doing more than occasionally letting his fingers skitter up Wigram's arm.

Wigram bats his hands away. "No, Jack. Wait. You'll survive, I'm quite sure of that." With that, he takes Jack's wrists and moves his hands to the bedsheets that've been shoved to one side by their actions, taking his hands and curling the fingers into the sheets. "Hold onto that for now, will you?" He asks mildly, going back to what he was doing, but not before reaching back down and running his thumb up behind Jack's balls and across his cock while he thrusts, properly this time, taking Jack's leg and adjusting it so he gets a deeper angle to thrust at. Jack visibly swallows from the way the muscles of his neck move, so he's almost certainly hit something that time, Jack's arm muscles tightening as he tightens his grip in the sheets.

What he was previously doing happens to be toying with Jack's chest, running his long fingers across Jack's muscles, pressing here and scraping there, massaging here and soothing there alternately. on occasion he strays back up to his nipples, scraping across one with a nail just to feel Jack tense and tighten around him. Rubbing across his collarbones with the tips of his fingers produces a sigh, as does stroking down his breastbone with a similar touch. After a while more of this, Wigram decides to move onto his thighs, kneading them and stroking up the insides but being careful not to get anywhere near his cock and balls. He doesn't want this to end sooner than he wants, and he's quite aware of Jack's body's tipping point.

Partway through rubbing a groove into Jack's hip, Wigram gives into temptation and bites lightly at the join of Jack's shoulder and neck, just above the tendon. Jack hisses, turning his head blindly into the motion. Wigram moves the hand that'd been resting on the pillow above Jack's head to get a fistful of Jack's hair, using the leverage to turn Jack's head round further, so his mouth's just in reach, kissing at the corners of that gorgeous mouth, as far as he can reach. Jack moans a little, trying to twist round further, and Wigram decides that now's a good time to start to speed things toward their inevitable end. Well, inevitable in this situation, and practically a forgone conclusion (or promise of a foregone conclusion) somewhere in the future when Jack Harkness is involved. He digs his hand into Jack's hip as he gets a better grip, thrusting faster and harder. Jack somehow gets a latch onto the fingers of his hand that's by Jack's head, getting them into his mouth and sucking lightly on them as Wigram thrusts, pulling Jack's body closer as he thrusts. Once he's so close to climax that he can nearly taste it, he lets go of Jack's waist, palming his cock and pressing in with the heel of his hand as he does so. Jack groans, letting go of his fingers. One final shove and he's coming, a quick stroke and pull ensuring Jack does too, arse tightening around Wigram's cock and milking the orgasm.

They lie there panting, shifting to tangle their feet together a little as they relax. Jack lets go of the sheet, petting his arm clumsily before rolling a little to reach the cloth he wiped his fingers on earlier, cleaning himself up a little and passing it back so that Wigram can clean himself up as he pulls out. Wigram gives it back and Jack deposits it on the night stand and shifting so they're in a more comfortable position. "Move in a minute," Jack yawns.

"You always say that and you never manage to." Wigram murmurs, reaching for the sheet and blankets, pulling them over them and settling into sleep with him.

Planning a wild goose chase

burntozone@googlemail.com — Tue, 27 Nov 2007 01:07:09 GMT

actual word count : 37,640 with this bit.
place I should be at : 43,333
reason for negligence : er? trying?
word count for today : this bit, 2,013

The conclusion is swiftly come to that Harkness will be taking a solo mission to retrieve the glove. He's a competent agent who can take care of himself and has no problem navigating difficult terrain and situations, from firefights and fistfights to anything that requires fast talking, in any number of locales and types of society. that's never been in dispute. Say what you will about Group Captain Jack Harkness, (and there's an awful lot said, most of it salacious or with a notorious edge, perhaps accompanied by a lot of cursing), one thing that has never, ever been disputed in the secret service or military orders that he's been a part of or connected to in his time is his competency at getting the job done.

From assassination to soldiering to finding something obscure and sweet-talking it out of someone, he is good at it and supremely reliable. He's a model soldier, able to follow orders or lead a band of men without a problem, very good in a tight situation, a master at improvisation, good with his hands and utterly ruthless when it comes to killing, can use nearly any weapon you give him, is a crack shot and won't blink an eye at making difficult decisions in the field or elsewhere. There's few others you'd rely more on to have your back in a bar fight. You can put him down in any society, any country, and he'll make his way. The number of languages he's completely fluent in covers a very long list, and some have even been subject to the rare privilege of seeing him reveal a grasp of conversational Latin and Ancient Greek that rivals the average Oxbridge scholar or British Museum department head, though it normally comes peppered with some slang they'd rather not know about. He's got the skills of a con man and his sleight of hand and ability to bamboozle is without par. His charm and ease in those situations where it calls for a deft touch, anything from appearing air-headed to utterly, utterly charming and gentlemanly, to the near lech and maker of off-colour remarks that most are familiar with in his day to day dealings is remarkable, using whichever seems to be most appropriate. Some have even been completely shocked when seeing him give off the appearance of utter sincerity and earnestness. (that one had to be given a stiff whisky and taken aside for a quiet word to make sure he didn't break Jack's cover) His ease in almost any situation has been remarked upon by several of MI6, who sometimes envy his ability to be at ease and fit into any level of society or situation. From upper-crust society party to barracks to guard duty to the worst dive on earth, he'd find a way to fit in. Those who've seen him snap from bon vivant to stoic soldier in the blink of an eye confess they find his chameleon capabilities a little unnerving. It's generally thought that probably the only society he might find himself standing out in would be a village fete, but even then he'd probably manage to slip behind a stall or find himself a role in the band as a singer or part of the entertainment and use his natural flamboyance to his advantage.

There's talk of back up, but most who are familiar with retrieval missions - especially retrieval missions where at least part of it's covert - concur that solo would be best, aside from meeting a contact or two at pre-arranged points. Extra people would only draw attention, and the likelihood of getting split up at a crucial point is probably fairly high. So battle plans and dates and times - the sooner the better - are drawn up. Probably the part that will take the longest time to arrange will be papers, but those can be put together in a day or so. From there, it's a matter of co-ordinating the flights and trains and providing Harkness with money and tickets. As for resources to take with him, he points out that travelling light will be best and he's navigated the terrain before. Once the papers, identity card and passport have been sorted out, he can get the first flight to Lisbon. From there he'll be going to Algiers, and from there the train to Tunis, under the cover of a tourist or businessman. From this point in time and viewpoint, it's fairly clear that the war and fighting will spill over into Tunisia at some point, but not yet. Tunisia is currently neutral, even if it is the studied neutrality of the Vichy regime, like Morocco. The Nazis are a presence but technically have no actual power. Hopefully it'll be a relatively quick mission and Harkness will be out of there before anyone invades.

Once the details have been sorted out, several of them adjourn to a club in the vicinity.

"I can't believe bloody Harkness and his sodding agency have managed to insert themselves into another job that you'd think would have nothing to do with them again." Cramwell of MI6 mutters, cutting the baccy for his pipe.

"To be fair, old man, it is their business this time, if Harkness is telling the truth about the
situation." Miller says, flicking the ash of his fag into the ashtray provided. The club frowns on anyone who's so careless as to drop it onto the carpet or the furnishings. "He's one of the few to have seen it, knows how it works, and knows its last known location. I'd say that gives him and his agency a rather large justification for having first crack at it. Not to mention he's probably the best an for sending on a any kind of wild goose chase or dropping into unknown territory. If nothing else, even if he doesn't come up smelling of roses, he'll have fought his way out of it and someone will be regretting the day they crossed him. Efficient in that way." He pauses. "And the nature of the device is somewhat odd, possibly weird and crossing into the downright fantastical, which you'll admit is their speciality."

"I just wish they didn't positively relish treading on as many people's toes as possible when going about what they perceive to be their business." Cramwell grunts. "The amount of times we've had a target set up, put hundreds of hours in to locating them, thinking of the best way to bring them in and source enough information just to get them into a situation we can grab them or compromise them, in swans bloody Torchwood. Often with Harkness at their head, making enough of an entrance that you'd think he was on stage. And then they bloody fuck it up, or just grab whoever it is from under our noses or just barge in and state that the investigation is theirs now. Amount of coppers I've heard them upset with that's impressive. My wife's cousin works for Scotland Yard and they hate Torchwood with a vengeance. Say there's nothing like when the body you've been about to use for evidence for bringing in some criminal on murder just disappears from the morgue, and all that's left is a note from Torchwood promising to return it when they're done with it."

Josephson walks up, drink in hand. "If you want to talk about things Harkness has buggered up, my favourite had to be when we were gathering evidence on the fact that a man we knew was definitely unreliable and blackmail prospect - we'd made notes and got photos of the rent boys he'd been using, we're preparing to pull him in and threaten him, at least get him under our thumb, when along comes his next conquest. Jack sodding Harkness. Who you couldn't put under pressure for any sexual peccadilloes in a million years, because he bloody boasts about it from the skies."

"And would probably try to proposition the King himself in front of Parliament or the Queen at a royal ball in front of as many cameras as possible if he thought they were attractive enough." Miller says, taking a drag from his fag.

"I'm not sure Her Majesty is his type." Cramwell sighs. "Not pretty enough. Probably try for a crack at the King, though."

Over by the bar, Harkness is leafing through today's paper. Barkley fetches up by the bar, gets a drink, and stations himself by Harkness. "Aren't you concerned about this wild goose chase at all, Harkness?"

"There's not much point in getting flustered over it." Harkness says, looking up. "Though if you want me to be, I'm sure I can try. Just for you, Barkley."

Barkley glares at him. "How you made it through even basic officer training without being kicked out for insubordination, I'll never know." Barkley's military from head to toe and if he had any say in it, Harkness would have been put on a charge as soon as possible. Unfortunately, the RAF clearly didn't seem to think so. Most of their pilots are undisciplined men as it is.

"Because I'm very, very good at my job, Barkley." Harkness replies, deadpan.

Barkley harrumphs, sipping at his drink, before rubbing his chin. "I met a man with your name once. One of those Eagle Squadron fellows, came over to fight even if the Yanks weren't involved yet."

Harkness raises an eyebrow, interested, and smirks. "It's a good name. Did he live up to it?"

"Oh, yes." Barkley replies. "Honourable, trustworthy, would've died for his men, great leader and inspiration, practically a poster boy in that respect - one that we could actually introduce to the public without some sort of incident, unlike you. Good company, too. Nothing like you, I'm sure his family would be happy to hear, you bastard."

Harkness grins. "What can I say, there's only one of me. Did he put on a good show? Tell me he was at least good looking."

"I'll give you that." Barkley replies. "Must be something in the water when it comes to the name - I've seen pictures of some of your relatives in the wars. All good looking bastards you probably wouldn't trust an inch if you met them in the flesh. As for putting on a good show, he died saving his men, from what I've heard, though he's been marked as missing. I'd put that down as a good showing. It's something you'll probably never do."

Harkness shrugs. "I'm not quite cut out for being the self-sacrificing hero." He refrains from mentioning that he's done precisely that, several times. The first time he died probably comes under that heading. And he's died for his men, died with them, or taken a blast or bullet meant for one of them more times than he could count during the first world war. Most of the time he made sure they didn't register him as dead, the confusion and noise and smoke taking care of that and their general disorientation and lack of sleep doing the rest for him. He normally shrugged it off as a near miss, grinned and kept going.

A couple of hours later, Wigram drifts over to the fire, drink in hand, to where Harkness is leaning against the lintel, staring into it, clearly lost in thought. "Do you ever drink in company, Harkness?" He queries.

Harkness looks up. Surprisingly to most people in the room, he doesn't grin on saying it. "Not when I'm on duty." He grins on the next line, though. "I can be persuaded into most things when I'm not, though."

"You're not on duty now." Wigram observes, sipping at his drink. "Live a little. I'm sure I can tempt you into some decent brandy."

"You found decent brandy? Your talents are impressive." Jack says, raising an eyebrow.

"I have my sources." Wigram demurs, coming to stand next to him and raising an eyebrow back. "Fancy sharing it with me?"

"I might be persuaded." Jack replies as the fire sparks, holding his gaze.