Newbie bearing fic
So I'm new and thought I'd bring with me a little ficlet to ease the introduction?
Title: A Bare Approximation Of What Might Have Been (or maybe once was)
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: I don't own it.
Summary: A series of moments that led to an ending and a beginning. Mostly Gen.
A Bare Approximation Of What Might Have Been (or maybe once was)
-
‘I do not-I’m not,’ you waver and cast a furtive glance at the legendary High King Peter, who looks terrifically young.
‘Don’t,’ he commands, though it sounds coarse with what must be, you realise, tears. ‘Please,’ he adds, yet he keeps his gaze away from you.
Together you stand in silence for a long time, wind whipping up the echoes of the bustle beneath you.
‘The coronation is tomorrow,’ he reminds you and is gone.
-
That was of course, anything but how it began. Sometimes you’re in danger of dwelling on it: how things started, that is, and at what point you really stepped away from the blissful naiveté of childhood.
You see, for a lot of your life you’ve played the happy sheep. People said that your Uncle was a brave man, a strong leader, and so this was how you saw him. It did not strike you that in that context brave was not a synonym for righteous, just as strong did not mean good.
There is a disconnection, now, from that past self. You had things, in a way you no longer do: they did not come with any weight as you chose not to look too carefully. You did not count the worry lines on Cornelius’ forehead, nor did you listen for the catches in Nurse’s voice as she sang you lullabies in secret.
If you were feeling daring you might admit to once wishing yourself a daring Telmarine crusader in the Young Age, fighting against the wild and bewildering Narnian barbarians.
-
The night before the battle you wander the musty corridors restlessly, mindful that you will not maintain the brave persona you have nurtured if you return to check the state of your armour yet again. It is this that leads to your accidental discovery of the High King, shredding mindlessly at the skin about his nails with his teeth.
He startles when he sees you and offers a comforting smile as he clasps your shoulder.
‘Don’t worry,’ he says kindly, ‘you’ll see. Good must prevail and all that.’
You don’t quite follow, but he seems not to mind your stunned silence as he slips past you in the direction of the main fire.
-
Standing in the vast caverns that twist their murky passages in secret from Aslan’s How, you feel the dank, dead air cling to you, as if with intent. You shift, slightly, so as to hide your hands from view and clench them, nails swift to your palms like every other time you’ve been afraid. Around you the Narnians seem not to feel the deadly chill, smell the awful musk, taste the ancient dust. This air, these stones, these people, know you don’t fit in, know you are not Narnian, know you carry in you the blood of Miraz and of all their ancestors’ nightmares.
-
There was a wives’ tale, that everyone knew and no one believed (at least, no one believed in the bustle of the castle at midday when such things can be jeered at with the comfort of the sun) it told of how the blood of the Narnians’ ran into the soil and it swallowed their souls and waits now for their vengeance. This is mocked with ease and you remember meals, when you were still at the beginnings of your growth so that you had the stretched limbs of a naiad with none of its grace, you remember the raised eyebrows and the sharp, husking murmurs of the soldiers as they sat on the benches and swapped tales of their days on boarder duty.
Back then, with your ill-fitting armour and false-confidence, you would keep mostly to yourself as you listened to these outrageous claims: men disappearing down holes or else without any trace at all, some gone for whole weeks only to return half mad for the certainty of the Narnian ghouls, and still more of strange coincidences and sightings. These tales were never treated as truth, but nor could they be entirely discounted: it was, after all, a well known fact that no trees would grow surrounding the strange and ancient monument where the Narnians made their last stand.
-
‘Time’s not constant, you know,’ Edmund tells you one day. The dawn is light and breathy in the air, the sun’s first light arching agilely in the skies. You keep your eyes fixed on the horizon, which has stretched under the weight of myths and responsibilities and things you’re not ready to face. Behind you the boy sighs a king’s sigh, ‘Not in the way you’d think.’
‘You are young again,’ you offer, keeping your eyes fixed ahead.
What you see is almost familiar.
‘Yes,’ Edmund agrees. ‘But that’s not all - it, well it bends.’ There is a pause. ‘Around things. Big things, because of space. Since they’re connected, space and time, I mean.’
You count your breaths, turn to face the man behind you and find instead a boy, younger than yourself.
‘I do not understand.’
‘No. No, it’s hard to explain, you see. In England - there are theories, and during lunch I read - because I don’t always -‘ Edmund interrupts himself again with a sigh. His brow has drawn together and his eyes are searching something past the horizon before he closes them and laughs a dull, humourless chuckle. It is not the laugh of a young boy. ‘Never mind,’ he says, opening his eyes again and settling his gaze once more on you. He no longer looks lost. ‘I’m only a kid, I’m too young to understand.’
-
When you first laid eyes on the High King you had been disappointed, his face was softened and youthful, his chin barely showing the ghosts of a beard. He had misjudged his opponent, losing his sword in a fit of temper, and remained bitter and petulant.
For some reason, though, you cannot draw your eyes away from him.
-
It is that night, with the echoes of ice and terror still sharp in your chest, that you begin to realise these legends are perhaps people as well as children and monarchs and ghosts and stories from drowsy nights listening to Cornelius. It brings with it no pleasure, nor relief, but something not entirely unlike disgust.
You find the four of them, cloaked in darkness, sitting huddled in corner. There is a fearful hush throughout The How and you are fleeing the thinly veiled distrust in the eyes of the Narnian’s when you stumble upon them. They do not see you - you’re learning how best to inhabit shadows - but seem intent on Peter.
He is ghostly pale, eyes wide, and may be shaking, just a little. Susan has her back to you and his hand in her lap, and Edmund has a piercing frown on his face. Little Lucy has her face pressed into her eldest brother’s neck.
You leave, quickly, but Peter’s terrifying, mindless whispers haunt your silent steps.
‘I’m so-bloody - he isn’t here - what a - a - pathetic, horrid - God I’m so weak - and she just - I didn’t even -her voice - you don’t-’
-
The next morning the High King’s fingers have brutally vivid welts about the nails that he hides in fists when he catches you staring.
-
You spend many nights with Edmund, telling him what little you know of Narnian history, Telmarine folklore and this inexplicable age which has left them untouched, younger, even. The twisting of time, the jarring arch that could lead to this - not even the nameless weight on the High King’s shoulders seems vast enough to cause that.
You swallow another question, this Aslan is synonymous with their hopes, it is best to leave them that still, surely.
-
‘It’s yours,’ you want to tell them.
You’ve spent your whole life with the expectation of the crown, yet this is not your crown and these aren’t your people. The steady points in your life have fallen away and your head is left spinning, nothing is what it was and still they expect you to lead. It is made no easier when your leaden steps are tracing the prancing of four mythical monarchs. You were raised to this role and even so, your robes do not fit as theirs do.
They were born to this life in a way that has very little to do with blood and everything to do with what you aren’t.
-
‘He doesn’t mean it, you know. It’s just, well, he’s scared, understand. We all are.’
You keep your gaze on the fire, which has the ghosts of magic in it. Around you the effigies of the ancient past dance, the carvings coming to life in the flickering light. You know this, but you refuse to watch them, because it will give authority to these children masquerading as your childhood heroes.
‘You do not seem scared to me.’
Edmund settles beside you and prods ponderously at the fire. ‘Narnia was ours, his especially, but we just lost it. And suddenly we weren’t royalty or important or special or adults and the closest shade of responsibility we could aspire to was the paper run or helping mother with the dinner. Everyone kept treating us like children, people that hadn’t ever had to carry a sword or weigh the rights of a man who killed in cold blood the murderer of his wife and children. People who hadn’t faced their every nightmare or learnt the true weight of guilt. They were all so young, yet we were younger still. And Peter was terrified of losing it, terrified of forgetting.’
‘Forgetting what?’ you ask, because it seems to you that the High King has a remarkably good memory, especially in regard to his dues.
‘The lessons.’
-
You never had any siblings, your mother had been with child before and after giving birth to you, but her constitution was never strong: Miraz had always told you that your fine features and spindly frame were from her, though it was said with little warmth. You had always imagined, though, that it would be nice, that somehow the weight of grief would lessen if you had someone to share it with.
This is, you tell yourself, a large part of your fascination with the children that have stumbled into your life and revolution, bringing with them the wisdom of years of reigning and a curious half-language that they seem to share. Their accents aren’t the same as all the Narnians, though they sound little like any Telmarine you have heard. Your words feel uneven and stilted when you talk with them, so deep is the contrast with the soft ease with which they speak.
And when they talk amongst themselves, teasing and light, they seem to speak only ever half of what they have to say, leaving the rest to the tilt of a head, a secretive grin or a vague allusion. They never seem to bother with titles and are ridiculously free with affection. They share grins and hugs, clasp hands and shoulders. Once you found Lady Lucy sitting on King Peter’s lap, half asleep by the firelight. There was something raw on his face then, fiercely protective and terribly forlorn, though he masked it quickly with a frown once he noticed you.
You felt a horrid twist of jealousy in that moment and left without a word.
-
‘Aslan forbid it,’ says Peter with dark eyes.
Hand on the hilt of your sword you swallow your fear and survey the vast cavern beneath the field leading to Aslan’s How. You are not sure that you believe in Aslan, or in an Aslan that still cares for Narnia, but you’ve learnt enough now to put no weight on what makes sense.
‘Even so,’ you find yourself replying, ‘I will not run.’
Not again remains unsaid, but is heard by the both of you nonetheless.
-
Following them up the path to Aslan’s How you feel dizzy as you trace them all with your eyes, their skin milky and eyes ancient. Already the deference of the Narnians is contagious, they walk with easy determination along a path they do not know.
They seem exotic to you, so used you have become to the dark, deep-set eyes of your people, the clipped beards and tanned, leathery skin. You were too light, though a prince you were conscious of those that saw you as maidenly when your body remained distressingly hairless even as your voice deepened and your limbs stretched. But these kings and queens of Narnia seem to hold little value to the fashions you are used to, their hair is left to fall down their backs or into their eyes, their skin freckles in the sun and they walk carelessly barefoot, at ease with the world. They do not possess the need to control, to direct, that you remember from the afternoons you spent with an ear pressed to the doors of the council chambers. They do not fear this world but rejoice in it and where your people sought to purify and refine they seem to wish to only relish and inhabit.
The Lady Susan is as beautiful as the ballads you used to pore over suggested, though not exactly in the way you expected. Her face is not so angular as you imagined, her lips more full, her eyebrows more severe. Yet she does glide, her eyes sparkle and her smile is soft and sweet.
Still you find it is the High King that captivates you the most. His hair is so uncommonly light, you find it terribly difficult to look away. Dark hair has always been something you’ve been taught to value, a sign of nobility, yet here is the High King of Narnia: ancient and young, his golden hair falling half into his eyes which are a guileless blue. He is so removed from what you associate with your Telmarine upbringing that you can’t help but follow him with your eyes.
This is what you tell yourself.
-
‘They say the land here would swallow them given the chance, no?’ asks Edmund expression ancient and fierce and unforgiving for all the dark mirth in his eyes.
You are not brave enough to answer.
‘We’re good at second chances, aren’t we Pete?’
Beside his younger brother, High King Peter is bathed in torchlight.
‘The best,’ he says.
-