[narnia - bound by what you are]
Title: Bound By What You Are
Author: Claira
Rating: G
Spoilers: Uh, is this applicable?
A/N: With thanks to Pen, who fixed all my mistakes.
FOR TRIS, FOR HER BIRTHDAY, WHICH WAS MONTHS AGO. Just like Narnia. As sloane said succinctly, I am late to this party.
*
Bound By What You Are
*
Susan does not store her bow and quiver in the armoury, like the other archers. Despite the protests of Peter and Lucy, she keeps them in her bedchamber, propped against her wardrobe.
It is the last thing she sees when she goes to sleep, and the first when she opens her eyes in the morning. It is all she has to remind herself of Aslan and the desperation of war and the crippling fear of death, and with Narnia drifting further and further into a sleepy late-afternoon peace, Susan worries.
She has been concerned for some time, about many things, little things; the laxity of border security, the treaties to the north and the south. She lost sleep for days thinking about the allegiance with the Telemarines and frets when nobody, bar Edmund, seems to be concerned in the slightest when the yearly meeting between the Bears and the Security Council wasn’t planned.
She tries talking to Peter when the Giants stop paying their tribute, but after he dismisses her concerns twice, she gives up. It is then that she begins her training, and from that point, she does not stop.
Twenty minutes here, half an hour there, every day. Time stolen and budgeted and rationed, borrowed from other duties and taken from sleep.
Early in the morning, in the chill of dawn.
In summer, with the breeze carrying the scent of freshly harvested wheat, with her face to the sun until all she can see is black spots and bright light and her arrows are finding the target by luck alone.
In autumn, she practices with the cold wind from the sea whipping her hair around her face, until she learns to tie it back with bright swatches of material that Lucy finds for her.
In the early Narnian winter, she takes her bow and quiver out into the rain, and shoots until the target is three times covered and her clothes are sodden. She creeps into Cair Paravel through the kitchen, and tries not to drip water up the staircase. Later that night when she’s kneeling in front of the fire in Lucy’s room, shaking from a bone deep chill that the bright flames cannot get rid of, she realises that she was not quite circumspect in her choices.
She falls ill. Very ill. Ill enough that days and nights blur and the faces over her swirl from Peter to Edmund to Lucy to faces long forgotten, faces from another time and she calls out for her mother but nobody comes and she’s so cold cold cold and they’ve taken her arrows away -
She wakes to see Peter asleep at her beside, sun touching his head and turning his hair two shades lighter and she reaches out and touches her fingers to his temple, whisper soft. He snaps his head up, and then his hand is tight around hers, fingers squeezing in a grip that almost hurts.
“Susan,” he says, his voice low and hoarse and the fervour in the sound surprises her. Warms her. “Thank Aslan you are back.”
*
“Why do you do that?” he asks four days later, sitting on her bed with a handful of letters covering his lap.
She looks up from her book. “Read?” she says, amusement in her voice. “Because it educates one, brother.”
Peter rolls his eyes. “No. Practice. Everyday you go out, in sun, in rain, even when you are exhausted.”
She looks at him. “I had not thought - “
“You had not thought I noticed?”
“Nobody else seemed to.”
“Why?” he asks again, putting the letter from the Giants in the South to one side. He looks genuinely curious, and she pauses, searching for words.
“Enemies do not always wait for fair weather,” she says. “And if Aslan has given me this gift, it is not for me to choose whether or not I wish to use it well.”
Peter stares at her, his face thoughtful. “I had not thought of it that way.”
“The archers of our army have little skill,” she says, and then coughs against the back of her hand.
“Sister - “ Peter starts, and she cuts him off.
“I do not say this to be cruel or disparaging,” Susan says. “I say it because I am concerned. Nothing new has been learnt for many years. We shoot with old tactics, old styles - old bows and arrows that will give us little advantage in times of war.”
Peter laughs. “We have been in a time of peace for five years now.”
She sits up, pulls the robe a little more tightly around her. “You cannot afford to get complacent. You are the High King.”
“Aslan will keep us safe.”
“Aslan never promised us protection.”
Peter opens his mouth and closes it again, and then he tilts his head on one side. “I do not believe there will be war for many years to come.” He drops a soft kiss on her forehead. “But if it bothers you, I will do something about it.”
“Thank you,” she says, and holds herself straight until the door closes behind him.
*
Erik, an archer from the ranges deep in the South, is brought to Cair Paravel to train the Narnian archers and Susan does not like him.
The next day, when she out shoots him three to one, he doesn’t like her either.
The next three coaches pass the same way; a centaur from the East lasts five days, before he gives a beautifully worded but implacable resignation, and after the goodbyes have been said, Susan smiles as she sits down to lunch.
Peter sits down at the head of the table, and when the meals are before them, he waves the servants out of the room.
“How was the leave taking?” Susan says innocently, sipping her wine, and Edmund smiles down at his meal.
“Susan,” Peter says, and she can tell he is caught between pride and exasperation, “You cannot keep doing this!”
“Doing what?” Susan says, picking up her knife and fork and looking at her plate. “Have you tried the pork? The cook made it especially for you.”
“Stop changing the subject.”
“What is the problem, Peter? I had nothing to do with the resignation - “
“You had everything to do with it!”
She sees Edmund shoot an amused look at Lucy and bites back a smile. She’s always found Peter his most endearing when he is flustered and unsure of how to go about expressing what he clearly wants to say. She folds her hands neatly in her lap. “What would you have me do, pretend I am less than I am?”
“You could try and be a little less intimidating!”
“How can they command an army and face an enemy if they are intimidated by me?”
“Why don’t you let Susan do it?” Edmund says. “After all, she is the best archer in Narnia.”
“She’s a girl,” Peter says, and Lucy’s head snaps around quicker than lightening. Edmund widens his eyes a little as Lucy’s face grows ominously still.
“What did you say?”
“I didn’t mean anything by it,” Peter says. “I know Su is the best we’ve got, but the army mayn’t think so.”
“The army just watched her outshoot every one you’ve placed in the position for the last month!”
“I don’t want her taking the position.”
“Peter, you are not being fair. All the men respect Susan,” Edmund says, and he sounds almost placating. “What harm could come of it?”
“Unless you are afraid that as a girl, she might surpass all the men,” Lucy says, stabbing her fork through a potato.
Peter sits silently for a moment, and Susan sees his fingers tighten around his fork, tight, tight, until he drops the cutlery onto his plate.
“Fine!” Peter pushes his chair back, and the legs make an awful rasping sound on the stone of the floor. “She can have the position. It’s hers. And if she dies leading the charge of the Narnian archers, may you be glad she was worthy of the position.”
He leaves and Susan looks down at her plate. She’s not hungry anymore.
*
She goes to see him late that afternoon, when the shadows are falling and the twilight makes his study dim. She hovers in the doorway and stares at the back of his head for a moment, until she summons the courage to speak.
“I’m sorry,” she says finally. “I will not teach if it concerns you.”
She watches the rise and fall of his shoulders as he breathes in-out slowly, and steps over the threshold, draws closer to him.
“I just - worry,” Peter says finally, not turning to face her. “You mean more to me than anyone. All of you. I can’t risk that.”
She places her hand carefully on his shoulder. “As you said,” she says lightly, “It is a time of peace. I will not be in any danger.”
Peter is still a moment, and then his hand rests lightly over hers, trapping her fingers against the soft material of his coat and the warm skin of his neck.
“I would never forgive myself if I caused your death,” he says softly, and she nods.
“I will be safe. I promise, Peter.”
He turns in his chair then, takes her hand and presses a kiss against her knuckles. “May Aslan protect you,” he says, and she smiles.
“He will.”
“I know He will.” He pauses for a moment, thumb brushing over her palm. “Tell me if anyone gives you any trouble.”
“And what will you do if that happens?”
“Such things are not for ladies’ ears,” Peter says, with a roguish smile on his face, and Susan laughs.
“I will let you get back to your correspondence,” she says. “Be polite to the Giants.”
“They would not understand insults anyway,” Peter says dryly, and she drops a kiss on the top of his head as she leaves.
*
She teaches the army throughout spring; teaches the men to ride and shoot at the same time, to fire backwards from the saddle, to fire while running. She oversees the creation of new bows and arrows, helps with the design of lighter, less cumbersome armour.
By summer, the archers are strong, a loyal cohort worthy of Aslan. Worthy of marching under the banner of the High King, and she organises a special exhibition day and invites most of Narnia to attend.
The banners are bright reds and oranges, the stands packed with citizens of all ages, and she watches Peter, more than just a little nervous, as the archers run through their formations like clockwork.
“This is amazing, Susan. I am so proud of you,” Peter says, after a particularly daring strategy works beautifully, and she smiles and leans over the parapet. Points to a tall man in red riding a brown stallion across the arena.
“See him?”
Peter stiffens a little beside her. “Yes?”
“His name is Montgomery; he is from the West. I will introduce you later.”
Peter turns to her, and his eyes are carefully masked. “Why?”
“He is the new head of the archers, and you will be speaking to him on a regular basis.”
“But,” Peter says, looking flustered, and she rests a hand against his forearm.
“I resign, Peter.”
“You - but you are the best we have, Susan.”
“I am the best, yes. However, he is more than capable. I have trained him for four months.”
They watch as Montgomery fires three arrows in quick succession, all falling within an inch of each other on the target.
“I will not be in the front row of any fighting, brother,” she says finally, and watches the relief coat Peter’s face with beautiful totality.
“Thank Aslan for that,” he says, and wraps an arm around her. She leans her head against his shoulder and watches the colours, listens to the cheerful, bright music and is more than content.
*
The army of the Tisroc declare war in the first days of autumn, just as the wind starts blowing cooler, in from the sea.
Susan smiles.
FIN.
*
I love you, tris!
Author: Claira
Rating: G
Spoilers: Uh, is this applicable?
A/N: With thanks to Pen, who fixed all my mistakes.
FOR TRIS, FOR HER BIRTHDAY, WHICH WAS MONTHS AGO. Just like Narnia. As sloane said succinctly, I am late to this party.
*
Bound By What You Are
*
Susan does not store her bow and quiver in the armoury, like the other archers. Despite the protests of Peter and Lucy, she keeps them in her bedchamber, propped against her wardrobe.
It is the last thing she sees when she goes to sleep, and the first when she opens her eyes in the morning. It is all she has to remind herself of Aslan and the desperation of war and the crippling fear of death, and with Narnia drifting further and further into a sleepy late-afternoon peace, Susan worries.
She has been concerned for some time, about many things, little things; the laxity of border security, the treaties to the north and the south. She lost sleep for days thinking about the allegiance with the Telemarines and frets when nobody, bar Edmund, seems to be concerned in the slightest when the yearly meeting between the Bears and the Security Council wasn’t planned.
She tries talking to Peter when the Giants stop paying their tribute, but after he dismisses her concerns twice, she gives up. It is then that she begins her training, and from that point, she does not stop.
Twenty minutes here, half an hour there, every day. Time stolen and budgeted and rationed, borrowed from other duties and taken from sleep.
Early in the morning, in the chill of dawn.
In summer, with the breeze carrying the scent of freshly harvested wheat, with her face to the sun until all she can see is black spots and bright light and her arrows are finding the target by luck alone.
In autumn, she practices with the cold wind from the sea whipping her hair around her face, until she learns to tie it back with bright swatches of material that Lucy finds for her.
In the early Narnian winter, she takes her bow and quiver out into the rain, and shoots until the target is three times covered and her clothes are sodden. She creeps into Cair Paravel through the kitchen, and tries not to drip water up the staircase. Later that night when she’s kneeling in front of the fire in Lucy’s room, shaking from a bone deep chill that the bright flames cannot get rid of, she realises that she was not quite circumspect in her choices.
She falls ill. Very ill. Ill enough that days and nights blur and the faces over her swirl from Peter to Edmund to Lucy to faces long forgotten, faces from another time and she calls out for her mother but nobody comes and she’s so cold cold cold and they’ve taken her arrows away -
She wakes to see Peter asleep at her beside, sun touching his head and turning his hair two shades lighter and she reaches out and touches her fingers to his temple, whisper soft. He snaps his head up, and then his hand is tight around hers, fingers squeezing in a grip that almost hurts.
“Susan,” he says, his voice low and hoarse and the fervour in the sound surprises her. Warms her. “Thank Aslan you are back.”
*
“Why do you do that?” he asks four days later, sitting on her bed with a handful of letters covering his lap.
She looks up from her book. “Read?” she says, amusement in her voice. “Because it educates one, brother.”
Peter rolls his eyes. “No. Practice. Everyday you go out, in sun, in rain, even when you are exhausted.”
She looks at him. “I had not thought - “
“You had not thought I noticed?”
“Nobody else seemed to.”
“Why?” he asks again, putting the letter from the Giants in the South to one side. He looks genuinely curious, and she pauses, searching for words.
“Enemies do not always wait for fair weather,” she says. “And if Aslan has given me this gift, it is not for me to choose whether or not I wish to use it well.”
Peter stares at her, his face thoughtful. “I had not thought of it that way.”
“The archers of our army have little skill,” she says, and then coughs against the back of her hand.
“Sister - “ Peter starts, and she cuts him off.
“I do not say this to be cruel or disparaging,” Susan says. “I say it because I am concerned. Nothing new has been learnt for many years. We shoot with old tactics, old styles - old bows and arrows that will give us little advantage in times of war.”
Peter laughs. “We have been in a time of peace for five years now.”
She sits up, pulls the robe a little more tightly around her. “You cannot afford to get complacent. You are the High King.”
“Aslan will keep us safe.”
“Aslan never promised us protection.”
Peter opens his mouth and closes it again, and then he tilts his head on one side. “I do not believe there will be war for many years to come.” He drops a soft kiss on her forehead. “But if it bothers you, I will do something about it.”
“Thank you,” she says, and holds herself straight until the door closes behind him.
*
Erik, an archer from the ranges deep in the South, is brought to Cair Paravel to train the Narnian archers and Susan does not like him.
The next day, when she out shoots him three to one, he doesn’t like her either.
The next three coaches pass the same way; a centaur from the East lasts five days, before he gives a beautifully worded but implacable resignation, and after the goodbyes have been said, Susan smiles as she sits down to lunch.
Peter sits down at the head of the table, and when the meals are before them, he waves the servants out of the room.
“How was the leave taking?” Susan says innocently, sipping her wine, and Edmund smiles down at his meal.
“Susan,” Peter says, and she can tell he is caught between pride and exasperation, “You cannot keep doing this!”
“Doing what?” Susan says, picking up her knife and fork and looking at her plate. “Have you tried the pork? The cook made it especially for you.”
“Stop changing the subject.”
“What is the problem, Peter? I had nothing to do with the resignation - “
“You had everything to do with it!”
She sees Edmund shoot an amused look at Lucy and bites back a smile. She’s always found Peter his most endearing when he is flustered and unsure of how to go about expressing what he clearly wants to say. She folds her hands neatly in her lap. “What would you have me do, pretend I am less than I am?”
“You could try and be a little less intimidating!”
“How can they command an army and face an enemy if they are intimidated by me?”
“Why don’t you let Susan do it?” Edmund says. “After all, she is the best archer in Narnia.”
“She’s a girl,” Peter says, and Lucy’s head snaps around quicker than lightening. Edmund widens his eyes a little as Lucy’s face grows ominously still.
“What did you say?”
“I didn’t mean anything by it,” Peter says. “I know Su is the best we’ve got, but the army mayn’t think so.”
“The army just watched her outshoot every one you’ve placed in the position for the last month!”
“I don’t want her taking the position.”
“Peter, you are not being fair. All the men respect Susan,” Edmund says, and he sounds almost placating. “What harm could come of it?”
“Unless you are afraid that as a girl, she might surpass all the men,” Lucy says, stabbing her fork through a potato.
Peter sits silently for a moment, and Susan sees his fingers tighten around his fork, tight, tight, until he drops the cutlery onto his plate.
“Fine!” Peter pushes his chair back, and the legs make an awful rasping sound on the stone of the floor. “She can have the position. It’s hers. And if she dies leading the charge of the Narnian archers, may you be glad she was worthy of the position.”
He leaves and Susan looks down at her plate. She’s not hungry anymore.
*
She goes to see him late that afternoon, when the shadows are falling and the twilight makes his study dim. She hovers in the doorway and stares at the back of his head for a moment, until she summons the courage to speak.
“I’m sorry,” she says finally. “I will not teach if it concerns you.”
She watches the rise and fall of his shoulders as he breathes in-out slowly, and steps over the threshold, draws closer to him.
“I just - worry,” Peter says finally, not turning to face her. “You mean more to me than anyone. All of you. I can’t risk that.”
She places her hand carefully on his shoulder. “As you said,” she says lightly, “It is a time of peace. I will not be in any danger.”
Peter is still a moment, and then his hand rests lightly over hers, trapping her fingers against the soft material of his coat and the warm skin of his neck.
“I would never forgive myself if I caused your death,” he says softly, and she nods.
“I will be safe. I promise, Peter.”
He turns in his chair then, takes her hand and presses a kiss against her knuckles. “May Aslan protect you,” he says, and she smiles.
“He will.”
“I know He will.” He pauses for a moment, thumb brushing over her palm. “Tell me if anyone gives you any trouble.”
“And what will you do if that happens?”
“Such things are not for ladies’ ears,” Peter says, with a roguish smile on his face, and Susan laughs.
“I will let you get back to your correspondence,” she says. “Be polite to the Giants.”
“They would not understand insults anyway,” Peter says dryly, and she drops a kiss on the top of his head as she leaves.
*
She teaches the army throughout spring; teaches the men to ride and shoot at the same time, to fire backwards from the saddle, to fire while running. She oversees the creation of new bows and arrows, helps with the design of lighter, less cumbersome armour.
By summer, the archers are strong, a loyal cohort worthy of Aslan. Worthy of marching under the banner of the High King, and she organises a special exhibition day and invites most of Narnia to attend.
The banners are bright reds and oranges, the stands packed with citizens of all ages, and she watches Peter, more than just a little nervous, as the archers run through their formations like clockwork.
“This is amazing, Susan. I am so proud of you,” Peter says, after a particularly daring strategy works beautifully, and she smiles and leans over the parapet. Points to a tall man in red riding a brown stallion across the arena.
“See him?”
Peter stiffens a little beside her. “Yes?”
“His name is Montgomery; he is from the West. I will introduce you later.”
Peter turns to her, and his eyes are carefully masked. “Why?”
“He is the new head of the archers, and you will be speaking to him on a regular basis.”
“But,” Peter says, looking flustered, and she rests a hand against his forearm.
“I resign, Peter.”
“You - but you are the best we have, Susan.”
“I am the best, yes. However, he is more than capable. I have trained him for four months.”
They watch as Montgomery fires three arrows in quick succession, all falling within an inch of each other on the target.
“I will not be in the front row of any fighting, brother,” she says finally, and watches the relief coat Peter’s face with beautiful totality.
“Thank Aslan for that,” he says, and wraps an arm around her. She leans her head against his shoulder and watches the colours, listens to the cheerful, bright music and is more than content.
*
The army of the Tisroc declare war in the first days of autumn, just as the wind starts blowing cooler, in from the sea.
Susan smiles.
FIN.
*
I love you, tris!