well behaved women

Buried Queens
Chpt. 7
A/N: This was essentially written in two days--the first draft of the chapter got deleted, then I wrote one bit, left it for a really long time, and wrote the rest of it today. So. When I actually, you know, get down to it, I finish chapters fast. But community college might make that a bit hard, so consider yourself warned, because school is going strong and distracting.

Susan Pevensie has been living alone in London since her siblings died, alone with her grief and determination. She's long since abandoned childish fantasies, but her recent dreams of a great lion give her comfort where nothing else does. And then she is catapulted into Narnia again; but a very, very different Narnia indeed.



It was a pale, golden warmth, like the first breeze of dawn, sliding over her cheeks. If there were tears there, they soon dried, and the light was too gentle to unkindly illuminate them.

Slowly--cautiously--Susan opened her eyes.

She didn't feel tired anymore. Weariness had evaporated away like dew at midday, and she lay sprawled against a blanket of heat, limbs as carelessly akimbo as a sleeping child's, and listened to the rumble, like distant thunder, under her ear.

The sound of Aslan's breathing was like a balm to her soul.

He didn't speak this time, not for a while, and she closed her eyes again and sank into the warm, quiet stillness that poured over her. Hours might have passed, or seconds, or millenia; it was like that, in Narnia.

Presently she said, very quietly, "I missed you."

His muzzle lowered and touched her cheek, and she knew what he said, because though his voice did not come to her ears, her words echoed back at her all the same.

"Am I dreaming?" She asked after a moment. "Is it all a dream?"

"It is what you make of it," he rumbled, an Aslan-answer. Answers like that had always infuriated her in school, because it meant the teachers didn't have the knowledge to give her a real answer and wouldn't admit it, but here, with Aslan, it was different. He never lied. His answers simply encompassed a world no creature could simply sum up.

"I thought--" Her breath caught and her fingers sank into the fabric of her skirt. "I don't want to go home," she finally whispered, his fur stroking her cheek, his light pressing through the fragile sheath of her eyelids. "I don't think it's really home, anyway. And everything..." Words failed her. She only shook her head.

His breath washed over her, the eternal flush of summer, and his rumble was not so gentle. "You would turn away from your duty?"

Susan pressed her face into his mane. "No," she mumbled, "I'm just so alone."

His body came together under her, muscles flowing, but his voice was infinitely gentler. "Not so alone as you think, perhaps."

She opened her eyes hastily to see him, a cry of protest strangling in her throat, but the great wind of his voice sent her away--spinning through an eternal sky so fast she couldn't tell if she was flying or falling--before she could even see his face again.


And then she woke up.

The tent was dim, deep with clinging shadows. Voices rose and fell in unfamiliar cadence--a different language?--but as she slowly sat up, they fell silent.

Caspian stood by the map, dark head bent over it; Feranzo, Mazramorn and other faces she didn't recognize followed his line of sight. Apolinar was looking at her, eyes cool and watchful, and she thought he must have been the one to silence him.

There was only one lamp, and even that was dimmed. Was there--yes, that was hesitant morning light creeping in through the pinned-open flap. Someone had drawn blankets and a fur over her while she slept, and her legs were buried under them.

She drew it up around her, burying her knuckles in the softness, and bit her lip. Caspian 's arm moved and she realized he was back to wearing that dark, formfitting clothing without the mail he'd pulled on, and his hands were gloved again. He traced a line along the map, contemplatively, and then straightened and turned towards her.

"My lady," he said, utterly courteous. "How was your sleep?"

And there, Susan thought with faint bemusement, was another sign of the Caspian she had known. She was totally and utterly in his power, and he still treated her, when circumstances allowed for it, like an honored guest.

"Peaceful," she answered finally. She felt much clearer, but still had to struggle against the urge to sink back down into the furs. It was obscenely tempting, even if she didn't manage to sleep again. As an afterthought, she added, "my lord."

"Does my lady desire to relieve her thirst?" Caspian gestured toward a new flask and assortment of cups, one of which was set aside.

Susan debated her options only briefly before sliding out of the blankets and crossing the rug on tender, tentative feet. They were sore, but not as blazingly painful as they had been before; washed out and with any debris removed, likely they were shallow and not a cause for much concern at all.

Feranzo lifted the cup and offered it to her, dark face inscrutable. She accepted it with only a moment's hesitation, her fingers brushing his. It took him a second to relinquish it and she met his stare, surprised--he was examining her with narrow, dark eyes, scrutiny harsh and penetrating.

It had been a long time since Susan had allowed any man's stare to cow her. Taking the cup and cradling it against her ribs with both hands, Susan met his stare head-on. and didn't flinch.

After a moment his velvet-dark eyes showed a flicker of odd amusement. "Brazen," he murmured, turning away, and she realized just how out of place her English--and Narnian--upbringing would be here. It didn't embarrass her or even make her hesitate, but it told her to choose her steps more cautiously in the future. She retreated without a word to the furs and crossed her legs under her, settling down and watching their shapes.

When she was younger--though it had stayed with her as she grew--Susan liked to know things. She pored over books, dictionaries and encyclopedias, turning over old fragile pages and stiff glossy new ones, reading as the world she'd known crumbled around her into her mother's constant fear and her father's gaping absence and the burden of responsibility when all she wanted sometimes was to be taken care of herself. Knowledge made her feel safe; gave her a tentative power in a world where she had no security or solid ground at all.

Then she lost Narnia. Peter was again a boy that had to earn respect and gain power all over again, but Susan was a girl, trapped in a world that would grant her no power no matter what she did. Robbed not only of Narnia and Aslan and everything she'd loved but a vital piece of her self...

Then she found footing in beauty; makeup and romance and manipulation, selfish games played with no real emotion, dancing like a butterfly. Being wanted gave her power, and she took a savage measure of revenge for the world she was forced to inhabit in each boy who wanted her, tossing them aside--in this gray, bleak world--as Narnia had tossed her aside. It would never be her world, and they could never touch her. After a time she pushed Narnia away--lanced it from her heart--and played the game for the reasons young women were supposed to in that day and age.

And now--now she had returned. Now she was back in Narnia, and she felt alive.

Power was no longer the issue here, but comfort. Not power but strength--she'd mixed up the two, because the former was what was recognized in the other place, and she'd thought she'd left behind strength--left behind truth--in a desperate, bitter scramble for security.

But she hadn't changed that much. Unexpectedly, Susan recognized herself again.

They had resumed speaking, but in that unfamiliar language. Susan uncurled her hand, shifting the cup, and gazed at her own pale fingers in the gloom, rubbing spots where calluses still lingered--she was still, as she had always been, best at archery and swimming out of all the girls she knew--and her nails, though painted cherry-dark red, were clipped short. This was her world. She had ruled it once, and she would protect it now.

Her feet ached. She lifted the cup to her lips and found wine, oddly enough--surprisingly good wine, but still--she'd never known Narnia to run short on fresh water. She glanced up, surprised, and then down when she caught Caspian watching her, eyes bottomlessly dark in the lamplight.

First things first--she had to get out of the camp somehow.

There was no other even remotely feasible option. She couldn't stay here, behind enemy lines--and if Caspian had allied himself with Telmarines, they were enemy lines--while her people were out there potentially suffering, dying and fighting alone. Clearly Caspian's people, at the very least, feared little from the Narnians. If he won, how long would it be until they found their way into the woods again with plans of possession? And if they lost--well, she'd already seen Miraz's strategy.

She'd be watched constantly, though. None of them trusted her--as well they shouldn't--and none of them seemed particularly pleasant. She thought Apolinar was most wary of her, but Feranzo was the most dangerous, totally unreadable. The least likely to be predictable and the least likely to be deceived. Mazramorn was a traditionalist, a veteran. She would have counted him a higher danger if he hadn't seemed far more focused on Caspian than watching her.

So she had to slip past the watchdogs, make it past the perimeters, and then...what? And then get to a place where they couldn't catch her, a secret place, like the corridor of trees, and do it without them spotting where she'd gone. Without shoes, proper clothing or allies.

What I wouldn't do for clever Tumnus now, she thought ruefully, or, for that matter, a ship.

She had neither the time, the inclination or--she suspected--the ability to gain their trust. She'd have to get out of this on her own. Her impressions of the perimeters of the camp had been muddled at best; she had been exhausted, wounded, and riding a horse someone else led when she wasn't being dragged through pitch-dark caves. So going back the way she came was likely out. Deeper into the woods she would almost certainly be on surer ground, metaphorically speaking, than the Telmarines. And she'd know better than to--

Susan hadn't quite paid attention to the changing timber and rhythms in their speech until Caspian said her name, voice slicing through her thoughts. Her head jerked up and she nearly spilled her barely-touched cup.

They were all looking at her, a collection of faces no longer quite so shadowed and turned her way. Had they been speaking to her in Telmarine? If so, she hadn't even noticed, and therefore hadn't given anything away. She slid off the bed and stood on tender feet, facing him warily.

"Any more advice, my lady?" Feranzo asked, deep voice actually showing a trace of weariness.

She pulled the cup close to her and restrained an incredulous look. What was this, a test? "The harpies are probably preparing for hibernation," she noted crisply. "You shouldn't disturb them."

Apolinar actually smiled, a thin slice of grim, wry humor. "Lord forbid," he murmured, and Susan ignored him.

"They'll be more on edge," she continued. "More sensitive. But as long as you remain within the lower levels of the opposite caves, they'll likely settle down and pay you little mind."

How much of this were they actually listening to? What did it mean to them? Was she overthinking this? No, she decided, watching Caspian trace seemingly arbitrary lines along the map. But maybe they had been expecting a different sort of advice.

There were blue and red marks here and there on the map, marked out or over, but before she could study it more carefully Feranzo swept it up and rolled it, tucking it under his arm. They all bowed deeply to Caspian, who didn't even glance up, and filed out of the tent.

When they were all gone, he rose to her feet and went to extinguish the lamp. The pale light was strong enough now. From a chest beside it he extracted another roll of--what, canvas? paper?--and returned to spread the map where the previous one had laid, anchoring it with a buckle, a knife, and two coins. Then he lifted his head and crooked two fingers at her.

Susan took another drink from the wine as she approached carefully, kneeling beside him to survey the unmarked map. She recognized much of it, but possibly only because the lines were so very crude.

"If you know of somewhere safer," he said softly, breaking the silence between them, "you will take us there."

She met his dark eyes, watching him study her like an enemy. Finally she offered, "I don't know where Miraz's soldiers are--my lord." Her brief, taut hesitation made the last words drop into the air like stones into a still pool, but no ripple of reaction showed on his expression. It was still unfamiliar, his title on her tongue. "How would I know what places are safe or not?"

One corner of his mouth tipped up. The laces at the front of his black shirt were partially undone, baring the strong, golden lines of his throat. The shadows of his eyelashes spiked against his cheek when he lowered his eyes to give the map a long, clinical stare. She felt the warm, familiar flush of attraction, but tempered this time around with wariness.

"Your men think you should kill me," she said quietly, like they were back in another time, in Aslan's camp or deep in Narnia's woods, and his eyes were wide and dark and gentle as a boy's.

His mouth curved. "They'll obey me."

"Mmm," she replied, noncommittally.

He lifted his head to look at her.

"You don't seem to..." she hesitated. She was, after all, comparing him to not only a different army but a different time. Still, with the Narnians he had seemed happier--as happy as a man could be in the middle of a war--and easier with the potential for command. Here she thought his taut readiness didn't have nearly so much to do with the twisted reel of time than with his company. "Trust them," she finally finished, watching his face sharply.

He gave a soft, near-harsh laugh. "Don't I?" He replied, and swept the coins off the map, letting it curl itself into a looser spiral.

"No," Susan said, and took another drink. Then before she could stop herself she said, "no armor?"

He lifted his head. She'd always been a little fascinated by his eyes, midnight deep, the pupil blending into the iris. "Concerned for my safety?" He asked, lips quirking in dark, wry amusement.

"Generally the kind of people who wear that sort of outfit do one of two jobs for an army," Susan answered evenly, and reached out and touched his sleeve before she could stop herself. "Assassin--or spy."

His mouth twisted savagely, eyes filled with sparks, and he didn't say anything for a long moment. Then, expressionless, "no, Susan Pevensie. No armor."

She retracted her hand, her stare caught by his as neatly as a hooked fish. She thought it must be an old observation, for him to react that way--maybe an accusation, rather. Telmarines lords were clearly not hesitant to murder and lay waste in order for power, even amongst themselves, and among the powerful verbal battle was often used to pry loose vulnerable spots. Despite his expression, he'd barely moved. Accustomed to it, then.

Susan wanted to shoot whoever had taught him that defensiveness very much, in an unexpected and potentially unwise surge of protectiveness.

"Except you're neither assassin or spy," she said aloud.

His eyes widened with surprise, a quick involuntary reaction, and he seemed to have more trouble controlling his response to that than he had to the unintentionally unkind words. Her voice had been firmer and louder than she'd intended, and she felt a flush crawl up her cheeks.

"How--" he began, and then checked himself. "You don't know that."

You didn't kill Miraz, you were so determined not to become him. You came to save my life. You saved my people. "Yes," she said fiercely. "I do. You have too much honor for that."

His eyes were full of wounds for one long painful moment, and she thought they might go right through her like a blade, see everything. Why are you speaking to him like this? She thought, frantically berating herself. You know better! This isn't your Caspian! Except he wasn't far enough from him, and yet in a drastically different situation and knew her not at all. All three were dangerous combination.

As though he sensed her withdrawal, his eyes went shuttered and dark again in a split second. He rose to his feet, and she rose with him, lifting the cup between them and backing up two long steps. She didn't think she'd have any more of the wine, but it made a barrier, flimsy and gently ridiculous but better than nothing.

"Do you know of a place near here with fresh water?" He asked abruptly.

The switch nearly made her head spin, but she blinked and found her mental footing in just a second. "Yes."

"Then that, at least, you can show me." He raised an eyebrow. "Can you not?"

Susan hesitated, and then gave in and glanced around for a place to put down the cup. "Certainly."

He took it from her, warm fingers brushing hers, and she shivered and yanked her hands away. His eyes flickered, but his smile was cool and polite. "Then, my lady--" he gave her a deep, gracious bow and somehow managed not to spill the remaining wine, "--I will return for you in a moment."

And all she had left to do was wonder, bemusedly, what on earth she'd gotten into.