well behaved women

Buried Queens
Chapter Nine

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.



Sooner or later Caspian would return.

With him would return, she was willing to hope, a knowledge of her footing. Despite Apolinar's laughter, she doubted any one of them had believed her story of presumably wandering aimlessly from a closely guarded tent to follow a squirrel she wouldn't have been able to see from inside the tent to the edge of the trees.

Until then, Susan sat.

She wasn't really a pacing kind of person, anymore than she was a blustering kind of person. Susan was better at closing it all up inside her, locking it away, deep inside her secret heart until no one could touch it. Aslan had, once; and then Narnia had left her and she'd...

Susan looked down at her hands, studiously scrutinizing her fingernails, the pink beds and callused skin. She didn't want to think about what she'd done.

But if there's one thing Aslan left her with, it was the inability to lie to herself. She couldn't dance around it forever. Because she'd liked it. Liked being young, liked being admired, liked knowing she was pretty and carefree and--and--

She probably would have still traded it in a heartbeat for Narnia, had Narnia been offered. But by then she'd forgotten all about Narnia, so she might have simply laughed it off as a joke--hadn't she? when Lucy had called her all excited gasps and said "they've gone back and so are we, Su, on the train" hadn't she told her the time for fairytales was long gone--and Lucy had gone so quiet, like she'd forgotten all of Susan's denials in her delight and her rush to share her happiness. Once they'd been best friends.

Susan bent over, hands pressed into her stomach. She'd never be able to apologize. She'd never be able to say oh Lu I just couldn't I couldn't bear it I'm not that strong and I've never been as brave as you--

Or as Valiant. Her small, strangled hiccup of laughter was pathetic and wobbly and voiced only to her knees, but it steadied her. Get up, a firm voice advised. Get up and deal with the here and now. Might have failed them once, but this time it'll be worse because you know damn well better.

She sat up, breathing unsteady, and wiped at her cheeks. They were less damp than she'd feared, and it was relatively easy to rearrange herself into a picture of calm, swallowing all her pain and distress into steely control.

You faced Telmarines before, all alone, she told herself firmly. Just think of the Narnians as that bow and quiver, just out of reach. That time, Caspian had ridden in to save her--but if she'd been left a few more minutes, she wouldn't have needed saving.

If there was one thing Susan Pevensie knew how to do, it was keep going.



He did return, of course.

It took some time, and when she saw his face as he pushed into the tent, she knew why. It was an unnervingly familiar look; she'd seen it on Peter or Edmund or Lucy's face, back in those days when Narnia's domain and their loyal soldiers had spared her the battlefield, the pain and gore and absence of glory. But more than that, she'd seen it on him, during that long ride through the night to safety from the castle.

"How many died?" She asked, when she had imagined her words to be sharp ones, or at least implacable ones, setting out a beginning shield or volley, giving him no room to accuse. Instead she was left cut open by the sound of her own voice, vulnerable by her own admission of concern.

He hesitated, and then said nothing for a long moment, reaching for the water. When he had drank a whole cup, he lowered it and said, eyes dark and shadowed, "two."

Susan remained silent. Neither of them needed to state that he could not afford to lose even that many. It would be doubly unkind, since he clearly grieved their deaths on a personal level as well. She'd more than half expected accusations, questions, terse challenges--very real danger for her life. Instead he began unbuckling his armor, and after stacking it neatly despite the fatigue in his eyes, dragged his tunic over his head.

Susan took a sharp step back, sucking in a startled breath; her shoulders were rigid, eyes wide, but he hardly seemed to notice. She couldn't believe he was entirely unaware or unwary of her presence--though he did remove his sword, he kept it close at hand--but he moved slowly toward the bed without another word to her.

Susan took another step backwards, off balance, and glanced at the metal water pitcher. He had collapsed onto the furs, rolling onto his side--fingers nearly white knuckled around the scabbard--and his breathing was slow and steady.

What now?

Now...now was perhaps not the most opportune time to test her luck. But this was not a time to sit on her hands, either. Neither she, Narnia, or the unknowing Caspian could afford it.

Let's have a bit of an experiment, shall we?



She left the tent carrying the pitcher, walking purposefully, wearing her borrowed boots and making no eye contact.

There was no chance of her remaining unseen or melting into the crowd. For one, she looked very different from most of them, and for another, she was a woman. She clung to groups of soldiers, eyeing the dying chaos in the camp.

There wasn't a lot of action. She was probably left unmolested as it was because of the grim quiet of the camp; everyone was very focused on their tasks. This included the sentries. There was no way she could leave the perimeter alone; she'd be caught instantly, and though she could only pick out four Telmarines, there had to be more in the woods that she couldn't see.

The sharp clash of metal startled her. When she slipped between two tents, she saw the reason for it; not a battle but a practice round--using naked steel.

One of the men was Apolinar.

He was skillful, she could see that immediately. Relying more on speed than strength, he ran circles around his larger opponent. First blood had been drawn on both men, but Apolinar's opponent had the more savage cut. Stupid, a small, cold voice she thought she'd lost said flatly. Injuring your own men--what are they thinking?

But she recognized the glitter in the eyes of the men gathered in a loose circle, the savagery in Apolinar's bared white teeth. It was a restless fever soldiers acquired, forced to stay on high alert constantly, wary of attack, waiting for it; waiting for death.

"He is good," one of the older men beside her remarked quietly to his companion.

The taller man grunted cynically. "Almost as skilled as he is mad. To any experienced commander, the latter could too easily outweigh the former."

"His loyalty is unquestionable," the first man reminded the other sharply.

His companion grunted again, unimpressed, and then Apolinar saw her.

Damn, Susan thought, startling herself with the viciousness of the thought. She hadn't wanted to be caught by him, of all people, the man who had argued most enthusiastically for her death. She took a step back, considering attempting to slide away, but in the next movement Apolinar had hooked his opponent's sword from his hand and was striding toward her, bare chest gleaming in an expanse of bronzed and sweat-slicked muscle. He had his own generous helping of scars.

"What are you doing wandering around the camp unescorted?" He asked, but there was a hard edge of satisfaction in his words. Had Caspian been testing her? A chancy game to play, but then, it was very unlikely she could have escaped, and if she did attempt and managed to slip past the sentries, it would be easy for them to ride her down and kill her. Her knowledge of the woods only went so far. She wondered how many Telmarines she'd passed had been under orders to watch her.

This treatment went beyond unorthodox. Was this Caspian perhaps a bit mad?

Susan lifted the water pitcher in wordless demonstration.

Apolinar's lips twisted mirthlessly, but then he stepped back and gestured politely. She passed him, picking her way through spectators, and proceeded to the edge of the tents. A sentry stepped out of the shadows, hand on his sword hilt, but Apolinar came up behind her and the man nodded and stepped back again.

He'd found a tunic somewhere, and he dragged it over his head as they walked, next donning the cloak slung over his arm. It was quiet, dark and peaceful; she drifted through the woods, finding comfort here, even as frighteningly stifled as it was. He was a silent companion, and she didn't make any mistakes that would demand a supporting gesture on his part, taking special care with where she placed her feet.

Mad, is he? She slid him a sideways glance, examining his proud, almost haughty profile. Certainly loyal--he'd been seriously disturbed at the thought of a potential spy kept close to Caspian. Unpredictable: he was reflexively courteous, brutally threatening, and possibly--judging by the match--prone to cruelty against his enemies and a tendency to blur the distinction between enemy and friend.

Susan stepped out into the clearing the pool lay in, hearing the murmur of rippling water with relief. The oppressive quiet made her skin crawl. She knelt to dip the pitcher into the water, idling stirring a hand in it when she was finished, and watched little eddies and ripples bloom around her fingers.

Then she stood and turned to face Apolinar, who waited near-patiently with his arms crossed, dark eyes slitted like a suspicious cat.

"I'm ready to return," she said calmly, and stepped past him.

His hand was on her arm before she really saw him move; she froze, eyes narrowing, and his fingers tightened, lips thinning out.

"If you do anything that endangers us..." His voice was low and even and deadly serious. "I will kill you."

Susan twitched her shoulder, but his fingers only tightened, hinting pain. She caught his eyes, trying to read his face, feeling the silence turn thick and almost anticipatory. "I have no more love for Miraz than you," she assured him, voice almost a whisper, deadly serious and hissed through her teeth with the sheer sincerity of the sentiment.

He searched her face, eyes narrowed, teeth sinking into his lower lip. It was almost a childish gesture, but it only raised the hairs on the back of her neck. A genuine madman would be far harder to predict than simply a suspicious soldier.

Then he released her.

She took a long step back, studying him tensely, and a thin strange smile stretched his lips. "Keep that in mind," he said, and this time he led the way out of the clearing.

She studied his back, and in some small vindictive part of her the sight of his tensed shoulder blades--and the fact that he was clearly prepared to whirl at the slightest hint of untoward movement from her--made her smile.



In Caspian's tent Apolinar lit a lamp and then dimmed it, studying the shape of Caspian's body and the sword still in his hand.

Then he said in a light and casual voice to her, "he's a light sleeper," and, to her surprise, left her alone with him--but not before fanning out the tunic on the rugs in another of those bizarre gestures of intended courtesy.

After a moment she set the pitcher down again and dimmed the lamp still further, toeing the thick, finely-spun wool of the cloak. It was soft and looked warm, and despite her nap earlier she still felt drowsy, and certain aches were flaring up again; her feet, her thighs from the saddle, her shoulders from the awkward position her hands had been tied to. How pleasant it would be if the human body smoothed away damage as easily as a piece of cloth wiped chalk from a board, she thought, grimacing. She knelt down, crawled onto it, and rolled herself in the fabric, leaving her boots on and uncovered.

It was a relatively meager warmth, but it was pleasant. She pressed her chilled fingers to her mouth, breathed warm air over them, and closed her eyes. The dark was a comfort; rather than waking, she wished desperately that she would dream once again of light.



She woke to the sound of Caspian's voice without having dreamed at all.

There were men in the tent, and they looked weary, filthy, and afraid. Their faces were drawn tight and hard, and they spoke in rapid, hushed tones and Feranzo, Mavramorn and Apolinar were in the tent as well, their own expressions grim.

Apolinar tapped his fingers against his sword hilt, face closed-off and body restless, and Caspian, paused with the cup halfway to his lips, listened without saying a word. Feranzo looked as unreadable as ever, and Mavramorn's jaw was rigid, shoulders stiff as he stared at the map without moving. She couldn't even tell if he was listening.

Caspian said quietly, "there is no other option but to make a strike directly--"

Apolinar's eyes flashed toward her a split second before she actually sat up, cloak falling away from her body. Bright morning sunlight streamed in through the tent flap and she rubbed at her gritty eyes.

When she looked up, Feranzo was rolling up the map, and the men--they had to be scouts or runners, come with bad news--dispersed with only a few quiet words with Caspian. Mavramorn's eyes rested on her, cold and wary, and then moved on; Feranzo gave her a brief nod. Apolinar barely showed signs of being aware of her presence.

"A wise decision, my lord," Mavramorn said briefly, turning back to Caspian. "I will order the men to prepare. Is there any--?"

Caspian shook his head, eyes still lowered thoughtfully to the cup. Feranzo followed Mavramorn from the tent and Susan rose slowly to her feet, pulling the cloak up with her, and met Apolinar's eyes.

Not a trace of friendliness, but not a trace of hostility, either, just studied blankness. She crossed the expanse between them and offered his cloak back; he plucked it from her fingers without touching her skin and swept it around his shoulders without blinking. Then he bowed to Caspian, murmured something in the Telmarine language, and left.

Caspian looked up at her.

They studied each other for a long, silent moment. He'd found a shirt to wear, and the sword was back around his waist, but there was a curious look in his eyes, something like the steady quiet she'd seen in him the day he stood and spelled out the plan for the duel, suggesting the murder of his own uncle for their freedom.

"Our resources are finite," he said, and rolled the cup against his palm. It must have been empty. "We cannot carry on this way forever." Susan gave him nothing in her expression, only blank helpful eyes. "Tomorrow, we will ride out to attack Miraz himself, and end this."

Susan stared at him. Her first thought was reeling shock at how suicidal that tactic very probably was; her next was why is he telling me this?

His face was stony. "You'll be watched," he said. "And you will remain within the tent, guarded constantly. If you are not a spy, this should not distress you."

Susan licked her lips, throat tight. "And if--if you do not survive this?"

He shrugged, a boneless movement, and then hesitated. His lips twisted almost wryly. "You will--be free, of course. They will not put you to the sword."

"Why?" She pressed.

He took a step toward her and for a second she saw who he'd been, the tentative boy full of dreams, lingering in the odd curve of his smile. "I do not believe you serve Miraz," he said simply, and then his hand lifted, fingers almost touching her cheek.

Susan stopped breathing.

"I may die," he said simply, a matter-of-fact assessment that made cool fruitless fury wash up her ribs, an outraged rigidity snapping her teeth together. You know war, hold yourself together. "I am no longer a child, but Cornelius once said to me the memories I carry--" He cut himself off abruptly, and eventually only said, "I would not want to be the cause of your death."

He looked remote, eyes black with resolve. So cold, Susan thought, and her fingers touched his hand, light and tentative.

"Susan Pevensie," he said, tongue lingering over each word. She wasn't cold any longer. "If I could only--"

He was looking at her with a curious intensity. Did he remember her, really? If time had truly been looped back on itself, it was illogical. He'd said he didn't suspect her, but he didn't trust her, didn't know her. Why was he looking at her like that, like he wanted to open her up and read her mind? Did he think she was going to--

He stepped in and his breath touched her mouth.

Oh. Susan went stiff, fingers nerveless, and blinked twice, eyes stretched too wide, meeting his, trying to take in everything. The air came out of her as though she'd been struck in the gut, and she realized she'd been holding it.

His mouth brushed hers, soft as a butterfly's wing alighting, brief as a summer-dream.

Then he pulled away, breath coming in harshly, and was gone past her. Stunned, she turned too slowly--by the time she followed him from the tent he was out of sight.

The camp, though, had come alive with grim activity. Susan paused in the doorway, staring out; with unnerving quiet, men donned armour and gathered weapons, packing up supplies and readying horses. There was an air of anticipation hanging thick, and not a displeased one; nearly to the man, they looked almost harshly anticipatory.

And nearly to the man, the glances they gave her when their eyes fell upon her were--unkind. Not malicious or angry, but just as harshly suspicious. Many of them kept an eye on her, as though waiting for her to bolt.

I can't stay here any longer, she thought. I can't.

In the shadows of one of the big trees, something moved. Accustomed to the unnatural stillness of the wood, her peripheral vision picked it up and her focus swung to it instantly, peering through the gloom. In the crook of two branches, her little squirrel sat, black eyes gleaming, and gave her a nod.

Events were ready to be set in motion, and she could not afford to hesitate.