April 11, 1945. 3:15 P.M.

Etter Mountain. Weimar, Germany. Buchenwald concentration camp.

“This is too much… those sons of bitches…!”

Alfred nodded. He didn’t need to turn to know Kirkland was beside him, looking with horror at the pile of bodies. Their faces were drawn with pain and starvation, bony limbs were twisted in unnatural directions (probably a result from when they were tossed into that heap of corpses), most of their eyes were open looking to the back of their heads, and their mouths were parted slightly, perpetually frozen in the time of their owners’ final exhalation.

Walking skeletons, all of them.

Surviving prisoners crawled from their hiding places, their dirty faces shining with hope. As the American troops walked through the desolate camp, cheers came from the edifices as more ailing men appeared to greet their rescuers, stretching their fingers in a weak attempt to embrace the soldiers. Alfred saw how a young man, as he walked out into the sun and slowly limped towards them suddenly fell to the ground soundlessly. He was dead.

Choking back tears, he ran to where the man’s body lay still. He placed his hand over his cold back, feeling how his spine pressed against flesh, bones jutting upward like mountains.

“I’m sorry we weren’t fast enough…” He found himself whispering to the man, despite knowing he wouldn’t answer back. That he couldn’t hear him.

Old men crawled toward them, happily calling out their thanks. Alfred could see the rest of his men and Kirkland helping them to their feet, handing over food and blankets.

Alfred choked and prayed silently. Somehow, he found it difficult to remove his hand from the body. He stood up and with several men headed for the remaining barracks, used for horses before the war and that now housed hundreds of prisoners who lived there cramped in deplorable conditions.

Bodies of German guards and prisoners killed during evacuation marches were strewn randomly across the grounds.

Alfred kicked the door of one of those barracks open and the stench on the inside was so strong it made him dizzy, but what he saw was something he would not be able to properly explain in the years to follow. His knees buckled for a moment.

Over fifty men dressed in the camp’s striped uniforms, others completely naked, with their ribs visible and wobbling legs, turned with watery eyes in disbelief. As realization hit them, their once hollow faces shone into one of pure happiness, warping them from soulless vessels and into human beings once more, reborn and with their emotions intact.

They were all brothers reaching out for that long-awaited salvation. The sudden attachment and love that was suddenly born in Alfred the moment those eyes were one him made him feel humbled beyond comparison. When all of this was over he would go somewhere where he could be alone and cry, cry until he feel asleep and surely Kirkland would find him and place one of those blankets over him.

He helped the thankful men leave the crowded space. Many cried tears of joy, and shook his hand, and patted his shoulder, and hugged him. A lot of the soldiers told him that many prisoners had tried to carry them and toss them into the air in celebration but most were too weak to achieve it.

It was hard getting some to leave the room for half of them were in such bad conditions they could barely move. A lot of them couldn’t even get up, they were too sick or weak. Many were already dead when he reached rows where several still seemed to be sleeping. Up to five men shared one bunk.

Then, in the darkened corner he heard low humming. Alfred froze, remembering that night by the Seine. Shaking his head to snap out of his reverie, he followed the voice until he could make out words, which of course he could not understand. Someone was singing in Polish.

He found two young boys sharing a bunk. One, pale and dark-haired rested with his face toward the ceiling, his chest rising slowly as he breathed. The other boy leaned over the other in a protective way, cradling his face with his arms as his blond hair, untidy and grey due to dirt, covered them like a curtain. Bags had formed under his green and tired eyes and his voice was high, boyish despite both were probably past the sixteen years of age. He shushed the sleeping boy as one would when calming a child scared of a storm. His fingers hovered over the other’s closed eyes, expecting him to open them so he could close them back and then, the blond turned to face Alfred, regarding him with his sharp eyes.

“Toris is sick… he won’t last long.”

Alfred walked next to the blond and held his gaze, blue clashed with green. Then, the blond looked away, shifting his attention back to his precious friend. He stroked his sweaty brow and a stray lock of brown hair.

“Hey... I’m here to help you and your friend. Name's Alfred. You’re free now so let’s take him to our medical team.”

The blond turned back at him and slowly a smile crept over his face, a tentative sign of gratitude. Alfred could see him shivering. Slowly, he helped the blond lift his friend from the bunk and wrapped one of his arms over his neck. The blond was quickly standing on his other side, holding his other arm. His long legs wobbled momentarily before he steadied himself and walked alongside Alfred, heading toward the dazzling beams of sunshine that peeked through the broken door.

“Can you walk?”

The blond nodded hastily after her almost tripped. He held his friend with determination. They had to stop for Toris started to mumble something in his feverish state and worriedly the blond hummed and whispered against his ear. Alfred couldn’t make out the words but the song was soothing and the other boy soon calmed down. Alfred looked around to check if there was any other prisoner left alive and turning to the bunk next to the boys’ he found a man who seemed to be sleeping peacefully. He could have sworn he would open his eyes at any moment and find, to his surprise and happiness that he was a free man. Alfred believed this because the man was smiling as if caught in the middle of a pleasant dream.

“He was a good fellow. Helped us so much when we needed it the most, like, share his food and get us a bunk all for ourselves in the back where no guards could see Toris when he was weakest. It was as if he totally didn’t care about what happened to him even if that was like, suicide.”

The blond looked at the sleeping man for a moment and then closed his eyes as he held his friend closely. “He died last night, you know? Asked me to sing for him, sing to him this lullaby he’d always liked as a child. He like, taught me the lyrics, said I would be better singing it, said I had a lovely voice. Most of the men here also liked it when I sang, especially when Toris was feeling down. So last night, he was looking totally ghastly and he had like, a fever. Toris then got sick as well. So I sang to him and to Toris and then he just fell asleep and sometime during the night he died.”

Alfred felt a tightness growing over his throat. Clenching. He turned away after a silent prayer and helped both boys out and into the sunlit grounds. The blond’s face changed as emotion took over him and with a smile he turned to his friend as they placed him on the floor so Alfred could go get the medical team. Of what he could make out, it was nothing serious, possibly a mix of hunger and exhaustion that caused a fever, but he would live. Both would live. He saw how the blond fondly held the other’s hand and hummed his lullaby endlessly.

Such passion and determination… yes, they would definitely survive. They were strong.     

“What is your name?”

 The blond timidly mumbled, “Feliks...”

“I see. Feliks, he is going to be okay.” He said, grinning as he looked at Toris. “And I heard you singing when I was inside. Could you tell me the name of that song? It was lovely, bet you could sing it again to me?”

Feliks looked at him, blinking, and as a blush tainted his cheeks he mumbled again, “Sure… It’s like, the most famous Polish lullaby ever, I guess… Bajka Iskierki…”

“Would you sing it to me after I return with the doctors, yes?”

Blushing still and holding Toris’ hand tightly, Feliks nodded.

“’Kay. I’ll be back in a jip!”

-

Na Wojtusia z popielnika

Iskiereczka mruga

Chodź opowiem ci bajeczkę,

Bajka będzie długa.

Była sobie raz królewna,

Pokochała grajka,

Król wyprawił im wesele...

I skończona bajka.

Była sobie Baba Jaga,

Miała chatkę z masła,

A w tej chatce same dziwy...

Cyt! iskierka zgasła.

Patrzy Wojtuś, patrzy, duma,

Zaszły łzą oczęta.

Czemuś mnie tak okłamała?

Wojtuś zapamięta.

Już ci nigdy nie uwierzę Iskiereczko mała.

Najpierw błyśniesz, potem gaśniesz,

Ot i bajka cała. . .

-

April 11, 1945. 8:30 P.M.

Buchenwald concentration camp.

Alfred hummed Felics’ song to himself as he sat with his back to the crematorium building. He was lost in thought as his eyes searched for patterns in the ever-changing colours of the few clouds encircling the darkening sky, with hardly any glinting stars. His left hand held a handkerchief absently over his riffle.

He had left the other soldiers and survivors while they had been having a very modest dinner and started setting up bunks with blankets to examine each prisoner carefully in the morning.

Toris had woken up at least two hours ago to the delight of Feliks. Soon they would be sent to their respective homes in Warsaw and Vilnius (well, Felics did insist that Toris stay at his home and the other boy agreed).

Alfred heard footsteps behind him and didn’t bother to turn. He already knew it was Kirkland with a tiny tin can filled with warm soup that was more water than soup, anyway.

“Hopefully you’re no longer fuming, princess.” Alfred said with a chuckle.

“Button up! The bastards deserved it. I just can’t bloody forgive them for what they’ve done…” He grumbled shoving the can against Alfred’s cold hands. “And eat the blasted thing, damn it, you’re starting to look gaunt.”

“Yeah, yeah. Starting to sound like my wife now.” He joked as he slurped the tasteless liquid. Better to have at least something in his stomach. It had been a long day and in two more of those, some of his men and him were headed straight to the German capital. Other divisions would join the remaining soldiers here and help with the transportation and care of survivors.

“Idiot…” Mumbled Kirkland who had been in a foul mood all day.

Earlier he had stormed the room where they kept two German prisoners and punched them until they were unrecognizable and his knuckles bled. His aching fists shook and Kirkland glared at them with rage before he told them in perfect German: “I speak to you in your despicable language just because I want this to be clear and because sadly I have knowledge of this tasteless tongue. You must always remember what happened in this dreadful camp, in this dreadful war. These horrid deeds, these massacres... you will never allow yourselves to forget them. The memories will torture you just as you tortured all those human beings. Ghosts of your acts will follow you dressed as nightmares, chase you as your shadows, and God help you if you are ever forgiven by others because you will never forgive yourselves. I will not shoot you, as much as I wish I could, believe me. What happened here, you goddamn bastards, you will always remember that you were a part of and that you contributed to this hellish, sick shit!”

He spit at their dirty boots, caked with mud and dried blood and then left without another word.    

It was cold and the place reeked of death. That unsettling feeling that had taken over Alfred earlier was beginning to pluck at his heart, as he remembered those eyes... Those tired, scared eyes shining with renewed life. A hero’s welcome...

“So Berlin it is now?” Kirkland said as he looked into the distance where the first lights of distant bombings lit up the night in an artificial daybreak. It reminded him of London.

Alfred charged his riffle and slung it over his shoulder. His face grew darkly serious and tears ran down his dirty cheeks. “Berlin.”

June 13, 1945.

Berlin.

When Alfred looked up he was greeted with the sight of a bright red flag, billowing in the weak breeze of the morning. He walked in silence through the devastated streets of the German capital. Now that it had come to the end of his battle he wasn’t so sure if he should rejoice or simply drop dead with exhaustion.

Seeing a city in ruins was always overwhelming. The surviving civilians were scattered like lost sheep, wandering aimlessly in the shadow of what had been their home. Rotting corpses, varying in sex and age, were a common sight in every turn. The spots where bullets had made contact with flesh —tiny stains of colour that only artists could recreate after a sudden burst of inspiration— decorated the walls of stores and houses, leaving crimson roads that led to the floor and to the original bodies.

Under his boots glass cracked. The city looked as if it were made of a fragile mirror. Alfred would occasionally cross alleys and find soldiers of the Red Army obscenely close to young girls, fondling the crying children and ripping their clothes with animalistic force. He walked past them.

In battle he had learned that what someone else did was his business and that he only looked after his own hide. He seemed to have lost interest in his surroundings as well. In one of his strolls he’d passed a German woman doing her washing at a cold water hydrant in the middle of the street. He paid no heed to that.

“Soviet soldiers keep ravaging German women.” Spat a disgusted Russian corporate he had met on the streets earlier that day while removing Nazi propaganda from crumbling walls. His name, Alfred had learned, was Ivan —Vanya— Braginsky. Of course, when he said the former to him it had sounded somewhat like this:

"Советские солдаты насилуют немецких женщин."

Alfred nodded. In this war he’d grown accustomed to ‘gibberish languages’, as he liked to call Italian, German, Japanese and Russian. He had heard of the many rapes and mass executions Soviet soldiers had committed during the last two months as well as other atrocities, but then again, didn’t everyone else carry out horrid acts daily as well? He accompanied the Russian whose uniform was draped in flesh blood from an earlier kill. Perhaps from one of his own men? Rumours of the brutal reprimands from the generals on any wrong-doers were beginning to spread and the Red Army had a dwindling reputation to keep. Or maybe from the German soldier he had tortured to death a while before Alfred found him roaming in the deserted streets.

Ivan, Alfred noted, walked with a casual air, humming folk-songs from his motherland of snow and castles and the desolate surroundings didn’t seem to bother him at all.

Alfred decided to leave the man to his business after they were surprised by a child, not even past the fourteen years of age handling a gun and proclaiming loyalty to “The Führer and the Fatherland!”

Ivan, practiced in the ways of killing, drew his own gun with a quick flex of his wrist and blew the youth’s head off without blinking.

When Alfred turned his back on the man, he barely registered his baritone voice humming in gibberish: “Полюшко-поле, полюшко, широко поле…”

August 6, 1945.

Hiroshima. Aioi Bridge.

Honda Kiku headed home after helping the local priest of the nearby shrine. He prayed there for hours, hoping to quell the maimed the spirits of his brothers who had fallen in war. Their honour was intact so in his solitude he reassured them of this and asked them to rest in peace, with the respect they deserved as brave warriors true to their people and their Mikado.

He stopped, lost in thought as his brown eyes took in the beauty of the glassy surface of the Motoyasu River beside him.

He thought of war. He thought of death. There truly seemed no point to it. He couldn’t see how it worked but perhaps if he fought and grew in it, he would understand its necessity.

He saw something in the river.

Kiku frowned and squinted. It was an odd silhouette, growing over the water. A reflection? Of what? He looked up and was unsure of what he was seeing. He gasped and for an instant a bright, violet light blinded him.

Soon, it was over. Like a picture is carved on the artist’s subconscious: it flashes into a spark of inspiration, and in some cases, like Kiku’s, into destruction.

-

Kiku lay with his face to the sky, where bomber planes sped, leaving behind a hazy trail and never to return. He didn’t feel when the first drops fell on his face, soothing the scars as ointment.

There was black rain that day.

Across the Pacific, a golden haired man flew amidst white clouds and cold, clean rain. Before him, his home was unveiled in movement and blinking lights.

As he landed, the man hoped the war was over.

August 12, 1945.

Washington D.C., United States Of America.

"Just let this war be over..."

It was raining over the Abraham Lincoln Memorial. Alfred turned his back on the statue, repulsed by the sole image of his country’s heroes. Lincoln bore holes on his back, but he didn’t mind. He’s seen three bullets do the same to Kirkland’s back before Berlin fell.

Staring at the grey sky he wondered if, on the other side of the world, another person had stood just like him, looking upwards before fire rained down on Japan.

‘Those are funny names for things so dangerous: Little Boy and Fat Man.’ He had thought over the static of the radio.

Alfred had heard of the catastrophic (he dared call them apocalyptic) events one week after his discharge. With those silly code names, though, Alfred couldn’t imagine the blazing crowns of fire that had smouldered both cities and their people with one agonizing sweep.

The war ended with the charred silhouettes of the Japanese people imprinted forever like twisted mockings of the Pompeii victims.

“They had it coming,” someone said. “What with Pearl Harbour an’ all.”

That’s when Alfred turned away. He swore it had looked as if Lincoln had said those words. He spit. The mere implication, as valid as it could seem to some, was downright wrong and frightening. 

He was shocked, to say the least. He even felt sick. And looking back, that feeling reminded him of the bile as it climbed up his throat when he faced that dreaded beach, one cold morning in Europe before all hell broke loose.

--

Footnotes:

-What England tells the German guards in Buchenwald is actually another anecdote of my grandfather. I forgot in what concentration camp this exactly happened but the basic moment that an English soldier shouted to the German prisoners in perfect German that “he had the misfortune of knowing their language and that he spoke to them with it to make the meaning of his words clear and that they should always remember they were a part of this and should never forget they participated and corroborated in this war and massacres” is actually true. Go, make them feel bad, England! 

-The child Russia kills was one of the "Hitler Youth".

-“Bajka Iskierki”, translated as “An Ember’s Bedtime Story” is a lovely Polish lullaby originally written by Janina Porazińska and here’s a lovely version sung by Polish pop singers Grzegorz Turnau and Magda Umer with lyrics and translations: http://matchingtracksuits.com/2006/12/29/bajka-iskierka/ .

-Ivan sings the famous Russian civil war song “Полюшко Поле” transliterated as “Polyushka Polye” and literally meaning “Oh Fields, My Fields”. I’m sure you all have heard it by now if not… shame on you! http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hRAylJmKXIo .

-Mikado=Emperor.

-"Fat Man" and "Little Boy" were the codenames for the atomic bombs dropped on Hiroshima and Nagsaki on August 6 and 9, 1945.

And that’s it! Happy D-Day anniversary!

helisse

Title: “Europe in the Morning”  
Characters: America/Alfred, England/Arthur, Russia/Ivan, France/Francis, Poland/Feliks, Lithuania/Toris, Germany (if you squint), Japan/Kiku.

Pairings: America/England, implied America/England/France, friendship!Poland/Lithuania.
Disclaimer: I do not own the characters of "Axis Powers Hetalia". Himaruya does.
Rating: R 
Warnings: Human names (this was supposed to be a speech for school), mingling with historical figures and events, disturbing imagery, sensitive topics. War.
Timeline: 1944-1945

Summary: Overview of the USA’s role during the Second World War. From D-Day to Hiroshima through the eyes of Alfred.

-

"Europe in the Morning"

June 8, 1944. 5:15 P.M.

Omaha Beach. Temporary First Aid centre of the American Forces.

His name was Alfred F. Jones. At least that’s what his dog-tag said, anyway.

He was bleeding but he couldn’t remember when he was taken off the hands of the medical team. Then again, he didn’t remember much about anything that came after a frag grenade went off and two of his men exploded right behind him; privates Omaha and Utah, or something. Everything around him was blurred and seemed to have the volume turned down. He saw uniformed men bursting into flames, like scarecrows threatened by a field fire. Riffles cracked soundless fireworks, white and glorious like the ones during the 4^th of July.

He couldn’t hear, but he could smell the blood, taste the sour tang of steel on his dry lips. Gunpowder turned into the very sand he stood on and red water engulfed the fallen soldiers.

They looked like dead fish.

If Alfred coughed, his body burned. That ache reminded him of the taste of his own vomit coming up while he was in an assault boat a few hours earlier, overlooking the beach stripped of colour that soon would be stained with the rich vermillion of the long range brush of a sniper.

He was in the midst of contemplating the event backwards, then he fast-forwarded it. While he did this, all words were blurred and voices turned heavy. Like German. And then he pressed pause, play, and it was English.

“Jones?”

“Replay”, Alfred thought and he found himself in the present, sprawled over a bunk bed with his wounds dressed and with an English official talking to him. Dazed, Alfred managed a curt nod and the man seemed pleased.

“H-how did it go?” He asked groggily. His mind was no more than a grainy reel of film, burnt in the turning points until it reached the climax, marked with the sound of his own screams and the silver glint of a surgeon’s pliers cutting through flesh. He had blacked out and for an instant there had been no Bradley, no Roosevelt, no damned Jerry nor the cacophony of lost bullets piercing helmets. Eisenhower was only a tiny speck of sand in an untameable desert.

There was only silence. And then, waves.

“You were successful,” replied the Englishman with that funny accent those limeys have.

Sighing with relief, the American captain flashed the thumbs up sign at the other man. “At least the French whores did their part with the Calais rumours.” Alfred chuckled.

“Hm, indeed.” They shook hands. “The name’s Arthur Kirkland. I’m supposed to accompany you and your men to Paris so I can reunite with my own division. Thought you could use an extra sniper.”

June 8, 1944. 7:20 P.M.

They were giving out ice cream. Crates full of it. Possibly to boost the general morale of the troops.

He’d heard some idiots had broken their bones over the excitement of getting some.

Alfred licked the ice cream languidly, devoid of interest in the present while his eyes only saw the lapping waves over black sand, during the amphibian landings. “Right now”, he decided chucking the ice cream away, “I’m not very hungry.”

August 24, 1944.

Road to Paris. 170 miles from Saint-Lô.

The roads were in poor shape so they kept walking in the wrong direction, seemingly as chess pieces carelessly moved during an endless match. Alfred mentally noted that he owed the Englishman a round of chess (you see, he constantly bragged about his skill at it).

“I’ll first be fucked by a pansy such as you before I’m beaten by a limey at anything.”

“There’s no need to be so rude yet, Jones.” Kirkland replied with a snarky grin. “You can loosen your belt freely for the Krauts after I win this war and the match.”

He liked this guy.

Alfred shook his head, chuckling and sat on the remains of where a house had stood before German tanks had made their grand entrance. Beside them, three soldiers had found a relatively unharmed gramophone and were listening to some French chick singing “La Vie En Rose”.

Luckily, today had been free of encounters with German shooters, never-the-less, Alfred eyed the long grass and debris carefully, his hands always with a steady grip on his trusty M1 Garand.

Sometimes when there was nothing else to do, he listened to the men talk. They always had something to say.  

Today was the story of an officer something Goldberg who had been blown to pieces in Sicily. He was sent home in a box. Alfred could imagine Mrs Goldberg in the kitchen, wearing a yellow apron speckled with pink flowers that probably her mother had given to her in Christmas. It was smeared with a brown stain from earlier dish washing. She heard the doorbell and rushed to the door with smothering anticipation.

Goldberg’s finger came back with the engagement ring still intact and a letter with the government’s condolences.

She moved to Canada after the war.

Alfred shook the scene from his mind for it would often start wandering until he’d see himself standing before his own doorway with the clear summer sky of Arkansas overhead, and a cool beer instead of a gun in his left hand to fend off against the heat.

In this state, he vaguely heard when another private excitedly told the others what commander general Bradley had said only minutes ago:

“OK Leclerc, run into Paris.”

August 29, 1944.

Paris. Avenue des Champs Elysées.

There was a parade in front of the Arc de Triomphe. The jubilant Parisians cheered as American troops marched in a grand display of power over the defeated Germans. Before them were the proud bearers of the tricolour flag: the Armée de la Libération, the same rebels who had sneaked into Nazi-infested bars and cried “Vive la France!” before shooting the enemies down with Tommy guns.

“Liberators”; that’s what the people called them. Alfred thought the title was fitting, and as he looked up from his tank at the Eiffel Tower —the magnificent lady of iron— as he drove through Av. De Suffren, he decided he preferred it without Hitler obscuring the view.

August 29, 1944. 10:30 P.M.

Along with the Allies’ retrieval of France there came a lighter air that breathed life into the weary men once more. The Parisians were also overjoyed and thankful and they made sure to show it. Alfred once saw a pair of little girls wearing star-spangled dresses and lifting their chubby arms to the sky, brandishing a colourful sign that said: “Thanks you, American.” Several soldiers would kneel and chat with them in slurred French and offer them a chocolate bar.

Boys were thrilled when a soldier addressed them, asking if they had been brave and after uncertain or energetic nods, they would let them wear their helmets for a while or touch their guns with unsteady fingers. With a smile, Alfred noticed how Kirkland was busy naming the parts of his rifle to a curious crowd of youngsters.

The streets were quickly filled with music and flashes of blue, white, and red. There even was a plump woman who, in her glee and gratitude, offered fine wine to anybody who passed by her. Alfred happily accepted the drink and smiled back before he took a sip and then walked away.

Everybody welcomed the sweet pleasures that the residents of the City of Lights —what was left of it, anyway— had to offer. Soldiers walked down the cobblestoned streets, whistling or singing. They also participated in the simple hedonistic joys that came with free food, drink, and in some cases, carnal contact with their newly found sweethearts.

It was hard to escape the racket of the ongoing celebrations. Alfred walked away. He walked and walked until his feet ached and the speckled light of the lampposts were his only guides in the chilly night. In a lonely street he finally stopped, taking in the magnificent sight of the Louvre shielded with barricades, quietly facing him in the dark. Suddenly aware of his surroundings once more, he heard water. To his right, the gentle haze of the Seine hummed in a wooing, female voice. He walked down some steps, leaving his spot on the Pont Royal. He shuddered as the cool river’s surface weaved welcoming swirls with a crouching willow tree's leaves, as if it was waving at him.

Before him, following the river’s course, a new trail unfolded, blending in perfect geometry with other bridges and lights, until it reached Île de la Cité. There was nothing more fetching than the quiet lull of the Seine, beckoning him to explore, to follow her dancing body, to let her reveal the beauty of her city for him to appreciate. Paris’ waters carefully lifted him from the violent currents he dreamed of constantly, washing his darkened body with blue and yellow hues. Overhead, Van Gogh’s Starry Night glimmered.  

The bridges sighed as he walked bellow them, running his palm absently over their surface. The Seine hummed beside him until he stood shaded under the arc of the Petit Pont. Before him, the bow unfurled like a curtain and Alfred found himself staring at Notre-Dame. His surroundings, the elements, everything was silent in reverence. The bells tolling made the earth shake.

The Seine prayed as she lovingly embraced the land with her long arms. The cathedral stood proudly, adorned with stone angels looking skywards, ignoring the earthly events happening below their bare feet, no matter how terrible they were. It seemed as if Heaven had lost interest in humankind. In all honesty, Alfred couldn’t blame them for it.   

“Belle, n’est-ce pas?” [“Beautiful, isn’t it?”]

Alfred reeled; surprised he hadn’t noticed the man leaning against the base of the bridge. A bottle of wine was tucked under his arm and his blue eyes were fixed on the cathedral as if under a spell. After a long silence Alfred agreed in sloppy French and the man nodded as a lop-sided grin etched over his handsome features. Placing the bottle beside his feet, the man produced a cigarette and lit it, sucking instinctively before breathing out a hazy cloud of smoke. Then he offered the package to Alfred.

“S’il vous plait, acceptez un. Rien n’est plus triste que fumer seul que, peut-être, boire tout seul.” [“Please accept one. There’s nothing sadder than smoking alone except, perhaps, drinking by yourself.”]

With a low “Merci”, Alfred tentatively took the cigar and after lighting it both men fell silent once more. The smoke of their cigars entwined like snakes, slithering toward the night sky.

“Ne devriez vous être content?” [“Shouldn’t you be enjoying yourself?”] The Frenchman said, signalling upwards with his head.

“Nah. I just want to lay back a bit. I’m exhausted, you know? Kicking so many German butts is pretty tiring.”

The man looked back at the cathedral, his index and middle fingers held the dying cigar.

“I love this city.” He confessed, smiling and gesturing to the view. “I sort of wanted to enjoy it for a while, seeing as we’ll leave pretty soon and well, who knows if I’ll ever get to see all of this again.”

To Alfred’s surprise, the Frenchman replied in perfect English this time.

“Politics, world leaders… they all become meaningless once they start handing out guns to men like candy. In the blur, one thing is only certain: you want to live. Live and return home. I for once, would gladly die defending this city. It is my treasure, one I love to show off. One I know —be it either Germans or Italians, it makes no difference— no one will dare burn it to the ground. If they did, I would burn with it. I would throw myself to the enemy and let them pierce me with their bullets.”

Alfred studied the man’s face. How his jaw clenched and his eyes dulled with passion and how his voice grew thicker. He was a soldier. “You were in the Resistance.”

The Frenchman sucked hard on the cigarette before he let it fall and then stepped on it. The thing died in silent agony.

“I suppose you’re expecting my gratitude.”

Alfred frowned. “Do you really think I need it?”

The Frenchman chuckled and rested his head against the stone.

“Well, if you put it that way… But yes, I was part of a team of thirty. After the Germans took over we were only five left so we had to be careful of what we did and when we acted.”

Alfred nodded in understanding and dropped the cigarette to the cold ground.

“You know, Germans soldiers are given permission to rest once a week, of course they can’t take their uniforms off. Nothing else matters. They were walking targets, all of them. Especially when they raided bars and forgot how handy it is to always keep your gun close. Every weekend we found them and sprayed their brains against the walls, just as they’ve done with our brothers, the women and children. To be honest, it didn’t make me feel better."

He looked distant, "God, grant me strength to accept those things I cannot change.”

“The prayer of St. Francis, isn’t it?”

The Frenchman chuckled, grabbed the bottle of wine, and stretched his hand toward Alfred, “And that happens to be my name. Enchanté de faire vôtre connaissance. Je m’appelle François Bonnefoy.” [“Pleased to meet you. My name is François Bonnefoy.”]

“Alfred F. Jones.” They shook hands.

“Come, it is a feisty night and our men expect us in the revelry!” His manner suddenly changed to that of a most welcoming host. “I know of places where you can further enjoy my beautiful city! Do indulge me, friend. As I said earlier: there’s nothing sadder than smoking alone except, perhaps, drinking by yourself.”

He shook the green bottle which glinted with the peeking rays of dim moonlight, its content sloshing lazily inside in an inviting manner. Laughing both men walked away after casting a final look at the cathedral.

Notre-Dame saluted them with bells. 
  

August 30, 1944. 1:00 A.M.

Her shoulders glistened with the light of the bedside lamp. With each movement, the glass of bourbon danced close to the edge of the table. Her small breasts bounced up and down as she rode him. She pressed herself closer to the Frenchman, wrapping her legs, sleek with sweat and semen, around his waist. Meanwhile, his hand caressed the nude back of a woman sleeping beside him, her body moving rhythmically as she breathed.       

There was an overturned chess board, with its pieces strewn messily, on the floor.

It was when officer Kirkland moaned under him that Alfred realized he hadn’t been sleeping with the woman he had paid for. In the confusion and stupor that his own set of drinks had supplied, Alfred missed when he was done with her or when she had left (if she had even left). He shrugged this off.

They were in France, anyway.

--

Footnotes:

-This story spans several key events during the final years of WWII, including the War in Europe and the Pacific War. Of course, in all these events and battles there were a lot of divisions involved. I only took the liberty to modify this a little so Alfred’s division could have a look at most of these important moments such as D-Day on June 6,1944. I used the 8^th to show that Alfred was only looking back at the actual battle and that now he was resting. So technically this starts after D-Day. 

-In August 19, 1944, French Resistance begins uprising in Paris, partly inspired by the Allied approach to the Seine River. France is liberated on the 25^th of August and the actual parade on the 29^th did happen.

-The massacre of women and children France mentions is the one that took place in Oradour-sur-Glane in June 10, 1944 where 642 men, women, and children were shot by Germans because of recent Resistance uprisings.

-The story of members of the Resistance entering bars with Tommy guns, shouting “Vive la France!” before shooting down drunken German soldiers off-duty and who could not take off their uniforms or they were shot is actually a real anecdote of the son of a friend of my grandfather’s. While his father and family fled France, the lad refused to leave and said that “if he died, he died in France as a Frenchman.” Also, he was part of a group that belonged to the Resistance. 30 men, all friends and very close. After France was invaded only 5 were left, among them the young man I mentioned above. He survived the war, thank heavens.

-Used the Petit Pont with the view of Notre Dame just because I love that view, haha!

Author's Notes:

Well... here's a special little something I've been working on for a few days now, on every spare moment I can find.

This piece has a special significance for me as it is my own interpretation of how I would feel if I ever were to be in the presence of Jesus or God: the meeting of the mortal and the divine, the lamb and the shepherd. Lucy before Aslan.

Would I feel blessed? Or panic? Or feel both things at once, not forgetting the awe and terror the image might inspire within me? It's truly a stirring and complex question for me and a challenge to put on paper. And words, which I could barely think of to properly describe such an august presence. Such a loving figure and Father. How should I describe those feelings and my gratitude to the Chronicles for retrieving my love towards Christ?

How to define my faith?

So, here I present to you this fragment from a major Narnian work in process named "Till Kingdom Come" dealing with Caspian's childhood during the dark times of Miraz the Usurper and a sweet interaction between young (6 year old) Caspian and his honey nurse. And when the young prince first hears the name: Aslan.

~

[FROM: Till Kingdom Come by mase992/The Inkling’s Quill]

Chapter and Title: Chapter 1 - Cradle of Stories+
Genre: Spiritual
Rating: G (General)
Characters: young!Caspian, Nurse
Disclaimer: No copyright infringement is intended and I'm not gaining any profit from this story, I'm only having fun with C.S. Lewis' fantastic world and characters.

Unbeta'd.

*   *   *

Smiling, the little prince called his nurse to his side and asked for that night's tale. For years she had soothed his nightmares, weaving tales with happy endings and fantastic lands overflowing with magic and all sorts of curious creatures. Some nights he would ask so many questions or beg for further descriptions of said curious characters that his nurse would frown sadly and swat the air in exasperation after exclaiming, "Hush thee, your highness! I would I only had ever been to such a place! For by my old bones and quivering hands, the land has been bare of these beautiful things for so long now that they serve as silly tales! Now hush, dear prince and listen to me for I speak the truth, as unlikely as it may seem. Know that these things ― stories― and the creatures that may serve now as tall-tales for sleeping were once real and therefore, his highness should be wise to remain sleeping, ever a pious pilgrim of these wondrous fantasies, and let not a soul ever awaken you from these dreams."

Swelling with enthusiasm over her words, the prince was not discouraged and every night he continued asking for a new story, ever dwelling in that realm of dream-like bliss. One night, after he had been carefully tucked in bed, he proposed so many extravagant theories on the puzzling lifestyle of a beaver and on its personality should it speak, that his nurse started, "Ho! His highness so overflows with ideas he should write a book!"

And he took it to heart.

With several rolls or parchment, a leather bind, and a quill, Caspian took those fantastic stories and tried them on paper. The ink flowed easily into words, bursting with colour and character until that night's story was over and all materials were safely tucked under his bed and his chest heaved with satisfaction and wonder. How easily he could write about these magical lands and its imaginative inhabitants! And one might imagine his excitement and fascination when his nurse told him that all those lands were one and that its name was Narnia.

Narnia.

His kingdom! Narnia, where he lived! Narnia, where he would be king!

"But dear nurse, there are no such things as Centaurs in Narnia now..." he mumbled suddenly dispirited (for Centaurs were Caspian's favourites). He had yet to see an imposing creature that was half horse and half Man.

"That is Telmarine talk, that is!"

He really didn't know what to say to that.

The next day he went to his nurse equally crestfallen.

"Dear nurse, now I know that this cannot be the same Narnia! No cat or dog in the castle would answer back to a greeting without glaring back or standing stupidly still!"

"Now, now, your highness." She would say, sitting on her preferred chair and holding his tiny hands with her wrinkled and big ones. Then, she would stare deep into his eyes with her wise eyes and when she did that, he could not look away. Was it because he didn't need to look up or down to talk to his nurse like he did so many times with his uncle, or with Master Reno, or that tiresome Council?

"Harken to me now. Has his highness not listened to me at all? Haven't you believed in all these tales I have told you? Haven't you, in your youthful curiosity, begged for me to tell you about these talking beasts, of their likes and dislikes, of what they talk about, and how they look when they are distressed, much like his highness is now? Of how one sucks its paws and how another would talk even more when he was nervous?"

Caspian made a slow, short nod, unsure of where his nurse was going with all this.

"And," she petted his little hand, "did his highness ever ask himself if I was lying?" 

At this, the little prince bolted upright and shouted with passion that "his nurse would never lie to him!" and the old nurse smiled with satisfaction and shushed him.

"His highness should be wise to remember what I have told him before and learn not to be dispirited by others who discourage dreaming."

Caspian stared long into his nurse's old and tired eyes with tears watering his and his voice sounded weak and low when he spoke. "But... what good comes from believing on tales that may not be true?"

He gasped, surprised by how much he had sounded like his uncle. Once more, his nurse held his hand and patiently stroked the shaken boy's hair out of his face.

"What have you to lose? Because those stories may be truer than you can possibly imagine."

Caspian smiled hopefully. "You mean, all those stories... the magic, the talking animals, the Centaurs, the moving trees... they are real?"

The nurse smiled. "They were, in the olden days. When his highness' forefathers were yet to be born and Narnia was ruled by four noble and wise kings and queens."

Caspian, forgetting his earlier grief, recognized his nurse's tone and dashed excitedly to his bed, pulling the covers messily over his legs. This was a new story and one he knew he could relate to. And he was sure that it would be one of his favourite kind: adventuring!

"And who were these kings and queens? Were they humans like me?" He had to know. After all, his nurse had never mentioned a badger king or any king at all.

"Yes, they were humans come from a distant land where the sun would always be in the sky and where the castles and towers shone as bright as fire."

Caspian listened, entranced.

"There was the youngest of the four and the humblest who, as I've been told, could bring spring forth with her laughter while in the middle of winter."

"Did she have a name?" He asked while he imagined a lovely girl, dressed in a rich red dress with a crown of ever-growing flowers. Something about that image made him smile dreamily.

"Of course," said his nurse, "and his highness should know better than to start interrupting so early into the story."

Caspian covered his mouth quickly and she chuckled at his response.

"Her name..." Caspian stared. "...was Lucy. Queen Lucy the Valiant, she was called, and whose domain stretched far beyond the glittering sea to the east. Has his highness ever seen the sea?"

Caspian shook his head.

"Endless water reaching far beyond the edge of the world where the sky is born... There, in the far horizon where the sun sleeps, the water touches the sky and there is no knowing where sky or land starts or finishes."

His nurse looked up at something Caspian could only hope to see and her hand moved to and fro, as her fingers swayed in alternating patterns, imitating waves of gentle water, shimmering in the harsh sunlight and slowly turning a deep blue as he advanced below its clear, green surface into colder and uncharted lands residing in its depths. Caspian closed his eyes. He felt the breeze which carried that salty scent his nurse had described to him, and the sight of the waves licking those white, smooth shores where he stood in peace, with his nurse by his side as he chased talking goldfish with a girl of a sweet laugh that would be slowly carried away into the sea until it was lost amidst the shining water, like a long forgotten song. A song, he was sure, that had been across the whole sea, and the sky, and the middle of it, and beyond where the water grew sweet like sugar, carpeted with flowers and where that song overtook the utter silence and became a low rumble, a roar, and altogether into a golden laugh, once again.

Caspian gasped and opened his eyes and suddenly noticed that his nurse was quiet and that she had stretched her arm, reaching out for something and that her eyes were wide open and lost to some memory.

He timidly inquired, "Have you been to the sea, dear nurse?"

Slowly, she turned to him and looked at him with her tired eyes, considering her reply. Finally, she shook her head sadly. "Never in all my years of life, my dear prince."

"Then, how is it you... know so much?" He still felt a little disoriented and he could have sworn by his uncle's pointed beard that he could still faintly smell the lingering scent of salt caught in his hair.

His nurse smiled. "I've seen it. In dreams."

"Do you dream too, dear nurse?"

"I used to. And every night, I would awaken by the quietest shore and He who would bring me dreams also brought me stories."

"He?"

"He." She nodded wisely. "I have yet to find the right words to use when it comes to Him, and faith, my dear prince, I have given up trying to understand Him for I cannot hope to ever describe Him. Nay, I do not ever wish to do so. There is no sense in doing that."

Caspian remained quiet. He wasn't sure anymore if he wanted to ask about Him, and yet, this terror... and this awe and intrigue that were building up inside his chest... why were they there? With his nurse's words, he thought of a tall and powerful man with dark eyes and strong arms, and he shuddered. But then, if He was so terrible, why was he so intrigued and keen to know more about Him? Was there something more, perhaps? Something that words, stories, writings, not even his nurse could describe? What was it? Who was He? Who was Him? Who was He who could make words feeble and weak? And his image of that beastly, muscled man would become confusing, and a blur until it disappeared completely (and he felt relief for that man strangely resembled his uncle). Just like the words which gave birth to such a poor image.

And he marvelled.

He marvelled at the sole thought of Him. He ought to be majestic but not quite. And He had to be welcoming and friendly since his nurse had enjoyed seeing Him and if He was willing to share stories with her. And powerful to control dreams and wise to know all those stories, which were all (and he now knew) true. Or He could be a mix of all those words, or neither of them... now he knew why his nurse couldn't describe Him!

Caspian made up his mind. He wanted to meet Him. To see Him. He was sure that words would fail him, should he be in His presence. But he couldn't help it! He had this growing need to know Him which he couldn't hope to understand or describe, but deep down knew that he didn't want to. Or needed to. He knew he would never be ready for their encounter but he didn't care when that would happen and when He would choose too appear before him, to share dreams with him in that safe and peaceful beach. Because Caspian knew that He would come and that He was already there watching. And it was that strong faith that helped him smile.

Joy... Love... Faith... Hope... Those were the only words that kept surfacing over his muddled and confused mind. Light... Valiant... Just... Gentle... Magnificent. Such short and simple words and yet... perfect. Unique. Only. One. Him.

"Aslan."

Caspian looked back at his nurse. He seemed lost and puzzled but with that short word his attention returned, like a moth flies to flames. He looked straight into his nurse's watery eyes and remained silent with solemn respect. Respect for what he didn't know and in any case, he couldn't wish to know. He only knew she wasn't finished yet since such a short word as that could mean so much more. He had just learned that.

"That's His name, child. Aslan."

Caspian tried the name. Minutes ago he had wondered about the queen's name which had sounded so strange and exotic before, and now this figure, this name ―Aslan― he had never heard a name like that before and it still felt and sounded just right. He whispered the name in reverence, slowly, as if saying it too much or too quickly would give its value away. It was sacred.

"Was... was He ―Aslan― the one who told you all those stories then, dear nurse?"

She nodded. Once.

"He is the one who knows all stories. The one who weaved them before I weaved them to you or anyone. The one who knows the many different endings that you may weave into your own story, my prince. He has seen everything and everyone and knows in His humility that He still has much to see. All those many, possible endings for each and one of us..."

Caspian stared with intrigue. "And did Queen Lucy ever see... Aslan?"

His nurse laughed.

"Aye, my prince. He came to her and her royal siblings as a Lion, the maker of kings, the untamed Lion, king of kings. He fought alongside them, died for them, and came back. They wept for Him and He crowned them as our beloved kings and queens who ruled grandly in His stead in the marble castle of the "lesser court", Cair Paravel, overlooking the seas while awaiting the return of the Lion. Out of her older siblings, Queen Lucy was the closest to Aslan."

Caspian's interest in these great kings and queens was rekindled and he asked for the names of the other three loved by the august Lion and of their adventures during their reign of gold. But his nurse swatted the air in that common manner of hers and brushed a stubborn lock of hair from Caspian's dark eyes.

"Those are stories best left for another night, my dear prince. Now hush for it is half past ten and you must rest. Heathen to that land of no cares and righteousness so that one day, my dear prince, Aslan Himself may come to you in dreams."

With that thought, Caspian felt warm and sleepy and didn't protest much when his honey nurse covered him with the blankets and kissed him goodnight. A smile graced his lips even after sleep had pleasantly taken him over to the old Narnia and beyond the Eastern Sea, where a mighty but smiling Lion rested on the sands of a beach, expecting company for that night's storytelling.

As the old lady blew out the candles in the prince's room, she whispered in a dulcet tone an old song from a long forgotten time:

 "Stars, stars... Let yourself be enchanted by the skies..."

And after she was gone and the figure of the sleeping prince was barely illuminated by the dim moonlight, it was only natural that the ivory seashell and grains of sand under the bed went unnoticed by everyone.

[FIN]

Title: “The Ridiculous”

Genre: Humor/Romance

Rating: G (General)

Characters & Pairing: Pevensies, Caspian. Caspian/Susan

Disclaimer: No copyright infringement is intended and I’m not gaining any profit from this story, I’m only having fun with C.S. Lewis’s fantastic world and characters.

Author’s Notes: Prompt #8 at susancaspian with the word “evil”. In the end it turned out a little longer than I expected for a drabble...; I also tried to portray the colourful folklore of Narnia mixed with some medieval treats here and there. Take note that this mentions events that take place in “The Horse and His Boy” so it includes some generalized spoilers for that book. Anyone catch the Shakespearian quote? ;)

Movie-verse. Not beta’d.

Summary: In which Caspian learns of Rabadash’s existence and Susan learns of the ways of courtly love in the art of jousting.

*   *   *

As it was customary Narnian fashion, while several political affairs were treated delicately with the edge of Peter’s sword and his equally sharp ego, most dignitaries long come from the border beyond Archenland or the far isles to the east were grandly welcomed with the blessings of the Narnian kings and queens as it was a manner of courtly etiquette, and presently a jousting tournament was held (with much enthusiasm and revelry) as a display of the current king of Narnia’s willingness to please and entertain the foreign ambassadors (and in hopes to establish a much joyful and quiet allegiance). During the kingship of Miraz the Usurper, Narnia lost contact with several countries if they still had any for most unions had been broken ever since Narnia was overtaken by the Telmarine race (a good example of this was when the Lone Isles stopped paying tribute to the kingdom and seemingly forgot about such an accord). The trade with the Calormene had been particularly bad and despite the ever-going alliance between Narnia and Archenland the support between the two kingdoms had been lacking.

The whole kingdom had been invited to the tournament although certain restrictions were made on accord to participants and several creatures were not allowed to take part in the competitions. Of course, the king’s purposes and worry for the well-fare of his smallest and weakest subjects were well received by the Talking Beasts, Dwarfs, and the remaining lot of mythical creatures. The Centaurs were neither content nor offended by the strict regulations for becoming a participant, after all, as the solemn and wise creatures that they are this sort of display was mostly silly and too time consuming while they had more important affairs to attend to, such as serving as a personal escort for the kings and queens or keeping a watchful eye on the other politicians’ own escorts. Grateful by their insight and seriousness, newly crowned King Caspian X gave them the task to serve as vigilantes on the entrances of the arena and charged a fit, serious Centaur named Hoarsegroom (with the help of a few Eagles) with the tournament’s security.

The morning passed quickly as the preparations for the tournament were completed and the whole of Narnia was anxiously waiting for the entertainment to begin. The space where the tournament was to be held was a spacious square with no grass, staked on its far corners so as to mark the extension of the field and rows of wooden benches were placed around it forming a small sort of what a stadium would be here on Earth.

The roofed seats at the centre were reserved specifically for the Royal Vizier and Prince Roshta come from the capitol city of Tashbaan in the heart of the fierce heat of Calormen. On the row of seats beside were to sit the King and courtiers of Archenland (who were smart enough not to be as picky in their viewing places as the Calormene) and on one level above them were five exquisitely carved chairs sided with crimson banners and lions imprinted as its coat of arms. The rich, bright colour swayed smoothly with the morning’s warm, gentle wind and the golden or red lions from the flags placed strategically around the field and close to the viewer’s places appeared to be stretching their limbs before chasing or pouncing after some invisible prey within the banner.

Quickly, the eager spectators ambled blissfully into the flat and soon a large crowd of strong-accented Telmarines, Talking Beasts and Fowls, energetic Fauns, gruff Dwarves, and giggly birch girls of silver, leafy hair were on their seats talking, gambling or betting on their preferred contestant, and laughing, and some even started singing. Soon the ‘patter-patter’ of feet and the hullabaloo stopped at the sound of silver trumpets and when everybody turned their heads to the source of the music three majestic horses (of course unsaddled and unbridled) surged from behind the hill at a steady trot.

Sitting on one of the horses, this one being chalky white and leading the group (and at this sight everybody in the crowd bowed low), was a young man with fair hair, his golden tresses bound by a circlet. A long sword, with its gleaming pommel carved unto the shape of a lion’s face, rested against his bouncing lap and he wore a red leather over-coat over a pearl white shirt, grey britches, and boots. The clothes, although of fine quality, were loose and slim for a day of riding with dust and in the heat of the Narnian summer.

Riding on his side was another young man but of darker, sharper features (and the match was quite fitting for the handsome youth rode a coal black war horse). He also carried a long sword of different crafting and more intricate designs on the hilt and scabbard, sharp silver and deep black being the predominant colours, and he wore a sky-blue tunic which was a sharp contrast with the tan skin and brown-almost-black, warm eyes. 

And finally, a few paces to the right of the first man (whose predominant colour was red) rode a younger lad of equally attractive features; lily-white skin and an unmanageable turf of dark hair, both a likeable and solemn face, a broad sword wrapped in skin and leather clacking and racketing against his side as the chestnut cult (with a milky streak on its forehead and a golden mane) marched along its company. He also wore a tunic: forest green, dark britches as the second man, and just as the other two, dark brown boots. A strange air of coolness revolved around him.   

By their rich garments, their mannerly vocabulary, and lordly faces (although still quite gentle, friendly, and inviting) it was easy to know of their noble status and everyone in Narnia would have to be daft or blind (with no real offense to blind people) to not recognize High King Peter, King Caspian, and King Edmund. A small procession of Centaurs wearing lion sewn talbards followed the three kings as they dismounted before the entrance of the arena. The tallest Centaur whom I presented to you earlier as Hoarsegroom approached King Caspian slowly and pressed his arm against his man-chest.

“Hail, King!” He immediately turned to High King Peter and King Edmund, repeating the curtsey. King Caspian grinned respectfully, signalling the Centaur with his hand to proceed.

“Do carry on with your duties, good Hoarsegroom. The tournament is soon to start and we want to make sure our guests are grandly welcomed for our games.”

“If your Majesty wills it.” The great Centaur made his exit.

“Then all’s left to do is wait for the rest of the company.” Edmund sighed, patting the side of his mount and rewarding it with a cube of sugar.

“I do wonder what Queen Lucy and Queen Susan are doing. I worry they may not be early for the opening of the games.” Caspian made a funny face.

“I wouldn’t worry too much on them.” Came Edmund’s response. “They’re pro’lly still choosing their dresses or what sort of perfume they could use (and trust me, it will be more potent than those Calormenes’).

“Girls can be pretty silly. And either way, Susan was never too fond of this sport.” Peter added squaring his shoulders. “She once said she considered, and I quote: ‘jousting is a pompous and immature excuse for men (or boys, as she calls us) to show off their mastery on abusing a horse, boasting their overgrown egos while waving a stick (it’s called a lance, dear Su) to prove in a completely irrelevant way their superiority in strength (it’s all about marksmanship and training your abilities for war, by Jove!), and while being at it and for the sake of their pride stage an exaggerated victory to court a bewildered lady whom I’m sure understands mostly nothing of this hastilude for men and would much rather be offered the head of a horse than a humiliating victory dedication out of nothing.’”

Edmund whistled with surprise. “Woah, Pete! Not even I could have remembered all that on the dot!”

“I only did because those ill-refuted words hurt me grandly.”

Caspian chuckled. “Ah. That has to be why.”

Their conversation abruptly ended when an Eagle descended before his Kings and gave notice that their guests were come. Soon a group of dark skinned men with turbans marched towards the Kings and saluted stiffly. Their leader was a skinny and tall man, well past his thirties, with beady black eyes, and a pointy beard smeared with scented oils. He wore a funny suit of a flashy orange colour; jewels and necklaces trimmed his sleeves, his neck, and his turban, huge and bulky was adorned with curiously shaped feathers. Beside him was a plump dark man of few feet high, also with a pointed beard (in fact, every Calormene present had a long and pointy beard) and swollen lips.

The difference in heights of the scoffing lords was so great, King Caspian and High King Peter and King Edmund had to bite their tongues and shut their eyes for a few moments to avoid laughing in their faces. Even after the presentations were said and done, King Caspian had to avert his gaze from the small announcer who was none other than (as he introduced himself) the loyal confident of the Tisroc (may he live forever): Tarkan Erevis Ashtan and Royal Vizier. Then he named the second attendant, Prince Roshta who stood straight, proud, and sneering while adjusting the tip of his beard with his dark, oily fingers.

Caspian was not very fond of the Prince’s demeaning way of speech and his lordly mannerisms and came to the conclusion that he didn’t like the Calormenes much. Edmund and Peter agreed with him on that and were sure to warn him that it was best treating them carefully lest they were a great threat, for as the Kings of Old had learned that these dark people who revered Tash were sneaky and dangerous. Caspian hoped that the King of Archenland was not like these men and when the merry old King (named Garren III) and his escort joined them, he thanked Aslan for the benevolence and kindness of the kings of Archenland as opposed to their neighbours.

It was well past one o’clock by now and the Kings and politicians proceeded to join the clamouring spectators in their stands and all was well and ready (despite a fit of complaints from Prince Roshta’s part that his spot smelled of horse dung or that he should have brought a cushion to seat on). Trumpets sounded again and the competitors strode slowly in files of two and two before the monarchs to be addressed. Telmarine soldiers and a few Satyrs composed the competitors, all clad in mail, heavy armour, and helmets. Their horses (dumb beasts of course for no one would dare ride a Talking Horse in a jousting competition) puffed and stamped their hooves against the earth.

Caspian rose from his chair and all at once, heads wheeled towards him in full attention. “Brave friends, I greet thee on this fine day. In little time our tournament shall begin and I do not wish to keep you any longer from the experience. Brave men, be free to show us your horsemanship, bravery and skill with the blade and lance. We hope our humble displays please our dear guests this eve and I bid all competitors and noble beasts luck and may the grace of The Lion guide you to glory and victory. Let the games begin!”

A round of applause followed the King's speech (as well as an unnoticed grunt from the Royal Vizier) as a line of Phoenixes blazed overhead signalling the official start of the event. Fiery sparks rained down on the list field and the toll of a bell called the first two competitors. The earth thundered. Lifting clouds of dirt in their wake, the destriers' flanks shimmered and flexed in the sunlight as they rode mightily from opposite sides of the tilt and in a flash the wood of a sharp lance broke into a thousand splinters after clashing against a cuirass. The first matches proved worthy openings for once the horse battles passed, the men would meet on the ground with their naked swords, swinging with skill and power. Edmund and Peter eagerly discussed strategy and technique for they were quite passionate about the knightly sport, as much as we are with football. When the fourth round had ended in clamour and stomping did Caspian finally see the brave knight Reepicheep and the red Dwarf Trumpkin reach his side bearing funny faces.

“You are late Reepicheep and Trumpkin, what kept you so long?” Questioned Caspian.

“I beg your indulgence, Sire.” Replied the Mouse sounding truly distressed.

“And the Queens? Are they all right?”

“I saw that their trip was safe. They are well and both glow in the flower of their beauty this evening.”

“Although they did prove hard to bring, lad, especially Queen Susan.” Added Trumpkin under the heavy mass of red beard.

“Oh yes, I was told she is particularly reluctant when it comes to these events… Why ever is that?”

“Ladies in their sensitivities probably…” grumbled Trumpkin, “Go figure.”

“The Ladies are come, Sire.” Reepicheep said motioning with his short arm towards the steps leading to the monarchs’ seats and bowing his head grandly.

Caspian’s eyes glittered as the two belles stepped from behind the banister grasping their soft skirts as they walked and dragging translucent capes behind their bare feet. Lucy was accompanied by two escorts: a curly-haired Faun and a kindly Weasel, whereas Susan was followed by two woodland Nymphs in green. Soon, the tickling and captivating perfume only found in a field of new-grown flowers reached the stand and all heads turned to greet the queens. Lucy looked as lovely as ever, beaming her trademark smile and walking slowly so as not to trip with her long tresses. She wore a pink dress over a white shift with flowery patters sewn over her neck area, long golden-trimmed sleeves, and a golden belt. Her silky chestnut hair hung loosely down her back, with small braids decorating her sides, and a crown of violet lilies nestled lightly atop her head. She smelled of honeyed plums as she welcomed their guests joyously and Edmund commented that his sisters had apparently decided not to wear any sort of perfume leaving the Calormenes dumbstruck and quite possibly offended.

Behind the Valiant Queen and taking short steps was the even more gracious Gentle Queen draped in velvet, silk and lace. She wore a long, elegant gown coloured like wine to represent the festivities and fertility, as well as the feisty and jovial spirit Baccus. The leather straps were wrapped artistically below her exposed shoulders and down to the bend of her arms. Covering the exquisite and creamy skin were long, dark yellow sleeves similar to the colour of mustard that enhanced the blue of her eyes and the brown of her freckles speckled randomly over her nose and cheeks. A garland of daisies delicately crowned her cascading curls and the smell of the flowers mixed with her quaint scent of fresh rain on soil. She modestly crossed her fair, pearly hands on her front as she greeted the foreign courtiers. Lucy then took a seat beside Caspian and Susan sat on the left end of the row next to her sister.

“It’s about time you girls arrived!” Exclaimed Peter, “I thought you liked this sort of thing, Lu.”

“But I do! Susan was just slow and hard to convince. She kept on bringing up excuses to delay the horses while trying to control everything...”

Susan scoffed. “So as to make it all perfect. You know very well that I was only making sure that everything was ready and you also kept tripping with your skirts Lucy. I only did come for the importance of our public image before those lords so as to secure Caspian’s future dealings.”

“I thank you for your concern, My Queen.” Smiled Caspian and Susan smiled back.

“It is my pleasure.”

“Did I miss anything worth the mention, Sire?” Reepicheep added as he stood on the arm-rest of Peter’s chair right to the side of Caspian’s, his black eyes set on the field.

“Well…” started Edmund, “We were just discussing how number three over there’s got a strong arm but his technique is rather poor. See how he doesn’t avert his eyes at the moment of the blow? That’ll turn into a problem soon no doubt about that when he faces number seven who has unhorsed at least two men now.”

“Ah, I see. I’m betting on number two actually.”

“Why is that, Reepicheep? His armour is beaten and marred.” observed Peter.

“His horse, Sire. Look at it: tis a charger; less heavy or powerful than a destrier but still quite agile. That noble beast is certain to bring its master close to victory (and of course number two came out as the winner in the end but that doesn’t come into this tale.) The event cannot be more exciting than as it is.”

“Nay Master Mouse, the only thing better than this is an apricot in Damascus.”

The wild crash of oak against steel died down under the outburst of the cheering crowd; under the barking and bleating and roars and squeaks and stamping of feet or hooves or claws. The Kings and Lucy (who would hug Trumpkin when the match was too much for her to bear) clapped and shouted, caught up in the thrill of the sport, yet Susan remained stoic in her chair and occasionally shook her head in disappointment, boredom darkening her face. Caspian turned, noticing her silence and biting his lower lip, Peter’s words came back to mind.

“Lucy, would you mind switching places for a moment?” He whispered to the little queen.

“Oh not at all!” She replied. “Actually that would do much good to Peter…”

Caspian looked back at the blond whose grip on the chair tightened at the sound of breaking lances; his knuckles turned white and his mouth pressed into a concerned line. King Garren turned back at Edmund nodding and the dark-haired king turned back to his brother with a sly grin.

“He certainly is in need of your support.” He chuckled.

Lucy shook her head and giggled, “He always loses his bets with Edmund and apparently this time the payment was high. I wonder what he did now?”

Soon he was beside the beauteous and frowning queen and he gently placed his hand over hers, gaining her attention with a little smile on her part.

“Are you not enjoying yourself, My Queen?”

Susan sighed, looking straight ahead to avoid the evident concern in his dark eyes. “I’m afraid I don’t find excitement in these sports but do not let this trouble you, Caspian.”

“What would you rather have me do instead? For I cannot bear the thought of rejoicing while you do not.”

“Oh don’t be silly. It’s only natural that we don’t agree on certain things.”

“Well that is true… If it pleases you, once the alliances are set, would Her Highness be glad to lend her grace for organizing a royal ball in celebration?”

“I would love that, thank you.” She replied, sheepishly looking down at her skirts.

“Although I am a little curious… If I may, why is it that you dislike jousting so much?”

Susan stretched her neck, sitting erect on her chair and eyeing the wounded knight below limp back to his grooms.

“Truly, it’s quite simple. I can’t find a logical explanation for hurting oneself and a confused mount willingly.”

“Well if you look at it that way of course it is going to sound dull. You must understand that its popularity is based on the demonstration of skill of its participants.”

“Either way, I still find it pointless.”

Caspian smiled turning his attention back to the tournament. “As a practitioner of this sport I am encouraged to make you change your opinion about it, My Lady, for I do not wish to see you bored.”

Susan laughed at his side. “You indulge me, Caspian but there’s no need for you to do that…”

“Listen to her Caspian and don’t waste your time like past suitors did.” Susan glanced at Edmund, pursing her plump lips in anger while Caspian looked curious. “What ever did she do to those men?”

At this point, Peter and Lucy joined the conversation. “Ignored most of them or asked them to do ridiculous quests in the name of their love for her.” Susan blushed in anger. “Peter, you know I was perfectly fit to entertain myself with those bragging and self-centred princes who did nothing but profess their love for me in vain with dumb acts of brute force and no sensitivity.”

Caspian laughed. “I see your point now, My Queen.”

“Although there was one that was particularly stubborn…”

“Peter there’s no need to talk—”

“Who was this man?” Caspian’s intrigue caught up with him (as well as his possessiveness). For a moment, the tournament slipped from the five rulers’ heads.

“Prince Rabadash of Calormen.” continued Peter sternly, “Shall I add, an ungrateful coward.”

“He was perfectly dreadful, wasn’t he?” said Lucy.

“Although I do believe Su fancied him.”

A spark of jealously briefly marked Caspian’s features when he turned to Susan, “D-did you?”

“Oh of course not! I only gave him certain privileges. At the time I was very interested in Calormene culture so I gladly accepted his invitation to the capitol Tashbaan. But once we were there I saw he was only an evil and manipulative tyrant who tried to force me to marry him or else he would kill Edmund and our escort.”

Caspian eyed the Calormene below who were fanning themselves with their hands, seemingly disgruntled by the smell of sweat and dirt and hot horses. He liked Calormenes less and less by the minute.

“Why that dirty, plotting swine—!”

“Ass.” Corrected Edmund, and at his comment the other rulers burst out laughing.

“Pardon?”

“I meant to say that he received Aslan’s just judgement and punishment was turned into an ass. He was dubbed ‘Rabadash the Ridiculous’ thereafter.” Caspian joined in the laughter and shared a joke with Edmund (before the royal siblings returned their attention to the joust) who warned him that courting Susan would turn him into something worse than a poor donkey.

“So your dislike comes from the showiness that has been directed at you before, My Queen?” Susan ignored the question and looked down. “Even so, I do believe you look beautiful today and it is a pity you will not smile...” he whispered and Susan turned to him with a funny look in her eyes, an almost challenging expression.

“My Lord, this is only for the well-fare of exterior relations during your reign so as to make sure your dealing with politics is less quarrelsome.”

“But what good are politics for a King when he has no Queen of his own to share his duties and passions with?”

Something seemed to shine in her eyes. “Quite sad... Are you to follow the codes of courtly love to amend such a weakness?”

“Perhaps as I have already spotted which lady…”

“And what follows after that?”

“Well… it would be gaining the lady’s heart with feats of arms she considers fairly ridiculous.”

Susan suppressed a laugh and shook her head. “Then you would fail to earn her love.”

“I do believe this case would be different from previous ones, as the lady seems to return the feelings.”

Her hand searched his own and she squeezed it tightly for a moment until the second toll of a bell caught everyone’s attention and the current round was called a draw.

Once it was announced that a short recess would be held to allow the remaining participants to catch their breath, Caspian did something no one (and especially not Susan) expected: he rose from his chair and said that he would participate against whoever wished to go against him. Since he knew that Susan would be genuinely worried about him then surely he had a chance to entertain her. What marked the difference with her previous suitors was that he didn’t want to prove his love for her via his strength and use it as a symbol for his feelings (since she clearly disliked such shows). He only wished to see her smile and enjoy herself. And what better way to do that than by involving himself in something she disliked? That certainly would gain her attention. His plan went well when the shocked queen questioned him in horror and pointed out that he lacked armour and the proper equipment for protection.

“You churl, are you doing this for me?”

Caspian smiled reassuringly. “For whom else would I do this?”

“Oh for the love of Aslan you will do no such thing! Don’t you know I would much rather—“

“His Majesty the Just did mention the horse’s head.”

“Then stop this foolishness, Caspian, and get back here! You are of no use to me with your legs broken!”

Caspian noticed the hint of humour in her words which urged him forward. It was too late anyway for the order was set and he was already midway down the stand.

“I’ll fetch your horse-head quickly, dear Queen.”

Susan leaned over the rail, crossed and with her eyebrows knitted in worry. Caspian looked up at her sweetly and with a lopsided grin he raised his hand and stroked a curl of dangling hair and then brushed it behind her ear.

“Surely you don’t expect to receive a token now for I do not have a handkerchief with me.”

“One kiss and I’ll descend.”

The frown vanished for an instant as his lips pressed against hers, the kiss melting into another. They parted and Susan remained standing with her hands nervously clutching the rail and her eyes studying the field carefully. In truth she was still bothered by his decision but was unable to complain. Lucy joined her sister and with an understanding grin she put a reassuring hand on her back while behind them Edmund and Peter looked at them with amused faces. Susan’s concerned expression brightened for a moment when Caspian looked back at her from his horse and the ghost of a smile lingered on her curved lips for a moment but was gone as fast as it had come to be replaced by a mock pout.

“Men! They are all so ridiculous!" 

Genre: Spiritual

Rating: G (General)

Disclaimer: No copyright infringement is intended and I’m not gaining any profit from this story, I’m only having fun with C.S. Lewis’s fantastic world and characters.

Author’s Notes: So I was inspired after having my Narnia marathon and reading the seven books one after the other these past days. The moment I read the last line of the final page of “The Last Battle”, the imagery of the real Narnia as a peaceful sort of Eden strongly remained in my head and this long poem-esque drabble was the result.

Not beta’d.

*   *   *

“Further Up and Further In”

By Mase992
 

~

Rich, riveting, slender brooks seem like liquid gold in the morning sunlight.

They speed through the breathing trees,

the rushing trails like pearly steeds tossing their manes.

Forward! Deeper and more inviting.

To the South!

Warm, friendly, simply lovely plains and mountains

with colours unseen on Earth, lively and radiant.

Higher up, almost flying on eagles’ wings

while racing the laughing winds

 and darting up to touch the whirling skies.

Everything smells and tastes sweet,

sweet as the bread and milk you first ever ate or drank.

The hills stretch Northward, yet your pace remains steady and untried.

Welcomed by jovial faces alike and old friendships rekindled.

Once through the Gates the race is finished

so bid farewell to the Shadowlands

far beyond the raining stars and fading into shadow.

Now the keen eyes seek out the mountains of the corners of the world

and you find yourself deep within that magical mirror, or in truth,

within the reflection of all things merry and real,

yet hidden from the common, faithless, and caged eye.

And the horn calls you home, towards your throne of marble, silver, or gold.

The wine is poured. The fruits have grown

And that haven shines with dances of merriment and joy.

The music sways as in summer

and flourishes such as when the Dawn of the World,

for here no winter or night falls.

And you know this Dream is all you ought to believe in,

whereas in the Dream you’ve always been a King or Queen.

On the glittering East, where castles stand, and clouds do clear,

He glows amidst the warm sand and parts the seas

bathed in lilies and sweet-water.

And to the West, to tread through light, two-legged or on horseback,

Lady, Lord, High King, or Queen

Son of Adam, Daughter of Eve

You must set on further up and further in.

~

Title: “Under the Radiant Southern Sun”

Genre: Romance

Rating: PG (for Caspian’s boyish desires)

Pairing: Caspian/Susan
Disclaimer: No copyright infringement is intended and I’m not gaining any profit from this story, I’m only having fun with C.S. Lewis’s fantastic world and characters. I also credit William Shakespeare for his extraordinary sonnets and skill with the quill.

Author’s Notes: Written for Challenge #7 at susancaspian; prompt word was “picture” which I interpreted by using extensive descriptions and comparisons to create a detailed and as vivid as possible image of Susan as seen through enamoured Caspian’s eyes. Hopefully that explains the first-person style (which is clearly not my strongest side). Late but I still hope you enjoy this. I certainly had a blast writing it while repeatedly listening to New Age music. Very inspiring let me tell you :D!

Movie-verse. Not beta’d.

Summary: “She was radiant, dazzling…”  

*   *   *

Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?

Thou art more lovely and more temperate:

Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,

And summer’s lease hath all too short a date:

Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,

And often is his gold complexion dimm’d,

And every fair from fair sometime declines,

By chance, or nature’s changing course untrimm’d:

But thy eternal summer shall not fade,

Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow’st,

Nor shall death brag thou wander’st in his shade,

When in eternal lines to time thou grow’st,

So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see,

So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.

~

On my account, this wondrous world has yet to show me something more dazzling and impossibly breathtaking as the Gentle Queen dancing merrily; her feet trotting in patterns on the turf to no music but to the breathing and beat of her lands. Such a sight I encountered yesterday when the High King asked me to escort the Queens on that day’s pleasure recess. The three of us, Queen Lucy, Queen Susan, and I, rode past the woodlands, capes and skirts swishing through the greenery until we led our noble mounts down a yellow road at a steady pace. Rows of grassy blue hills spread endlessly ahead of us sprinkled with the yellow dots of blooming flowers. It is high summer and so the blazing sun casted golden and silver halos of light around the Queens’s heads.

Queen Lucy, circlet discarded, dismounted first, her small feet now at home between the warm heather. She laughed, the sound reminiscent of tolling little bells, as she rolled down the slope in a mess of green grass, dirt, and fair tassels. Queen Susan and I shared a laugh as we hurried downhill to rendezvous with the little Queen. The eve flew by in between laughter and blissful admiration of the scenery. By the hour the sun was at its highest point in the clear, azure dome, and when dearest Queen Lucy had busied herself picking flowers, that Susan (she insists that I call her that when we’re alone) greeted me with a smile and began to dance to the song of the wind on the grass and the accompanying chorus of the blue jays. I marvelled at the sleek, rapid pace of her bare feet (a clear distinction as to why she is Queen of Narnia) and the lolling of her pale, green dress. Her hair flashed red in the evening sunlight and her lively, dreamy eyes coloured as bluebells, as well as her turning figure, were but a riot of colour in the stillness of the glade. She danced in such a way that my senses were dulled for a brief moment and tricked into believing mirages and confusing her with a mystical being; lively and sure-footed as a Faun and yet as graceful and attractive as a Naiad. It must have been the flowers braided on her rippling and wavy hair, no more beautiful than lilies floating on sweet seawater. Or it was perhaps the sickeningly enthralling perfume of her skin as she strode across the grass to the ethereal music of stillness, of life, of breath. Of Narnia. And laughing sweetly, momentarily arousing a fluttering spur of wings in my stomach, she spun to the last invisible notes of the Sylphs’ mysterious and golden aria and brought her feet to rest before my perplexed expression. Clearly she was blushing I could tell when the cinnamon freckles dotted about her face disappeared beneath the curtain of heat.

“I apologize…” she spluttered in a low, melodious voice, “I simply could not contain the joy I felt.”

I was quick to smile reassuringly, though in my mind it felt more like a taunting smirk.

“Why, you have no need to keep that energy to yourself.”

“Oh stop it, Caspian. I know you had a good laugh.” She frowned, placing her hands on her hips and pursing her lips.

“Nay My Queen, I had no such thing as I was not aware of the dexterity of your feet. As it is I must confess I am a terrible dancer.”

She smiled, settling on the grass beside me. “Are you not lying?”

I frowned, mocking offense. “Why, My Lady! I am distraught on how poorly you think of me!”

The heat rushed back to her face. Her displeasure was endearing.

“You do know that is naught but a lie.”

“How so?”

She straightened herself, her brow furrowing.

“Well, it is perfectly clear that I hold you in very high esteem, enough to have allowed you to witness such an outburst from my part.”

“If that is so, and as to settle our debts, would My Lady ever grace to teach me to dance in such a fashion?”

“Most certainly.” She replied, breaking into a delightful and radiant grin, so much like the sun’s, and to my further amazement she heaved herself up and pulled me along with her.

“Now”, she added, coyly placing my hand on her waist. She looked so small between my arms and still so warm and shiny… “Take a good hold of my waist and give me your other hand…” The closeness made me dizzy and her sweet, flowery scent was too much for me to bear. Her smooth fingers brushed my calloused ones; such a shocking contrast of textures! She beamed, resting her free hand on my shoulder while explaining how I should move my feet and body to a missing rhythm but at this point I was hardly listening. Her warmness, and her lips; plump as roses so tempting, so close… I’m not so sure when she stopped talking or if it was the effect of summer in my head, but I know I could finally hear music. A slow waltz commanded my senses and I danced and followed the steps instinctively, stooping down against those fresh wild roses and pressing them back on the grass in a whirlwind of colours and heat.

“Oh Caspian…”

I woke from my trance, and met her bluebell eyes staring up at me like flowers seeking the light. I soon noticed my hand was pressing hers against the soft turf. Her lips lingered dangerously close to mine and she ran her fingers across my cheek lovingly. She was radiant, dazzling with her hair pooled around her face carpeted with daisies, and lilac, and buttercups, and snowdrop, and rhododendron, and her soft cheeks and cherry lips glowed brighter than earlier during her dance.

“I did warn you, My Lady.”

She sighed, “Caspian, do stop being so modest. You are such a good dancer…”

With a smile, music in my ears, her glowing face in my eyes, and Narnian summer in my head, I leaned down to kiss her.

Title: “Turkish Delight”

Genre: Humor

Rating: G (General)

Pairing: Peter/Edmund-sorta crack

Word Limit: 100 words exactly.

Disclaimer: No copyright infringement is intended and I’m not gaining any profit from this story, I’m only having fun with C.S. Lewis’s fantastic world and characters.

Author’s Notes: Response drabble for the third prompt challenge at 100foraslan with use of “candy” and any slash pairing. So I thought I’d give this one a try since I don’t usually write any Narnia slash but regrettably, this pairing has been growing on me all thanks to this com so I’m placing all the responsibility on you guys! Please be gentle, as this is my first time ever writing Edmund.

Movie-verse. Not beta-ed.

Summary: What if Edmund was denied his favourite treat? Do not mess with the Just King or he might pull a hidden ace from beneath his sleeve…

*   *   *

Title: “Island in the Sun”

Genre: Angst

Rating: G (General)

Pairing: Caspian/Susan

Word Limit: 100 words; word count: 99.

Disclaimer: No copyright infringement is intended and I’m not gaining any profit from this story, I’m only having fun with C.S. Lewis’s fantastic world and characters.

Author’s Notes: I wrote this as a response to the first prompt that’s being held at 100foraslan; the topic is “sleeping in” with my favourite ship which is of course Susan/Caspian. Although this time, the story takes place during The Voyage of the Dawn Treader after Chapter 12: “The Dark Island” where Caspian and his crew briefly sail where dreams come true (hence where “sleeping in” comes into play). It was never mentioned what Caspian saw so I thought I’d write my own interpretation.

The title was inspired by the song of the same name by Weezer. 
 

Movie-verse (since I picture Ben Barnes and Anna Popplewell). Not beta-ed.

Summary: But watching stars without you // My soul cried…

*   *   *

Caspian stood on the stern, sweaty and weary; his eyes drawn toward the glittering stars and his back turned from that nightmarish dream.  

She came bearing that warm, distinctive brightness that made the light of the lanterns to quiver weakly under the fervent gaze of her deep, Siren eyes. The tempting curve of her lips lingered dangerously in his mind just as the beckoning motion of her pearlescent finger.

“Caspian…”

Something stirred painfully within his chest as the King repressed the urge to look back until she, no, it (he reminded himself through gritted teeth) disappeared behind the waves...

Title: “Paint the Sky with Stars”

Genre: Family/General  

Rating: G (General)

Characters: Lucy and Peter. No incest.  

Disclaimer: No copyright infringement is intended and I’m not gaining any profit from this story, I’m only having fun with C.S. Lewis’s fantastic world and characters.

Author’s Notes: I simply wanted to write a short story that would portray the deep bond that is present between Lucy and Peter and the strength of that relationship (and of the four Pevensies truly) thanks to their encounter with Narnia and how close that has brought them together.

Obviously, the song of the same name by Enya was the inspiration for the title of this story.

Movie-verse (since I picture Georgie Henley and William Moseley). Not beta-ed.

Summary: Peter turned his eyes toward the ceiling and nudged her gently. “Look up Lucy. Can you see the stars?”

*   *   *

If only the fading, soothing songs of the mermaids hadn’t ceased so readily minutes prior to sunset, then the young queen wouldn’t have had such an uneasy time to lull herself to sleep. She tossed the blankets aside, kicking wearily, and changing her position countless time to hopefully find repose any one of them. She wrinkled her nose in exasperation, pressing her eyes closed to force sleep into them but it just would not come tonight. The ceiling served as a distraction for several minutes until she grew bored of its dull palette or of the patterned tapestries that decorated her quarters. Sighing heavily, Lucy let her legs dangle from the edge of the bed as her head came to rest on her palms. Finally making up her mind and shivering she jumped out of bed and quietly rushed from her room and sped along the moonlit graced corridors of Cair Paravel. She casted funny looks at the shadows she encountered in her path: an armour, a pillar, even a tiny, stray mouse would shake her out of her wits despite knowing that she was the safest inside those marble walls. She knew well, better than any of her beloved siblings that Narnia would not harm her, the newly crowned Valiant Queen and that her attitude was folly and childish and fearing to remain alone in her room was not justified and even more improper and ridiculous to be roaming the castle at this hour. But she couldn’t help it, she just couldn’t. She was thrilled about staying in Narnia; she had learned to love its breathing green lands, the quivering woods, and dancing Eastern Sea as well as she cared for its every inhabitant: the friendly and homey beavers, the loyal centaurs, as well as the enchanting, frolicking trees just to name a few (not to forget her dear Mr. Tumnus with whom she enjoyed a cup of tea and sweeties every afternoon by the shore). Lucy, as well as Peter, Edmund, and Susan, had eagerly deemed Narnia as “home” and she was right to do so. And still, as every child is told that home is that place where it’s warm and there’s nothing to fear, Lucy still felt a thread of “something funny”. She couldn’t quite put her finger on it, the sensation came and went sometimes and only when she was alone, some nights in her bedroom. It was not that dreadful something that she felt when she heard the distant bombings back in England, or that something that overtook both her (and most probably Peter and Susan as well) upon noticing Edmund’s betrayal; it wasn’t that intense nor completely overwhelming but it still unnerved Lucy, at times sending her to a balcony to muse over the rushing waves of her eastern dominions where Aslan watched her from beyond the horizon, or other times it would draw sleep from her when she would lay tired but without sleeping, motionless in her bed.

As she advanced, Lucy rubbed her forearms with her arms in hopes to relieve herself from the sharp winds that invaded the castle at these hours. At this point she would hesitate and consider going back to her own bed but she would have none of that, her legs wouldn’t continue down that blind path. She could have gone to Edmund or Susan but Lucy could not contain herself, could not contain her need to go the other way, past a fleet of stairs, turn another corner and stealthily slip her small form through a door and into her eldest brother’s chamber.

“Peter.” She whispered and waited. There was no response. “Peter!” She tried once more and the form of the High King finally stirred from among scarlet coloured blankets and furs. His tired eyes, once spotting his youngest sister, blazed back with life and urgency crossed his handsome features, “What is it, Lu? Is something wrong?”

Lucy regretted this false alarm, in truth nothing of great danger was happening and reconsidered dashing back to her room in embarrassment.

“I… I couldn’t sleep…”

Peter’s expression softened with realization as he smiled warmly at her.

“Again? Lu, you best go tease Susan next time.”

Lucy blushed slightly but caught that playful tone in her brother’s words and simply smiled in return sheepishly. Shifting his body to the farthest side of the bed, Peter made a beckoning gesture with his head and Lucy, beaming that characteristic smile of hers that made everyone instantly fall in love with her, quickly climbed the pile of pillows and fabric and pressed herself next to his warm form, nestling her small head over his forearm. With a contented sigh, she allowed Peter to press her securely with his other arm after he wrapped the sheets once more over them.

“Feeling better?” He offered, pressing his lips tenderly against her forehead. She mumbled her sleepy reply, as her eyes dropped momentarily under the rhythm of his heaving chest. Peter turned his eyes toward the ceiling and nudged her gently. “Look up Lucy. Can you see the stars?”

She saw them clearly. The clearest she had ever seen them shining over them. She swore that if she stretched her arm to reach them she would be able to touch them; strangely, she figured they would feel cold on her fingers and she would grasp them and let them explode into tiny bits of shining dust and she smiled at the thought. At this moment, that funny something in her chest brightened and lifted itself toward the midnight sky, raising her spirit past the heavens, and past all worries, fears, and discomforts. It was at that moment, safely pressed against Peter, painting stars across the boundless sky of her easing mind that Lucy found the true meaning of home, of its warmness and safety.

It was not long after that when she finally fell asleep. 

And dreamed of stars.

-

Title: "Borrowed Seasons" {Fireworks}

Genre: Romance/Angst

Rating: G (General)

Pairing: Caspian/Susan

Disclaimer: I wrote this as a response to Challenge #5 at susancaspian with use of the prompt word “reckoning”. No copyright infringement is intended and I’m not gaining any profit from this story, I’m only having fun with C.S. Lewis’s fantastic world and characters.

Summary: What truly dazzled her was the sight of dancing lights…

Movie-verse. Not beta-ed. 

Author’s Notes: Mild spoilers for Prince Caspian as this takes place after Caspian’s coronation and before the Pevensies leave Narnia. I also wanted to play a little with some abstract elements such as the relativity of time and how everyone perceives its flow differently therefore creating a completely unexpected and diverse effect. Hopefully the symbolism isn’t too confusing, heh. Whoever said winter wasn’t comforting?

I also want to deeply thank maaike_fluffy for telling me how to lj-cut :D . Thank you so much, hun! 
Also, for further enjoyment of the story you could read it while listening to Nichole Nordeman's song named "Every Season".
 

*   *   *

It was a truly wonderful sensation; locking eyes with him, if only for a split second and Susan was thankful that in this world seconds could last longer than usual. Those seconds would swirl around them teasingly like snowflakes from an endless period of winter. Their surroundings, unknowingly, would turn slow and silly, until Time reckoned the losses brought by that borrowed likeness of drowsiness and amended itself, causing everything to speed up and awaken from its seasonal stupor. Those driven by Time’s temporal hibernation would not remember nor notice anything out of the ordinary and resumed their daily activities without hesitation. Only Susan remembered and she seized those fleeting snowflakes tenderly within herself. She sensed Aslan’s wise eyes upon her and she walked away ashamed of her desire for everlasting winter. His glowing mane melted the ice of her heart and spring rejoiced in his wake, yet Susan coveted that light. The only heat she desired she could not obtain from the Lion or his jocund wishes for her well-fare. She strode down the corridors sulkily, frightened by her own thoughts and caught in a perpetual state of autumn: not quite complete. Soon, she knew it wouldn’t be long before her siblings and she would leave this place, this paradise of shortened seasons and treasured time and she knew deep inside that she would miss it. Narnia was… like summer: warm and it felt just right and she could bask on its rich familiarity forever. Alas, seasons always shift and she knew it was time for her to shrift and wither away…

The patterned stars beamed down at the celebration and Narnia reached them jovially through swirling and flashing fireworks. A myriad of colour rained down on the castle and Time (with Aslan’s permission, of course) was delighted to cast the wonderful illusion of spring over the excited spectators. All except one who remained enveloped in autumn.

Susan looked up in awe. She couldn’t take in the beauty and splendour that graced her eyes at the sight of the heavens’ tides glistening with alternating shades of foreign tints. Stardust rained around her, crowning her ebony tresses with glistening remnants of the aurora borealis and any earthly witness of such display of magic would have marvelled at the heavenly rain of stars on the Gentle Queen’s autumn sky.

“Do you not want company?”

She tensed and turned around. When she saw him, autumn grew less chilly and started melting into an unknown fifth season, perhaps morphing in a perfect state of whatever preceded winter. What truly dazzled her was the sight of dancing lights inside his eyes as he approached her and the fireworks above slipped unnoticed from her mind, no more beautiful in comparison with him.

She smiled when he took her hand and she could breathe the cold that was suddenly enveloping them only. “I would appreciate that.”

And of course, when he kissed her it was winter forever…