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[...a feeling of being resigned to hope...]
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Acquainted With the Night
Chronicles of Narnia: Prince Caspian. Peter/Caspian, Caspian/Susan. PG15.
Insomnia after the battle, before departure.
...And further still at an unearthly height
One luminary clock against the sky
Proclaimed the time was neither wrong nor right.
I have been one acquainted with the night.
– Frost
And when everyone was sleeping Peter was still awake, thinking about Caspian’s fingers alighting on his neck. He also thought of Edmund and how his little brother was becoming much cleverer than he was, and of the solemn look Glenstorm’s wife had given him when they returned from the battle at the castle. Her expression of purposeful blankness had unsettled him, and he could feel her eyes on him even as he hurried away, not even having to pretend to be busy.
He thought about Caspian’s hand alighting on his neck, brushing his cheek, the curve of Caspian’s lips when he smiled.
+
Earlier Caspian had found him sitting under a tree on the bank of the river, far removed from the hubbub of celebration. The sound of music and laughter carried over the wind and filtered through the woods, reaching Peter as diaphanous strands of merriment, like a memory.
Caspian said, “Here you are.”
“Here I am,” Peter agreed, and smiled.
“You didn’t stay long at the feast.”
“I was tired,” said Peter, which was only half true.
“May I sit with you?”
Peter shrugged and made an offering gesture at the patch of grass beside him. “I suppose you can do what you like now that you’re king.”
“Not yet,” said Caspian, settling himself beside Peter. “The coronation ceremony hasn’t yet taken place.”
“Bah,” he scoffed. “That’s only a formality.”
“Formality is a large part of being king,” said Caspian. He leaned his head back against the tree trunk, closing his eyes. Peter glanced over, flicked his eyes to Caspian’s pale throat, followed it to his lips. “I’m sure you know about that.”
“I do,” said Peter, looking away, “and how much of a sham it is.”
Caspian raised an eyebrow, amused. “You talk like you don’t enjoy being in charge.”
Peter laughed, perhaps a little ruefully. “My being in charge,” he said, “is also a formality.”
Caspian reached into his robes, pulling out two apples and offering one to Peter. “I saved this for you.”
“What, no pheasant?” said Peter, grinning. “Not even some cheese?”
Caspian laughed. “You could have had all that and more if you had stayed.”
“Ah,” replied Peter, thinking of the loaded smiles and animated conversation between Caspian and Susan, how closely he held her when they danced. “Well,” he added, and he sighed, and left it at that.
They ate their apples then, and talked of the battle in broad strokes, taking care to not mention the names of friends lost. Caspian outlined variations of the strategies they used, the strengths and weaknesses of various formations, and Peter rebutted with criticism and approval where he saw fit. They talked of the etiquette of war and, when they tired of talking of war, they pondered the finer points of Calormene diplomacy. How grim the Calormen were behind their façade of gifts and extensive titles!
The apple cores were turning brown on the ground.
“Shall we go back to the party?” said Caspian, rising to his feet.
Peter merely stretched and put his hands behind his head, leaning back against the tree, the very picture of intending to stay put. “In a hurry, are we?”
Caspian reddened slightly. “Queen Susan has challenged me to an archery contest. Hopefully I have not kept her waiting long.”
“...I see.”
“Queen Lucy has taken it upon herself to gather an audience. I expect it would be rather sizeable by now.” He looked at Peter. “Would you join us and see me make a fool of myself before my subjects? I promise it will be a good time.”
“I’d rather not.” After a pause that was a bit too long, he added, “Don’t just let her win, she won’t like that.”
“Where would my honor be if I did that?” But Caspian had sensed Peter’s unease, and Peter could tell. After a hesitation Caspian knelt before him, not in the way one would before a king, but as one would before a friend, and put his hand on Peter’s shoulder, looking straight into his eyes. “I am truly glad you’ve returned to this land. It was an honor to fight by your side.”
Peter blushed despite himself. “I would say the same to you.”
“Let us be brothers.”
Peter saw warmth in his expression: the astute compassion of someone who could tell something was wrong but did not feel, for one reason or another, like prying.
Peter said, “As you wish.”
Caspian moved his hand from Peter’s shoulder to his neck, as if bestowing a blessing, and as he rose to his feet his fingers brushed Peter’s cheek. “Join us soon.”
He watched the young prince, soon to be king, walk away until he disappeared through the tree line. Peter was very conscious of where Caspian’s hand had been. If you had asked him where Caspian had touched him, Peter could have told you exactly where.
+
And when everyone was sleeping Peter was still awake, wandering the halls of someone else’s castle, being bowed to by someone else’s guards. The halls were decked with tapestries decorated with the image of the lion in anticipation of the coronation ceremony. The lions’ gaze was disconcerting. They watched him as he wended down the corridor, as so many reminders that, in the end, it was Lucy and not him who had seen Aslan first.
When Peter found himself in front of Caspian’s chamber door, it was with a feeling of being resigned to hope. He didn’t know what he expected from Caspian, from this night. There were guards at either end of the corridor so Peter couldn’t do anything too unseemly. He touched the ancient wood of the door, stepped closer and strained his ears to hear even the slightest strands of sound from inside. But of course he heard nothing.
Peter continued on his way.
When he found himself by Susan’s door, it was by accident. He hadn’t even realized which wing he was in, and the only reason he noticed the door at all were the sounds he heard from within.
Susan is having nightmares, thought Peter as his heart rose to his throat. She is talking in her sleep, as if by thinking of alternate possibilities he could make them true.
Against his better judgment, the High King Peter pressed his ear to his sister’s chamber door and listened, and this was what he heard: delicate mewling, rustling, the creaking of an ancient bed. The muted thuds and faint moans of lovers trying to be discreet.
But it may not be Caspian, Peter thought, as if by thinking it he could make it true. Who else...?
He listened, and listened for far too long. Long enough for his stomach, his teeth, to clench. With his ear against the door he faced the long and shadowed corridor but his eyes saw nothing, only the images his mind tried to put together: of fingers interlacing, of kisses trailing down pale throats. Long dark hair strewn across tangled sheets and the sheen of sweat on flushed skin.
He listened, and his fingers balled into fists.
“Susan—”
“Shh...”
“Susan, there is someone at the door.”
But by the time Susan had pulled on her robe and opened the door, the corridor was empty. She frowned at the distant echoing of running footsteps, and only slightly hesitated before closing the door again. She was done chasing down wrongdoings for the night.
“There’s no one there,” she said, shrugging off her robe. “You’re imagining things.”
“I saw a shadow under the door.”
“Who would be at my door in the middle of the night?” she said, her tone teasing. “Aside from you.”
“I don’t know,” lied Caspian. He held out his hand and, with a smile, Susan took it and sank back into the sheets.
+
The night was on the verge of dawn and Peter had only fallen asleep minutes ago.
He wouldn’t remember his dreams upon waking, but they involved being snared in ropes of dark hair, and subtle smiles, and sometimes kisses. There were dark eyes and there was judgment, condemnation, and the feeling like everything was slipping away. But there were also touches, the kind Peter always imagined he’d receive from a lover, and as he slept, he sometimes sighed the sort of sighs that were almost growls, almost moans. Peter would awaken telling himself everything had happened for the best. He would dress and descend to breakfast. By his second sip of tea the details would become quite hazy, and by his fourth they would be completely gone.
But for now he dreamed.
[end.]
Acquainted With the Night
Chronicles of Narnia: Prince Caspian. Peter/Caspian, Caspian/Susan. PG15.
Insomnia after the battle, before departure.
One luminary clock against the sky
Proclaimed the time was neither wrong nor right.
I have been one acquainted with the night.
– Frost
And when everyone was sleeping Peter was still awake, thinking about Caspian’s fingers alighting on his neck. He also thought of Edmund and how his little brother was becoming much cleverer than he was, and of the solemn look Glenstorm’s wife had given him when they returned from the battle at the castle. Her expression of purposeful blankness had unsettled him, and he could feel her eyes on him even as he hurried away, not even having to pretend to be busy.
He thought about Caspian’s hand alighting on his neck, brushing his cheek, the curve of Caspian’s lips when he smiled.
+
Earlier Caspian had found him sitting under a tree on the bank of the river, far removed from the hubbub of celebration. The sound of music and laughter carried over the wind and filtered through the woods, reaching Peter as diaphanous strands of merriment, like a memory.
Caspian said, “Here you are.”
“Here I am,” Peter agreed, and smiled.
“You didn’t stay long at the feast.”
“I was tired,” said Peter, which was only half true.
“May I sit with you?”
Peter shrugged and made an offering gesture at the patch of grass beside him. “I suppose you can do what you like now that you’re king.”
“Not yet,” said Caspian, settling himself beside Peter. “The coronation ceremony hasn’t yet taken place.”
“Bah,” he scoffed. “That’s only a formality.”
“Formality is a large part of being king,” said Caspian. He leaned his head back against the tree trunk, closing his eyes. Peter glanced over, flicked his eyes to Caspian’s pale throat, followed it to his lips. “I’m sure you know about that.”
“I do,” said Peter, looking away, “and how much of a sham it is.”
Caspian raised an eyebrow, amused. “You talk like you don’t enjoy being in charge.”
Peter laughed, perhaps a little ruefully. “My being in charge,” he said, “is also a formality.”
Caspian reached into his robes, pulling out two apples and offering one to Peter. “I saved this for you.”
“What, no pheasant?” said Peter, grinning. “Not even some cheese?”
Caspian laughed. “You could have had all that and more if you had stayed.”
“Ah,” replied Peter, thinking of the loaded smiles and animated conversation between Caspian and Susan, how closely he held her when they danced. “Well,” he added, and he sighed, and left it at that.
They ate their apples then, and talked of the battle in broad strokes, taking care to not mention the names of friends lost. Caspian outlined variations of the strategies they used, the strengths and weaknesses of various formations, and Peter rebutted with criticism and approval where he saw fit. They talked of the etiquette of war and, when they tired of talking of war, they pondered the finer points of Calormene diplomacy. How grim the Calormen were behind their façade of gifts and extensive titles!
The apple cores were turning brown on the ground.
“Shall we go back to the party?” said Caspian, rising to his feet.
Peter merely stretched and put his hands behind his head, leaning back against the tree, the very picture of intending to stay put. “In a hurry, are we?”
Caspian reddened slightly. “Queen Susan has challenged me to an archery contest. Hopefully I have not kept her waiting long.”
“...I see.”
“Queen Lucy has taken it upon herself to gather an audience. I expect it would be rather sizeable by now.” He looked at Peter. “Would you join us and see me make a fool of myself before my subjects? I promise it will be a good time.”
“I’d rather not.” After a pause that was a bit too long, he added, “Don’t just let her win, she won’t like that.”
“Where would my honor be if I did that?” But Caspian had sensed Peter’s unease, and Peter could tell. After a hesitation Caspian knelt before him, not in the way one would before a king, but as one would before a friend, and put his hand on Peter’s shoulder, looking straight into his eyes. “I am truly glad you’ve returned to this land. It was an honor to fight by your side.”
Peter blushed despite himself. “I would say the same to you.”
“Let us be brothers.”
Peter saw warmth in his expression: the astute compassion of someone who could tell something was wrong but did not feel, for one reason or another, like prying.
Peter said, “As you wish.”
Caspian moved his hand from Peter’s shoulder to his neck, as if bestowing a blessing, and as he rose to his feet his fingers brushed Peter’s cheek. “Join us soon.”
He watched the young prince, soon to be king, walk away until he disappeared through the tree line. Peter was very conscious of where Caspian’s hand had been. If you had asked him where Caspian had touched him, Peter could have told you exactly where.
+
And when everyone was sleeping Peter was still awake, wandering the halls of someone else’s castle, being bowed to by someone else’s guards. The halls were decked with tapestries decorated with the image of the lion in anticipation of the coronation ceremony. The lions’ gaze was disconcerting. They watched him as he wended down the corridor, as so many reminders that, in the end, it was Lucy and not him who had seen Aslan first.
When Peter found himself in front of Caspian’s chamber door, it was with a feeling of being resigned to hope. He didn’t know what he expected from Caspian, from this night. There were guards at either end of the corridor so Peter couldn’t do anything too unseemly. He touched the ancient wood of the door, stepped closer and strained his ears to hear even the slightest strands of sound from inside. But of course he heard nothing.
Peter continued on his way.
When he found himself by Susan’s door, it was by accident. He hadn’t even realized which wing he was in, and the only reason he noticed the door at all were the sounds he heard from within.
Susan is having nightmares, thought Peter as his heart rose to his throat. She is talking in her sleep, as if by thinking of alternate possibilities he could make them true.
Against his better judgment, the High King Peter pressed his ear to his sister’s chamber door and listened, and this was what he heard: delicate mewling, rustling, the creaking of an ancient bed. The muted thuds and faint moans of lovers trying to be discreet.
But it may not be Caspian, Peter thought, as if by thinking it he could make it true. Who else...?
He listened, and listened for far too long. Long enough for his stomach, his teeth, to clench. With his ear against the door he faced the long and shadowed corridor but his eyes saw nothing, only the images his mind tried to put together: of fingers interlacing, of kisses trailing down pale throats. Long dark hair strewn across tangled sheets and the sheen of sweat on flushed skin.
He listened, and his fingers balled into fists.
“Susan—”
“Shh...”
“Susan, there is someone at the door.”
But by the time Susan had pulled on her robe and opened the door, the corridor was empty. She frowned at the distant echoing of running footsteps, and only slightly hesitated before closing the door again. She was done chasing down wrongdoings for the night.
“There’s no one there,” she said, shrugging off her robe. “You’re imagining things.”
“I saw a shadow under the door.”
“Who would be at my door in the middle of the night?” she said, her tone teasing. “Aside from you.”
“I don’t know,” lied Caspian. He held out his hand and, with a smile, Susan took it and sank back into the sheets.
+
The night was on the verge of dawn and Peter had only fallen asleep minutes ago.
He wouldn’t remember his dreams upon waking, but they involved being snared in ropes of dark hair, and subtle smiles, and sometimes kisses. There were dark eyes and there was judgment, condemnation, and the feeling like everything was slipping away. But there were also touches, the kind Peter always imagined he’d receive from a lover, and as he slept, he sometimes sighed the sort of sighs that were almost growls, almost moans. Peter would awaken telling himself everything had happened for the best. He would dress and descend to breakfast. By his second sip of tea the details would become quite hazy, and by his fourth they would be completely gone.
But for now he dreamed.
[end.]
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*FLAILS*
The SADNESS!! Knowing what Caspian and Susan are doing, but trying to lie to himself. And CASPIAN! He KNEW! Oh, this was wonderful and heart breaking all at once!
I'm this close to demanding you write a happy Caspian/Peter, or at least having Caspian feeling the same sadness/jealousy/denial about Peter and someone else lol.
Really though, LOVED it!
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This was so heartbreakingly wonderful. ::twitches and spazzes:: Great job with the characterization and poor Peter!!! Ugh. Lovely.
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I'm very flattered. Thanks very much, and I'm glad you enjoyed it!
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You did a great job with the emotions in this one ... even if the end broke my heart.
Great work!
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*sobs*
Poor Peter...
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this is so good. *rereads*
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The vagueness was intentional, and I did wonder during the writing of it whether some parts got too vague at times. Thanks for the feedback :).
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very bittersweet and absolutely lovely.
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sad
Re: sad