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peridans · 5 years

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𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐀𝐍𝐂𝐓𝐔𝐀𝐑𝐘 𝐎𝐅 𝐀 𝐃𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐌 — a drabble for @pefensea

It is strange to think of a life you never had. The paths one has taken are few of thousands, all the choices sprawled out onto a tree of fate. Some are aware of their steps down life's cobblestones; others keep walking freely, perhaps fearful of what would happen if they looked back on all the wrong choices they have made.

Choosing to stay in Archenland and marry a Lady of his father's choosing was most certainly the worst decision of Peridan's life.

Being alone in a culture he did not know, immersed in a language he barely spoke, thrust into the arms and bed of a woman he hadn't met until the day before their union, jolted the colt to stand on his own two legs — struggling tirelessly to understand how to function. Quite frankly, the mountains provide a suitable barrier between himself and the rest of the world. The snow haunts him for months at a time every year and sometimes, if he closes his eyes for long enough, it feels as if nothing had ever changed. In those quiet winter moments, he is safe… and not imprisoned by icicles, deadly, above his head.

(Confronting those awful Narnian memories seem too much to bear… too real to comprehend. How unbearable seeing Castle Blaenau would be! How quickly those nightmares would soon plague his mind!)

Staying away soon becomes an easy way to forget.

Starting anew came with the fresh experience of wedding Lady Midith on the eve of his eighteenth birthday, upon which he was immediately raised from Prince of Nowhere to a Duke of the realm. That courtesy, of course, presides with marrying into Archen royalty — her ladyship being the King's cousin — alongside having royal Narnian blood himself. All has appeared exactly as standard in those years since, except for one thing: Peridan does not love Midith and she does not live him either. Peridan is fond of describing it as an unyielding loyalty, a fierce kinship — not romantic love. He must do his duty, she must do hers, and suddenly they function as efficiently as the clock mechanics of delicate Calormene birds. Whatever romantic love may have to do with their union, neither have come to regard it particularly highly. Enjoying one another’s company simply suffices. If eight years of marriage can prove anything, it is that.

“Does His Grace wish to convene with our Narnian visitor separately?” An Archen Lord asks during a council meeting with the King as the breach of summer glitters through dew-dropped window panes. Lord Domin raises his lips at a sharp angle as spectacles slide down his nose. “After all, it has been a while since you have met with one of your own, is it not?”

Peridan, adorned with rich, heavy clothing and a coronet quite befitting for a man of close regard to the King, only shifts on his chair. Talk of Narnia and Queens across the mountain border does not settle well; his brows furrow in feigned disinterest. Between the stern glances of elderly Lords and the meek glare of the young squire who scribbles down the minutes of each member’s drivel, every second confirms the skill of the eyes keen in unseating the foreign presence at their high table.

“I wouldn’t say it is a priority, my Lord.”

Another great Lord pipes in, “But what healthy young man would pass up such an opportunity? What I would give to herald a private audience with the most beautiful woman in all the known world!”

“You speak of a Queen, my Lord.”

And one more speaks, “A private audience? The woman rejects every suitor who falls at her feet. She’s as good as pure, my friends…! And perfectly ripe for His Grace to take a taste once all the formal business is pushed aside.”

“You forget I am a married man, my Lord.”

Eyes flit over to greet King Lune’s from across the table as a plea for salvation. One word of the mysteries of Narnia and Peridan is hounded like a limping fox in a grand hunt. Blue hues can only find solace in those tired eyes of the King. His heightened figure leans over the cusp of the table to dismiss the petty insinuations of his Lords, raising his voice in defence. With a smile, Peridan seems to be received, and a loud voice cuts through the short gossiping of his council of Dukes and Lords.

“Must I remind you all that we do not meet today to discuss the loss of a Queen’s maidenhood. You have all perused the final letter of Queen Susan and my correspondence,” the King announces, gesturing to a roll of parchment displayed as the centrepiece of the meeting table. “She wishes to visit and discuss the matter of Prince Corin’s temporary fostering, not to seek a suitor or request a man for a more carnal purpose. Though, in retrospect, I do believe Lord Domin’s suggestion to be one of remark. The Duke of Pire is Narnian by birth; it would seem fit for him to act as the chief liaison throughout the negotiations.”

“If it is to your request, then I shall perform the duty with little complaint, Your Majesty,” Peridan says, not looking up from the table as he spoke. A nod of his head sealed the agreement.

“Then you are dismissed, cousin.” The King’s lips shift into a smile of his own, a dip of his head nodding back in satisfaction. “Go and tend to your wife. She must require resolute attention if she is carrying your babe.”

———

“Do you believe the rumour, Peridan? That she is the most beautiful woman in the world?”

A month later and Peridan supports the light grasp of his wife’s at his side. A braid of golden hair brushes the side of his wrist as they wait in Anvard’s towering throne room, the lady's green dress simply accentuating the curve of her stomach. The Royal Physician told them the day before that Duchess Midith mustn’t stay patient for too long until the child is born. One can assume that the long-promised Pire heir is to arrive within weeks and Peridan has not dared to let his wife depart from his presence, rightfully so. He cannot risk losing someone else — not when there is the risk of losing two of his most precious family at once.

“Rumours only spread from truths, though most are often exaggerated.” Swallowing a breath, he tilts his head as lips part. “I suppose we must wait and see for ourselves.”

The very thought of Narnia holding a beautiful Queen within its land sends an unforgiving sense to his mind. Perhaps he does not want to believe it? To be lured into that world of fantasy and magic once again… only to then reap disastrous consequences? What would come of thinking of a Narnian Queen when the last he set his eyes upon was the end of all he had ever loved? Instead of grimacing alongside these treacherous thoughts, he sends his wife a small grin, paired with a squeeze of her hand.

Before long, the sharp pierce of a herald’s call hails through the marbled walls of the hall, a shrill sound met with a heavy sweep of doors five times the height of the tallest courtier. The small crowd pivots to meet the sight of their esteemed guest through the light of the doorway, flanked by half a dozen wolves, a selection of gryphons and a faun leading the assembly to the feet of stairs which pool below a grand throne. Treasured at the centre, as if she were as great as a deity, a tall woman enters. She holds her head high, lavishly designed black hair falling to the ground behind her feet. A ring of golden daisies lay upon her head and, even from the very outskirts of the crowd, all can easily see the deep hazel eyes which catch the sun. For a moment, Peridan convinces himself that the hall has fallen into a sullen silence.

Something dry catches in his throat while he watches the proceedings unfurl. King Lune is the first to greet the Narnian Queen, as expected, both faces alight with a fond smile whilst they converse. Next, the young prince, who fidgets with his fingers and bows with little restraint. Susan receives him with little more than a hand on the shoulder and a quaint smile; though, Peridan supposes this is apt for a formal setting. If the boy is to be fostered into the Royal Narnian household, then he can expect much more than that. The rumours of the arrangement being a product of her choice to dismiss previous requests for her hand are now more evident than ever. Peridan suspects that she is either here as a potential mother figure to the boy or to present herself as a mother to him entirely. Neither hypothesis is without support.

However, his time to speculate is cut short by the approaching presence of the royal family and their most esteemed guest. After a curt nod, he is met.

“The Duke and my cousin, the Duchess of Pire.” The King raises a reassuring glance toward him, his smile broader as he approaches with Queen Susan at his side. “His Grace is of Narnian blood, so I thought it suitable that he leads the negotiations alongside myself during your stay here.”

Susan quirks the curve of her lip. “Is that so?”

“I… Yes, Your Majesty,” Peridan responds, widening his eyes. “I was born and raised in Chippingford. Blaenau Castle was my family’s ancestral home.” Remembering a land that was only submerged in snow cannot be a good claim of remembering it at all. The river was forever frozen over, dewdrops melting on windows beside the hearth, and a thick layer of snow masked the world for as far as you could see. Before the Pevensie Monarchs, that country was a dark and dreary place — he cannot expect this beautiful Queen to think of her beautiful land quite the same way.

But a beautiful Queen must be crowned by her people as the Gentle for reasons other than outward allure alone. Peridan has always been privy to the news crossing the border, stories of the Queen and her siblings protecting the citizens of Narnia no matter the cost. He has not missed the way emissaries fawn over her kindness and charity towards the destitute, nor the efficiency in which she upholds and advances the Narnian coin. For now, he is able to train his eye past the glittering beauty she maintains. There is both a softness and a sternness beneath — most, he assumes, simply refuse to believe that it is there.

The tension falls from his jaw. His steady grip on his wife’s arm loosens. He lingers on the Queen’s gaze momentarily until a soft touch tugs at his elbow.

“Forgive me,” Midith mutters, turning her breath in the direction of her cousin. “The babe is… misbehaving today, I fear. I think it best if we returned to our quarters if their Majesties were to permit it.” Yet no groan passes her lips, nor a clutch to where the child often kicks. Instead, she trails a caress up to her husband’s shoulder, something insistent grasping onto a glare she sends to the two Narnians gracing the room.

“Of course,” Lune intercedes, offering a gentle hand to the Queen beside him. “You must rest if we are to see you at the dance tonight.”

———

Peridan’s face is red at the thought of her already. Where once he threw aside every thought of associating himself with any Monarch of Narnia, now he revels in the memory of her voice — her charm. Their visitors from the neighbouring land has spent merely three nights under the shelter of Anvard, high in the Archen mountains, and the Duke has barely spared a moment to think about the true matter at hand. Once all the courtesies and courtly manners have concluded, he will be expected to head the task of drawing up a plan for negotiations. Between attending to the Duchess and frequenting King Lune’s displays of international harmony, he has not written a jot of formal planning down.

And when the Queen arrives to hear the intricate details he has formulated…? What a fool he shall seem!

Languishing in his private drawing-room suddenly appears to be his only option for the evening which draws ahead. After all, he must attempt to write at some point unless he wishes to transform into the laughing stock of the council. A man’s reputation is all he has — wasting it on some sort of endless fascination presents too great a risk. Now his work is of the highest priority; rushing it while the sun recedes past the hilltops draws more energy out of him than expected.

Peridan fills a length of parchment with notes on trade and public relations before a sharp rap sounds at his door. He threads a hand through cascading hair and tucks away an overspilling inkpot. Delivering a call to the entrance after every last bit untidiness surrounding him is resolved comes swiftly after.

(The small splattering of ink running up the side of his neck goes unnoticed. The stressed flick of his quill that painted it during his fitful spell of hard work went unnoticed as well.)

“Your Majesty.” Standing so quickly from his desk almost causes an ornament to fly off out of his grasp. “I did not know you were coming. Please excuse the mess.”

“It’s alright,” Susan says. She smiles, and suddenly he feels at ease. “You weren’t to know.”

“Is there anything you need?”

“I believe it is awful that I haven’t spent some time with you as of yet, Peridan. You were born in Narnia — raised in Narnia. As a Queen, it is irresponsible of me to presume you do not wish for news of your home.”

Observing the light elegance in her expression, Peridan sits and offers in a gesture for her to take the seat opposite. “My title, my wife… my child: I am afraid those things revoke my right to call myself Narnian, no matter my heritage.”

“And when will the child be born?”

She dodges the confession entirely and the fact nearly resorts him to display a shy smile. It has been a long time since anyone has labelled him anything but a foreigner in this country which is not his own. No matter how fiercely he commits himself to the culture, the people, the King, there is always a story behind his name. For the first time, he notices how the Queen gifts him with an identity, yet does not demand they speak of it. The warmth in his heart doubles.

“Soon. Though, I’m sure I will adore the child whenever it arrives,” he says in an afterthought.

“You speak as though it is an uncertainty.”

Suddenly, a flush of colour blooms upon his cheeks. “Not all marriages are blessed with love.” He cannot lie to her, not when there lies a pressure within his heart to avoid lying at all costs. She approaches him with honesty; why should he treat her with any less? Admitting it takes a while, but relieves a weight upon his chest he did not know he held. A second or two gives time to pause. “It is the path I took, but not the one I chose.”

She shifts on her seat, raising an eyebrow. “And what would you have chosen? If you had the liberty to pick whichever you wished, whatever you could imagine?”

“I would have returned to Narnia the minute I heard the battle had been fought and won. I would have fought in the battle if I could.” Just for a brief moment, he pulls an earnest gaze up to her own — the colour of her eyes his window into a world which could have been. “I would go home.”

#* 𝐢. DRABBLE #this is 3000 words of peridan being a hot mess i apologise #* 𝐫. PERIDAN & SUSAN ↷ only the softest of all the softest hearts

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theothertrack · 5 years

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theothertrack · 5 years

Text

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