(no subject)

Twang.

It’s not a bullseye, for all it’s a decent shot.

Lucy doesn’t much mind.

War is ugly when women fight, she was once told, and she’s never quite believed it, but she never had much love for it, either.

(She’s a different sort, the Queen Lucy is, someone once said. Not like the Queen Susan. She’s riding into battle too, with the archers, for the Queen may do as she pleases.)

A tournament is different, though.

There’s something—always has been—wonderful about such a thing, and she’s a rather good shot, and better with a

(dagger)

sword than most.

(The thing about daggers is that you must be close to your victim for them to be of any use—either, really, they’re used when the sword’s been thrown aside, or when the victim isn’t expecting it at all. This is easiest if you make yourselves close to them, first, and gain their trust.)

Christmas is coming, she thinks.

(always winter, never Christmas)

Christmas is not really happy, though. Not for Lucy. Not completely.

Not anymore.

(You can always try to have the best of both worlds, of course. And Queen Lucy the Valiant was a good shot with a bow, and rather good with a sword, but none in all the North, and none in the South that ever came against her, for that matter, excelled her at throwing knives.)

After Christmas comes the camp.

At the camp comes the Witch.

And then He leaves, and walks away, and she follows, in the night, with Susan clenching her hand.

(I never wanted my sister anywhere but by my side.)

And then comes the knife.

Made of stone, like the table, and too dull to catch the light, but easily visible despite that.

(a dagger)

And the Witch’s eyes, meeting hers, and the lovely golden mane on the ground.

The morning will come, and the spring, and the roar.

But she’s never forgotten the hard icy eyes, or the cold corpse of a Lion, bound to a Table.

Twang.

Bullseye.

Her visions blurred, though, and she doesn’t quite see it.

Wunderkind, Alanis Morissette

Wunderkind

A perilous place walk backwards towards you
Blink disbelieving eyes chilled to the bone
Most visibly brave no aprehended gloom
First to take this foot to virgin snow

I am a magnet for all kinds of deeper wonderment
I am a wunderkind oh oh oh oooooh
And I lift the envelope pushed far enough to believe this
I am a princess on the way to my throne

Destined to serve, destined to rule

Oh ominous place, spellbound and unchild-proofed
My least favorite chill to bare alone
Compatriots in place they'd cringe if I told you
Our best back-pocket secret our bond full-blown

I am a magnet for all kinds of deeper wonderment
I am a wunderkind oh oh oh oooooh
I am a pioneer naive enough to believe this
I am a princess on the way to my throne

Destined to seek, destined to know

Most beautiful place reborn and blown off roof
My view about-face whether great will be done

I am a magnet for all kinds of deeper wonderment
I am a wunderkind oh oh oh oooooh
I am a ground-breaker naive enough to believe this
I am a princess on the way to my throne

I am a magnet for all kinds of deeper wonderment
I am a wunderkind oh oh oh oooooh
I am a Joan of Arc and small enough to believe this
I am a princess on the way to my throne

Destined to reign, destined to roam
Destined to reign, destined to roam

(vocalizing)

...destined to reign, destined to roam...

....destined to reign, destined to roam...

Backstory

They speak, in Calormen, of the barbarians in the North.

Much of it is only myth.

Some of it is based in truth.

---

The one most inclined to lose his temper was the High King, for all it would quickly burn out and be replaced by a laugh. And, perhaps, Tumnus allowed as he paced the hallway, wishing to bang his head into the wall, it meant him the cleverest of all four. His temper wasn't feared, either, really, for the loss of it rarely caused a large explosion, and he was good-natured. He was well-loved, besides that--angry words would change nothing.

His Highness Edmund had not, to the knowledge of Tumnus, ever lost his temper if it were not related to the honour of one of his siblings, especially his sisters--for he loved them dearly, and would suffer no foul word about them to be uttered--or in minor squabbles that inevitably resulted when one spent as much time with one's family as the kings and queens did with each other.

The elder Queen, Susan--she had a temper, aye, but she was called the Gentle, and lost it even fewer times than did Edmund, and often would soothe those in danger of losing theirs. Even in Calormen, with Rabadash, she only spoke shortly on the days right before their flight. She was politician enough, but more, ambassador and diplomat.

And then there was the youngest, he thought, as he wrung his hands and attempted not to eavesdrop, his little friend--not so little, any longer--the Queen Lucy.

She'd always been filled with spitfire, and her tongue could be sharper than the others' when she was irritated.

She'd never slapped an ambassador before, or threatened him so.

---

The Queen Susan's face was ashen, at the insult that had been uttered.

The kings had been going to rise together, to throw the emissary out.

The youngest of them moved faster than the others.

The silence that had filled the throne room had been almost as loud as the smack of hand on cheek, or the sound of her dagger being unsheathed--few outside the land realized the queen wore it as often as her brother wore their swords.

Even fewer realized she had no qualms using it.

The Calormen found the blade at his throat before he recovered from her movement, and no one moved, not even the High King, whose face had grown solemn.

"You will not," softly, "speak of my sister in such terms, sire. Not in this court, nor any other. Or I'll send your tongue back to your Tisroc seperate from your body."

Silence was so very loud, and then there were King Edmund's footsteps, and his hand on her shoulder. "He is our guest."

"Then he should act the part," she snapped back, hand nor eyes wavering. "Our sister is no whore, brother. If the Tisroc sends a fool as an emissary, he either wishes an excuse for war, or to get rid of the fool."

Softly, "My dear lady, would thou give him what he wishes?"

The queen made no response for a moment before, voice too quiet, to a faun nearby, "Ready a horse for him." As he hurried off, she pressed the dagger a little closer to the Calormene's throat. "I think your Tisroc too smart to want a war, as Rabadash was behind the attack on Anvard. Tell the Tisroc to dirty his own hands, if he wants someone dead. And learn to hold your tongue, or else you will lose it." Her hand dropped, and, disguestedly, ever inch the queen, she turned and left the throne room, Edmund following her.

The King Peter spoke then, voice cold. "Cross the borders by nightfall into Archenland. Or our royal family will not guarantee your safety from those who may hear of your actions."

The emissary found is voice, finally. "The Tisroc will here of this!"

King Peter just looked back. "Good. Tell the Tisroc what the barbarians of the north can do when angered. And let him try and cross the desert again. Our men fight as well as our women," smiling grimly, "and I think you'll agree that they fight quite well. Now get out."

He did, and when the door closed behind him, Peter reached for his sister, and held the Queen Susan as she cried.

In her chambers, Edmund did the same for Lucy.

---

They speak, in Calormen, of the barbarians in the North.

Much of it is only myth.

But some of it--some of it, mind--is based in truth.