Noble Order of the Lion 3/5 - for anachronisma

[nfe-gremlin.livejournal.com]

Title: Noble Order of the Lion 3/5
Author: running_forever
Recipient: anachronisma
Rating: PG-13 (To be safe, I think)
Possible Spoilers/Warnings: After the final book, couldn't be avoided.
Summary: The world is way too vast around you and you clutch Peter's hand because you feel like you are bursting from your skin with a need to travel in every differnt direction at once and see everything around you at once


Chapter Three

It doesn’t take you long to reach Shahryar’s city just as Morgan had predicted and at the gates you hold up the rose to the eyes peeking out from behind a dark screen. You don’t shrink back at the men who emerge, whose dark skin and long beards remind you of the Calormene and you learned long ago not to fear them.

It takes two sullen-looking guards to escort you to the palace, gleaming at the far end of the city. They watch you with hooded eyes and it makes your stomach turn when they speak to each other in a language you don’t understand and their eyes run over your curves. Your hand stays close on the hilt of Rhidon and the guard on your left laughs when he sees the weapon at your hip.

Inside the castle, they shepherd you into a waiting room lined with plush-looking cushions. They stand on either side of the door and ogle you and you remain standing and ready. You stand near an open window and a breeze wafts in, brushing your arms and fluttering the rose in your hand. There’s a short drop between you and the street below and you remain tense, prepared for trouble.

There are footsteps in the hall and both guards go rigid at attention. A man enters, clad in regal white robes with a woman on his arm. The men on either side of the door speak to him in that language you don’t understand, but he just watches you. His gaze makes you feel cold and you remind yourself that you are not afraid.

He raises a hand and it silences the guards. “Hello,” he speaks in a booming voice and bows to you. You curtsy in respect. “Welcome to my home. I am Shahryar, king of Persia.”

“My name is Lucy, Queen of Narnia.”

His eyes narrow. “I don’t know of this Narnia, but a queen is always welcome within the halls of my palace.” He is a pompous flatterer, but you have been trained to smile indulgently. “You are very beautiful.” He is salivating like you are a prize he’s been waiting his lifetime for and the thrones of the rose dig into your palm. The woman on his arm stares at you, suspicious and her nose scrunches in disgust.

You open your mouth to speak, but he cuts you off without regard and a feast is ordered. He barks for servants and girls, far younger than you, enter, dressed in silks with veiled faces, and lead you from the room, ignoring your protests. The woman stares at you with disdain. You are taken deep within the castle with a guard at your heels and when the door shuts in his face, you are relieved of the heavy garments Morgana had given you. They bathe you in perfumed oils and you are dressed in a silk dress that reveals more than you are comfortable with.

You are a light-skinned wonder at the feast and you sit at Shahryar’s side at the top of the table and you know you are on display. You sit on cushions, cross-legged and no one speaks to you. When you do open your mouth, you are cut off and ignored. You quickly learn your place and accept the role in silence because there are worse things you have done in the name of diplomacy.

The food is devoured and the feasters settle. Shahryar claps his hands and the tables are removed by bare-chested slaves. The people around you lounge on their cushions and everyone’s attention is on Shahryar. “My honored guests.” His voice is lofty and reverberates around you. “For those of you who have returned and to those who are fresh to this hall, welcome.” The woman who had glared at you is on his other side and he looks at her. “I believe you have a story to finish.”

Her mouth curves into a smile and her eyes are on Shahryar as if no one else is in the room. There are a thousand secrets behind her eyes and when she speaks, it’s a low purr that fills the room and you feel as if you are sinking further into your cushion.

The story she tells is half-finished, but her voice is captivating and you listen, despite a lack of understanding. She speaks, filling the dead silence around her, until her story ends and she begins a second. No one seems to protest. Her voice remains level and she takes occasional sips from a goblet Shahryar offers.

Your eyelids burn when she finally finishes speaking, partway through her second tale, and those around you groan. “Woman, you stop again!” Shahryar’s voice shakes the room and you are pulled from your stupor.

The woman doesn’t even blink, just dips her head close to his and cups his face. “I’m afraid it is morning. I have a previous engagement.”

Shahryar’s jaw clenches and he exhales in exasperation. “You test my patience. Fine, I will delay it another day. Just finish your story.”

She laughs. “Oh my merciful king, it is time to rest. Tomorrow night I will give you your ending.” She kisses him and it’s chaste and you look away because this is not meant for your eyes. “Bid your guests good day.” Her eyes briefly touch yours. When Shahryar rises, she follows. “Lord, allow me to escort Queen Lucy to her room so that you may sleep.” He wants to protest, but she takes your arm and leads you from the hall. Her eyes are playful and defiant until you are out of the room and it is replaced by stony tension.

A guard trails you and the woman takes you through the places like it’s a maze. You try to study your path, eyes darting about looking for any sign of your men, but the halls all look alike and the guard’s footsteps, sharp cracks on the tile behind you, distract you. Finally she takes you into a room and the door shuts with a click of the lock behind you.

She stares at you with wide, wild eyes and you can see she is exhausted. “What are you doing here?” she asks and the purr is gone from her voice. Instead she’s desperate. “Do you have any idea what you are doing?” You don’t understand and you say nothing. She grabs your arm and her grip is strong. “You come with a token of your purity like you’re soliciting for your own execution.”

“I don’t understand,” you say and she seizes you now with both hands. “Please, I don’t mean to come between you and your husband.”

“Why are you here?”

“My friends. They were captured by Shahryar’s soldiers in the forest and left me wounded.”

The woman’s eyes run down your length and her lips curls. “You don’t look wounded.”

“I was found by a healer.” You have phantom pains in your shoulder, but the skin is unmarred and pale. “I’m not from around here. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

She stares at you, searching your face. “You don’t know of the plight on this land?” she asks and you shake your head. She sits on the lounge near the window, cross-legged and she pats the seat beside her. “Queen Lucy, let me tell you a story.”

You forget your exhaustion as she talks through the rest of the day, holed up in her sitting room. She tells you of a slighted king who has taken to marrying virgins and executing them the morning in retribution for his wounded pride. She speaks of a dwindling population of eligible girls and finally of the vizier’s own daughter, Scheherazade, volunteering her life to marry the tyrant.

“And you tell him a story every night?” The sun is dropping in the sky and Scheherazade’s voice has finally grown hoarse.

She nods. “Yes. I make it last until the sun is up and remind him of my execution. It’s kept me alive for nearly seven hundred nights.” She is close to your age, though you are sure she is younger and there is a weight on her far greater than you ever had to face.

There is a knock at the door and you jump. “Your highness,” a voice calls. “Shahryar has called for you. And he asks where you have taken his guest from Narnia.”

“Queen Lucy is with me,” she calls. She stands and runs a hand over her clothes. “I will be there in a moment.” There are shadows beneath her eyes and she is tired. She pauses at the door with her hand on the handle. “I will find out what I can about your friends. Until then, rest here, safe from those who would see you soiled.”

You don’t expect to sleep, but you do. It’s dark when you are called, the day has come to an end and there is a story to finish. The evening unfolds like the previous and you listen, entrapped like the others in the room. When the morning comes Scheherazade is partway through another tale and Shahryar protests in rage when Scheherazade halts her voice.

This lasts three more days and anxiety grips you. Shahryar is growing bolder, refusing sleep in order to offer you invitations for private lunches and tours around the city. You learn not to refuse because while the king twists your stomach, the guard who is at your heels at all times, makes you feel small under the looks he gives you.

Scheherazade does make excuses for you sometimes and when she does, you steal away to her sitting room where you’re safe from the guard and Shahryar. She tells you stories, though she mostly talks about herself and you listen because these are the stories she doesn’t get to tell.

“Aren’t you afraid?” you ask when the question has bothered you too long. Scheherazade is stretched beside you on her side, her body lithe and her head propped up on one hand.

“It has been a while since I’ve felt fear of Shahryar. I have him wrapped about my finger.” She looks at you and her dark almond eyes are piercing before she looks to the window. “Until he saw you. You paraded yourself into his castle like a new flaxen queen for his arm.” You open your mouth to apologize, but Scheherazade continues, “I am afraid he may grow bored with me and then there will not be any hope left for his people.”

There is a moment of silence before she sits up suddenly, still staring at the window. “How odd.” You look in the direction of her stare and on the windowsill is a crow. It’s staring at you with dark eyes and the air stills in your chest. It flaps its wings and you rise from your seat.

“Scheherazade, I’ve been here too long. I need to find my friends.” She is looking at you like you are crazy, but she gives a slow nod.

“Go with Shahryar tomorrow. I will find your friends.”

You do as you are told and when the sun rises and Shahryar refuses sleep and offers you his arm, you take it without a look toward Scheherazade. You see the crow flying overhead as he takes you through the city and Shahryar knows you are edgy. You feign an upset stomach and he kisses your hand and bows low when he takes you to your room.

She is waiting for you, curled on your bed when you enter and neither of you speak until you hear Shahryar’s footsteps down the hall. “I found your friends,” she says and she appears tired and ravaged as if the task took all of her energies. “They are being held at the jail along the backside of the castle.” She lays her arm across her eyes. “We will find a way to get you to your friends.”

You sit on the bed beside her and touch her ankle. “Are you all right?”

She opens her mouth to speak and pauses before whispering, “I am very tired.” When she looks at you, you can see how young she really is. “Tell me a story, Queen Lucy.”

When you are called for the evening’s feast, Scheherazade stops you in the doorway. “Outside the dining hall, there is a vase. Inside are travelling clothes and your sword. Go safely, Queen Lucy.”

It is past midnight when Scheherazade finishes her first story. There is a crow in the windowsill, but no one else has noticed because everyone is still looking at the story-telling woman. She pauses to drink from a goblet of wine and her eyes fall on you. She sets the goblet down and her eyes are back on Shahryar as if he were the only one in the room.

“There was once a land where winter reigned for nearly a hundred years.”

This is your cue and you use your years of trying to out-stealth Edmund to edge out of the room. The hall is cooler and hushed and you sneak to the first vase beside the door entryway. Rhidon sits atop a pile of neatly folded clothes and you change behind the vase, listening as Scheherazade begins to describe Jadis and you force yourself to stop listening when she embellishes her beauty. The men’s travel clothes are slightly big on you and you roll the pants slightly and you’re more comfortable than you have been in days.

You steal into the night, out into the courtyard of the castle and cling to the shadows. You trace the steps Scheherazade laid out for you, whispering them to yourself as you follow the back wall around the palace until you see a squat building across another moonlit courtyard. There are nearly no shadows for you to keep to and with a breath, you step out into the light and creep in silence.

The hairs on your neck rise and you shiver. There is no sound around you, no sign of movement and you pick up your pace. You’re almost at the building when you hear it, the scrape of a foot, but you hit the wall of the jail before you have a chance to turn.

An arm on the back of your neck keeps you pressed against the cold stone wall and the rich, warm smell of Persian oils fills your nose. “Are you lost, Lucy?” a voice questions in your ear. A hand grabs your shoulder and you’re turned and when your back hits the wall, the arm is back on your throat.

It’s your guard and he eyes you in a leer and makes your stomach sink. You claw at his arm as it presses harder on your neck and you can’t breathe. You panic and kick and a hand strikes you. Spots mar your vision and you choke. Far in the distance a voice, the call of your name and you blink hard, forcing the dots from your eyes. The guard has a pair of manacles on a chain he’s struggling to remove from his belt and for the first time in all your travels, you remove your dagger from your belt.

You press it against his belly, not enough to break the skin, but enough for him to feel the tip pressed into his stomach. He freezes and you tighten your grip on its hilt. “Release me,” you rasp and he does with a sneer. You pull Rhidon from its sheath and its weight is unfamiliar, but you hold it with the facade of control.

“Impudent woman,” he growls. “Queen or not, Shahryar will have you burned for this.”

“He’ll have to catch me first.” He doesn’t expect you to whip around and you catch the side of his temple with Rhidon’s handle and he slumps unceremoniously to the ground at your feet.

Adrenaline is surging through you and you stumble toward the door, picking the lock with your dagger, a trick you learned as the baby of an empire that sought to keep you innocent, respectable and sheltered. There is a torch on the wall and you take it and, as per Scheherazade’s descriptions, descend to the second floor. There are four doors on your right, all silent and dark, and finally you stop at the first door to your left.

This lock is as easily picked as the first and when the door opens, Caspian, Drinian and Digory stare at you without seeing you, slouched in the dark and cramped cell. “It’s Lucy,” you whisper and Caspian is the first to blink, first to see and he leaps at you, taking you in a fierce hug.

Drinian and Digory are not so affectionate. Drinian clears his throat and in a rough voice asks, “Are you well, Lucy?”

There is dirt smeared into the dried blood on their shirts and you reach for him and kiss the rough side of his face. “I’m fine.” You touch Digory’s face, though he is shy. “Are you all alright?”

“Fine, fine,” he answers. “Just some scrapes, really.”

“Good, we’re getting out of here.” They follow you and they shiver and blink in the open air. Caspian breathes deep, sucking in as much air at once as he can. No one says anything about the guard lying on the ground, a knot forming on the side of his head. You run, knowing you have until morning to put as much distance as you can between you and Shahryar’s palace, when the story will cut off, half-finished and your departure is discovered.

Part Four

Original Prompt:
What I want: Lucy as an adult. Crossover in Aslan's Country where the Narnians meet medieval literary or historical persons (I especially love Arthurian legend & Irish folklore/myth).
Prompt words/objects/quotes/whatever: "Woman king". Lucy as a knight. Famous fierce historical/literary women meeting the Narnians.
What I definitely don't want in my fic: Smut, incest, h/c, Lucy/canon characters (I don't ship Lucy, but if you can sell me on why she's perfect for Percival or something, go ahead!)