Secret Santa: Day 4
Dec. 27th, 2010 05:47 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
writeonkate.livejournal.com posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
nffr_partyOn the third day of Christmas, two NFFR elves gave to me... MORE PRESENTS!
Although this won't last all twelve days, we have another great grab of presents for everyone. Thanks to everyone who has or is sending in their submissions today- we've had such fun gathering up the gifts and taking a peek before doing the final wrapping!
A fic for hever (Hev)
a/n: Merry Christmas & Happy New Year, and I hope you like it!
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Judith was not impressed.
Peter glanced over at her, and gave a small grin to try to ease the tension. “You have a leaf in your hair,” he said.
She brushed it out hastily, and got to her feet, pushing the branches that surrounded them out of the way. “Where on earth are we supposed to be?”
He didn’t want to say anything without being certain, so he kept silent, and together they scrambled out of the bushes. Today was definitely not panning out the way he’d expected. A horse ride, which was not unusual for them, and then, when they’d dismounted and headed for the cover of the tree when a sudden storm sprung, Judith had slipped, and accidentally pulled Peter down with her.
When they realized what was what, the horses were gone, and they were in the middle of those impossible bushes.
“Argh,” she muttered, pushing angrily at a last branch, and finally stepping into the open. “I don’t care how wet I get, I’ve had enough of that cover for now, thanks.”
Peter laughed, and glanced around, trying to see the horses in the dim, rain laden air. “How long will it take to walk back?”
“Much too long. We’d both be either dead, or incredibly sick before too long.”
“Well, standing here isn’t exactly going to help things,” he said.
“No, but—” she was cut off by a growl-ish sound from their right. They both turned, and stared.
“What the devil...?” said Peter.
“Well, I hope the rain didn’t do that,” Judith said.
They were staring at a human (or at least it looked a bit like one) who was staring at them from bloodshot eyes, and had a greyish pallor to his complexion. His clothes were in tatters (but covered the necessary bits, Judith thought thankfully) and his hair was plastered flat against his head from the rain. He took a step forward, and Judith unconsciously gripped Peter’s arm.
They now noticed that chunks of flesh were missing from several parts of his body, and through the rain, they could smell an awful stench...
“That is not normal,” Peter muttered. The man took another step forward, and Peter and Judith took one back. “Sir, are you quite alright?” Peter asked worriedly.
Another growl, and the man lurch-stepped a few paces closer. Peter turned, and holding Judith’s arm, walked away brusquely. The thing was still lurch-stepping after them, trying to catch up.
They glanced back, and still the stranger lurch-stepped after them, groaning pitifully.
“What in the name of all things holy is going on?” Judith demanded as they hurried away from him.
“Don’t know,” Peter said, “But I don’t think we ought to stay to ask.” He gave her a reassuring smile, but they both knew it was forced. Neither knew what to make of this, and were uncertain of how to react.
Suddenly Peter pulled her to a stop.
“What is it?” she whispered.
“Shh...” He glanced about them. He knew he’d heard something but was unsure...
Out of the rough underbrush and foliage stumbled a flailing form, her arm dangling barely from her shoulder socket. Her clothes were ripped and torn and falling apart—as was her body...
Another figure came through the rain behind her as they watched...
And another...and another...
“Run?” Peter suggested.
They ran then, tripping over stones in the coming darkness, wishing they still had the horses. They ran, stumbling into each other, holding on to each other, terror at this unknown threat growing in each step.
There were more groans from the trees, from behind them, and still they ran.
They stumbled into a small clearing, and Judith pulled on Peter’s arm, stopping him as she doubled over, panting. He was breathing heavily, too, and he looked around the clearing, trying to see in the dimness.
A shrouded figure was sitting on the ground on the far side. He stepped in front of Judith, warily calling out: “Hello there...”
The figure turned its head and removed the cowl covering its face. It was a young man in a cloak, sitting in the Lotus position, and he stared intently at them for a moment.
“Not exactly what I was expecting,” he said slowly.
“What are you doing?” Judith asked. “The ground is wet. You’ll be soaked.”
“No, I’m quite dry, thank you.”
“Well?” she demanded.
“Well what?” He raised an eyebrow in mild amusement.
“What are you doing?” She was standing next to Peter now, her breath caught, and needing and wanting answers for the bizarre happenings of the evening
“I was performing a summoning spell.”
“Black magic?” Peter asked, and Judith turned to glance at him because of the edge to his voice.
“Not at all. Faith Magic. Magic can only be black if your faith in it is. See, magic is all around,” he gestured to the trees and up to the sky, “In everything. It gives essence to everything. If you know what you’re doing, and how to channel that which is inside of you, it’s easy to connect to the rest. And thereby, create and perform spells.” He raised his eyebrow again. “You’re not what I was expecting.”
“What were you epecting?” Both Judith and Peter asked at the same time.
He sighed. “I’ve been tracking a dark mage. I don’t suppose you’re it. He’s been causing disturbances throughout for a while now, and I fully intend to end him.”
“What on earth are you on about?” Judith asked, exasperated. “We’ve seen these bizarre creatures—humans, we thought, but not entirely human at all! Were those your doing, or this ‘dark mages’?”
“Ghouls, they’re called. Or, if you prefer the more modern term, zombies. Not entirely sure of the etymology, it might be Latin for all I know. Still. They’re not mine, they must be his. Crudest form of necromancy, really,” here he looked specifically at Peter, “And that is dark magic. It’s a form of hate incarnated, a cruel thing to do, because if any loved ones saw their beloved deceased groping around outside the grave, they’d be appalled.”
Judith and peter were silent for a moment, and glanced at each other.
“They’re dead?” She asked.
“How do we get them back into their graves, then?” he asked.
“Lop off their heads if they don’t eat you first,” he retorted. “And of course they’re dead. Anyone still alive when their arms and legs are falling apart and their faces are falling to bits is going to be in far too much pain to even think of trailing after you trying to eat you.”
“Why would they want to eat us?!” Judith cried.
“Because necromancy required a sort of sacrifice. You can do it with a hearty meal, but blood works better and makes the ghouls stronger and last longer, so he probably used a blood sacrifice. By the way, you might want to get behind me before you do get eaten. I imagine it would be painful.” He gestured behind them.
“Uuuuuugh!” Judith cringed away from the ghoul as it came towards her, and she and Peter strode behind the other man. He uttered a few words (that Judith later thought sounded more like oaths than any spells), and in a fluid motion, stood, pulling a long-sword from somewhere in his cloak.
The ghouls head rolled, coming to a stop against a tree trunk. The body dropped a moment later.
“We should leave,” he muttered. “More will be here soon.”
“I thought you were hunting the stupid moron who started this mess!” Judith yelled. “We should do that then!”
“Ha!” he cried, “I’m not having your deaths on my hands, thank you. I’ll get you to safety and find him on my own.”
“Ugh, we’re capable of helping, you know!”
“She’s right. We can—”
“I do not care what your capabilities are, you will not be placed in harm’s way on my watch.” To himself, almost inaudibly, he added, “Someone always dies.”
“Please, let them help.” All three spun around at the new voice. Soft and feminine, outfitted in dyed black leather attire that most modest women would faint at the sight of, with long blonde hair tied in a harsh pony- tail, accentuating her jaw and defining her face, bringing out an icy- beautiful look. Judith felt her colour rise at the sight of her, and hoped Peter wasn’t looking in all of those places.
“Very interesting,” the young man said. “You’re the mage then.”
“You said ‘he’,” Peter pointed out, glancing between them. Ghouls were
coming out of the trees, now, amassing behind the newcomer.
“Sexist bastard,” the woman spat, “I should have known.” Her face twisted when she said it, like she had something distasteful in her mouth. “Kill them,” she murmured, and the ghouls began stumbling forward.
“Here,” the mage handed Peter the sword he’d been holding, “If you know
how to do anything with it, it will cut through anything.”
He looked at Judith, and pulled out a silvery spear-like thing and a long, curved dagger that seemed to glow slightly in the dark, moonless night. “Here.” She took it wordlessly, and turned to face the oncoming monsters.
She tried not to think that they had once been human. They were just...things, she told herself.
They came then, hitting the three in a flurry, all trying to bite and grab.
Peter and the mage (who had procured another blade) struck at the beings, felling them easily, but for every one they killed, two more seemed to be in its place. Judith worked with both her hands, her fingers nimble, finding strength and skill she didn’t know she possessed. Her left struck out and caught the zombie-beings, and her right decapitated them easily, and she was lost from thought, her body performing in a rote she knew not.
She pushed her way forward as she fought, unlike the others, who held their ground. She did it unconsciously, heading for the woman mage, the bloody cause of this bloody mess. She had no plan; she only thought to kill whatever was in her way. Stabbing and slicing, she was soon face to face with the tall, leathered beauty.
There seemed to be a lull between them as time seemed to slow as they regarded each other, taking in the sight, sizing each other up.
“I know you,” the mage woman said slowly, looking her up and down.
“Oh?” Judith said, and unthinkingly stabbed the silver spear into the woman’s chest.
The scream that filled the clearing was deafening, and chilling, and terrifying. It seemed to reach in and pierce their souls, tearing at their ears, scrabbling for purchase in their very minds. Judith dropped her weapons, and tried to shut the sound out by covering her ears, but it grew louder, and then stopped. She glanced at the woman. She was on her knees, breathing heavily, glaring hatefully up at Judith.
“How could you?” she said between breaths, “Sister...”
Judith uttered a small gasp, and stumbled backwards as the mage fell forwards, and then Peter’s arms were around her, holding her, encompassing her, protecting her.
Sister...
What had the mage meant? What did any of it mean?
“Well. That was rather anti-climax,” the young man was saying. Judith looked up, disentangling herself from Peter’s arms, even though she didn’t want to.
“What do you mean?” He was looking down at the fallen mage, and then looking at the now lifeless ghouls around them.
“Well, I didn’t expect her to just...let you stab her. Did she say anything before she died?”
Judith looked at the dead woman, the spear protruding from her body, which now looked frail and delicate—the opposite of what it had looked like when she’d been alive only moments ago.
“No,” she said softly, “She said nothing at all.”
The mage looked at her like he didn’t really believe her, but then he
caught Peter’s eye, and whatever he’d been about to say was left unsaid.
He retrieved the weapons, and looked over at the couple.
“Head that way,” he pointed, “And you’ll find your horses.”
“How did you...” Peter left the sentence unfinished. It would be a stupid question, asking a mage how he knew things, anyway.
The mage stood for a moment, looking at them. “The bodies will be gone, come dawn. Magic filled beings return to the earth,” he murmured. “Fare thee well.”
“Safe journey, wherever that may take you,” Peter replied. Judith gave a small smile and wave. The mage left, blending into the deeper shadows.
They stood for a moment in the darkness, holding each other, silent for long moments.
“Oh, let’s just go home,” Judith said, and Peter smiled and kissed her hair.
“Yes, lets.”
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A fic for AviaTantellaScott
Deplorable
-x-
The harsh light of the sun reddens as it reaches down to the horizon. The city becomes a world of shadows stretching through the streets. Soon now, the lanterns of the dwellings will be lit, but until then there is only the fading sunlight to guide peoples’ steps as they make their ways home.
In the center of the city within the walls of the High Palace, the lanterns already shine, the oil-based flames casting their own, smaller shadows upon the halls and corridors. Here in the High Palace these lanterns are lit all day and night, for the walls are thick and the sunlight cannot reach to the furthest corners of the corridors.
It is quiet in the High Palace, for the Emperor sits late this night with his inner cabinet of advisors; they are drafting a trade agreement that could spell the end to decades of enmity between Charn and Bramandin. In other wings of the palace, nobles and servants talk in whispers, for the end of day is near and night belongs to the Fates.
In the East wing, within the Azure Chambers, a nurse sits with the princess of Charn. The girl is young, her black hair loose and frizzy after its unbraiding; she sits upon the rug and plays with a set of intricately carved figurines of soldiers and warriors.
“Night is nearly here, child,” the nurse warns the girl. “You must be in your bed soon, or the Fates will be displeased.”
The princess is young enough that she does not yet understand to fear the Fates. “A story!” she begs, “Please!”
“It is late,” the nurse begins, but the girl interrupts her again.
“A story! And then I will sleep!”
There is still time before the sun sinks from view; the nurse takes the figurines from the girl and places them upon a shelf. “A story it is,” she says, and the girl straightens in anticipation.
“Long ago in the early days of Charn, when our land was not an empire, but a kingdom,” the nurse begins, “there was a foolish king.”
The girl beams, for this is a tale she has never heard before.
“This king was proud of his land, but he wished for it to become greater still. He boasted of how glorious Charn would one day become, and claimed that it would be the greatest empire of the world. But for all his stories and all his boasts, the king never once mentioned the will of the Fates, and this was his undoing.”
“But Charn is an empire,” the girl claims with a frown. “It is the greatest empire in the world.”
The nurse dips her head in acknowledgement, and continues with her story. “The youngest Fate was watching Charn, and she did not like what she saw. So, on a day when the boasts of the king became greater than ever before, the youngest Fate took human form as a traveler and arrived at the home of the king with a cart containing several full, burlap sacks. No one could see what was in the sacks as the cart wheeled through the streets, for they had all been tied tightly shut.
“However, such was the magic of the sacks that the king only needed one look to know they contained the finest rubies ever seen. And he went up to the youngest Fate, not knowing that it was she, and asked how much she would sell the contents of her cart for.
“The youngest Fate told him that the rubies of her cart were cursed, and that she
would not wish that curse upon any mortal. But the king merely laughed, and told
her that he did not believe in curses, and again he asked what it would take to buy a
sack of the rubies.
“’Take them all, foolish king’ said the youngest Fate, and she climbed off the cart and left the city and was never seen again. But the king took no notice as she left, for all he could see were the rubies, and all he could think was that Charn would finally become the greatest empire in the land.”
The nurse leans forward and lowers her voice. “When the curse took hold of the empire, it took two days for the last of the crops to whither to dust.”
-x-
The jewels of the royal household shone in the red light of the sun, more plentiful than ever before and more useless than ever. Hekkenet found his father in the treasure chamber, seated in the corner on a wooden bench and lost in thought. Around his feet and piled against the walls were countless sacks, and where the cloth had slipped, the red glint of the rubies could be seen. In the center of the room was a pile of the jewels strewn across the floor.
The king did not even look up as his son approached. “What good are the finest rubies,” Telkor asked in a dead voice, “if your people cannot eat them? What good are they when they cannot be traded because all know they bear death?”
Hekkenet stopped in front of his father, staring down at the single ruby on the bench. When he reached for it, Telkor’s hand caught his wrist in a tight grip. “Do not soil your hands on this cursed rock,” he said sharply. “Stay pure, my son. I would not have the curse live on in you.”
Hekkenet pulled away reluctantly, but his gaze stayed on the ruby. The wood of the bench was gouged deeply next to where the jewel lay. “They will not break,” Telkor continued. “I have tried every manner I can think of, but the rubies will not shatter. See? Not even a scratch upon them. The curse keeps them strong.”
“Father,” Hekkenet interrupted.
“I sent soldiers to cart the rubies from the empire – two days before the men returned, the rubies reappeared in this very room as if by magic. I sent others to cast the jewels into the sea – the rubies returned that very night. I cannot rid myself of them.”
“Father,” Hekkenet repeated.
Telkor looked up finally to his son, like a shamed man on trial.
“Father, let me go into the world,” Hekkenet said. “Let me travel in search of the one who gave you these rubies, so I may learn how the curse can be lifted. Please, let me go.”
Before when he had suggested this, Telkor had refused, claiming it was better to die with one’s family than have each of them scattered across the earth. But now, he was a broken man. Now, he bowed his head before his son once more.
“Go,” he sighed, his voice rough with sudden emotion, “Go. For I cannot break the curse I have brought upon us, and Charn will be dead if someone does not find a way. Go, my son, and have my blessing – such that it is.”
And so Hekkenet rode out on the fastest, strongest steed of the kingdom with a sword on his hip and a pack of what little supplies he could gather on his back. His father watched him go from the wall top, staring off into the distance long after his son’s form had been lost in the haze of dust that covered the horizon.
-x-
For seven long days the sun hovered in the sky above; for seven long nights the people shook in their homes as the Fates walked free. And on the eighth day, King Telkor went up to the wall top as he had each day before, and strained his eyes for any sight of his son. But on this day, the eighth day, he finally saw the movement of travelers approaching.
“Open the gates!” he bellowed. “Sound the horn! My son has returned!” But as the figures drew closer, King Telkor saw to his dismay that his son was not one of them.
No – these three figures were women fair as the triple moons in the sky above. They were tall and had white hair and grey eyes – near albino, they were, and they stood out sore against the brown of the land. And although these women looked young and beautiful, their eyes told of years unimaginable.
“We have heard you have a problem, Telkor of Charn,” said the tallest of the three women. “We have come to give you our aid.”
And the king looked to her as one who is starving for knowledge. “You have met my son, then?”
“We have,” the eldest confirmed. “And we spoke with him at great length. We understand the nature of the curse upon your land, perhaps even greater than you do yourself.”
“Then help us,” the king begged, and he fell on his knees before them. “But first – tell me of my son.”
-x-
He did not like the witches. It was not just their looks, the white skin that stuck out against a nation of dark-tanned people. It was not their eyes, old as they were in young faces, staring at him until he wanted to crawl away in shame. Nor was it their bearing, as though they were queens long forgotten.
He thought about this long and hard as he stood upon the rooftop, scanning the horizon for the sight of his son. He thought about it in the long hours of the night. But this source of this feeling was not something he could pin down easily.
“We can hold off the curse with our magic,” the tallest had told him in the deep council room. “And your land will be just as it was before the rubies ever came to this kingdom.”
“And my land will be whole again?” he had asked. The news was almost too good to believe. He wondered again why his son had not yet returned.
“For a time,” the tallest warned, “But only a time. All the magic in all the world cannot hold off a curse like this forever. If your son does not return with a way to remove the curse entirely, there will come a time when the full power of it will be unleashed once more. And I warn you, Telkor of Charn, do not take this lightly. For if this were to happen and the curse be released again, it would be a thousand times greater than ever before. And it just might be that it would destroy not only Charn, but every person that lives in this world.”
It was only after this discussion, after he had told the three witches to carry on and do whatever they could, that he realized what it was he did not like. For although the women spoke of the destruction of the world, there was no fear in their eyes.
-x-
“And so the three witches bound the curse in a word – a single, deplorable word. And three days after their incantations had ended, life returned to Charn. The grass began to grow and the rivers began to flow. The curse had been lifted, and the
people rejoiced.
“But while there were songs and dancing in the streets, the king stood atop the wall in his lonely vigil for his son. He continued to watch each day for his son to return, until he had grown so old that he had to be carried up to the wall by servants. But his son never returned.”
The princess fidgets impatiently, and as soon as her nurse pauses to take a breath, she exclaims, “But wasn’t the curse destroyed?”
“No,” the nurse says solemnly, “The witches trapped the curse in the deplorable word and the king waited for his son to return until the day he died. And if anyone now were to learn this word and speak it, everyone would surely die – except, perhaps, the speaker, for curses often do not work on the one who speaks the magic.”
“And can no one stop it?” the princess cried.
“Not until the day Prince Hekkenet again rides through the gates of the the great city of Charn,” the nurse answered. “But fear not, child. For Prince Hekkenet will return someday, and Charn will become greater than ever before.” She leans forward to take the princess’s hand and help her to her feet. “And now, young Jadis, it is time for sleep.”
The girl stands reluctantly, tugging the thin silk of her nightgown until it hangs straight. She is led into the next room, where her younger sister already sleeps in her bed of cushions. Under the nurse’s guidance, the princess crawls onto her own bed and curls up among the pillows.
“I can fix it,” she declares suddenly, and the fierceness of her voice causes her sister to stir. “I can,” she repeats softer.
“Can you now, young Jadis?” the nurse whispers, and squeezes her hand gently.
“Yes,” Jadis says, “I’ll find Prince Hekkenet and make him come back. I will. You’ll see.”
-x-
END
A fic for Irishsongbird
Ghosts of Lovers' Past
Rated: M
A/N: Thank you to Irish for the fabulously fun prompt!! I wound up a little angstier than I meant to but
there is lots of Peter and a good chunk of M-rated-ness. ;) Merry Christmas!
Torchlight flickered against the cold, damp walls, licking out at rough drawings of Narnia’s Golden Age rulers. Peter studied the sketch of himself, the tallest figure, looking important and respected. He sighed quietly, the sound echoing eerily throughout the maze-like halls.
“A lot of ghosts in these walls,” a soft, feminine voice murmured calmly from behind him.
A small smirk tugged at his lips as he turned, lifting his burning torch higher. “Like you, you mean?”
“I am just one of many these days, I’m afraid,” she amended, stepping into the light, hands folded in front of her. Flames shone on almost translucent blond hair and a long, lacy white gown.
Peter let his eyes travel down her body, over her curves, everything about her exactly as he remembered it. “The last millennium has been good to you, Donelle,” he smiled slightly, eyes darting back up to hers.
“Millennium and a half.” She reached out, drawing her fingertips over the sketch of him on the wall. “And yet somehow you seem younger, sire.” She raised an eyebrow pointedly at him. “Hardly fair, that.”
“I’ve lost a few years, it’s true,” Peter sighed, glancing down at his boyish frame.
Donelle smiled slightly, knowingly. She had always had eyes so full of wisdom they had frightened him (for a short time) as a boy. “Nothing wrong with gaining a little extra time in life,” she pointed out, her voice soft.
Wincing, he reached out his free hand. “My apologies. I did not mean to offend you,” he murmured. Her life had been cut so short and here he was complaining about having more time in his own.
“You didn’t.” The promise was quiet as she slid her hand into his, the touch light and barely there as she clung to strands of corporeality. “I know you would never take life for granted, Peter.” Her figure grew frothy again as she let go of his hand. “You never have.”
“Well I’m not the man I was 1300 years ago,” Peter disagreed dryly. “I’m not even a man.”
“Shh, don’t talk like that. You are more a man than anyone I’ve ever met,” she assured him softly,
pressing her finger to his lips.
“Only because of you.” Peter lowered the torch in his hand slightly, light casting over the red bloom on her side, her voice fading in his head as he remembered the first time he had realized what the stain on her beautiful white dress really was.
“You’re a man because of you, Peter. I simply helped you find your way once, a very long time ago…”
Peter sought Tumnus out in his study one afternoon after the Pevensies had officially, finally, moved into Cair Paravel. Rain drizzled against glass windowpanes outside as the High King let himself into the dark, wood-paneled room, knocking lightly on the door. “Oh good, you’re still here, Mr. Tumnus. I wanted to speak with you about something… unusual,” he announced determinedly.
Tumnus glanced up from a thick volume and raised his eyebrows. “Oh? Please, sire, sit down.” He motioned to the chair across his desk as he sat himself. “What can I do for you?”
“Well I’ve-” Peter cut off, flushing in embarrassment. “It’s just that I-” He glanced over his shoulder at the closed door and leaned forward a bit conspiratorially. “It’s just that I haven’t been sleeping much lately. Not well, anyway. I think there might be… someone or… something in my chamber.”
Tumnus’ eyes grew wide. “A spy? One of the hags, perhaps, or a dwarf?” he cried in horror.
“No, no, nothing like that, I don’t believe,” Peter assured him quickly. “It’s more like… like a feeling I get, when I walk into the room. As though I’m intruding on someone else’s space.”
“Hmm…” The faun sat slowly back in his chair, picking up a small cup of tea as he went. “Well…” He glanced down warily at Peter. “There is a legend about this place. You aren’t the first kings and queens to live here, you see. A Queen, one of Queen Swanwhite’s descendants, lived here for a short time, before the Winter came. It’s said that… well, it’s said that she had a sister, who was just as lovely as she. A handsome prince from Archenland, to the South, fell madly in love with her and they became engaged. But the Witch, like any woman would, I suppose, although she was hardly a woman, wanted a king to reign by her side, and this prince was so captivating, so regal and powerful, that she wanted him and him alone. So she murdered the beautiful lady, stabbed her on her wedding day, and kidnapped the prince, who was never heard from again. The Queen and her followers fled from the Cair but it’s said that the sister’s spirit stayed on, whether trapped or by choice, no one knows. It’s said…” Tumnus paused for effect. “It’s said that she has haunted this place ever since.”
Peter stared with rather round eyes as he finished his story. “You mean there’s a ghost in my room?” he cried.
Tumnus shrugged. “Oh probably not. It’s likely just a story made up to scare children away from trying to explore the palace when it was empty.” He glanced back down at the book on his desk, sipping at his tea.
Groaning, Peter leaned back in his seat. “Well I’m sure the ghost story will help me sleep better tonight,” he complained dryly, pushing his crown further back on his head.
Raising his cup, Tumnus nodded. “Glad to be of help, sire.”
Peter had wandered the halls that night, trying to keep himself busy so he wouldn’t have to go to sleep in his room. It was sometime after the stroke of midnight when he finally found himself standing in front of the large, wooden double doors that led to his grand chamber. He sighed and pushed one open reluctantly, wincing as it creaked in protest.
“You haven’t been sleeping,” a feminine voice murmured from the bed.
He jumped in surprise, letting out a shriek he quickly muffled with his hand, not wanting to wake his brother and sisters down the hall. “Who are you and what do you want?” he hissed, fumbling in the dark for his sword and coming up with a ruler from the desk instead.
Leaning over, she lit a candle, flooding the room with a romantic glow. He hesitated at the sight of a stunning blond curled up on his bed, laughter bubbling out of her. It took a moment for him to realize she was laughing at him and his ruler. Peter pursed his lips, tossing the offending straightedge back onto his desk. “Who are you and what do you want?” he asked again, irritably.
“I think you know who I am, sire,” she chuckled. “I’m Donelle. The ghost.” She stood from the bed, her white dress trailing on the floor, hands folded calmly in front of her. Peter studied her, squinting in the dim candlelight. “It’s not me keeping you up is it?”
“I do believe it is, unless there’s some other ghost haunting my chamber as well,” he growled.
“Oh, no, no, just me,” she assured him, holding out a hand. “We got off on the wrong foot, I’m afraid. Lady Donelle, sister to Queen Annabelle the III, daughter to Queen Annabelle the II and eternal betrothed to Prince Coan of Archenland.” Her voice was dry with sarcasm as she added, “All of whom have been dead for a hundred years, so who cares anyhow?”
Peter smirked slightly, shaking her hand, surprised when she didn’t fade right through him. “High King Peter the Magnificent,” he introduced himself proudly.
She chuckled. “The Magnificent, hmm? Well, it is a pleasure to meet you sire,” she assured him, sweeping into a deep curtsy.
“Don’t be patronizing, please. I know when I’m being mocked,” Peter sighed, sinking down. “Might I ask why you decided to haunt me?”
“I didn’t. This is my room. I was killed here.” Donelle sat beside him, resting her arm casually on the back of the sofa, revealing a dark bloody red stain on her side.
He flinched at the idea, eyes glancing over the spot. “I’m sorry,” he murmured after a moment, not entirely sure what to say.
“Don’t be. It was over a century ago; I’m quite recovered,” she joked with a brilliant smile, waving a hand-
“Peter…” Donelle tipped his chin up with a finger, smiling gently. “Daydreaming?”
He shook himself, standing slightly closer to her. “Sorry, Donny,” he murmured distractedly. “Just thinking.”
“Come.” She slipped her hand into his, tugging. “We have centuries of catching up to do.” Peter let her lead him down the dank, cavernous hallway to the small room he was sleeping in. It was a sad step down from Cair Paravel and they were both all too sharply aware of the fact.
“A tomb is rather less glamorous than a palace for such a lovely ghost to be haunting,” he murmured, closing the door behind them.
Donelle sank onto his tiny cot with a sigh. “Much less, I am afraid. After the Cair was sacked by the Telmarines, I just couldn’t stay there and watch it be destroyed. Those walls were my home. So I left, traveled through the Woods and managed to scare off a few Telmarines in the process. Bastards,” she swore under her breath.
Peter lit a candle awkwardly. “We saw what was left of it. It’s just… ruins. Pillars and broken stone.”
“Let’s not talk about those barbarians though,” she murmured, reaching for his hand, her eyes suddenly bright in the flickering glow.
He shivered slightly. “Donelle… I don’t know that we should. I mean-”
Pressing her finger to his lips, she shook her head. “Sire, I insist. I have a habit of listening in on private conversations and I learned recently that you’re planning a rather reckless and probably rather bloody raid.” Donelle raised an eyebrow for confirmation. He nodded reluctantly after a beat, letting her continue. “I do believe you have a ritual you follow before a battle, my king.”
Unlike his sisters, she never judged his decisions, never had. He was the first to know if she thought something unwise but Donelle had always been understanding of him to a fault. She tugged him down beside her on the cot, her hand sliding onto his cheek. “Bad luck to skip a ritual.”
It had been just about the time the Giants had begun to be a problem in the North when the ‘ritual’ first came to be. Peter hadn’t fought in a full-scale battle since Beruna and then he had been running on mostly adrenaline. Now, however, months and months and months later, with plenty of time to dwell on the horrors of war, his nerves had already nearly gotten the better of him and they hadn’t even left the palace yet.
Donelle had come to him the evening before the caravan was to set out, after everyone had long since retired to bed but Peter was still pacing around his chamber. “Sire, you have an awfully big day ahead of you to still be up giddy with excitement,” she had teased, appearing rather abruptly on the end of his bed.
Jumping in surprise, he groaned and ran his fingers through his hair. “Sleep escapes me tonight,” he admitted reluctantly without meeting her eyes.
“Battle can be frightening,” she agreed, taking his hand between both of hers. “You just need something to relax you.”
“I’m afraid warm milk isn’t going to do the trick.” Peter pulled his hand away, voice dry as a frown pulled at his mouth.
Donelle chuckled quietly, shaking her head. “No, I suppose you’re right. But I know what will.” She stood, pushing back the covered screen that enclosed his bathing tub. “Don’t argue with me; just undress.” She filled the tub with hot water, pumped in through a complicated irrigation system of slanted pipes and churning pumps. He started to protest but she had been haunting him long enough he knew that determined look in her eye so he merely began untying his clothes.
She finally turned around when the tub was brimming with water to find him standing awkwardly by the bed in his undershorts. Waving a hand, she shook her head. “No, no, all of it,” she insisted, much to his dismay. “You can’t bathe only partly undressed.”
Peter blushed crimson, reluctantly pulling the rest of his clothes off and folding them neatly on the bed. He walked across the room, avoiding her eyes studiously, much to her amusement, as he slid into the bath. Donelle reached for a soft, spongy scrub, dipping it in the water and running it over his back and shoulders. “Now just relax,” she murmured, squatting down so she spoke in his ear. “Don’t think about battle or ruling or responsibility. Just relax.”
He let his head fall back as she gently kneaded his tight muscles, her hands warm and tender. She had explained it to him one night when they sat whispering on his bed, her hand resting over his, that human contact made her corporeal. Not to mention there was a certain magic to the Cair and especially to that room, the place where she had lost her life. She could appear to anyone she liked, anywhere in the castle, but she had sensed Peter’s possessiveness, his longing for something he would never have to share with his siblings or with his subjects. So she had made a silent promise to remain his and his alone.
The thoughts danced in her head as she slid one hand into the water, gently massaging his chest. A soft sigh ran through him as he slowly relaxed, eyes closing under her caring touch. Water lapped against his bare skin, growing lukewarm the longer they sat there in charged quiet. “Peter,” she whispered finally, her lips brushing his cheek as she leaned in. “Peter, let me…”
He shuddered, twisting slightly to look at her. “Donelle, I-” He blushed, his British sensibilities spiking for just a moment.
Donelle held out a hand to help him from the bath and he rested his in it with trepidation. “Trust me,”
she murmured. “Trust me, my king.”
Peter straightened slightly at the subtle reminder he needn’t just be a nervous boy. He was a king. She
traced his features with her fingertips, leading him to the bed, eyes holding his unrelentingly.
“I do,” he promised. “With my life.” Sliding a hand onto her waist, he pulled her flush against him, fingers
curling around the back of her neck, tangling in her hair as he hesitantly kissed her.
Donelle smiled against his lips, her hands on his chest and in his hair. “Make love with me, Peter,” she whispered, letting him lift her onto the bed. He followed her up, his anxiety falling away easily at the way she looked at him.
“I don’t have a bathing tub here,” Peter pointed out, even as he slid a hand up her side with a steadiness
“Well it’s not as though that’s the most important part,” she grumbled. “Come, Peter, it’s been over a millennium since I saw you last.”
He chuckled quietly, leaning in to kiss her, his hand resting in the small of her back. She pressed closer, her moan soft and needy as she framed his face in her hands. Peter gently pushed her down on the cot, one hand bunching in the lacy fabric around her. With his eyes closed and his lips on hers, he could very nearly feel spun silk sheets beneath them instead of scratchy burlap and the sweet songs of Nightingales outside open French doors instead of the clang of freshly forged weapons.
Donelle slipped her hands beneath his tunic, relishing the long-missed feel of his skin on hers, the play of his muscles under her hands. She pulled it off over his head, gasping softly as his own palms slid up her thighs, skin milky smooth and exactly as it had been the day she was murdered.
Peter moved, grinning at the annoyed groan she gave and curling his fingers under the neckline of her dress. He pulled, feeling a twinge of satisfaction at the rip that followed. They had learned quickly that it didn’t matter how he destroyed her dress, it was always in fine condition when she dressed again, so he took great pleasure in tearing it off her time and time again. She moaned, swatting unconvincingly at his chest as his hands tugged the dress off her, leaving her pale and creamy and tempting beneath him.
“Oh Donny,” he breathed, ducking to press his lips to the soft slope of her breast. “Oh Donny, I missed you…”
Brushing his hands away as he fumbled for his pants, she deftly untied and pushed them down. Peter moaned, resting his forehead against her shoulder for a moment as her fingers wrapped warmly around him. She had always had the perfect touch to make him see stars. Wrapping her legs around him, she pulled him in close, moaned as he filled her up.
Her arms slid around his neck, fingers in his hair and lips on his. They moved slowly, achingly so, until they both felt like they might burst. Peter pressed hot, breathy kisses down her throat, moaning with a sweet desperation neither of them could have contained.
When he woke, she was gone, as always, but he marched to Miraz’ fortress with his sword sharper and his head held higher than he would have without her.
And when he returned, beaten and bruised, she was there to greet him with open arms, to soothe his sorrow and to tend his wounds.
Although this won't last all twelve days, we have another great grab of presents for everyone. Thanks to everyone who has or is sending in their submissions today- we've had such fun gathering up the gifts and taking a peek before doing the final wrapping!
A fic for hever (Hev)
a/n: Merry Christmas & Happy New Year, and I hope you like it!
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Judith was not impressed.
Peter glanced over at her, and gave a small grin to try to ease the tension. “You have a leaf in your hair,” he said.
She brushed it out hastily, and got to her feet, pushing the branches that surrounded them out of the way. “Where on earth are we supposed to be?”
He didn’t want to say anything without being certain, so he kept silent, and together they scrambled out of the bushes. Today was definitely not panning out the way he’d expected. A horse ride, which was not unusual for them, and then, when they’d dismounted and headed for the cover of the tree when a sudden storm sprung, Judith had slipped, and accidentally pulled Peter down with her.
When they realized what was what, the horses were gone, and they were in the middle of those impossible bushes.
“Argh,” she muttered, pushing angrily at a last branch, and finally stepping into the open. “I don’t care how wet I get, I’ve had enough of that cover for now, thanks.”
Peter laughed, and glanced around, trying to see the horses in the dim, rain laden air. “How long will it take to walk back?”
“Much too long. We’d both be either dead, or incredibly sick before too long.”
“Well, standing here isn’t exactly going to help things,” he said.
“No, but—” she was cut off by a growl-ish sound from their right. They both turned, and stared.
“What the devil...?” said Peter.
“Well, I hope the rain didn’t do that,” Judith said.
They were staring at a human (or at least it looked a bit like one) who was staring at them from bloodshot eyes, and had a greyish pallor to his complexion. His clothes were in tatters (but covered the necessary bits, Judith thought thankfully) and his hair was plastered flat against his head from the rain. He took a step forward, and Judith unconsciously gripped Peter’s arm.
They now noticed that chunks of flesh were missing from several parts of his body, and through the rain, they could smell an awful stench...
“That is not normal,” Peter muttered. The man took another step forward, and Peter and Judith took one back. “Sir, are you quite alright?” Peter asked worriedly.
Another growl, and the man lurch-stepped a few paces closer. Peter turned, and holding Judith’s arm, walked away brusquely. The thing was still lurch-stepping after them, trying to catch up.
They glanced back, and still the stranger lurch-stepped after them, groaning pitifully.
“What in the name of all things holy is going on?” Judith demanded as they hurried away from him.
“Don’t know,” Peter said, “But I don’t think we ought to stay to ask.” He gave her a reassuring smile, but they both knew it was forced. Neither knew what to make of this, and were uncertain of how to react.
Suddenly Peter pulled her to a stop.
“What is it?” she whispered.
“Shh...” He glanced about them. He knew he’d heard something but was unsure...
Out of the rough underbrush and foliage stumbled a flailing form, her arm dangling barely from her shoulder socket. Her clothes were ripped and torn and falling apart—as was her body...
Another figure came through the rain behind her as they watched...
And another...and another...
“Run?” Peter suggested.
They ran then, tripping over stones in the coming darkness, wishing they still had the horses. They ran, stumbling into each other, holding on to each other, terror at this unknown threat growing in each step.
There were more groans from the trees, from behind them, and still they ran.
They stumbled into a small clearing, and Judith pulled on Peter’s arm, stopping him as she doubled over, panting. He was breathing heavily, too, and he looked around the clearing, trying to see in the dimness.
A shrouded figure was sitting on the ground on the far side. He stepped in front of Judith, warily calling out: “Hello there...”
The figure turned its head and removed the cowl covering its face. It was a young man in a cloak, sitting in the Lotus position, and he stared intently at them for a moment.
“Not exactly what I was expecting,” he said slowly.
“What are you doing?” Judith asked. “The ground is wet. You’ll be soaked.”
“No, I’m quite dry, thank you.”
“Well?” she demanded.
“Well what?” He raised an eyebrow in mild amusement.
“What are you doing?” She was standing next to Peter now, her breath caught, and needing and wanting answers for the bizarre happenings of the evening
“I was performing a summoning spell.”
“Black magic?” Peter asked, and Judith turned to glance at him because of the edge to his voice.
“Not at all. Faith Magic. Magic can only be black if your faith in it is. See, magic is all around,” he gestured to the trees and up to the sky, “In everything. It gives essence to everything. If you know what you’re doing, and how to channel that which is inside of you, it’s easy to connect to the rest. And thereby, create and perform spells.” He raised his eyebrow again. “You’re not what I was expecting.”
“What were you epecting?” Both Judith and Peter asked at the same time.
He sighed. “I’ve been tracking a dark mage. I don’t suppose you’re it. He’s been causing disturbances throughout for a while now, and I fully intend to end him.”
“What on earth are you on about?” Judith asked, exasperated. “We’ve seen these bizarre creatures—humans, we thought, but not entirely human at all! Were those your doing, or this ‘dark mages’?”
“Ghouls, they’re called. Or, if you prefer the more modern term, zombies. Not entirely sure of the etymology, it might be Latin for all I know. Still. They’re not mine, they must be his. Crudest form of necromancy, really,” here he looked specifically at Peter, “And that is dark magic. It’s a form of hate incarnated, a cruel thing to do, because if any loved ones saw their beloved deceased groping around outside the grave, they’d be appalled.”
Judith and peter were silent for a moment, and glanced at each other.
“They’re dead?” She asked.
“How do we get them back into their graves, then?” he asked.
“Lop off their heads if they don’t eat you first,” he retorted. “And of course they’re dead. Anyone still alive when their arms and legs are falling apart and their faces are falling to bits is going to be in far too much pain to even think of trailing after you trying to eat you.”
“Why would they want to eat us?!” Judith cried.
“Because necromancy required a sort of sacrifice. You can do it with a hearty meal, but blood works better and makes the ghouls stronger and last longer, so he probably used a blood sacrifice. By the way, you might want to get behind me before you do get eaten. I imagine it would be painful.” He gestured behind them.
“Uuuuuugh!” Judith cringed away from the ghoul as it came towards her, and she and Peter strode behind the other man. He uttered a few words (that Judith later thought sounded more like oaths than any spells), and in a fluid motion, stood, pulling a long-sword from somewhere in his cloak.
The ghouls head rolled, coming to a stop against a tree trunk. The body dropped a moment later.
“We should leave,” he muttered. “More will be here soon.”
“I thought you were hunting the stupid moron who started this mess!” Judith yelled. “We should do that then!”
“Ha!” he cried, “I’m not having your deaths on my hands, thank you. I’ll get you to safety and find him on my own.”
“Ugh, we’re capable of helping, you know!”
“She’s right. We can—”
“I do not care what your capabilities are, you will not be placed in harm’s way on my watch.” To himself, almost inaudibly, he added, “Someone always dies.”
“Please, let them help.” All three spun around at the new voice. Soft and feminine, outfitted in dyed black leather attire that most modest women would faint at the sight of, with long blonde hair tied in a harsh pony- tail, accentuating her jaw and defining her face, bringing out an icy- beautiful look. Judith felt her colour rise at the sight of her, and hoped Peter wasn’t looking in all of those places.
“Very interesting,” the young man said. “You’re the mage then.”
“You said ‘he’,” Peter pointed out, glancing between them. Ghouls were
coming out of the trees, now, amassing behind the newcomer.
“Sexist bastard,” the woman spat, “I should have known.” Her face twisted when she said it, like she had something distasteful in her mouth. “Kill them,” she murmured, and the ghouls began stumbling forward.
“Here,” the mage handed Peter the sword he’d been holding, “If you know
how to do anything with it, it will cut through anything.”
He looked at Judith, and pulled out a silvery spear-like thing and a long, curved dagger that seemed to glow slightly in the dark, moonless night. “Here.” She took it wordlessly, and turned to face the oncoming monsters.
She tried not to think that they had once been human. They were just...things, she told herself.
They came then, hitting the three in a flurry, all trying to bite and grab.
Peter and the mage (who had procured another blade) struck at the beings, felling them easily, but for every one they killed, two more seemed to be in its place. Judith worked with both her hands, her fingers nimble, finding strength and skill she didn’t know she possessed. Her left struck out and caught the zombie-beings, and her right decapitated them easily, and she was lost from thought, her body performing in a rote she knew not.
She pushed her way forward as she fought, unlike the others, who held their ground. She did it unconsciously, heading for the woman mage, the bloody cause of this bloody mess. She had no plan; she only thought to kill whatever was in her way. Stabbing and slicing, she was soon face to face with the tall, leathered beauty.
There seemed to be a lull between them as time seemed to slow as they regarded each other, taking in the sight, sizing each other up.
“I know you,” the mage woman said slowly, looking her up and down.
“Oh?” Judith said, and unthinkingly stabbed the silver spear into the woman’s chest.
The scream that filled the clearing was deafening, and chilling, and terrifying. It seemed to reach in and pierce their souls, tearing at their ears, scrabbling for purchase in their very minds. Judith dropped her weapons, and tried to shut the sound out by covering her ears, but it grew louder, and then stopped. She glanced at the woman. She was on her knees, breathing heavily, glaring hatefully up at Judith.
“How could you?” she said between breaths, “Sister...”
Judith uttered a small gasp, and stumbled backwards as the mage fell forwards, and then Peter’s arms were around her, holding her, encompassing her, protecting her.
Sister...
What had the mage meant? What did any of it mean?
“Well. That was rather anti-climax,” the young man was saying. Judith looked up, disentangling herself from Peter’s arms, even though she didn’t want to.
“What do you mean?” He was looking down at the fallen mage, and then looking at the now lifeless ghouls around them.
“Well, I didn’t expect her to just...let you stab her. Did she say anything before she died?”
Judith looked at the dead woman, the spear protruding from her body, which now looked frail and delicate—the opposite of what it had looked like when she’d been alive only moments ago.
“No,” she said softly, “She said nothing at all.”
The mage looked at her like he didn’t really believe her, but then he
caught Peter’s eye, and whatever he’d been about to say was left unsaid.
He retrieved the weapons, and looked over at the couple.
“Head that way,” he pointed, “And you’ll find your horses.”
“How did you...” Peter left the sentence unfinished. It would be a stupid question, asking a mage how he knew things, anyway.
The mage stood for a moment, looking at them. “The bodies will be gone, come dawn. Magic filled beings return to the earth,” he murmured. “Fare thee well.”
“Safe journey, wherever that may take you,” Peter replied. Judith gave a small smile and wave. The mage left, blending into the deeper shadows.
They stood for a moment in the darkness, holding each other, silent for long moments.
“Oh, let’s just go home,” Judith said, and Peter smiled and kissed her hair.
“Yes, lets.”
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A fic for AviaTantellaScott
Deplorable
-x-
The harsh light of the sun reddens as it reaches down to the horizon. The city becomes a world of shadows stretching through the streets. Soon now, the lanterns of the dwellings will be lit, but until then there is only the fading sunlight to guide peoples’ steps as they make their ways home.
In the center of the city within the walls of the High Palace, the lanterns already shine, the oil-based flames casting their own, smaller shadows upon the halls and corridors. Here in the High Palace these lanterns are lit all day and night, for the walls are thick and the sunlight cannot reach to the furthest corners of the corridors.
It is quiet in the High Palace, for the Emperor sits late this night with his inner cabinet of advisors; they are drafting a trade agreement that could spell the end to decades of enmity between Charn and Bramandin. In other wings of the palace, nobles and servants talk in whispers, for the end of day is near and night belongs to the Fates.
In the East wing, within the Azure Chambers, a nurse sits with the princess of Charn. The girl is young, her black hair loose and frizzy after its unbraiding; she sits upon the rug and plays with a set of intricately carved figurines of soldiers and warriors.
“Night is nearly here, child,” the nurse warns the girl. “You must be in your bed soon, or the Fates will be displeased.”
The princess is young enough that she does not yet understand to fear the Fates. “A story!” she begs, “Please!”
“It is late,” the nurse begins, but the girl interrupts her again.
“A story! And then I will sleep!”
There is still time before the sun sinks from view; the nurse takes the figurines from the girl and places them upon a shelf. “A story it is,” she says, and the girl straightens in anticipation.
“Long ago in the early days of Charn, when our land was not an empire, but a kingdom,” the nurse begins, “there was a foolish king.”
The girl beams, for this is a tale she has never heard before.
“This king was proud of his land, but he wished for it to become greater still. He boasted of how glorious Charn would one day become, and claimed that it would be the greatest empire of the world. But for all his stories and all his boasts, the king never once mentioned the will of the Fates, and this was his undoing.”
“But Charn is an empire,” the girl claims with a frown. “It is the greatest empire in the world.”
The nurse dips her head in acknowledgement, and continues with her story. “The youngest Fate was watching Charn, and she did not like what she saw. So, on a day when the boasts of the king became greater than ever before, the youngest Fate took human form as a traveler and arrived at the home of the king with a cart containing several full, burlap sacks. No one could see what was in the sacks as the cart wheeled through the streets, for they had all been tied tightly shut.
“However, such was the magic of the sacks that the king only needed one look to know they contained the finest rubies ever seen. And he went up to the youngest Fate, not knowing that it was she, and asked how much she would sell the contents of her cart for.
“The youngest Fate told him that the rubies of her cart were cursed, and that she
would not wish that curse upon any mortal. But the king merely laughed, and told
her that he did not believe in curses, and again he asked what it would take to buy a
sack of the rubies.
“’Take them all, foolish king’ said the youngest Fate, and she climbed off the cart and left the city and was never seen again. But the king took no notice as she left, for all he could see were the rubies, and all he could think was that Charn would finally become the greatest empire in the land.”
The nurse leans forward and lowers her voice. “When the curse took hold of the empire, it took two days for the last of the crops to whither to dust.”
-x-
The jewels of the royal household shone in the red light of the sun, more plentiful than ever before and more useless than ever. Hekkenet found his father in the treasure chamber, seated in the corner on a wooden bench and lost in thought. Around his feet and piled against the walls were countless sacks, and where the cloth had slipped, the red glint of the rubies could be seen. In the center of the room was a pile of the jewels strewn across the floor.
The king did not even look up as his son approached. “What good are the finest rubies,” Telkor asked in a dead voice, “if your people cannot eat them? What good are they when they cannot be traded because all know they bear death?”
Hekkenet stopped in front of his father, staring down at the single ruby on the bench. When he reached for it, Telkor’s hand caught his wrist in a tight grip. “Do not soil your hands on this cursed rock,” he said sharply. “Stay pure, my son. I would not have the curse live on in you.”
Hekkenet pulled away reluctantly, but his gaze stayed on the ruby. The wood of the bench was gouged deeply next to where the jewel lay. “They will not break,” Telkor continued. “I have tried every manner I can think of, but the rubies will not shatter. See? Not even a scratch upon them. The curse keeps them strong.”
“Father,” Hekkenet interrupted.
“I sent soldiers to cart the rubies from the empire – two days before the men returned, the rubies reappeared in this very room as if by magic. I sent others to cast the jewels into the sea – the rubies returned that very night. I cannot rid myself of them.”
“Father,” Hekkenet repeated.
Telkor looked up finally to his son, like a shamed man on trial.
“Father, let me go into the world,” Hekkenet said. “Let me travel in search of the one who gave you these rubies, so I may learn how the curse can be lifted. Please, let me go.”
Before when he had suggested this, Telkor had refused, claiming it was better to die with one’s family than have each of them scattered across the earth. But now, he was a broken man. Now, he bowed his head before his son once more.
“Go,” he sighed, his voice rough with sudden emotion, “Go. For I cannot break the curse I have brought upon us, and Charn will be dead if someone does not find a way. Go, my son, and have my blessing – such that it is.”
And so Hekkenet rode out on the fastest, strongest steed of the kingdom with a sword on his hip and a pack of what little supplies he could gather on his back. His father watched him go from the wall top, staring off into the distance long after his son’s form had been lost in the haze of dust that covered the horizon.
-x-
For seven long days the sun hovered in the sky above; for seven long nights the people shook in their homes as the Fates walked free. And on the eighth day, King Telkor went up to the wall top as he had each day before, and strained his eyes for any sight of his son. But on this day, the eighth day, he finally saw the movement of travelers approaching.
“Open the gates!” he bellowed. “Sound the horn! My son has returned!” But as the figures drew closer, King Telkor saw to his dismay that his son was not one of them.
No – these three figures were women fair as the triple moons in the sky above. They were tall and had white hair and grey eyes – near albino, they were, and they stood out sore against the brown of the land. And although these women looked young and beautiful, their eyes told of years unimaginable.
“We have heard you have a problem, Telkor of Charn,” said the tallest of the three women. “We have come to give you our aid.”
And the king looked to her as one who is starving for knowledge. “You have met my son, then?”
“We have,” the eldest confirmed. “And we spoke with him at great length. We understand the nature of the curse upon your land, perhaps even greater than you do yourself.”
“Then help us,” the king begged, and he fell on his knees before them. “But first – tell me of my son.”
-x-
He did not like the witches. It was not just their looks, the white skin that stuck out against a nation of dark-tanned people. It was not their eyes, old as they were in young faces, staring at him until he wanted to crawl away in shame. Nor was it their bearing, as though they were queens long forgotten.
He thought about this long and hard as he stood upon the rooftop, scanning the horizon for the sight of his son. He thought about it in the long hours of the night. But this source of this feeling was not something he could pin down easily.
“We can hold off the curse with our magic,” the tallest had told him in the deep council room. “And your land will be just as it was before the rubies ever came to this kingdom.”
“And my land will be whole again?” he had asked. The news was almost too good to believe. He wondered again why his son had not yet returned.
“For a time,” the tallest warned, “But only a time. All the magic in all the world cannot hold off a curse like this forever. If your son does not return with a way to remove the curse entirely, there will come a time when the full power of it will be unleashed once more. And I warn you, Telkor of Charn, do not take this lightly. For if this were to happen and the curse be released again, it would be a thousand times greater than ever before. And it just might be that it would destroy not only Charn, but every person that lives in this world.”
It was only after this discussion, after he had told the three witches to carry on and do whatever they could, that he realized what it was he did not like. For although the women spoke of the destruction of the world, there was no fear in their eyes.
-x-
“And so the three witches bound the curse in a word – a single, deplorable word. And three days after their incantations had ended, life returned to Charn. The grass began to grow and the rivers began to flow. The curse had been lifted, and the
people rejoiced.
“But while there were songs and dancing in the streets, the king stood atop the wall in his lonely vigil for his son. He continued to watch each day for his son to return, until he had grown so old that he had to be carried up to the wall by servants. But his son never returned.”
The princess fidgets impatiently, and as soon as her nurse pauses to take a breath, she exclaims, “But wasn’t the curse destroyed?”
“No,” the nurse says solemnly, “The witches trapped the curse in the deplorable word and the king waited for his son to return until the day he died. And if anyone now were to learn this word and speak it, everyone would surely die – except, perhaps, the speaker, for curses often do not work on the one who speaks the magic.”
“And can no one stop it?” the princess cried.
“Not until the day Prince Hekkenet again rides through the gates of the the great city of Charn,” the nurse answered. “But fear not, child. For Prince Hekkenet will return someday, and Charn will become greater than ever before.” She leans forward to take the princess’s hand and help her to her feet. “And now, young Jadis, it is time for sleep.”
The girl stands reluctantly, tugging the thin silk of her nightgown until it hangs straight. She is led into the next room, where her younger sister already sleeps in her bed of cushions. Under the nurse’s guidance, the princess crawls onto her own bed and curls up among the pillows.
“I can fix it,” she declares suddenly, and the fierceness of her voice causes her sister to stir. “I can,” she repeats softer.
“Can you now, young Jadis?” the nurse whispers, and squeezes her hand gently.
“Yes,” Jadis says, “I’ll find Prince Hekkenet and make him come back. I will. You’ll see.”
-x-
END
A fic for Irishsongbird
Ghosts of Lovers' Past
Rated: M
A/N: Thank you to Irish for the fabulously fun prompt!! I wound up a little angstier than I meant to but
there is lots of Peter and a good chunk of M-rated-ness. ;) Merry Christmas!
Torchlight flickered against the cold, damp walls, licking out at rough drawings of Narnia’s Golden Age rulers. Peter studied the sketch of himself, the tallest figure, looking important and respected. He sighed quietly, the sound echoing eerily throughout the maze-like halls.
“A lot of ghosts in these walls,” a soft, feminine voice murmured calmly from behind him.
A small smirk tugged at his lips as he turned, lifting his burning torch higher. “Like you, you mean?”
“I am just one of many these days, I’m afraid,” she amended, stepping into the light, hands folded in front of her. Flames shone on almost translucent blond hair and a long, lacy white gown.
Peter let his eyes travel down her body, over her curves, everything about her exactly as he remembered it. “The last millennium has been good to you, Donelle,” he smiled slightly, eyes darting back up to hers.
“Millennium and a half.” She reached out, drawing her fingertips over the sketch of him on the wall. “And yet somehow you seem younger, sire.” She raised an eyebrow pointedly at him. “Hardly fair, that.”
“I’ve lost a few years, it’s true,” Peter sighed, glancing down at his boyish frame.
Donelle smiled slightly, knowingly. She had always had eyes so full of wisdom they had frightened him (for a short time) as a boy. “Nothing wrong with gaining a little extra time in life,” she pointed out, her voice soft.
Wincing, he reached out his free hand. “My apologies. I did not mean to offend you,” he murmured. Her life had been cut so short and here he was complaining about having more time in his own.
“You didn’t.” The promise was quiet as she slid her hand into his, the touch light and barely there as she clung to strands of corporeality. “I know you would never take life for granted, Peter.” Her figure grew frothy again as she let go of his hand. “You never have.”
“Well I’m not the man I was 1300 years ago,” Peter disagreed dryly. “I’m not even a man.”
“Shh, don’t talk like that. You are more a man than anyone I’ve ever met,” she assured him softly,
pressing her finger to his lips.
“Only because of you.” Peter lowered the torch in his hand slightly, light casting over the red bloom on her side, her voice fading in his head as he remembered the first time he had realized what the stain on her beautiful white dress really was.
“You’re a man because of you, Peter. I simply helped you find your way once, a very long time ago…”
Peter sought Tumnus out in his study one afternoon after the Pevensies had officially, finally, moved into Cair Paravel. Rain drizzled against glass windowpanes outside as the High King let himself into the dark, wood-paneled room, knocking lightly on the door. “Oh good, you’re still here, Mr. Tumnus. I wanted to speak with you about something… unusual,” he announced determinedly.
Tumnus glanced up from a thick volume and raised his eyebrows. “Oh? Please, sire, sit down.” He motioned to the chair across his desk as he sat himself. “What can I do for you?”
“Well I’ve-” Peter cut off, flushing in embarrassment. “It’s just that I-” He glanced over his shoulder at the closed door and leaned forward a bit conspiratorially. “It’s just that I haven’t been sleeping much lately. Not well, anyway. I think there might be… someone or… something in my chamber.”
Tumnus’ eyes grew wide. “A spy? One of the hags, perhaps, or a dwarf?” he cried in horror.
“No, no, nothing like that, I don’t believe,” Peter assured him quickly. “It’s more like… like a feeling I get, when I walk into the room. As though I’m intruding on someone else’s space.”
“Hmm…” The faun sat slowly back in his chair, picking up a small cup of tea as he went. “Well…” He glanced down warily at Peter. “There is a legend about this place. You aren’t the first kings and queens to live here, you see. A Queen, one of Queen Swanwhite’s descendants, lived here for a short time, before the Winter came. It’s said that… well, it’s said that she had a sister, who was just as lovely as she. A handsome prince from Archenland, to the South, fell madly in love with her and they became engaged. But the Witch, like any woman would, I suppose, although she was hardly a woman, wanted a king to reign by her side, and this prince was so captivating, so regal and powerful, that she wanted him and him alone. So she murdered the beautiful lady, stabbed her on her wedding day, and kidnapped the prince, who was never heard from again. The Queen and her followers fled from the Cair but it’s said that the sister’s spirit stayed on, whether trapped or by choice, no one knows. It’s said…” Tumnus paused for effect. “It’s said that she has haunted this place ever since.”
Peter stared with rather round eyes as he finished his story. “You mean there’s a ghost in my room?” he cried.
Tumnus shrugged. “Oh probably not. It’s likely just a story made up to scare children away from trying to explore the palace when it was empty.” He glanced back down at the book on his desk, sipping at his tea.
Groaning, Peter leaned back in his seat. “Well I’m sure the ghost story will help me sleep better tonight,” he complained dryly, pushing his crown further back on his head.
Raising his cup, Tumnus nodded. “Glad to be of help, sire.”
Peter had wandered the halls that night, trying to keep himself busy so he wouldn’t have to go to sleep in his room. It was sometime after the stroke of midnight when he finally found himself standing in front of the large, wooden double doors that led to his grand chamber. He sighed and pushed one open reluctantly, wincing as it creaked in protest.
“You haven’t been sleeping,” a feminine voice murmured from the bed.
He jumped in surprise, letting out a shriek he quickly muffled with his hand, not wanting to wake his brother and sisters down the hall. “Who are you and what do you want?” he hissed, fumbling in the dark for his sword and coming up with a ruler from the desk instead.
Leaning over, she lit a candle, flooding the room with a romantic glow. He hesitated at the sight of a stunning blond curled up on his bed, laughter bubbling out of her. It took a moment for him to realize she was laughing at him and his ruler. Peter pursed his lips, tossing the offending straightedge back onto his desk. “Who are you and what do you want?” he asked again, irritably.
“I think you know who I am, sire,” she chuckled. “I’m Donelle. The ghost.” She stood from the bed, her white dress trailing on the floor, hands folded calmly in front of her. Peter studied her, squinting in the dim candlelight. “It’s not me keeping you up is it?”
“I do believe it is, unless there’s some other ghost haunting my chamber as well,” he growled.
“Oh, no, no, just me,” she assured him, holding out a hand. “We got off on the wrong foot, I’m afraid. Lady Donelle, sister to Queen Annabelle the III, daughter to Queen Annabelle the II and eternal betrothed to Prince Coan of Archenland.” Her voice was dry with sarcasm as she added, “All of whom have been dead for a hundred years, so who cares anyhow?”
Peter smirked slightly, shaking her hand, surprised when she didn’t fade right through him. “High King Peter the Magnificent,” he introduced himself proudly.
She chuckled. “The Magnificent, hmm? Well, it is a pleasure to meet you sire,” she assured him, sweeping into a deep curtsy.
“Don’t be patronizing, please. I know when I’m being mocked,” Peter sighed, sinking down. “Might I ask why you decided to haunt me?”
“I didn’t. This is my room. I was killed here.” Donelle sat beside him, resting her arm casually on the back of the sofa, revealing a dark bloody red stain on her side.
He flinched at the idea, eyes glancing over the spot. “I’m sorry,” he murmured after a moment, not entirely sure what to say.
“Don’t be. It was over a century ago; I’m quite recovered,” she joked with a brilliant smile, waving a hand-
“Peter…” Donelle tipped his chin up with a finger, smiling gently. “Daydreaming?”
He shook himself, standing slightly closer to her. “Sorry, Donny,” he murmured distractedly. “Just thinking.”
“Come.” She slipped her hand into his, tugging. “We have centuries of catching up to do.” Peter let her lead him down the dank, cavernous hallway to the small room he was sleeping in. It was a sad step down from Cair Paravel and they were both all too sharply aware of the fact.
“A tomb is rather less glamorous than a palace for such a lovely ghost to be haunting,” he murmured, closing the door behind them.
Donelle sank onto his tiny cot with a sigh. “Much less, I am afraid. After the Cair was sacked by the Telmarines, I just couldn’t stay there and watch it be destroyed. Those walls were my home. So I left, traveled through the Woods and managed to scare off a few Telmarines in the process. Bastards,” she swore under her breath.
Peter lit a candle awkwardly. “We saw what was left of it. It’s just… ruins. Pillars and broken stone.”
“Let’s not talk about those barbarians though,” she murmured, reaching for his hand, her eyes suddenly bright in the flickering glow.
He shivered slightly. “Donelle… I don’t know that we should. I mean-”
Pressing her finger to his lips, she shook her head. “Sire, I insist. I have a habit of listening in on private conversations and I learned recently that you’re planning a rather reckless and probably rather bloody raid.” Donelle raised an eyebrow for confirmation. He nodded reluctantly after a beat, letting her continue. “I do believe you have a ritual you follow before a battle, my king.”
Unlike his sisters, she never judged his decisions, never had. He was the first to know if she thought something unwise but Donelle had always been understanding of him to a fault. She tugged him down beside her on the cot, her hand sliding onto his cheek. “Bad luck to skip a ritual.”
It had been just about the time the Giants had begun to be a problem in the North when the ‘ritual’ first came to be. Peter hadn’t fought in a full-scale battle since Beruna and then he had been running on mostly adrenaline. Now, however, months and months and months later, with plenty of time to dwell on the horrors of war, his nerves had already nearly gotten the better of him and they hadn’t even left the palace yet.
Donelle had come to him the evening before the caravan was to set out, after everyone had long since retired to bed but Peter was still pacing around his chamber. “Sire, you have an awfully big day ahead of you to still be up giddy with excitement,” she had teased, appearing rather abruptly on the end of his bed.
Jumping in surprise, he groaned and ran his fingers through his hair. “Sleep escapes me tonight,” he admitted reluctantly without meeting her eyes.
“Battle can be frightening,” she agreed, taking his hand between both of hers. “You just need something to relax you.”
“I’m afraid warm milk isn’t going to do the trick.” Peter pulled his hand away, voice dry as a frown pulled at his mouth.
Donelle chuckled quietly, shaking her head. “No, I suppose you’re right. But I know what will.” She stood, pushing back the covered screen that enclosed his bathing tub. “Don’t argue with me; just undress.” She filled the tub with hot water, pumped in through a complicated irrigation system of slanted pipes and churning pumps. He started to protest but she had been haunting him long enough he knew that determined look in her eye so he merely began untying his clothes.
She finally turned around when the tub was brimming with water to find him standing awkwardly by the bed in his undershorts. Waving a hand, she shook her head. “No, no, all of it,” she insisted, much to his dismay. “You can’t bathe only partly undressed.”
Peter blushed crimson, reluctantly pulling the rest of his clothes off and folding them neatly on the bed. He walked across the room, avoiding her eyes studiously, much to her amusement, as he slid into the bath. Donelle reached for a soft, spongy scrub, dipping it in the water and running it over his back and shoulders. “Now just relax,” she murmured, squatting down so she spoke in his ear. “Don’t think about battle or ruling or responsibility. Just relax.”
He let his head fall back as she gently kneaded his tight muscles, her hands warm and tender. She had explained it to him one night when they sat whispering on his bed, her hand resting over his, that human contact made her corporeal. Not to mention there was a certain magic to the Cair and especially to that room, the place where she had lost her life. She could appear to anyone she liked, anywhere in the castle, but she had sensed Peter’s possessiveness, his longing for something he would never have to share with his siblings or with his subjects. So she had made a silent promise to remain his and his alone.
The thoughts danced in her head as she slid one hand into the water, gently massaging his chest. A soft sigh ran through him as he slowly relaxed, eyes closing under her caring touch. Water lapped against his bare skin, growing lukewarm the longer they sat there in charged quiet. “Peter,” she whispered finally, her lips brushing his cheek as she leaned in. “Peter, let me…”
He shuddered, twisting slightly to look at her. “Donelle, I-” He blushed, his British sensibilities spiking for just a moment.
Donelle held out a hand to help him from the bath and he rested his in it with trepidation. “Trust me,”
she murmured. “Trust me, my king.”
Peter straightened slightly at the subtle reminder he needn’t just be a nervous boy. He was a king. She
traced his features with her fingertips, leading him to the bed, eyes holding his unrelentingly.
“I do,” he promised. “With my life.” Sliding a hand onto her waist, he pulled her flush against him, fingers
curling around the back of her neck, tangling in her hair as he hesitantly kissed her.
Donelle smiled against his lips, her hands on his chest and in his hair. “Make love with me, Peter,” she whispered, letting him lift her onto the bed. He followed her up, his anxiety falling away easily at the way she looked at him.
“I don’t have a bathing tub here,” Peter pointed out, even as he slid a hand up her side with a steadiness
“Well it’s not as though that’s the most important part,” she grumbled. “Come, Peter, it’s been over a millennium since I saw you last.”
He chuckled quietly, leaning in to kiss her, his hand resting in the small of her back. She pressed closer, her moan soft and needy as she framed his face in her hands. Peter gently pushed her down on the cot, one hand bunching in the lacy fabric around her. With his eyes closed and his lips on hers, he could very nearly feel spun silk sheets beneath them instead of scratchy burlap and the sweet songs of Nightingales outside open French doors instead of the clang of freshly forged weapons.
Donelle slipped her hands beneath his tunic, relishing the long-missed feel of his skin on hers, the play of his muscles under her hands. She pulled it off over his head, gasping softly as his own palms slid up her thighs, skin milky smooth and exactly as it had been the day she was murdered.
Peter moved, grinning at the annoyed groan she gave and curling his fingers under the neckline of her dress. He pulled, feeling a twinge of satisfaction at the rip that followed. They had learned quickly that it didn’t matter how he destroyed her dress, it was always in fine condition when she dressed again, so he took great pleasure in tearing it off her time and time again. She moaned, swatting unconvincingly at his chest as his hands tugged the dress off her, leaving her pale and creamy and tempting beneath him.
“Oh Donny,” he breathed, ducking to press his lips to the soft slope of her breast. “Oh Donny, I missed you…”
Brushing his hands away as he fumbled for his pants, she deftly untied and pushed them down. Peter moaned, resting his forehead against her shoulder for a moment as her fingers wrapped warmly around him. She had always had the perfect touch to make him see stars. Wrapping her legs around him, she pulled him in close, moaned as he filled her up.
Her arms slid around his neck, fingers in his hair and lips on his. They moved slowly, achingly so, until they both felt like they might burst. Peter pressed hot, breathy kisses down her throat, moaning with a sweet desperation neither of them could have contained.
When he woke, she was gone, as always, but he marched to Miraz’ fortress with his sword sharper and his head held higher than he would have without her.
And when he returned, beaten and bruised, she was there to greet him with open arms, to soothe his sorrow and to tend his wounds.
Keep checking here for more stories!!
~Kate and Meto
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Date: 2010-12-28 05:43 am (UTC)I love the backstory for Jadis in "Deplorable." Really nice worldbuilding there.
And wow, talk about faithful. Peter's ghost lover waits over a thousand years for a little action. :D
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Date: 2010-12-28 06:42 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-12-29 12:07 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-01-01 01:43 pm (UTC)The Charn story and the myth and legend of the missing Prince and the Deplorable Word was terrific. Lovely gap filling and world building there. It's a very, very good story!