"To Serve the King"
Disclaimer: I don't own them. I only borrowed them for a bit.
Summary: Is it wrong to love a king? Caspian/Peter
Author's Note: This, the oneshot I've been trying to write all along, finally decided to make an appearance and I am quite proud of it. Even though it's probably far too soft.
This thou perceiv'st, which makes thy love more strong,
To love that well which thou must leave ere long.
- "That Time of Year", by William Shakespeare
The Narnian army was camped on the sweeping plain beneath Caspian's castle. He was not yet installed as king and refused to enter the city until his troops were mended and able. It was little more than half a day since the battle against the Telmarines and the young Queen Lucy still walked about the field with her cordial. Night drew on swiftly and the first stars twinkled in the southern sky. The camp was quiet save for a low, steady hum of conversation, interspersed occasionally with soft weeping. Most of the voices were happy enough with their victory, while others mourned the loss of friends or loved ones.
In the distant city, lights flickered in the windows of people's homes as lamps were lit to ward off the darkness. The forest swayed and sang in time with the wind for joy of being alive once again.
Prince Caspian wove his way through the rows of tents until he reached one larger than the rest and bedecked in red and gold. He halted some ten feet beyond the entrance when he felt someone watching him. The Lion's knowing eyes shone amber in the light from a nearby campfire. His breath caught as he answered that gaze, suddenly and inexplicably ashamed of being found there. To his surprise, Aslan silently dipped his great head in consent and slipped away into the fluid shadows beneath the trees.
Within the tent, High King Peter the Magnificent stood looking into a bowl filled with red-tinged water. His war-battered hands hung limp at his sides, the blood of his enemies washed away. It was the blood of his people that stained him still - a stain he could never get clean no matter how hard he scrubbed. His mistakes were many and grave this time, the mistakes of a boy pretending (remembering) he was king. The triumph was hard won, though not by loss of numbers, but by something deep within himself that disappeared when he wasn't paying attention. He was forced once more to look into the pits of Hell and came out the other side a changed being (a king pretending to be a boy). In his soul he understood and yet his heart was breaking.
The rustle of the cloth door pulled Peter from his trance. Instinctively, his hand flew to Rhindon's hilt. When he saw that it was Caspian he relaxed and began to loosen his armor. He managed his sword belt without pain but flinched as his left arm took the full weight of the gear. The prince stepped forward.
"Let me help you my lord," he said and laid the sword aside reverently.
Piece by piece the Telmarine prince removed the High King's armor, careful to avoid touching the bruises that painted the sun-burnished skin beneath, until only the mail shirt remained. He hesitated and met Peter's eyes, those orbs that would always know too much in a world that would always be too little. Never, even as an old man and dying, would Caspian forget the King's eyes.
Together they gently withdrew the shirt. For all the pain it must have caused him, Peter never uttered so much as a gasp. The prince was filled with admiration and a strange sense of wonder that he should be so bold in attending to this man (who ceased to be a boy many centuries ago). But was it wrong to serve him? He read once that to love is to sacrifice pride and where better to lay his offering than at his King's feet? Perhaps the wrongness came in his need to be near Peter or perhaps it was the burning he felt in his presence. Whatever the case, Caspian loved him, in every sense of the word.
In a matter of days (or less than a second), respect uprooted the doubt in him and replaced it with something so strong he could barely hold it in check. That is why, as Peter struggled out of his tunic and undershirt, he turned away.
"I will go," he said quietly.
Suddenly there were long, thin fingers curled about his wrist. He halted mid-stride and swallowed with some difficulty. He would not hope.
"Don't," Peter whispered.
The King's voice held a vulnerability Caspian did not expect. In silence he studied the map of colors darkening the injured shoulder until Peter's hand drew his against the firm warmth of his naked chest. It was the most meaningful moment of the young prince's life and he wept (in secret) to remember it years later. Then their lips met and it was not the frantic crush of youth. Instead, it was a slow discovery of one another with hands and mouths. The air inside the tent seemed changed when they parted, as though they had slipped into the stillness of the wood between worlds.
When at last they were both unclothed, Caspian knelt before the High King and bowed his head, his skin glistening in the unsteady glow of the lantern.
"My King."
Peter's blue eyes smoldered like the Narnian sky before a storm, dark and dangerous. He reached down and gripped Caspian's shoulders tightly, lifting the prince to his full height. In the semi-darkness the two monarchs presented the ultimate contrast: Peter shone like the midday sun with his golden hair and tanned skin while Caspian was the deep of the night, all black eyes and bewitching voice. Where they touched it seemed there was light.
"You're the King now," Peter corrected, his fingers tracing the line of Caspian's lips.
"Not until the morning."
"Then until the morning, you are mine."