I hear the bird calls long before the procession arrives. Each voice is unique, in a way I would never have noticed before coming to Narnia. The high clear voices of the lark and her young are set against the backdrop of the eagle's strong and savage cry. The melodic announcements of sparrows and robins join the chorus of birdcalls, proclaiming the same message for all to hear.

"They come majesties, the Calormene prince and is attendants."

I answer this news with the courtesy and poise which has earned me the name of Gentle throughout the land. "My thanks friends for this news. How long until they reach the Cair?"

It is the lordly eagle who answers my inquiry, in a voice which holds a faint note of warning. "Their horses are swift and powerful; indeed it is a thousand pities that they were not born free talking horses of Narnia. They will enter your gates within half an hour my Queen"

"My thanks cousin, and may Aslan ever bear you up." He acknowledges the traditional farewell and takes flight, and I hasten to inform my siblings that our guests have come at last.

Strangely; what stands out in my memory apart from my first sight of Rabadash, is the underlying note of derision in every bird call. I want to speak out, to take my siblings and people to task for making such judgments without anything more than a passing knowledge of Calormene ways. But I keep silent, because I do not know how such thoughts will be received by my subjects. To them the word Calormene is something exotic and incomprehensible, a mystery which none save myself has ever dared to fathom. Even if I decide to speak out I know that few would listen, for enmity between our lands runs deep.

Rabadash, he who would for the first time cause me to question not only my kingdom's long held beliefs about his nation, but the laws given by great Aslan himself. He rides his horse as if he is one with the animal, looking about him with a warrior's vigilance and a haughty distain which marks him at once as a Calormene born to privilege. I watch as Lucy stifles a snort of laughter, Edmund's dismissive glance and Peter acting the role of a courteous monarch. And in that moment something rises up within me, an emotion colder than fury. Contempt; to me the prince's formality is beautiful, containing a sensual richness which our simple honest Narnian customs lack.

Peter beckons me forward to greet our guest, and I glimpse the look of veiled hostility he bestows upon Rabadash as I curtsy and offer greetings in Aslan's name. All present see the ripple of unease which passes through the Calormene procession at the conclusion of my greeting, and I know that my subjects will immediately construe this as further proof that none in that country should ever wed a maiden born of Narnia. Rabadash is first to recover, and responds with a courteous salutation in the name of his foreign god Tash. Now it is the turn of my people to stiffen in apprehension at the sound of that hated name, and I quickly incline my head in acceptance of the prince's speech.

The feast is a lavish affair, where delicacies from all parts of Narnia are offered for the enjoyment of our foreign guests. . Rabadash is conducted by Tumnus to a seat of honor, and I smile as he nods graciously to all assembled. His actions are so unlike those of the other suitors who have come to ask for my hand in marriage. If he behaved like them I would know how to respond, for by now I am familiar with every step in the complicated dance of courtship.

But this Rabadash confuses me, because though he looks upon me with admiration, it is not the kind born of desire alone. No

His courtship is subtler, containing none of the obvious and ridiculous speeches I've received countless times. No beneath every poetic phrase is the invitation to cast off the mantle of The Gentle, to look within to that steely core of strength few have ever glimpsed. I have hidden that part of myself well, so skillfully in fact that I suspect only Aslan has ever seen what lies beneath that gentle facade I present for the world to admire.

And yet in one evening this prince has found a way beneath every carefully crafted disguise, to that part of myself I am afraid to acknowledge and which has been lulled into complacent slumber by the expectations of family and my people.

My eyes meet Lucy's across the laden table, and I glimpse the unasked question in their depths. No doubt she will come to my chamber before this night is over, eager to discuss this Calormene prince and whether or not I will accept his suit. How can I tell her that I am seriously considering his offer? She will try to conceal it, but I know that like every Narnian seated at this table she is suspicious of Calormene. Not without cause, for that empire has made war against our land many times over the centuries.

My thoughts drift to the tournament scheduled for the morrow, and I find myself hoping that the Calormene prince will show every Narnian that he is just as honorable and skilled as any knight trained under Oreius. And for the first time in many months, I think of my first homeland, and the old stories my mother would tell me before bedtime. I recall the story of the Valkyrie Brynhildr, a warrior maiden who chose only the bravest men to join her sisters at Odin's table. Asked to decide the winner in a contest of blades, she chose a king who she knew her lord did not favor. For this choice she was sent into exile, condemned to the life of a mortal bound to an enchanted sleep. Many courageous men would try to break the spell, but only a youth who could accept her warrior's spirit as well as her beauty would succeed.

Like her I am trapped, not within a ring of fire, but by something just as impenetrable. The expectations of my kin and people. That carefully constructed mask I have worked so hard to cultivate has in one evening been stripped from me by a Calormene noble who I know all here resent. Perhaps this is partially my own fault, for I never dared let anyone see the strength which lay beneath my gentle nature. Even now I am amazed that my people never thought to look past my gracious facade. Little Mother, they have called me that so often, a title which dear Mrs. Beaver gave me and which has spread until I am known by that name to all Narnia. Do they not realize that every mother knows what it is to fight for her children? That she will do whatever is necessary to keep safe those given into her care?

No, for they refuse to consider that I might have even a tenth of the warrior's courage which Lucy carries with such ease. Not even my brothers suspect the truth. Oh they compliment me on my skill with the bow, and are eager to speak of my prowess to any visiting lord eager to test his metal against a worthy opponent. Still they do not understand my reasons for refusing to go into battle, that it is not the slaughter and death which I fear, but the cost that killing will demand of my soul. All of Narnia knows that I wouldn't hesitate to give all of my royal jewels to purchase peace for my kingdom, but would they be so proud of me if they knew that I dare not sacrifice my spirit to the fires of war, for I know that it would emerge forever changed. War would refine me in its bloody crucible, until I would no longer be the gentle queen which my people adore.

Dare I break this fragile peace, not with Calormene, but with my own people?

How I wish I could discuss my thoughts with Lucy, for she has been my confidant and friend ever since we were made queens of this land by Aslan. And yet something holds me back, for deep within I know that she will never understand. She is too young to know such thoughts, to desire a consort who is more than a friend and playmate. What does she know of the need to be loved and cherished by a man of honor, to be respected for who you are and take up the mantle of queen on terms not dictated by custom? Her consort would be kind and faithful, someone who would share her devotion to Aslan and our kingdom and bring her much joy. I know this, because this is what Narnia offers. My beloved kingdom is proud to say that no maiden is forced to marry against her will, but what if her choice is contrary to the will of Narnia or even Aslan himself?

These questions still occupy my thoughts, as I rise to prepare for the tournament the next morning. I have presided over many similar contests since I was crowned, but never have I felt such nervous anticipation. Outwardly calm I make my way to the courtyard where the knights are assembling, and take my place on my throne.

Beside me Edmund and Peter are already deep in conversation, discussing their favorite strategies and which knights will pose the greatest challenge to those chosen by Prince Rabadash. Lucy joins in with an occasional comment, and I glimpse the looks of respect and affection which my brothers cast her way when she turns to greet Mr. Tumnus.

For a moment fury wells up within me, as I think that I ought to have shown my brothers that I am just as knowledgeable as my sister when it comes to discussing the tools of warfare.

I may not ride to war like Lucy, but that doesn't mean that I am unfamiliar with the dance of swords. But before I can draw breath to speak, the trumpets sound, signaling that the tournament has begun.

I watch as each knight steps forward to challenge his Calormene opponent, until at last only Rabadash remains. His style is so different from that favored by all Narnia. There is a fluid grace and confidence to every movement, almost as if I am watching a courtly dance instead of a contest of blades. So evenly matched are these warriors that I know the swordplay will continue for some time. Both are proud warriors, the best that each kingdom has to offer, and I find myself wondering if they might be so equal in skill that someone will eventually be forced to choose between them. My fears are proven right as the match continues, and our knight's attacks grow more desperate as he realizes that Rabadash is a true master of the sword. Out of the corner of my eye I glimpse Lucy leaning forward, rigid with expectation as she watches the combatants struggle to find an opening to attack.

At high noon they step back, and Narnia's knight turns to face the royal thrones. "Your Majesties, and all you lords and ladies of Narnia, I have fought many wars in the service of my land, and this Calormene prince is an opponent worthy of respect. Therefore I suggest that as we seem to have reached an impasse, that our Gentle Queen Susan choose who shall claim the victory in this contest." My brother the High King nods and I know that all are astounded that one of our best warriors has been defeated by this foreign prince. No one will ever say so, but I glimpse the tension in my brothers' faces as they await my decision. As the eldest queen it is my duty to name the victor. Should I let Narnia claim the prize, or like Brynhildr dare I make a choice which would set me against my kingdom? For what seems like an eternity I restle with this question, when in truth I made my decision the moment our knight spoke. Rising from my throne, I speak the words which I know will forever mark me a stranger in the eyes of my subjects.

"I choose Prince Rabadash. He has demonstrated skill with the sword worthy of a master and has this day brought honor to his kingdom. Let him come forward to claim his victory."

Authoress's note: This story is written in response to a review from the talented Rthstewart for Chapter 22 of my fic Remember The Four. To understand Susan's thoughts here it would help to read that chapter alongside this tale. It offers a different interpretation of Rabadash for the reader to consider, and Rthstewart asked if Susan might have her own tale to tell. I wish I could make this story into a novel, but at the moment I don't see that happening. At most it will probably be three chapters covering Susan's reasons for her final decision as well as her visit to Calormene's capital.

I know that this is a different portrayal of Susan and would love to hear what you think of this opening chapter. Detailed reviews are welcome.

Thanks for reading.