On their wedding night, she slapped him. He had merely made a comment, when she was undressing, that she had nice legs—the next thing he knew, he was rubbing his cheek and she was glaring fiercely, her nightdress firmly beneath her knees.
"What did I do?" he said, slightly hurt.
"Did you have to?"
"Have to what?"
"Make obscene comments?"
"What obscene comments?"
"I won't repeat it." She sniffed, crossing her arms and sitting on the armchair across from their bed.
"Aravis." He said irritably, "How am I supposed to know what it is I've said that's bothering you if you won't even tell me?"
"You said…" she turned beet red, "My legs…"
"What about your legs?"
"You said…" she couldn't even look at him anymore.
He realized suddenly what she was talking about, crossed the distance between them, and picked her up off the armchair.
She squeaked and beat his shoulder half-heartedly. He laughed a little, "By Aslan… you're funny." He dumped her on the bed—she scrambled up again and angrily stomped towards the armchair, but he caught her by the waist before she could sit down.
"What are you laughing about?" She snapped, "Is this why you married me? For my legs?"
He was chuckling, because her indignation was too funny to pass up. "Absolutely. Your finest feature, my love."
"I hate you."
"You only married me this morning!"
"And here I am chained to you for the rest of my life—"
"Goodness, I don't even know what we're arguing about anymore." He sighed, smiling slightly. She couldn't put him in a bad mood—not tonight.
She giggled, "I don't either. Have I already slapped you? We've hardly been married three hours…"
He kissed her cheek and twirled her a little, and she laughed.
*
The first time he went off to war was nearly a year after they were married. It took a couple of hours to explain to her why she couldn't come—she was too frail, she was pregnant, she was—
"I don't care. I'm coming."
"Aravis, you can't. Look at you—you've got a cold, you're with child, you're far too temperamental right now—"
"That has nothing to do with it! What if you… What…"
"Don't. Don't do that to yourself—I'm coming back safe and sound, and you're going to wait for me—"
"Why? Why do I have to wait, when I would be so much more useful—"
"Because you—"
"Am I a fool? Is that why you won't let me?"
"Of course not—"
"Then why not?!"
"Because I love you, idiot!" he snapped, "Because if any of those men touch you, or if you get hurt, I'll die."
"That's a silly reason. I have nothing to do with whether you live or die, I never have, and—" The look he was giving her, one of desperation, of pleading, of undying devotion, most have touched her in some way. She was quiet for a moment, then, "You swear you'll come back alive?"
He smiled sadly. "I can't do that. But I'll try." He could see the tears gathering in her eyes, and knew it would be best to go now before he was rooted to the spot, unable to let go of her. He embraced her one more time, kissed her, and walked out the door.
"Don't forget to change your socks! And stay away from venison!" She shouted after him.
*
The first time Ram was in Calormene, he upset a street vendor. The prince, who was barely two at the time, knocked over a watermelon and broke it, then happily stomped in the mess. Cor—who was with him alone because his wife had been ill that morning—happily paid the vendor for the fruit and let his son play without qualm. The vendor eyed them both suspiciously, but then eventually let them be when he realized they were doing nothing to affect his trade.
Cor watched him carefully. Aravis would kill him for letting Ram make such a mess, but the boy was so happy that his father didn't care.
Until the child slipped in the mess he made, slid into the wheel of the cart, and knocked the entire thing over—including the vendor. Ram promptly started crying, the man screaming, and a few women near by squabbling.
"Calm down, my friend, I beg you." Cor said mildly, picking his son up over his shoulder.
"Calm down? You have just destroyed my month's earnings! My children will starve! My wife is already ill! And all because of that uncivilized child of yours!"
"I will pay you for it, man, if only you will calm yourself."
"You had better! I cannot stand for this! A northerner cannot march into my country and destroy my goods—"
"I did not ask for your discrimination—"
"My god, Rashid, what is it now?" And old man, wrinkled and hunched, wobbled over to their mess. Ram instantly stopped crying in favor of staring at the man.
Cor thought he looked familiar—something in the stoop, the furrow of the brows, reminded him of someone.
"I will not stand for this, Asheesh—he has destroyed my life's work!"
"Oh, shut your mouth. Come here, boy, let me look at you."
He was speechless. What had become of his adopted father? He had not been so old ten years ago. Then again, he'd been blinded by his own youth.
"You've grown quite a bit! Still pale as a rat, though, I see, and still a fool."
"It's… It's good to see you again, Asheesh."
"You were always a horrible liar. But by the looks of that lad, you did not wed a northern woman." He nodded weakly towards Ram, whose eyes were wide in interest. Cor could see how Asheesh could tell—his son was of slightly darker complexion than he was, with Aravis's brown eyes to his blue.
"No, sir."
"Southern women are more demure, anyways."
Cor snorted internally at that—even after three years of marriage, she was anything but demure.
"You look like the devil, boy." Asheesh said to Ram critically. "You're certainly the spawn of one."
*
When they returned to the palace that acted as an embassy, Aravis, who was considerably healthier than she'd been that morning, took her son out of his hands and exclaimed over the state of his clothes.
"You might have brought spares, you know." She said irritably, changing her child.
"I'm sorry." He said sheepishly. He was quiet till the last clean button had been done, then he told her their story—how they had run into Asheesh, how he had ended up both paying the vendor and his foster father a hefty sum, and how the rest of the hour had been spent walking back.
She looked at him oddly, then touched his cheek. "You've done your duty, Shasta—to me, to Ram, to Asheesh—now live."