Part 7

A/N: This story is not abandoned! I repeat it is not abandoned! College is just hard...

Lucy's POV

Peter found Susan. I knew he would! He brought her back before the day had ended. She must have fallen hard from her horse, for she had many bruises. The Moon brought Susan her baby! It is a boy, they say- "Prince Colt". He isn't very big.

I think Susan is constipated. That is what it sounds like. The hag woman took her to a part of the castle I am not allowed in, and the noises Susan made sounded like she was badly constipated. I am sorry she is sick. When I was younger, I remember being constipated for three days. Going a-bowel was horribly uncomfortable.

Peter is great at being father to Prince Colt. He changes him and plays with him and burps him and talks with him and even tries to sing to him- he isn't very good at that. He says he wishes he could do more. What more could he do? It isn't like he could feed Colt! The Moon gives that duty especially to the baby's new mummy, at least that is what the satyrs say. That is why women who are matured to have children are given breasts.

Susan is very tired; I guess that being lost can do that. I would be worried if I were lost. All she wants to do right now is sleep and feed the baby, but I think that is more because she must do that; she'd probably just sleep if she could. Everyone tells me I have to be super quiet around her rooms so I don't wake her or the baby. But- if I can say such secrets to you- I don't listen to them. Sometimes, when young Colt is whimpering, I sneak in and sing to him. I am a much better singer than Peter.

It's kind of boring having a new baby in the castle. Sometimes people who help us here bring their children, but they can move about and laugh; I like to take them up and tell them stories. All my new nephew wants to do right now is eat and sleep. Sometimes he gurgles and makes noises, but then he has probably dirtied his clout.

Only yesterday Peter swore me to secrecy and asked my opinion on a gift for Susan and Colt- for the proclamation ceremony. It was made to offset the beautiful purple gown she had made a couple months ago- a beautiful embroidered cloth made of a rich cream fabric for holding the prince.

He said it's for "Discretion's sake." Who is that anyway?

Edmund's POV

I am still cross about this child and how it came to be: don't let my quietness fool you, but it is much easier being angry when there isn't an innocent face staring back at you. It isn't like I don't know that this child is a bastard. But he was claimed, and that by a king. Could I really keep myself angry at a child for its parent's misdoings? After all, were there not dukes and kings- even of England- who were borne of bastardy? Some would even put Christ in such a category. Yes, I remembered England. How could I forget my own childhood?

Peter had come to me shortly after returning home. While Susan was delivering the afterbirth, my brother bashed in my door- or at least he would have, had I not been opening the thing. He was in tears. He sobbed into my shoulder, crying for the loss of a child, for the inability to retake him, for Susan, for fear. And I held him- honestly, what else could I do? - patting his back until he was quieted. "Peter, this is what you must do," I demand, "Forget the child. Don't look at me like that- I know. In public, you must forget the child. Pretend he never was. Colt is your pride and joy. But when the doors are closed, the public gone, deal with your grief before it consumes you."

I had never seen my brother so solemn. He went through the motions of kingship- held court, led drills, made decisions of all sorts- but you could see behind his eyes: he wasn't in any of it. The only times when Peter came to life were when he held Colt. The boy firmly grasped his father's soul in his little hands. Susan was joyous for the baby. You could almost say she had forgotten the other, but he was there in her eyes, in the way her mouth turned down slightly at the corners when she relaxed, in the tears brushed away, hardly seen. But we survived.

We didn't tell Lucy about the other babe. She was too passionate to deal with such loss. We didn't tell the public either. They were in such joy about the ceremony. There was no need to introduce such grief into such jubilation.

At the end of the month came the celebration. It was almost humorous to see the thinly veiled emotional rifts that separated the few of us from the rest. Mr. and Mrs. Beaver knew. Susan had confided in Mrs. Beaver, who of course told Mr. Beaver, but they were good at keeping secrets to themselves. There was a beautiful banquet served from platters in the Throne Room. Royals from the world over came. Places we had never heard of showed up, no doubt, to gawk at my nephew and siblings, many of the men to gawk solely at my sisters, trying their damnest to catch sight of my sisters breasts when she fed the babe. It made my blood boil. But, none the less, they greeted the High King and Queen with respect, congratulating them on the birth. And I guess I could respect that.

Colt's portrait hung over the ceremony, a bigger than life canvas capturing every feature of the babe. He, of course, had our blue eyes. So far he had Susan's and my pale complexion, but I do believe that as he gets more sun he will weather more towards Peters golden tan. His head was covered in a beautiful flaxen mop- right from birth he had a head of hair- that glints gold in the sun, especially when he turns his head.

Time passed in a blur as the lad grew. Sitting, crawling, walking, and running, he hit all milestones full tilt. Much to Susan's distress, Colt started lessons to fence and parry before he was able to control his own movements. His hair still shone in the sun, his eyes glinting in the light. Much as I tried in the beginning, how could I shun this little ball of light? I loved my nephew. He was family.

At the age of three, I taught Colt how to ride- a Narnian dwarf-pony eagerly stepped forward to become the young prince's steed. He loved stories about the odd things in the land of England I told him before bed. He was the nation's pride and joy, protected and loved at all costs. Colt was sharp and easily picked up on many of the things in Royal life (though his table manners left something to be desired).

He was taught battle strategy, reading, writing, Calormenian, diplomacy, and arithmetic as his schooling. Colt loved to visit the Narnians- and rightly so, for they adored him. He loved to joke with the centaurs and dance with the satyrs. He swam with the nymphs and apprenticed himself to a dwarf at the age of seven (much to his mother's dismay). Colt was a natural swords maker who took pleasure in the work he was given.

Three years later Queen Susan finally (after many stalls and refusals) decided to concede and visit Calormenia to, prayerfully, reject Prince Rabadash's proposal. The barbarian has always been despicable towards Susan, even going so far so as to in his last letter insinuate that my sister is nothing but the whore who will bear heirs for Calormenia- "As you have already done for Narnia,"! He sickens me, and I am glad that Prince Colt is in the Northern Wilderness with Peter- I loathe to see how they will react to this ass's irreconcilable demands.