This time I'm late because exams and essays; and I fell ill.
Thank you all, again, for the reviews, favourites and follows!
Nobody: Good point about the characters' speech; I do forget myself at times and sometimes the fact that English is not my first language may throw me. Although, in this case, if it's only the Pevensies and Methos, it's mostly intentional. (I should check, but I don't feel like doing it now, in a hot library with full nose and head.) Remember (aside from the point about the Pevensies you made yourself), they're all speaking English, which is a language the modern variety of Methos has been speaking for a considerable time now. He would not be thrown back to Middle Ages linguistically, because the variety of English spoken then was in some ways a different language, and it does not seem to be the variety widely spoken in Narnia, for all its occasional archaic characteristics (if it were, the readers would not understand – compare with e.g. Canterbury Tales!). Moreover, before Methos entered Narnia, he had spent what was probably months (considering he made it as far as to be knighted) in a society with the same sort of modern-to-old-timey schizophrenia going on... He's certainly slipping more often than he would care to admit, as you'll hopefully see in this chapter. :-)
Chapter 7
In which our hero learns more about Narnia
The history of Narnia Thunderbolt got for him was a relatively small printed volume. So they knew the printing press around here; yet they still required scribes. That was not so very surprising, though: printing press was quite an old invention (depending on where you looked, of course); typewriters were a much more modern one. The book was illustrated with what were probably woodcuts, hand-tinted. Aside from offering an insight into printing techniques in Narnia, the text itself was also very information-filled. It was apparently meant for children and thus written relatively concisely and to the point, although it still seemed to count on a reader who already knew some things. Methos was still not sure what to make of much of the information, but there were things he was truly intrigued about, and things that explained some strange features of the Narnian world to him.
Aslan really seemed to be some sort of deity, a creator figure (but one that still intervened in events: Narnia was not deistic; it made him vaguely uneasy). The book started with an account of the creation of Narnia (and its world), which seemed strangely reminiscent of Milton's account in Paradise Lost, or some myths Methos recalled: apparently, the creatures of Narnia had been born of the earth. Or brought forth from the earth; the book was not quite clear on that particular point. It was quite clear on the point that a few days or weeks after the creation of Narnia, the land had been very fertile and whatever you had planted into it would grow fully in a few hours, and that was where the toffee tree came from, "as Fledge recollected."
Methos did not know who Fledge had been and the idea of growing a toffee tree seemed utterly ridiculous yet fairly intriguing to him. There were possibilities there; although the time for them was conveniently gone, as matters often stood with myths. But where on earth had the toffee come from?!
He got his answer when he turned the page, and what an answer it was.
As everyone in Narnia should know, Narnia is the land of the Talking Beasts and beings of nature, yet it is also a country ruled by sons of Adam and daughters of Eve; that is as Aslan has decreed it in the very beginning. The Lion's exact reasons for this are as mysterious as His reasons for the creation itself; but the universally agreed view is that thus all creatures of Narnia are equal and none can consider their own kind more worthy than the others. For who could claim himself above his fellow in creation?
The lot of sons of Adam and daughters of Eve is surely to be respected, but not to be envied. For they have been taken from their own world, called by Aslan Himself; the first pair of Narnia's rulers: King Frank and Queen Helen, the father and mother of many generations of sons of Adam and daughters of Eve in our world. So bear in mind, even though they are destined to rule, they are also destined to serve, and every lord or lady worthy of that name remembers that.
So that was it. Adam was Adam, Eve was Eve, here as there – the first man and the first woman, the one and only. Humans came from his world. His reality?
King Frank and Queen Helen, history tells us, were not the only son of Adam and daughter of Eve present at the creation of Narnia. There were also the Lord Diggory and the Lady Polly, friends of Fledge the Winged, father of all winged horses.
If Methos had doubted the truthfulness of the account (and he had had his doubts), he did not any longer. There was no way someone would make up those two names as part of a creation myth. This was too ridiculous not to be real. He did not know how come it was real, but his own experience gave him an idea.
But with them, an ancient evil came into Narnia as well, the witch Jadis of the north. Jadis is said to have hated Aslan from the first. She ate an Apple of Life in order to gain never-ending life and wage a war against Narnia and its King. But it came with a price: she could never come close to a tree of Life again; and so Lord Diggory, on Aslan's command, planted another Apple, which grew into the Tree of Protection in the Lantern Waste.
Never-ending life, Methos thought bitterly. Yet she was gone now, was she not? Someone must have taken her head. Wait a minute, so was this an origin story for Immortals? Were there Immortals in this world? He fervently hoped not. Had Jadis come from his world? The account suggested it, yet Thunderbolt had said she had not been human. Had she been an Immortal to begin with, after all? He now truly, fully realised, feeling his heart sink, that if his Immortality was revealed, he would probably be considered someone akin to the hated Witch. Oh well. Nothing new under the sun. Or suns, for that matter.
The text went on and on; it gave him an explanation of the strange occurrence of a streetlamp in the woods as well – that, too, dated back to the days of fertility of old. It did not explain how come cast iron could grow; it was simply the magic of Narnia, the power of the Lion. He did not understand how iron could grow, himself, but if the streetlamp – Lantern, as they called it here – was in some inexplicable way at least part organic, it kind of explained why it had not rusted over the thousand or so years since the creation of Narnia. There was a remark in handwriting (probably Thunderbolt's) explaining that fact somewhere in the book – that the Witch had been defeated in the year 1000. Very handy for historians, was it not?
If the local historians had their facts straight, Narnia's was a young world. It was a strange feeling, knowing he was older than the world he found himself in. It was even younger than Amanda. Only Mac's lifetime would fit into this world's history, and Joe's, of course.
The memory sent shivers down his spine; he had been gone for over four days now. Mac must be out of his mind with worry by now. And Joe would do the best he could to calm him down, while silently worrying himself out of his mind as well. And Mag. Gods, what must Mag be thinking? All the re-enactors, in trouble because one of them had mysteriously disappeared. A thousand years of history was nothing compared to four days filled with such agony. And unless something magical happened again...
No use in dwelling on that. He missed them, simple as that, and he regretted their pain; but he was quite sure it was not his fault (something Duncan would no doubt have more trouble accepting if it happened to him). He could only do as much, and right now, the only thing he could do was to find his footing in this world, and then, perhaps, find out what exactly had happened to him, why and how, and how to get back if at all possible. But that was simply not something he could do immediately; it required time. He'd apologise to them if he got back. If he did not... If he did not, he'd remember them for the rest of his life, however long it would be.
Methos had read long into the night – burning a large portion of the candle in his room – so when he was woken the next morning by a young faun servant who brought him fresh water for washing, he felt rather worse for wear. Immortals still needed their sleep. He had to quickly remind himself to "put his young face on." Both Duncan and Amanda had told him that his age showed the most when he was woken from sleep prematurely. It made sense to him. Those were the moments when he felt it the most – certainly not the same way mortals did, but still. Jumbled thoughts often threw him way back.
"Good morning, sir," the faun said. "Here's some water for you –," – putting down the jug – "– and Master Thunderbolt says you should come to his office for breakfast and instruction."
"So I will," Methos said, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes and suppressing the urge to say "Okay." Modern age must have rubbed off on him more than he had thought. "Where exactly is Master Thunderbolt's office, may I ask?" And suppressing the urge to say "Why do I have to be woken at this ungodly hour?" No wonder he felt so sleepy: it was barely daylight outside. No more late night reading sessions for him, it seemed, unless he wanted to put up with this awful morning feeling all the time. He did not particularly want to; but he realised that if he wanted to learn more about this world and not to look too out of place here, he would probably have to read up on it very, very quickly. And cut on his sleep considerably for a while. He hoped they had coffee in Narnia.
"Oh, it is down at the back door," the faun said. "Down the corridor, down the stairs to the ground floor and straight forward; you cannot miss it."
At the back door. Rather a strange location for the office of someone as important as Thunderbolt apparently was; but then, he was a centaur, and probably wanted an easy access in and out the castle, which made a more "central" location less desirable for him.
Methos thanked the faun, trying to gently suggest he should leave; but the boy – he truly was only a boy – lingered.
"Is it true that you killed most of the werewolves?" he asked finally. "Cutting off their heads?"
"Yes?" Methos replied, uncertain where the question was leading.
"Is that the way to kill werewolves?" the boy said. "Is it true that they will heal from any other wound?"
"I don't know," Methos said. "I can only say, in my own experience, cutting off somebody's head is usually a sure way to kill them. Now, why are you asking? And what is your name, for that matter?"
Here it was again. Creatures that heal from just about anything equalling creatures of darkness, creatures to fear. And if he was frank with himself, he could not blame people for thinking so. Someone with his past had no right to claim there was no ground to that fear.
"Arminius," the faun said. "My name is Arminius. And I ask... well, my father was killed by a werewolf. I was wondering..."
"If it could have been prevented from happening?" Methos asked, more softly than he had felt originally.
"Well, yes, I suppose," Arminius said. "Perhaps, if knowing more about werewolves would help."
Methos smiled sadly.
"You cannot change the past," he said. "But you can still do something about the present and the future." He finally remembered to use the water Arminius had brought him and started washing his face.
Arminius accepted his explanation with surprising ease.
"You are right, I guess," he said slowly. "I could not have done anything. I did not have a sword, and even if I had, I would not know what to do with it."
"Now that can be helped, I'm sure," Methos spluttered. "I mean, for the future."
Arminius beamed at him.
"Would you teach me how to use a sword?"
Methos considered it. It was not what he had intended – taking on a student, and such a foreign one at that – but this was a different world...
"If Master Thunderbolt leaves me any free time that I do not spend reading, it's a definite maybe," he said in the end. Arminius laughed.
"Right," he said. "I could not expect more. I have other duties myself. Thank you anyway, sir."
"Oh, call me Peridan," Methos said. He could not afford to be called "sir" as if he were anything more than Arminius – he was just as much of a servant as him, and putting on airs would not help him fit in in any way.
"I will... Peridan."
And with that, Arminius left.
Methos cursed himself inwardly; he had as good as promised him to teach him, and he knew nothing about him. This world kept throwing charity cases at him. Soon, he'd be like the Highlander. Picking up strays. But then, these people had taken him in, knowing practically nothing about him. And they had truly nasty enemies in this world, while he was new to it and probably starting completely afresh. Maybe he should let down his paranoia a bit for their sake.
He washed as much of himself as he dared to in a rush, threw on his new clothes and old boots, slung his sword back into its sheath on his belt and ran off to find Thunderbolt's office.
Thunderbolt was waiting in his office with breakfast for two on the small side table, one of the few surfaces free of documents, papers and parchments. He was wondering when, or whether, the new boy – man, always a man –, Peridan, would come. It was very early in the morning; Thunderbolt was used to waking early, but he did not know whether Peridan was. He suspected not, and wanted to see what would come of it. There was no use in employing the man if he could not perform under stress.
What came was a freshly washed, relatively cleanly dressed young knight, a bit short for breath. He stopped in the door, bowed slightly and said:
"Good morning, Master Thunderbolt. I am sorry if I am late. I had a conversation with Arminius and that's kept me."
So far, so good.
"Good morning, Peridan. Come in. You are not late. Just in time for breakfast."
Peridan walked to him. Thunderbolt motioned him to his stool and Peridan sat down, eyeing the food on the small table in front of them rather hungrily. Thunderbolt wondered what this young nobleman – for nobleman he was, though an indigent one – made of his sparse diet. But Peridan did not say anything, nor did he start eating. He waited.
Just right, too, because Thunderbolt always said his prayer of thanks to Aslan before he started eating. This time, he also added a plea for peace in Narnia; it was clearly not here yet.
"Amen," Peridan murmured when Thunderbolt finished.
"What did you say?" Thunderbolt asked in surprise.
Peridan looked very taken aback.
"Oh, just... seemed proper," he said, stumbling over his own words.
"In what way?" Thunderbolt asked. "Do you know what does it mean?"
"Something like... 'it is so'. Or 'so be it'," Peridan said.
"I see. Where did you learn this?"
That was the question. Thunderbolt knew the word; some old ones – old centaurs, and old Beasts with good memories, like Badgers – used it as a way to end their prayers. Some centaurs claimed it was a secret name of Aslan, while Badgers unanimously maintained it to simply be a way to end prayers, and to have come from King Frank and Queen Helen's world. In Thunderbolt's own experience so far, the Badgers tended to be right about these things; his own kind sometimes gave too much weight to rather tangentary matters. In this particular case, Badgers, again, seemed to be correct, because it was the way the four monarchs ended their prayers as well, and said it was the way to end prayers. But whatever the word was, no one knew what it really meant.
"I... don't remember. Someone told me," Peridan said uncertainly. "Is it important?"
"Very important," Thunderbolt said firmly. "To me, to every scholar, to anyone who truly cares."
He proceeded to give Peridan a lecture of the word's history, because the young man obviously lacked Narnian education which he would sorely need, and the lecture developed into one on Narnian history, particularly Aslan's manifestations in the same. Peridan listened eagerly and asked poignant questions, and the breakfast went on in a highly satisfying scholarly manner; before Thunderbolt remembered he had wanted to see what Peridan made of it, the food was all gone.
That had been a close call. Methos cursed himself inwardly, again, this time for not having owned up to his origins in the other world; now he really just could not back off anymore and had to keep up the pretence. It was difficult when his subconscious habits picked up who knows when kept throwing such surprises in his way. Fortunately, Thunderbolt seemed happy enough to provide him with a lecture instead of expecting an explanation from him; keeping up the pretence of a young man eager to learn (and just a smidge bored by the end of it, as was to be expected) was quite easy, because it was one he had gone through before. It was a good deal like a Sunday school, or at least what he imagined Sunday school was probably like. It also turned out to be a highly entertaining and captivating storytelling (even if Thunderbolt's tendency to formulate his sentences conscientiously made it a bit dry at times); by the end of it Methos realised that much of his attention had not been feigned at all. He was still rather scared by the prospect of a deity figure that could show up any time and give him a piece of its mind (the fact that Aslan had apparently killed the immortal Witch did not help). But he could not stop himself from liking the stories.
Sooo... You hopefully see now that I operate under the impression that much of Methos' survival skills have to do with sheer luck. Which he then shapes further to his benefit.
