by Sammie
DISCLAIMER: Not mine.
RATING: K+
Do not fear - this seemingly never-ending story does in fact have an end - tomorrow. Hang in there; we're almost to the end. (I mean, the eponymous character's already dead, so how much longer could it be? ;-) )
LORD TRUMPKIN
"Is the king here?"
Trumpkin looked up in surprise, then calmed as he noticed Drinian standing in the doorway. He had not heard the lord come in; unfortunately, the dwarf mused darkly, it seemed his hearing was not as good as it once was. "Yes. In the council room."
Drinian nodded and left without another word.
Trumpkin went back to his work, then frowned. He looked down the hall after the former Dawn Treader captain, who was walking ramrod straight, his head held high. There was something very wrong, it seemed, but the dwarf couldn't put his finger on what it was. After a moment, he shook it off. He was being ridiculous. He needed to work on this urgent report.
The prince had disappeared.
It was the most pressing matter of business, for the entire nation. The heir was gone - and to where, nobody knew. The mourning nation, just barely recovered from the queen's death, was now scrambling for any news of the prince. Trumpkin hoped, rather than believed, that the prince simply needed some time to himself to grieve, and had sought for some solitude.
Quite frankly, the king had not set the best example of mourning.
That said, the ever-loyal advisor was wont to excuse his king. The man had never been taught how to mourn: he lost his parents at such a young age, and the death of his uncle had saved his life. His queen, the woman he had cherished for thirty plus years, had been taken so suddenly he had not had the chance to say good-bye. He could hardly set an appropriate example of what to do. Unfortunately, the prince had looked to his father for guidance. And now the prince was gone.
Hence, Trumpkin's report. The dwarf was in charge of the search.
There were sightings in various reports and reports on all different tracking techniques - broken twigs here, a dash of royal purple cloth there. A possibility here, a guess there. There was so little on which to base any real search except what the household servants had seen: that the prince was seeking revenge for his mother's death near where she had died in the northern marches and used to return home looking tired, but that lately he would ride out and be gone a long time, but his horse was never tired, and he looked changed.
To be quiet honest, Trumpkin thought some of those descriptions were rubbish. He needed more concrete information than "the prince looked like he'd seen visions".
Suddenly, there came a half-wail, half-scream of agony from the council room, and Trumpkin jumped off his chair, cursing his old bones as he dashed down the long hall. He could see Voluns the faun, who had been working on the economic accounts, burst out of his office and follow him, the clip of his hooves a staccato on the stone floor.
The door to the council room was open but seemed very far away; the dwarf could see everything but seemed unable to reach the two men in time. Trumpkin watched in horror as the king raised a battle-axe and rushed headlong at his old friend. Drinian knelt on the floor, his head bowed, his hands behind his back, like a man at an execution. He did not move.
At the last moment, the battle-axe fell to the floor with a clatter, and a panting Trumpkin skidded to a stop behind the horrified Voluns. The king fell upon Drinian and embraced him. "'I have lost my queen and my son: shall I lose my friend also?'" As both men wept, Trumpkin bowed his head, and he and Voluns quietly moved away from the door.
The two hovered nearby in different rooms in the corridor for two hours, waiting for Drinian and the king to emerge. When they finally did, Caspian summoned Voluns for a meeting. The faun looked wary, and then confused, but obediently gathered his materials.
Drinian trudged down the hall from the council room, his eyes still red-rimmed; he seemed to sag a little. Trumpkin stopped him at the door to his office. "Drinian." The former ship captain looked at him. "Have something to eat."
The lord nodded, then came in. "And the king?"
"Voluns had sent for food to be delivered to the council room in half-an-hour if you two had not emerged." The dwarf climbed back into his seat, then waved to the open chair, next to which was a tray of food. "Have you heard from Darby?" Trumpkin asked conversationally.
For some reason, the mention of his own son, his youngest, seemed to make Drinian deflate. The lord pressed on stoically, however. "Darby is well. I heard from him last via a messenger from the Lone Islands, where the new duchess welcomed him - Bern's eldest daughter inherited the dukedom when he passed, having had no sons. From there, they are sailing on."
"Like father, like son." Trumpkin grinned.
"Yes." Drinian paused, picking at his food. After a moment, he looked up. "I understand you are researching the prince's disappearance."
"Yes."
"He would have gone after that woman."
Trumpkin instantly looked up, frowning. Most certainly nothing about a woman in the previous accounts. Drinian set his half-eaten slice of bread down. "I can provide you a description and a drawing."
Trumpkin handed him paper, and for the next hour, they worked in silence. The dwarf stole glances at the lord, who had been scribbling without stop. In the second half-hour, a drawing emerged, with all the appropriate colors labeled. Then Drinian set down the pen and thrust the papers at Trumpkin. "Any who attempt to find the prince should read this - or better, come to find me."
Trumpkin scanned the papers, then asked slowly, "Do you know the lady, Drinian?"
"No. And if I ever see her again, I will kill her myself." The captain got up and left, leaving a stunned royal advisor behind.
Trumpkin grinned as he saw the young man stride into the council room. Darby, like his older brothers, was even better looking than his father Drinian; the lords used to tease the former captain that he had chosen well in picking his beautiful, spirited wife. Drinian just made faces, but it was evident he was proud of his sons - especially this one, who had inherited his passion for the sea.
After being announced, the young naval commander came into the council room, executing a smart bow which his father repeated.
"Darby." The king smiled, coming down from his throne to greet both father and son. Even the dwarf could see, from his seat, that as delighted as the king was to see both men, the smile did not reach his eyes. "I enjoyed the account of the voyage you took past Coriakin's island. Did you chance to see the Dufflepuds?"
"Indeed, Your Majesty." The young man grinned. "They are as amusing to see in person as you and Father described."
"Ah. You will have to sit down and tell me more."
"In due time, Sire. I was wondering if I might make a request."
"Of course," the king replied generously.
"I wish to make another journey."
Trumpkin didn't speak, but he rather thought that the boy should at least spend some time at home with his poor parents, who hadn't seen him for nearly half a year.
Evidently the king felt the same way. "Your crew needs some time to rest, Darby. And I believe your parents would like some time to see you at home."
"I will not take a crew. And I fully intend to return."
"I have no doubt of that." The king chuckled. "Ah, youthful enthusiasm. Whence is it you wish to sail now?"
"Not sailing, sir." The young man drew himself to full height. "I wish to search for His Royal Highness, the Crown Prince Rilian."
Trumpkin sat up instantly, even as a long silence descended over the otherwise empty council room. The dwarf could almost swear that even his breathing was echoing around the chairs. Drinian did not lift his head to look at the king.
The king gave no response, so Darby pressed on with confidence. "Sire, I had the privilege of growing up with your son, of knowing him as a close playmate. We played together in the woods. I know your son in ways that you, as father, do not; I know your son in ways that my own father does not. I - "
"Drinian." The king addressed the father.
"Yes, Your Majesty."
"I cannot imagine you are pleased." Nor did the king sound pleased. "We have lost over thirty champions already."
Trumpkin fingered the armrest of his chair. Thirty-two, to be exact. The king had personally visited the family of each man who had gone to search for the prince and not returned. He knew well what number had been lost.
"My son and I are your honored servants, my lord," Drinian replied quietly. "We are dedicated to the service of the Lion and to yours and to Narnia's."
"I have never doubted it," came the king's voice, ever so soft. Trumpkin nodded confidently, and he watched the king's old friend raise his head ever so slightly, meeting the gaze of his monarch. Their friendship had never been stronger than now, since the prince's disappearance.
Darby drew himself up. "Sire, I ask only for a week in which I might prepare and properly scout the - "
"No."
Trumpkin was expecting this response. As much as it pained him, the king would not, in good conscience, send more to die on a fruitless search. The dwarf could see Drinian frown and Drinian's son stop short in shock. Neither man had expected this, but Trumpkin had. The king had made that decision with him last night, and then Trumpkin had sat quietly and loyally with him as the king wept for his lost child; their decision to call off the search was, in some ways, consigning the prince to the grave.
The king motioned to Trumpkin, and the dwarf slid off his chair and handed to Darby the scroll he had just written that morning.
"Read," the king instructed.
Darby gave his father a confused look, then unrolled the scroll and began to read. "A royal decree from Caspian, by the gift of Aslan, King of Narnia, Emperor of the Lone Islands, and Lord of Cair Paravel, and Knight of the Noble Order of the How. For to prevent the further effusion of blood, and for the avoidance of all other deaths likely to grow from the searches in the northern marches of Narnia, it is our solemn wish and decree that, henceforth, no more champions shall seek for the whereabouts of His Royal Highness, the Crown Prince Rilian, Duke of the Lantern Waste and Knight of the Noble Order of the How." Darby stopped halfway through. "Your Majesty, please - I - but - you cannot be serious!" he blurted.
Trumpkin kept quiet, as did Drinian - wisely. This was no longer a debate between a boy and the father of his childhood friend; it was now one between a subject and a king.
"Sire - " Darby protested.
"No." The king stood to his feet. "I should have stopped allowing any more seekers when the death count was at thirty; too many Narnians have given their lives to find my son. Yet I hoped, fruitlessly. Today I know my folly." He stepped down from his throne and crossed the floor to the younger man. "You are far better served here in my service than on some wild goose chase."
"But Sire - "
"No."
Trumpkin could see Drinian sag ever so slightly in relief. The dwarf had no doubt the father would willingly give his life for Rilian's recovery; weekly Drinian had sent a request to Trumpkin for an update on the searches. Drinian had also quietly supplemented the income of a family whose eldest son had been lost in the search for the prince. His full dedication was to his king, but no doubt the former captain would have gladly gone in his son's place to die if it had meant the return of both the prince and his son, alive.
The captain no doubt felt that he owed the king his son in exchange for the prince, even if both men knew that the king would never count losses in such a manner.
"Lord Trumpkin," the king boomed, and the dwarf started after him. The king continued to the door, then turned. "You have a duty to Narnia on the sea," he began in his regal, authoritative voice, addressing Drinian's son. "I will have need of that yet."
"The king took a fall today." Denabik climbed unceremoniously into his seat at the council table.
"How bad?" Voluns frowned.
"He slipped and was unable to get back up without help." The red dwarf looked around grimly at the other advisors.
Trumpkin sighed. The king had aged rapidly in the last eight years, losing much of his vigor and looks and energy. He had had the family he had lost so early in his childhood, only to have it ripped from him within a month. The king had not aged well in the wake of the queen's death and their son's disappearance. He still ruled as he always had, but he seemed sadder than ever.
"We called Cloudbirth," Denabik continued. "Severe bruising to the bone, but providentially, no broken bones or internal injury."
"It's been eight years," Dumnus said quietly, stroking his now graying sideburns.
"Going on nine," Denabik finished. "If we do not have a named heir, Narnia will plunge back into chaos." He paused. "There are women enough who are still willing to marry the king and give him an heir."
"The problem was never the women," Trumpkin huffed. "NEVER the women."
"His Majesty still mourns for the queen," Glenstorm replied solemnly.
"So does the rest of the country." Dumnus sighed. "They still mourn because he does."
"They still mourn," Drinian replied shortly, "because she was a woman worthy of being mourned."
"Nobody questions that, my lord," Denabik replied. "But I have no wish to plunge back into the strife between old and new Narnians. The king has had his hands full with us already. He is much older, and he must have time to train his successor, as he had been training the crown prince when His Royal Highness disappeared."
"The king would marry out of duty to Narnia," Dumnus mused. "He would do what is needed."
"The question is not whether the king will do his duty if we press," Trumpkin replied sharply. He was never going to ask the king to do what they wanted the king to do - not unless Aslan himself came and told the dwarf to say so to the king. "The question is whether we have even the right to ask this of him. Has he not given up enough for us? His queen is gone. His son is gone, and he refuses to send any one else after him."
The council fell silent, and then Drinian turned to Glenstorm. "Advise us," he said, but the words were more of a plea than a command.
All eyes turned to the centaur. There was the clip-clop of hooves on the stone floor as the centaur shifted on his feet. When he spoke again, it was not direct.
"There was once a great leader," the centaur intoned, "who was childless. His own mother had been childless for a very long time; now his wife was barren. Instead of attempting a human solution, he pleaded with Aslan."
Trumpkin could feel the centaur's eyes fall on each advisor at the table. There was no more talk of the matter.
The dwarf stood in the large mausoleum, looking at the spot where the queen had been buried some nine years ago. He thought back to when he had first seen her, bareheaded and beautiful, coming down the gangplank on the king's arm. He thought back to when he had last seen her, still beautiful, even in death, and the wretched looks on the faces of her husband and of her son.
There was a sigh, and next to him Trumpkin noticed Drinian. The two men had become closer than ever during the last nine years since the king had lost his family.
"I wonder about Ramandu." The sea captain was looking up into the night sky. "When we met the queen and her father, he was a star at rest, waiting to go back into the sky. Is he up there now? Does he see his daughter's grave?" He paused. "Did he regret giving the king permission to marry his daughter?"
"Would you?" Trumpkin asked.
There was a long silence, and then the other man said slowly, "No." Drinian shook his head but didn't look at his companion. "No, I would wish my own daughter to have had the life the queen had, even cut short. I have never seen a pair so honoring of Aslan by their lives, and I would want my daughter's husband to be as devoted to her as the king was to the queen. He adored her. He does still."
"As, I have no doubt, she does him." Trumpkin tilted his head toward the darkening sky as the stars came out.
Drinian stopped, shrugging, still looking at the stars, which were coming out. "But - " he shrugged helplessly. "I don't know. As a father, to see one's child suffer..." he trailed off.
"What I want to know is if the queen's father knows where his grandson's gave is," Trumpkin said stoutly, staring up into the starry sky, "and if he saw how the prince ended. Or, if he knows his grandson's alive, and where he is. That would be infinitely helpful."
Drinian smiled at that, chuckling a little. "Oh, certainly."
The two men stood in silence, and then the captain murmured, "Not one of us on the Dawn Treader would have foreseen this end for them."
Both stared silently at the etching of the queen's name, and her dedication: "Dearly cherished wife and mother", and then two lines the king had personally asked to be put on: "...the stars threw down their spears / and watered heaven with their tears." *
"Glenstorm has gone to see the king."
Trumpkin frowned. "That is not odd."
"He said he believes there is something foretold in the stars." Drinian crossed his arms, looking up with great seriousness. "I don't know how he does it. I've only ever used the stars for navigation."
"And I've only ever used them to light my way at night," Trumpkin replied. "But what did Glenstorm say?"
"Something about a great conflict in message: both portending disastrous implications and, oddly, seeming to assemble in honor of Aslan, of potentially his coming. He isn't sure which one is right."
"Couldn't it be both?" Trumpkin asked, drawing on his knowledge of the old stories, the ones he had discounted before but had firmly believed for decades now. "Aslan always seems to come when things are at its worst in Narnia."
Drinian smiled.
Trumpkin sat near the ship, right at the pier, and watched the happenings on the docked ship.
"The king's cabin," directed the first mate. The movers shifted the equipment past the ornate doors into the room, taking care not to scratch the wood.
There had been sightings of Aslan in Terebinthia. The king was sailing there to ask who should rule Narnia after him.
Trumpkin felt somewhat useless. Old age had made him less able physically and much rounder. His good friend Drinian had passed on to Aslan's country a few months ago, and this hustle and bustle was now for Drinian's youngest son, Darby, who would captain this ship and lead the voyage.
Trumpkin hoped that Darby could hold the line against the king as well as his father had. Should the king not find Aslan in Terebinthia, everybody feared that he'd keep sailing - to the Seven Isles, to the Lone Islands, and keep going; after all, his greatest happiness had been found in that voyage to the end of the world. Drinian had never spoken of it openly, but certain comments had made Trumpkin rather suspect that something quite nearly disastrous had happened at the end of the world during the Dawn Treader's voyage, and they had barely prevented the king from making a terrible mistake - or, he had been prevented from the mistake (if Sir Rhince was to be believed) by a combination of the Queen Lucy's powers of persuasion and his own desire to see the star's daughter again.
Trumpkin could hear the first mate shouting from the poop deck. This ship was grander, larger, more beautiful - more like the beautiful ships of the Golden Age, akin to the Splendour Hyaline. Yet he himself had no doubt that the king would not but miss his own, smaller, Dawn Treader. Even Trumpkin himself missed the ship - like the others, he had invested his time and his energy into getting Narnia back out onto the water, and even if he had not sailed, he took his own pride in seeing that ship go and return.
"The king!" hissed one of the sailors, and as if on cue, the trumpets sounded. The gangplank came down, and Trumpkin watched as his old friend and king came towards the dock, leaning heavily on the younger Darby. He winced; in ten years Caspian had aged far more than he had in the years preceding.
The king spoke to his people, his voice old and cracked. The aged crew of the Dawn Treader looked wistfully at the large ship and at the king, and then cheered the loudest of all the people gathered when the king finished speaking.
The king now turned to the ship, the sailors gathered at the foot of the gangplank. "Well." The king smiled as the sailors around him doffed their caps and bowed. "I'm afraid I've been so far from sea for so long I may be a landlubber." He straightened, and Trumpkin smiled to see the king look reinvigorated by the sea air and the entire prospect of the voyage. He had always been so fond of the sea. "The quest we now take is no less important than the one I took so many, many years ago. I entrust myself to you, gentlemen."
"Your Majesty," the men murmured.
The king turned to Trumpkin, bussing him on both cheeks and bidding him a fond farewell. Trumpkin sat up in his chair, his face as stolid and curmudgeonly as it always was, an expression of fierce loyalty on his features. "A safe voyage, Your Majesty."
"My dear Trumpkin." The king smiled, then turned towards the gangplank, navigating it ever so slowly, leaning heavily on one of the sailors.
Behind him, the other sailors climbed aboard.
Darby watched the king go up, and suddenly the young man seemed nervous and upset. He turned around to the lord regent, looking less like a sea captain and more like the little boy who used to run around the castle with the prince, frog in hand. "Will we actually find him?" Darby swallowed. "It seems to me a rather hopeless chase, just to try to find Aslan based on a sighting. He could be anywhere!"
"His Majesty wants to do what is best for Narnia," Trumpkin replied, echoing a lesson he had learned from Drinian so long ago. "Aslan would not hide himself from one who only seeks to honor him."
He took a deep breath. "Even more so - when we see Aslan," the dwarf continued, "we must follow." He thought back many, many years to the young queen regnant. He had often thought of the Queen Lucy in the years afterwards, hoping to have the same faith she had had. "We follow the Lion, even if it means leaving all others behind and going on alone."
Darby swallowed, then nodded. He bowed to Trumpkin, gripping his hand tightly. "Thank you, Lord Trumpkin."
Trumpkin sniffled, then shooed him away. "Be off, now, you. You don't want to make the king wait." Darby bowed again, gripping the dwarf's right hand in his own in a farewell handshake, and Trumpkin felt a wave of deja vu; had he not done the same with the father ages ago?
The moment was gone when Darby let go and turned, and then bounded up the gangplank. The dwarf watched until the ship had sailed out of sight.
* (William Blake, "Songs of Experience," "Tyger")