Chapter Title: Introducing Tensions

Author: Sam

Story: A Narnian Prophecy: 03 of ?

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"I don't trust them," Susan stood next to one of the tall, narrow stained glass windows that adorned the long walls of the Receiving Room. Large intricately carved wooden doors, closed but not barred, entirely took up the south wall. A smaller, six-foot door stood open in the centre of the massive right-hand one. Tapestries lined the north wall and a long table bearing an elaborately embroidered table runner with a hunting scene scrolling the entire length stood just below the myriad woven patterns. Many chairs and smaller tables flanked the windowed walls, sparkling with prisms of early morning sunshine radiating through multi-colored glass renditions of great historical moments. Few windows bore the pleasant yet bland pastoral scenes which must have once graced all of the windows. The one Susan stood by had recently been a duck pond near a small meadow. Now it bore a scene of Edmund smashing the wand of the White Witch with a gradient yellow backlash to signify the magical explosion which had triggered; Edmund avoided looking at that window whenever possible.

Peter sighed and turned from his absent perusal of a window depicting a dark blue night scene in which a large white hare triumphed over a series of invaders. The king seemed unaware that his dark blue outfit nearly matched the rendition of the Narnian hero Moonwood the Hare. He looked at the elder of his two sisters, younger than him by only a year. "We've only just met them, Susan. How can you like or not like them?"

Shaking her head, long dark hair rippling smoothly over her back and hips, sunlight playing over the rich emerald gown she wore, Susan turned fully to her older brother. "I didn't say like, Peter. I don't trust them. The man stares at the Narnians as if he were staring at caged circus animals. He seems awed and curious and afraid and covetous all at once." She thrust her hands on her hips and shook her long mane of mahogany hair again. "I felt as if . . ." Susan fell silent, not because of a loss of words but for a loss of how to use those words to express her feelings. Words came easily to Susan, expressing emotions did not.

"As if they are looking at some fascinating new toy they can't wait to unwrap at Christmastime?" Edmund supplied, watching his older sister carefully. He leaned against the massive left-hand door, his russet tunic and dark brown trousers blending neatly with the scrolled woodwork. His short trimmed black hair and suntanned skin marked him different than his siblings, who were paler than he despite their outdoor activities. Somehow, Edmund had always seemed just a bit out of place next to his handsome blond brother and pretty brown-haired sisters. If he hadn't looked so much like Father, he might have wondered at his own parentage.

With Edmund's comment understanding spread over Susan's beautiful features, she was turning into a really very stunning young woman, and she nodded. "Yes, Edmund, that's exactly how the man looks: like a child at Christmastime."

"Did you see his look when Oreius told him Peter is the High King? He looked like he would fall over." Lucy giggled, bringing a hand to her face, long turquoise sleeve sliding down to expose her arm; the other arm she kept wrapped around the old, damaged leather-bound book of legends Tumnus had leant her. "I think he didn't expect the High King to be quite so young."

Peter looked from sibling to sibling, giving a faint smile to Lucy in acknowledgement of her amusement but turning his full attention on the other two. "I agree," he said, eliciting a surprised look from Susan and a nod of approval from Edmund. "The women were looking over everything like someone at market looking for flaws to haggle a price down." The things they spoke of, circuses and haggling at market, seemed so foreign to their new lives, as if part of a fading dream. "And he told me to inform the High King he was here, but he never said who he was and why we should want him here." The eldest Pevensie sibling brought one hand to his chin and stroked the smooth skin absently as he thought. The habit Peter had unconsciously picked up from Tumnus, who often stroked his little goat-beard when he thought, just before he held his horned head in his hands and paced around on his cloven hooves and cried "ohh ohh ohh!"

Lucy walked quickly to Peter and placed a lightly tanned hand on his dark blue sleeve, smiling up at him with a spark of something . . . mischief? . . . in her eyes. "Maybe they aren't used to talking beasts, Peter."

All three older children looked down at the youngest, varying degrees of surprise registering on their faces.

Letting out a laugh, Peter hugged his sister to him, still careful of the delicate book she'd carried throughout the entire morning. "I think you may be right, Lucy. It wasn't so long ago that we were stunned by talking beasts ourselves." He sent a smile of reassurance to Susan, who continued to frown. "Now, Sue, don't get that way. You don't have to be closest of friends, but you can at least be polite and tolerant to them. They've come a long way from home to visit us."

"Size us up," Susan grumbled, but when Peter cocked his head in question she merely shook hers in reply.

With a soft smile, Peter reached over and placed a hand on Susan's emerald-colored sleeve. His voice sounded gentle. "They won't be here forever, Sue."

"Hardly," added Tumnus in a bracing tone. He pattered in through the small door and stood near them, a deep blue scarf wrapped around his bare shoulders, reflecting his appointment as a royal administrator. "It's actually customary for folk to travel to visit during the Midsummer Festivals. They pack up and go home after the final night and the Midnight Faun's and Satyr's Dance. They'll hardly have an excuse for staying longer unless invited to do so." He sent a determined smile Susan's way, startling a surprised look from her. "One can't invite oneself to stay after that without breaching all sorts of social protocol. They'll have to go home."

Edmund turned a laugh into a cough behind his hand, brown eyes dancing in amusement.

Not bothering to look at her younger brother, Susan straightened her shoulders and ran her hands down her skirts, smoothing unseen wrinkles from the fine cambric and lace. "That's a relief, then. If we cannot like them, we won't invite them. Fourteen days is certainly long enough to determine if we like them or trust them."

"The Lord Yarrow," intoned Mr. Beaver from the doorway, his manner everything one could wish for in a courtier. "The Lady Anemone. The ladies Watsonia, Ixia, Scabiosa, Freesia, and Tritoma." He paused, turning his whiskery beaver face towards those who stood in the corridor and whispered something unintelligible to the royal party inside the Receiving Room. Finally, he turned back with a decidedly beaverish frown and stepped into the room, allowing the visitors to accompany him. The man and six women entered, all dressed in vivid warm colours. A seventh, teenaged girl, dressed in grey and sporting an apron, slipped in and stood back near the left-hand door without a word, seemingly unaware that she stood quite close to Edmund.

Lord Yarrow, dressed in yellow of the brightest shade, bowed his head and shoulders to Peter, bestowing a pleasant smile on the two girls and Tumnus. He did not turn towards Edmund, none of the new arrivals did; either they did not see him there or did not consider him worth acknowledging. Lord Yarrow held out his hand to Peter, much as he had in the courtyard. "Your Majesty, thank you for your gracious welcome. Our rooms are quite elegant."

Peter ignored the man's hand as Tumnus stepped between them, blocking further access to the High King. With a smile, Peter nodded once, gracefully, and said "you are welcome." Before he could speak further, or introduce his siblings as etiquette demanded, Lord Yarrow jumped in with his own introductions. The slight, placing his daughters in rank above the royal party, was not lost on the Pevensies or their retainers.

"May I introduce my daughters, Your Majesty? This," and he turned towards a woman of mid-twenties, holding out his hand, "is my lovely Anemone."

The woman stepped forward and dipped a low curtsey, her dress of purple highlighted with bright magenta edging and trim. Magenta ribbons were wound through the intricate honey-blond curls of her coiffeur and she wore dark amethysts and garnets at her ears and throat. "Majesty." Her voice rang clear as a bell, pleasant and musical. Her figure was trim yet shapely and she moved with self-assured grace.

Peter bowed politely but didn't speak. He had been trained for the last year for such a moment but now it had come, he felt out of place, awkward and childish in this grown-up party of brightly dressed visitors.

"The second daughter of my mother, Watsonia," Lady Anemone said and turned with a small gesture towards an attractive platinum blonde of perhaps twenty-four years.

Watsonia curtsied, as graceful and self-assured as her elder sister. She wore a flowing salmon-colored dress with darker salmon swirls blended cleverly into a shimmering pattern that caught but did not overwhelm the eye. "Majesty," she echoed her sister then gestured to the next in line. "The third daughter of our mother, Ixia."

This one wore marigold with hints of red-orange in the underskirt and under-tunic as well as in the ribbons laced through her light golden hair. Ixia's smile was wider, her eyes larger, than the older two, and she shook a little as she curtsied. She rose with a determinedly larger smile and gushed, "Your Majesty, this is a beautiful palace!"

At a disdainful look from Anemone, Ixia paled a bit then copied the introductory gesture of her sisters while turning slightly to the fourth in line. "The fourth daughter of our mother, Scabosia."

A woman of twenty-two curtsied so low to the floor it seemed almost a surprise that she could rise again without assistance. She wore purple with splashes of pink throughout, rather like someone had taken a brush and sprayed color across the fabric. The effect was a riot of pleasing shades, as surprising in its attractiveness as the dark strawberry-blonde woman. The previous three sisters had light, bell-like voices. This one did not. Her voice, instead, sounded a breathy soprano, as if she were in a rush to get her thoughts out. "Your Majesty. May I present the fifth daughter of our mother, Freesia?" She gestured grandly, arm sweeping so wide she nearly knocked into Mr. Beaver who ducked backwards with sharp reflexes.

Freesia stepped forward and curtsied, though not as low as her sisters. She brought a hand over her mouth as she giggled but subsided at Anemone's glare of disapproval. Dressed in a fuchsia-colored gown trimmed with ribbons and bows of white, yellow, and magenta, Freesia appeared the most fussily dressed, though the over-all picture the dark blonde made reflected a classical beauty. She said, in a whispery voice much like Scabosia's, "And the sixth daughter of our mother, Tritoma, Your Majesty."

The last woman, at twenty years old, proved the thinnest and tallest of the sisters. She wore a dark red dress which gradated to a lighter orange as one looked towards her feet. Unfortunately, this color scheme seemed upside-down; with her dark blonde hair, the lighter color should have been at the shoulders, though it looked lovely. She grinned, winced at Anemone's glare, then modified her grin into a look of hauteur. "Your Majesty," she said in her bell-like voice.

All six women would be hard to sort out. If they stayed with the colors they'd chosen to wear that day, it might be possible, or if one could recall which shade of blonde each woman sported for hair. But the voices were too similar. If the women lined up, the eldest could be said to be the most beautiful, and the youngest, the least, but that comparison was not an easy distinction either.

Finally, Peter turned to Tumnus and nodded permission to introduce the royal family, which should have been done before Lord Yarrow had introduced his own. The highest ranking people always were introduced first. Perhaps, though, things were done differently in the northern land these people hailed from.

Tumnus bowed to Peter and said, clearly, "His royal majesty, High King of Narnia, Emperor of the Lone Isles . . ." he continued with Peter's vast array of titles and distinctions, which seemed to make Lord Yarrow more and more uncomfortable. Finally, Tumnus ended with "Sir Peter, Wolf's Bane." It was the first time Peter had heard all his titles together since his coronation; even he had to admit it sounded like an impressive, overwhelming listing.

When Lord Yarrow opened his mouth to comment, Tumnus ruthlessly cut him off by saying, "And Her Majesty, Queen Susan of Narnia." Before the loyal faun could list Susan's titles, Ixia, the third of the visiting sisters, exclaimed "but you're married?"

Peter flushed, as did Susan, while Lucy giggled. Edmund rolled his eyes and called from the back of the room, causing the pale grey-dressed servant to turn and watch him, though she seemed unsurprised that he stood so close. "No, Queen Susan is sister to High King Peter." Edmund nodded to the unnamed servant then pushed off the door and strode forward. He stopped next to Lucy as he bowed. "King Edmund. And this is Queen Lucy."

The visitors seemed nonplussed for a long moment before Ixia once again hazarded an opinion. She seemed to be the most spontaneous of the sisters. "How very odd. Two kings and two queens? But how do you decide which is the one that makes the laws and is obeyed?"

Edmund turned to the twenty-three year old woman and answered, quite seriously, "we discuss laws and come to an. . . accord. All of us are obeyed. High King Peter is the King above all Narnian kings, though."

"How droll," giggled Freesia, apparently the one with the most absurd sense of humor.

"Yes, very," Lord Yarrow said, a frown in his voice if not on his face. The man studied Edmund carefully then turned his eyes on fifteen year old Susan. Finally he let his eyes rove briefly over the much younger Lucy, as if she were of little import. "How tragic that you should lose your parents at so young an age," he turned back to Peter, ignoring the spark of indignation in Edmund's dark eyes and the annoyance in Susan's. "Your guardian must feel overwhelmed at times with four contesting rulers to guide."

Peter stiffened immediately, his face taking on a sternness that bespoke the last year of ruling, despite the congeniality of his people and the lack of his age. "You question Our worth?" He did not clarify whether he spoke for his siblings or not, but the pure animosity in Peter's voice denoted that he certainly had mastered the royal We.

Almost comically, Lord Yarrow stepped back, shock crossing his face. "Not at all, Your Majesty, not at all. I am a father who could only imagine the tragedy of leaving my children on their own. They're mother died long ago, as has my second wife, and I find it overwhelming at times merely thinking about them on their own, without my love and guidance should some tragedy occur.

The words, while conciliatory, did not ease the tension in the air. It built as if it were alive until King Edmund the Just once more took action, suiting his title more than he realized.

"Thank you, but your worry is not needed. Our condolences on the loss of both of your wives." He bowed to Lord Yarrow. "I believe luncheon is served. May I have the honor of leading Lady Anemone in?" Though Lucy held the higher rank, and thus would have been escorted by Edmund normally, his extension of courtesy did not go unheeded. The eldest of Lord Yarrow's daughters smiled and placed a hand on the fourteen year old boy's sleeve as if he were the most dashing of courtiers.

Peter offered his arm to Susan then turned to lead the party out of the Receiving Room and down the corridor to the vast dining room. Edmund lead Anemone behind them. Lucy smiled at the hesitant look on Lord Yarrow's face and slid her hand into the crook of his arm. She tugged gently and he seemed to recollect himself, leading the young queen behind her siblings. Each of his other daughters followed without escort, either unaware or unwilling to acknowledge the beasts as equals. The beasts didn't seem to mind, though. Tumnus followed in the rear with Mr. Beaver.

The last to leave the room was the silent, unnamed grey-clad servant.

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Continued in Chapter Four: when written