Disclaimer: I do not own anything that rightfully belongs to C.S Lewis.
1.3 Cafune
(n.) running your fingers through the hair of someone you love
ALAURA sorts through the bundle of clothing Susan deposited in her hands; unbleached linen undergarments that she recognizes to be a chemise - is undeniably soft - and a sleeveless supportive shift which assists in shaping a woman's bust. A mix of cotton and silk was used for the kirtle to compliment their royal status. She distinctly remembered reading of the different uses of fabrics depending on a woman's status; among the common class, wool, linen, and sheepskin were used, whereas those in the upper class, a mix of lavish and expensive materials such as silk, velvet, and cotton were used to fashion their kirtles.
She eyes the kirtle given to her with appreciation. The dress itself is a floor-length silk deep emerald with a tight-fitting bodice. It has a square, low-cut neckline with gold embroidery details and pleated shoulder sleeves. The dress also has a waist seam and a plaited back and its only other embellishments were the gold bullion embroidered belt and the medieval lion trim in gold and greens.
She bit down on her lower lip after fitting on the dress, feeling out of sorts wearing such a fine dress. She feels it almost to be disrespectful wearing a dress made for royalty knowing she is certainly far from one. Yet, when she returns back to Susan and Lucy, the humiliating feel was squandered by their adoring faces.
"The dress fits you perfectly!" Lucy squeals, bouncing in place as she claps her hands.
Alaura looks anxiously to Susan who sends her a warm smile, "Green is undoubtedly your colour."
"Thank you so much for lending me this dress," Alaura says to Lucy, then turns to Susan with the same grateful expression, "And thank you for finding one that would suit me." The two smiled appreciatively back at her.
"Have you brought with you, your healing cordial and dagger?" Susan asks Lucy who replies with a nod, "Then go and inform Peter and Edmund that we're just about finished."
There were no further questions asked, and Lucy bounded away with a rekindled spirit in her steps. Susan turns back to Alaura, a kind smile on her face as she steps forward to comb her fingers through Alaura's hair. Alaura had been far too entranced by her gentle demeanor - by the time she registers of the contact, the hand that was brushing her hair is back at Susan's side.
"Do you mind if I do your hair?" Susan asks, "I reckon you'll be able to manage the journey better with it out of your way."
Alaura found that she couldn't verbally respond, so she settles with a nod and tries her best not to look too stiff when Susan reroutes to her backside. Susan has a gentle and soothing touch; her rhythmic movements were feathery light that Alaura could barely feel the combing of her fingers as they gathered her hair into a singular braid.
"There, that's much better, isn't it?" Alaura perks up at the Susan's voice and feels the tail end of the braid resting on her lower back.
She pulls the braid to her front, her eyes studying the crisscross of the braid and how wonderful the feeling was – the glide of one's fingers through her hair. Then, without warning, an image of her and her mother comes to mind; her head resting on her mother's lap as her mother's hands strokes through the strands of her hair. She remembers feeling the lull of sleep at each caress and her mother's voice encouraging her to sleep.
Then she hears it – the tape whirring as the film rewinds and plays again. The familiar setting of the two on the living room couch; herself once again laying on her side with her eyes glued on the cartoons playing on the television set while her mother sat up straight. Her mother's fingers combing through her hair and looking particularly disengaged and swept away in a deep, dark hole that kept her hostage to her own unhappiness. Her mother's tone withdrawn and impatient – almost clipped sounding – as she tells her to sleep.
Alaura drops her hands from the braid, unable to keep the somber off her face that when Susan rounds back to her front, a concerned expression warps from her usual gentle one. When Susan goes to move the wisps of hair from her face, Alaura can't help the flood of guilt when she involuntarily flinches away.
Susan's hands hover for a moment and then drops, "Do you not like the braid?"
Alaura's eyes widen and she shakes her head, "No! It's lovely – honest," then her shoulders slump, "I was reminded of my mother, that's all."
Susan softens in understanding, "Is your mother lovely?"
Alaura struggles to respond before settling on an honest answer, "My mother was as lovely as she could be."
It seemed like Susan picked up on the connotations behind her words, "I understand – and what of your father?"
Alaura clams up for a moment and when she spoke, her voice is barely a whisper, "Forgive me, but I would rather not speak of him." And she could see Susan's compassionate desire to press for more questions being overruled with sensibility on the matter.
With a slight bow of her head, Susan responds warmly, "Well, you're more than welcome to speak with me on any matters that may be troubling you."
Susan then gestures her forward, silently ushering to start back up above ground upon seeing Peter and Edmund arrive, deep in conversation on their next plan of action. And, with a quick start forward, Alaura somehow manages to find a way to trip over thin air. However, she is able to save herself from the misfortune of falling flat on her face by quickly regaining her footing, but any semblance of pride she felt vanishes when her green eyes locks with Edmund's. Her cheeks finding its natural shade of pink at his judgmental look and she scurries away faster in a mixture of embarrassment and nervousness. There was something about the way his dark eyes stalks after her - with unnerving fascination and burning curiosity – that has her heart thumping wildly.
Break
She had been planted on the grass in the time allotted for the men to prepare; her legs crisscrossed and balancing the arm whose hand was supporting the weight of her head, on one leg, whereas her other hand twirled and played with the blade of grass. Her ears perking up at the sound of soft footfalls and shortly after, a pair of brown leather boots enter her frame of vision. She barely had time to react before something soft and heavy is draped over her.
What in the world? Alaura could feel herself flustering in surprise, her hands reaching up to pull the material off of her only to stop short when she sees a cloak in her hands; a velvet, dark blue material with diamond gold detailing and a matching gold broach to fasten the collar together.
Shortly after appraising the cloak, she looks up to find Edmund's steel gaze on her. She tilts her head to the left in a silent matter of questioning why he'd given her a cloak.
Edmund shrugs, "Just an added layer of protection when night falls."
She gives a nod of understanding and nonetheless gives him a soft smile of appreciation at his thoughtfulness. Though, after a second, she notices a twist in his expression; the indifference on his face fading as he looked at war with himself.
"Edmund? Are you alright?" she asks him out of worry – a strange feeling of unsettledness enveloping her at seeing him so troubled.
He glances at her from the corner of his eyes and slightly freezes at the worry on her face. He sighs, the hard lines on his face softening, and there is a look of defeat as he turns to her. He crouches down before her, leaning in close and levelling his gaze with hers. Her eyes widen at his sudden intimacy, feeling a squeak bubble out of her and a sudden onset of dizziness at his closeness. It was only then that she notices the faded, diamond gold patterning on his blue velvet tunic, starting right below where his ribcage would end.
There is a fond lightness in the air between them but she couldn't place a finger on whether it is from his amusement or ego for successfully turning her into a blushing tomato, or the ghost of a smile on hers at seeing him look rarely unburdened for a moment - despite herself feeling peeved at how effortlessly he picks at her senses.
The moment between them is fleeting as a strict look casts the darkness back on Edmund's face, "Are you familiar with Charles Perrault?"
She eyes lighten in recognition at the name, "He was a famed author for his folk tales, why do you ask?"
His eyes roam her face, her emerald green eyes catching as wisps of curly red tendrils frame her face – it irks him to see an innocent look gleam off her face. The bright look falls from her face when she sees his face twisting back into a scowl.
'Then you should be well endowed with the knowledge that the forest is an unprecedented unknown," his voice holding grave undertones as he spoke, "Even in Narnia, it can be wild and unpredictable – especially now, after we abandoned it."
"Edmund, what are you-," she tries to ask but he cuts her off abruptly, hard lines marring his face.
"It's not a frolic in woods," he growls out impatiently and she looks offended that he could insinuate her to be ditzy enough not to understand the gravity of their situation
"I never thought any of this as a fun escapade," she tries to keep the hurt off her face, "Not when you all lost so much already."
"Damn it, Alaura," he curses, "That was not what I meant."
Then he looks outwardly pissed at himself for losing his temper. His jaw working, trying to mend the situation between them by scrambling together the right words before he could create an even bigger mess - half-heartedly annoyed at Alaura's innocence for misconstruing his words.
He pinches the bridge of his nose and exhales before glancing back up at her, "Not everyone will be kind to you," he finally says – especially to people like her, he decides to himself when he catches her alluring show of compassion for him, and his family behind all the hurt. And he relaxes a bit when she lights up in understanding, "Danger and dumb beasts take refuge in the forest so don't stray too far, understand?"
"I believe so." Except for the dumb beasts' part, she thinks to herself.
"Good."
When he goes to speak again, his gaze is molten; aglow with something undecipherable and burning with hot, liquefying intensity. And she tries not to let his intimate gaze have an effect on her but couldn't quite shake the idea that his eyes looked almost pleading.
"Don't let the wolves get you, Little Red." He says to her earnestly, and the warmth that exudes from him seeps into her in a strange sensation that has her feeling all fuzzy and safe– like sitting in front of a fireplace during the coldest night of winter.
He didn't seem to be aware of the covert sensations he caused inside her; his usual cold mask sliding back in place as he rose back up on his feet. As he walked away, a small part of her – maybe the foolish one – is struck at his elusiveness and she couldn't help but feel mystified by him.
When the fog in her mind cleared, she was able to register the name he called her. Little – what now?
Break
Peter and Edmund lead the group back down to a lower terrain – on the other side of Cair Paravel, where the wind dusts their clothing with sand again. Alaura falls slightly behind from the group, her head still in a spiral trying to process the meaning behind Edmund's words.
Charles Perrault.
Forest.
Wolves.
Little Red – her pace slows. Little Red Riding Hood?
Her feet drag across the sand as she continues to lag behind. Her thoughts were interrupted when her peripherals catch movement on the shallow waters of the river. She could distantly hear Susan coaxing her back to the group but she dismisses it and treks closer to the water to investigate.
She recoils back when she spots two armed men crossing the waters on a boat; both suited in leather brigandine and, on their heads were walnut-shaped sallets and their hands were fitted with gauntlets. One navigating the boat with the oars in his hands and the other positioned as lookout, a crossbow cradled in his. She backs away until she bumps into Susan.
"Are those your people?" Her voice wavers as she poses the question to Susan and points in their direction.
She watches Susan follows her finger over and responds by reaching for her bow, "They are not."
They both watch as the two men rise to their feet, finding their balance on the rocking boat and then lifting – to Alaura's bewilderment – a dwarf up into their view. Susan's movements were swift; pulling a single arrow from her quiver and notching it onto her bow. By the time the men were prepared to launch the dwarf overboard, Susan had already released her grip; the arrow flying in the air before embedding itself on the side of the boat, effectively catching the attention of the men.
Susan had notched another arrow in her bow when she let out a command, "Drop him!" her usual calm, blue eyes were ablaze with fury.
It took a moment for Alaura to register Susan's words and then internally cringed when the two men promptly followed her orders – casually dumping the poor dwarf into the water. She hears a twang as Susan releases another arrow and this time, she physically cringed as the arrow hit one of the men square in the chest. The last man standing was already diving into the river out of fear for his own survival.
"Is that alright?" Alaura asks Susan, who turns to look at her questioningly while Edmund and Peter dive after the boat and the dwarf.
"Is what alright?" Susan responds in confusion.
"That man," she decisively points again at the boat, "You said he's not one of yours – if he's not yours then he must be under someone else's authority."
Susan's eyebrows furrowed not following her logic, "That's the general assumption, yes."
"If he's not yours and they're here," Alaura tries to explain, "Then it's quite likely that the authority he reports under might be the one responsible for all of this. Him surviving means there's a real possibility of him finding his way back and making a report of everything he saw here."
"Is that not why people have captives? To collect and prevent the dissemination of information?" Alaura slowly watches as realization dawns on the two girls and they share a brief look of concern.
Susan looks vexed, "I overlooked that possibility."
Lucy, on the other hand, looked more embarrassed than irked at letting the man escape, "Edmund is more of the strategist out of the four of us."
At that, the girls turned to watch Edmund as he emerges from the water with a rope in his hand and a boat in tow – securing a mode of transportation for them to thread across the water. Instantly, Alaura feels guilty – like she underhandedly insulted their abilities when all she intended was to voice her observations.
"I mean," Alaura shifts nervously in her spot, hoping that she didn't overstep, "There must have been a reason why they were getting rid of – well him."
She spoke as Peter deposits the dwarf – not so gently – on the sand. She realizes that the dwarf must have overhead the last bit of her sentence because he sends her a seething look of annoyance and she cowers behind Susan in regret while Lucy leaps forward to cut the ropes tied around the dwarf's wrists.
Behind Susan's back, she makes eye contact with Edmund as he rejoins them in a damp state. His dark hair slightly curling at the ends as it quickly began to dry and flop against his forehead to slightly cover his eyes. His gray-tan trouser, and blue velvet tunic with an undershirt that peeks through the first few unclasped buttons, stuck against his front and both his legs.
The distress on her face had him sending a skeptic look back at her. She darts her eyes to where the dwarf is – with the rope ties off – removing the cloth around his mouth to cough out the river water he'd engulfed and mouths out a 'I don't think he likes me very much' to Edmund.
Edmund responds with an exasperated shake of his head and rolling of his eyes, letting her know that she's being ridiculous again.
"Drop him?" the dwarf growls out, "Drop him! Is that that best you could come up with?"
Alaura couldn't blame him his anger at that, it was poorly chosen words – though, he could be a bit more grateful that Susan and Peter saved his life.
A frown settles on Susan's face at the dwarf's haughty and ungrateful attitude, "A simple thank you would suffice."
"They were doing just fine drowning me without your help!"
Alaura stopped to stare at the cuts and abrasive wounds on the dwarf's face, and a surge of compassion washes over her. Her throat drying up as she imagines the torturous methods, he must have endured to have obtain such injuries. The dwarf had already been through so much, being dumped into the river and left to almost drown must have been the tip of the iceberg for him.
"Maybe we should have let them!" Peter finally snaps. It had Alaura swiveling her head towards him and, for a short instance, she held a small bit of contempt at him – at his lack of empathy.
"Why were they trying to kill you anyway?" Lucy finally asks, effectively dispelling the tension in the air.
At Lucy's question, a somber – almost solemn look had the dwarf looking away, "They're Telmarines – it's what they do."
At this, Alaura could see Edmund's curiosity being aroused. The disinterest in his composure – born out of pure boredom at their mindless bickering – leaving him as small deductions, based on the dwarf's words, began to plant itself in his mind.
His cold astute came back in full force, "Telmarines? In Narnia?" he shrewdly pressed.
Alaura scrutinized him closely; the way his gaze wavered and how he sounded strained, like his throat constricted to keep the desperation out of his voice. Behind his calculating person, she saw his irrational fear that the state of his affairs was far worst than he imagined that has him pressing for more answers.
His acute senses have him turning his head towards her, his gaze sharpening at her stare and he sends her a frosty glare.
"Don't look at me like that." He snaps.
Out of reflex, she swivels back so that she was front-facing the dwarf again though feeling a whiplash actively coming on for how volatile Edmund's behaviour could be.
The dwarf scoffs out of contempt of what he was hearing, "Where have you been in the last few hundreds of years?"
"It's a bit of a long story." Lucy answers sheepishly.
"Oh, you've got to be kidding me," the dwarf groans after spying the golden lion head making up the hilt of Peter's sword as Susan went to pass it back to him. The dwarf eyes the four royals, looking all the while unimpressed as he does so, "You're it? You're the Kings and Queens of Old?"
Alaura peeks out from behind Susan, hiding a smile with her hand at the dwarf's incredulous look and surmountable disappointment – every bit disgruntled that the ancient kings and queens were not the mature-looking, all-powerful rulers he probably imagined them to be.
Peter shakes off the dwarf's disappointment and takes a hesitant step forward towards the dwarf, "High King Peter," he stretches out a welcoming hand, "The Magnificent."
What a boisterous title. It was an intrusive thought that flits through her mind and caused the red back onto her cheeks when the guilt wins her over for having such a thought. The dwarf on the other hand had no problems voicing his opinions completely unfiltered after eyeing Peter's hand with more skepticism; immediately agreeing that Peter's introduction could have gone better off without the last bit.
Alaura could tell that Peter was reaching the end of his tolerance with the dwarf and his lack of respect. He drew his sword out from his scabbard and stared the dwarf down.
"You might be surprised." Peter interjects with confidence.
The dwarf wasn't the least bit intimidated by Peter's challenge, "Oh, you don't want to do that boy," he warns him.
"Not me," Peter corrects the dwarf, then gives a subtle nod to his left, "Him."
Then Alaura hears the sound of a second sword unsheathing and is perplexed to see Edmund strolling up to the bickering duo looking utterly relaxed without sporting the same air of arrogance as the other two. There is a look of discomfort from the dwarf as he tries to disguise his surprise; reluctantly taking the sword Peter offers out to him and letting the weight of the blade drag his arms down.
With no warning, the dwarf suddenly swings at Edmund; metal clashing as he blocked the dwarf's move with ease, and then ducking, smoothly dodging as the dwarf swung for his head. In a quick move, the dwarf struck at Edmund's face with the hilt of Peter's sword and Edmund was unable to contain the grunt of pain as he took the hit.
"Oh, are you alright?" the dwarf taunted arrogantly.
Edmund recovered in a flash, maneuvering back around the dwarf before smacking the side of his blade against the dwarf's behind – the force of his swing has the dwarf losing its balance and stumbling forward. When the dwarf turns back around – red from humiliation - Edmund shoots him a chilly smile. As their skirmish ensues, all Alaura could think of was how brilliant his strategy is; mocking the dwarf until he loses his composure so all the adrenaline pumping through him is now fueled by anger – compromising his ability to think soundly.
As the dwarf lunges at Edmund again, his face flattens into something apathetic and calculating. She is stun locked, watching the way Edmund easily calculates his opponents next move then counter-blocking it; an overhead block to a head strike, a split-second jump to an underhand sweep to the legs. He blocks another head swing, this time using the momentum of the dwarf's swing to circle Peter's sword back around. He leverages on the fact that the dwarf is unable to grapple back control over the sword and hits at Peter's sword to continue its momentum; striking in a repeated pattern – up and down – loosening the dwarf's grip at each strike. With one last hit, Edmund disarms the dwarf and the sword flies a good couple of feet away.
The dwarf drops down onto the sand, weak at the knees as he stares up at Edmund in astonishment, "Beards and bedsteads," he swallows hard, "Maybe that horn worked after all."
"What horn?"
Note: That wraps up the chapter at around 4,000 words! We've met our favourite skeptical dwarf and the nickname 'Little Red' makes a comeback. I believe in the original story I didn't delve much into the nickname – the origins of the nickname is inspired by The Little Red Riding Hood and elements of that story will relate much to Edmund and Alaura's relationship. I'd love to know your thoughts and theories about the nickname!
Anyone else getting mixed signals from Edmund? That's the Alaura effect on him – naturally, he doesn't know what to do when it comes to her. Adorable, isn't it? Just wait until he encounters more of her intellect and empathy; he stands no chance against her.
Let me know your thoughts on this chapter!
Until next time!