Prompt #5: Taste is often neglected in stories. Write a story about taste.

A/n: When I'm in a playful mood, I like to sneak references to real-world things into my stories. This story's reference, 21 October, is one from my personal life. All you have to do is answer one question: Why is 21 October a big deal? Be the first to correctly guess, and I'll give you a shout-out.

It's like How Ridiculous's YouTube channel: I'll pin ya!

† The Coronation Feast †

21 OCTOBER 1016
ONE YEAR AND THREE DAYS AFTER THE BANISHMENT…

You wouldn't call it the most splendid coronation you had ever seen, even if it was the only one you had seen before. What with the Talking Beasts wanting to rule Narnia and a secret group of Talking Beasts attacking all the symbols of Narnian history, the whole country was in a dull mood, and when Peridan swore to uphold the laws of Aslan and Narnia and knelt down to feel the crown rest upon his head, the applause was so meager the you would have thought you were watching someone drain a four-foot putt at an amateur golf match (which, believe it or not, was something Narnia had become quite familiar with, thanks to Tumnus bringing the sport into the country).

But if you followed the men and beasts into the castle for the great feast, you wouldn't be complaining, for the platters and bowls were filled with appetizers and meats and soups and salads and pies that would make your mouth ache to hear their names, and the glasses were filled wines and meads that sparkled as marvelously as they smelled, and suddenly, you would be so thrilled at what was to come, you would throw yourself before before King Peridan and kiss his hand just to thank him for such a marvelous occasion (and of course you'd congratulate him and bid him all the best, if the smell of the meal wasn't so utterly entrancing).

Alas, the meal was almost as dreary as the occasion itself, and you would wish you could take all your words back. For everything was done to a modest level of acceptability, but only just, for no one could be bothered to give the occasion what it was due. So when the men and beasts took the first bite (and the second, just to confirm the suspicions that their mouths were telling them), the meal seemed to get worse with each one. Indeed, it was a feast, but it wasn't fit for a King or even for a Prince you might have a certain sense of cold-hearted duty to like. It was something you would serve a Constable that you might have barely respected (or maybe you might not have; it could have gone either way).

But if you took a long at King Peridan, who was sitting at the head of the center table and sitting forward in a chair with an ornately carved back, you would wonder what was wrong with him (whether he was utterly barmy, or polite, or hadn't eaten in the better part of a century, you wouldn't know). For he thought that first bite of roast chicken was so delicious, so perfectly savory and salty with its hearty mix of broth and herbs and butter, you would think he had never eaten a chicken before. And the wine's notes of sweet and fruity and bubbly were a perfect counterpoint, even Bach couldn't have composed a better thing in music. And even something as obligatory as the greens (which, even in Narnia, aren't a jolly thing unless you were a horse) had a delightful earthy taste that made you think you'd tasted the color green.

And wonder of wonders, with each bite, King Peridan wanted more. And even after he should have had his fill, he kept on asking for another serving. He thought every bite was getting better and better, and while one of his attendants wondered if he was about to spontaneously burst, he kept saying he had room for just another bite of that delectable roast beef. But in fact, he had the appetite for more; the buttery mushrooms with the flesh that changed colors when you cut into it with a knife, the fish that flaked away with the gentlest touch of a fork and loosed a vapor of thyme and lemon when it hit your mouth—it all made him think his mouth had come alive. All throughout, he seemed to notice that a wolf and a lion were staring at him, their eyes darting away whenever he looked in their direction—but with each bite, he paid less and less attention, as if he'd heard a riddle that mingled in his mind but didn't intrigue him any further.

And just as he asked for a piece of that apple pie, he felt it. A tumbling of his head and a wobbling of his knees. The world was going loopy around him and his eyes were growing heavy, as if darkness had suddenly fallen and the moon was putting him in a trance. Someone asked him if he was feeling all right, and he thought he felt his mouth move to form the words "I think I just need to stand..."

He was just about onto his feet when he saw the floor rush up to meet him. He heard a cry fill the room and a man say, "Your Majesty—"

And all was turned to naught.

Some hours later, he awoke in a glade shining in the full moon. A great blurry golden figure and a small blurry gray figure stood over him, but their mouths were moving silently, muffled by the whining in his ears. The taste of cinnamon and berries lit his tongue up like a loud noise lighting up your nerves, and a surge of strength washed over him like a bath that spilled over him from the inside out. His fingers and toes twitched of their will, then of his own, and a lion and a wolf slipped into focus.

"You," said Peridan in a whisper. "If you're not trying to kill me, what do you want with me?"

"Don' worry," said the wolf in a thick brogue. "If we wanted ta make a potion that'd kill ya, we woulda made it."

A lightning shock went through Peridan, and he bolted up onto his elbows. "Confound it!" he breathed. "You did this to me?"

"Aye," said the wolf. "Narnia needs a King...and we need a favor."

"Why would I help you? You fill me with a potion, and you kidnap me and bring me out here."

"We did it to save your arse," said the lion in a cold baritone. "That means you owe us, Son of Adam...and you owe us something big."