I have an oath

IC/OOC

Reap is past, and Susan is looking brighter and happier by the day, and now true winter is beginning to settle over this strange bar at the end of the universe. Caspian hauls the Hope up into the stables to be wintered and works long hours at the sleigh he'd designed, losing himself in the simple pleasures of working with the wood, sanding and carving in turn.

It's after one such day spent in labor that he comes to the bar proper, freshly showered and comfortably attired in a loose linen shirt and breeches, to join Susan by her spot at the fireside. He's chatting amiably with her about the horses, about how Corella is coming with her harness-training, and has just begun pouring her a glass of wine with the door opens and Caspian freezes. In the next moment, the glass overflows with the rich red liquid, but he doesn't notice; his eyes are locked on the tall, fair young man who has come in, dressed all in black.

Even to those who have never seen him, there may be something familiarly of Caspian about his face... but Susan has seen him, and she'll know as soon as she looks that Rilian, Prince of Narnia and Caspian's son, has returned.

There's a chill bite to the air, these days. The horses have been growing out their winter coats, and they look shaggy and plump as Caspian turns them out into the paddocks. Behind the stables, in the makeshift woodshop he'd cobbled together, the sleigh from his drawings is starting to come together. 

He hopes he'll have it finished by Christmas. With a little luck, and maybe some assistance, he thinks it should be possible. The tack, he's largely left up to Susan's devices, though he'd commission Gimli the dwarf for the various buckles and other metal pieces they'll need.

Once the horses are turned out, he gets to his other morning chores with a will, whistling cheerfully as he does. The stable stays strangely quiet around him. It takes him the better part of an hour to realize the strangeness is because he's become accustomed to Susan's cheerful presence working alongside him, talking or humming or simply working in companionable silence. 

Caspian pauses in his task – refilling the grain chest – and looks around. Susan's nowhere to be seen, and when he later wanders through the stables, checking each stall and outside, he can't find her there, either.

It's only mid-autumn, as the Bar-year reckons, but one morning Caspian wakes early to find that the light coming through his window has that particular muted quality to it that only comes from sifting through clouds and a veil of snow.

And snow it is indeed, when he comes outside: it crunches pleasantly beneath his boots as his breath freezes in the air and his cheeks turn pink with the cold. Snow; and still it falls, silent and light.

He heads to the stables with the intention of finishing his chores quickly so he can let the horses out to frolic in it, whistling as he goes.

It is hardly unusual that the door opens. 

It is slightly unusual, perhaps, that it opens seemingly on its own, onto a warm green land bordered by a calm, gleaming sea that smells of salt and something like lilies.

With such a view, anyone glancing out the door might be forgiven if they did not see the individual for whom it opened – not unless they glanced down.

And then down some more, where a mouse – a Mouse – stands on its back legs, studying the room before it with a soldier's practiced eye. It is about a foot high, darkly furred, and a scarlet feather nods rakishly from a golden circlet it wears about one ear. 

Apparently making up its mind, the Mouse enters, and the door closes. 

(One story ends, and another begins.)

The Mouse scurries – er, climbs – to the top of a seat at the Bar and lifts its small, impatient voice. "Hey there!" it calls. "Who is master of this alehouse?"

The night before was a dream – or so it seemed, even waking with Susan still wrapped in his arms – but the morning is real enough and so is the work they both need to do. He dresses in the same clothes he'd worn the night before – if they get dirty over the course of the morning, who cares? – and joins Susan in the stables for the morning chores, waving to Alain as the gunslinger passes by on his way to visit Cuthbert on Serenity.

The morning passes as it always does: full of tasks and the easy conversation he and Susan have always shared, and by the time it's nearing midday, he's set to work on a few of the longer-term tasks that always need doing while she vanishes – to the Bar for food or to talk with a patron about the stables or to work on the stock record, he's not sure, but he whistles as he works cleaning the tack, oiling leather until it's shining and pliable.

... And keeping well out of Kiseki's reach. Just in case.

 The world is larger now.

Not just larger; taller, stranger.  Everything caught in odd angles, flat and imposing.  Blades of grass tower over him, ants the size of small dogs bump into his feet, and he startles --

Sending the world into a spinning, alarmed leap.  A blink, and everything has shifted; he might be miles from the door, for all he can tell the difference.  

The tea.  It could only have been the tea.  There was a splash of warmth, and his shirt soaked in a crooked strip, and deep violet plumes of choking smoke, and then everything grew horribly large and strange.  Could it?  Truly, there have been times when he'd been warned off food or drink in this place in the past, but he'd always felt tea would never betray him in such a fashion.

It appears Milliways is not yet through with surprising him.





Be that as it may, he cannot continue in this fashion.  Large eyes blink, bewildered, at the green, long-fingered hand replacing his own; he attempts to edge towards his right and finds himself catapulted into the rough wood of the back step.  A twitch forward sends him sailing in an arc that turns steadily less graceful as he tumbles back into the ground, heart thrumming a panicked pace somewhere nowhere near his usual steady beat.

There must be a way to reverse this spell, whatever it is.  A wizard, perchance, or sorcerer, if he can find one -- but any attempt to move back into the bar proper would result in a scramble to keep from being trod upon, and in his present state, he can hardly call for help, or draw attention to himself.

He sits, for a moment, shivering in a clump of tall grass, flips into a bewildered cut of a half-leap at a bugling call sounding nearby, a sharp whinny that freezes him into a shell he cannot seem to break from for a lifetime's worth of worried breaths and buzzing pulse.

The horses.  The stables.  Possibly, there, he might find aid -- there are fewer feet to trample him, when the horses are in the stalls, and the place is peaceful enough he might  find a moment to think, or plan.



It has simply never seemed such a very insurmountable distance, before.

The stables are ever a place of peace, and quiet.  There is solitude to be found among the soft noises and movements of the horses, comfort in the scent of oiled leather and sweet dried clover, in brushing down coats until they shine glossy and sleek, letting his mind drift.  

It was not so long ago (and yet it was, years, lengthened strange, like a shadow stretching from a doorway) that he was Master here.  Not so far past that Susan left him the book and the stock and stepped, light of foot and smiling, back onto the path that led to the Clearing.

That was about this time of year, two years past.

(Six years past.)

Kiseki whickers, as though he hears the thoughts crossing Caspian's mind, as though he, too, can't help but think of her, gray-eyed, graceful, with hair like the sun, and for a moment, when he hears boots thumping on the stable floor, he's sure, with a stupid, boyish hope, that it must be her.

But the boots are heavy, and Susan never moved with the sound of chain clinking, with the creak of leather or the slippery whisper of steel drawn against steel, while hope turns to dread, and Caspian tastes ashes in the dryness of his mouth.

"I told you it would come to nothing."

He looks different.





It's the first thing Caspian thinks, looking across the stall at him.  He looks shorter than he remembers; no longer the towering, all-powerful King he recalls from his childhood.  "You will have to clarify, Uncle."

He says it evenly.  There is no reach for his sword -- the dwarf-wrought blade leans in a corner, safely sheathed, and much too far away to have in his hand without lunging for it, but he does not think Miraz will harm him.  The King held his hand while Caspian was a boy, never touched him once in anger or hatred, and when it came to it, he would never have killed his nephew himself.  Miraz was only the coward who signed the order calling for his head.  "As I recall, you predicted that particular fate for a number of things I held dear, or found of interest."

He is not just shorter, Caspian realizes, as his uncle considers him.  Perhaps Miraz never was a large man.  Though he had seemed close to a giant, at times, to his young nephew, now Caspian thinks they stand eye to eye.  

(His shoulders straighten, chin lifts, and there is clarity now in sea-coloured eyes, and a look that strikes true as iron.)

Iron-gray is the color of his uncle's beard, his thick hair, and his eyes are keen, lacking pure derision but blade-sharp.  "Your Narnia," he says, finally, and Caspian pushes at a flinch that tries to flicker through him.  He cannot show weakness.  To show weakness before Miraz is to toss a bloody piece of meat before a pack of starving wolves.  "Old Narnia.  The rebel land, tossed back into a mire of mythology and fairy tales.  Tell me, King Caspian.  How does Narnia fare?"

His jaw is so tight he feels something may snap.  "Gone."

"Gone?"  Miraz sounds surprised, if mildly so.  "Your pet lion did not save it, then?  Or..."  He rests his hands on the pommel of his sword.  (Caspian knows that blade, knows it must be pocked and scarred and blunted from the duel with Peter, has seen it a thousand times, ran his child's fingers wonderingly over the hard leather of the hilt, the pommel, knows its weight, its balance, like he knows the weight and balance of his own arm.)  "Did he destroy it?  The demon, Aslan."

Fury lights, hot, in his chest, and though his voice remains level, his hands clench at his sides.  "Take care, my lord."

His uncle's mouth twists, a cruel quarter of a smile.  "You speak for his defense?  Even now, when the land he delivered to you is gone?"

"I do no such thing."  It's an effort to keep his tone friendly, and the tightness of his words betrays him, tension a cord of fire snaking up his neck.  "No one speaks for Aslan.  He's not a tame Lion."

"So."  Miraz leans back, against the stable wall.  Caspian wonders, for a moment, whether his father had the same gray eyes, or whether it is something he and his uncle share, alone.  The thought is cold water dripping down his back, dropping heavy as lead into his stomach.  "King of a lost land, Prince of an abandoned country, and here you are.  Caring for the horses.  Dumb animals, I hope.  Those Talking ones were an abomination."

There is nothing to say, and Caspian is silent, fingers aching, palms stinging where his nails dig into them.  Kiseki moves at his back, whuffling gently through his nose at the straw of the floor, picking through it to search for fallen oats.

His uncle never did smile much.  "Speak up, lad!  Is it not shameful enough that you hide yourself away here, that you raised a land into being only to have it destroyed before your eyes?  Would it not have been better for Narnia to fade?  Your Talking Animals, your Dwarves and Fauns and damned walking trees, swallowed in flame.  Shattered."

He can see it.  The battlefield.  The stars, as they fell, and went out in the rising, relentless ocean, as though they were nothing but burning matches, dropped in a puddle.  "There is no shame in a simple life, Uncle.  I do not wish for power, or a throne.  Perhaps, had you found similar contentment, you would not have felt it necessary to murder my father and steal his crown."

"To rule is to be a killer."  Miraz stands, and Caspian feels his own back straighten in response.  "Your hands are no cleaner than mine, nephew.  All the love of your people cannot wash the blood from your hands, and Narnia has burned."

His eyes sting.  "I fought for her.  No one could stop her from falling into shadow."  The ghost of a smile touches his lips.  "The seas rose and engulfed the land.  You would have hated it.  You were always afraid of the water."

"Not the water."  Light gleams dully off Miraz' armor.  "What lies beyond it.  And you, foolish boy.  You've seen the thing that awaits there, past the horizon."

"Aye."  Simple.  There is no shame in a simple life.  "It gives me hope."

"Then may it bolster you now," says his uncle's voice, in his ear, in his head, "for there is nothing left."



He leaves behind nothing but silence, and the smells of the stable, when Caspian wakes from where he'd slept, slumped in the corner of Kiseki's stall with a half-oiled bridle on his lap, and hay caught in the rumpled mess of his hair, with Kiseki blinking wide, liquid brown eyes at him.

"It's a shame," Caspian says, in a murmur, finding a smile, stiff though it feels, unpracticed on his lips, "that you can't talk, my friend.  I suspect you would have had rather a few things to say."  He looks down at the tack in his hands, lets out a breath, deeper than he'd intended.

"A simple life is not so bad, after all."

The Princess Royal is truly a fair sight.  White sails pile on the rigging, neatly tied now into pillows which lie along gleaming wooden yards.  If loosed, they would billow in the sweet breeze that comes sifting off the sea, and the Princess would glide as if in a cloud out to sea.

"She's larger than the Treader," he tells Marian, who is attentive and interested, though perhaps there are times when smoke-blue eyes watch Caspian when he isn't looking, and an amused smile touches her lips.  He notices not at all, caught as he is in the tour they're being given, despite the fact the midshipman assigned to them stopped talking a good twenty minutes ago and may well have vanished altogether.  "As is proper for a flagship, I suppose, but see the way she's designed, she isn't all bulk or brute force."

Larger, yes: where the Treader had one mast, the Princess has three, and the deck is longer, wider.  She doesn't rise at bow and stern the way the Treader did; she'll cut through wind and wave easier for it, the figurehead at the bow leading the way.  

Marian is all curiosity: if the Princess is larger than the Treader, she dwarfs the Hope, and Caspian details the foremast, the main, the mizzen, explains how this type of rigging will allow the Princess to sail to windward.  The Black Pearl is his other comparison, and though the Princess could never beat the Pearl as a runner, she's sleek and powerful and he suspects she'd give a fair chase.

It's like being sixteen again and seeing the Treader come, piece by piece, into being: the Princess is hardly of Narnian design, but he can imagine, mayhaps, that the great ships of her Golden Age looked something like this: the Splendour Hyaline, for example, which he's seen only in paintings.  The Princess is built for warfare and protection, not exploration or pleasure cruises, and it shows in the efficiency of her design, but Ambergeldar is hardly a sea power, and no war threatens the quiet horizon here, and that shows, too, in the detail and care taken, intricate decorations carved into wood, fine materials, cloud-white canvas and bright ropes.  The captain's quarters are roomy and fair, paneled in polished wood, the galley clean and ready for a hungry crew.

He thinks of cramped nights, caught in the doldrums, heat and lack of wind driving them all to the edges of sanity and temper, and considers that the space available below decks here would have been beneficial then, too -- though the Princess requires a larger crew, more mouth to feed and throats to quench.

Not that he discusses those memories with Marian.  Instead, he tells light stories of the crew he remembers, the ships built after the Treader, the fleet finally in place in his adulthood, the voyages to the Lone Islands and beyond; to Calormen, along the coast.

That turns to finding members of the crew and talking with them of the voyages undertaken, the open sea beyond this harbor, an ocean Caspian has never explored.  He spends a few moments lost at the railing, looking out over glittering gray waves as the wind threatens to topple his hat and gold braid weighs heavy on his shoulders, before a soft voice breaks into his thoughts and a light hand on his arm reminds him that he is not alone, that these voyages are not his to take, that these stories will have to be heard secondhand, which is well and good and how the world moves.

Still, there is, mayhap, a light in his eyes that is not quite laughter or warmth, clear when he watches the horizon and dimmer when he turns in towards shore, though he offers his arm to Marian with impeccable manners and a smile that won't be dimmed.

"Are we off?" she asks, lightly.  "Have you taken your fill?"

"Not I," he laughs, "but I do believe we are expected elsewhere, for the moment."

His hands may itch to take up sheets rather than champagne glasses, but the pull lessens as they leave the deck, and anyway, Amy would almost surely not approve of her brother abandoning shore altogether.

At least, not this evening.

"We should take the children down to the beach," he tells Marian, when he joins her at breakfast, rubbing seawater out of his hair with a towel.  So far, the maids and manservants at Silverhall have been scandalized by the habit the Queen's brother has of wandering down to the shore in the early morning and taking a swim before breakfast, all by himself and returning for coffee and toast looking remarkably cheerful and very damp.

"Amy and Perry are going to busy all day again, and the children oughtn't to be cooped up in the Palace all day.  What do you think?  We could make it a picnic.  You know how they love picnics."

It's true that he has an ulterior motive, but a good one: simply to spend more time with his niece and nephews, and Marian can always be relied upon to both entertain the children and spend time by the sea.  Her delight in it has hardly seemed to dim in the few days they've been here, and they may as well take full advantage.

The little Caribbean inlet in Milliways is fair in its way, but nothing compares to this: the long, wide, reaching stretch of ocean, glittering under the sun, with sand shifting beneath his feet and the breeze tugging at him, inviting him further, past the horizon, to the very edge of sea and sky.

So they find themselves, not much later, walking slowly in single file down a wooden stair that leads through the dunes to the flat white sand of the beach: Marian carries a basket, Susan is tasked with the blankets, and Caspian has Merry, perched on his shoulders and searching along the horizon with the spyglass his uncle had brought for him.

"Spot any pirates?" Caspian asks, as Merry navigates them towards the best spot to settle, but his nephew only shakes his head solemnly.

"Not today."

If you're reading this, you're probably someone who played with me and Caspian in the past.  If so, welcome!  Good to see you again!  There are a few changes in his personal history you might be interested to know about.

The first thing to know is that this Caspian is essentially the same as the old one, with one major difference: he is, for all intents and purposes, alive.  If he's out of Aslan's Country, he will age.  He can die or be killed. 

The reasoning behind this, as discussed with our resident Aslan, is that it makes more sense for Aslan to have brought Caspian back to life after the events of The SIlver Chair, not just as a dead guy who looks seventeen forever.

WHAT THIS MEANS:

- Caspian aged during his previous time in the Bar.  Thus, he's approximately 22 or 23 at the time of his return.
- He did not marry Lucy. 

(In this continuity, the only difference from previous game is that Caspian was alive; therefore he and Lucy, while together, would not have married, leaving her free to leave with the other Narnians for Aslan's Country.)

- Instead of leaving for Aslan's Country, he went with Tirian and Eustace to fight in The Last Battle (which is where he enters from).


These choices are the result of a lot of deliberation and talking with other muns, past and present.  Here is what it does NOT change:

- The fact that he's been gone for approximately five years (depending on the character and how the time has passed for them).
- Management of the stables.  If you have a stable question, please continue to go to the current management.
- Almost all of his millicanon aside from his wedding.  If your character remembers him, chances are good that memory lines up with his own.


Now, I certainly don't want to rewrite everyone's memory.  If you want, feel free to have your character remember him exactly as he was from the previous game.  Just be prepared to have them be really confused at each other for a while.

Questions? 

Oh, and PS: he's delighted to be back, and so am I.  Hello, Milliways.  It's been so very long.

"Get on, warriors," said the Tarkaan.  "Kill the beasts, but take the two-legged ones alive."

And then the last battle of the last King of Narnia began.

He'd come through the stable door at the calm in the middle of the chaotic storm: the Tarkaan and his men stood by the stable and the blazing fire while Tirian and those loyal to Narnia regrouped by the rock that protected their backs, the Dogs panting heavily, leaning heavy doggy bodies against his legs and barking loyalty and defiance into the clear night air.  The air thrums with the Calormene's drums, as their reinforcements march up the hillside towards the little group of rebels.

He does not recognize this place: this is Narnia generations after he last saw her, and there is little to see aside from the flash of the fire and the thick shadows of trees and bodies, the tracked-up grass and dirt from the first desperate skirmish.  By his side, Eustace is white-faced but standing firm, and Caspian claps his shoulder, drawing his attention for a quick moment, enough for his friend to smile, wanly.

"Not much of a homecoming, is it?"

"I would rather fight for my home than come back to a Narnia destroyed," says Caspian, drawing his sword as the Calormenes raise their blades and ready for the charge.  "Steady, cousin.  Raise your blade and stand firm.  Courage, now."

It's the last thing he gets to say for some time.

__

They'd started at the white rock, but it had all gotten confused from there, and when Caspian next makes note of his position, he finds he is closer than he cares to be to the still blazing fire.  Tirian, he sees as he knocks aside a curved Calormene blade, is dueling the Tarkaan; Eustace is nowhere to be seen and he thought he'd seen Jill dragged off in the direction of the stable.

It's all he can take note of before he stumbles on a loose, half-charred log and the man he's fighting presses the advantage, landing a numbing blow on Caspian's arm.  He's nearly forced down, but ducks quickly to toss a handful of ash and cinders at his opponent's face, leaving his hand stinging but regaining the upper ground.  No sooner has his man been cut down, though, than another appears, launching into the fray with a flurry of steel against steel that leaves Caspian's hand aching and his arm numb with the vibrations of each heavy hit.  Behind him, he hears a howl of misery as Tirian pulls the Tarkaan into the stable, but he has almost no time to react to the knowledge that their line is scattered and their defense lost before he, too, is pushed back into the dim doorway.

 It's a rather lovely day in Ambergeldar.  Perhaps a bit hot, and the flowers he wanders past in the garden a bit dry, but the sky is a sunny bowl of blue and the wind is cool against his face, and he is so pleased to be here that he puts his hands in his pockets and whistles a bit as he walks.

It hadn't been hard to convince Marta to let him take Merry out for playtime; he'd pointed out, truthfully, that he hasn't yet had enough time with the boy to make up for the years missed, so he'd spent a delightful morning talking with his nephew and building unrefined but surprisingly sturdy fortresses out of blocks, and going to the orchard to see if any apples were ripe (they weren't, but that didn't stop them looking).

But he'd taken Merry back to the nursery a few moments ago, smiling at the weight of a sleepy head on his shoulder and at the way his nephew curled into himself when he was laid carefully down in bed.  Now, there isn't anything for him to do, in particular, until Amy is free, and he'd assured her he can take care of himself.  

Perhaps if he had a three-volume novel, he might sit for a while and read; as it is, he finds himself wandering through the gardens, looking with faint interest at the blooming flowers.  They're quite pretty, though hardly anything he knows anything about.

My dear, brave Marian,

This was made for me on my coronation day, as a reminder to never lose hope.  I pass it to you.

Remember that there is a Lion, and that he loves you. When he returns, there will be great good again. Remember that.

And that nothing you love is ever, ever lost.

Be well, my dear friend.

Caspian

Enclosed are two items: a leatherbound book with the careful, handwritten title: Being a Record of the Journey of Caspian the Seafarer to the East, and a heavy object she has seen before, on his hand; a large ring made of gold on which a lion roars.

Dwarves, he's always held, make the best steel. His armor in Narnia had been light and flexible, but sturdy, able to keep him from harm despite the fervor of his foes. He's long considered dwarves to be the finest of craftsmen when it comes to the art of weaponry, and Gimli is no exception. The sword he'd forged in payment for aid is light but strong, sturdy, but sharp, and the steel gleams like crystal. Caspian studies the roaring lion at its pommel for a long while, then sets the point of the blade against a barrel top, and sets to whetting its edge.

Shiiiiiiiiiink. The stone makes a slithering, silvery sound against the steel. It shivers into his blood, makes something in his heart wake up, pay attention. Behind him, Kiseki tugs some straw from his manger, unconcerned.

It takes a while before he's satisfied, before the blade is so sharp it can cut as cleanly as he wishes, but once it does, he sheathes the sword and sets it against the wall.

One more night. They'd agreed to stay long enough to form some sort of plan, to say ... whatever goodbyes might need to be said.

When he steps out into the beginnings of a dusky evening and turns his face to the sky, hands in his pockets, he's not sure he knows, precisely, what it is he's saying goodbye to.

Isn't he going home, in a way?

( Narnia never was right except when a son of Adam was King. )

The room he had shared with Lucy is empty, now, but for a small pile of letters and objects on the desk: his wedding ring gleams near two books, handwritten and bound in leather. On top of them stands a small pink horse.

Nearby sits the stockline record and employment record.

( Bernard )


( Josiah )

( Marian )

( Mal )

( Amy )

Here's what's true:

Caspian, along with a number of the other Narnian characters, is going to be retired from Milliways on Sunday, July 15th. This will leave the problems of a disconsolate Lorna and also no stablemaster, both of which are not to be wished for, for their own reasons, but the second can and will be addressed!

Now! I've waited a long while to try to work this out, and there was a reason: I wanted to see if any one character (preferably one Caspian knew) stood out in his or her devotion to the stables and the horses, as Caspian had when Susan Allgood left the charge of the stables to him. Despite waiting, I didn't see any particular pup stand out...but that doesn't mean none are up to it.

If you, or your pup, are interested in running the stables, please comment here and I will get in touch with you.

It's possible the care might need to go to a team rather than one master and lots of employees, and that's fine. But please be aware that this is something that will need to be ongoing, as a security appointment is and as bartending is. Caspian, in his time as stablemaster, has had to weather a good deal of problems and plots, and you must be able to realistically work out the affects of Milliways on its stables:

For example, I've Millicanoned a few paddocks built and moved around for the stallions, because Milliways has an utterly absurd amount of stallions and in any real stable they'd all be at each other's throats.

There are a lot of things to consider, but it is also very fulfilling and can be extremely good for your character.

Questions? Comments? Please direct them here.

It's early yet, but Caspian had woken up and found the usual morning drowsiness absent, so he had dressed and come out to the stable for chores, exchanging nods with the few others up and about. The mares and geldings are taken out to pasture; the stallions split between the few sectioned paddocks, and they're grazing placidly while the grain is filled, the stalls cleaned, the floors swept.

Eager enough hands help, and soon the morning chores are done, but it is such a fine morning--bright and clear--that the temptation is to stay outside, to sit against a tree with hands loose between his knees and watch the sun on the lake--the bay, rather.

(It's hard to look at the bay and not see white lilies or the spiraling towers of Cair Paravel.)

So that is what Caspian does. He's been doing rather a lot of it, lately.

( Merriman )

( Security )

( Amy )