the_seafarer | The Frog Prince, or: Kate Was Right All Along

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The Frog Prince, or: Kate Was Right All Along

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.

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The sky is cerulean, sunlight cut in such stunning prisms of light; catching the the low whitecaps across the lake, shimmering on the tall grasses as the wind shifts them to and fro. It's, in a word, glorious.

Kate's been in the stables since dawn, though her morning chores were done hours ago. It's too perfect a day to go in, and so she's been working with Corella's foal, Concession, Beaut. Lunging and hot walking. Duncan is next, and then she'll move on through her charges until the sun sinks beyond the far horizon.

After a long winter, there's nothing so satisfying as a day of hard work spent in the glimmering sun.

It's disorienting, the long leaps up and the sudden springing from a freefalling drop. The world is moving in sickening waves, like the worst storms on the Treader, lifting and sinking abruptly, now green, now blue, while his heart beats a bewildered tattoo. The stables feel like a century away, seesawing closer with every leap, skewing crazily to the sides like he's being blown off course. He can't seem to get his back legs and forelegs to agree with each other; they argue with every jump, send him careening too far to the right or left, where the ground greets him like a trampoline and off he goes again.

Birds have never been a concern of his, previously. Neither birds, nor cats, nor any of the creatures prowling the grounds extending around the bar, but a shadow passes overhead and he finds himself, once again, turned to stone, nothing but the thin skin at his throat vibrating in the pattering terror of the pitifully small animal.

He might have turned into a Talking Frog, but his luck seems to have run out there, as well.

Finally, a last desperate lunge sends him ricocheting onto the clean, flat floor of the stables, where strands of stray bar his way like rope, and flutter strangely as he hops past, aiming for Aslan only knows what, or where -- the safety of the indoors, a sheltered corner, a friendly face, a worn leather wall he slams into with a thud that lays him sprawled and awkward, limbs askew, blinking and bemused, on the floor.

Leather that looks familiar, and he lands on his back as he attempts looking up, but it's enough to find a flash of gold, a hat he knows, and a strange sort of determination sinks in like a net under his skin, sending him scrambling upright, and barreling once, twice, three times into the boot in front of him, knocking whatever meager body weight he can against the ankle inside it.

What in tarnation?

Turning and expecting to see one of the forge cats, it takes Kate's eyes a moment to register what's happening.

Thump. Thump. Thump. Thumpthumpthump.

"Christ inna chicken basket, the hell're y'doin', li'l man?"

Taking care not to step on the very confused amphibian, Kate makes sure Duncan's lead is secure on the wall hook, and bends to catch the hopper. Slicker than a greased pig and twice as panicky, it takes a few attempts.

"Y'don't belong in here, sugar. You'll either get squashed or ate."

What.

What is —?

A glint of sharp gold peeks between her fingers.

All gravity ceases and he's suddenly enclosed, vibrating with panic and knocking himself against her hands, callused from work but gentle around him. Even her soothing voice only makes the urge to leap stronger, and he bashes accidentally into a finger before shrinking into a nugget of himself on her palm, staring up with round golden eyes.

Kate! he says, desperate, throat inflating.

Or, tries.

"Ribbit."

The frustration alone nearly sends him sailing towards the floor in a disgusted hop.

Edited 2013-02-22 05:34 (UTC)

That is one harried creature.

"All right, all right. Calm yourself down, fella, you're only gonna hurt yourself."

The crown is ... suspicious. Kate's been around these haunts for far too long to think it random. She quickly pins down the date in her mind. No, no strange bar holidays that she knows of. No sicknesses have been going around. No suspicious foods.

"Where'd y'come from, hmm? It's far too warm for you t'be this far from water. You're whiter'n spit in a cotton field, which is sayin' somethin' for a li'l guy of your natural disposition."

Her finger gently rubs the side of his head where an ear might be, were he of another shape.

That feels nice. Soothing. Cal--

No, wait, he is hardly soothed, and calm is a fair few leagues still. Each jerk of his body sends him catapulting towards the edges of her hands, and he overcorrects, finds himself slewing the opposite direction.

"Ribbit," he says, disdainful, and blinks at her in unhappy bewilderment.

How to say? He cannot speak, cannot show, cannot lead--

Well. Now. That last is not entirely true, now, is it? He gathers himself, pushes from her palms in a reckless leap towards Kiseki's stall, further down the stable row.

At least, that's certainly the idea, but these confounded limbs are near impossible to control, and his aim veers alarmingly off course, sending him arcing abruptly towards her shoulder instead.

There's only one problem.

When a slightly wet, slick, clammy amphibian goes flying from the gentle control of your hands to the open space in front of your face, one's natural reaction is to lean back. Which means the haphazard aim toward her shoulder ends up a touch lower.

Kate may never use the word 'ample' to describe her own bosom, but that makes it no less true when the frog is safely cushioned from falling to the floor, and a slightly red Kate scrabbles for the crowned creature once more.

"Whoopsie daisy."

To put things in a lighthearted way.

(She's very resolvedly not considering the possibility he might be other than an ordinary frog anymore.)

"Listen here, sunshine. I'm reckonin' that you're not your every day kind of frog, so if y'can understand me then listen up. There's more'n a few curious cats 'round here, an' quick on the draw as I may be, I ain't sure I could save you in time should one come by while you're floppin' about like a fish outta water. So if you'll simmer down, you an' I will figure a way of communicatin' that don't involve you spelunkin' or becomin' somebody's dinner."

She straightens her blouse, placing him gently on the ground. Blue eyes peer into panicked gold, a concerned line between her brows.

"Teja?"

It's a shot in the dark, but he's the only royalty she really knows well, and he does have stock here.

It's not a word he recognizes, but he might well be too mortified to pay attention to anything Kate's saying at all, averting his eyes as best he can and feeling a strange lack of heat in what passes for his cheeks. The frog body isn't built for the action of placing hands over his face, but he can stare at the floor and allow a few miserable thoughts to pass briefly through his head.

He is a king. He has faced adversity, and triumphed, all his life. He has been in far worse, and far stranger situations.

But this is, truly, as trying an afternoon as he can recall having occurred, in any world visited or life lived. It is alarming, to be so very small, and aggravating in the extreme to have lost all voice.

Returning to the problem at hand: Kate is an intelligent woman, but even she could not possibly hope to guess that the little frog crouched before her is her friend Caspian. He, himself, had tried to slay the dragon at the beach before realizing it was Eustace, and he supposes he should count himself lucky she's a kind person whose sympathy extends to the sort of creatures generally greeted with swift guidance out the door.

Except he hadn't realized, had he? Had not the faintest clue the dragon with the horribly swollen arm and the shining band of gold was his friend and companion, not until lines clumsily scratched in the sand spelled out the name they'd sought.

The frog's limbs are clumsy when not in flight or coiled to spring, and the half-circle he tries to draw pulls too close to be clearly read, so he follows it up with a hapless, somewhat lopsided, larger version, written in three careful but awkward leaps.

She has the distinct impression she's being exasperating.

With reserved patience, she watches the frog. It takes a moment to figure out what he's attempting to do.

"'C'?"

To his good fortune, the list of names that comes to mind is short, and very quickly followed by a succession of thoughts. C, the stables, and, just over her shoulder, Kiseki's stall.

"Caspian?"

Relief is swift and complete.

The frog-who-is-Caspian blinks at her, disconsolate.

"Ribbit."

The appropriate level of despair is sorely lacking.

That ain't exactly a yes, and it ain't exactly a no.

"Hop once for 'no', an' twice for 'yes'."

Hop.

Hop.

The second sends him veering at a sharp, unplanned angle, but it is distinctly there.

"Oh my god."

Panic may now commence.

"Lordy mercy!"

It still needs time to sink in.

"Jesus, Joseph, an' Mary!"

She'll be helpful sooner or later, we promise.

"Caspian? But how —? An' the crown — you're a ... "

!

"How long've y'been like this? More'n a day?"

RIGHT?

Caspian cannot agree verbally, but that doesn't stop him from hopping in agitation from side to side, before losing control, spindly limbs splaying in the air and sending him bounding in wretched slaloming jumps.

He's a frog, Kate. It's starting to sink in over here just fine.

It's perhaps fortunate the amphibious nervous system is not nearly sophisticated enough to deal with this particularly extensive degree of existential crisis.

The question is a little harder to answer, but he pauses, throat thrumming, and then hops, once, and holds himself fervently still, willing another not to kick in and send him flipping into an accidental yes.

Once, for no.

Edited 2013-02-22 06:49 (UTC)

Kate does not hold herself with the particular grace of a lady of society, but she does have the still, precise movements of a woman who had been raised to be prim, polite, and proper.

It takes everything in her not to FLAP HER HANDS IN UTTER PANIC and flail like a hummingbird playing pin the tail on the donkey.

"No? No. Good. That's — that's good. Didja eat anythin', or do this on purpose?"

It had to be asked, just in case.

This hop is short and a little sharp.

No, Kate. Caspian would never consider himself elitist, but that hardly means he would willingly turn himself into a frog. He has nothing against the creatures, personally, but even he would have to admit that becoming one is most disagreeable.

Legs and tiny body are quivering, wanting to burst into frenzied, panicked activity. Fear, panic, predators! The world is so large and he is so very small.

It's an extraordinarily uncomfortable feeling.

Edited 2013-02-22 06:58 (UTC)

What are these legs and these golden flecked eyes and that impossible crown and how does it stay on his little head and

is that meowing?

"Holy shit!"

IT'S OKAY, EVERYBODY STAY CALM. She scoops him back up, bringing him to eye level. Imploring eyes focus on him with all her resolve.

"It's okay, sugar. I've got you. Jesus, d'you need water? What are y'supposed t'do when you're a frog?"

These are not things she was taught in Tulane.

Scrambling back to her feet, she cups him in her hands, close to her heart, heading straight out the barn doors toward the water.

"All right. Okay. Let's think for a moment. Y'didn't do this on purpose, it ain't a holiday, y'didn't eat anythin' strange — didja run into anybody off-puttin'? Anybody new? Jus' ribbit for me."

It's just like everything goes haywire at that one inquisitive meowwrrr?

Half of him tries to freeze. The other half tries to flee. The result is a haphazard fumble of limbs both too long and far too short, and he simply cannot be eaten by a cat, what on earth would he tell the others, Peter would never stop being astounded and Caspian suspects he would be laughed at under the guise of sympathy.

For Aslan's sake, he hadn't survived Narnia's fall only to be consumed by a tabby cat like some unsuspecting hapless field mouse.

Kate swoops to the rescue, though, and he freezes in the cup of her palms, and spirits him back into the outdoors, where his eyes fix on the sky and he hunches a little smaller, instincts warring with the humiliation of being forced to remain still and small and, worse, to be carried about so haplessly. He's grateful, but it's hardly a position anyone might wish to find themselves in.

"Ribbit?"

Faintly uncertain. He did meet someone new, but Belle had hardly seemed like any sort of threat. There'd been a bump, and the scent of spilled tea, and then --

Well. Even if he could, he'd hardly point out the obvious.

Her gaze darts to him briefly at that questioning tone.

Her tawny duster licks at her ankles as they decline toward the shore, air balmy and moist.

"All right, so there was someone new. Magician? Witch? God?"

She stops suddenly, lifting him to eye level again.

"Didja see any unusual colors?"

The frog stares at her, and blinks once in a fashion that suggests he might be rolling those bug-eyes if he could. Caspian would never, but even Caspian's unshakeable manners are straining tight at the seams.

Words, Kate. The frog is ill-equipped for them.

"Right."

Merping Milliways.

"Right. That's all right. I think I got a finger on what's happenin'."

Finding a patch of medium-tall grass, she gently sets him down in a shallow pool — taking care to adjust his teeny golden crown. Straightening, she begins to pace while she explains.

"There's a story in my world where a wicked enchantress turns a handsome young prince into a frog. He's cursed t'stay that way until a princess sets 'im free. Not that I'm sayin' you're stuck that way. M–maybe you'll be back t'normal by mornin'. But it makes the most sense.

"I only can't figure that crown."

Because Caspian isn't royalty.

Surely that would have come up.

The frog-who-was-Caspian sits where she places him, and watches as she paces, the grasses trembling around him, the pool lapping gently at his skin, soothing water.

He could swim. The whole idea of it is nothing but appealing at the moment; he could sink into cool calming water, swim away, flee Kate's pacing boots and panicked eyes and the humiliation of finding himself suddenly a fraction of his usual size.

So he tries to focus -- on Kate, not the buzzing flies humming lazily through the tall grass, because that thought is going nowhere good -- and listens, as well as he can, when every sense is flickering into terror at every flicker of her shadow over the pool.

It makes a kind of sense. He'd never heard such a story, himself, but Lucy had often spoken of enchanted princes and princesses from the stories told in her England, and this seems to fit a similar pattern, true enough, though Kate's missing a piece of the puzzle. Enough of one that the way he looks away, blinking, throat inflating and depressing again, might even seem shamefaced.

If such a thing could be said to be seen on a frog, enchanted or otherwise.

Lucky for Caspian, Kate's not well versed in frog expressions. It's hard enough distinguishing between his ribbits. If it weren't for that small crown, he would look like any other frog.

Any other frog with a fondness for leather boots and a lack of sensibility.

"If it weren't the Miss who did this t'you, it might be a trick t'get y'back t'normal. If y'could remember who did this t'you, I could try an' pin 'im down. Or ... "

Beat.

"Wait, I have a notion."

Or?

He waits, but this body isn't meant for waiting, and it's impatient at best, until she opens her mouth again and those words drop out, and he can't help himself, springs forward.

He's a frog, Kate. Why is he a frog, Kate? What notion, what kind of a notion is it, he will honestly try anything to cease this wretched enchantment. In his agitation, he comes springing back towards her, limbs askew and eyes bugged and desperate.

Make it stop, Kate. He'll try anything, anything at all.

She turns on her heel, movements tight to avoid any clomping. Kneeling quickly, she holds out her hands to intercept any further head-to-boot damage.

"If that is what happened, there's a way of breakin' the spell. In the story, the princess jus' had t'kiss the frog an' he was restored t'his human form."

Well. There's also the version where the princess throws the frog across the room into a wall, but Kate does little more than purse her lips in acknowledgment of that option.

She meets the frog's eyes.

Blue on gold.

Determination on frenzy.

She sets her jaw.

"I'm gonna go fetch Marian."

And with that, she stands.

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