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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"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.

Marian?

Princess?

Kiss?

Kate isn't speaking any sort of sense, but she's in motion now, and Caspian is unsure whether he ought to accompany her, or stay put, but every twitch sends him hopping, unhappy, short little bursts that send him popping through the grass in the general direction Kate's headed.

She holds out her hands once more.

"Stay put here, where you'll be safe. I won't be but a tick. If she ain't around, then we'll figure somethin' else out."

Kate might be forced to try her hand, but she ain't Caspian's true love. Perhaps it's best she doesn't share this reasoning with him, as he is ~~as clueless as a plank of wood~~ much too proper for such talk. But it stands to reason Marian will have an effect on him.

With one last contrite expression, she turns and starts for the main bar.

"I'll be right back!"

Coincidentally, there is another such tea drinker today.

Not yet involved in new Milliways introductions, or in the mischief of Milliways magic.

Marian is seated at a round table in the bar. Skirts settled around her chair. A tea service tray with a fine porcelain tea set sits to her side, tea only finished steaming seconds ago, crumpets with dark bitter cherries resting on a matching plate. Marian, herself, is presently focused on a thin, dark bound book, with the single last name Rumi in the middle of the spine.

Kate bursts through the door with the flair she's acquired over the last year; hat low over her eyes, hair billowing, duster whipping around her legs. She stands in the doorway for a few seconds, eyes adjusting to the room.

Dark hair, security badge, fine skirts — come on, Marian. Where are you?

She eventually spies her table, and swiftly makes her way over.

"Lady Marian."

Her eyes are wide, grave, but she smiles as convincingly as she can.

"I need your help."

She looks up, instantly. The book coming down, a fingertip slipping between the pages, as she looks up to find Kate.

It has been a while, but not all that long for Marian. Which feels both too long, given Nottingham's endless suffocating walls, and, ultimately, unimportant in the wake of those first words. Drawing her delicate brows, as well as her shoulders together. Making her press upward from her seat, not lifting from it, but leaning toward the woman.

"Of course." She lifted her other hand, in a graceful turn, gesturing to the chair at her side. "Is everything alright?"

Kate is smiling. It can't be so bad that she needs her deep, immediate concern. But those words drive in daggers.

Edited 2013-02-23 05:23 (UTC)

Kate is at least attempting to radiate calm.

There's no easy way to say So you know Caspian? You know how he used to be a bipedal, blonde, human man? Well, about that ...

She takes the proffered seat, perched on the edge, elbows on her knees. She figures they won't be sitting here much longer.

"Nobody's hurt, or in any immediate danger. So, yes. In that sense, things are okay. However, there's been some kinda incident. I couldn't tell y'what happened, but Caspian came t'me in the stables. An', well."

She catches Marian's eyes.

"He's a frog."

Those first words are quite relieving. Enough so that she's actually already considering whether she'll need a second cup of tea. To let Kate tell her about whatever project or dilemma has placed this serious graveness within Kate's blue eyes. As she'd be glad to help as much as she can, for as long as she is still here.

Before she's certain she must have heard that wrong.

Marian's mouth draws closed, lips pressed together. Eyelashes fluttering through quick blinks of confusion. Her lips pressed together. Head tilting in direct, sharp unspoken question first. Dark curls falling to one side, over a shoulder. Eyebrows pushing upward. Too many words falling against them. The thought that it's not possible hitting every proof of Milliways since the day she walked

"Caspian is a frog?" A sharp, next possible moment, repetition.

Her mind at how and where, but her mouth, shooting out next, "Is he alright?"

Marian's blue-grey eyes were suddenly checking across Kate's hands and the pockets of her duster, as she was pushing up from her chair, leaving everything else, instantly, behind.

"As well as anyone could be expected in that kinda situation, far as I can tell. We're havin' some difficulty communicatin'."

She rises, hands out once more, this time to calm and console her friend as well as show that he is not currently with her.

"Come with me, an' I'll take you to 'im. He's ... well, he's in a state."

Marian gets the first message easily, with the hands held out. Caspian is not here. Caspian is somewhere else. Once, again, it repeats in her head. Caspian is a frog. She nodded, and gestured, hands slightly faster moving than normal, in a waved gesture to lead the way.

"Do you know how it happened? How long he's been this way?"

It seems strange that Caspian would fall under the workings of the general magic worked here.

He was on the people that warned her of everything here. But the magic did like to change in new and expected ways.
There's a seconds thought about writing this up for Security. That will wait until the problem has been handled though.

"I'm sorry t'say I don't know much more'n you do now."

She opens the door for her, recounting everything that's happened in the past twenty minutes as they make their way out into the afternoon sun.

"So, y'see, it ain't the normal bar fare, so far as I'm understandin'. Sounds t'me like someone, or some thing, had a hand in this. Which is how come I thought y'might be able t'help. Short'a findin' who did this, which appears nigh on impossible right now, there's only a few things that might help."

The closer they get to the little shelter she set him in, the clearer a small bounding ball of frenetic energy can be seen. Kate clucks.

"I told 'im t'stay hidden."

No self-preservation.

Kate leaves, in a brushing wave of grass, her duster sweeping over the blade tops, moving too fast for him to keep up even if he hadn't been told, sternly, if not unkindly, to keep himself put.

Easier said than done. He hears the words, and intends to obey, but the frog is edgy and unhappy, hopping in startled circles at every brief shadow or tremor in the ground. It's mortifying, being required to hide from birds he'd never have noticed in his natural state, and the minutes drag like years.

Kate's plan -- what is it? Could it possibly work? If not -- well, such things have historically worn off, in the past.

Haven't they?

A large shadow falls over him, and the frog freezes, trembling, until grass is bent by familiar skirts and Kate's boots, and he hops closer, towards Marian, who has never let him down, who will surely know what to do.

"Ribbit."

There is certainly a small frantic frog, green and, occasional, flashing gold. Hoping about everywhere. In a circle. Haphazard and in every direction. It's confusing and pitiful, tugging at her heart, even as it bewilders her. Sending her to her knees, in pile of skirts a few feet from him. Leaning down and reaching out, even as she's asking, "Caspian?"

She didn't like or dislike frogs, and couldn't even remember the last time she'd touched one. Maybe when she was a young girl, when Much and Robin could collect them and toss them into sewing circles through windows. Subtly until their laughter couldn't be drowned out by the screams even, when she'd collected them from under the feet of girls more likely to trample them on accident than cause any ill in the opposing direction.

But she was careful or at least tried to be very careful as she was picking him up. Even thought her fingers caught on the hard little crown, surprising her, when she was being so delicate. Making her look up toward Kate, "What is this f--" She'd tugged at it lightly, only to realize it wouldn't come off. "Is it stuck on him?"

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