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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He nods, glancing up to meet her eyes, seeking self-containment enough to school his features, still the muscles that want to send him either burying into the ground or fleeing for the cooling, covering safety of the water. "Thank you."

This can be relied upon, at least. The measured words, calm voice. Lessons wrought into him, woven over each other, year by year, in the castle rooms long ago. Necessary for interactions with Aunt Prunaprismia, and, to a lesser extent, the dignitaries of his later years. Perfect control of tone, timbre, word choice; the mantle of manners that has served him so well.

That is so less than the most helpful sort of mantle he might have at this exact moment, but threadbare though it is, he clings to it like he clings to Kate's duster, doing his best to cover -- well, whatever he can with the worn brown cloth.

None of it can keep relief at Marian's disappearance from appearing on his face, and he chances a look at Kate, staring so determinedly up at the blue sky above.

How long, he wonders, will it be before he can clear his throat without expecting it to come out as another pathetic ribbit?

This one works, at least. "I'm grateful, Kate. And I -- apologize for the disturbance."

"Oh, no. No, no bother at all."

Nope. No bother, no fuss; this is a perfectly normal conversation shared between two perfectly respectable friends in a perfectly ordinary setting. Certainly neither of them are as naked as a jaybird, or trying desperately to rein in laughter.

"Things here have a way of takin' you by surprise. I'm only glad it ain't permanent, an' that we don't hafta go huntin' for some villain through the bar proper."

She absently points to the horizon.

There's a bird.

Birds are a safe focal point.

"Y'might want t'shift things an inch t'the left, however."

Ahem.

He hazards a glance, colors brightly, and adjusts the borrowed duster.

Caspian has been raised to move with grace since birth. He is not prone to nervous tics, or allowing surprise or shock to get the better of him.

But Kate will perhaps understand why, once he has made certain that the duster has made him as decent as might be expected, one hand lifts to scrub through his hair, rub over his jaw. Or why he coughs, uncomfortable.

"Surprise, aye.

"I must say, this was somewhat unexpected."

To say the least.

Edited 2013-02-24 18:14 (UTC)

"Could y'fill me in on more'a what happened now?"

Now that he can speak.

Now that he is — at least somewhat decent.

He shakes his head as his hand lifts away from it, and his eyes, when they find Kate again, are clear but bewildered.

"I wish that I could. One moment I was introducing a newcomer to the Bar, and the next --"

The hand lifts, palm up, then falls back to the duster. "I remember there being a bump. Someone accidentally nudging into me. There was spilled tea, and a purple cloud, and then, well..."

That hand makes an aborted attempt to return to his hair or the back of his neck, but he manages to keep it still, with an effort. "The rest, you know."

Kate frowns.

"It's lucky Marian was about."

Sounds very much like one of her world's stories. Vaguely, she's impressed they were able to communicate as well as they did without words or significant looks or ... opposable thumbs. More than that, she's pondering the implications of why and how this worked. Not that she had any doubt that it would, but it says something about Marian and Caspian's relationship that neither of them are prepared to voice for themselves.

Her lips twitch.

"That is t'say, with her status as a law enforcer here, and her — privileged relationship with you. King Caspian."

If she were looking right at him, you might call her look Pointed.

That word, and the pause before it -- privileged -- might make more of an impact, were he not nearly pained at the next.

"Kate, that isn't necessary."

It isn't a part of his life here, and his life here is all that is left, now.

(King of a lost land, Prince of an abandoned country)

Still, the grey eyes are level, and apologetic. "I have no title here."

She shakes her head softly, dismissing the apology with one of her own. Blue eyes the color of the sea during a storm, lightning splitting her brow.

"I'm sure there's a whole big story behind that one, but now ain't the time for it."

A smile, scant and encouraging.

"I'm jus' glad you're all right. Hopefully no worse for the wear. This'll jus' be our secret, all right?"

To that she adds a wink.

The wink won't do much to smooth his mood today, Kate, but he might appreciate it, under better circumstances.

As it is, he meets her gaze with lips pressing slightly, aware that the time spoken of is likely to come sooner than he might otherwise enjoy.

But, "Thank you," is all he says, simple. He owes Kate, if not his life, certainly his humanity, for her quick thinking and action, but his gratitude, while entire, can't quite keep him from wondering about the form those actions took.

"I only wish aid had not been required. I owe you and Lady Marian an apology."

There's a faint question there, should Kate see fit to note it: namely, why Marian had to be involved at all. He's still not certain that there's any sort of privilege that might require her to be pulled in to a case such as this, and it would have mitigated his embarrassment most acutely.

The trip to the bar ends up a little more surprising than expected. When there are still a pile of Caspian's clothes near Mistress Bar. At least she assumes they are all his. It is one outfit, and at least the shirt she has seen recently enough to know it looks familiar since his return. Even if it is covered with a wide spill of something down the back of it.

Something she's wise enough by now, all these years later, to neither touch, breathe in or mess with.

Marian folded them carefully, avoiding touching the darker strain on the material, and placed it all on the bar. Fingers resting on the bar as she firsts asks to have it all and a note delivered to the Security Office. Conveying information about Royalty Frog Curses. Following it up with asking for another set of shoes and clothes of the same sizes and types.

That was gathered into her arms, and she was right back out the door, and across the grass. Toward where Kate still stood, a darker, duster-free, sentinel of color against the day and sky and grass, and Caspian kneeled on the grass, still, with the shielding jumper held tight to him, beside her. Marian took a breath in, finding at least that much easier, against and with her filled hands.

"Here you are," she said, once she'd gotten close enough. Crossing the last of the distance between. Enough to fill in the small smile lingering on Kate's face and the deep lack of any answering one, anywhere, on Caspian's face. "They should be the right sizes."

Before Marian's return, Kate assures Caspian that there's no reason for him to apologize. He couldn't have known what would happen. Besides, having folk beside you for your most humiliating moments — that's friendship, isn't it?

The questioning note in his voice gives her more pause, however. She isn't prepared to answer even as the Lady returns to them, though she does manage a soft:

"I'm sure she didn't mind."

She smiles at the other woman, glancing between the two, and recalls her manners. Turning abruptly, she brings her back to Caspian. For privacy's sake, should he change here or carry his fresh clothes elsewhere.

He's not sure that's entirely accurate -- though of course Marian would come to his aid, he never would, never could doubt that she might -- but it isn't worth arguing, especially once she can be seen once more, coming quickly from the direction of the bar and carrying what thankfully looks like his clothes.

Partly, anyway -- the shirt is missing, but Marian has provided an alternate, and he glances at both of them, once they've turned, before rapidly slipping on both pants and shirt, the latter loose but comfortable and, more importantly, opaque.

He simply has to try to forget the fact that two of his friends are standing nearby. Two ladies. Improper enough to be either naked or changing into clothes out in the open, where anyone might see; doubly, triply so in their presence, but there is simply no helping it. It is change here and now, or attempt to break for the stables or woods, and risk further eyes.

It does not make his decision to opt for the former any more pleasing or less mortifying.

Done, he shakes the duster out, folds it carefully over one arm, and proffers it and the hat back to Kate, tapping her lightly on the arm to get her attention without actually having to say words aside from: "Thank you, my lady. These serve most agreeably," directed to Marian, as he steadily ignores the rising warmth in his face.

It is a beautiful day, across the grounds. Blue rolling sky. Thin white clouds. Rolling green grass. Which might be true, or, more aptly, might be more helpful, if Marian didn't feel like she was looking through it, and beyond it, the way one did with the window panes of glass in Milliways and Arch. When she's seeing it, but she's not seeing it. Glancing to one side to Kate, who had at least found her.

Grateful that it had been easier than most of the things Security had ever dragged her in to, even in the spurt of the oddest restless awkwardness, facing away, while clothing rustled in quick movements behind them. A quick thing all together, when Marian is shifting the moment Kate's turning to look at being touched. Handed back her things with an expression on Caspian's face that looks so very, barely, mollified for the addition of the clothes.

That do fit. And are back where they should be. When she's not trying to reconcile the fall of his shirt on his shoulder and a slope of bone there. Milliways. Living to make things unexpectedly awkward. At least they had stopped it before anything else could happen to him. At least it was only them. That he was fixing them with that flushed, and all too courtly, expression, only settled to tug at something else in her.

Drawing her hands together in front of her as she nodded, as though it were a given. There was little he'd ever need ask of her, even when he couldn't ask, that she wouldn't try if she could. That was less troubling than the knowledge the expression on his face would take even longer to wear away, likely. "Perhaps, you'd be willing to explain what it was that put you in that state?"

Manners are a last bastion behind which he can collect himself; it's a way he holds himself, shoulders even and back straight, a particular precision of words used. And with Marian, particularly, it is easy to fall back on those old instincts: the court mannerisms, the calm and reserve that saved him through so many tense debates or requests impossible to grant.

"If I could, I surely would tell you all," he says, instead, grateful for the loose shirt and his pants, tugging on boots. The previous shirt is nowhere to be seen, and he can only assume Marian, having found the rest of the items, has seen fit to put it elsewhere -- likely in an attempt to find the thing that caused the transformation to begin with.

"I was making introductions to the lady Bar for a newcomer, when someone bumped my shoulder. I believe there was spilled tea involved, and a plume of purple smoke. Sadly, I can tell nearly no more now than I could share with Kate in my previous state."

At least he has words now, though. It certainly makes him feel better, useless though they might turn out to be.

She, supposes, she understands, even when she stays a polite distance, next to Kate. Watching him attend to boots, and keep himself in a far more defined posture now than he'd ever had with just the duster. Most certainly had not had while he was a small green frog trapped in her hand.

There were some days she really wasn't all that fond of the things that became normal side effects of choosing to be here.

"Tea?" Marian gave a half-aborted glance toward the bar.

Her thoughts turning with alacrity toward the waiting tea tray, and the shirt she'd sent away. Wondering if she had narrowly missed something. But, also, aware, it wasn't actually a very clear first-person accounting of what happened. Which was often the case her with magic gone awry. No one know quite what had happened, or how it had been caused.

"I did find your other shirt near the bar, and it had something on it," but she couldn't be certain one way or the other either. About whether it was tea, any more than why Kate had deemed herself any less of a friend to Caspian where it came to attempt breaking the curse. "But I sent it over to Security, in case this is only the beginning."

Other things, some less and some weirder, had started far smaller things. It never hurt to be safe. Especially here.

Kate looks at Marian.

She looks at Caspian.

Marian.

Caspian.

Marian.

It's as if she's watching a birdie fly to and fro between a pair of rackets, rather than an exchange of polite words and furtive glances that make it hard on her not to roll her eyes or grin. She succeeds for the most part with the former, but the latter proves slightly more tricky.

Maybe someday she'll fill Marian in on just exactly why her presence was necessary. It's a role Kate herself couldn't now or ever fill.

Caspian.

Marian.

Caspian.

(Sometimes, she just wants to lock the two of them in a stall until they sincerely talk.)

"Tea?"

At that, her eyes slide to Marian, expression more somber.

"S'pose that could have somethin' t'do with it. Though, I — well, I'm feelin' optimistic there won't be an outbreak of this across the bar."

"I certainly hope not. Though at least the cure seems simple enough. Particularly since it doesn't seem to distinguish whether the lady is a princess or not."

Marian isn't, after all, a princess. She is a noblewoman and a lady, but not royalty, in her land or any other, and she would be the first to admit that, readily. He's looking at her as he says so, and glances towards Kate after, to catch the flickering shadow of something that looks almost like a smile before it evaporates into curious interest.

It's odd. He glances between them, meeting Marian's eyes and holding them until his discomfort almost overcomes the manners drilled in over the course of a lifetime, years of them, of the proper words, the way to hold himself, speak to others. Kept in check even during times of war or strife.

Even if there is something that cannot even be called accusation in his voice, because Kate acted quickly and intelligently and broke the curse, whatever it was, but Kate also very likely didn't need to pull Marian into it at all, not if a princess was not required.

As his glance lands on her, her smile returns. It's softer and meant to be encouraging, if not soothing.

"In the story I'm familiar with, the frog an' the princess built quite a rapport before the spell was broken. I reckon station might not have much at all t'do with it, rather how their relationship grew."

She absently unfolds her duster, shakes it out, refolds it. Her eyes betray nothing, but were they to see beyond her carefully chosen words she wouldn't mind much.

"'Course, could be as simple as a kiss; the princess might've never broken the curse without knowin' the trapped prince within, but we'll never know what might've happened had she pecked 'im right off the bat. However, had I tried, I reckon we'd be caught up in a whole new world of awkwardness right now, seein' as how my lips are somewhat infamous, an' not in the good way."

As shocking as it's been figuring out he's got title and station she never knew about before, she can't rightly recall if he knows her moniker, or what all it entails. She glances at Marian, and then takes a deep breath.

"Anyhow, important thing for all of us t'remember is it worked. The how an' why ain't important. Right now."

Later, on the other hand ...

She isn't, a princess, and the point is all but hardly worth belaboring.

Because she isn't and the both know it, but in the end that detail doesn't matter was much as the fact it did end. That it is over. That Caspian is back to being tall, fair, and blonde, instead of small, green and panicked. The whole thing awkwardly passed, and making really only about as much sense as any other strange magical outbreak here.

The kind of things to just nod about, so it can be over, and she can shake her head, at the sheer regularity of the oddness of this place while she drinks her -- well, anything but tea for a few days hence. Hot chocolate? Mulled wine? Water, even. Something else. Until the place seemed quiet, the possibility passed, and events of it didn't crop into more Security Reports.

Especially when Marian is giving a speculatively uncertain, curiosity touched, look toward Kate at the commentary on herself. Which is not so much a conversation she can say comes up frequently anywhere near her world. Maybe if she hadn't boycotted sitting rooms, and girl's with fripperies for brains, as much as they forgot her.

She does not argue that, maybe, Kate's wisdom about knowing Caspian whether it is six years, or four, or two, depending on realms and time frames, does not matter, long. That fact is as untouchable as the sky, and she can't claim to know a single thing about Royalty Frog Curses, but she is rather to the point on other things.

"You're infamous for kissing someone the wrong way?" Marian's expression right now twisting pointedly, if maybe even a touch awkwardly, suspicious. Forgive her the fact it does at least give her something else to make a face at that is not the feeling like polite, classicist, decorum just built its own castle between her and Caspian. Thanks, Kate.

She might actually have chosen shooting someone over that. Thing have been quiet touchy enough with all his losses.

She breathes in, holds it, glances between the two.

A smile quirks her lips, nearly bashful, wholly uncomfortable.

"Mayhaps I left out a few details 'bout bein' an outlaw."

It was just easier at the time, finding that thread of common ground and building on it. Respect, kinship, and familiarity blossoming quick as a weed. And maybe, well, just maybe Kate needed that. And maybe she was afraid of losing it.

Another look passes from Marian to Caspian. Dear friends, both kin in their own different ways. Is now really the time, after the ordeal Caspian's just been through?

"It's a — "

She pauses, pushing her hair behind her ears, and starts over.

"Newspapers in my world. They call me 'Kissin' Kate Barlow'. It's — a long story. Now ain't the time."

To his credit, Caspian does not actually mouth the words Kissin' Kate?, either to himself or to Marian. Kate, his friend, who has just helped him with such astute insight and good speed, is looking more than a little uncomfortable, and she's right. It's not important, not now.

"There's more than one long story to be told," he agrees, glancing to Marian. He doubts Kate will think more kindly of his secrets once she knows that, of all the folk still here, only Marian and Amy know his whole story, his past and title. "It was wrong of me to keep secrets from you, Kate. I cry your pardon. You've proven a true friend more than once, and I'm ashamed to have lied, even by a lack of admission."

He pauses, shakes his head, with a half-smile that's part abashed and part rueful. "But I think you are correct that right now is not the time."

To her credit more than not, Marian is not actually ill adept at holding her tongue.

It keeps her alive in certain situations just as much as speaking out against injustice keeps her breathing.

Which means that she can look between the two of them and leave it at that. Kate's story, a kissing wrong somehow kind of story, that can't be told, along with Caspian's secrets, and past, that have been further revealed, and the world of Frog Royalty Curses she'd almost rather not have learned of.

But she can hold her tongue, her questions, the things she's incredibly grateful for the fact aren't being talked about. Puzzling seconds of things she's still trying to blink away from existing in her memory. Things that leave her cheeks flushed and her gaze a little more circumstance than normal, even when things are fine. Which they are. Fine. Now.

Even if time and tales between her friends, and herself, will understandable wait for a later, better time for them all.

It's Kate's turn now to turn a little red. The alias, and all it entails, is hardly complimentary. She wouldn't have held it against Caspian had he mouthed or repeated the words, or had Lady Marian not been able to bite her tongue. The looseness, the intrigue it implies, combined with the knowledge that it's tied to why she's an outlaw. All the things she's done.

At least Caspian can take some comfort in knowing he isn't the only one feeling a little embarrassed under Marian's bright eyes. She may be the only one among them not owing an explanation. It's all right, though. They still stand friends, Caspian's words a salve, and Kate scrapes together a smile and a nod.

"S'all right. I'm jus' surprised, but at least it explains the itty bitty crown y'was wearin'. Y'sure you're all right? Perhaps we should make our way inside an' sit down a spell, have some drinks."

Beat.

"Anythin' but tea."

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The Frog Prince, or: Kate Was Right All Along

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