the_seafarer | [ AU ] to break a curse

[ AU ] to break a curse

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.

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She accepts it from him and nods to one of the large armchairs. "There, an'ye would," Susan says, but doesn't move to cross the room yet. Instead, she curves her hand gently against the side of his face, stroking her thumb over the arch of his cheek.

"I'd thought to see to yer wound, then mayhap draw ye a bath."

Caspian nods, tipping his head gently into her touch before reaching up to take her hand in his so he can lead her slowly to the chair she'd indicated. He lets go of her hand as they walk, so he can address the ties of his boiled leather surcoat. His hands are steady, but his fingers feel strongly numb, and it takes him longer than usual to get the first one loose.

"Let me," she murmurs, setting her basket aside on the nearby bookshelf. Susan moves to stand in front of him in order to work at the next tie, and the next.

He lets his hands fall to his sides, watching as she deftly loosens the ties, then shrugs the surcoat from off his shoulders before gripping the hem of his linen shirt and tugging it up and over his head in a stuttered, sore motion.

Purple and blue bruises are beginning to mark up his chest and sides, one in each spot Rilian hit him or shouldered him or struck him with the flat of his blade. And there, at his side, the angry red of the cut. It's no longer weeping blood, but the quick field bandage is dull red and damp.

She hisses in a soft breath at the sight. "Sit thee down, do," she coaxes. "I'll fetch a basin and start the bath running."

She waits to see him do so before she claims both surcoat and shirt from the floor and carries them into the bath. Soon, the sound of running water carries back into the room, followed by Susan with a pitcher of warm water.

She kneels down beside his chair and rests a hand on his knee as she looks up at him. "I'll be as gentle as I can," she promises. "Lean back and close yer eyes."

He sits as requested, leaning back, but as his glance travels over his own sore and bruised body, his breath hitches. Caspian leans forward and reaches for her wrist, then pulls her up on her knees, towards him, clasping her to him in a hard embrace as he pushes his face into the crook of her neck, shuddering hard. A moment later, hot tears smear the creamy, soft skin of her neck and shoulder, while he takes hard, shaking breaths, unwilling to let her go.

She draws him in and holds him close as she murmurs soft sounds of comfort. Susan keeps one arm around his body and cups her other hand over the back of his neck, threading her fingers gently through his hair.

"I kennit. Let it come, dear one." He'd said before that he didn't ken how he'd bear it if Rilian were to return, and she'd made him a promise then that she means to keep, oh aye. "I have thee. Let it come."

This is one thing to be grateful for, at least: the Men and Kings of Narnia have never been afraid to weep. And weep he does, shuddering with each breath as his tears soak her shoulder.

"Ah, Su." His voice is thick with grief, with tears, and he clings to her like a drowning man to a spar on the ocean.

"I kennit," she murmurs again. Susan strokes his hair gently, over and over. "Ka is cruel, so it is, that the two of ye should suffer so."

"He was such a jolly fellow as a boy."

The witch has taken much, much indeed. His queen, his son, his son's joy and light and laughter. Again, he curses himself for never being able to find Rilian, for never finding the serpent, for letting them ride out a-Maying that morning without him.

“I can well imagine.” How happy they must have been, all three of them together, before the witch’s evil work tore them apart.

Susan keeps up her gentle caresses, letting him hold to her as he needs and holding him in turn. “Mayhap he will be again, in time, even so. And how much a comfort it’ll be to him in time, too, to ken how much thee love him, even with everything.”

"I hope so. I do hope that, Su."

There's little enough he can offer to his son right now in way of assistance. All he can do is attempt to be cheerful and positive, to keep from antagonizing the Knight and to assure Rilian that everything will turn out well in the end. It has to, else all of Narnia, along with his son, will be lost.

He holds onto her, hot tears slowly leaking from between his lashes, comforted at least in the knowledge that he has her here with him in this horrible moment.

"It will." She puts every bit of her belief into her voice, hoping it'll be enough. "Oh aye, even though he's got to go back, how much it'll help him to remember every day the time thee have together here, and the promise of hope it brings, do'ee ken?"

Susan strokes her fingers through his hair and over his shoulder, soothing as much as she can. "He'll not have had that before, only the witch's cruelty and taunts. But he has it now, and that's because of thee. Thee did the right thing, Caspian."

He hopes that, too, but all he can think of is what the Lion told Lucy on the magician's island: no one is told any story but their own. Nodding against her shoulder, he takes another few shuddering breaths, then pulls away, wiping at his eyes, now as sore and red as his torso.

"I suppose we'll see."

"So we will," she murmurs. Susan cups his cheek again for a moment, then takes one of her cloths and dips it in the pitcher to help dry and soothe his reddened eyes. "Here, now. Let me."

He closes his eyes as requested, letting her nurse them. "You were marvelous, though," he murmurs. "And the gunslingers, too. I'll owe them for their help."

“Lean back against the chair and hold that to yer eyes for a bit while I see to yer side,” she tells him.

“And thee won’t owe them aught. Thee doesn’t. It’s not like that.”

He does as she says with a small sigh, slowly leaning himself back, every movement stiff. The cool compress feels soothing on his eyes, and her soft voice is a balm to his ears. "I know. But it's not so different from – well. Everything that happened at harvest-time. It's difficult to feel I don't owe them – and you – something."

“I kennit, I do.” Who better, considering all they’d done and faced for her? Carefully, she sets about peeling away the hasty bandage, then cleaning the ugly wound beneath.

“And I’ll not say thee nay to how thee feels, but only that it’s not needful.”

"No, I suppose not." He flinches a little as she removes the caked-on bandage, but doesn't move as she begins cleaning the wound there on his side.

"It looks worse that it is," he assures her, lifting the compress to glance down at his own side. His expression is rueful. "He's a good swordsman; he keeps his blade sharp."

“Yer armor-shirt helped some too, I wot,” she says, examining the sound with care. “It’s not as deep as it might have been. I’d feel better if Simon saw to it, or one of the healers, but that can wait till the morrow an’ye’d have it so.”

Susan looks up at him. “I could stitch it, but I’ve not a healer’s skill. Mayhap a good bandaging would be best for tonight.”

"Aye. But after that bath, I think." He smiles, slight.

"I wouldn't want you to have to re-do all your hard work."

Her answering smile is teasing. “Thee just don’t want to sit still for it twice. But aye, that’s for the best.”

She runs her fingers lightly over his bruises and makes a soft ‘tsk’ sound. “While thee are soaking, I’ll make some poultices. Bruisebane, comfrey and milk-thistle’ll do the trick.”

He catches her hand in his fingers and squeezes it, smiling soft and weary. "You're too good to me," he murmurs. "Sweet Susan. And I know I dare not argue with your orders. I'll have that bath, then."

Letting go of her hand, he pushes himself carefully up and out of the chair. "I'll not be long."

“My very dear,” she says, soft.

“Take all the time thee need.” Thinking to try to give him a reason to, she adds, “If thee are still in when the poultices are ready, I’ll come and wash yer back.”

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