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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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.”

He chuckles, very softly. "That sounds like as good an incentive to stay in the bath as I've ever heard," he says, with a shadow of his usual spirit. "Alright, perhaps I'll linger."

Not that he needs much of an excuse, once he's lowered himself into the steaming, scented water. It feels perfectly wonderful on his sore body, and he allows himself to put his head back, eyes closed, and tries his best not to think.

She puts his shirt in the hamper and frowns over the leather before wiping it down with a cloth and promising herself to treat it with saddle soap on the morrow. Susan stacks it neatly in a corner then turns her attention to making the poultices.

It takes some minutes, but not all that many, for she’d had a good idea of what she’d need when she’d made the request of the bar, say true. Susan lays them out ready and makes her way into the bath, tapping quietly at the door as she enters so as not to startle him.

He opens his eyes at the tap, at the soft sound of the door opening. "That was quick."

Or had he started to doze off here in the bath? He feels tired right down to his bones.

“Mayhap a little.” She’d seen no reason to delay, after all. Susan freshens the water in her pitcher at the sink and comes to sit on the side of the bath. Gently, she cups a hand over the nape of his neck.

“Tip yer head back, and I’ll wash yer hair.”

He can wash his own hair, but she wants to take care of him and comfort him, and he knows the feeling, so he does as she says, tipping his head back into her gentle touch and closing his eyes.

She wets his hair, careful to keep the water from running over his face, watching as his golden curls turn a darker color.

Susan sets the pitcher aside and begins to work shampoo into his hair, using the tips of her fingers to make gentle circles against his scalp.

He makes a small sound as her fingers rub against his scalp, soothing the ache in his head and setting nerve endings alight. "You spoil me," he murmurs, then smiles gently at her.

"But I have to admit, it feels wonderful."

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