tampered | Death to Death [closed]

Death to Death [closed]

When; Saturday | December 6 | Late afternoon, going into sundown.
Rating; PG-13? IDK the movies are like lol no bloooood...but there be blood here, so. Yes.
Characters; Caspian (

treadingdawn), Lucy (

lionesscouchant). Jadis (

queenoftraitors), Peter (

oshutup) Susan (

lionessjant) & SPECTATORS (see below cut for details)
Summary; A challenge made in public name of previous personal trespasses, for the otherwise undisclosed purpose of cutting off winter's stone-tipped chill.
Log;

♚detaiiiiils.♕
Location: stadium, looking vaguely like the ring with broken columns and whatnot you see here....but larger as to be in keeping with stadium size, etc, etc. That's a basic idea though.

Annnnd threads will be made for the following 83

I. Pre-duel
a) [locked: Pevensies + Caspian]
b) [locked: Jadis + Allies]
II. Duel [locked: Jadis VS. Peter]
III. Duel [the public, anyone present and watching in the stadium, and while this obviously includes Caspian, Lucy, and Susan, we are opening it for anyone else who would be there and wants to actually do a semi-real-time reaction log. It doesn't have to be fancy, it's just an opportunity that we thought might be interesting to offer, and fun, perhaps. Reply to the main [blank] thread labeled as such with whatever your character is doing, or similarly, to another character's action if you want to interact, reacting.]
IV. Post-duel [locked: Pevensies + Caspian]

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Edited 2008-12-06 19:12 (UTC)

Peter doesn't pace, but he's not perfectly still either, holding his helmet, subtly shifting his weight from one foot to the other. The past days of preparations have helped and while the armor does not feel lighter, it will doubtless show in his fight today that he wears it as if it does.

The room is quiet, as is the High King. Words seem smaller than ever to him before fights like these, he admits to himself, but even small things can provide a degree of reassurance. That is, of course, something he would prefer to never say that he needs, but everyone does, and that is a more widely known truth than others.

Lucy doesn't feel like she should be here.

She feels like she's not welcome; not because she isn't, but because she disagrees so honestly with this duel, because she feels it is her brother's way of getting back at Aslan for forbidding him from Narnia, because she is terrified that Peter will die.

She isn't ready for Peter to die. She never will be. Peter is her golden brother; he tucks her in at night and laughs with her and sings with her, and she doesn't like being angry with him.

She didn't bring Aslan. She just brought her knife and her cordial. She didn't care if it was cheating to save him from death - he was more important than her honor.

So she sat, legs crossed, and watched.

Peter doesn't feel like she should be here either. He thinks it would be better if she could be at the house or with Claire, somewhere that isn't here, somewhere that she won't be compelled to watch. Part of him has the hope that she'll stay in here, but he also has a feeling that the likelihood of that is slim at best. Turning to the Valiant, he pauses before setting the helmet down on the table provided by the curious and private preparations room.

Then he moves over to stand beside Lucy, peering down at her in a way that denotes some level of unease, the same sort that he wears at any time that she is displeased with him and he is humble enough to recognize it--a less rare occurrence where Lucy is concerned. For a second he considers that it might be better if he doesn't say anything, and a second later, he changes his mind, kneeling.

"It's going to be alright,"he promises, again, for whatever it may or may not be worth.

He kneels in front of her and Lucy knows he doesn't like that she's there. In Narnia, during wartimes, any war, she was always the Steward of Cair Paravel; locked up safe behind a branch of Peter's army, even when she had grown older. And anyway, she knew the roads and the hills of Narnia so well that if even if an enemy had broken through, they would have never found the Queen, if she didn't want to be found.

She nods a little at his promise, and she closes her eyes to give him a kiss on the cheek. The last thing that he needs now is to think that she's never going to forgive him, because that isn't the case.

"You had best come back," she warns. It may not sound like a warning, but it is one. She reaches into her pocket and pulls out a white linen handkerchief embroidered with the initials of her name. Maybe it was a silly, old-fashioned, stupid ritual, but it was her ritual, something that carried over from the Narnia that they had ruled. The Valiant's favors were rare and not given easily; Lucy had been a flirt but rarely serious about it. She tucks it into Peter's hand.

"You had best come back."

"Always," he nods to her, accepting the favor. Peter knows the gesture, appreciates it, not so much for what it is but who it comes from. Lucy was the first to step into the world they all let pass through their hearts, the first to believe. She has always been wide-eyed and sometimes, despite all they have experienced, he forgets that just as he is a man turned back to the threshold of boy and adult, she is a young woman turned back to the perceptive stage of childhood. They keep within them those days that do not show in line or height, but sometimes glimmer through the eyes when the light hits just right, or the shadows fall just so.

No, Peter is not pleased at all that she is here, even in trusting Susan and Caspian to protect her, should something go awry, because the truth of it is that he worries for all of them. To outsiders, perhaps, it seems theatrical, misguided, unnecessary, but for Peter this is of little to no importance. What people do not understand they will often ridicule, or fear, or both. What they imagine they understand can often distort to the point of being laughable. What they will never know, they will never know because it is none of their business.

This is a responsibility ascribed to him by his titles, by his love of Narnia as much as by his loathing of the winter that once held it prisoner and possibly seeks to do the same here. There is nothing grand about it, and make no mistake that Peter finds it far from anything so gilded.

In the simplest of terms, once boiled down, it is just something he chooses to do for reasons he feels are right. If it is tinged with the residue of that first encounter on the battlefield, shadowed by the memory of his brother falling, he'll call it fringe motivation for a bigger purpose, but he won't deny it being there. That would be a disservice to the Just, among so many other things he chooses not to think about right now.

Right now, he receives the warning, receives the kiss, receives the favor, and with the lightness of one who knows it is uncomfortable to be embraced by a full armored body, places his arm around her shoulders. The touch is barely there, but the curve of it speaks enough without the pressure.

Lucy doesn't care about the discomfort and she wraps her arms around his neck, knowing that her loose hair will tangle in his chainmail, knowing that it will pull out and stay there when he's fighting, and not caring.

"Be careful. Don't make stupid decisions." She's not crying. She knows it wouldn't make any difference except to make Peter worry needlessly, and that would distract him. "I will be waiting, when you get back."

And she would be. Always.

Relieved that she is not crying, selfishly so, Peter returns the hold as best he can, nodding at her words, processing them silently. When he leans back, he smiles at her, because a smile is the only thing he has left to offer her at the moment. For all his ability to posture and, even, to deliver, Peter prefers to not verbally dwell on it with his family.

With Jadis, perhaps, because banter can be a fair distraction and confidence is key, but not with Lucy who would only see through him. Guarded, careful, he is strong beneath those words, but also mortal, flawed, threaded with doubt just as much as certainty, as any Son of Adam will always be.

That Lucy will be waiting for him does serve to make his smile even more sincere, even if it is a slight one, corners of his mouth turned up enough to keep from looking too weighed down or distant.

He's every much a grown man or rather a grown king. Susan does her best to be helpful and not fuss. He's got all of his armor on. Everything. Yes, he looks magnificent.

Not much longer now. The skin on her face feels so tight. All the same she spares him a smile. There's no going back. It's coming up so quickly. The week and all of the training that went into it went by so fast.

"Would you like water, Peter?"

His first answer is that he doesn't need it, but thank you. It doesn't make it past his lips, however, as he trades those words in for ones that he knows he would prefer to hear when hardly anything else can be done or offered.

"Yes, thanks." Having picked his helmet up again, he inspects it, as if trying to find a flaw in its shine. To be completely honest, he finds the thing stifling, but if it saves him from any given strike, then the stifling is well worth enduring. One would think he would be so used to it by now as to being desensitized to its covering, but this is not the case and he frowns at it briefly before glancing over his shoulder.

Susan has looked grimmer, he thinks, but she is also very good at that whole composure thing, and he's not sure if that's a good thing right now. They are honest with each other, but also protective of each other to the extent of braver faces and accepting glasses of water.

It won't be much longer now though, he thinks, gaze moving beyond Susan to the door that has been left open ever since they arrived.

Pevensie bravery flourished in Narnia but began back at home with mother. Watching her taught Susan how to put on a calm, brave face. And thinking of father fighting his own battle. That was another solid example to follow. They will all have their fights. Someday, Susan hoped that it would be without awful witches. Maybe even that there would be peace.

The water jug was left generously filled. Susan pours Peter a whole glass. "Here you go."

That being done, there is that distinct feeling of waiting. Oh bother.

Rather than repeating himself, he inclines his head a bit, a nonverbal thank-you as he takes the glass, and then a swallow from it. Peter wonders if he ought to say anything about anything, his own feelings on conversation before battle going to the wayside as he further considers the Gentle, standing here with him, waiting, echoes of that self-same mother in the combination of strength and a sad sort of hope that begins with sharp eyes and a soft mouth.

Is there an echo of dad in him? Peter isn't sure, but maybe that's how it ought to be, because while he remains entrusted with the position of 'the' man of the family, he isn't dad, as Edmund once pointed out. He is his own person, as much as Su is her own, the touches of their mother only accentuating everything else that is purely Susan's. They may fashion themselves unconsciously or consciously toward some of those cutting qualities that they see in their parents, but they do not rely on them alone.

Taking another drink from the glass, he offers her a smile, perhaps a bit less confident than the one he gave to Lucy, because while the youngest can often see through him, the older sister doesn't even need to look. It isn't so much a case of being easily read as it is one of family being close, and knowing this, his smile doesn't last very long, but the expression that replaces it has a strength in it as well, committed.

Would that there was something more useful to offer up than water. And even without a thank you right now, Susan wouldn't mind. In light of the situation, manners are not so important. In fact a few things seem so important. What's being royalty in a far away land to a brother? How could they ever return without Peter? That was absolutely out of the question. They had all come and they would all go. Not because that is what Mr. and Mrs. Pevensie would want but because that is how it simply had to be. Susan would never see it any other way.

That different degree of smile isn't lost on Susan. She wants to hold him tight. Like that was something to make sure he wouldn't get hurt. Instead she looks him in the eye. "We'll be cheering for you." We are right here with you.

"I know," he says, nodding again, looking away, and then looking back again because it is the right thing to do. Don't avoid, he tells himself. Be clear, be precises as possible, be calm. Lucy will be waiting. Susan will be watching, as will Caspian, and likely others, which is to their advantage, should Jadis decide to be less than morally intact, which is a little too likely for Peter's tastes, but it's not up to them of course. Otherwise this fight wouldn't be happening in the first place.

"Thank you," he adds, a casual softness tinging the smile he wears this time, something apologetic underneath, not for the challenge or the fight, but for being unable to offer something more comforting than this.

Lucy gave her favor. Oh, that's right. One of those rituals learned in the court. How can she expect Peter to go into combat without it? Peter doesn't need two kerchiefs. Instead Susan removes a green ribbon from her hair.

"You'll do your best." That's all that can be done. Aslan would never let Peter lose. Never. Susan hopes that if he were ever near in the City it would be in a moment like this. Someone needs to watch over him, right now she can't. Not enough to save him from should the tide turn. She won't think like that. Not long.

Peter will win because...he will win.

The ribbon is soft and smooth under his fingers as he takes it, just as he accepted Lucy's handkerchief. Both of these mean a great deal to him, knowing the people who give them well enough to appreciate the giving in itself. The kerchief being tucked deftly and knotted to stay behind his belt, he adds the ribbon, threading it through the buckle, similarly so that no stray edge remains, lest they become worrisome in the fight. It isn't ideal, as they're more likely to be struck, worn as they are, but he would have them visible, material support that can be seen by anyone looking for such a thing, even from the seat of observation.

Whether Aslan can be seen or not, he thinks that the lion must be aware of what is going on, and on top of that, Peter wants to believe he will not let him fall. His mind filters to years of Narnia spent under invasion, and the falter is brief, but very much there. Where were you then? He never did get an answer. It ends up being that he must feel independent of the large and mysterious cat, but not without him, which would be very different indeed.

You'll do your best. Yes, I will, he thinks.

"And it will be enough," he promises her, looking up, finished with securing the second favor. What he doesn't say is: it has to be enough.

She knows that the small collection he has at his belt may fall out. That's fine to Susan. Just let him come back. Let him make it through. Better yet, let him win.

"Yes. I know it will." If one thing is true, it's that Peter will give it his all. And it will be enough.

His shadow darkens the doorway and although it's been left open, Caspian knocks first. Habits, this, and quick learners going hand in hand. He is the last to visit and he could not look anymore opposite the threaded links of steel and mirror shine of plates engraved by oak leaves.

The sword buckled to his baldric is there only for ceremonial purpose. He'll not draw it unless absolutely necessary. Tasked with getting the others to safety should things go as unplanned, the sword will not be the first weapon he pulls at the first sign of disturbance. Caspian X is in attendance as a King of Narnia and his duty cannot be self-serving. It isn't the duty of kings to be heroes by the wise words of one senator, he will look the part draped in aubergine and faded black. The velvet and brocade appear even darker under the rope of gold hanging from shoulder to shoulder, intertwined with ruby, sapphire, emerald, amethyst, citrine, and other precious facets that speak words so he doesn't have to.

For all the seriousness of the situation, Peter's first words, upon turning to the Telmarine are not very weighted at all.

"Where did that come from?" He gestures at the finery Caspian dons this particular day, a finery that suits him well and makes known something of his status without the set of a crown upon his head. The glass of water sits half full on the table next to his helmet and Peter faces the other man fully, hands behind him, resting on that table as well, leaning more for something to do without actually moving than for the actual function of leaning, which is limited anyway.

"....."

Really Peter? The Telmarine arches a brow and enters, taking that question as his invitation to make himself at home in Peter's waiting room. He stops to stand in front of the blond, arms folded across his chest loosely. No gloves. And his hair is more than ridiculously nice too, just saying.

"I had it imported from Archenland," Caspian quips.

"Of course you did," which means No, you didn't, you liar and also Oh that's where you were the other morning, all in company of a skeptical look that borders on patronizing, as skepticism so often does. His eyes move from the crossed arms to the arched brow and Peter finds this low-key exchange to be calming in its own way. They are not hiding behind lightheartedness but they are not refusing its presence either.

"The crown would have been a bit much," Peter remarks, as if he were talking about the amount of color in a painting, rather than a symbol of rank and title.

"I am sure my tailor," yes, his tailor, "would be willing to work with you if you remain civil."

Which means hah, no, Ishida Uryuu is mine! And it's a good thing too that he can convey such a message with his tone alone all the while maintaining a regal demeanor that conveys the other things. What do you say to someone about to face another one-on-one battle? Are you sure that you are seems inappropriate because the enemy for this round first belonged to the Pevensies. For all he hisses and barks at her, Caspian really doesn't know the White Witch the way the Pevensies do. He has no words of wisdom for the High King, the Knight on the sand made to soak and cover blood.

"It is a bit garish," the brunette says in agreement, and he does have the authority to say such things. He has been saying so since he was a little prince. It's the fact that his father wore it and his father before him wore it that keeps Caspian from getting rid of it entirely.

"Not necessary," he dismisses the idea, able to think of no event that would require that sort of attire, not here anyway. There will be no ceremony for a victory, no parade on horseback through the town proper, and no assembly in the square waiting for a door between worlds. Peter doesn't require any words of wisdom, too close to the actuality of the fight, only the belief that he will triumph, and he knows that all of them dare not think otherwise.

"A bit," he agrees, but makes no further comment on the crown, moving on to instead say, after a full minute's pause, "Thanks."

For watching my family, now, before, and hereafter, for Rhindon returned, and for other things that need no detailing, other things that are simply understood.

As long as that isn't a remark on Peter not willing to ride a steed in full armor unless it's a unicorn then Destrier has no complaints.

Only a half-pause follows Peter's single word of gratitude. And in that half-pause Caspian thinks of what to say again. He has been in the seat of the throne for a year now, he should be much better at this than that. Yet not in all his time as king, however long or short it might seem to others, has he ever encountered what he's shared with Peter Pevensie. These things that need no detailing, things that are simply understood. Penmanship, leadership, and diplomacy do not compare. They have little place in the sandbox. So he chooses not to say anything at all and chooses to do, knowing the High King is familiar with the language.

The Telmarine brings one hand up to Peter's chin as the other settles on his side. He leans down to press his lips to the other man's forehead, his favor as King, and the hand at his side pats him through the red fabric and chainmail twice, his favor as a friend.

There is something impossibly intimate about Caspian X, something that irritates High King Peter to no end, even while it intrigues him just as endlessly. It is too vulnerable, the blond often thinks, too forthcoming, too pleasantly invasive of whatever one constructs for the keeping of personal space. Knowing this about the other king, Peter came to the conclusion some time ago that it is also the reason for Caspian's trouble with girls and miscommunication, but he keeps that much to himself. Susan punching him was probably, he thinks, enough of a red flag to that sort of thing.

How is it different for you though, he wonders at himself. You think too much and too little, is the follow up to that and he receives the last pair of favors as gracefully as he knows how. The kiss, he accepts with eyes that close briefly in acknowledgment, while the pat to his side merits a small smile and a shake of his head, even as he steps back.

"Go on then," he gestures with a nod of his head at the door. "Won't be long now, I expect." Minutes? He hasn't paid enough attention to the time, he realizes as he turns away, back to the table, hand finding helmet, dryness of throat not enough to get him to pick up the glass instead.

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treadingdawn.livejournal.com - 2008-12-07 00:08 (UTC) - Expand

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Death to Death [closed]

♕PRE-DUEL [locked: Pevensies + Caspian] setting: stadium [private room]

♕PRE-DUEL [locked: Pevensies + Caspian] setting: stadium [private room]

♕PRE-DUEL [locked: Pevensies + Caspian] setting: stadium [private room]

♕PRE-DUEL [locked: Pevensies + Caspian] setting: stadium [private room]

♕PRE-DUEL [locked: Pevensies + Caspian] setting: stadium [private room]

♕PRE-DUEL [locked: Pevensies + Caspian] setting: stadium [private room]

♕PRE-DUEL [locked: Pevensies + Caspian] setting: stadium [private room]

♕PRE-DUEL [locked: Pevensies + Caspian] setting: stadium [private room]

♕PRE-DUEL [locked: Pevensies + Caspian] setting: stadium [private room]

♕PRE-DUEL [locked: Pevensies + Caspian] setting: stadium [private room]

♕PRE-DUEL [locked: Pevensies + Caspian] setting: stadium [private room]

♕PRE-DUEL [locked: Pevensies + Caspian] setting: stadium [private room]

♕PRE-DUEL [locked: Pevensies + Caspian] setting: stadium [private room]

♕PRE-DUEL [locked: Pevensies + Caspian] setting: stadium [private room]

♕PRE-DUEL [locked: Pevensies + Caspian] setting: stadium [private room]

♕PRE-DUEL [locked: Pevensies + Caspian] setting: stadium [private room]

♕PRE-DUEL [locked: Pevensies + Caspian] setting: stadium [private room]

The point of the quill my penmanship doth mirror; Caspian

The point of the quill my penmanship doth mirror; Caspian

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