So, once again, I give the ending first. Oh, and his name is Rafe which means Wise Wolf. BWHAAAAA!
She had sailed into Redhaven that morning, he that afternoon. Supper, and what might, or might not, follow would wait.
Three years ago, they would have had this conversation in bed. Today, they tarried in the secluded garden of the Bankers’ guest house. The house was outside the town, affording a lovely prospect of the harbour. The trees of the garden were heavy with fragrant lemons whose scent mingled with climbing roses and honeysuckle.
Lambert had withdrawn to protect their privacy, a subtle, but important, distinction for a Narnian Royal Guard.
They two of them both could use and manipulate silence to achieve specific ends. They were long past that point now. The silence now was to allow a mustering of the heart. He waited, for it was she who needed to speak and he who would listen.
“You are being very patient with me,” Susan finally said with a brittle smile. She withdrew her hand from the fountain where she had been stirring the pool and accepted the glass of rose-coloured wine he poured. “Thank you.”
“I am sorry I could not come sooner,” he replied, resting a hand on her shoulder.
Susan bent her head and kissed his fingers. “I was only just able to escape myself. I am grateful you were able to come at all.”
He sat next to her on the stone ledge and sipped the wine, a favourite of hers. Its pink shade was a deception – the wine was not cloyingly sweet, but crisp, dry, and bursting with subtle, exotic flavours.
“The passage of a little time has been instructive, painfully so. I did speak to Aslan, and that has helped.”
“I am glad you found some comfort.” He spoke sincerely, though he had never sought the Lion of Narnia. Of course, he had never sought the Calormene gods or the protectors of the Woods, or the Telmarine pantheon, either. He did not worship money as he once had, and credited Susan and his daughter, for that change. No other god had replaced it. “He told you that you should not try to bear the guilt for all that occurred?”
“I did tire of hearing the same from Peter, to be sure.”
“I shall heed your implicit request and not repeat it, then.”
Susan leaned against him, lacing the fingers of her free hand in his. The contrasts were always remarkable, small and large, her light skin to his dark, bow calluses to quill. She sighed, her chest rising and falling against his arm.
“Seeing you again, my dear, I do understand better now why Prince Rabadash so appealed to me.”
“And why is that, Susan?”
“There were many reasons. His appeal to other than my vanity, the successful collaboration we enjoyed, his intelligence and subtlety, his respect for my intelligence and subtlety.” She paused, studying their joined hands. “His appearance and colouring, his attention to dress and understanding of how it is used. He is also older than I.”
A younger man would be flattered. The old man was stricken. How could he even apologize, for what he was, or for what she saw in him? Were he in her place, he would do the same. To an extent he had. There was no formal oath between them, yet she had his loyalty, fidelity, and discretion all the same. Their relationship had crossed so very many lines, liege and subject, client and advisor, lover. “For your sake, I wish that were not so, Susan.”
She nodded. Her hand slipped out of his and she tweaked the cuff of his richly dyed, green robe between her fingers. “It seems that my die has been cast.”
Re: All aboard the Susan/Director ship
She had sailed into Redhaven that morning, he that afternoon. Supper, and what might, or might not, follow would wait.
Three years ago, they would have had this conversation in bed. Today, they tarried in the secluded garden of the Bankers’ guest house. The house was outside the town, affording a lovely prospect of the harbour. The trees of the garden were heavy with fragrant lemons whose scent mingled with climbing roses and honeysuckle.
Lambert had withdrawn to protect their privacy, a subtle, but important, distinction for a Narnian Royal Guard.
They two of them both could use and manipulate silence to achieve specific ends. They were long past that point now. The silence now was to allow a mustering of the heart. He waited, for it was she who needed to speak and he who would listen.
“You are being very patient with me,” Susan finally said with a brittle smile. She withdrew her hand from the fountain where she had been stirring the pool and accepted the glass of rose-coloured wine he poured. “Thank you.”
“I am sorry I could not come sooner,” he replied, resting a hand on her shoulder.
Susan bent her head and kissed his fingers. “I was only just able to escape myself. I am grateful you were able to come at all.”
He sat next to her on the stone ledge and sipped the wine, a favourite of hers. Its pink shade was a deception – the wine was not cloyingly sweet, but crisp, dry, and bursting with subtle, exotic flavours.
“The passage of a little time has been instructive, painfully so. I did speak to Aslan, and that has helped.”
“I am glad you found some comfort.” He spoke sincerely, though he had never sought the Lion of Narnia. Of course, he had never sought the Calormene gods or the protectors of the Woods, or the Telmarine pantheon, either. He did not worship money as he once had, and credited Susan and his daughter, for that change. No other god had replaced it. “He told you that you should not try to bear the guilt for all that occurred?”
“I did tire of hearing the same from Peter, to be sure.”
“I shall heed your implicit request and not repeat it, then.”
Susan leaned against him, lacing the fingers of her free hand in his. The contrasts were always remarkable, small and large, her light skin to his dark, bow calluses to quill. She sighed, her chest rising and falling against his arm.
“Seeing you again, my dear, I do understand better now why Prince Rabadash so appealed to me.”
“And why is that, Susan?”
“There were many reasons. His appeal to other than my vanity, the successful collaboration we enjoyed, his intelligence and subtlety, his respect for my intelligence and subtlety.” She paused, studying their joined hands. “His appearance and colouring, his attention to dress and understanding of how it is used. He is also older than I.”
A younger man would be flattered. The old man was stricken. How could he even apologize, for what he was, or for what she saw in him? Were he in her place, he would do the same. To an extent he had. There was no formal oath between them, yet she had his loyalty, fidelity, and discretion all the same. Their relationship had crossed so very many lines, liege and subject, client and advisor, lover. “For your sake, I wish that were not so, Susan.”
She nodded. Her hand slipped out of his and she tweaked the cuff of his richly dyed, green robe between her fingers. “It seems that my die has been cast.”