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The best thing of all about this feast was that there was no breaking up or going away, but as the talk grew quieter and slower, one after another would begin to nod and finally drop off to sleep with feet toward the fire and good friends on either side. — Prince Caspian, chapter 15
“Caspian!” Lucy flung herself down in a seat on the grass beside him with a bright laugh. “There you are. Are you hiding from Susan, too?”
Caspian was too warm and lazy and content to be truly embarrassed. He looked up at Lucy without sitting up.
“I would not say hiding. I’m only staying out of her sight until my feet are rested.”
Lucy giggled.
“That won’t be till tomorrow at least. I know Susan; she wore you out.”
Caspian laughed ruefully. He wanted to indulge his Queen—his friend; to dance at a festival with Susan the Gentle was right out of all his dreams as a child. But one never got tired in dreams.
“She does love dancing, doesn’t she?” he said.
“She doesn’t get to dance like this back in England. She forgets we can’t all keep up with her.” Lucy yawned. “Give her another hour or two. Even Susan has to sleep eventually.” She giggled again. “Probably.”
She twisted around and flopped backward, so she was lying with her head on Caspian’s legs.
“Woah—!”
He’d been lying on his side, so the flowers in his hair didn’t get squashed, but he toppled back under her weight to lie flat. Susan had braided the flowers in, buttercups and forget-me-nots, and he was shyly proud of their simple joy, so unlike his stern Telmarine upbringing. Lucy’s head was comfortingly warm and heavy on his legs, though, and he was so happy and drowsy he couldn’t really be upset, especially when she laughed again.
“Unsuspecting victims make the best pillows,” she gloated.
“You’re certainly enjoying the festival.”
“I’m drunk,” Lucy said regretfully. “It’s so natural, when we’re here—my stomach and my tastes can handle it just fine. I always forget I’m half the size I used to be.”
Caspian craned his head to look at her without really sitting. They were near one of the bonfires that had been set up, so Lucy’s face was all lit by a red-gold glow, but she did look rather flushed.
“I won’t tell if you don’t,” Caspian promised, and Lucy laughed.
Caspian had had his own share of wine, and plenty of hearty food, and between his full stomach and the warmth of summer night and bonfire and Lucy Pevensie, he was starting to doze a little when Peter loped up (the chrysanthemum crown Lucy had given him earlier in the festival at a jaunty angle), grinned, and said:
“Oh, are we lying on Caspian?”
He dropped without any more warning than that, head landing hard on Caspian’s stomach. Caspian gasped as the breath was punched out of him.
“Sorry! Didn’t mean to land so hard.”
Caspian wheezed at him.
“Peter!” Lucy cried accusingly. “You’re drunk too!”
“Absolute nonshense,” Peter said firmly. He frowned. “Nonsenshe. Nonz…oh, bother, I am drunk—‘too’! Lucy! You can’t get drunk!”
“I didn’t mean to!”
“Oh, Su’s going to kill me…” Peter sighed. He went on in reasonable-but-lecturing tone (an effect which was ruined by occasionally slurring a word), “You’re just a kid now, Lu. You can’t carry on like you used to back when you were older, or younger, or, oh, I’m too drunk for this. It’s not funny, Caspian!”
Peter’s head, still pillowed on Caspian’s stomach, was bouncing as Caspian laughed.
“I don’t mean to,” Caspian said. “I know it’s very rude toward my High King—”
“Oh, do shut up,” Peter said. “I’m too drunk for that either. I’m just Pete and it is funny.”
“Won’t be in the morning,” Edmund said, appearing from nowhere. “I bet you’ll both have terrible heads.” He grinned down at Peter. “If you even have one under there.”
He flopped out on the grass in a line with Caspian, head-to-head, while Peter blew vainly at his chrysanthemum crown. Between throwing himself onto Caspian and his shaking from Caspian’s laughter, it had slipped almost entirely onto his face.
Lucy looked over to see what he was doing, laughed, and then gasped.
“Oh, Caspian! We’re squashing your flowers!”
“It’s alright,” he said.
“No, it’s not! Susan did them. They’re your first festival flowers.”
“I’ll have lots of festivals,” Caspian said, minding about the flowers less and less the more Lucy worried about him.
Edmund had his head tilted back to watch the discussion. Now he reached over, and tugged Peter’s chrysanthemums from his head.
“You’d better give him yours, Peter,” he said.
“Why me?” Peter protested, though he raised his head enough to let the flower crown slip off (dropping it rather heavily back on Caspian’s stomach). “Lucy sat on Caspian first.”
“I’m sure it’s still your fault somehow,” Edmund said, grinning.
“Why, you—” Peter spluttered while Edmund dropped the flowers more-or-less over Caspian’s head. (He was moving rather awkwardly, reaching over his head while seeing everything upside-down.)
“I am perfectly magnanimous,” Edmund said, pulling off his own crown (a wreath of berry-rich bryony vines, also courtesy of Lucy), and tossing it onto Caspian as well. Caspian coughed as flowers and leaves threatened to go down his throat or up his nose, but he was laughing, too.
A shadow fell over the children. Caspian pushed the flower crowns away from his eyes, squinting at the figure backlit by the bonfire.
“What are you doing?” Susan asked, looking down at them with amusement.
“Apologizing for squashing Caspian’s flowers,” Lucy answered instantly.
“How is that your—oh, never mind. I don’t want to know.”
She heaved in a deep breath—she looked rather flushed and breathless—and lay down on the ground shoulder-to-shoulder with Caspian. He felt again the usual little thrill of surprise, followed by warm contentment, running through him at the gentle pressure of her body against his. Peter and Lucy were still heavy on top of him.
“Whew.” Susan exhaled hard.
“Did you finally get tired of dancing, Susan?” Lucy asked, mischief in her voice.
“Oh, alright, I may have overdone it a bit,” Susan said. “My feet are going to be so sore tomorrow…”
“I’m glad you’re enjoying the festival,” Caspian said.
“I am enjoying it,” she said. “Are you?”
“Very much.” Caspian yawned and snuggled further into the grass. “Feasts and tournaments under my uncle were all about showing off, and I always had to be on my best behavior if I was allowed to join in. Narnian celebrations are so much nicer—just eating and dancing and singing and no one cares if you’re out of tune…”
He sighed (a sigh that was half yawn again), delightfully warm and drowsy. His eyes were starting to drift closed, so he missed the looks the Pevensies gave one another, but he heard Peter say:
“Narnian parties are better. I am sorry about your flowers.”
“Oh, that’s alright. I’ve got yours. This way I get to say I’ve stolen the High King’s crown.”
Peter gave a horrid gasp, and Caspian feared his joke was inappropriate, considering Telmarines had stolen Narnia’s throne for centuries, and then everyone was laughing, Peter included (though he made great pretense of acting offended).
The festival was still going on around them, music swirling and hands clapping, feet and paws and hooves pounding, the rustle of wings and slosh of wine, a sweet chatter of talk and laughter. Even Narnia’s more nocturnal citizens, though, respected the royal children’s need for sleep. They cleared a little calm space around the monarchs (and everyone else sprawled out near the bonfire; people rarely left Narnian festivals, not for something as unimportant as sleep). The ongoing revels turned into a pleasant background noise, and the children’s conversation grew slower and slower and sleepier until, one by one, they had all dropped off.
Sometime in the night, Caspian came half-awake at the feel of soft, heavy footsteps approaching. His eyes were sticky, but when he went to rub them, he found his companions had shifted in their sleep. Susan had rolled from her back to her side, and had her head on Caspian’s shoulder, arms contentedly wrapped about one of his. Though Edmund was still upside down from the rest of the group, he had shuffled closer, dignity forgotten in his sleep; his head now lay on Caspian’s other shoulder. Peter had rolled over, head still pillowed on Caspian’s stomach, so he could rest one hand on Lucy’s back and the other on the arm Edmund had obligingly flung out.
It filled Caspian with a soft wonder, how the siblings reached for one another, even in their sleep—nay, because they were asleep. This was simply natural. And somehow, it was natural to tangle Caspian up with them. Peter and Edmund’s hands met on Caspian’s arm; with Susan holding the other, he couldn’t move to rub his eyes. It didn’t seem very important anymore.
He blinked his eyes as clear as he could as Aslan stopped beside the monarchs. The bonfire was very low by this time, and his coat seemed to shine with a dim glow like red amber. He gently nuzzled Lucy.
“Hm?” She peered up at Aslan, and beamed sleepily. “Oh, good. I hoped you’d come.”
Aslan nudged her again. She rolled away from him, higher up Caspian’s legs, and Aslan settled on Caspian’s legs and feet with an enormous, warm weight. Lucy rolled back, nestling into Aslan’s mane and promptly going to sleep again.
Caspian watched them with a smile; Aslan looked exactly like a cat sleeping on its human’s legs, if he hadn’t been so large Caspian’s legs were quite swallowed beneath him. Aslan turned to regard Caspian with glittering eyes.
“You should be asleep, Son of Adam,” Aslan said. Caspian fancied there was a trace of amusement in the words.
“Yes, sir,” Caspian said, still smiling. He dropped his head back onto the grass and closed his eyes.
“It was not an order,” Aslan said, definitely amused now.
“I know. You were only saying…”
“I am saying that naps are to be cherished, especially when one has friends to lie on.”
Caspian opened his eyes in surprise, in time to see Aslan give a huge stretch, with an equally huge yawn, and settle his head on his paws. Caspian swore his feet sunk into the earth a little at the extra weight. When Aslan chuckled, the vibration rumbled through Caspian’s legs.
“Whatever else I may be,” he said, in a great deep voice, “I am still a cat.”
Caspian laughed. Edmund whined as his shoulder-pillow shook, and Caspian hastily stifled himself.
“Sorry, Ed,” he whispered. “Go back to sleep.”
As he dropped back off himself, held and warmed by the Pevensies and Aslan heavy all around him, Caspian realized he hadn’t tried to call Edmund “King Edmund” for once, and, in fact, had dared call one of the monarchs of old by a nickname. He hadn’t even thought about it, the diminutive slipping off his drowsy tongue as naturally as the Pevensies reaching for one another. Aslan was right, was his last sleepy thought. This napping on, or even under, friends thing wasn’t bad at all.
Adorned by nature’s glories bright,
We’ll dance till dark’s embraced us tight,
And then let sleep embrace e’en so,
With stars a-watch and friends drawn close.