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The King of Narnia's Queen is a strange woman.
Ambassadors talk. They talk of a tall Lady. Taller than her husband— and as broad, too; someone who was raised hauling bulging fishing nets and wrangling five brothers and sisters, who did not lose that strength to the royal court. Some use her background as an insult. It is hard, they say, to slough off a working woman's manners. It is hard to be something more than what you were born as. Others compliment her for it. It is hard, they say, to know the people if you have not been part of the people. To live as many lives as she has— fisher, lady, rebel, advisor— is to see life for what it is.
And see she does.
The Queen's gifts are known. Magic of an ancient, heavenly kind; foresight and spells from the Stars. Most dismiss it as rumour; more mumbling of the savagery of the Narnian land. None truly believe until they are in her presence. Then— then, to disbelieve is grave folly.
Ambassadors talk. They talk of a Queen who has no throne of her own. Who spends her time in the grand hall pacing across its tiled floor whilst her husband holds court from the dais. She is as quiet as a cat, they say, and you never hear her approach until she wants you to. Her seat is the court itself: the breath between lies that give them away; the sob between truths too hard to bear; the laugh between stories told.
Her husband— the Tenth, the Navigator, Conqueror of Kin— watches her with warm eyes. He would have her beside him, curled into his side with his hand at her hip, if he did not know such a restriction would only cut into his winged wife. Whenever she glides to him he welcomes her heavy presence as sunlight, and kisses her like breathing sweet air.
The King sees something no one else does. He is the gentlest monarch Narnia has known since the Golden Age, but his softest parts are reserved for a woman made of broken mirrors. There is a strength in him akin to unmoving stone; a dexterity like the waters he is so endeared to; a righteousness evocative of the ancient tales.
The truest of Kings, and he loves the strangest of women.
Ambassadors talk. They talk of a woman with sharp, owlish features: a long, sloped nose, a cut jaw, pursed lips. They talk of her eyes. Wide and unblinking, and of a brown that is hard; it is the brown of jasper or tiger's eye, of rain-drenched earth, of sand awash with the tide. Gold-shot, her eyes pierce as arrows. None know her gaze and do not feel its surgery of the soul.
Such vulnerability unnerves the best of them. They meet the Queen's glances and know that she knows— what, precisely, is beyond them, but by the time they have wrapped their head around it, she has put her own devices into play. Court is a game of chess, and the Queen is the player's hand.
What is, perhaps, the strangest of all, is this figure— this living Star, this Oracle, this Force of Nature— is a woman whole. She laughs. She weeps. She dances. When her husband kisses her, she smiles and it is like the sun glancing off of stained glass. Her court loves her, the Beasts more so. They test themselves against her sharp edges to feel the warmth that spills from her heart. They fit themselves against her corners and do not try to round them. Her word is their command.
Alone, she is a force to be reckoned with. Together, the King and Queen are a storm manifest with their kingdom at its eye. He is the balm to her scorching; she the direction to his will. He is good. She is not tame.
Starlight lent to earth— and moonlight made man.
Narnia awaited its King with an eager anticipation; it had been two years and two days since he and his crew had set off on their voyage, and though in the meantime Trumpkin and the council had done a fine job of maintaining the country, there was among them none comparable to Caspian. Beloved and missed dearly, all his people counted down the days until his return to Cair Paravel.
It was a sunny summer's day when the Dawn Treader's sails were sighted. Billowing on the horizon, she was headed straight for the harbour at a merry pace; a good wind was behind her, and so the morning was spent in preparation for her docking in the afternoon.
Soon, Cair Paravel's harbour was awash with decoration.
Burgundies, purples, woodsy greens and sea blues fluttered alongside ribbons of gold. The Lion stared, serene, from banners. Seasonal verdure wove between railings and posts; real, living branches provided by the dryads of the area. Bells rang in the soft breeze. Crowds gathered, laughing and talking amongst themselves as they waited for the ship to come in. There were at least three separate musicians playing, but despite their using different tunes they harmonised effortlessly. People danced, others sang. Narnians made every occasion a festival.
At the very front of the harbour, Caspian's household waited. All the servants, all the maids, all the workers— they were given the honour of being the very first to greet him aside from the regent. It was tradition.
Trumpkin, as regent, headed the household. Beside him stood Glenstorm. Glenstorm seemed to be smirking slightly— an unusual expression on his stern face. Trumpkin glanced up at him.
"What's got you grinning like that?" he asked.
"The stars were clear last night. I watched as two danced before each other. The Lady Angharad and the Lord Carwyn."
Cornelius, who was on Trumpkin's other side, took off his spectacles to blink at the centaur in disbelief. "Are you quite sure, Sir?"
"I would not mention it if I were unsure, good Doctor."
"Indeed, I do not doubt you. Only— well. I did not anticipate such a thing being found on this voyage."
"On the contrary, I myself thought a voyage was the perfect opportunity for this… finding."
"Treetops and turnips, would the two of you not speak in riddles whilst I am between you?" Trumpkin huffed.
"Apologies, Lord Regent," Cornelius said.
"Care to explain?"
"The Lady Angharad," said Glenstorm, "and the Lord Carwyn are patron to those in wedlock."
Trumpkin frowned. His eyes widened.
"You don't mean…?" When Glenstorm inclined his head, Trumpkin laughed. "Well, well. He finally plucked up the nerve, eh?"
"Or she," Cornelius said. "I would not put it past either of them."
Chuckling heartily, Trumpkin rubbed his hands together. "I cannot wait to see those Telmarine Lords' faces when they find out."
"We shall not have to wait long. Look, there she is!"