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queenlucythevaliant · 1 year

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A while ago, @supreme-leader-stoat sent me an ask with a really interesting concept for a HHB AU. It’s taken me a while, but here is the story I came up with as a result.

The Fisherman and His Boy

Six years after the Tisroc (may he live forever) began his august reign, word reached the fisherman that the prince of Archenland had been kidnapped.

Arsheesh lived many miles from the nearest city, and so it was common for news to take its time in reaching him. When the old queen of Narnia was overthrown by the demon lion worshipped in the north, Arsheesh did not know of it for two years. Smaller matters often did not reach him at all.

“You have brought me a poor catch today,” said a merchant in the village. “It is a shame you cannot pluck that barbarian prince from the seas.”

“What prince is this?” asked the fisherman with polite disinterest.

The poor day’s trading left Arsheesh in a sour mood. When he arrived home, he found that Shasta had not cleaned the nets as he’d been told to, but had only succeeded in thoroughly tangling them. Arsheesh grabbed the boy by the hair and made to strike him, but he stopped short. Shasta was barbarian-fair.

Numbly, Arsheesh released his hold on the boy’s hair. Shasta scampered back, his face a blotchy mess of tears and snot. “Boy,” the fisherman said. “Clean thy face and let me look on thee.”

Shasta scrubbed at his face with the back of his hand. He raised his head.

Certainly, the boy was either Archen or Narnian. He had been an infant five years ago, when the prince was supposed to have been taken. The dead man in the boat with him had been dressed like a foreign nobleman.

“Surely,” the fisherman said slowly, “surely the gods never fail to reward those who befriend the destitute.”

“’M sorry,” muttered the boy.

“No child,” Arsheesh replied. “Thou’st naught to be sorry for. I ought not have been harsh with thee. Has not one of the poets said, ‘Treat a child with care, that he may one day care for you?’”

It was obvious that the boy did not understand what was happening, but Arsheesh would not have expected it of him. He sold his boats that day and his hovel the next. He put the crescents he had gotten for them in a satchel along with a small bit of bread, a great deal of dried fish, and a few other necessities. He saddled the donkey for riding and made petition to Tash for good fortune. Then, with the child clinging to his back, Arsheesh the fisherman set off north.

The boy became swiftly accustomed to the knowledge that he would not be struck for displeasing his father, and soon enough his questions were endless.

“Where are we going, O father?”

“To Archenland, north of the great desert.”

“But how do we get across?”

“We shall book passage on a ship once we reach Tashbaan.”

“A ship? Are we going to cross the ocean?”

“Yes, boy. As I have told thee many times: we are going to Archenland.”

“But why?”

The whys were endless. Arsheesh did not care for them in the slightest.

When the lions attacked, Arsheesh urged the donkey into its fastest sprint. The donkey, which was rather frail to begin with and not at all made for sprinting, keeled over and died after it had scarce run a thousand paces.

Arsheesh and the boy tumbled from the donkey’s back and landed hard on the ground. The roaring grew louder as the seconds lengthened. The dratted boy’s lower lip began to wobble, and presently he was choking back sobs.

“Be quiet, boy,” hissed the fisherman. Yet Shasta only drew back from him when he said that and began to weep all the louder.

“Quiet!”

“We’re going to die!” wailed the boy. “We’re going to die, the lions are going to eat us, we’re going to die.”

Yet the lions did not eat the fisherman and his son. After a long time, Shasta’s wailing subsided into quiet sniffling and the roaring of the lions faded into the distance. Arsheesh regarded the carcass of the donkey and sighed very heavily. “We’d best begin walking,” he said.

The boy proved willing enough to walk without complaining, but he was small and as such made poor time. Arsheesh looked down at the child dutifully trailing along behind him and sighed. “Come, boy. I’ll carry thee,” he said.

“’M not tired,” Shasta protested.

“Nevertheless,” replied the fisherman. He bent down and scooped the boy up in his arms. In the five years since he’d rescued the child, Arsheesh had held him very rarely. Yet Shasta was small and slight: not at all burdensome. Arsheesh shifted his weight very slightly and then continued on, satchel over his back and child in his arms.

Day turned to dusk and somewhere along the way, Shasta fell asleep. When Arsheesh made camp for the night, he roused the child only briefly in order to feed him, then tucked him away under his cloak beneath the stars.

After the moon had set, yet while it was still dark, the fisherman heard the unmistakable sound of hoofbeats fast approaching. He glanced towards the boy (who had roused at the sound) and murmured, “Stay here.”

When Arsheesh stepped out into the middle of the road, he saw a mail-clad Tarkaan fast approaching. “My lord!” cried Arsheesh, waving his arms above his head.

The Tarkaan made no sign of having heard him, so the fisherman tried again. “My lord! Your servant is in distress, and I’ve a child in my keeping.”

Distantly, a shrill, girlish voice spoke. “Shouldn’t we help them?”

“No Aravis. Hush,” the armored figure replied.

“We should help them,” came the girl’s voice, more firmly than before. “Salma, you’re my horse and I say halt.”

The horse halted.

“Your servant is grateful, O my lord,” Arsheesh said at once. “Yesterday, lions perused my ward and me and our donkey perished in exhaustion. Might your servant render you some service in exchange for aid in reaching Tashbaan?”

“How funny!” exclaimed the girl (who Arsheesh could now clearly see was seated in front of the Tarkaan). “Lions were after us not two hours ago.”

“Indeed,” said the Tarkaan. “What business have you in Tashbaan, peasant? And where is this child of whom you speak.”

“The child is a ward of mine whose family are in Archenland. Your servant must return him hence.” Then Arsheesh turned round and called, “Boy!”

At once, the boy appeared beside him. “Here, father.”

“Didn’t I tell thee to remain where thou wert?”

The boy nodded once, but made no apology.

“Doubtless he’s of northern stock,” said the Tarkaan, inclining his head as if to indicate that he believed Arsheesh’s story. “As it happens, my sister and I go north as well, and we must not be prevented from going. An Archen child in our party would doubtless be a boon. If I may claim your story for my own, I will ride to the nearest village and return with another horse. Then we’ll all travel north together. Will that serve?”

“Certainly, it will,” said Arsheesh, who hardly dared believe his good fortune. “Your servant is grateful.”

“Good,” replied the Tarkaan. “Stay here and hide yourself. I’ll return before dawn. What shall I call you?”

“Your servant’s name is Arsheesh, and the boy is Shasta.”

The Tarkaan nodded. “Very good. I am Ilsombresh Tarkaan.” With that, he flicked the reigns and was gone.

True to his word, the armored Tarkaan and the little girl returned just as the western horizon was beginning to grow hazy. The girl rode the same mare that they’d both been riding the night before (though she couldn’t have been much older than Shasta), but the Tarkaan was mounted on a grey dappled stallion.

“Arsheesh!” called Ilsombresh from the road.

“We’re here,” piped the boy, who till now had not spoken in the presence of the Tarkaan. “Are we going to ride that big white horse?”

“Are you a skilled rider?” Ilsombresh asked. “Is your master? I purchased this horse cheaply because it’s proven difficult to break. If you are not up to the challenge, then Aravis and I will ride him and leave Salma for the two of you. She’s quite gentle, I assure you.”

That evening, after a long day’s riding, Arsheesh dismounted the Tarkheena’s mare feeling sore and saddle-weary. He hefted the boy down and set him on the ground. When he turned round, he saw that Ilsombresh had at last removed his helmet to reveal a shockingly youthful face beneath it. The hair on his face was scarcely more than a few whiskers; not nearly enough to make a beard. Why, he was little more than a boy himself!

“If your servant might inquire,” began the fisherman.

“You may not,” replied the Tarkaan.

Once the horses had been tended to, Ilsombresh went into the brush and shot a rabbit with his bow. Arsheesh produced the dried fish from his pack, and he instructed Shasta to go find wood for a fire.

“I can come too!” the Tarkheena exclaimed at once.

As they supped that night, Ilsombresh said to the fisherman, “Supposing you tell us your story in full.”

Arsheesh regarded the boy Shasta for a long moment, wondering how much of the truth he ought to reveal. It is obvious, he thought, that the Tarkaan has his secrets too. Perhaps now is the time to speak truly.

“I am a fisherman, like my father was before me. Yet because of my poverty, I never married and have no child.”

From Shasta there came a sharp intake of breath. “You mean— you aren’t really my father!”

“Hush boy. Do not interrupt me.”

Shasta flinched away from the fisherman for the first time in several days. When he remembered that he was not going to be struck, he crossed his small arms and looked sullen. Arsheesh turned back to his audience.

“Yet in the same year in which the Tisroc (may he live forever) began his august reign, on a night when the moon was full, the gods saw fit to deprive me of sleep. Therefore, I arose from my bed and went forth to the beach to refresh myself with looking upon the water and the moon and breathing the cool air. And presently I heard a noise as of oars coming to me across the water and then, as it were, a weak cry. And shortly after, the tide brought to the land a little boat in which there was nothing but a man lean with extreme hunger and thirst who seemed to have died but a few moments before (for he was still warm), and an empty water skin, and a child, still living. I thought then that they might have escaped the wreck of a great ship, but I’ve come to learn of late that at that same time the crown prince of Archenland was kidnapped. I believe that this boy is that same prince and I’ve a mind to return him to the king and queen.”

“And doubtless fatten your own purse insodoing,” retorted Ilsombresh.

“I expect to be rewarded handsomely,” Arsheesh said, “but your servant is a man of tender heart.”

“Assuredly,” said Ilsombresh, though he sounded incredulous. “Well then. If we are stopped at any point before Archenland, I will say that I came to your hovel while traveling with my sister and that upon speaking with you I realized who the boy must be. I took you as my servant and we are all bound for Archenland together so that I can claim the reward.”

“You, claim the reward? Surely not. I’ve sold all I have in hopes of profiting thusly!”

Ilsombresh harrumphed. “So much for your tender heart. Yet you and your wallet need not fear; I’ve need of your excuses, nothing more. My sister and I are going north for our own reasons.”

The Tarkaan sat back and the fire popped. Shasta still looked thunderstruck, but he knew better than to try to press the issue.

They mounted up early the next morning, Arsheesh and Shasta on Salma the mare and Ilsombresh with his sister on the newly acquired stallion. They made good time, but there was unease in the air. Arsheesh still didn’t know why the Tarkaan was fleeing north with his young sister. Shasta had all but stopped speaking to him.

“Boy—Shasta. If you mean to curse me for speaking untruth, do it and quit your sullenness,” Arsheesh said when he had finally had enough. “Thou’ll thank me for my kindness when thou art old enough to appreciate it.”

The boy didn’t answer for a long time and Arsheesh began to wonder if perhaps he had fallen asleep. At last, he muttered, “Is Shasta even my real name?”

“It is the name that I gave thee. Doubtless thy true parents gave thee another, but I do not know what it is.”

“Is that why you always call me ‘boy’?”

“No,” said the fisherman. “It isn’t.”

The longer Arsheesh observed the young Tarkaan, the more Ilsombresh seemed less like a nobleman and more like an untried youth. “If it please my lord, what age are you?” he inquired cautiously.

“It does not please me,” replied Ilsombresh, raising his chin and looking proud. “Remember your place, beggar.”

A few feet away, where the two children were seated with their noon meal, the young Tarkheena leaned over and loudly whispered, “He’s fifteen.” A little gasping laugh burst forth from the boy. Arsheesh didn’t think he’d ever heard it before.

Arsheesh leveled his gaze at the young nobleman for a long moment. “One of the poets has said, ‘A boy in a time of peace is a man in a time of war.’ I’d wager the notion applies in the case of our noble patron.”

“Thou haves’t naught to wager,” muttered Ilsombresh, but his face looked smoother now.

The girl Tarkheena, however, was not so easily mollified. “But you haven’t been to war yet. That’s the whole—”

“Aravis! Mind your tongue. One of the poets has also said, “The price of careless talk is paid in blood.’”

“Sorry, ‘Bresh,” she chorused.

Shasta leaned over and whispered something else to the girl, who elbowed him firmly in the ribs. The boy had the good sense to look sheepish, but Arsheesh saw another smile beginning to take shape on his face. It tugged at his cheeks like a fishing line pulled taut.

The whole party rose later than intended the next morning, for the young Tarkaan had slept fitfully. As the children made up their bedrolls, Arsheesh went with Ilsombresh to go see about the horses (for although Aravis knew far more of riding than he did, she was nowhere near tall enough to reach all the buckles and straps involved in tacking up.)

“Tis a most peculiar thing,” mused Ilsombresh as he settled the saddle blanked over the stallion’s back. “I bought this fine horse for a pittance because he was ill mannered, yet now he seems as docile as a kitten.”

“No doubt a testament to your exceptional horsemanship.”

“Perhaps.”

The moon waned a little, and then the lions came again. Far from any village, Arsheesh was roughly roused in the dark part of the night. Someone was tugging at his bedroll.

Shasta was crouching over him. The child’s face was red and blotchy, but his tiny voice was level when he whispered, “Lord ‘Bresh says for you to get up.”

Arsheesh blinked a few times to clear the sleep from his eyes. Across the camp, Ilsombresh was hastily preparing the horses. Coiled around his right leg were the arms of his little sister.

There were lions roaring in the distance. Lions, again. Arsheesh stood and made to join Ilsombresh and the horses, but he paused for a minute before moving. “Are you afraid, Shasta?”

The child bit his lip. “Yessir.”

So Arsheesh scooped the boy into his arms before striding over to join the rest of the party.

Up close, the horses’ eyes were wild with panic, and Ilsombresh himself was little better. “Do they seem to be aware of our presence? Perhaps we ought not flee in haste,” Arsheesh volunteered.

“We cannot remain here. We cannot take the chance! I will not, do you hear me? My sister will arrive safe in Narnia, and if you refuse to go I will run you through with my sword and use your worthless carcass to ward the lions off.”

From her clinging place round her brother’s leg, Aravis choked out a sob.

Arsheesh knelt and placed Shasta down beside her. “Here now, Shasta. Comfort the Tarkheena, yes? That’s a good boy.”

The boy looked uncertain, but he nodded firmly at the charge. He tugged on Aravis’s plait and said, “Aravis. Aravis. Come here. Let the grown-ups talk.”

Slowly, painfully, Aravis released the grip on her brother’s leg and went with Shasta to sit by the bedrolls. Arsheesh turned his attention back to Ilsombresh and his flashing eyes.

“Peace,” he said firmly, placing his hand on the young Tarkaan’s shoulder. “I’ve no wish to see either of the children come to harm. If we must flee, so be it. I only mean to offer an alternative. If we move apace, will we not seem as prey?”

“They can smell us, can they not? If Aravis dies, I shall—”

“You needn’t threaten me further, I understand. Perhaps if we crossed the river.”

Ilsombresh seemed to consider this and Arsheesh breathed a sigh of relief. “Alright,” he said finally. “Let us cross the river and see what comes of it.”

The children, seeking to be helpful, had packed away the camp and sitting pressed together and whispering when their guardians finished their conference. “We will cross the river,” said Arsheesh, disentangling the children and hefting Shasta into his arms. “We must make no sound and no sudden movements, do you understand?”

They crossed in silence and dark, Arsheesh with the two children in his arms and Ilsombresh leading the horses (who were as quiet and obedient as anyone could have hoped.) His many years of fishing served him well; he navigated the currents and swells of the river and after ten agonizing minutes, he placed the children on the far shore and waited for Ilsombresh to follow.

The whole party stopped and listened, and presently the sound of the lions began to grow faint. “You see, my lord? They never knew of us.”

Ilsombresh cleared his throat. “I apologize for my rashness, Arsheesh. Your wisdom has availed us all tonight.”

“I am a man of many years, my lord,” replied the fisherman.

As the days went on, Shasta’s whispered conferences with Aravis Tarkheena blossomed into a full-fledged conspiracy. The smile tugged on his cheeks quite often now. When Arsheesh told him to gather kindling or to lay out the bedroll, he did it without any sullenness; almost with cheerfulness. It seemed, thought the fisherman, as though he was a whole new boy.

That, in itself, was troubling. Arsheesh had taken the boy in with the thought of putting him to work, and so he had done as soon as Shasta was capable. He was six years old, but he could untangle nets and scrape muck and oh, so many other things. Yet his fearful sullenness had made him inefficient. Arsheesh had gleaned long ago that Shasta could likely work faster if he did not double back and check his work so often for fear of punishment, but what else could he do? Without that fear, the boy would not work at all.

Now, in the face of Shasta’s newfound cheerfulness, Arsheesh was forced to concede that the child was capable of pleasantness and speed in whatever task his small hands were set to do, if only he might smile and laugh as he did it. Arsheesh watched as Shasta and Aravis diligently set about filling the waterskins; how they raced each other down to the river and tossed stones into the water while they worked and squealed with glee as they raced back. Perhaps, in the past he had been overharsh with the boy.

Yes. Well. As one of the poets had said, “A sluggard is he who desires nothing; let the man with a lazy servant discover what that servant desires.” Besides, the King of Archenland would likely prefer a son who laughed to one who only sulked.

One night as their party was nearing Tashbaan, Arsheesh woke to find the bedroll beside him empty and cold. Shasta was missing. At once he was awake, scrambling upright and looking round until at last he saw Shasta sitting cross-legged with Aravis beside him. Their heads were close bent together, dark hair and tow side by side in the moonlight, facing the makeshift hitching post and the two horses tied there.

For a moment, Arsheesh considered whether he ought to go to the children and usher them back to bed, but after a moment’s pause he decided against it. Let them have their midnight whispers. They were in no danger and certainly they would return to bed when they were tired enough.

“We come to Tashbaan in two days,” Ilsombresh said. The party was seated in a patch of grass, taking their midday meal in the afternoon sun. The horses grazed contentedly a little way off, and the two children were seated so close together that their elbows were touching.

“In two days,” the young nobleman repeated. “It is imperative that no one of our acquaintance should recognize Aravis or myself. To that end—”

“Perhaps the time has come for my lord to disclose what, exactly, he and his sister are running from.”

It was a very bold thing for Arsheesh to say to any of his betters, but he met the Ilsombresh’s gaze and held it nevertheless.

“Yes,” Ilsombresh replied, stroking his barely-whiskered chin. “Very well then. I’ll give the shape of it, at least. Thou hast earned our trust.”

“My father, and Aravis’s father, has lately married a wicked woman (having been bereft of our mother for some years.) She loves us not and covets our father’s inheritance on behalf of her own child, which she is carrying; thus, she arranged for my appointment to the army of the Tisroc (may he live forever), in a place of great peril and in the hope that I should perish. Likewise, she has arranged to send Aravis to dwell in the home of a distant relative, a man of many vices, until she comes of an age to be married. Therefore, I have taken Aravis and made to escape, that such evil things might not come to pass.”

Arsheesh stared, dumbfounded at his blunt admission to deserting the Tisroc’s army.

“Have you any questions?”

Arsheesh opened his mouth and shut it. Finally, “Thou art very brave, my lord. I shall do my utmost to ensure that no one knows of thee.”

A wide smile spread across Ilsombresh’s face at that. “I thank thee,” he murmured. “I have tried to do right. It has not been easy.” He cleared his throat. “And I, for my part, will ensure that thou art well rewarded for the discovery of the Archen prince, eh? North to freedom and fat wallets!”

“Freedom and fat wallets,” Arsheesh softly echoed.

“The plan then. Aravis and I will enter the city with our faces covered: I with my armor and Aravis veiled. We will go to the Foreigners’ Quarter, where we are unlikely to be recognized, and Shasta will remain with us in case we are recognized. You, Arsheesh, will go to the docks and secure passage on a fast ship in the name of your master, Alimash Tarkaan (that’s a cousin of mine). Then, you will sell the horses and return to the Foreigners’ Quarter to meet with us. We will lay low until the ship is to embark, then make our way to the docks and be on our way to Archenland. Is that acceptable?”

“’Bresh,” Aravis interjected, tugging on her brother’s sleeve.

“Yes, my lord. A fine plan.”

“’Bresh!”

“In a moment, Aravis. Now if we have need of Shasta as our alibi—”

“’Bresh, what did you mean about selling the horses? Salma and Bree are coming with us.”

“Bree? I was not aware that thou had named that stallion. I told thee not to, dear. Thou knowst that horses may not come on the ship. I’m sorry.”

“But ‘Bresh, the horses have to come—!”

“I know thou’rt fond of Salma, but I will buy thee a horse when we reach our new home. A better horse, yes?”

Aravis looked helplessly at Shasta, who himself seemed to be rather agitated. “Father, hadn’t we better take the horses? Perhaps we can give them to the King of Archenland.”

“’Please, ‘Bresh. Pleeeeeeaaaaseeee?”

It was at that moment that something miraculous happened.

“Excuse me,” said Salma the mare. “It seems to me that we’re all trying to get free of Calormen in one way or another. Could I—that is, I think it would be sensible if we all were to work together. So that no one gets left behind, I mean.”

Nobody breathed. Arsheesh could only blink at the Tarkaan’s horse, convinced that he was losing his mind. Then, when several long moments had passed, the stallion replied.

“Very well put, madam. Four of us have much better chances of seeing the foals safe in the North than you two have alone—and, I might say, a better chance of getting free ourselves.”

And then all Tash’s hell broke loose.

Ilsombresh drew his sword, but the two children leapt to their feet and raced over to the places where the horses were tied. “Bresh!” cried the Tarkheena. With his child’s fingers, Shasta untied the knot holding the stallion Bree in place. Bree lunged forward towards the young Tarkaan and Arsheesh saw the horses’ fierce hooves preparing to collide with his chest. Ilsombresh ducked and took a swipe at the horse’s feet with his sword, but now Shasta was untying Salma and she was free as well. Arsheesh strode forward and put his hand on Ilsombresh’s shoulder, but the youth roughly shook him away. Shasta crouched very near Salma’s back legs and Arsheesh now turned and moved towards him, meaning to scoop the boy up and at least remove him from harm’s way, but Shasta scooted away, closer to Salma’s legs. Now, Aravis was yelling and Ilsombresh was still brandishing his sword and Bree reared back and then—

Everything stopped. Everyone turned towards the deafening, unmistakable sound of a lion’s roar. It had heard them. It was coming.

Arsheesh recovered his wits first. “If you horses carry us true,” said the fisherman in a rush, “we will see you free in Archenland.” He whirled round to face Ilsombresh. “Yes?”

“On my honor,” Ilsombresh nodded and sheathed his sword.

The lion was at their heels in moments. Both horses broke into a run, but still it gained. Its roar was terrible: so much more fearsome than it had been at a distance, now that it was so very near. Like thunder on the sea, thought the fisherman. Like when a squall comes from nowhere. From in front of him, Shasta whispered something into the horses mane. Arsheesh couldn’t make out the words, but he felt the child’s skin clammy against him.

Bree was the faster horse, and so for all that Arsheesh had gotten the head start, the Tarkaan and his sister had soon outpaced him. He hazarded a glance behind and saw great, white teeth snapping not yards away. The creature’s breath on his back. Claws like bright silver and that thunderstorm-roar.

Shasta’s clammy hands. A squall on the sea. There was a kind of symmetry to it, Arsheesh thought. Perhaps one of the poets might have made some great tale of it, but for now his own mind was dumb with fear. If the lion took down Salma, Ilsombresh and Aravis would escape, but he and Shasta would die. If the lion took him—

“Mercy,” gasped his horse, and the thought came to Arsheesh like lightning.

He leaned low over both child and horse and to Salma he said, “Ride hard and get him to safety. Not Tashbaan: Anvard.” Then, to Shasta, “In Archenland, let Ilsombresh claim the reward. But—tell the King and Queen that I was good to thee.” With that, Arsheesh slid from Salma’s back and landed hard on the ground. The hoofbeats continued on, running at full tilt, and from his pile on the ground, Arsheesh thought, good. He shut his eyes and waited for the lion’s teeth.

Arsheesh opened his eyes. His muscles ached from the fall, and he thought that perhaps a few of his bones were broken, but he was not dead. That itself was very strange, and for a moment he dared to hope that the lion had left.

But no. A few paces ahead of him were two enormous golden paws. The claws were still extended, but the creature attached to them was so still that it might have been a statue. Arsheesh held his breath.

“Well then, my son,” spoke the lion. It had a heavy, rumbling voice that seemed to come from all around. “What would you have me do with you?”

Arsheesh flinched backwards and his old muscles complained. What was he to say? First, the talking horses; now the talking lion. Perhaps he was dreaming. Perhaps he had gone mad.

“Do—do you mean to ask how I want you to eat me?”

The lion inclined its head lower, so that Arsheesh could see his face. “That is not what I have asked you,” it said.

Thinking then of Salma’s gasping voice as she ran, the fisherman spoke the only word he could think to utter. “Mercy.”

“Mercy?” rumbled the lion. “Certainly, you shall have mercy in abundance; for you have asked for it.”

With that, it bent its head nearly to the ground, where Arsheesh still lay prostrate, and breathed on him. A bright, tangy scent surrounded him, as though someone had peeled an orange very near his face. The fisherman sat up.

“Arsheesh, son of Altan. Give me an accounting of yourself. How have you treated the child I gave you?”

“You gave me? I plucked the child from the sea one night. There was no lion. I’d never encountered a lion in all my years until I set out on this thrice-damned journey to Archenland.”

There was a glint in the lion’s eye that Arsheesh might have taken to be a smile. “You know not what you speak. It was I who pushed the boat that held the child nearly to shore for you to find. I gave him to you, that you might bring him up and someday see him returned to his homeland. Have you done these things?”

A knot had risen in Arsheesh’s throat. There was no doubt in his mind (if indeed there ever had been) that the creature before him was the lion-demon that the Narnians worshipped. Yet for all the fear he should have felt, he did not really feel scared. It was guilt, not fear, which had lodged itself in Arsheesh’s throat.

“Shasta,” he whispered. The lion looked at him, and Arsheesh began to feel very naked. He wondered if the lion somehow knew how he had treated the child, and only wanted to hear him say it before it devoured him.

“O Mighty Lion, I knew not of these things. They are too marvelous for your servant, who is but an old and greedy fisherman. I drew the child out of the water seeking only my own profit, raised him to be my slave, and only made to return him to his homeland when it seemed that I might be rewarded for it. If in confessing these things, I have forfeited the mercy you promised me, then do with your servant as you will.” For the second time that day, Arsheesh shut his eyes. Once again, the pain never came.

The fisherman Arsheesh arrived at Anvard on a cloudy day. His clothes were threadbare and he carried no supplies, but the gate opened for him as soon as the watchman saw him approach.

He had scarce made it to the courtyard when a young man came running out. He looked like Ilsombresh Tarkaan, but his hair was shorter and there were more whiskers on his chin then there had been two weeks ago. He was arrayed in the heavy furs of the Archen court, and his arms were outstretched.

“Arsheesh!” he cried as the two of them embraced. “You live.”

“Yes. I take it Shasta is here with his true father?”

Ilsombresh nodded. “He is Crown Prince Cor, and he and Aravis are playing with his twin brother in the nursery. The horses—Bree and Hwin—are here too. And now thee.”

“Yes, thanks to the fare that thou left for me at the docks. But come. I would like to see the child, and the King and Queen should know that I’ve spoken with Aslan.”

“Aslan?”

The fisherman laughed. “Oh, my boy. I’ve much to tell thee.”

#honestly this concept is probably worth a much longer piece than what i've written #but it's taken me this long to write what i have and honestly these hypotheticals aren't really multi-chapter novellas to me #so here it is #it's been a while since i've posted any of my writing! hello again #hopefully this is somewhere in the vein of what you were thinking stoat #will probably do a bit more revising/tweaking before i cross-post to ao3 #narnia #narnia and the north! hurrah #pontifications and creations #leah stories

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sunberry-strawflower · 9 months

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#curtissonweek2023

Here's my entry for day 2 of @blue-fanlady's curtisson week! I genuinely didn't know if I'd finish this in time but I DID IT!! Like day 1's fic, this one also went to hell in back but in different ways😭it's incredibly messy, but I tried and I think that's gotta count for something haha

Yes this is a typical type of overworking fic--I wasn't sure what else to do with the prompt sadly😔

Despite this, I hope you enjoy!

Possible CW(s): descriptions of fainting? Or the process of. Also multiple mentions of lack of sleep and eating. If any of these make you uncomfortable please don't read this.

Word count: 3.8k

Curtisson Week Day 2: Paperwork

"Are you sure you shouldn't rest a little?"

"Yes, Burt, I'm sure."

Burt sighed as his boyfriend once again brushed off his concerns. Sven was doing paperwork for The Toppat Clan. He recently got promoted to the leader position of his job under his own will because the previous leader and his Right Hand Man got arrested. Nobody else wanted to step up, so Sven decided, well, somebody had to do it.

However, he's been trying too hard to balance paperwork, the rocket plan, and managing the Toppat's all at once. It doesn't help that he doesn't have a right hand man like the previous leaders did.

He's been overworking himself and there's little Burt can do about it, which upsets him.

Sven is stubborn. If he feels something needs to be done, he needs it to be done right then.

Burt tries to talk to him about it, but Sven always claims it's fine and not to worry about it. But with his constant sleepless nights, noticeably snappier temper, constant headaches, and lack of energy and motivation to do anything other than work, work, work…Burt couldn't help but worry.

They haven't spent much time together lately either. Not just with him, but his relationships with his fellow Toppat members have been suffering.

He understood work can be stressful, especially if you're the leader of a massive criminal organization, but did Sven really need to push himself this hard?

Burt just looked at Sven with hints of concern as he continued to sign and flip through more and more paperwork. "Well, just…don't work too hard, alright?"

Burt didn't stay to see if Sven would answer him or not and just left the room, closing the door behind him.

Before Sven was promoted to leader, yes, he did have a tendency to overwork, but it never got this bad. And Burt was always there for him during those times. Always there to remind him to take care of himself. And more often than not, Sven remembered to at least take care of his own needs.

He was a lot more cheerful, friendly, and happier. He would smile that pretty smile Burt loved so, so much. And on the times he did overwork, Burt talked to him about it. He was able to help him get out of that constant work cycle. Even if just for a little bit.

This time, though, it was much worse. Sven hadn't been listening to Burt's concerns at all. He would say he'd get sleep, say he'd eat decently, say he'd take a break, but Burt can tell he hasn't done any of those things, and he doesn't know what else he could possibly do. He was stuck at a brick wall here.

He stood there with his back to the door for a bit, looking down in thought. "Oh, Sven…" he whispered to himself. "I don't know what to do…"

-------

Carol walked into the cafeteria to get some lunch, planning on taking it back to her office. She walked up to the counter and looked at the options. Looks like she's a little late because everyone seemed to have taken all of the good stuff. She shrugs and settles for a simple but filling beef sandwich. Once she finished making the sandwich and put it on her plate, she turned to the doorway so she could leave. However, she couldn't help but notice Burt sitting at a table all alone, having barely touched his food. Now, it wasn't unusual for Burt to eat alone. In fact, he preferred it.

Carol, Burt, and Sven all used to hang out quite a bit (sometimes with other Toppats as well) when they all had the time, which admittedly wasn't too much but it was enough to satisfy them. Carol knew Burt well and while he does tend to look a little uninterested or bored, resting bitch face and all that, this was different. Very noticeably, in Carol's eyes.

He was sulken, with an unreadable expression on his face. He had a nice warm bowl of tomato soup in front of him. One of his favorites. And yet he's barely touched it at all. He occasionally lifted the spoon and looked into the red broth it had, like he was considering finally starting on his dish, but then he decided against it and would slowly lower the spoon back into the bowl.

Carol knew exactly what was going on. She's seen it too. She noticed Sven's overworking himself more and more. He wasn't as energetic, his temper was all over the place, he never left his office and whenever he did, Carol could see just how exhausted he was.

His overworking really took a toll on the three's friendship, along with Burt and Sven's relationship.

Carol finally decided she's had enough with watching them crumble down to pieces and made her way towards Burt, sitting down on the bench opposite from him.

Burt glanced up at her, but didn't say anything.

"Your food is going to get cold, you know." She said,

Burt sighed again. "Yeah, I know."

Carol sat there for a few seconds, thinking about what to say.

"I understand you're upset about Sven," She said bluntly. "But just sulking in the cafeteria isn't helping at all."

Burt nodded. "I know."

Carol looked at Burt with a sharp expression. "Have you said or done anything?"

Burt glared at Carol. "What do you think? Of course I have.

"Like what?"

"The things I usually did when he was overworking himself. Reassured him, reminded him that he doesn't need to work too hard, that his health comes first," He said. "It took a bit of time because, well, you know how stubborn he can be. But eventually with enough reassurance and comfort, he would start to relax, even if just a little."

Carol hummed. "And none of that's worked?"

Burt shook his head. "No. He claims to eat decently and sleep, but he doesn't look like he does at all. I know he doesn't want me to worry, but I can't help it…" Burt buried his face in his hands.

Carol didn't say anything. She realized her food would get cold if she just sat here, so she took a few bites of her sandwich.

Burt looked up at her and noticed she hadn't responded and kept eating on her sandwich. He then looked down at his soup, it had gone cold and transparent, he could almost see his reflection in the broth. He slowly pushed the bowl away and went to stand up.

"Burt."

Burt looked to Carol, who was staring at him with a solemn expression. "Maybe mere words won't be enough to help him this time."

Burt raised an eyebrow. "What is that supposed to mean? Are you saying me and Sven aren't affectionate enough?"

Carol shook her head. "Oh, no, that is not what I mean at all." Carol already knew Sven and Burt tended to be very affectionate towards each other.

"Well, then what?"

"What I mean is, just telling him not to overwork himself isn't going to do anything. You'll have to do something. Even if it's by force."

Burt noticeably flinched at the 'force' part. "No, no. If I force him away, he'll get angry," He said. "Besides, isn't that a bit, well, forceful? I don't think being aggressive will help at all."

"Who said it was aggressive?" She questioned. "Forcing him away doesn't necessarily mean you have to do anything drastic like snatching things from him."

Burt still didn't seem to understand where Carol was going with this. Sven takes his work very seriously. Forcing it away will only make him upset, especially with his already messy temper.

"Just be firm. Be serious." She said simply. "He really does love you, you know?"

Burt just sighed and nodded, turning to leave the cafeteria. Carol let her eyes follow him until he was out of sight, and turned back to eat her sandwich.

------

Once Burt left the cafeteria, he walked down the hallway, not entirely sure where he was going. It was quiet, aside from occasionally hearing somebody typing on their keyboard loudly in one room or the sound of rummaging through paperwork in another. That sound reminded him of not so fun things.

He kept thinking back to what Carol said earlier. Was she trying to give advice?

You have to actually do something. Even if it's by force.

Who did she think he was? He HAS been doing something. Everything he felt like he could. Why did Carol feel like his efforts weren't enough?

And by force? What did that even mean?

Forcing him away doesn't necessarily mean you have to do anything drastic like snatching things from him.

He knew that much, but he couldn't think of any ways to force Sven away from work without making him mad.

Just be firm. Be serious.

He HAS been being serious. He's been very direct with Sven about how he feels with his habit of overworking. At least, he thought he was being direct. Sven seemed to get the hint (most of the time).

He really does love you, you know?

Of course Sven loved him. Sven loved Burt. Burt loved him too. That's why it hurt so much seeing him like this. Especially when he felt there was nothing he could do.

He started to walk a little slower the closer he got to Sven's office. He didn't even realize he was slowing down his pace until he found himself right in front of the office door. He lifted his fist up, letting it hover. He was contemplating whether or not to knock on it. Whether or not he wanted to try and get Sven to rest for probably the thousandth time since he became leader.

He took a deep breath and knocked three times before letting himself in. "Sven, we need to talk."

Sven didn't look in Burt's direction. "Not now, Burt. I'm busy."

Burt was mentally hit with so many emotions at that response. Maybe more than he should've been.

"But, Sven, I–"

"Burt, this is important, I can't drop it right now." Sven interrupted him.

Burt didn't care how important that work was right now. The most important thing was Sven's health. And he wanted Sven to understand that more than anything.

He started thinking maybe Carol was right. He had to be a little forceful in order to get Sven even the slightest bit willing to listen to him.

He took a few steps to where Sven was sitting and tried again. "Sven, this is important."

Sven went to reach for more paperwork to sign. "I'm sorry, but I have to–"

Before he could finish, he felt Burt grip his wrist. He wasn't gripping hard enough for it to hurt, but it was enough to where he couldn't do much with his hand. He flushed when he felt Burt wrap his hand around his wrist, but he was also slightly annoyed. What was up with him right now?

He looked up at Burt who had a firm, serious expression. However, under that expression, there was concern. A lot of it.

"Sven," He repeated his name. "Please."

Sven didn't know whether he should listen to Burt or not. He looked like he really needed to talk to him, but he needed to get his work done as well. He couldn't leave it unfinished.

Before Sven could properly respond, he felt Burt gently pull him up from his chair. "Burt?"

Burt didn't say anything and led Sven out of his office. Once they got out, Burt just now realized he didn't know where to take him, but they couldn't have this conversation in his office, because Sven would probably try and start working again while Burt was trying to talk. They couldn't talk in the middle of the hallway either, though.

"Burt, what are you doing? Can you…" Sven felt his sentence trail off for seemingly no reason. He wanted to try and get out of Burt's grasp, but having finally stood up from his chair, he realized just how exhausted he was and he didn't think he had the energy to resist.

Burt started walking towards his own room. Not an office, but his actual bedroom. He felt that was the best place to go to talk about this right now.

Sven started to try and make an effort to resist and get out of Burt's grasp, even if most of his efforts would end up futile. He had to at least try. Burt just took him away from his office without telling him a thing!

The only response Burt gave to his efforts was gripping his wrist tighter. Again, not enough to hurt him, but enough for it to be harder for Sven to slip out of his grasp. He's already gotten this far and he wasn't going to let Sven get away before properly talking to him.

He finally made it to his bedroom, took Sven in with him, and closed the door behind them.

He loosened the grip on Sven's wrist, but didn't let go.

Now Sven was more than just a little annoyed. Burt forcefully dragged him over to his room and hadn't explained a thing.

"Okay, I'm here now. What is it you want to talk about?" He asked, scowling slightly.

"I want to talk about you overworking." Burt said.

That was what he wanted Sven over here for? Are you serious??

Sven refused to believe he was overworking. He was not. He was just doing his job. Being a leader was hard work. Reginald could do it so why couldn't he?

"Burt, I've told you a million times," Sven groaned. "I'm not overworking myself. I'm fine."

Burt let go of Sven's wrist and put both of his hands on his shoulders. "Sven, I'm serious. This amount of work isn't healthy for you." He said. Sven still wouldn't budge, but Burt was going to be persuasive.

"I can handle it!" He said, and tried to force Burt's hands off of his shoulders. He held his grip. Sven could not handle it. Nobody could handle that amount of work. At least not all in one sitting. Everyone needed to rest eventually. Sven seemed to make himself think otherwise.

"No you can't!" Burt cried. Probably the loudest he's been in a while, but Sven didn't seem to take note of this. All he cared about was leaving this conversation and getting back into his office. "You've been skipping meals, not getting any sleep–" Burt stressed.

"Bu-But I have! I've told you a million times, haven't I?" Sven started shaking, and he wasn't sure why. He wasn't scared, or shaking in anger. He just wanted this to be over. Burt noticed this and took a deep breath in an attempt to calm himself.

"No, you haven't. I know you haven't…" Burt said. "You need to–"

Sven didn't want to hear it. "No! I don't need to do anything. I'm fine. I'm alright."

"No you're not!" He couldn't hold back his voice as it started to break. Was there really nothing he could do about this? He had to resist the urge to shake Sven by the shoulders. He didn't want him to feel more overwhelmed than he probably already was.

"Why are you being so persistent??" Sven complained. He tried to get Burt's hands off his shoulders again, this time being successful. Burt stepped back, his hands awkwardly in the air. Sven sighed. "If I tell you I'm fine, then I am. End of story." His legs started to feel weak, but he ignored it.

Burt let his arms fall down to his sides, with an expression that looked like a mix of sadness and frustration. He looked into Sven's eyes. They looked…wrong. Something didn't feel right. Other than the bags under them. They seemed to drift ever so slightly, and Sven didn't look like he was doing it consciously.

This was a little concerning, and Burt felt like it had to do with his lack of sleep and eating. "Sven, I'm serious. You really need to lie down."

Sven shook his head. "I'm fine–" he muttered, before he felt himself tumble over. Instead of falling on the carpeted floor, though, he felt something warm on his back. Burt's arms were keeping him standing steadily.

He felt himself getting weaker and he felt awfully dizzy all of a sudden. His ears were ringing and he could feel everything and nothing at the same time.

He could tell Burt was saying something, but he couldn't hear what it was. It just sounded like white noise under the ringing in his ears.

What the hell happened? He was fine a moment ago.

Burt gently sat him on the bed and left the room. Probably not a good idea because Sven could just get up and walk back to his office without Burt stopping him. But he was way too out of it to even think about going back to work. He couldn't hear anything and his vision was still blurry. If he were to even try to go back, he'd more than likely pass out.

Sven had no idea what was happening. One second, they were arguing about work, then the next, he felt his senses go numb and his legs give out. It was all so sudden. He missed Burt's comforting presence already, despite everything that had happened a few minutes ago.

Now that he was sitting down and resting, the dizziness had subsided just the slightest bit. He still felt weak, though, so he just sat there and waited. Either for Burt to get back or for him to feel better enough to leave.

He heard soft footsteps and assumed that it was Burt coming back. He walked in with a bottle of water and shut the door. He sat down next to Sven and looked at him with the same amount of concern as earlier, albeit for different reasons this time.

"Please drink something." Burt said as he handed the bottle of water to him. Sven took it and drank a bit. He started feeling a little better and sighed with relief.

Burt wasn't fully comforted by the amount he drank, though. "Can you drink more?" He asked gently. While it was alright if he couldn't, Burt would prefer if Sven could get a little more in his system. Even if it was just water.

Sven gave Burt a soft look before nodding. He was worried about him and he understood that now. He took a few more sips before letting Burt take it back.

That was odd and scary. Sven had never had a spell like that before. It was so out of nowhere too. They both calmed down from arguing.

"Sven…" Burt started. "After seeing that, it's pretty apparent you haven't been taking care of yourself at all."

Sven couldn't refute anything at this point. Burt knew better, and Sven should've known that. "I just…" he let his voice trail off, not knowing what he wanted to say. He felt tears well up in his eyes, his emotions were all over the place.

Burt frowned at this and put his hand on top of Sven's. "Are you okay?" He asked, which was honestly a stupid question because no Sven was not okay, but he didn't know what else to say.

Sven tried to hold it in, now feeling mentally weak for crying. Burt noticed this and gave him a reassuring look. "You can cry. It's okay."

Sven broke down then and there. He clung onto Burt and sobbed into his shirt. He's a failure. A failure to his boyfriend for making him worry, a failure to his friends for neglecting them, a failure to Reginald and Right Hand Man who would've trusted him to do better.

Burt wrapped his arms around him as he cried. "Hey, it's okay…" he soothed him.

Sven responded by clinging onto his shirt tighter and tried to speak through his sobbing. "I'm sorry, Burt. I can't do this anymore! I feel terrible!" He cried. "I should've worked harder! For the previous leaders, for the clan, for you…"

"Sven…," Burt muttered. "Look at me. Hey, look at me." he said gently, tilting Sven's chin up so he could see him properly. Tears were still streaming down his cheeks and he just looked miserable. "No, you shouldn't have worked harder. In fact, I'd say the opposite." He said. "Like I said, I know you're not taking care of yourself, which caused you to faint. You don't have to work harder for anybody. You've worked hard enough."

Sven couldn't bring it in himself to say anything. He's heard everything he's needed to hear at this point. He's worked hard enough. He buried his face back into Burt's shirt and kept crying.

Once he finally calmed down, he lifted his head up from his boyfriend's shirt, letting out a sniffle every few seconds.

"I'm sorry… for making you worry and…and for–"

Burt gently hushed him, reassuring him that it was okay. "You don't have to apologize, Sven. Really. I'm sorry for making you upset but you need to remember your health comes before anything. Including work. Okay?"

Sven nodded. Burt didn't upset him. He was just feeling overwhelmed and upset about everything else, but he was finding it hard to speak now.

Burt kept his arms wrapped around him to assure him that he was okay. They were both okay. And they'd figure this out together. He gave him a soft kiss on the forehead. "I love you. You know that, right?"

Sven nodded and relaxed in Burt's arms. "I love you too. So much."

They sat there for a bit in each other's arms, Sven barely even having the urge to work at the moment. He felt himself begin to drift off. He tried to fight it, but it was getting harder and harder.

Burt noticed this (he seems to notice a lot of things about Sven) and chuckled. "It's alright. You can sleep now. In fact, you should sleep now." Burt whispered. Sven was about to argue, but he felt his eyes grow heavy once more. His boyfriend's relaxing voice did not help at all.

Burt was hoping Sven would sleep. Especially after fainting due to lack of food and exhaustion and crying his heart out in his arms. There's no way he's not tired. "Sven, please."

Sven begrudgingly let himself give in. "Alright…"

A few seconds later, Sven finally let his eyes close and rest for who knows how long.

Tomorrow, Burt was going to try and get Sven to eat and develop a healthier work cycle, but for now, he's just happy his boyfriend is letting himself sleep. He closed his eyes and let himself drift off as well. Both of them finally getting the rest they both desperately needed.

_______________________________________________________

I forgot to do this yesterday so don't mind me doing it today—

#it's literally 11pm over here I barely made it #but what matters is that I did🙏#now here's to me hoping day 3 will be better #it should be fine as the idea I have for it is simple and fluffy :]#this fic was kind of self-indulgent but not really #also I hope the description of fainting was realistic enough--I've had numerous fainting spells and that's how it felt for me #but it could feel different for other ppl so hejdjrfj #shoutout to carol for coming in to eat a sandwich and giving the most vague advice before leaving the story forever #I honestly lost my motivation to keep writing this towards the end so it's hella rushed am sorry #thsc #the henry stickmin collection #sven svensson #curtissonweek2023 #burt curtis #cross posted on ao3 #curtisson #henry stickmin collection

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