kitchen_maid | Thursday, Early Afternoon, Forest of Faraway, Near Amber

Thursday, Early Afternoon, Forest of Faraway, Near Amber

It is one of those beautiful days September bestows when she is in an especially good mood. There is bright sun, and a breeze, and just the barest hint of approaching autumn in the air. The very edges of the trees have begun to flame crimson and russet and gold, but for the most part, things are very very green. In short, it is a perfect day for a picnic.

They had managed to get Peter through the kitchen without too much trouble (although he had gotten a scolding from the second senior cook about being neater with the flour in the future) and Peter Aurelious and the squirrels joined them at the palace gates. And now here they are, in the clearing near edge of the Forest of Faraway, where the Ordinary Princess always comes on her every-second-Thursday-afternoons-off.

She spins all the way around, arms out, smile dazzling, in a sweeping, dizzying, giddy gesture that takes in the trees and the sky and the stream and world in general. "This," she says to Peter, "is home."

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Peter nods, slowly, his eyes far-away and older than they should be.

"It was, yes. It is."

She'd been teasing him, so she's a little surprised. But she recovers, pretty quickly.

"So, why do you still have to? Be something else. Be . . . whimsical or . . . courageous or hopeful or kind or quiet or clever or something. I didn't have a choice about "Ordinary" -- it's a fairy gift, and I have seven others, too. And I like them, but I didn't ask for them, and if I didn't want them it wouldn't make any difference. But you get to choose."

"Do I really?"

It's not precisely angry, but it's certainly sharp, sharper than she's ever heard from him before.

She raises an eyebrow at the tone, but she can be regal when she needs to, and so her tone is not quite what he's used to from her, either.

"If you choose to believe that you don't, than that is your choice, and you've made it."

One of those fairy gifts was Wisdom. She therefore occasionally comes up with things like this.

Peter's heard that before, in different words, maybe, but the same sentiment - from Kitty, and from Lilly.

But once a King or Queen in Narnia, always a King or Queen in Narnia.

"I'm something of a predestinationist, myself," he says, finally.

"So, let me see if I understand this. Your whole existance is just laid out in front of you? Because of something that happened when you were thirteen? You don't get to change anything or choose anything? You absolve yourself of all responsiblity for everything, because it's all fate and destiny. It's childish. Peter, I can't imagine a more depressing . . . how do you stand it?"

The tone is not regal. It is somewhat annoyed, rather more angry, and above all, very concerned.

"Ah, but that's the catch, isn't it? Even if things are laid out in front of you, you're still responsible for it."

And perhaps, just perhaps, he doesn't sound quite convinced, and it's something of an excuse for - something.

She gets up, and she doesn't so much as sit by him as kneel in front of him. It's not the way one kneels to a king, though. It's the way one kneels to talk to a small child.

Also, it puts their eyes on about the same level.

"No, Peter," she says, very gently, because she does not stay mad long. "You're responsible for what you choose, for the consequences of your actions, for what you've decided to do or not do, to see or not see, to say or not say. If it's all just fate, how can you possibly be responsible for it? You'd just be a character in a story, or puppet on a stage. An actor, speaking someone else's words. And you're . . . brighter than that. You're better than that. You are perfectly capable of writing your own story, if you have the courage to take up the pen."

Peter looks down, then leans forward and leans his forehead on her shoulder.

"It doesn't seem to matter so much, when you're around," he says after a moment. "Is that wrong?"

She puts her arm around his shoulder, her hand resting at the back of his neck. "Why would it be?" she asks.

"I feel like these are things I should figure out. I should know what I think about fate, I should know what I think about my past - like nothing else should matter to me until I understand all of that. But other things do matter to me."

Like you.

"And you'll figure them out. I have complete faith in you. But it's not," she pauses, casting about for the right word, "wise, to be so focused on figuring out the past that you miss the present."

And because the Wisdom thing does not come quite naturally to her, and because the fairy who cast Cheerfulness on her was rather more powerful, the Ordinary Princess follows this up by starting to giggle.

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, it's just . . . you still have flour in your hair."

Peter snorts and sits up, rubbing at his head, which showers her with flour and really just spreads it around in his hair.

"You said there was a blackberry patch, didn't you? Where is it?"

The Ordinary Princess coughs a little, breathing in flour again, and then grins. "Over there," she points. "Race you?"

"You're on!"

He leaps to his feet, and they're off. She has a slight head start, and knows the way, but he's probably a bit faster, so they're rather evenly matched.

"Rather evenly matched" is probably not a bad description for the two of them.

And naturally, they reach the blackberry thicket at almost the same time, and so it's rather hard to tell who won.

Or not, since Simon Perryvall is waiting for them when they get there.

Well, when you put it that way... no. No, it would seem that perhaps it's not.

The race is quickly forgotten, though, in the joy of blackberries picked straight from the bush and purple-stained fingers.

"This is glorious," Peter says, eventually. "How can you bear to ever leave?"

She shrugs. "I needed to work. And there's not a lot of work in the forest. And I needed someone to talk to, other than Mr. Pemberthy and Peter Aurelious. It's . . . rather more glorious with company."

Peter smiles at her, then offers her a particularly large berry.

"I suppose that makes sense. Do you enjoy working in the kitchen, though?"

She accepts the berry with a particularly bright smile.

"I don't dislike it," she says. "I know it sounds odd. It's just, no one has ever asked me to do anything useful before. There's never been anything that had a result. Even if it's just clean dishes, it's nice to have a result. All anyone ever wanted me to do was play the harp, which I'm not good at, and embroider, which I don't like. My royal Mama just wanted me to know to sit, and stand, and move elegantly. And try to look beautiful, even if I'm not. And I'm never going to be elegant. I'm never going to be beautiful, either. My smile is always going to wrinkle my nose, which is always going to be turned up and freckled. My hair is always going to be mouse brown, and my eyes are never going to be blue. And I don't care. I rarely ever have. And for the first time in my life, neither does anyone else. So long as the dishes get clean."

"I like your nose," Peter says, "and I like how it wrinkles when you smile. Really, everyone is always happiest, and most interesting, when they're doing something they enjoy. I don't think anyone who saw you out here, in the forest, could ever call you ordinary again."

Her smile at this really does wrinkle her nose in the most charming way. "You're one of the few people who ever has," she says. "Maybe we're both too worried about words and labels. Maybe I should just be Amy and you should just be Peter."

Peter grins at her.

"Alright, then, just-Amy, I think if I eat another blackberry I shall begin to bleed purple."

"Then you should stop," she advises, gravely, but her eyes are full of laughter.

Peter sticks his (rather purple) tongue out at her.

"Easy for you to say. You've had them more often than I have."

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