11Disclaimer: I do not own the Chronicles of Narnia.
A/N: Yes, I know this is nothing like my usual stories. Yes, I know I never write about things like wine. I wasn't going to post this. But I changed my mind, because it's kind of odd and quirky and I like it. Kinda. I have a theory about wine, which I'll bring up in this story, and it's that wine in Narnia and Archenland is not brewed for the purpose of intoxicating one (at least, not the good wine), but is made to taste good (unlike the wine in our world…nasty stuff!). That's not to say that there wouldn't be some kinds of wine or ale brewed for the purpose of intoxication, but such is my theory. Enjoy!
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Tipsy
She sets the glass on the table and leans back in her chair, letting a throaty laugh leave the bitter taste of forgetfulness on her sticky, claret lips. Those lips curve into an alluring smile, directed at the man who sits beside her, and he grins back and takes another mouthful of drink.
Her head is spinning delightfully—she fills dizzy, free, at ease for the first time in too long. The flash of wine glasses on crimson table-clothes in the candlelit room, combined with the nature of her drink ,goes to her head although it does not remove the note of bitterness that lingers in her laugher. As she takes another sip of champagne, her lips touch the smooth glass rim and her memory spins—spins back to another time of smooth glass rims that leave her sputtering because that time the glass held something better than champagne.
She can almost taste it now, as the champagne causes the barrier she's crafted to waver and fall, surrendering to a surge of memory. The crowded, smoke-filled dining hall is replaced by a dais and great hall, the low chuckles and quietly conversing couples in stylish black by laughing friends in bright colored garments, and the gleam of the moon through the Eastern Window that almost overpowers the candles and torches.
The taste of Spiced Wine—strong, unwatered vintage from Archenland—brings a gentle smile to her soft lips and sends a splash of vivid aliveness through her so strongly that she shudders. For the wine of this country is not brewed for the purpose of making one drunk (not the good stuff, anyway) but to preserve the taste of the warm summer wind, mingling with sweet, juicy, deliciously sticky grapes in a way that leaves your head spinning after just a mouthful, but not in a bad way.
She had to be careful, the first few years, not to drink in excess or too often. Indeed, she and Peter were hard pressed to keep the younger ones from getting too much of the scrumptious stuff. Just one glass was enough to produce giggles, and two made walking a difficult endeavor. So at last they resorted to adding extra water to the already watered-down wine, a trick Edmund and Lucy didn't catch on to until they were old enough to look out for themselves anyway.
Archenlandish wine was the least of things that tended to make Susan tipsy, though. Calormene wine was only potent the first summer she tasted it, and it certainly wasn't the only reason that summer made her dizzy. No, the thing that really made her mind whirl was the way he would take her hand in his, ever so courteously, and then let his eyes flicker up to meet hers. Such large, dark eyes they were, too! So tender, so passionate, under that great mop of glossy black curls that her fingers itched to tease. Even his name was beautiful, dashing, and when he'd lifted a silver goblet and murmured, "To your beauty, Queen Susan," her reply of, "And your courage, Prince Rabadash," brought a twist to her stomach in the speaking of that melodious, wonderful name, which was surely quite enough to make her tipsy.
The real thing, though, that made Susan's head reel like a tempest on the High Seas, was the touch of the summer wind as it whispered an invitation through her window, the kiss of velvet grass beneath her feet, and the shrill, eerie music of fauns' pipes in her ears as she allowed herself to be caught up and twirled along in the great midnight revelries at Dancing Lawn. Drinking in the steady glow of the moon, the flash of the Dryads' silvery skin, and then—then the smell of Him. Surely that was far more intoxicating than any wine or cheap champagne. For the glorious perfume that hung about Him as He stooped to kiss her fondly and let his mane mingle with her dark hair as she wrapped her arms around his neck brought a feeling that made tipsy sound like thirsty.
Because there was something in his paws, his voice, his eyes that was like Living Wine—wine that took the dead and unhappy in her soul and turned her inside out until she danced for pure joy.
Abruptly, she is back in England—again—with black clothes and claret lips and a glass half-full of bitter champagne. Her date is looking at her strangely (she gets a faraway look sometimes, he's told her) so she forces a smile and lifts her glass in a toast.
She can't drink it, though. The pale liquid sparkles at her challengingly, but she sets the glass down rather violently on the table, tells her bewildered companion that she's ready to be taken home now and ignores him as he offers his arm to walk her out.
Ordinarily Susan Pevensie does not mind champagne or cigarette smoke, but she can and will leave this place tonight with a clear head because suddenly tipsy isn't what she wants to be.
Finis.
