A/N: This fic was written after reading a story here (I do not remember which) that gave me the idea of Caspian and the horn. It's a continuation of the amazing story, Caspian's Queen, and is written in dedication to its extremely talented authoress, Francienyc.

Also, this is the first of many stories that all fit into the universe established by my other story, A Web Woven.

Disclaimer: This story uses locales and characters original to The Chronicles of Narnia and copyrighted by C.S. Lewis Pte. Ltd., and is inspired by the writing of Francienyc. Ideas are reproduced here for purely entertainment purposes and not for profit.

PART ONE - UPON MIDNIGHT

1. Call

He should have moved on by now. He knew that. In his heart of hearts, Caspian knew that he had no true right to her to begin with. But he'd loved her anyway, and loved her still. He ached for Lucy in a way that was like an addiction. His bride, the Star's Daughter, had been like a medicine that only tempered his heart, never healing. In her arms, the comfort was not in forgetting but in remembering, and his eyes had been closed when they'd touched. He had married her because what else was there to do? Now he could barely bring himself to look at her, from guilt and shame, and also from longing. But he knew better than to place his hands on her body and lose himself. Knew it would still be the same tomorrow. He would still lie awake at night, his back to her, unable to sleep for the pain inside him.

He had begun to think that it was the moonlight that kept him from slumber. He didn't mind the slow breathing of his wife beside him, because if anything his was the breath more ragged. But almost every night, pale silver would shine relentlessly through the windows, strewn across the bed until dawn. A haunting reminder of the same moonlight rising over the waters, and the sound of Lucy's voice in his ears. When he could bear it no longer, he left.

He usually stayed to some obscure part of the castle, a different place every night. Spare rooms, high tower rooms, empty rooms saved for visiting courtiers. While he had been dealing with the Northern giants, he had commissioned Cair Paravel to be restored. He had returned to find every crevice and corner renewed and gleaming. It was a good thing, because it was every crevice and corner the King sought in his nighttime wanderings. There he sat, facing the ocean, dwelling on what was lost and what he had held so briefly in his arms, until sleep was physically inevitable. Then he crept back to his chambers and sank into a blissful peace for the few hours until morning.

The night he broke was after the feast for his one-year wedding anniversary. The whole day a false joy had been masking a deep sadness, and when the festivities ended at last, he couldn't bring himself to even try to turn in. What is expected on the night of an anniversary? He wanted her, but hated himself for wanting her, and wanting more than she could give. She knew better than to expect anything from him – his back had been turned to her for months. That night he entered his bedchamber to see her lying there, sleeping, and just as soon turned around and left her.

He stormed the castle in agitation, feeling like an imprisoned man. Trapped within the walls of his finality, doomed to accomplish no more greatness than that which he had already achieved. The adventures of discovery and love were behind him. The Dawn Treader, the end of the world, Lucy – it was all past. But he couldn't let go. Couldn't close his eyes at night without thinking of the single, chaste kiss they had shared – a kiss of farewell before she vanished from this earth. After that, he couldn't sleep at all, until the aroma of her cordial had calmed him. Her cordial . . . The thought seized him and almost without thinking he altered his course towards the treasure chamber.

He took a lighted candle with him and because he couldn't see in the small light, began to count. One, two. He thought of his wife asleep upstairs. Three, four. Seeing her there, bathed in moonlight, yellow hair gleaming, had filled him with desire. Five, six. But he knew that it wasn't fair to her, to use her for himself and for his own selfish love, and that any physical love would be his only, not theirs. Seven, eight. She had told him . . . it was her destiny to comfort a grieving king. Nine, ten. And he did find solace within her in the beginning, and she had helped him through the worst. Eleven, twelve. But now, he knew his heart still belonged to another, far away as she may be. Thirteen, fourteen, fifteen. And as long he felt this way, he knew it wasn't right, and he wouldn't give in to the temptation. Sixteen.

He glanced at the room around him. The single flame was reflected off the polished gold and jewels high on endless shelves and cases, and shining suits of armour. It was too dark to make out the oak-and-iron chests he knew were padlocked with important histories and ancient laws of Narnia. Caspian made his was through all of this, past the piles of gold and silver trinkets heaped high as the ceiling, to the very back wall where the Gifts of Golden Narnia sat in their places of honour.

He stood there for a long, long time, keeping his gaze on her cordial. Had it really been a year since it had rested on her hip? Since they had been together sailing swiftly on an ocean of lilies? He could feel every memory washing over him. One warm night, where he and Lucy had lain side-by-side on deck, and named the foreign stars in whispers. He had believed that maybe, she could return with him to Cair Paravel. But she didn't. Time had run out. Then he thought of the forever to come and felt it pierce his heart. He wanted her, needed her, and couldn't live like this, without her, for much longer.

His eyes moved to the left, and fell upon Susan's bow and quiver, and then – her horn. An idea hit him with such force that he felt winded. That horn . . . had once called the four monarchs out of their world to help in times of hardship. What if – what if it could do it again? The thrill of possibility ran though him. He felt like the very air was crackling with magical energy. He could use the horn to call her here, ease his pain and fulfil his heart's desire. Lucy. . . he could have her in his arms in one breath of air. It was like his very soul was crying out to take it. He took a few small steps and stretched out his hand.

At once the loud, fierce roar of a lion rolled around the chamber, and a strong gale blew the candle out. Caspian had been king long enough to know that it was the doing of Aslan. The growl and the darkness that now surrounded him was a warning whose meaning couldn't be clearer. But he didn't care. Desperation was outweighing fear. His hands were shaking, but he reached out and took the horn. He held it close at his side, and climbed the stairs two at a time.

The moon was full and silver overhead. From the height it seemed even closer. Caspian's mind stirred and the memory of a similar castletop came to him. The virtue of this tower, he thought, is that there are five floors and a locked door between me and everyone below. He looked up at the moon in its roundness and imagined that Doctor Cornelius would say that the full moon would have an effect on any magic performed. Of course, he didn't really know this, but to think it made him feel better. He rocked back and forth on his toes nervously, hesitating over the two paths before him. He could still forsake. Could still not do it. He knew that this was wrong, knew that it was not what Aslan wanted, knew that it probably wouldn't work anyway. He could walk down those stairs, put the horn in its rightful spot, and go back to bed. He swallowed.

But there was no returning. He needed her.

He raised it to his lips and blew softly. It was not the loud and clear ring he knew it could sound, but a low whine with a soulful, ethereal echo. It seemed to be that the deep, mournful longing within him was transformed into tangibility in that strain of tune. The note reverberated in the air for a slow eternity, lingering quietly until the night resumed its silence. He was still. And then suddenly, she appeared before him.

She was older. Her golden hair was longer, and she had a fringe cut across her forehead. She was taller, too, even more so with the heeled shoes she wore. The sweater and skirt wrapped round her slender frame hugged curves that had not been there when he had seen her last. She was beautiful, and even in her surprise she exuded the grace of a queen.

She looked up at him, then quickly shut her eyes. Her body wavered forward and she held out her arms to steady herself. "Ca . . ." she said with her eyed closed. "Ca . . ." She was gasping but her breaths were shallow. " . . .Caspian?" She looked into his face and her blue eyes begged the question silently. Am I dreaming?

His heart was pounding. He could barely stand the light that was coming from the dazzling woman before him, that had made the stars disappear and even the moonlight seem weak. He was dizzy, elated, ashamed, overjoyed, unworthy; deliriously happy but deservingly condemned. He didn't think he was breathing. He wanted to take her into his arms and hold her like an anchor to his world, never to be ripped from him again. "Lucy," he said, and fell to his knees before her.