8. Consecration

The seconds crawled by at an agonizing pace.

Against his will, Caspian turned and looked through the window of his study. He grit his teeth. The sky was a clear and lovely blue – as it should be, for he had last looked not two minutes ago. All the same, he could not help his frustration. Time was passing extremely slowly. And today, of all days, he was allowed some impatience.

He couldn't count how many times during this unbearable day he had cursed that he could be at her side. For today, while he had gone about his business in Cair, Lucy had lain in that dark room bearing the pains of early child labour.

She had announced it without preamble, in the early hours of the morning: "Tonight, Caspian," and he had known her meaning immediately. It was a resigned statement, laden with inevitability; he had wondered at her detached tone, until he looked and saw the fear in her blue eyes.

And tonight it was. Everything was to begin the moment the sun had set, which, it seemed, would take an eternity.

For now, Caspian stood waiting, dressed in the common clothes Drinian had procured for him. He felt most unlike himself. He fidgeted in the coarse wool, and touched the sides of his face. Smooth, though the looking glass told otherwise. Doctor Cornelius had cast a glamour upon him; he appeared older and rougher, with a square face and dark, scraggly hair and a beard to match.

The absence of the sword hanging from his left side made him feel unbalanced. True to their disguise, he had no weapon visible – not even the smallest dagger – that might give away his station. If they were to fall to attack, unlikely as it may be, the only method of defence would be the slim knife concealed in his boot. And it would probably take most of the fight to undo the laces and uncover the thing.

He was nervous, more nervous than he'd ever been in his life – and there was nothing worse for a nervous man than waiting. Yet there he was, counting every second that went past, willing the sky to darker faster that he might leave his chambers at last. The anxiety was nearly driving him mad.

Caspian leaned and checked the sky again – resolutely blue, although perhaps a shade darker than last time. He took a deep breath, trying to calm the butterflies in his stomach How were they going to pull this off? He trusted his friends entirely, but he felt sure something would go wrong. Someone would see them, or there could be complications. He tried not to remember that some women died in childbirth.

"Don't be nervous," Drinian had said. "Everything will happen too quickly for trouble, and with that cordial, she'll be well soon after. Have faith, your Majesty. Many women have laboured similarly."

The words offered little comfort. His aunt had given birth with the royal physician, two midwives, and a dozen attendants present, in the company of her mother and sisters. Lucy would labour alone and in isolation. Though she never said so, Caspian was well aware that she missed her family greatly. He wished he could wind the horn again and summon the rest of the Pevensies, but it was no good. Whatever help they may receive from others, the reality was that they were entirely alone.

He checked the window again. Still light, but lilac instead of pale blue.

It was a conflicting feeling, to wish for evening to arrive faster – while at the same time, pray that time might pass slowly tonight. He wanted to be with her, he didn't want her to leave. . . but Aslan had made it clear that Lucy would not remain after she gave birth.

He swallowed. Tonight, his son would be born. If all went well.

"You need not worry the hour," Doctor Cornelius told him, and there had been a strange sadness in his eyes. "If the Queen Lucy guesses rightly, Aslan should arrive as tomorrow ends, sunset or before. I shall find a way to excuse your absence until then."

Tonight he would become a father. And tomorrow, Lucy would be gone forever.

Forever.

Caspian checked the window again – this time, the sky was a dusky purple. He set off without any further ado.

--

He pressed the stone that opened the passage.

Lucy cowered against the wall, wide-eyed and frightened-looking. She was wearing the rough-cut dress she had sewn for herself. A headscarf covered her golden hair, hiding its length – much shorter than the women of Narnia – from sight. She clutched her heavy belly to her. "Caspian?" she asked tentatively.

He touched his face again, and remembered the glamour. "It's me," he told her. Relief spread over her features.

"Are you ready?"

She nodded. He offered his arm and pulled her to her feet; she winced, but made no complaint. They went out of the room and into the hallway. It was more anti-climatic than Caspian had thought: They strode out as if they had done so a thousand times, but it was the first time Lucy had left the chamber for ten months and more.

Cair Paravel was quiet and dark. A sleeping charm, by the grace of Doctor Cornelius, had been cast over the entire castle: they could move through the halls freely. If not for her condition, Caspian was sure that Lucy would have wanted to explore – the restored Cair was certainly different from the one she had known during the Golden Age – but as it was, they moved quickly through the corridors.

They passed by several dozing guards at the doors that led outside. Caspian felt a prick of guilt in his conscience, but he brushed it aside. There was much more at stake than a little harmless magic. . . The irony struck him as soon as he had thought it.

They paused at the head of the beach. Lucy took a breath of fresh salty air, and a look of calm came into her face. Then abruptly, she gave a small gasp and squeezed his hand tightly. He cast her a worried glance, but her eyes were on the horizon. A shallop, the small boat that Drinian had arranged for them, was tied at the end of the shortest dock.

--

The twilight was fading fast and night fell before they had travelled very far. But overhead, the full moon and twinkling summer stars were scattered across the sky, so they could still see the way. It felt very strange to Caspian, almost surreal. Moonlight shone luminous silver on the water, and it made him think of many similar nights on the Dawn Treader. It was hard to believe that they would shortly be parted forever, or remember the terrible danger if anyone were to discover them.

He wondered if Lucy had the same things on her mind, but her expression was unreadable. Whatever her thoughts, they kept her preoccupied. She stayed quiet for a time, and Caspian was glad for the slapping sound of the oars and the distant waves on the shore. They travelled northwest up the coast, away from Cair Paravel, towards the unpopulated woods in northern Narnia.

Presently she said, "We need our names."

"Yes. Who shall I be?" he asked.

"Arthur," she answered decisively. "Peter's middle name."

"And what name for you?"

Lucy grimaced a little – from the pains or subject of conversation, he did not know. After a moment she said, "I don't know. Choose it for me?"

"I shouldn't know which to pick. I like your name, Lucy; I'd rather not call you another."

She was grimacing again, with her eyes shut tight. "I must have one – choose it," she said shortly.

Caspian sighed. "Edith," he said finally. "The name of my old nurse. It was she, after all, from whom I learned your name and all your stories."

"Edith," said Lucy, smiling at him in spite of her pained expression. "I like it."

He returned the smile, but only half-heartedly. In his mind he was travelling back through the years, to his youth and childhood. He remembered the tales of Peter and Susan and Edmund and Lucy his beloved Nurse had told him. How could he have known that he would end up a part of the story himself?

Caspian rowed in silence for over an hour after that. They did not speak, nor was he inclined to make conversation. Thoughts of the past few months swirled around in his mind; regret, remorse, and the longing for more time. As he pulled the oars back and forth, he thought of meeting her for the first time, or saying goodbye on the Dawn Treader, or when he had called her all those months ago.

Suddenly he became aware of very heavy breathing. Lucy was heaving great, dry gasps over the side of the boat.

"Lucy, Lucy – are you all right?" he asked, halting the oars. It was difficult to keep the panic out of his voice.

"No – " she panted, moving her arm in some vague gesture of direction. "Keep rowing. . . It's nearly time."

He obeyed promptly, more worried than ever. Lucy's face was very pale and her hands were shaking. Caspian very much wanted to forget the rowing and just hold her, but he knew he mustn't. Instead he shifted his weight to make up for her new arrangement, and on they went. The best he could do was cast concerned looks at the back of her golden head.

She was only sick once. After that, she sat braced against his legs instead of across from him. She said she felt better like that, and though he didn't say it aloud, he was also comforted by her warm body on his knees. There was always something soothing about her touch – and anyway, best to make the most of the little time left to them. After all, in a few hours' time he'd never feel her touch again for as long as he lived.

--

Lucy let out a great breath. He could hear fright in her voice when she said, "Here, Caspian. I can't wait much longer."

He pulled them into shore – it was mostly large rocks and a little coarse sand – and Lucy climbed out on her own, taking the single lantern they had carried on the boat. She was moving slowly and awkwardly, and breathing very deeply. Once she was safe on the bank, he dragged the shallop high onto the rocks, and tied it securely around a tree trunk.

With their pack around his shoulders, he moved to help her up. Lucy leaned heavily on him and they began the journey into the mainland.

It was rocky at first. But after a while the ground levelled out into soft grass and downy turf, and the going became lighter. It was clear and warm and smelled of wildflowers: a beautiful Narnian night. Even through her pain, Caspian knew Lucy was drinking it in. Sometimes, between the harsh breaths that grew closer and closer together, he heard her give a delicious sigh.

The stopped in the middle of a small clearing, notable only for its insignificance; there were a thousand similar spots all over the woods of Narnia. He cast her an inquiring glance, and Lucy nodded.

"Help!" he cried, his voice carrying easily through the woods. "Help, please! My wife labours alone and in pain – "

A cool breeze, and three nymphs of the forest stood before him; two Dryads and a Naiad.

"How may we be of aid, sir?" said the Naiad, curtseying a little.

Caspian dropped his gaze and spoke to his feet, remembering to forgo the habits and posture of his situation.

"Please," he said, speaking in the clipped tones of those from Northern Narnia. "I am a humble farmer, and my wife carries our child who has come before the time. We have travelled all day to reach the village of my mother-in-law, but our horse was injured and we can't make any further on foot. Please, is there no inn or house nearby?"

"None, sir," said one of the Dryads, as Caspian knew she would answer.

"Then I beg your assistance, that she may deliver in the company of womenfolk," he finished, the well-rehearsed words falling easily from his lips.

"We three can care for her," said the Naiad.

"I – " began Caspian, but he didn't get any further. At his arm, Lucy was heaving dry sobs – she looked about to faint, and the taller of the Dryads rushed to her other side.

--

Lucy lay on a blanket they had brought with them, tucked over a bed of heather to provide some comfort. Her pains came in waves, stronger and closer together as the time passed.

Caspian was pacing the ground behind her. He felt restless and entirely helpless, and wished desperately that everything could have gone differently, but there had been no other option. While Lucy had some knowledge of childbirth, neither he nor Drinian nor Doctor Cornelius had any experience with the subject. Even if they had, it would have been quite improper for her to labour in the company of three men. She certainly couldn't give birth alone, and they certainly couldn't tell another soul the whole story. And so they had devised their plan, to seek out women far from Cair that could deliver her.

Lucy groaned and gasped, and it was more frustrating than anything.

He kicked a tree root in agitation and the stumpy Dryad chuckled. "It is why fathers are often away from labouring women. They cannot see those they love in such distress."

Caspian felt his cheeks grow warm. He rather thought they were poking fun at their situation; did she think him unaware that men, excepting doctors, traditionally waited far from the birthing room? Then he realised they were talking to distract Lucy from the pain of the ordeal.

"This is your first, yes, my dear?" asked the Naiad.

She nodded frantically.

"Fear not," came the reply. "Aslan blesses every birthing."

Lucy blanched, but it went unnoticed by the others. All three had fixed their gaze skyward, at the words of the willowy Dryad: "The full moon," she said, gesturing upwards. "It is holy for childbirth." No sooner had she spoken did Lucy cry out loudly; he fell to her side, and the women bustled around him, fretting and fussing.

"Shh, daughter Edith," said Naiad in her soothing voice. "Your labour is near the end, and you shall soon know motherhood."

She gave a terrified sob. Caspian felt his heart wrench – this was truly the worst thing he ever had to endure. Lucy lay on the ground in the throes of terrible pain, the source of which rested on his head. She whimpered pitifully and his shoulders cringed of their own accord. It was horrible. Valiant, brave, capable Lucy – he'd never heard her scream until this night. Really, he had never actually seen her fear anything. He could hardly stand to listen to such sounds – how any man of honour could, he didn't know.

When the pains began in earnest, Caspian wanted to be sick himself. He wanted to run, he wanted to hold her, he wanted to swing his sword at any faceless enemy. Blood was pumping through his veins, and his skin was crawling with an itch to do something. . . but he couldn't. He could only stay beside her and offer comfort whatever he could. Which was nothing, really.

During the worst of it, she grasped his hand tighter than anything, letting out an awful, high-pitched scream. "Arthur," she cried, tears from the effort pouring down her cheeks. "Forgive me, please forgive me. . ."

"Don't worry, L – er – Edith," he said awkwardly. Her face was pink and screwed up in exertion. "You are – you're wonderful. Without you. . . I cannot live without you. I love –"

But his words were interrupted by the wail of an infant.

He was speechless. Up until this moment, fatherhood had seemed a distant conclusion to Lucy's inevitable departure. But now that his son was real and breathing before him, he could hardly believe it. It was the queerest thing to gaze down his own child, when Caspian barely felt older than a child himself.

The Naiad carefully washed the baby and placed him in Lucy's waiting arms.

In the early twilight, he could see the weary faces of the forest-women, smiling at the beautiful child rewarded of their night's work. Lucy's features were glowing with a happiness he had never seen, even when they had been together on the Dawn Treader. She did not speak, but wept, and tears sprang in his own eyes.

--

"May I speak with you?" Caspian asked.

They went with him a short distance from where Lucy rested. He withdrew a small purse from his pocket and upturned it, pouring a few silver Trees into his palm.

"Please," he said, holding out the coins, "for our gratitude."

"Sir," said they all, "help is given freely to any in these woods, and we can take no payment from a man of such means." The women smiled their gentle smiles, and Caspian felt simultaneous pride in his good citizens, and guilt for deceiving them. He conceded.

"Then I thank you most generously," he said, and made them a low bow. There was a soft breeze and the three women went away.

He watched until they were gone before returning to Lucy's side. "Oh, Rilian," she breathed, giving voice to his name for the first time. "May Aslan keep you ever safe between his paws."

Caspian knelt and pulled the cordial from the depths of the pack. Lucy eyed him shrewdly. Though she did not speak, her look had a clear meaning, reminding him of her words from days earlier: Only one is necessary.

He concentrated on undoing the stopper, keeping his eyes away from her gaze. Caspian was sure she'd be able to spot his intentions at once if he looked at her. When the bottle was opened, the familiar, delicious smell swam into the air. Lucy closed her eyes and Rilian, who had been fussing, quieted. Perfect. His hand hovered over her parted lips, and he poured five drops into her mouth.

She knew immediately. Lucy's eyes snapped open and she stared at him, half-confused, half-guilty. But she said not a word.

Caspian moved the bottle towards Rilian, and Lucy looked at him hard. With his first finger, he pulled the tiny chin down a little and tipped a single drop into his son's mouth. Then he corked the bottle again.

He inhaled deeply. Whether it was the cordial's calming aroma or the relief that Lucy's ills were on the mend, Caspian felt strengthened and renewed, ready to face the final hours.

He settled behind Lucy and gently, eased her up into a sitting position. He put his arms around her, meaning to pull them both to their feet – but Caspian found he couldn't move. He knew they needed to be off, and that very little morning was left to them, but he couldn't summon the will to budge an inch. He stayed there much longer than was wise, braced against her warm body, staring down at the tiny baby that had come of sin and secrets, magic, and their love.

Many moments later, Caspian became aware of a sparrow on the ground beside him, hopping about the forest floor in a most anxious manner. It turned about and fixed him with a hard golden eye, before taking flight into the trees.

Though the bird had done nothing, Caspian felt chastised all the same. He roused himself and kissed her cheek, as it to say, We must be leaving.

"Caspian. . ." she murmured, her voice weak. "I can't walk. . ."

"Shh," he whispered. He rose, and began gathering their things. Last to go were the blankets she rested upon; he tugged them from beneath her and packed them in the satchel, and secured it on his back. Bending even lower, her scooped her up in his arms and lifted her gently. He rose slowly to his feet, and began to walk out of the clearing.

Caspian made his way from the forest very cautiously, his embrace stiff and unbending. It had occurred to him that he was carrying the most precious cargo he would ever in his life: The mother of his son and their child. He stepped so softly that after a while, Rilian was asleep.

The tide was coming in when they reached the beach, the boat floating in the waves that lapped up on the rocks. Gently, he set Lucy down in bows – soaking himself past his boot-tops – and got in himself. Caspian cut the rope that tethered them to land and took the oars. They rowed south, against the tide, but Caspian relished in the physical labour. It was relief, almost, to bring things down to such a simple task as rowing. His mind could be blissfully blank, concentration focused only moving the oars forward and back.

The chore of rowing, however, did not distract him from the passing time. They had been rowing for a long while, and he was worried – the Doctor's charms would last only until sunrise, and the sky was lighting further every minute.

The rising sun broke over the waves and the air was filled with yellow sunlight. Caspian looked across at Lucy, and suppressed a gasp. Had he forgotten her beauty until now? Her radiance seemed magnified; or else, he had overlooked it in the darkness before. A few golden curls, pulled loose from the headscarf, hung about her face. Her lips were rounded, whispering comfort to Rilian, who was troubled by the boat's rocking.

Lucy met his gaze with shining eyes. They were clear and very pale blue in the morning light. Bent over the baby, she wore such a look of awe and wonder on her face that Caspian felt his heart swell. He knew exactly how she felt – that they could have produced such a tiny, perfect creature.

The towers of Cair Paravel rose in the distance, large and grand, and so very separate from the identity he had borrowed for the night. He started, remembering the implication of daybreak. Lucy stretched her hand and stroked his cheek softly, smiling, and her eyes told him the answer: the glamour had vanished from his face. He tightened his shoulders and redoubled the rowing speed.

The boat bumped the dock and Caspian heaved out, securing the shallop and holding his arms out to take Rilian. Lucy clamoured from her seat on her own, limbs shaking, but when she stood her legs were quite steady. She held Rilian tightly to her breast, as if that small moment of transfer had lasted a lifetime.

As speedily as they could manage, Caspian and Lucy left the beach and climbed the sloping hills to Cair. The sleeping spell was ended; they could not use the main entrances to the castle. Caspian's heart was racing – they had nearly made it, but this last leg of the journey was also the most dangerous. He tried not to think what would happen if someone were to discover the king of Narnia, dressed in rags, with a strange woman and her newborn child.

They went around the southern walls, toward the stables, where the secret entrance was concealed. By the main doors, Caspian heard voices; easy morning chatting, the drone and bustle of stable workers – but today the sound cut through the air like enemies' arrows. He dropped to the ground behind low bushes, and Lucy crouched beside him.

The sound of footsteps and talking drew quite near. Fear pulsed in his empty stomach – he had not eaten since last night – and infected the rest of his body. They were supposed to have returned before now! Instead, time had necessitated this awful risk in which they must sneak back into his own castle, without the aid of magic or disguise, or the cover of darkness.

"I think we're all right," he whispered. Lucy tilted her head, the valiant gleam in her eyes her only response. They went out from behind the bushes and ran into the stables doubled over, in case a horse was looking over his stall. Rilian stayed mercifully quiet hidden beneath Lucy's cloak.

Lucy led him to the back rooms where haystacks were kept. She went immediately to the farthest wall, and pushed a nondescript stone. Nothing happened.

He heard distant voices from the front of the stables, and Rilian fussed a little. Panic flooded his body. What was wrong?

Lucy's cool voice cut through the confusion. "No, Caspian," she said. "It's not like the other one. You've got to push."

The voices came louder, but still unseen. Caspian could feel his heart racing. He placed his hands on the indistinctive stretch of wall she indicated. Exhausted from the night and sore from rowing, he summoned every ounce of strength he had left and felt the wall give. It moved forward, as if swinging from extremely rusty hinges. Lucy darted into the gap. He followed, and pushed the door back into place, and the familiar darkness swallowed them up once more.

Lucy had not made a sound. But in the past few months he had come to know her as he had not another person; he knew instinctively that she was upset. Blindly, he reached into the darkness and wiped the tears from her face. Caspian pulled her into his arms, and wished with all his heart that he could never let her go.


A/N: Whew! This one took a ton of research. . . and a lot of it was not pretty. Some of you might be wondering why I didn't include Lucy's water breaking – I checked it, and discovered that the water usually breaks during labor, especially for new mothers. Turns out it only happens prior to the onset of labor about thirteen percent of the time.