Story Tags: Pre-Canon, Canon - Movie, Book/Movie: Prince Caspian, Post-Prince Caspian, Angst and Romance, Angst and Porn, Drama & Romance, Angst with a Happy Ending, First Love, Idiots in Love, Slightly Jealous Caspian, prince and servant dynamics, also known as Addie does not give a shit, Caspian is a wholesome himbo, Addie is a feral wildcat, this was supposed to be a fun few lemons but oops it grew a plot, Caspian Needs a Hug, Addie Does Too, The Author Regrets Nothing
Trigger and Content Warnings: This story includes explicit sex scenes. Any chapter with sexual content has a content warning in the notes; please skip those scenes if you don't want to read explicit content.
Sexual assault and the resulting trauma is part of a main character's arc and subplot with a secondary character. Addie has interiority as she processes and tries to heal. This is a journey for her character throughout the story. If this is triggering for you, PLEASE mind the tags and don't read if it could be harmful for you.
I'm also noting a general content warning for both sleep deprivation and food. Addie is a kitchen maid, so she has many scenes working with food and doing other kitchen tasks. Caspian also has poor eating and sleep habits from stress; Addie periodically reminds him to eat his regular meals. This content is sprinkled throughout the story, so again, if food, poor eating habits, and missing sleep is triggering or otherwise unhealthy for you to read, please click away.
Another general content warning is for occasional alcohol use and reference to alcohol consumption. Since this Narnia is pretty medieval, I'm following general historical accuracy for most people, especially the nobility, drinking wine and beer/ale much more than water because safe drinking water was in short supply back then. It was very common for a noble's meal to include a glass of wine, while commoners tended to drink ale. This content is also sprinkled throughout the story, so use your best judgment and don't read if this is triggering for you.
If I've missed any trigger or content warnings, please let me know! I'm always happy to add more tags. Take care of yourselves!
I'll also be posting trailers and various little video edits for this story every 7ish weeks. I'm on YouTube with this same username, so check it out if you like. No spoilers, promise.
Update schedule will be every Sunday at 6pm, EST. I've written about 200k of this thing in advance to help keep updates consistent, so right now I'm estimating about 70 chapters. (That'll probably grow, tbh.) So, without further ado, please enjoy this idiots to lovers to enemies to HEA angsty, smutty journey. I had the best time writing this, and hopefully you have just as much fun reading!
Chapter 1 Content Warnings: reference to parent death, missing meals, prince and servant awkwardness
Flashover - the moment a conversation becomes real and alive, which occurs when a spark of trust shorts out the delicate circuits you keep insulated under layers of irony, momentarily grounding the static emotional charge you've built up through decades of friction with the world. (The Dictionary of Obscure Sorrows)
Part I: Flashover
Chapter 1: nice to have a friend
Caspian
Caspian paces his chambers, uncaring in the face of his stomach's constant complaints. He may have missed dinner, but it seems such a small thing.
Tonight, Tarva and Alambil are just visible from the window. The Lord of Victory and the Lady of Peace. Heralds of the future he's fought so long for. A future he feels slipping from his grasp even as he tries to close what few allies he has around him. Doctor Cornelius said the two planets do not get so close to each other but once every two hundred years, and that their current position means some great good is coming for Narnia.
Caspian hopes, but he can't see it.
Miraz has the throne, stolen after the death of Caspian's parents before he was even out of his crib. The Old Narnians are believed to be extinct, a blessing in the eyes of most. And for all his efforts, for all the legitimacy in his blood and his name, Caspian is beginning to suspect he's fighting a losing battle. His father's legacy doesn't have the staying power it once did. The Council of Lords that should be rallying behind him is too quiet, cowed by his uncle's temper. Nearly every year since Caspian's nurse disappeared and Doctor Cornelius came to tutor him, a lord has gone missing. Sometimes it's said to be an unfortunate hunting accident, or a jousting error. Sometimes the rumour is an illness that only seems to strike former friends of Caspian's father - a vicious sickness that steals breath from the lungs and chokes the unfortunate victim from the inside out. No one quite knows what it means, but the message comes across just the same.
Any who rise against Miraz will fall. One way or another.
Caspian is just a year away from the crown rightfully falling to him. Months away from sitting in the same throne as his father. But his uncle has slowly stopped talking so much about when Caspian becomes king; now, if Miraz deigns to remember he exists, it's to chastise him for a poor sparring performance or inquire if Doctor Cornelius is keeping him appropriately educated. The correct answer to the latter, Caspian discovered, is to cite some military history of the Telmarines and some random architectural fact about the castle. Sometimes, if his uncle is in a good mood, Caspian will say something about Calormen. Miraz spent considerable time shoring up their alliance with the desert kingdom, and it seems to please him when Caspian says something interesting about their southern almost-neighbours. Archenland lies between Narnia's southern border and the Great Desert. Not that Miraz appears particularly concerned with Archenland. If anything, the small mountainous kingdom poses only a trivial nuisance between Narnia's capital in Telmara and the Calormen capital of Tashbaan.
Perhaps, if he ever gets the chance, smoothing Narnia's icy relations with Archenland would be a wise thing for Caspian to do.
The throne is so close, so close that Caspian can taste the exact scorched flavour of his defeat when Miraz takes it all. His knuckles whiten as he clutches the curve of the stone slanting toward the window and stares out at the heavens as if they hold the answers he seeks. As if a star could come down and bring peace to Narnia at last. To the Telmarines? Sometimes Caspian doesn't know the difference anymore.
Doctor Cornelius tells such marvellous tales, but as Caspian has grown, it seems more and more like that's all they are - tales, stories, wishful thinking. Memories of a time long gone that can never return.
Caspian lets his head fall until his neck strains. Tonight he can't quite bear to look up at the stars. He can't bear to let them down too. Is his father up there, watching him sink further and further into Miraz's shadow? Is his mother at his side, shaking her head at a son who still clings to tales from a thousand years ago because he can't quite stop hoping for those magical days' return? What would they say, if they could speak from beyond the grave? Would they tell him to practice harder with the sword, to train with crossbows until his fingers bleed? Or would they tell him to stand aside and do whatever good he can from the shadows, to save his own neck and try to temper his uncle's venom where he can?
Caspian's stomach growls insistently, loud enough to echo against the stone walls surrounding him. Perhaps he should adjust his evening habits; missing dinner is missing opportunities to build rapport with the lords, however useless the endeavour feels. But ever since one of his uncle's political rivals choked on his dinner and frothed at the mouth right there at the table, Caspian's appetite for socialising over meals has been rather absent. Even the richest food tastes of ash when any bite could be his last.
If he hadn't heard one of Doctor Cornelius' lectures on the importance of proper sustenance and healthful habits just this morning after an especially robust complaint from his stomach, Caspian would resign himself to another night of fitful sleep and nightmares. (Paranoid nightmares, perhaps, dreams of assassins in the shadows murdering his parents, and yet sometimes he wonders.)
But amid everything, another lecture on his health from the good Doctor sounds suddenly impossible to sit through. So Caspian scrubs his palms over his face until the sharp aches in his forehead ease. He'd best find his way to the kitchen; surely no one will be up at this hour. He'll sneak in, find some leftover bread or the like, and silence his stomach until breakfast. Doctor Cornelius would be pleased. A healthful decision indeed.
Caspian tugs on his boots and sets off through the quieter hallways of the castle. Anytime he wanders the castle at night, he's made it a habit to go through the passages Doctor Cornelius showed him. His uncle hasn't made his move yet, but he will. Perhaps Caspian can find new paths through the halls tonight, explore some hidden corners he's not yet found. A servant passageway or secret hall or hidden door is always good to find. Even the blueprints in the library haven't mapped all this castle's secrets.
Addie
Addie wakes with an ache in her bottom, cold stone against her back, and her single, threadbare blanket tangled around her legs. Echoes of the screaming city fade, leaving a headache in their wake. Addie breathes in counts of four as she sits up and pulls the blanket from her legs. She allows herself three minutes to sit on the edge of her bed. Three minutes to catch her breath, see if her mind will let her get back to sleep. In, out. In, out, until her arms steady and her legs are strong enough to support her.
Her eyes blink away the last dregs of sleep. Another early morning, then. Addie grabs the blanket as she gets to her feet and folds it into a neat rectangle before laying it at the foot of her cot. She smooths it over twice for good measure; the repetition helps. The knot just under her collarbone starts to unwind as she breathes, but it sticks stubbornly when she tries to ignore it.
No matter. It won't be the first time she's started work hours before sunup. Maybe Perla won't be so… Perla if Addie can give them all a good head start for the day.
Addie dresses quickly and stuffs her hair under her cap in the quickest bun her fingers can manage. It's tight, but the knot loosens a little when she's out in the hall. She just needs to breathe in the cool, stone smell of the castle, to remember that the world isn't on fire. It's quiet, and cool, and so still in these few hours before dawn. There's nothing the matter.
She crosses the courtyard and slips into the kitchen. It feels empty without the usual bustle, but with the pale light of the half-moon streaming in from the courtyard and the clank of guards passing by on the night watch, Addie eases inside anyway. Early mornings have their own perks, even if the other maids and Perla's sharp tongue aren't here to liven the work.
Addie takes out Perla's favourite deep pot. Crouching in front of the water jugs, Addie balances the pot on her thighs until the pot is precisely two-thirds full, right on the waterline stain. Her arms tighten pleasantly as she gets the pot balanced over the hearth. No need to light the fire yet; better to mill the grain first. Lord Miraz sometimes throws a fit if the porridge isn't smooth as silk. Usually the extra work would annoy her, but when she can't sleep, milling the porridge grains keeps the echoes of the nightmares away.
Addie has the first scoop of grain in the mortar when careful footsteps she doesn't recognise stray near the kitchen. It's not Lola, or any of the maids - their steps echo at the end from the wooden shoes sized slightly too big so when the heat of the kitchens makes their feet swell, it's not unbearable. Lola usually bounces in on her tiptoes, calling out greetings on her way. It's not Perla, not without a gruff 'good morning,' barked orders, or a none-too-gentle reminder about exactly how finely ground the Lord Miraz likes his porridge. And it's not Marcos. His armour clanks when he walks, and he always has a nicer hello to soothe away Perla's morning grumblings. His shift doesn't start until dawn.
These footsteps are soft as they encroach, soft like leather boots instead of clunking like all the kitchen servants do. This isn't someone who has to protect their feet from fire, falling pots, or the rare but bloody accidents with knives that happened much more often before Perla took over.
"If you're a thief, I'd advise against it." Addie sets down the scoop for the grain and turns to face the intruder as their boots stutter on the floor for a beat. "Even if you evade the guards, Perla'll find you and take off your fingers herself."
The shadowed figure (a hand's length taller than her, Addie notes) straightens in the doorway. "I'm no thief, though I'm sorry to intrude. I assumed the kitchens would be empty."
Addie shrugs, walks to the hearth, and lights it with the flint and steel in her apron pocket. "Sometimes we start early," Addie says as the flame jumps to life and throws light across the room.
Tash's talons.
"My lord," she manages. "How unexpected." Addie drops the flint back into her pocket and hopes her hands look steadier than they feel. It's only a noble of some sort in an embroidered shirt with flowers at the elbows and collar; no need to fumble. "Midnight snack?"
The nobleman has a pleasant smile, slight and sheepish though it is. Odd. All the nobles she's crossed paths with never had a single thing to be sheepish about. "Something like that."
Addie brushes her palms off on her skirts and tries for an attitude distant enough to pass for deference. Thankfully, she hasn't got her hands very dirty yet. "Need anything in particular, my lord?"
"No," he says with his hands clasped formally in front of him. "I don't wish to trouble you."
"No trouble." When Addie crosses to the pantry, the distance between them is half what it was. She's careful to keep the pantry door between them as she plucks out a firm apple, a remnant of yesterday's fine white bread, and the last of a creamy but hearty cheese - the filling kind usually served at lunch. If he's hungry between meals, better to make sure his stomach is more than full. Breakfast isn't until a half hour after sunrise. "I'm afraid we don't keep the plates in here. Well, not the nice ones."
The nobleman closes the distance with careful, practiced steps. He doesn't have a dangerous edge to him like some of the rude guards Marcos keeps away from her, but she's in no hurry to test her observations. Addie can't decide if he's just overly polite or somehow… uneasy? She glances down at her hands, her apron, her skirt and finds hardly any dirt or soot there. Perhaps that's the problem, to someone who probably spends his time with his nose in books or out on some sparring court swinging fancy swords. Or whatever it is nobles do with their time. Addie gathers the food into the cheesecloth and holds it out, but even with her arm fully extended she doesn't quite reach him.
When he steps closer and takes the little bundle, he seems careful to reach from below as Addie holds it aloft from the gathered cloth at the top.
Addie steps away and nudges the pantry door closed again.
"Thank you," he says quietly. If they were different people, she might have called it a murmur. But he's still standing stiff and tall and stilted. Is he trying too hard to keep their stations in mind? Addie picks a line of soot from under her index fingernail.
Prick. He's probably never done a proper day's work in his life.
Addie turns her back on him and returns to the mortar. He can see himself out; it's not her job to play nursemaid to nobles. She grinds the porridge grains into dust, banging the pestle louder than strictly necessary. Her shoulder is twinging by the time his footsteps travel past her to the courtyard and fade away, even though she's ground porridge a thousand times before. Addie crosses to the hearth and dumps the first of many cups of finely milled porridge into a larger bowl near the hearth.
The pot is warming already, so she takes the iron poker and pushes the kindling and coals further from the flames. The heat soothes the slight ache in her hands from gripping the pestle.
When Addie turns back to the grinding, dawn comes quickly. The water in the pot begins to boil just when Lola's shoes hop-skip into Addie's awareness as her good mornings echo across the courtyard. Lola's been taking longer in the courtyard lately. Addie finishes the grains and stands on tiptoe to peer out the window. Sure enough, Lola is lingering along the edge talking to one of the younger guards wearing a smile no ordinary person can possibly summon this early in the morning.
Is that pink on her cheeks? Or is it the pinkish dawn light playing tricks again?
"Hop to it, Lola! Check the water jugs, stop dawdling." There's Perla, heavy-stepping across the cobblestones and waggling her finger in the absence of her beloved (feared, by the rest of the maids) wooden spatula.
Addie hurries to dump the last of the porridge grains into the bowl before tipping the whole thing in and stirring with the nearest long-handled spoon she can reach. Perla booms a sharp good morning the moment her clogs hit the stone floor.
"Early start, I see," Perla says, her voice filling the room more effectively than all the hearth's fire and heat. "Good, we'll need it. Claudia, start the fruit. Anna, the meat. And check the flour."
The patter of the other maids entering the kitchen unfurls the rest of the knot that held on so stubbornly in Addie's chest. She finds an easy smile for the two older maids as they open the pantry and start the day's chores. Lola darts in and finds the water jug furthest from the door lacking, thanks to Addie's early start.
Lola has just disappeared back out into the courtyard when Perla's yell splits the air.
"Adelia, explain!"
Tash's hells. Addie spins around so quickly the spoon hits the bottom of the pot and the handle bangs the edge. Her feet have enough sense to keep her by the fire, only just out of reach of Perla and the spatula she's reclaimed. "I -"
"Quite the early start," Perla barrels on. "Thought you were smarter than that." Her eyes flash from her round face as she points to the stacked wheels of cheese, her thick finger travelling upward until the tip finds the space where the last triangle of fancy cheese once rested.
Addie steps back and finds the handle of the spoon again, stirring as her tongue flounders for the explanation. "A nobleman came by, and I thought -"
"Nobleman, in my kitchen?" Perla taps the spatula against her skirts, one eyebrow raised in that strained quirk she gets right before the spatula finds someone's hand.
Footsteps clank from the doorway. "Odd indeed; I thought so too. Entitled bunch, aren't they?"
Addie's breath finds its way back into her lungs at the sight of Marcos filling the door, dawn light glinting off his armour and lighting up the boyish grin that charms so many. Marcos continues on, apparently unphased by Perla's second eyebrow joining the first halfway up her forehead.
"This one had flowers on his shirt, if you can believe it. Came looking for a little pre-breakfast snack; Addie had little choice. Looked like one of the higher ups." Marcos' grin widens as Perla stares him down, the tap of her spatula slowing. "She probably saved some trouble, really. You know how they are."
Perla's gaze slides back to Addie. "Is that so?"
It's exaggerated, but it'll do. Addie nods quickly. "Yes. Nearly startled the life from me."
Perla's eyes narrow for a moment, but then she rolls them and waves the spatula and the whole matter into the air. "Fortunate that he didn't; replacing you is a headache I don't need. Keep stirring, or you'll strain out every lump yourself!"
Addie remembers the spoon in her grip and turns back to the pot, after mouthing her thanks to Marcos. He always appears just when she's about to get in trouble, and every time he finds a way to get her out of it.
"Out! Don't block the light."
Marcos steps back out to the courtyard, but once he's out in the brightening dawn he catches her eye through the window and flashes one of the softer, lopsided smiles he always saves for her. The day passes easier after that.
At the end of the day, when Perla's satisfied they've scrubbed the kitchen within an inch of its life and there's nothing more to do before tomorrow, Addie finds Marcos leaning against the well with a hand shielding his eyes from the last streaks of sunset. She breaks off from the gaggle of kitchen maids and insists she'll be along later. It's easier to pretend she doesn't hear Lola's little giggle as she waves them off.
"Thanks," Addie calls when Marcos glances over. "How many is that now?"
Marcos leans forward, crosses his arms, and makes a silly show of looking her up and down. "I stopped keeping track; too much counting. Though today's was the most entertaining one by far."
Addie flicks up an eyebrow as she peels away to their usual spot, a patch of deeper shadows along the courtyard wall a few paces from the door that takes her to the hall and then the servant's quarters. They both discovered the spot was perfect for whispering conspiratorial little snarks and trading slightly barbed pleasantries with the friendly patrol guards, a good number of them Marcos' friends. After a long day of Perla's sternness, the soldiers' crude boyishness helps Addie laugh. Anna likes to say they all - Addie included - need their mouths washed with bitter lye soap, but she's never made good on the threat. She's always scarce whenever soldiers come around.
"You're the one swooping in for rescues. Glad it amused you, though." Addie fights a smile as she plops down amid the shadows and presses her back against the stone, the coolness a needed respite after the sweltering kitchens. Marcos never misses a chance to play swaggering hero, but she'll be damned if she admits how welcome his antics are.
Marcos joins her, sprawling his legs out so far his thigh presses against her ankle when he chuckles. "You're no fine lady, that's for sure. Bold too, considering who he is."
Addie arches an eyebrow. "Oh? Who is he?"
With one of his most infuriating smirks, Marcos looks away into the cloud-marbled sky and rests his chin on his fist like he's trying for an air of nobility. It's a useless attempt that'll melt away the moment she gets a solid poke to his side.
"Well?"
Marcos makes a good show of picking at dirt under his fingernails. "Definitely a higher-up. Fascinating family history, too. You'd probably like him if he didn't have flowers on his shirt."
Addie swipes her tongue across the back of her teeth and holds in a huff. "What's the point of all that fancy stuff? Does some pretty thread make the shirt more comfortable?"
"Pretty sure their shirts are softer anyway. Can't have calluses on noble hands." Marcos grabs one of her hands from her lap without warning and holds her hand high above the edge of the shadow. The setting sun slants red-gold between her fingers.
Addie'll humour him, but only because she can tease him about those crinkles around his eyes later.
"Yeah, not a drop of noble blood in you. Heartbreaking, I know." When his grip loosens, Addie gets in a good pinch at his wrist when she pulls her hand away. It wins her an unconvincing sniff from Marcos.
"None in you either," Addie retorts. She taps his palm across the bridge of tough skin at the base of his fingers. "Yours are worse than mine."
Marcos flicks her hand away, but even in the shadows it's easy to hear the boyish lilt taking over his attempts at their usual banter. "'Least if a noble wanders onto the training grounds, I'll know who they are."
Addie purses her lips around a smile and bumps his shoulder. "So tell me, you ass."
He won't; he enjoys the pestering and the teasing too much. But if she needles him enough, bats her eyelashes a bit, Marcos might give in with a huff and an eye roll. Addie pushes out her lower lip and blinks up through her eyelashes in the most ridiculous pout she can muster.
Marcos shifts, pulling one leg up and resting his forearm on his knee. "You know one of the night guards is sweet on Lola?"
"Real subtle." Addie taps her foot twice before dropping her head back to rest against the wall. "Yes, I know. She's forever finding excuses to refill the water jugs in the morning. Always makes her morning when I'm there early and there's something to refill."
Marcos turns toward her, but Addie keeps her face pointed toward the moon as she holds in a yawn. It's only half a moon, but it's a big summer moon happy to spill out more light than seems possible for half of anything.
"Still having those dreams?"
Addie shrugs. "Never stopped. But Lola gets more time with her sweetheart, so at least there's some good from it." Her eyebrows are too tight across her brow, so Addie clears her throat and smooths her skirt tighter over her knee. "But don't think I forgot. You gonna tell me who Mr. Flowers was, or do I have to ask him myself?"
Marcos taps the inside of her knee. "I'll tell you tomorrow. Same time?"
"You know Perla," Addie says. "But probably, yeah. Time your next rescue right and you might get fresh loaves for dinner."
Marcos grunts and gets to his feet right as she does. "Try to sleep. You're less fun when you're tired."
Addie steadies herself with his offered hand. "I'm touched. I expect a full report on Mr. Flowers tomorrow."
"As my lady commands," Marcos answers with a poor attempt at a sweeping bow, complete with a strange flick of his wrist and over-extended fingers.
Addie shoves him lightly as she heads inside, but she doesn't bother hiding her grin. Sometimes, if she's lucky, the levity helps keep her sleep peaceful. Perhaps tonight it will.
Chapter 2 Preview:
Out in the courtyard, a chorus of muted fanfare and greetings rises around two figures. The first is tall with a sharp black beard, a dark blue coat, and the long strides of a man inflated with his own importance - Lord Miraz, if she's remembering his face right. At his side is a younger man, one with long dark hair brushing his shoulders, a vest of armour, and a clean-shaven face with a kind mouth - it's Mr. Flowers.