A/N: We're getting the ball rolling on the war plot this week - aka the plot that gave me fits and kept me up for weeks, but finally came together! I leaned much more on book than movie canon for the war because as much as I like the convenience of the movie plot, I really wanted to see Caspian struggle and try to be a leader on his own before I brought in the Pevensies. So if some of the battles/plot are different than expected, that's why. I'm excited to see what y'all think!
Chapter 31 Content Warnings: occasional mention of physical injury and medical treatment
Chapter 31: are you with me?
Caspian
In the smoky cocoon of the war room with lunch heavy in his stomach, Caspian miraculously agrees with Nikabrik.
"We have weapons for everyone here," says the dwarf, "but supposing even half of the rest show up, they'll be fighting with sticks unless we strike those supply wagons again."
Trufflehunter taps a claw over the crude map of their raid two nights ago - the last supply camp before Beruna. "Won't they expect us, Sire? We've struck every advantageous area along the route."
"No harm in repeating," says Nikabrik. "Keep the pressure on, let them know we're coming for every one of 'em."
Caspian traces the supply route, from the northern tip of the Great River down to Fords of Beruna where the River Rush meets the Great River. "So long as our strikes are unpredictable," says Caspian. "Attacking the same area twice strengthens our position. The more they fear us, the better."
"A worthy strategy, Sire," chimes in Reepicheep. "But I should like to strike a decisive blow, if we can muster it."
"Unfortunately, we cannot." Much as Caspian wants to finish this war, they don't have the numbers. Even with the How to protect them from Miraz's catapults and cavalry, they'd last less than a month against a siege. An open battle outside the How would be disastrous.
Caspian cranes his neck to glance up at Glenstorm, his most senior general as much for his wisdom as his trust. The centaur and his sons were the first among the Narnians to pledge himself to Caspian's cause.
"Glenstorm, how thinly spread are we through the eastern reaches?"
"Quite thin, my Liege," the centaur answers. "The trouble is in the mountains; search parties stray ever deeper into the southern foothills. Before month's end, we may be overrun."
"And the How is near capacity." Caspian bites back a sigh. Always something to worry about, and precious little good news. "How quickly can the moles and dwarfs carve new tunnels?"
Nikabrik snorts, too occupied in cleaning under his fingernails with his dagger to bother looking up. "As if we dwarfs haven't done more than our share already."
"What Nikabrik means to say, Sire," Trufflehunter cuts in, "is that the few dozen moles and dwarfs here presently cannot make enough room sooner than a fortnight, and even then only if they all abstain from battle."
"Then abstain, and call back any we can spare," Caspian says. "I won't lose a hundred Narnians for a few supply strikes."
Crucial as the supplies are, they have enough to last a few weeks. They can always find more; the Narnians, however, are irreplaceable.
"Nothing like a dinner party with empty tables," says Nikabrik.
"We have a fortnight's supplies - enough for twice our current numbers," says Caspian. "The forests will provide as well. Trufflehunter, have a few squirrels send word to the Narnians in the south to travel here with all haste."
"Right away," answers the badger.
In the brief wait for Trufflehunter's return, Caspian plans three more small raids at Nikabrik's insistence - excluding the dwarfs and moles so they can expand the How from within. The dwarf is right that it's better to strike now and stockpile.
When Trufflehunter waddles back inside, he comes clutching a small, neatly folded square of parchment in his paws.
"Flitterleaf delivered this from the hollow tree near the river," says Trufflehunter. "Is this…?"
Caspian's heart leaps into his throat as he peels open the note. Three weeks is much longer than he hoped for, but it's better than nothing.
He knows this slanted, narrow writing. This unsigned note is written in Lord Arlian's hand.
"Yes," Caspian murmurs. "It is."
Perhaps this is the turn of fortune he's prayed to Aslan for.
At the dinner hour, Falmus brings his daily report. Caspian excuses himself from the five Narnians on the sparring field with him and sheaths his sword. His fingers rest on the hilt's familiar contours, warmed leather nestled against his palm as Falmus blurts apologies.
"I tried to keep her with me, Sire, but she… I sent word and I didn't think it wise to leave to fetch you myself -"
Caspian holds up a hand, stopping the faun's hurried explanation. "Was she hurt?"
Falmus hesitates before falling into step with him toward the How. "A few bruises, but Rainroot confirmed there was nothing serious."
Caspian's sword hilt chafes the base of his fingers. Addie was lucky, not cautious. If anything, her emerging relatively unscathed is a testament to Falmus' efforts.
And, perhaps, Marcos' restraint.
With a sigh, Caspian finger-combs sweat-sticky hair off his brow. He can't worry about Addie's poor choices in the face of Lord Arlian's letter. He has bigger things to handle.
"Keep her safe," Caspian says. "Keep a close eye on her tomorrow; I must meet with a potential ally."
After Falmus' promise, Caspian dismisses him.
Falmus, at least, can follow orders.
Preparations to leave and the careful curl of hope occupy him late into the night. The war room's flickering torches are familiar friends now, their pungent smoke sweetened by sap as they cast rolling shadows up the walls. This dance of shadows and fire should, perhaps, soothe him.
Caspian plans and prepares until his eyes cross as he thinks up every way Lord Arlian could betray him on the morrow.
As many political repercussions as Lord Arlian's message – whether alliance or betrayal – will have, this problem has the simplest solutions.
If Lord Arlian intends to turn him over to Miraz, Caspian will have to fight his way out of the trap with Glenstorm and six other Narnians at his side, and they will either escape or die trying. If Arlian offers aid, then the war effort has tipped in his favour and Caspian will return to the How with a tremulous sprig of hope planted in his chest.
What trouble will Addie find in his absence? What life will he leave her with if he miscalculates how many Narnians he needs to repel an ambush?
Caspian leans over the war room's makeshift stone table, maps crinkling under his fists braced on the edge. For the next week, the Narnians' contingency plan is to flee southwest if Miraz's forces descend quicker than expected.
Or, Caspian insisted, if anything happens to him. Nearly everyone baulked at the idea of abandoning Narnia to Miraz's whims, but if the war goes ill enough, they may flee into Archenland as Caspian proposed. Most anyone will choose survival when faced with annihilation.
It's time to give Trufflehunter his letter to King Nain. The badger is wise; he'll know when to send it in a squirrel's paws or a bird's beak into the halls of Anvard.
Far better to prepare for the worst, Caspian reminds himself, than to count on everything going according to plan.
Caspian entrusts his letter to Trufflehunter's steady paws.
"If I do not return in three days' time," Caspian says, "ensure this letter reaches King Nain."
Trufflehunter takes the sealed parchment, brow furrowed. "Sire?"
"I intend to make Arlian an ally," Caspian murmurs, mindful of how easily tunnel echoes can carry his words further than intended. "But should the need arise, I trust you will urge everyone here to flee south."
Slowly, the badger nods. "Narnia is a place," says Trufflehunter. "It is the very ground we stand on. But Narnia is also its people, and I would not see us perish – nor would Aslan, I believe."
Caspian hums agreement and excuses himself. Aslan has not shown himself, but the Narnians' hour of greatest need has not yet arrived - they still have supplies, a base camp. A fighting chance. In the old stories, Aslan only ever appeared when all hope seemed lost and none but a faithful few still believed he would come.
Perhaps Aslan, too, is waiting for this stalemate to break. Tomorrow's meeting with Lord Arlian may be the first stone laid on the path to victory – to freeing the kingdom from Miraz and giving it back to its rightful occupants.
It's past time some good came to Narnia.
Caspian's last detour before bed is to Falmus. He interrupts the faun's game of dice with a dwarf to extract a promise that Falmus will make sure Addie comes with them if the Narnians must ever evacuate the How.
It's only a precaution, Caspian assures himself as he thanks Falmus for looking after her and makes his way at last to the alcove. The worst will not come to pass, Caspian tells himself as he trails a finger over Addie's untroubled face, her near-constant frown smoothed away by sleep.
He won't allow it.
Caspian tucks his cloak around Addie's shoulders and wraps his arm over her waist, palm resting at the top of her ribcage. Her heart beats slow and steady as a drum – a relief after those days of fever and the hummingbird-flutter of her pulse.
He'll tell her in the morning; no need to wake her.
He is allowed these hours of their fragile quiet.
Addie
As usual, Caspian wakes first. Addie comes to with a chill at her back and creaking leather echoing in the alcove.
By the time she blinks herself to consciousness, the cold has spread to her shoulders and Caspian already has both boots on. Addie pushes herself upright and rubs away the temptation of further sleep.
"Is it dawn?" she mumbles.
"Nearly." Chainmail rattles as Caspian shrugs into his chestplate.
Addie sits up, grimacing through the usual morning soreness, and finds Caspian strapping on both his sword and dagger. Odd; he usually leaves the dagger here.
At her stare, Caspian meets her eyes with the same measured look he's perfected over the last week. Gone is yesterday's relief, the brief warmth of his love.
Right now, he's Prince Caspian. Nothing more, and nothing less.
More prince than lover.
Caspian extends a hand to her, the picture of courtesy.
Part of her wants to spite him. Wants to wave it away, or pull him down to her instead for a sorely needed kiss.
She wants to do anything to crack his mask, make him feel like her Caspian again.
Maybe she doesn't get to have Caspian that way anymore.
She knows how to spite him, knows the exact sour taste in her mouth when she does something Caspian thinks is risky and she watches him war with anger and his desire to be gentle, even still. She's tired of this fighting, so tired she dreamed up impossible compromises in the middle of the night.
Addie lets him help her to her feet.
Caspian's eyes soften, his hand lingering. "I've received word from Lord Arlian."
Addie holds on to his hand, frowning up at him. "After three weeks? What does he want?"
"I'm meeting him tonight to find out. I leave now."
The dagger… Addie chews the inside of her cheek, teeth chafing tender skin. "Is that safe? Are you sure he's an ally?"
"He isn't yet," Caspian admits. "But I hope to convince him. And through him, others."
"Couldn't he sell you out to Miraz?"
Before she knows what she's doing, Addie finds herself so close Caspian's breath ghosts over her forehead as she instinctively seeks the embraces he used to wrap her in – the warmth of arms as strong as castle stone, as gentle as a spring sunrise.
She wants to mend things, wants to have those embraces back. But still, after over a week, she doesn't know how.
Glancing aside, Caspian traces slow, winding patterns over her wrist without drawing her any closer.
"Lord Arlian has kept secrets for me before," he says. "This one will be no different. Even if his only thought is self-preservation, he won't risk betraying anyone until he's certain of the victor."
Addie clutches his fingers tighter, willing away the echo of the waking Narnians shuffling toward the day's duties – like Caspian will any moment. "He could change his mind. Miraz has plenty of bribery and threats."
"Precisely; Lord Arlian disdains my uncle's brutish politics."
A shiver starts under Addie's collarbone. Disdain doesn't mean he'll do anything about it.
"Is he afraid of your uncle?"
Caspian nods absently, his free hand hesitating above her sling before resting at her waist – a welcome weight, though insufficient to chase away the chill clinging to her skin.
"Everyone is."
"I'm not," Addie blurts. It's a stupid thing to say, and Caspian's kiss to her brow says as much, but she's not.
She's only afraid of Caspian dying, of him going somewhere she can't follow. Somewhere she can't find him before she can mend the cracks she put in his heart.
"I'll return soon," Caspian is mumbling, stepping back rather than folding her into his chest where she could hear his heartbeat if not for this damn armour.
Addie forces herself not to reach for him. She knows he's still upset, that he has every reason to be upset with her after the past week, but he's leaving and –
His goodbyes have never been this lukewarm.
"When?"
"Tomorrow." Again, Caspian's gaze strays to the hoof-steps clopping down the main tunnel, the quiet hum of morning well-wishes and whatever other pleasantries Narnian soldiers trade.
"I'd ask one thing of you in my absence."
She wants to agree before Caspian says anything else, to murmur "anything" and watch the tension bleed out of him.
Addie holds her tongue, because she knows better.
"Don't train with Marcos today," Caspian murmurs. "Spare me that worry, if nothing else."
Addie swallows around guilt.
She wishes he never had to ask. That she'd been wiser, cut a better bargain with Marcos. That she could be someone who would sit quietly and heal and not complain instead of stirring up mess after mess trying to be worth something.
Unfortunately, her reasons for training with Marcos haven't evaporated overnight. If anything, they're more pressing now that the war may escalate beyond skirmishes and raids.
"What if he won't train anyone else?" she whispers.
What then has she hurt Caspian for? What was the point of giving into Marcos – never mind how the whole thing was her idea at first – if he won't be useful here in ways she can't?
Caspian's fingers tighten, his grip like a vice around her wrist. "Is that…" A rough exhale, a clenched jaw. "That's not your responsibility. If he refuses, he refuses."
Not her responsibility? What is, then?
Addie bites her tongue, sharp incisors sinking into the muscle before she says something rash.
Gods know she wants to, but Caspian is leaving to meet a lord who might try to kill him. If something happens to him, how could she live with herself if their last conversation was a fight she picked?
Addie swallows down bitterness, this new restraint twisting in her stomach like a poison.
"Alright," she says, voice scratchy with ill-tempered frustration. "Just for today. I promise."
Caspian surges forward at once and oh there it is. There he is, nearly holding her like a lover with his lips pressed fervently to her brow.
A breath later, his kiss is gone and Caspian is back to the same princely manners, his hands busy checking his belt and weapons instead of holding her.
It's fine. He's being practical, taking precautions, making sure he's ready to leave.
That's all.
"Wait for Falmus," Caspian says as he tightens the armour covering his forearm. "I'm leaving you in his care."
For Tash's sake, can't he go five minutes without implying she's helpless?
This time, restraint comes too slow.
"I don't need to be in anyone's care," Addie mutters.
Caspian looks up, dark eyes flashing a warning and his clean-shaven jaw stiff. "For your own sake and my peace of mind, yes you do."
Addie crosses her good arm under her sling, willing away the resulting twinge in her wound. Any other time, this would be the start of another useless fight. Another fissure she doesn't know how to fix, chiselled out by them both - her more than him, she knows.
What if he doesn't come back? What if this is the last thing she'll say to him?
"Fine," Addie manages through gritted teeth - not half as placating as she should be. "Any other orders?"
Caspian stands tall and straight, as immovable as a statue and just as cold.
"Don't do anything reckless," he says.
Reckless like travelling to reach for a belated olive branch that probably hides a knife? Like meeting a lord as likely to cut his throat as shake his hand?
By the slimmest margin, Addie swallows the words before they escape.
She already knows Caspian won't listen. When has he listened to her, since she came here? Even at the castle, did he ever take her advice? Did he ever act on her concerns beyond trying to soothe or kiss them away?
Scowling, Addie turns away and grabs the cloak, fabric snapping as she awkwardly shakes off the night's dust. Well-made as these caves are, a fine film of dirt always covers her by morning. It's worse for Caspian; if he'd stop wrapping her up in his cloak, his shirt wouldn't be so dirt-stained all the time. He's probably sore too, from sleeping so many nights on hard earth with nothing to cushion his back.
Tash's shits, she needs her arm to heal. She can't fold his cloak properly, can't tuck in the flared hem into the crisp folds Bruna perfected. Caspian's cloak is a sad excuse of a square no matter how Addie tries to smooth it.
Leather creaks as Caspian shifts behind her, his voice flat as he dismisses her attempt.
"Keep it," Caspian says. "I'll not have you catch your death of cold."
"There's a storm coming in," Addie counters, shoving the lumpy mess back at him. She spied the thunderheads gathering on the horizon from the training field. "You need it."
Caspian's being reckless enough going to meet this lord. The least he can do is take the damn cloak so he won't get drenched.
"Keep it," Caspian repeats as he pushes the cloak into her arms, his fingers retreating before they brush her cheek. "You need it more."
"It's your cloak."
Even as Addie says it, her good arm clutches the half-folded fabric to her chest like a promise.
This cloak will be the only thing she has of him until he comes back. It still smells like him as much as damp earth and torch smoke and sun-warmed leather.
Fine then. She can let Caspian have his way this time.
Just in case.
Before the notion has time to fester, Caspian takes her by the face, his palms hot as a brand as he dives down and finally, finally kisses her mouth.
The cloak tumbles to the ground. It's not that she's melting, it's only that he's leaving and who knows how honourable this lord is and Caspian hasn't touched her in so long and -
And all they've done lately is fight, and she's tired. She can't be blamed for throwing her good arm around his neck, for pressing so close his chestplate brands her skin even through this stupid shirt.
Just in case something goes wrong and this is the last memory she has and what is she doing, letting him waltz off to Lord Arleaf or whatever -
Caspian's hand wanders too far, skirting the poultice and jostling her arm. A whimper breaks past Addie's lips.
Tash damn it.
Caspian's hold disappears, the heat of his body a rapidly retreating phantom. She follows him helplessly, tries to whisper it's fine, don't stop, don't go but it's too late.
He straightens, hands light as feathers at her hips.
"It's dawn," Caspian says, his mouth kiss-reddened and out of reach. "Go see Rainroot."
Addie curls her toes against hard-packed earth so she won't close the distance.
She leans into his hands despite herself as her previous irritation threatens her tongue like the cotton-mouth taste of a hangover. "Are you sure about this?"
Caspian's eyes stray to the wall, his fingers tightening at her hip. "We need allies," he says.
"That's not an answer."
This is different from secret politicking in the castle. Meeting with questionably loyal lords was dangerous enough; meeting one during a war with Miraz's entire army sweeping the forest is reckless bordering on stupid.
Addie leans closer again, hand straying to Caspian's chest. It doesn't help; she can't feel his heart.
"It's not your concern," Caspian says - still in that cold, flat tone he never used with her at the castle.
He's not meeting her eyes – Caspian stares past her shoulder or over her head like he's talking to the torches.
"Are you meeting him alone?" Addie asks.
"Lord Arlian believes so," Caspian says. "Glenstorm and a few others will be there."
Addie takes his hand and pretends he's clutching her as tightly as she is him. "A few?"
"Enough to fight, if it comes to that." For a moment, Caspian rests a finger over the pulsepoint thudding in her wrist.
Before she can grasp for whatever temporary soothing there's to be found in touch, Caspian lets go and the cave's chilled air is her only companion.
Addie reminds herself that he's met with lords before and survived unscathed. Caspian's done this before; he must know what he's doing.
Perhaps a day's distance will do them both good.
After her morning tea and another failed attempt at waving off the itchy poultice (she's trying to preserve supplies, if Rainroot would just stop fussing), Addie makes her way outside, shoulder stinging under the bandages that feel too thick in the summer heat.
Falmus is early, waiting on the green with two short training blades in hand and a wan smile barely passable as polite.
"Haven't changed your mind?"
Addie takes the sword he offers her, its weight ill-balanced in her left hand. "Never."
Maybe if she keeps up today, Falmus won't mind as much.
The faun watches as she tries to find her stance – left shoulder forward, weight centred, back muscles tense from the strange position.
"Shoulders back," says Falmus. "Relax your elbow just a – that's it. Straighten your hips."
Addie tries, shifts her hips and torso trying to find the right balance that doesn't strain her bad shoulder.
How nice it must be to grow up learning to wield a sword. To be prepared when war comes, to have familiarity on your side in life or death scenarios. To stand on a field and move a blade like another limb instead of a foreign, clumsy weight that never fits quite right.
Across the field, two figures emerge from the How – a faun and a man.
Falmus follows her gaze, his shoulders stiffening.
"Today -" he begins, his jaw tight like he's bracing for something.
"I know," Addie says. "I'm just with you."
Falmus' eyebrows jump. Addie shrugs and tears her eyes and awareness away from Marcos' approach.
She doesn't like the idea of losing a whole day, of doing nothing but drills and stances under Falmus' watchful eye and careful corrections.
But she promised.
She's so sick of hammering inevitability and bitterness between herself and Caspian. Tired of falling asleep with him stiff and silent at her back, tired of his dark worried eyes, the snap in his voice when he gives her orders and nothing else.
Tired of trying to help, to distract herself, only to make everything between them worse.
Marcos saunters over with confidence he hasn't earned, pinching her waist like he has the right to it. "Almost done?"
"Just started," Addie answers, her eyes fixed straight ahead. "Not that it matters today."
Marcos waves away her words as Arrus takes a position between Marcos and the nearest treeline.
"Finish up," Marcos says. "Only three hours til midday."
Falmus steps closer, hands extended and ready to correct. Addie nods, allows the brusque touches because it's faster and Falmus doesn't mean a thing by it.
"I'm not training with you today," Addie says to Marcos, still without looking his way. "Maybe tomorrow."
Addie's breath grows shallow in the silence broken only by Falmus' hooves crushing sun-crisp grass. The faun has to correct her shoulders a second time, because her arms are coiled bracing for something and her posture slips.
Marcos merely tilts his head, staring. "You overextend yesterday? Pull something?"
"No," Addie lies, because Marcos doesn't need to know her left hip still aches, that the socket stings when she extends her leg too much. "Just not up for it today."
Marcos strays a step closer, his presence a dark cloud, sharp like a drill master's shout.
"Suit yourself," he finally says. "You should try that excuse in battle too; see how well it works."
Addie grits her teeth as Falmus declares her stance passable and steps out of her space. Marcos is right, in a way, but Caspian said not to and he's gone and anything could happen to him –
It's just one day. Caspian didn't say forever, just this once.
She promised.
Addie wills away the lingering sting from Marcos' words as he walks away and plucks a training blade from a nearby pile, twirling the sword as he goes.
Just for today.
Maybe she's imagining it, but something in Falmus' face seems softer.
Caspian
The journey to the river passes in relative peace, save for one skirmish with two scouts - young, not even Caspian's age. As he stares down at their bodies, Caspian wonders if they had to die. If they would have joined him had he known the right words.
Had he met them alone, perhaps. But the moment they saw Glenstorm, they attacked.
After the last streaks of sunset fade into a crescent moon night, Caspian steps from the thick undergrowth of ferns and approaches the hollow tree. Lord Arlian's figure is an inky silhouette, hardly visible in the dark.
"Your Highness," is his only greeting, almost washed away by the low roar of the nearby river.
"Lord Arlian," Caspian responds in kind, his hand tightening on his belt. He approaches only as far as he must to hold a conversation - just out a sword's reach.
Lord Arlian looks him up and down as if Caspian is a specimen to be studied.
"The council will be relieved to hear of your safety. They've been quite concerned."
Caspian's mouth twists into a wry grin.
"I'm sure they have."
"Don't misunderstand me," Lord Arlian says, stepping closer with his hands, too, at his belt. "Your disappearance caused quite the uproar. Had you returned to accuse Miraz, the council may have backed your claim."
Curious, that after years of lukewarm support from less than a third of the council, they speak of support when Caspian has an army of their most feared ghosts at his back.
"If they were as supportive as you say," says Caspian, "I would still be in the castle."
Lord Arlian blinks, strokes his close-trimmed beard.
"Yes," he says after a long moment. "I suppose you would."
Caspian doesn't mention he's glad, in some ways, for this turn of events. He thought the Narnians a lost people thanks to his ancestors' brutality, yet still they survive.
With a sigh, Lord Arlian's hand drops to his side. As Caspian strays closer, dark circles come into sharp relief under the lord's eyes.
"Your uncle has spent a decade bathing us all in blood. I had hoped you would be the one to stop him, one day." Cast half in shadows and half in moonlight, Lord Arlian seems suddenly older - and smaller - than the man Caspian remembers from his boyhood.
"I intend to." Caspian steps closer again, his sword belt sturdy against his palm. "Why have you only answered my missive now?"
Arlian turns away, scans the trees, and peers across the river. "You've come alone?"
"Yes," Caspian lies. Glenstorm, Astus the satyr, Turra the faun, and several others are hiding in the nearby trees should this meeting sour. "Have you?"
"If I hadn't, there would be an arrow in my neck."
Caspian keeps his face neutral. If the council was as supportive as Arlian claimed, he would've snuck men of his own to hide in the shadows. If Arlian truly has come alone in secret where the Great River covers their words, Miraz has as much sway as Caspian feared.
"Lord Sopespian is manoeuvering with Glozelle," Arlian says. "When your uncle makes a mistake, they will kill him."
"For their own gain," Caspian deduces. "Not for mine. Nor yours, if you care who sits on the throne."
Arlian grimaces, takes a half-step closer. "Sopespian would be worse than Miraz. Conniving little weasel."
Harder to manipulate, Caspian thinks. Harder to fool with false loyalty or put-on deference. Sopespian is a betrayer in the making, and betrayers know their own.
"Ruthless in a different way," Caspian agrees. "Who else lends him their ear?"
"Lord Gregoire sides with him," says Arlian. "Lord Donnon tolerates your uncle for now, but if Sopespian succeeds, he will bend the knee."
Caspian clenches a fist. Where Donnon goes, half the council will follow.
"Then we agree," Caspian says, relaxing his posture from wary to cordial. "Neither Sopespian nor Miraz should be king."
Arlian's posture softens, as if Caspian's just lifted an ox yolk from his shoulders. "In that, yes, we agree."
Caspian regards this tentative ally, a man twice his age and exactly his height with eyes dulled from exhaustion. Lord Arlian, he thinks, will be no threat tonight.
Even so, his pulse spikes in his throat as Caspian eases his hands away from the sword hilt resting heavy at his hip.
"I could use your help," says Caspian. "When Sopespian moves against my uncle, they will both be weaker for it."
Arlian nods. "Distracted - yes, precisely. Do you have the numbers?"
Caspian stiffens. "I have numbers enough. But together our forces would -"
"Together?" Hand fisting in his beard, Arlian peers over Caspian's shoulder, into the inky dark of the woods and thickets of undergrowth. When Arlian next speaks, it's a whisper. "My men have heard the rumours. What sort of creatures are they?"
The taste of metal cuts across Caspian's tongue. The truth could scare Arlian away, but a lie will beg more questions if he isn't careful.
Caspian has never been a good liar.
"Resilient," says Caspian. "Honourable. They are survivors, like us."
"Yes, yes, I'm sure they are," says Arlian, waving the answer away. "But they are Narnians, aren't they?"
"Yes."
Arlian strokes his beard to a taper, eyes darting between Caspian and the forest at his back. "Remarkable. After all these centuries?"
Caspian inclines his head.
Twigs snap as Arlian retreats a step toward the hollow tree. "I suppose we all must have our pawns," says Arlian, grimacing despite his conciliatory tone. "Still, it's a shame."
"The Narnians are no pawns," Caspian snaps. "Especially not mine."
They are Narnia as it once was. As it should be.
As it will be again.
Arlian tilts his head. "No? Then why does an army of ghosts and old children's tales follow you, Caspian?"
Caspian falters.
"Together," he told them, "we have a chance to take back what is ours."
Of course, he can't say such a thing to Arlian. Instead, Caspian tries for the answer a truer Telmarine than he would give.
"They follow the rightful king. Will you?"
Arlian retreats another step. Two. Spreads his hands in insincere contrition, head bowed in a facsimile of deference.
"You must understand. Right now, you are the unlikely gamble. I have my family, my men, to consider."
Caspian advances a single step. "Others of the council will follow you - Lord Montilas, Lord Rivilez. They simply need someone to take the first step."
Arlian says nothing.
Caspian's patience begins to fray.
"I am setting Narnia to rights, Lord Arlian - with or without you. We are stronger together than we are bickering over two usurpers who will discard you and your family without a second thought."
"I don't disagree," Arlian replies. "But surely you understand I need some assurance. A decisive victory, perhaps?"
Caspian frowns. "How many more raids -"
"Not raids or skirmishes. A proper battle victory, out in the open. A king has to hold his own."
Arlian never spoke so casually at the castle. He never interrupted.
Arlian barrels on in the face of Caspian's simmering silence.
"Sword to Tash, I'll back you then. Deal a decisive blow to Miraz. Sopespian will strike at him, and we will strike in turn. A cascade, if you will."
And in turn, perhaps Arlian will strike when Caspian's back is turned.
Caspian's throat tightens, chills sprouting on his arms at a sudden breeze, humid and cool with the coming storm. He should have expected this, for Arlian to suggest that old Telmarine tradition of betrayals. For all the raids and skirmishes Caspian has led, he's never stooped to baiting betrayers, to stabbing in the back.
That is his uncle's way. Not his.
"A decisive victory then," Caspian echoes. "And I have your loyalty?"
Lord Arlian walks forward and extends his right hand. The moonlight glints off his vambrace, highlights his other hand hanging loosely at his side.
Their hands clasp.
A bargain. An alliance in exchange for a victory - proof he is strong enough to lead in the Telmarine way.
Lord Arlian does not need to know that the Telmarine way will die with Miraz.
A new world is coming. But Caspian must keep himself and the Narnians alive long enough to bring it to pass.
A/N: From the bottom of my heart, please brace yourselves for next chapter. I just finished the latest rewrite and it... ouch. But necessary, so if you've been frustrated with Addie or Cas or both of them, know we're heading into a cathartic moment soon ❤
Chapter 32 Preview:
"You cannot keep doing this, Addie," Caspian says to her back.
Addie bends down and combs unhurried fingers through a muddy tangle by her ear.
"Doing what? I did as you asked."