A/N: Okay, this is a LONG chapter. To the tune of 7.2k. So, uh, oops? But enjoy? I almost split this one, but the plot-heavy scenes later on didn't quite make up a complete chapter. So here we are, I'm sorry and you're welcome. Please excuse typos (but point them out if they bug you, I promise I'll fix them) because 7k is a lot to edit in one sitting and my beta and I did my best. 😅
Chapter 33 Content Warnings: occasional mention of physical injury and medical treatment, slight power imbalance (Cas using princely authority), low self-esteem (Addie), battle gore and violence
Chapter 33: ready for the fight
Addie
It's a long time before she can breathe again.
Caspian's holding her like he means it, like he's offering forgiveness if she'll only ask for it. Like he's given it already.
She should be relieved. Calm, pliant, spent after baring her deepest fears to him.
Addie's head lolls onto Caspian's shoulder, sun-warmed leather hot against her cheek. She spent all that time in the castle worrying she'd lose him to death, but she almost lost him a different way just now.
She doesn't feel relieved. She feels… empty. Scraped down to nothing, bare as a boiled stew bone.
Hollow. Alone, somehow, even with Caspian holding her upright and his salty musk surrounding her like a blanket. In the fight's aftermath, he guided her onto a flat boulder, helped her sit with her legs cradled in his lap.
It must be past noon. The ring-clash of sparring has lessened, now barely an echo.
Addie curls careful fingers atop Caspian's chestplate, wishing only skin laid beneath her touch.
She can't keep him here forever.
She has to try twice to clear her throat - as much to remind herself how to speak as to get Caspian's attention.
"What now?" Addie murmurs. "Do you want me to -"
"No," Caspian says, as if he knows, somehow, what she means. "I want you to stay here where I can make sure you're safe."
Addie nods, Caspian's shirt collar tickling her nose. She didn't think he would, but…
She needed to hear it. Couldn't trust herself to assume correctly.
"No more sneaking," Caspian continues, his arm tightening around her waist. "No more running yourself to exhaustion."
Her shoulder twinges in agreement, a familiar sting beneath the incessant itching, but Addie thinks of how much food she's eaten in the past week, how many poultices, bandages, cups of water she's used up. Even the clothes on her back aren't hers.
She's supposed to earn her keep. That's what you do when strangers take you in.
She speaks cautiously, her back stiff as she braces for Caspian to interrupt.
"But I have to -"
Caspian stops her with a finger to her lips.
"If you want to make amends," he says, "then mend your wounds. Care for yourself, if you care for me."
If?
The word sinks into her stomach.
She knows, logically, why he said such a thing. That from Caspian's point of view, she's acted as if she doesn't.
But Caspian's doubt burns, because she does care. He just can't see it through his hurt, through the grief she put him through.
She gave the soldiers something to chase. That, at least, she managed.
Addie swallows down a protest itching up her throat and nods again.
"I mean it, Addie."
Caspian's hand hovers by her chin without touching.
"I know," she says.
Silence. He's waiting, Addie realises.
"I will," she adds. Then promises haltingly, because if this is what he needs, if this is what will ease his mind, she'll find a way to do it. She owes him that.
Maybe the Narnians won't toss her into the wild if she eases up. They're not that kind of people.
Caspian wouldn't let them even if they were, though she'd deserve it.
But if they truly expect nothing in return - ludicrous as the notion sounds - then that's all the more reason to pay them back for -
Heal first, that's what Caspian said - as did Rainroot. Heal, recover, stop using so many medical supplies.
That's useful. That's something, even if it feels like nothing.
Addie sinks deeper into Caspian's arms, her left hand seeking the pulse point on his neck - the only one she can currently reach because his armour covers everything else - a necessary shell in war, another barrier forever between them.
Apparently, her resting and healing isn't nothing to Caspian.
It makes no sense, especially not in the middle of a war camp, but if that's what helps the most, she'll make herself do it.
Caspian dusts a line of kisses across her brow like she just promised him a kingdom.
"Someday the battle may come here," Caspian murmurs into her hair. "The more you've healed, the better your chances of survival."
Addie's heart thrums faster. She'd rather not think of battle, of how poorly prepared she is and how easily the soldiers almost killed her in the castle.
How helpless she was, and still is - no fighting skills, no experience in battle, no armour to hide away the most vulnerable parts of her.
Nothing but luck and tentative ribbons of hope.
"Then I should train," Addie says. Caspian stiffens, and she hurries to reassure him. "Lightly," she continues. "But it'll help. Could save my life."
Caspian's fingers drum erratically at her hip. Addie waits as patiently as she's able.
She ignores the little voice in her mind that whispers how insulting it is that this is ultimately Caspian's decision, not hers. That he gets the final say.
She hates asking for permission.
"Please," Addie murmurs.
With a sigh, Caspian relents.
"Alright," he says. "Light training, two hours and no more."
Caspian grips her chin and tilts her face up, staring unwaveringly into her eyes.
It's not fair how close he is. How all he'd have to do to kiss her is lean forward an inch.
"No more pushing your limits," he continues. Caspian's hand abandons her chin in favour of her left hand. He turns it palm-up and traces the scabbed scrape from her first day of training. "And no more of this."
Addie stifles a scowl. Technically, that one wasn't her fault.
It's not like his hands aren't rough too - scattered constellations of scarred-over scrapes and cuts from sword fighting, a bulging muscle over his right thumb, callouses thick across his palm and on his right index finger. Her hands aren't any worse, just different. Where Caspian's skin is mostly smooth, Addie's is marred with countless nicks and burns from the kitchen, with callouses across the base of her knuckles and on the heel of her palm (her favourite part of her hand, because Perla has those bread-kneading callouses too and it's proof, isn't it, that she belongs somewhere?).
Addie shrugs and turns her hand palm-down.
"Just a scrape," she mutters. "No worse than anything Perla's kitchen gave me."
Caspian traces a circular scar on her index knuckle (a reminder from the oven not to be careless) and the needle-thin line on her thumb (proof Perla's knives are sharp, a clean cut that healed quickly).
"I never liked those either," Caspian says.
Addie curls her fingers, hiding the scrape from Caspian's sight. It doesn't matter if he likes her scars or not. She likes them, likes her life and the people she loves mapped over her skin and remembering the story behind every pale mark when she looks down. Her hands look like Lola's, Claudia's, Perla's, Anna's. They mark her as one of them, memories she carries with her even if she never sees them again or they want nothing to do with her after the war.
Addie swallows against the sting in her throat. She wouldn't blame them if they don't; she abandoned them.
"I like them," she blurts. "They remind me of home."
"No, I mean…" Caspian holds her loose fist, thumb absently stroking her knuckles as he stares at their joined hands. "I meant I don't want to see you in pain no matter the reason. Every scar is a moment you were hurt, and I wasn't…" He trails off with a sigh.
Addie tracks the pinch of his brow, the frown as Caspian glances away.
Wasn't there to protect her? Is that what he means?
"You can't protect me from everything," Addie murmurs. She considers her hands, the roadmap of her life written there. These scars are memories - treasures, in a way, that remind her she has a place somewhere.
Her eyes follow a curved line bisecting the back of her hand until it disappears under Caspian's finger. That was her first scar. Perla kept her on dish-duty for the first six months, and a knife slipped as she was washing it.
"And I don't want you to," Addie continues. "These are good memories."
Not good in the moment, but good now. A reassurance that she had a place she belonged, even if she doesn't anymore.
Caspian nods, his hand tightening.
"Alright," he says. After a moment, he straightens and kisses her brow. "But here, every new wound is a vulnerability."
Addie flexes her hand, feels the pull of the scab and the soreness from the morning's training. Caspian's not wrong that things are different in a war camp.
Throat tight around frustration she knows better than to voice, Addie agrees.
But Caspian isn't done asking - ordering? Who can tell anymore? - things of her.
"Train only with Falmus," Caspian says next. "He knows to be careful with you."
Exactly, Addie nearly says, why does he think she sought Marcos' help? Marcos is an ass and she doesn't enjoy indulging him, hates being at his mercy for even a moment, but Marcos is ruthless like Miraz's soldiers. He doesn't treat her like an injured bird.
This time, she's too slow to stop her protest.
"Marcos fights like a Telmarine soldier - he was one," Addie says. "Arrus said he's an asset."
Caspian's jaw tenses, muscle stiff under clean-shaven skin. "To the Narnians, yes. Not to you."
Addie tucks her lower lip between her teeth. She shouldn't argue, shouldn't push him after they finally aired out his grievances.
Addie's mouth runs away with her anyway.
"He's good at offence, and he's ruthless," she insists. "He'll prepare me for -"
"Skill and timing can thwart brute force," Caspian interrupts, that princely edge back in his tone. "How do you think the Narnians survived this long?"
Addie's rebuttal dies in her mouth, melting like butter on a hot pan. She should have thought of that.
Another takes its place. Stifled frustration crawls up her throat like a sickness, flooding her mouth with sourness.
"Compared to Miraz's soldiers, sparring with Marcos isn't dangerous," Addie mumbles. "Even if he is a brute."
What she doesn't say, what she bites back with incisors on her own tongue, is that she knows how dangerous Miraz's soldiers are. Intimately, she knows.
They both do.
Caspian's breath rushes out in a rough puff, like even the air in his lungs is trying to push her away.
"If you were healthy, I might allow it," Caspian says - too sharply, like a prince she's defied instead of a man with his woman in his lap.
Addie lifts her chin, her forehead bumping Caspian's chin as she curls tighter into herself.
They've talked it through. Why is Caspian still using that tone to speak of allowing her something?
No, she can't say that, she can't start another fight, can't bear it -
Caspian softens, strokes her hip with firm fingers.
"If you weren't injured," he begins quietly, his breath like a careful spring breeze after a rainstorm. "If you were in perfect health, I'd be the first to see you train." Caspian curls a finger under her chin, a callous rough against soft skin. "But you're not."
Addie swallows against bitterness, forces acceptance down her throat like a cup of bitter willow tea.
"Alright," Addie says. "Just with Falmus, then."
The concession is worth it for how quickly Caspian relaxes and tucks her closer into his shoulder.
"And Rainroot?" she asks.
"Do everything she tells you," Caspian answers, his breath hot on her skin. "In spirit, not only the letter."
That's part and parcel of healing - which she already agreed to.
Addie purses her lips against saying so.
"I meant learning her trade," Addie says. "If the battle comes here - even if it doesn't - Rainroot will need all the hands she can get."
She nearly looks up to gauge if Caspian will agree, but she doesn't want to see him angry again. Better to keep her head on his shoulder and just listen.
Caspian sighs, long and heavy. "Rainroot said as much," he admits.
Addie waits as he shifts them further onto the boulder.
Is he uncomfortable? Gods know he hasn't much padding to sit on. Addie braces more of her weight on her feet to lighten the load.
Caspian notices at once and tugs her impossibly closer, resettling her weight onto his thighs.
"Very well," he says at last. "But nothing else until Rainroot says otherwise."
Addie chews her lip. More decisions thrust out of her control.
She'll have to stomach it. Caspian said this is how she makes it up to him.
"Okay," Addie says, and makes herself mean it. "Anything else?"
"Just one."
Caspian grips her chin again - gently, his fingertips more guide than command - and coaxes her from the shelter of his neck. His dark eyes blaze with something more than orders, deeper than the earnestness that first stole her heart.
"Never for one second think I am better off without you."
The words are out before she can stop them.
"Even if you would be?"
Addie glances down and tries to pull away, but Caspian holds her fast.
"I would not," he insists, so fervently she almost believes him. "Don't forget I know the difference."
Addie swallows, her throat thick with guilt. He does, by her doing. Again she tries to look away, and again Caspian lifts her chin until her eyes slide up to meet his.
"Never," he repeats.
She should protest, because she fled like a coward and she's put him through hell and she's done nothing, nothing to deserve him in her whole life and surely he knows that, or he'll realise it one day and then he'll change his mind, say she was right -
Before she voices any of it, Caspian dives in and oh, his lips are enough to erase anything, to quiet the tempest in her mind and make her remember how to reach past this aching tangle in her chest for what she wants.
Someone she wants, someone she almost lost by her own doing, but it'll be alright if he'll just keep kissing her, if she can keep the taste of him in her mouth for all her days.
He means it, a tremulous part of her whispers. He really means it.
Addie whimpers - a pathetic whine - when Caspian's mouth retreats and leaves her with nothing but his breath on her wet lips.
"Alright," she hears herself whisper. "Alright."
Caspian
In the following days, Caspian focuses on nothing but the Narnian movements in the south. The How is at capacity, and more are coming. Caspian thought to cut off the Telmarine army's southern arm snaking west, but since he met with Lord Arlian, Telmarine raiding parties have pushed the Narnians from their woodland homes and into the shelter of the mountains. If he asks the southern Narnians to attack before his main force engages Miraz's army, he could lose all of them to Telmarine blades.
Caspian is curled around Addie – she's half asleep and breathing steadily, for once – when Vanus clatters down the tunnel with the news.
"The bridge is complete," says Vanus, his frantic puffing echoing in the narrow space. "The catapults will arrive here within the week."
Caspian wakes instantly, a curse on his lips. "Where is Miraz?"
"His infantry is camped at Beruna," Vanus answers. "Miraz returned to the castle; no news on his expected arrival."
Lion's teeth; Miraz is sending his army to do the dirty work while he stays safely tucked away in the castle, out of reach and out of danger. Caspian scowls at the wall. Miraz has no real reason to leave the castle when his army tightens the noose for him.
"Gather Glenstorm and the others in the war room," Caspian says, rushing to disentangle himself from Addie. "I'll be there shortly."
Addie stirs as Vanus bounds off. "What's going on?"
Caspian pulls on his boots and throws on his armoured vest. "The bridge is finished; Miraz's army will be here soon. They may not know our exact location, but it won't matter when the forest is crawling with Telmarine soldiers."
Addie bolts upright. "How long -"
"You should see Rainroot," Caspian interrupts. "She'll need your help."
Addie silently gets to her feet, frown darker in the tunnel's flickering shadows.
"Stay inside," Caspian continues firmly. Her hands are cool in his as he kisses across her knuckles. "Please."
Addie leans in and pulls him back with a lingering kiss.
"Don't leave without saying goodbye," she murmurs, brow pressed to his.
Caspian clutches her hands tighter. "Never," he promises.
He finds the war room in an uproar - Reepicheep perched on the table with one paw on his sword hilt and the other pointing to Beruna on the map, Nikabrik pacing the room and nearly purple in the face, Trufflehunter trailing and failing to calm him, and Glenstorm standing stoically surveying the chaos.
"Typical, sending his dogs to do the dirty work," Nikabrik rants. "Didn't I say within the week? We're doomed!"
"At least the catapults aren't here yet," says Trufflehunter.
"Yet," Nikabrik sneers. "What's a few more days 'til death's door?"
Caspian steps around the seething dwarf and joins Reepicheep at the map. "Glenstorm, has your son Suncloud or any other scouts reported back?"
"No, my Liege," says Glenstorm, his frown deepening. "He should return by dawn tomorrow."
Caspian nods absently, brow furrowed. It's to be expected, given that all the raids require crossing the Great River, but they need every last fighter here. Perhaps Suncloud will bring more accurate estimates of the catapults' arrival.
"If he returns at all," snipes Nikabrik. "Say, maybe your little meeting gave our position away. You think of that, Highness?"
Caspian grits his teeth against a retort. Nikabrik's likely looking for a fight because it's easier to be angry than frightened.
"The meeting!" says Trufflehunter. "What came of it, Sire?"
Caspian turns to the badger and tries to find hope enough for a thin smile. "Lord Arlian pledged his support if we win a victory on the battlefield proper. He expects Lord Sopespian and General Glozelle will move against Miraz once he's distracted with us."
Nikabrik slams his fist onto the map. "If this, expects that. No help is coming from your people, boy, and we'd be fools to accept anything those swine would offer."
"Perhaps," Caspian counters, fighting to keep calm. The moment he loses his composure, so will the council. "We don't have the numbers to outlast Miraz beyond two months, even if we block the entrance and stock as many supplies as we can hold."
With their growing numbers, two months is a generous estimate. The Narnians arriving from the south bring what they have, but the recent arrivals sacrificed supplies for speed.
"With all due respect, Sire," chimes in Reepicheep, "I find little honour in hiding from battle."
"All well and good for you, Mouse," says Nikabrik, "but some of us aren't ready to throw ourselves on the sword just yet."
"Nikabrik," Trufflehunter warns.
"Reepicheep is right." Caspian traces Miraz's supply route down to Beruna, charting the most likely path through the forest. "With the bridge finished, my uncle's scouts will find this place quickly if they haven't already. They won't expect us to take the fight to them."
"Oh, ho!" Nikabrik jeers. "First you hole us up here, now you'd march us into Miraz's maw?"
"Miraz stays in the castle because his army has done his dirty work thus far," Caspian answers in as level a tone as he can manage. "We've spent nearly a month striking from the shadows. It's time we dealt a decisive blow."
Hiding here in the How has kept them alive so far, but this place will be their tomb if he can't counter his uncle.
Just one victory. One strong manoeuvre to tip the chessboard in his favour. And when Lord Arlian pledges his men, other lords will follow, triggering a cascade that will give Caspian the support he needs to take the throne by politick or by force.
Paw on his mouse-sized rapier, Reepicheep stands taller on the table's edge.
"Quite so," he agrees. "Courage and Aslan's grace will make ten of our soldiers fight like a hundred." The mouse draws his thin sword and points to the Telmarine camp near Beruna. "After they've crossed the bridge, they must make camp. If your Majesty agrees," Reepicheep continues, "I should like to attack at daybreak, with the sun's rays at my back and the dawn of a new day in our wake."
Caspian considers the cluster of square stones near Beruna. An attack at daybreak should have the element of surprise, but the Narnians' numbers are too few to attack the entire Telmarine army at once.
"You're right, Reepicheep," Caspian says. "Glenstorm, how many Narnians remain in the Southern Mountains?"
The centaur towers above the map, his face cast in shadow.
"Too few to lead an attack," Glenstorm answers. "But enough to support one. The robins report a third of them are hiding in the mountains."
Caspian traces the round stones spotting the forest. "And our scouts?"
"Two dozen," says Glenstorm. "All within half a day's ride. Shall I summon them here?"
Nikabrik slams a fist on the stone. "That's as good as surrendering the forest to Miraz!"
"And alerts Miraz an attack is coming," adds Trufflehunter.
Trufflehunter and Nikabrik are right, Caspian decides. The scouts should continue all activities as usual and only pick off Telmarine scouts as necessary to preserve the How's secrecy.
In the Battle of Beruna - the last battle of the Winter Revolution, High King Peter attacked the White Witch's army in two waves. The initial wave of centaurs, fauns, and fleet-footed beasts attacked the Witch's army head-on while the second wave of archers waited on the hill. With a false retreat, High King Peter baited the Witch's army onto the rocky hillside and thinned their greater numbers enough to hold on before Aslan arrived with reinforcements.
Caspian leans over his maps and stones, tries to drown out the rising din of his council's debate. If Aslan comes, then they have little to fear from the coming battle. But if he doesn't…
Caspian breathes in the sharp, earthy cave air cut through with torch smoke. He will hope for Aslan or the Kings and Queens, but he can't plan the battle assuming they'll come. He must craft a strategy using only the resources he knows he has.
"The Telmarine army outnumbers us five to one," Nikabrik is saying, his tone sharp as a whip. "I'm telling you, we can't survive a direct attack!"
"Numbers alone do not win a battle," Caspian interjects. Doctor Cornelius repeated that theme in history lessons and nighttime stories. "The Telmarine army's right wing - here, this westerly stretch - is vulnerable, and we have enough fighters to attack from both sides."
With proper timing, the Narnians from the mountains attacking from the south and Caspian's main forces attacking from the north could break off the Telmarine army's western wing.
Caspian points to the round stones marking the Narnian scouts. "We keep the scouts patrolling as usual, make sure Miraz suspects nothing. They will keep the Telmarine scouts occupied while our main force marches southeast to the encampment near Beruna." Caspian moves two square stones across the Great River, but leaves the rest. "The entire army can't cross the bridge in a single day. If we attack at daybreak, we need only face the soldiers on the western riverbank."
"And the archers?" Nikabrik asks. "They'll pick us off sure as my beard's black."
"We split our forces," Caspian says. "Have the fiercest wait out of sight in the forest while we attack the Telmarine camp on the western bank. The moment our advantage from the surprise attack runs out, we signal both the strike team and the southern Narnians to attack the western flank." He moves five round stones to a cluster across the river from Beruna, then slides two each from the northwest and the south. "Sever their right, eliminate their forces west of the river."
"A triple front," murmurs Trufflehunter. "The Telmarines still don't know our number, do they?"
"They do not," Caspian confirms. He grew up on Doctor Cornelius' tales of Old Narnia, and his jaw fell slack when he saw the hundreds of Narnians gathered at the Dancing Lawn. The Telmarines have no conception of their numbers - another advantage.
"A worthy strategy," says Reepicheep.
Nikabrik scowls and slides a line of three square stones across the bridge. "They'll keep sending reinforcements from the moment we attack."
"If the battle tide turns," Caspian says, "we retreat into the trees. Use the forest to our advantage."
With a triple front attack, he hopes it won't come to that. But if it does, the Narnians' strength has always been guerilla warfare.
After another half hour of back-and-forth, everyone but Nikabrik has agreed.
"I don't like it," says the dwarf. "Good way to get us all killed."
"I think you know where I stand, Sire," Reepicheep says, standing with his furry chest puffed out. "For Aslan!"
"For Aslan," echoes Trufflehunter as Glenstorm crosses a fist over his heart.
"For Narnia," Caspian says.
Addie
Rainroot's grotto is a sanctuary amid the flurry of activity that's taken over the How. The Narnians' jog (or trot) to and fro down the main tunnel, their armour a-clatter and the walls echoing with the creak-jingle of swords on belts, bows strapped to backs. It's the shaky inhale before a sprint, the heavy breath before a downpour.
The stalemate of the past week and a half is gone.
Caspian, too, is gone until the crescendo of activity dissipates as the How empties. No sooner has Addie set aside the pile of bandages she was rolling than Caspian rounds the nearest bend. He's still in his armoured leather vest, but he carries metal armour packed on his back.
Addie abandons the woven basket of neatly rolled bandages on the wooden stool that's been her seat for the past hour and runs, because he's leaving and it's battle and it's dangerous and what if he doesn't come back -
What if, after she's ignored his orders so many times, he doesn't want her jumping into his arms? Is that why he came before she could go outside to see him off properly?
Addie skids to a stop, remembers what apologies taste like, but Caspian's arms are already open wide.
She's being stupid.
Caspian folds strong arms around her like it's nothing, his shoulders rounding forward and his chin atop her head as he tucks her against his shoulder like he's relieved.
It feels like belonging, Addie decides, nose pressed to his neck.
Caspian smells like home, and her throat aches with the tang of goodbyes.
"Promise me you're coming back," Addie whispers. "Please."
Caspian's arms tighten.
"You have my word," he answers with a kiss to her forehead.
Addie leans shamelessly into his lips, tries to summon the relief and reassurance she ought to send him off with.
But the moment Caspian is gone, some part of her doesn't believe him.
After Caspian leaves with the Narnians, Addie spends all day with Rainroot and three other trainees. She intends to stay into the night, but the centaur shoos her off for dinner with a heavy stomp that no one in their right mind would disobey.
Well, not tonight. Even Rainroot is tense, her usually calm tones wound tight and terse. There's no point in ignoring Rainroot's orders; she's done a good day's work.
Rainroot may need another pair of hands when Caspian's army returns.
Addie's stomach squeezes, souring any appetite she had. Two-thirds of the How have gone, and Caspian with them. Leading them.
If she shoves aside the fear, she's proud of him. He's not the naïve, wide-eyed prince she met a year ago.
He can survive this war. Caspian survived living in Miraz's castle for his whole life, survived the escape, survived with the Narnians in the weeks since.
He can do this. She has to trust that.
The dining cave looms tall, quiet and mostly empty. The dinner hour hasn't yet started, but Falmus should be here. He never came to fetch her from Rainroot.
Addie's stomach churns as the rich smell of meat stew wafts into her awareness. Rainroot said to eat, but how can she keep food down when Caspian is off in battle somewhere near Beruna? When anything could happen and she won't know until he returns?
"Stop moping. You look terrible."
Marcos materialises before her with a steaming, rough-hewn bowl and a disturbingly calm demeanour. They haven't spoken since Caspian and the others returned, and so much the better. Days later, thinking of how easily he bested her in front of Caspian still sears shame over her skin.
Bastard.
Addie crosses her good arm over her sling, tucking chilled fingertips against her ribs. "I'm not hungry."
"So?" Marcos yanks her arm away and shoves the bowl into her hand, stew sloshing over the side and almost burning them both. "Eat anyway."
With only one good hand, she can't shake off the spill. Addie scowls and takes a sip. Much as she'd like to throw the bowl in Marcos' face, it'd be a waste of good food.
Caspian would want her to eat. Keep her strength up, be kind to herself.
She promised.
It is rather good; Perla would have a few things to say about the spices (or lack thereof), but the hearty combination of root vegetables and fresh meat fills the belly and chases away the cave's chill.
Addie regards Marcos. His face is carefully blank, but his jaw is stiff and his hands are clasped white-knuckled tight. He's missing his classic smirk.
"What's got you in a mood?"
Marcos stares somewhere past her head, scanning the room behind her. "You're one to talk."
Addie rolls her eyes and takes another sip. "Did Arrus lay you out on the field?"
"No sparring til they get back," Marcos says. "Changed my guard, too. Swear I've got five years on the new pipsqueak."
Addie slurps a bigger mouthful and chews a tender chunk of meat. "Definitely not in a mood. What was I thinking?"
Marcos' scowl edges with a warning. "Laugh it up, but this stops your sparring too."
"I'll pass the time." Half the bowl to go. Addie ignores her stomach's threatening pinches and swallows another gulp. "You should find something useful to do. You're an ass when you're bored."
Marcos always is, but especially when he's bored.
To her surprise, Marcos' only retort is a scoff and a heavy, condescending sigh. The superioristic one, like he got when she used to joke about finding a sweet market boy to fill her off-hours instead of him.
Better to ignore him.
While Addie finishes dinner in a hurry - before her insides decide to stop accepting it - Marcos scans the dining cave behind him and the tunnel at her back. Addie watches him and says nothing. Better to finish her dinner now and worry about Marcos later.
When she tips the last of the stew into her mouth, Marcos takes her bowl, his stew-breath puffing in her face as he leans in closer than necessary.
"We should leave tonight," he mumbles. "Probably our only chance before Miraz finds this place; I'll sneak us out while the How's quiet. By the time they notice we're gone, the stragglers'll be back and they'll be too busy to bother with us."
Addie's mouth falls open, her stew-sticky hand frozen in the air.
"You think I'd leave now?"
Marcos leans in further, already past the point of comfort. "If you have any brains, you should. I've been training them, and they don't stand a chance."
Her feet carry her back into the tunnel as Addie shakes her head. "You're a coward."
In an instant, all Marcos' put-on calm vanishes. "And you're a fool with a death wish," he snarls, teeth half-bared like an animal. "You think he can keep you safe? You think he even wants you here?"
Addie's chest stutters, ribs aching like the blow was Marcos' fist.
She shouldn't react. Shouldn't give him the satisfaction. But her chest is caving in and she can hardly breathe and he's wrong, she knows he's wrong.
Stay here where I can make sure you're safe.
"I'm not leaving him, Marcos." Addie swallows around the sandpaper lining her throat and forces herself to look Marcos in the eye to prove she's made up her mind no matter what ugly things he says.
This is her choice - she's chosen Caspian, and that's that. She'd still choose him a thousand times over again.
Addie jerks her trembling chin toward the sleeping quarters. "Sleep it off."
Marcos invades her space again, his flint-grey eyes glinting in the dim light.
"No one wants us here, Addie. You'd be stupid to die with them."
Addie tells herself he's wrong as he walks away. She's learning the healer's trade with Rainroot, sparring with Falmus.
She has a place here.
Addie returns to the dining cave with her head held high and finds a faun and a badger at the stewpots. Their friendliness soothes the pangs in her chest, but it's not until Addie has a scrub brush in hand while Sproutbringer - the badger with grey around her muzzle - steadies the pot over the wash bin that she can breathe again.
She is wanted, Addie tells herself, scrubbing pots and plates until her good arm aches. She has made a place.
And if she's not wanted, at least she's useful.
Caspian
Narnian scouts find the Telmarine encampment on the outskirts of Beruna, spread out on the far shore with the completed bridge stretched out before them. They warn of small scouting parties roaming the forest; fortunately, the Telmarine scouts are scattered, rarely numbering over a dozen, and little trouble to dispatch.
Caspian wonders, with his sword wet with blood and his muscles still buzzing with the adrenaline of battle, if he could have won any of them over. If killing them was the only way. In another lifetime, they would - should - have been his men and his words might've been enough.
For now, his musings must wait. Miraz's scouts would have killed as many Narnians as they could and alerted the main force to their presence, and they can't be allowed to do so. Perhaps when Lord Arlian pledges his men, the Telmarines will recognise Caspian as their rightful king and they needn't die scrabbling for the scraps from Miraz's table.
Caspian turns away from the bodies lying still under the ferns.
No matter Miraz's intentions, he can't let this be a war of annihilation.
Caspian stops to clean his sword with a fistful of fern leaves and moss in a precious lull before the next scouting party happens along. What sort of king will he be if all he knows how to do is kill?
"Ahead, my Liege," says Glenstorm.
More?
Caspian sets his teeth and makes battle, as quick and quiet as can be had. The closer they come to the bridge and the main Telmarine camp, the less noise they can afford.
By nightfall, the Narnians find no more scouts. The forest is theirs - for now.
Nikabrik slinks up beside him as Caspian squints into the trees and binds the joints between his metal armour with leather - a stealth measure, to reduce rattling. The camp is still a mile ahead.
"Well, here we are," says the dwarf. "I still don't like it."
Caspian swallows a retort borne more of nerves than genuine annoyance. Nikabrik isn't wrong that attacking Miraz's army first is risky, but they've already come this far. When the scouts stationed near camp stop reporting en masse, the Telmarines will know Caspian and his army are nearby. They can't back down now.
He should send them in immediately, to take advantage of the dark night as they have for all the raids. But Arlian demanded a clear victory.
"We should wait until first light," Caspian says instead. "A victory in daylight will win the most respect."
Reepicheep and Trufflehunter also suggested that dawn was the hour Aslan is closest to the world, but religious sentiments won't assuage Nikabrik's concerns.
The dwarf spits at the ground. "Respect, eh? You've dragged us into open battle outnumbered score-to-one to win respect?"
Caspian's patience wears thinner than it should.
Very well. If Nikabrik must hear the truth bluntly, so be it.
"Right now, every soldier in that camp sees us as bugs to be crushed," Caspian replies, harsh but quiet. "If we win this battle by an obvious show of strength, they'll fear us as worthy opponents."
"Worthy opponents?" Nikabrik echoes. "How charming. Shall we dance for them too?"
Lion grant him strength.
"After the war, if Narnia is to be Narnian again, we need respect as much as victory," Caspian explains.
When the battles are done, he'll need Lord Arlian and at least half the council to back him, or Narnia will fall into a generation of civil war as would-be usurpers challenge his claim to the crown. The Narnians wouldn't survive it.
There's a lifetime of bitterness in Nikabrik's sneer. "Let Miraz and his ilk choke on their respect. The only thing we need from them is blood."
Behind him, a wolf nods and a few other dwarfs murmur agreement.
Caspian elects for silence. Nikabrik thinks only of the war and of revenge. He's not thinking of what comes after, and Caspian doesn't have Doctor Cornelius' talent for nuanced explanations.
Nikabrik turns back and refocuses on his kin - a band of five Black Dwarfs from the Shuddering Wood. They're fierce fighters and, like Nikabrik, more concerned with getting rid of the Telmarines than anything else.
Caspian pushes away the impatience and frustration itching along his limbs. Battle will come soon enough, and as much as he, too, wants his uncle cast out of power, it's the days of peace after that truly give him something to fight for.
Revenge alone can't win a war. He needs the courage only hope brings.
In the last dregs of nighttime, Caspian reviews the battle plans once more. At daybreak, he will lead most of the dwarfs, fauns, and a few satyrs to attack the Telmarine army's right flank as they rouse.
Caspian marks the most recently eliminated scout party on his map and cranes his neck to look up at Wimbleweather, a Giant with the heart of a lion.
"When the right is fully engaged, you, the centaurs, and the minotaurs will break out here and cut them off from the rest of the army. But you mustn't attack too soon; they'll will converge too quickly if you do."
Wimbleweather nods along, smoothing his beard with hands nearly thrice the size of Caspian's head. "A good plan, yes, excellent plan."
When Caspian turns to Glenstorm, the centaur agrees. "It will be done."
"I leave it to you." Caspian gathers himself, tightens the sword belt at his waist. "Nikabrik, Arrus, with me."
So begins their careful, sneaking march eastward, far enough that the junction of the Great River and River Rush will drown out all other sounds.
Crossing the Great River is a cold, soggy business. Even under Caspian's armour, the summer heat is a relief. Cold muscles won't do in a spar, much less a battle.
He and his company have the camp in sight minutes before the sky lightens. Caspian busies himself with final armour adjustments and summarises the plan once more with the group. His tongue itches for a detailed repetition, but after surviving dozens of skirmishes in the past weeks, Caspian knows the temptation of over-preparation for what it is.
He mustn't give in. The first true battle of the war is no place for indecision.
It's a good plan, and they have little choice. If he can do this, if he and the Narnians can seize this victory together, it could change their prospects entirely.
The order breaks from Caspian's lips. They charge.
It's not so quiet as he hoped as they break through the treeline and race toward the camp's outskirts, but it's not until dwarfs shoot down the first two guards who spot them that the war cry goes up and the camp explodes into a frenzy. These soldiers can be accused of many things, but slow in the face of danger is not one of them.
He remembers. He trained with them not so long ago.
Caspian pumps his legs faster, his sword strong and unwavering in his palm. The fauns have set a blistering pace, and it wouldn't do to fall behind before the battle's properly begun.
An arrow flies. The faun at his left crumples to the ground. The guard ahead reloads his crossbow as soldiers scramble into formation.
A dwarf's arrow fells him, but the damage is done. The faun is dead and the soldiers have already lined up, crossbows at the ready.
Caspian ignores the burning in his legs and sprints. Nearly there… yes!
He ducks below a bow's sights, sword arcing up toward the soldier's underarm, a weak spot unprotected by armour. There is a scream, and Caspian swallows down the bile in his throat. He trained with these men, but they would see him and all the Narnians dead.
No hesitation; he has a battle to win.
It is a bloody, brutal business. A mess of clanging metal and the click-hiss of discharging crossbows, the cries of the wounded and the yells of a chaotic melee choking the air. Caspian's sword is painted red, the hilt blood-slick from a cut near his thumb, and sweat sticks his hair to his forehead and his shirt to his back.
Head ringing, he jerks away from one blade only to meet another with his pauldron. He ducks before the sword can slide to his neck, spinning to land a hit to the soldier's knees.
Another cry, another arc of his sword, another spray of blood painting his hands. His other attacker falls to a bellowing dwarf's well-timed axe before Caspian reaches him.
Caspian nods thanks to the Red Dwarf and turns back to the fray.
They are fully engaged - have been for half an hour. Where in the Lion's Mane is Wimbleweather?
More soldiers arrive, sweeping through the tattered tents like a wildfire and unleashing another rain of crossbow bolts.
Pain lances across Caspian's arm, the tender flesh above his elbow exposed and bleeding. He drops, rolls behind a tent, topples a table between himself and the archers. After the volley ends, he runs from cover with a few fauns at his side, their path cleared by dwarf arrows.
Caspian sets his teeth and hacks through the new line of Telmarines.
They can't keep doing this. Soon, it will be too much.
Amid the blood-soaked chaos, Caspian begins to wonder if this was a mistake.
A/N: Sliiiight cliffy, though if you've read the book, you know where this is going. War plot is in full swing now, folks!
Chapter 34 Preview:
She can't breathe as she weaves through the limping soldiers, a parade of haggard, bloodied faces belonging to strangers with haunted eyes.
Keep breathing, don't choke, one foot in front of the other. Keep looking, he can't be gone, he can't be gone, he can't be gone -