A/N: For anyone confused on canon, the battle at the end of Ch. 33 was the First Battle of Aslan's How. I took a few liberties with the location, but the events are pretty much the same. The First Battle of Aslan's How is the battle "Caspian had arranged [that was] his biggest battle yet, and all had hung their hopes on it." And it went... well, you'll see, though I hope you suspect already. In the Disney adaptation, they replaced the First Battle of Aslan's How with the Raid on Miraz's Castle. The Lord Arlian plotline is something I cooked up because Caspian's dynamic with other Telmarines fascinates me to no end.
Quick note, I added canon reference pages on the ao3 version of this story, so if you need/want reference material, it's linked there (I can't link stuff here due to ffn's rules.) 😇
Chapter 34 Content Warnings: physical injuries and gore, medical treatments, mentions of death
Chapter 34: some things you just can't speak about
Addie
Addie is with Rainroot, hanging herbs to dry and reciting the procedure to set a broken arm, when they return.
The dinner hour is close, but Addie forgets her hunger as the news ripples through the How like the wind before a storm - tense, heavy, crackling with the unknown.
"Come," says Rainroot, clay pots clattering as she stuffs medicines and bandages into a basket. "Bring what you know how to use. Some will need immediate attention."
Addie fumbles a roll of freshly cut bandages and grits her teeth against a curse. Why can't she hold it steady? She's done things one-handed many times by now.
"Did they -"
"I know no more than you. Hurry." Rainroot tosses in a last bundle of herbs and takes off at a trot, hooves echoing as Addie scrambles to follow and a faun and a badger join the rush. They race out of the How with a growing crowd of Narnians at their heels.
Tash, Rainroot is tall. At first Addie can't see a thing beyond the centaur's height, but then…
Then -
Addie weaves around Rainroot's side, and there they are.
The thing is, Addie's seen blood before. She can slice up butchered meat without blinking, scoop raw venison and fowl and pork into a pot with her bare hands. She's seen her own blood crusted in thick patches on her bodice, seen river water turn red in her wake.
It was never someone else's blood. Hers, or an animal's. Never anyone she knew. Even when Caspian returned with scabbed knuckles and bruises from training, it wasn't like this.
Only half the Narnians have returned. And Caspian is nowhere in sight.
Addie screams his name loud enough to split the heavens and her own throat. Loud enough to bring him back, if he's gone somewhere she can't follow. The ground blurs as she sprints for the ragtag remnants of Caspian's army, her breath hoarse in her throat and her supplies crushed to her chest.
Tash, when was the last time she told him she loved him? She should've said it before he left, talked him out of it, done something -
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 -
Through blurry vision, Addie recognises a towering centaur from Caspian's council - Glenstorm, that's his name. Addie's tongue stutters behind her teeth, flaps uselessly in her mouth as her stomach lifts and she forces bile down her throat. Can't throw up, that won't fix anything. She needs her throat clear to speak, to ask carefully where he is.
Because Caspian is coming back. He promised.
Before she can speak, Glenstorm steps aside and oh there he is, bloodied and bruised but whole and alive and running to meet her on long, long legs.
At the last second, Addie remembers the supplies. She pauses to stuff everything into her sling, because she can't throw herbs and bandages into the grass, they'll get dirty and people'll need those -
Caspian sweeps her up one-armed and air floods into her lungs, a tidal wave caught in her chest drowning her from the inside.
"What happened?" Addie hiccups, blinking away tears knocked free from Caspian's hello and the jolt to her arm. "How bad are you hurt?"
Caspian's lips pepper a fevered trail up her neck. His armour is covered in mud and blood and gods know what else, but Addie can't bring herself to care.
"Not badly," he answers, voice hoarse. "But many are wounded."
When Caspian sets her back on her feet, with just his right arm, Addie finds his other gashed at the elbow. Caspian guides her hand away.
"It's nothing," he murmurs. "Here, I'll help you."
It must be the shock of such an obvious loss - and the relief of Caspian alive - that turns her stupid.
"Good," Addie hears herself say. "We only have two usable arms between us."
Tash, she could kick herself.
It's long past sundown by the time they've seen to everyone in dire need. Rainroot's steady, focused instructions are a welcome calm among the cries of the wounded. Even so, Addie's stomach lurches more than once.
After the first hour, it's easier. It's just blood and muscle, bone and sinew. The same stuff she's made of. As Addie finds a rhythm, the sounds of pain fade to the edge of awareness - always present, but little more than background noise. Just another sound in the evening.
That's all. That's all.
Somewhere amid the organised chaos, Rainroot leads them into the How. Anyone with minor wounds cleans and mends themselves, and the rest, well… most of them hold on.
Addie sees death for the first time at the How's door. She doesn't even know his name, the faun who dies with bandages she cut this morning pressed to the gouge in his stomach, but his blank-eyed stare lingers behind her eyelids long after she washes his blood from her hands.
Caspian's presence at her side keeps her steady. It's not the time to lose her head and blubber.
She's needed.
Many, many hours later, when the tunnels are thick with the smell of blood and herbs and wet fur, Rainroot dismisses her. It's kind, even though she must be exhausted too, and Addie's protests die in her throat. Because there are bloody bandages on Caspian's arm, a scabbed cut dividing his eyebrow, and he's been helping this entire time, tying bandages and putting pressure on wounds and holding patients steady.
Because she promised him she'd do as Rainroot said.
"Can I get you anything?" Addie asks the centaur as she turns to another patient - a wolf with an arrow buried in its rear haunches.
Rainroot nods at a small bucket of rust-brown, sudsy water - her washing bowl between patients, already bloody after one washing.
"Clean water," Rainroot says. "And a fresh cloth."
Addie fetches both along with an armful of fresh bandages. With hurried thanks in between the wolf's sharp yowl as she cuts through muscle to remove the barbed arrow, Rainroot orders her away.
"And take him with you," says the centaur, jerking her head toward Caspian. He's kneeling over a cursing faun, holding them down while another of Rainroot's apprentice healers presses a wad of bandages to a gaping shoulder wound.
This time, Caspian is the stubborn one. He doesn't look up after Rainroot's apprentice - a younger centaur - sedates the injured faun and Addie says it's time to rest, nor when Rainroot yells for him to leave.
"Tired means mistakes," Rainroot calls. "There's nothing more you can do tonight, Sire."
This morning, technically. Addie bites her tongue and tries to tug Caspian from the infirmary.
"Come on," she says, "that arm needs cleaning."
Caspian pulls out of reach, grimacing as fresh blood stains the bandage, and kneels beside an unconscious dwarf.
"Bandages?" he mumbles, eyes fixed on a stomach gash still oozing blood. "He's still breathing."
Addie meets Rainroot's eyes. They already examined the dwarf and administered a sedative. He's lost too much blood, and there's no stitching a wound that deep.
"Addie, bandages!" Caspian reaches behind him blindly.
His hand shakes.
Rainroot moves on to another patient, and Addie lays a hand on Caspian's shoulder, cool metal against her palm.
"Caspian," she murmurs. "I need to see to your arm."
"It's nothing."
"It's not, and that's a piss-poor bandage." Addie tries to pull him up, but Caspian stays on his knees staring at the dwarf. Addie slides her hand to his neck, fingers skipping over sweat-sticky skin and tangling in matted hair. "There's nothing you can do," she whispers.
Caspian's shoulders drop.
Addie works through a tangle at the nape of his neck and tries again to guide him away. "Come on. I've got to patch you up for next time."
Finally, Caspian relents, dark eyes heavy-lidded and unreachable as she leads him from the sprawling infirmary.
Addie ushers him to the mouth of their sleeping tunnel, under the nearest torch. In the flickering light, she gets her first good look at him in hours.
Her breath catches.
She should've sent Caspian to bed long before Rainroot did. His eyes are dull and bloodshot, framed in purple splotches of bruising and exhaustion. The cut through his left brow missed his eye, thank the gods, and it's scabbed over well enough, but he's covered in dirt. What Caspian needs is a warm meal, days of rest, and a thorough washing.
Instead, he'll get the best she can manage with their water skins.
Caspian says nothing as she wipes his face - he stares at the wall, motionless as a statue. He's quiet as she cleans the cut on his arm and dabs a fresh bead of blood, silent as she unwinds the filthy cloth tied around his left elbow and purses her lips at the dirt and blood dried in ill-formed scabs. The cut isn't to the bone, but it's deep enough her stomach jerks.
"You need stitches," Addie says. "I can't… I can't do those."
Caspian nods, his eyes glazed over. "In the morning."
Addie chews her bottom lip. It is the morning, but until Rainroot's seen to the critical cases, there's nothing else to be done but clean the wound and bind it with the fresh bandages she saved for him. After so many hours doing it for fauns and dwarfs and even a minotaur, it's easier to think of this as just another injury. To keep her eyes down, let her world narrow to the gash, pretend she doesn't see the embroidered flowers at the edge of the torn sleeve.
The whole time, Caspian doesn't move. He doesn't even flinch when she flushes the wound and the water runs red.
When she ties the last knot, Caspian's breathing is slow and even, his eyes closed, brow furrowed even in sleep. Addie brushes a stray lock of filthy hair from his forehead.
She could've lost him. So, so easily.
Her good hand slides into his without thinking, so desperate for the comfort of skin that Addie realises too late her touch will wake him.
Caspian jolts and scrambles to his feet, swaying after gods only know how many hours awake and ignoring how she pleads with him to rest.
Caspian scrubs the hand she just held over his face. "I have to… there is much to be done."
"You should sleep," Addie tries again. "Wait until the morning."
Caspian sighs. "I can't."
He should try anyway, but she knows how useless it is to sleep with a busy mind; how many nights did she lie awake in the castle, watching him sleep and counting every beat of his heart? How many hours of bedrest did she curse herself, her mind replaying Caspian's panicked face as she ran and taunting her with what-ifs about Lola and the others.
Sometimes rest is worse than exhaustion.
Addie stands, brushing tired fingers over his wrist. "Okay," she whispers. "What do you need?"
"We lost five scout camps. Miraz will find this place soon, and I…" Caspian's hand clenches into a fist. "We have little time. I need to work out how much… Rally the defences…"
When Caspian's hand doesn't open to her touch, Addie holds his wrist instead, her fingers pinched by the armour at his forearm.
"You'll do that better if you're rested."
But she knows, just looking at him, that he can't yet. So she follows him to the war room and sits quietly as he paces, marks maps, mutters locations and names and battle manoeuvres under his breath. Addie watches him pour everything he has into a war he might not win.
It would be a cruel world without him in it.
As her head droops and she slips in and out of half-sleep, jolting awake to fetch Caspian's breakfast and pester him until he eats, Addie wonders if the fates are cruel enough to take him away.
In this aftermath of defeat, she thinks they are.
Caspian
He failed them.
Wimbleweather couldn't be sorrier if he tried; the Giant apologised the entire way for waiting too late. After Nikabrik snapped that it was as much breaking out in the wrong place as at the wrong time and there's no use lubbing about it now, Wimbleweather fell silent. Caspian knows he should have said something to soothe the sore tempers.
Even now, he has no words.
Endless possibilities, orders he could have given, manoeuvres he could have planned tumble through Caspian's mind. Flanking the Telmarine army, cutting off the right wing… it was a good strategy, but he should not have left it to Wimbleweather. Glenstorm would have been the wiser choice.
Wimbleweather is the tallest of the Narnians, able to see above the trees to the battle. Caspian entrusted the Giant with leading the charge, sure his clear perspective of the crowded battlefield meant he'd know the moment the tides turned and send their reinforcements.
A mistake, a terrible mistake. What's the use of seeing everything if one doesn't know what to do with it?
Caspian clutches the stone slab until the edge crumbles in his hand. He'll not make that mistake again.
That mistaken trust cost him half of the Narnian army, all six of his forward positions around Beruna, and it may have cost the How's secrecy. They sacrificed stealth for speed in the retreat; even a half-wit hound could track them to the How.
Behind him, Addie sighs in her sleep.
Caspian's fist tightens. He's doomed them all.
His morning war council is soured with gloom and ill-concealed tempers. Nikabrik's barbs land with brutal efficiency, Glenstorm's deep baritone sounds sharper, and even Trufflehunter's patience is thin. Caspian is glad Addie isn't there to see it. She's back with Rainroot, tending the wounded.
Neither of the squirrels have returned from Lantern Waste or Cair Paravel.
"No help from the horn, eh?" Nikabrik sneers. "Maybe you'd do better thinking of contingency plans than chasing fairy tales."
Caspian sets his jaw and swallows the knot in his throat. "They will come in Aslan's good time," he said, "not ours."
Caspian knows better than to admit the Kings and Queens - perhaps even Aslan - might not come at all.
"Fine timing he's got. Never was good to us dwarfs." Nikabrik drums bruised fingers on the stone. This time, his foul temper is understandable - he lost two kin in the battle.
"None of that, Nikabrik," says Trufflehunter. "His Majesty is right. Aslan knows the proper time."
"By current standards," answers Nikabrik, "we'll be rotting in the ground by then! But go on, pray to that house cat; I'll be gathering some real help."
With that, the dwarf turns on his heel and trudges into the dark tunnels, muttering to himself.
Caspian lets him leave without a word, because he's too tired to ask what Nikabrik means. He'll take any help the dwarf musters.
After such a resounding defeat, there will be no aid from the lords.
After the morning's melancholy, Caspian sees Rainroot about his wound at Addie's insistence. He now understands why Addie begged for a distraction when Rainroot stitched her shoulder; Caspian almost chews his cheek raw trying to be stoic as Addie coaxes tangles from his hair.
Caspian tries to return to the war room after his arm is sewn up and Rainroot has pushed a steaming cup into his hands. Addie stops him before he's even taken two steps.
"Try it and I'll drag you to bed myself."
Caspian fights a sigh. "Addie, I have to -"
"You have to rest," Addie snaps. "Right, Rainroot?"
The centaur stomps a hoof. "Adelina is correct, Sire."
Addie loops her good arm through his and steers him toward the sleeping tunnels. "You're going to lay down and you're going to rest."
"Addie -"
"I'll get your damned maps," Addie snaps. Her hand trembles as she pulls him into their alcove and pushes him toward his cloak. "Just… wait here, okay?"
Wait and hide from his army when now, more than ever, he must be seen standing strong and readying for the next fight?
Caspian shakes his head. "I've failed them once already. I can't let them down again."
Addie's ragged sigh grates on his nerves. He doesn't like that look - the furrowed brow and soft eyes looking up like he's missing something important.
"How is resting letting them down? You need to -"
Caspian gently pushes past her. Addie means well, but she can't possibly understand how much is resting on his shoulders right now. He lost half his army, and morale hangs by a thread. The Narnians must see him and his generals active and focused. He has to earn their trust back.
"Later, Addie," he murmurs.
Caspian touches Addie's hip in apology as he goes. He can't just sit here. He needs to be out there among his men. Resting when half his army lies dead on the riverbanks would be an insult to their memory.
Resting is a luxury kings don't have.
But perhaps more than that, his stomach burns with acid knowing he wears the weight of defeat and despair so plainly in front of her.
Caspian walks to the war room and does not look back. Pretends not to hear Addie's footsteps rushing after him.
And then, halfway through the How, he pretends not to hear when her footsteps stop and her presence fades into the background, drowned out by hammers ringing on anvils and the groans from the infirmary - the sounds of war, and defeat, and death.
Caspian marks maps and moves stones and trades battle strategies until his eyes burn - too much torch smoke in a small room, surely.
His generals and advisers enter, talk, leave, providing an endless parade of opinions and well-founded advice.
"Ironhoof's scout party has returned - they lost three," says Glenstorm. Fatherly grief is still fresh in his face for Rainstone, the son he lost on the battlefield.
"Aslan will come," says Reepicheep, paw ever-proud on his sword. "We must do him proud until he arrives."
Caspian bites his own tongue, the sting of teeth on muscle cutting through bitterness.
Aslan should be here already, should be doing something for his people -
No, that's him, Caspian realises. He is the one who should do more, do something beyond thinking and pacing and replaying so many fresh memories of death like a punishment.
Is he the reason Aslan has not come?
"He'll come," says Trufflehunter. The badger holds up Caspian's letter, sealed and unopened. "Shall I send this, Sire?"
"Yes," Caspian says. "Please, immediately."
It's unlikely the squirrel will reach Anvard in time to make a difference, but it's worth a try.
"Moles've almost finished the new tunnels," says Nikabrik. "Don't count on that lion."
Caspian thanks the dwarf for the update.
Though Aslan feels like a fool's hope, Caspian can't say so. If he appears to lose faith, the Narnians' fragile morale will crumble to dust.
Outwardly, he says nothing against Aslan. But as Caspian prepares for the coming battles, he assumes no one will ever come, that the Narnians in the How are the only fighters he has.
So few, so few -
Caspian listens to Falmus' and Arrus' evening reports with cottony ears. All is well with Addie and Marcos, they both assure him, a blessed respite from the last two weeks of tumult.
Caspian nods and hums and manages warbled thanks before he turns back to his maps. The stones waver in his sight, their borders fuzzy as he blinks to clear his eyes. It's late and his stomach feels pinched, but there's more to do, always more to do.
Some time later, Lion only knows how much, footsteps jolt Caspian to wakefulness and Addie appears in his line of sight with a bowl in hand. Caspian's nose floods with boiled tubers, potatoes, and unidentifiable meat. The same fare as usual in a watered-down broth.
After sinking to the floor, Caspian cradles the bowl in both hands and sips, grimacing. He should eat, knows he's pushing too hard and his body will punish this, but the stew turns to battlefield mud in his mouth.
Addie kneels beside him and combs gentle fingers through his hair.
"Cas," she murmurs. "You need to rest."
Caspian forces another swallow of dinner.
"Miraz could attack anytime," he says. "I can't. We… I have to be ready."
"You're not ready like this," Addie says, her nails a welcome - if undeserved - pleasure. "You're no good to anyone this exhausted. Believe me, I'd know."
Hooves on stone distract him, stew sloshing to the bowl's edge as Caspian stands and finds Glenstorm in the doorway.
"The evening scouts report Miraz's army still camps at Beruna," says the centaur. "They likely wait for the catapults."
Breath flies from Caspian's lungs. If the Telmarine army waits that long, it will be days yet before they come.
"Thank you, Glenstorm."
Caspian's sense returns in a rush after Glenstorm bows and leaves.
It make no sense. Why would Miraz wait? They must know they have the advantage of numbers, and surely they know the How's location by now.
Addie's arm encircles his waist. "Finish eating."
Caspian abandons the stew on the stone slab and scowls at his maps. There's a reason Miraz is waiting. What is he waiting for? He doesn't need reinforcements to win this war, and the catapults would spare casualties but merely accelerate the inevitable.
He mustn't think like that, says the voice of Doctor Cornelius in Caspian's head. Giving up hope is the same as giving up entirely.
Caspian leans on his fists and frowns at his half-empty bowl. He can't give up; that'd be failing the Narnians all over again.
But why is Miraz waiting? Is he splitting up his forces, sending half westward to attack from two fronts?
The warmth of Addie's hand covers his fist and tempts his mind with comfort and calm, soothes his galloping thoughts into a half-orderly parade.
"Caspian, you're exhausted. You can't think like this." Addie presses close to his side, her cheek warm against his shoulder.
"Later," Caspian mutters before she tells him to rest again. Only an hour more to puzzle out what to do, what Miraz intends -
Addie's hand tightens. "It's past dinner hour. Come back to this in the morning."
"Go to bed, Addie," Caspian says. "I'll join you soon."
A torch crackles and pops in the long stretch of her silence.
Not now, please not now, he has no energy left to fight with her again. Shouldn't they be past this after that fraught conversation days ago?
Paper rustles as Addie pushes aside his maps, folds the closest one over itself, and sits facing him, her stare cutting into his awareness.
Caspian huffs her name.
"I'm not moving until you finish eating," Addie says. "And I'm not leaving this room until you do."
Now, of all times, she chooses to be difficult?
"You made a promise to take care of yourself," Caspian counters. When he meets her gaze, Addie's hazel eyes glint like steel and flicker with torchlight.
"I know," she says. "So don't make me break it."
Caspian finishes his dinner in silence, five large gulps, and lets Addie lead him from the room.
He'll rise early on the morrow.
He wakes with a blazing headache that renders movement impossible. A consequence of fatigue and the post-battle crash, Rainroot explains. Rest is the only cure.
The days crawl. Caspian spends the first day of convalescence in their alcove, analysing maps and acquiescing to Addie's strict regimen of tea, poultice changes, and visits to Rainroot. Resting is bearable when Addie's there, but when she's busy, Caspian's only company is his thoughts.
He ruminates. Thinks incessantly of the battle, of the charge he led with the fauns, of his last orders to Wimbleweather, Glenstorm's caution, Nikabrik's pessimism.
Caspian thinks of Arlian at the river, backing into the shadows with a grin on his lips.
A victory to win his support, and support of the other lords. It might have been a worthy gamble if he had chosen a better leader for the second charge. If he had -
He can't make the same mistakes next time. The Narnians won't survive it.
By the second morning, his headache and the soreness in his arm is bearable if he keeps still.
Addie lingers as long as she can in the morning, but when she leaves to help Rainroot and the loneliness of the alcove is his only constant company, the battle flashes in stark clarity behind Caspian's eyelids no matter how many battle plans and troop maps he tries to occupy himself with.
Rainroot's poultices and bandages have done good work, but this morning Addie again extracted his word that he'd rest. And so Caspian remains confined to his bed and his thoughts.
In the evening, a runner arrives with news of Miraz's slow approach, his catapults and war machines slowed in the mud from the rainstorm. Caspian's hands itch for want of his sword as Reepicheep reports the Narnians are harassing Miraz's scouting parties where they can, but not enough of them remain to mount sufficient resistance. Miraz's scouts are making slow but steady ground in the woods surrounding the How.
It is afternoon on the third day when Caspian throws off the blanket Addie insisted on and struggles into his armour. Thanks to Rainroot's poultice, his arm is much improved - or functional and numbed, at least - and if he spends another minute with that failure of a battle playing through his mind, he'll go mad.
Is this why Addie stayed so stubbornly busy?
Now that it's him on the sickbed and under resting orders, Caspian can't blame her as much for her insolence.
Caspian straps on his scabbard, ignoring the stinging and soreness in his still-healing arm.
Enough is enough.
Caspian makes his way onto the training fields. The untrained Narnians are learning, but they still won't last long in an open battle. The awareness rests heavy in the older fauns' battle-weary faces, in the swordmasters' frowns as they run drills.
Caspian sticks to the spars. As sore as he is from battle and bedrest, he needs the relief of muscles worked past exhaustion.
If only for an hour, he needs to not think so much.
Caspian turns to his sparring partner - a greying satyr with a gleaming scimitar. Of all the Narnians, Caspian enjoys sparring with the satyrs the best; there's a wildness about them that always catches him off-guard, unlike the brutality of the Telmarines. A decade of swordplay with his fellow Telmarines did little to prepare him for facing satyrs. The Telmarines have been similarly unprepared; in both the raids and the recent battle, the satyrs and minotaurs have been his best fighters.
Would that he had a thousand of them, and he could -
His distraction earns him a wrist-aching blow and a shove that sends him flying. Caspian lands straight on his bottom, too hard to slow his momentum before rolling back and sideways. Blinking up at his sparring partner splayed out on his stomach is not, perhaps, his noblest moment.
The satyr is kind about it, offering his hand - thick, calloused, with two thick fingers not unlike cloven hooves and a thumb that seems too small. Caspian hauls himself up as graciously as a bruised arse allows.
"Apologies, Your Highness," says the satyr. His goatish lips roll around the words; he's either holding back a laugh or unfamiliar with the notion. Given the Narnians' greater proclivity toward manners than most Telmarines, Caspian assumes the former and summons a polite smile.
"Not at all," he says. "I've learned a fine lesson in the dangers of distraction."
And the grass stain streaked up his left sleeve will serve as an effective reminder.
Caspian shakes out his arms and rubs the ache in his wrist. No sooner has Caspian settled into his stance than Arrus calls for a melee round. Useful, given they'll see another open battle soon, but everyone fighting everyone else gives him a headache. The Narnians are not ready for another battle.
Caspian's muscles coil tighter than they ought. A practice melee differs from battle, but the noise…
He would prefer the familiarity of one-on-one. Would rather forget the things he saw on the battlefield.
Arrus waits for everyone to gather, and then with a whistle they're off. Caspian swings and weaves and ducks and parries until his muscles burn and his hair sticks to his forehead. His chest plate saves his stomach from a dulled training blade, but the force of the minotaur's swing on his bruised ribs sends him careening away from the group.
He crashes into another human - the soldier Addie escaped with.
Marcos. Of all the people.
Caspian swings at him. It's a melee, and Marcos was not assigned to his team.
It would be so gratifying to best a fellow Telmarine.
Caspian tells himself the satisfaction curling under his breastbone when he strikes Marcos across the face is little more than the satisfaction of landing a solid hit in training. Caspian lunges again, striking from above, the side, every blind spot he can find. Marcos staggers back, driving his blade up to meet Caspian's with mixed effect.
The chaos of the melee fades as Caspian hammers blows until Marcos' heels stumble over a stray stone by the ruins. He trips and Caspian swings his sword in a clean arc, hard enough he'd have disarmed him if Marcos' grip had been weaker. Still, Marcos falls, landing in a graceless sprawl among the stones and overgrown grasses.
"Is that what she sees in you?" he wheezes. "A hot-blooded prince trying to prove something?"
Caspian lowers his sword so the tip rests at Marcos' dirt-streaked cheek. This soldier knows nothing about Caspian, nor of Addie, and now he's been bested. He knows nothing.
"You train like this?" Marcos continues with forced casualness. "Lord Miraz might've let you live if you fought like that."
Caspian's hand grips his sword hilt until his knuckles ache, a scab cracking and stinging.
"It still baffles me how he let you live. I've never known my uncle to suffer uselessness."
The satisfaction twists tighter when Marcos curls his lip. "Useless? I delivered the girl to him while you buried your nose in schoolbooks."
"And yet she's here - alive, untouched. Little thanks to you." Caspian presses his sword closer, vaguely aware that the sounds of the melee have quieted in the distance.
Marcos narrows his eyes. "That is entirely thanks to me."
Caspian registers movement in the half-second before he goes flying, pain lancing up his right knee. His shoulder crashes into stone and his sword skitters from his grip. Caspian kicks up as Marcos lunges, but the blow glances off Marcos' ill-fitted chest plate and Marcos deflects Caspian's dagger with his forearm. Fists fly, one connects with Caspian's cheek, another deals a blinding blow to the stitched gash on his left arm. With a yell, Caspian strikes until the skin at his knuckles breaks against Marcos' armour. Marcos is bloodied too, and that's satisfaction enough.
They pummel each other until Caspian lands a clean punch to Marcos' jaw. The soldier's head snaps to the side as he spits blood across the stones.
"Funny how she praised your manners. Or was it gentility?" Such a baring of teeth can't be called a smile, but it's too mocking to call a grimace.
Caspian nearly hits him again just to end the brawl, but he spies his dagger within reach. He grabs it and drives the point into the patch of grass beside Marcos' head.
"She praised nothing about you."
With that, Caspian intends to walk away. He ought to go inside, cool off for a moment. Addie will have several things to say about the fresh blood staining his bandages, and he suspects he popped a stitch or two. He gets to his feet with his dagger still in hand and makes it to his sword.
"You almost got her killed, you know. Why keep her here? Dying together is only romantic in stories."
Caspian lunges with a yell. Marcos' blade meets his in a dizzying flurry of strikes and parries, a messy clang of competition over a woman who's already made her choice. Nevertheless, Caspian swings his sword over and over. This soldier never knows when to hold his peace.
"You want her alive?" Marcos pants in between blows. "Send her away."
Caspian recovers from a hit that nearly disarms him and drives his fist into Marcos' stomach again.
"With you?"
"Don't look so disgusted. Between the two of us, she's safer with me."
"I doubt that." Caspian presses forward; another few steps and he'll have Marcos backed into a pillar.
Their blades lock. Marcos spins out before Caspian can, and the opportunity is lost as Caspian careens shoulder-first into solid stone.
"I killed for her. What have you done? Left her as bait to save your own skin?"
The image of Addie blinking up at him with dried blood crusted over half her bodice floods Caspian's memory, makes him clumsy. Marcos' strike sends him reeling, mouth aching from a split lip.
"She left!" Caspian shouts, his clumsy punch meeting air. "You think I never tried to send her away? She refused!"
Marcos laughs through bloodied teeth. "You let a little thing like that stop you? There's your first mistake. And I'll tell you your second."
Caspian's sword arcs down in a blinding flash, metal groaning on metal as he locks their blades and drives Marcos back. This time, Caspian spins out first and hits Marcos' pauldron.
Marcos never flinches. "She'll do something stupid again. Try to save your neck, maybe in the woods when a spy happens along and an arrow is the only thing between them and a promotion. Maybe when the battle comes here and you lose again. So, your second mistake? She's still here."
Caspian punches Marcos right in his sneering mouth, shakes off a blinding strike at his cheek, kicks Marcos' legs from under him, and sends him flying.
"You're an even bigger fool than she implied," Caspian snarls, "if you think I'd ever trust you with her safety."
Marcos grips the collapsed pillar beside him and hauls himself up.
"I've kept her safer," says Marcos. "Kept her alive."
Caspian advances again. His legs itch from walking so slowly, but if he lets himself rush in again, the last scraps of his restraint will crumble.
"If Addie leaves, it will not be with you."
"And not with you either." Marcos wipes his mouth with his hand, twirling his sword in his other as he sets up for a lunge. "Unless you're one of those commanders who lets their men do all the dirty work. Wouldn't surprise me - your uncle is too."
Caspian throws himself at the soldier again, his throat scraping raw after too much shouting. Narnian kings always fought alongside their soldiers; queens, too. And so shall he. This soldier, this upstart, this traitor knows nothing of honour. Caspian doesn't have to listen to him. Technically, he doesn't have to suffer his presence in the How at all.
Killing him is, however, out of the question. Not without sufficient provocation. The melee has quieted now, and he is supposed to be a leader. What trust will the Narnians have in him if he stoops too low?
If they'd caught Marcos spying, it would be a simple matter. But he hasn't yet tried, even under constant guard. Caspian assumed it would only be a matter of time. Apparently, he was wrong.
Marcos has little care who sits on the throne. His only concern seems to be having Addie to himself, regardless of how anyone else - including Addie - feels about it. This, at least, Caspian can protect her from.
Purpose beyond mere anger narrows his focus, hones his strikes, makes them cleaner. Caspian has Marcos disarmed and backed into a fallen pillar with nowhere to go in moments.
"Yield."
"Let me guess, on pain of death?"
There are worse things. Caspian sheaths his sword and stares down his nose at the man - two knuckles' length makes quite a height difference when he wants it to.
"Of course not," Caspian answers. "I think letting you live knowing how much she hates you is punishment enough."
Caspian wants to call the cool wave down his spine relief, vindication, the gratification of winning a gruelling match. But in truth, it feels far closer to the triumph of a man staking his claim.
By sundown, Caspian's vision is swimming. He's not fully recovered, and his fight with Marcos exhausted him more than he expected. Even the shock of pain from Rainroot's needle does little to jolt him to coherence.
Addie looks thunderous when he limps into the healers' station clutching his ribs. Though he's ready for a thorough tongue-lashing, she only frowns deeper and kisses his cheek.
When Caspian tilts his head down, Addie's mouth finds his lips for half a moment despite Rainroot's clipped admonishment to save such things for later.
"Unlike you," Addie murmurs, taking his hand as Rainroot brandishes her needle and thread, "I know when to stop fussing."
"Or perhaps you have other methods?" Caspian feels his head drooping, jerks his chin up. Apologises as Rainroot scolds him again for moving.
Addie arches an eyebrow, her mouth pinched and wry.
"I don't need methods," she says, blunt as stone. "You're falling asleep while you're getting stitched up."
"It's nothing." The pain in his arm feels a phantom - too distant to be of much concern. As if his arm belongs to someone else.
Addie leans over and peers at Rainroot's handiwork. "Tash's talons, what did you do?"
Rainroot ties off the last stitch. She and Addie trade unintelligible murmurs, and then Rainroot presses a small cup into his hands. The woody, bitter scent of willow bark tea floods his nose, tempered by something musky and floral.
"Only a quick spar," Caspian mumbles into the cup. And then, because he is too tired to mind his words: "with Marcos."
Addie's stare burns into his cheek. She says nothing until he finishes the tea.
"And you said I was impossible."
Caspian grimaces as she plucks the empty cup from his hands and helps him to his feet. "You are."
Addie huffs, not quite a laugh. Her left arm wraps around his waist, providing desperately needed balance. "What a pair we make."
"Yes," Caspian slurs. "Lovers. Your preference."
He realises too late that Addie's steered him into a familiar tunnel, that he's blinking down at their alcove. By the time Caspian musters a protest, Addie has him on his knees.
Only for a few minutes, Caspian promises himself. Just to gather his wits.
He's asleep before his head finds the saddlebag.
A/N: Thinking of that line in The Last Jedi when Yoda tells Luke "The greatest teacher, failure is."
So, thoughts on that spar? I was soooo excited to throw Caspian and Marcos in the same scene without Addie there to see what'd happen. What'd you think of their dynamic?
Chapter 35 Preview:
Nikabrik is right.
Aslan, the Kings and Queens… the old magic is gone. No help is coming from the horn.
He and the Narnians are on their own.