A/N: Finally, another chapter under 5k! It's been so many weeks since I managed normal sized chapters I almost forgot how much faster the editing goes. (I say that with a 6k Ch. 37 staring me in the face cackling.)
Chapter 36 Content Warnings: physical injuries and light gore, medical treatments
Chapter 36: hang on a little longer
Caspian
The Telmarine army did not breach the How, and they paid a grim price for trying. That, at least, he can take comfort in. The Narnians sheltering within will live another day thanks to the sacrifices of their fellows.
Drogold, a grumpy but capable dwarf, fell in battle and Nikabrik has yet to stop ranting about how the dwarfs fared. Even so, the dwarf admitted it was less catastrophic than the last battle.
Was it mere days ago? Five? Six? Time moves unevenly in war, and never more strangely than on a battlefield.
The frenzy of fighting for one's life in the heat of battle compresses ten minutes into two. Then, in those precious moments of catching his breath, fear and impatience slow the clock to an inconsistent crawl.
With the remaining Narnians safely in the How, time still moves strangely - too fast to track the flurry of activity and yet too slow, thick like molasses, the sticky aftertaste of death and killing a bitter tonic. The rush to get the wounded inside and on their way to Rainroot keeps Caspian on his feet. The moment he catches sight of Addie, time stops.
He wanted so, so much better for her. Wanted her happy and smiling in a cottage by the sea or in the mountains, wind teasing her hair and cheeks rosy in the sunset. He wanted her life beyond the castle to be filled with joy, with smiles, with peace.
Instead, Addie's face shines with sweat as she rushes from patient to patient, her clothes stained with others' blood as Rainroot calls orders.
Caspian can't muster a smile when Addie glances up and scans the room, nor when her eyes settle on him and soften as he approaches. Her eyes are bloodshot, her posture is bent, and she's chewed her lower lip raw.
When Addie finishes bandaging her latest patient - a faun wheezing with a wine-purple bruise darkening his right side - she trudges to him.
"Fewer wounded than last time," she mumbles into his shoulder. "Are you hurt?"
Caspian holds her as tightly as he dares with her sling-bound arm pressed between their chests.
"Not badly," he answers. It's only a partial lie; bruised ribs and popped stitches are nothing compared to others' injuries. "I wouldn't call it a victory."
Her hold tightens. "Your arm?"
"It can wait."
Addie pulls away to frown at him. Caspian sets his jaw and kisses her forehead.
Before she can see the wound for herself, Rainroot calls her back.
In this war, he's getting too much practice letting her go.
After the most urgently wounded have been seen to, Addie reappears at his side, silent as a castle mouser. As quick as one, too; she grabs his left arm and frowns.
"You told me it wasn't bad." Addie produces a numbing salve and rubs it into the wound without looking up, her mouth pinched.
Caspian fights a grimace as her fingertips brush inflamed skin. "It's not so bad as some."
With a huff, Addie grabs him by the belt and hauls him toward Rainroot. Despite his reluctance, Caspian lets her.
The centaur is busy tending a satyr's wounded leg.
"Remind me, how often did you carry on about my shoulder?" Addie asks.
Caspian scowls. "How many times did you ignore my concern and Rainroot's orders?"
Addie avoids his gaze, her neck tensing. "I'm not leading an army."
While Rainroot finishes with the satyr, Addie busies herself cleaning his arm. Caspian tries to do it himself, but when Addie slaps his hand he stops protesting. It soothed him to care for her when she was half-witless from fever and festering. He won't deny her this comfort.
Even when the blood is washed off, Addie stares at the cut and torn thread, dabbing away every hint of red, foot tapping a staccato rhythm. She doesn't budge until Rainroot shoos her off and brandishes a clean needle and thread.
Caspian grits his teeth as Rainroot tugs out the broken stitches. Addie turns her focus to his neck and the dirt-caked, bloody bandage scrumpled there. A soldier's powerful swing knocked him down and reopened the cut, but as bad as it must look, it's still shallow. With how thoroughly Addie is cleaning and re-bandaging it, festering won't be a concern.
It takes him a moment to realise she's stopped, that she's staring blankly in the flickering torchlight.
Her hand is shaking.
Caspian rests a careful hand on her side and traces the shallow indent over her hip.
"You're tired," he murmurs. "When did you last eat?"
The shadows darken the purple under Addie's eyes as she shakes her head.
"You first."
Caspian opens his mouth to scold her, but Rainroot scolds him first.
"Stay still, Sire," Rainroot says, pulling out the last of her ruined handiwork. She's not impatient, exactly, but she wastes no time pushing the needle into his irritated skin.
Caspian hisses before he can stop himself, his hand fisting against Addie's thigh. The third restitching in less than a week is by far the most painful.
Blood blooms in the needle's pricks. Without looking up, Rainroot asks for cloth.
Addie jolts, her last tie on his neck bandage interrupted before she passes a damp cloth.
Caspian leans into Addie's touch as Rainroot sews his arm back together in a neat, if slightly rushed, set of interlocking stitches.
Addie presses a lingering kiss to the crown of his head, apparently unconcerned with the battle grime and grease dirtying his hair. She hasn't complained about the lack of washing facilities or his increasing filthiness. With stream bathing out of the question, they'll all have to make do with splashing down in cave water unsuitable for drinking.
At last, Rainroot knots the last stitch. Caspian heaves a sigh and flexes his fingers to test the thread's strength.
Lion it burns, but it holds.
"Addie, bandages." Rainroot straightens and moves to the next patient, a centaur with two fingers bent at unnatural angles.
Addie chases her, frowning. "What about a poultice, with broadleaf and -"
Rainroot's answer is brusque with distraction. "Make more - as much as you can - and bring it here."
Without another word, Addie jogs into the main tunnel, weaving between the wounded and the fortunate unscathed Narnians trudging to bed. Caspian rushes after her. More than helping carry supplies, he needs to see their stocks for himself. Needs to see they have enough, that this is one worry he can banish.
When he catches Addie, Caspian slips his hand into hers. Addie grips his fingers like a vice, like she's afraid he'll change his mind and pull away.
Never, he tells her in the language of touch, holding her just as tightly. Never, for as long as either of them lives.
At the healer's grotto, Addie makes quick work of the poultice. She plucks sprigs of herbs with a glance, weighs each ingredient with a steady hand and grinds them into a green paste without hesitation.
She's had lots of practice lately.
Caspian holds the bowl for her and scans the herb supplies. Thick bunches of herbs and flowers - some brittle with age and others a muted green - hang from a rough-hewn wooden beam. If one poultice batch treats three, these supplies should last two weeks, as Rainroot estimated. More, if they stretch it.
Stacks of woven baskets piled high with rolls of bandages sit along the far wall. The bandages - strips of clean shirts stolen from Telmarine wagons - are torn to varying thickness. Next, five more baskets of scrap cloth sit beside tall clay jugs filled with cave water.
It will be enough. His only concern need be for battle, for defending this tomb turned fortress until his last breath.
If the battles continue as they have been, he'll run out of fighters before medical supplies.
Addie's touch startles Caspian from his calculations. One-handed, she covers his stitches in another green paste and binds the wound in seconds, only to fidget with the bandage's edges until Caspian stills her fingers.
"Thank you," he says. He lowers his head seeking her eyes, but Addie's gaze stays trained on his bound arm.
"I know you're worried," she whispers. "I know they're your army, and you're their leader. But when you're injured, I -" Addie's lip trembles, though she purses her mouth to hide it. "Please just let me take care of you, alright?"
Caspian considers. It's a bit hypocritical of her considering her first week or two here, but the time he would begrudge her that is past. What a waste it would be, holding grudges in the middle of war.
Something about her asking makes all the difference.
"When you're hurt, you tell me," Addie continues. "Okay? They need you, and… and I need you, too. So you have to tell me."
Caspian's chest warms, the chill of battle and all its ugliness temporarily chased away as Addie finally looks at him, firelight catching the golden flecks in her eyes. Caspian lifts her chin with a finger and kisses her.
"On one condition," he murmurs against her lips. "Sometimes, please let me take care of you, too."
With a breath of a laugh, Addie rests her forehead on his and kisses him again with chapped lips.
"You already do."
After Addie delivers the fresh poultice to Rainroot, Caspian coaxes her away for dinner. To his surprise, she doesn't protest.
They muster no conversation en route to the dining cavern. No matter; her hand in his is comfort enough.
It's not peaceful, eating in silence with Addie sitting tense as a bowstring beside him, their thighs pressed together and hands intertwined in between bites of turnip stew and stale bread, but it's quiet. In the aftermath of another retreat, it's the best he could hope for.
After their meagre supper, Addie coaxes him to bed. The cries of the wounded echo down the tunnels, a constant heartbeat of pain. A reminder of how much this war is costing.
"Time to rest," Addie says. "Everyone here knows what to do."
That's true, but dinner has given him a little energy and he should use it in the war room to assess what troops remain, marking out the Telmarine army's positions, trying to work out a way to bait Miraz to the battlefield. No one here knows him as Caspian does. If he could just get his uncle onto the field, perhaps he can -
"Later," Addie murmurs, interrupting his thoughts. "You'll think better when you're rested."
Caspian's mouth twists into a wry half-smile. "You never listened when I told you such things."
Addie's eyes flash, her mouth pinching into another frown. "I do now," she says flatly. "And it's different; you're needed."
"As are you," he says. At Addie's shrug, Caspian takes her hand and clutches it like a lifeline as he echoes her earlier words. "I need you."
Her eyes water again, her throat working around a hard swallow.
"Get some sleep," Addie says. "Your generals will send for you if they need you."
Caspian's body betrays him; the moment he unlocks his knees, they buckle. Addie barely catches him before his legs crumple.
Perhaps she's right. It's time to gather his strength, so when his uncle's men try to storm the How again -
Caspian's stomach roils. The Narnians won't last more than a few days. The catapults' arrival will spell the end. The rainstorm and mud might have slowed them, but extra days will only delay the inevitable.
Addie presses firm kisses to his forehead as she guides him onto his cloak and tucks his head against her breast.
She will die here, too.
Caspian's chest constricts, his nose stuffy and his eyes damp. "I'm so sorry, Addie."
She shushes him, pulls him in closer. "It's not your fault," she whispers, breath warm on his hair.
It's a comforting lie, but a lie nonetheless.
For all his numbered days, Caspian will wish he'd carved a way through soldiers and armies and Addie's own stubbornness until he made a safe place for her. For the Narnians. For everyone.
At least he'll die fighting side by side with the Narnians - a people he chose, and who chose him in turn. He could meet the war's end peacefully if only he knew she was safe.
Addie was right to leave. He only wishes she'd stayed away.
I was trying to protect you from me!
Now he understands.
"It is," Caspian says, his eyes stinging. "I failed them. I've failed you and -"
Addie's shaking her head before he finishes. "Don't talk like that," she says, combing unsteady fingers through his hair. "You've held them off this long, and we still have the How."
For now.
Caspian doesn't say so, because they both know it. Beneath his ear, Addie's heart drums a staccato beat, out of rhythm with her breathing.
Eventually, the comfort of her touch lulls him into restless sleep.
He's careful not to wake Addie when he rises. It must have been hours, judging from his sore neck, but the tunnels are as dim as when he fell asleep. They're burning as few torches as possible to conserve their supplies. Though, given how many Narnians he's lost, they may last two months.
Caspian consults his war council on the How's fortifications. Glenstorm and Reepicheep are brave, determined that supplies will last and everyone here will fight until the end, victory or not. Trufflehunter is sure Aslan will send help, reminds them that neither of the squirrels have returned and even now, help may be at the door.
"At the door, eh?" Nikabrik says with a hoarse, scraping laugh. "Those are Miraz's dogs barking."
"Quiet!" Caspian snaps, his usual patience spent. "Enough of the old legends. What archers do we have left?"
"Too few to fill those ledges," Nikabrik answers. "Though I'd sooner see my people up there than on the ground."
Caspian agrees, because the dwarfs are their best archers and he needs the satyrs on the ground with the minotaurs to cut through the first wave.
"Nikabrik, take the minotaurs to help fortify the ledges. They're still too exposed. Trufflehunter, have you spoken with the moles?"
The badger leans over the stone and taps the patch of field in front of the ruins near the How's entrance. "A few days' more digging, Sire, and they'll have this area dug out as ordered."
"Good." Caspian sighs, rubs his burning eyes. "And the state of the…" Lion's Mane, what is the word? "Armoury, Glenstorm? Have we weapons for the next battle?"
Glenstorm's jaw tightens, the ghost of grief shadowing his dark eyes. He lost his eldest son, Rainstone, in the attack on Miraz. "With our current numbers, yes. But soon we will need more arrows."
"Have anyone with skill fletch as many as they can," Caspian says. "Better to be prepared."
Glenstorm bows. "As you command."
In the slow crawl of the ensuing silence, Caspian's fingers resume their drumming. There must be more to do, more to plan, more to prepare.
"What of the catapults?" he asks.
Reepicheep chimes in with news from Peepiceek, Reep's second-in-command over the Talking Mice. "The catapults are stalled in the mud three days from Beruna," says the mouse. "If the Telmarines attempt an attack every day, they'll arrive three battles' hence."
Three battles, three days…
Caspian's head throbs. They might hold out if they barricade the How's entrance and keep up the guard at the ledges, but three battles…
Once the catapults arrive, they will reduce the How to rubble unless he – they – can devise some strategy to take them out of commission.
Perhaps destabilise them from below?
Caspian sets his teeth and tries to shake off the insistent headache pulsing behind his eyes.
The moles do excellent work, but even with the badgers' and dwarfs' help, they don't have the numbers to dig tunnels underneath the entire field, and Caspian's best guess of where the Telmarines would settle the catapults won't be precise. He could send small teams to hide in the woods, while the rest of his forces attack head-on to distract the Telmarines, give the strike teams an opening? No, there aren't enough Narnians left. There were before that disaster of an attack, but now…
Caspian's pulse thunders at the base of his skull, his eyes sore from the built-up smoke in the small room. He needs spies, scouts, more soldiers, more time –
He never has enough time.
Not even time to think; in his brief lapse into silence, the war room has been overtaken by squabbling.
"– impossible to hold them off –"
"– direct assault, we all know how that turned out –"
"– blades shall be guided by the Lion's good grace –"
"– hells with Aslan's grace, you fool mouse! We're dead within the week, sure as my name's –"
Caspian fights a sigh. It's always Nikabrik insisting they're all dead.
"Have you any counsel," Caspian snaps, drumming fingers sore from so much battle over his increasingly dirty maps, "or only disparaging observations?"
Nikabrik snarls and braces his hands on the stone, waving aside Reepicheep's interrupted speech on the importance of belief. "I can tell you Narnia never would have suffered you Telmarine ilk under a stronger ruler. And it's no use hoping for Aslan."
Nikabrik is likely right. If Aslan was coming, wouldn't he have done something by now?
At Narnia's need, Aslan returned to wash away all wrongness, Doctor Cornelius once said.
Narnia's need is dire - why has Aslan not come? Does he not care, or does he no longer exist?
Did he ever exist at all?
"Debating the past is no help, Nikabrik," Caspian says.
Nikabrik's dark eyes flash, but he holds his peace.
Caspian turns back to the maps. "When the catapults arrive, we must disable them. We can only hold off the infantry with the How to protect us."
"Sire," says Reepicheep, standing as tall as a foot-tall mouse can stand as he steps forward. "We mice are quick. With your permission, I will lead Peepiceek and the mice to attack the wheels and cut the ropes and reins to the horses."
Caspian shakes his head and taps the woods ringing the How's field on the map. "I commend your bravery, Reep, but Miraz has at least four. Sending you and your fellows alone is too risky with the size of the Telmarine army alone. But you're right, if we stop the wheels and the horses, the catapults can't fire."
Caspian pulls another map of the nearby forest over the sketch of the How's immediate surroundings. "We lost our scout postings, but the squirrels and owls would be discrete. When they give the signal, we send strike teams to disable the catapults before they arrive."
Trufflehunter frowns and points to the many marks noting the Telmarine army's position. "Sire, the woods are overrun."
"So we draw them out." Caspian returns to the map of the How and the surrounding field. "The day before the catapults arrive, we engage the Telmarine army head-on with all our forces. Cause enough commotion for the strike teams to slip into the forest and keep Miraz's men busy."
Nikabrik's fist slams into the table, one of his rings tearing Caspian's map. "You want us to stall in blood again? The last offence you led cost us half of our forces!"
The sharp memory of bloody defeat floods Caspian's mind. A high cost, to no avail.
"Glenstorm," Caspian says quietly, "will you and your sons lead the teams?"
Glenstorm's grave face angles down to the maps, then back up. His somber eyes peer into Caspian's, torchlight reflected in their depths.
"Or die trying," the centaur answers after a long moment.
As his son, Rainstone, did two battles ago.
Caspian's throat tightens.
"If those catapults arrive," Caspian murmurs, "everyone will die as the How caves in."
In the end, the council agrees. Only Nikabrik refuses to pledge outright support.
"Get yourselves killed, then," the dwarf snaps, throwing his hands up as he storms out. "While Miraz's dogs gnaw your bones, I'll find us some proper help."
Caspian doesn't bother calling him back. Nikabrik said the same thing a few days ago, and nothing came of it. The dwarf is only spewing empty words to cover the same suffocating helplessness trying to drag them all under.
With the next battle so near, Nikabrik's mutterings are the least of Caspian's concerns.
After the war council, Caspian's feet take him to the Stone Table. The room is rarely empty; the more faithful Narnians frequent the Table and the wall carving of Aslan framed by the doorway to nowhere. One brief attempt was all Caspian needed to know that praying to a stone mural held little appeal for him.
Today…
There's no harm in trying again.
By some luck or miracle, Caspian finds the Stone Table room deserted, the ring of fire along the room's walls flickering bright and warm. This place should reek of smoke and damp earth, but as Caspian breathes in, he can only smell the richness of sun-warmed fur, the clean scent of a dawn breeze, and something salty and wilder than the sea beneath it all.
As he approaches the Table, he catches a faint whiff of stone and blood - sharp, metallic, warmed by a hint of subtle spice, like cinnamon bark baked in the sun.
Whether or not Aslan is present here, there's no denying the Stone Table echoes of something otherworldly. Magic? Sorcery? Or only imaginings of his own tired mind, spun from Doctor Cornelius' tales?
Caspian walks around the Table, his eyes tracing the fracture splitting it in twain. Is this awareness curling under his collarbone something of Aslan, or nothing more than wishful thinking?
Impossible to say. Surely if Aslan were listening, he'd have come by now. Wouldn't he have helped the people he once sang from the earth, whose first breaths came from his? Wouldn't he bound in as a golden saviour at this hour of need?
Perhaps not. When Caspian's ancestors razed Cair Paravel to ruins and nearly wiped out the Narnians, where was Aslan?
Perhaps Aslan hasn't come because Caspian himself is descended from the Telmarine conquerors. The sins of his fathers, staining him beyond Aslan's grace. But why would Aslan punish the surviving Narnians for Caspian's bloodline?
Caspian turns from the Stone Table and walks to the rectangular archway where the carving of Aslan sits proud and tall, framed by the rays of a stone sunrise. This Lion's eyes are wise and kind, his eyebrows soft-set. This Aslan doesn't look like he would abandon anyone in need.
And yet…
Hands clasped at his back, Caspian considers the mural. It couldn't have been carved until the How's construction finished - or at least, until this room was complete. Three hundred years ago, the Narnians who survived the siege of Cair Paravel fled to the woods, where they encased the Table in earth and stone to protect it. They would've been reeling, mourning the loss of their capital and fortress, and desperate for any scrap of safety and familiarity. It's unsurprising that they carved Aslan like a rising god, a hopeful dawn on the horizon to come.
If the Narnians made this carving today, how would they portray Aslan? As the same rising sun? As a ghost on the eastern horizon? Or as a vengeful god, watching dispassionately as wolves tore apart the land and its people?
Caspian sighs and backs away from the Lion memorialised in stone. Perhaps Aslan was only a myth, a Talking Lion who stood up to the White Witch, crowned the Kings and Queens, and died of old age as all mortal beings do.
The Stone Table heats at his back, though Caspian can't find an obvious source when he turns.
Perhaps Aslan is a deity, and he's busy elsewhere across the Eastern Sea.
Or, perhaps, Aslan knows everything happening in Narnia and he does not care.
Caspian sinks to his knees and rests his clenched fists on his thighs, the leather of his armour creaking. Why pray when he could review the battle plans again, triple-check the fortifications, fletch arrows, hold Addie before the next battle erupts -
The flames at Aslan's carved feet jump unnaturally high.
Caspian swallows around a dry throat. What harm is there in trying?
"Aslan," he begins, face upturned toward the Lion's likeness, "I don't know if you're there. But if you are… please. We need your help." Caspian swallows again, his throat tightening. "We need a miracle to survive this war. I don't know who else to—"
His voice cracks as the bloody, deafening memories of battle hammer at his skull.
"We have no friends left to us," Caspian says, as he remembers Lord Arlian's corpse, his blood shining in the moonlight.
You would have done the same.
His chest stalls around shuddering breaths. "Please, Aslan, I don't know what else to do. If we survive, it will be by your will alone. We can't do it ourselves."
A breeze stirs his hair, warm and bright with a spice he can't name.
Caspian tries desperately to swallow the growing lump in his throat and chest. "I swear to you, we will try. I'm ready to die with them, if that's what you wish. But I… I ask for your help. Whatever form that may take."
For a breathless, hopeful moment, the gentle current of air at his neck grows warmer. In the next, the air is still and Caspian is left on his knees, the How's cool air creeping over his skin and bringing the stillness only loneliness can bring.
Addie
She should have known Caspian would wake early. It's a new skill of his, to sneak away while she's sleeping without waking her. He never managed that at the castle.
Addie clutches the bowl of willow bark tea, the pottery warm in her hands. It's well before dawn, as best she can guess from the How's relative quiet, but Caspian's spot was already cold by the time she woke. If she knows him - and by now, she better - Caspian has been awake for hours strategising for the next battle. Rallying the defences, checking supplies, marking maps. All normal things to do.
It's just that he's injured and Tash damn it, he's a hypocrite for fussing so much at her stubbornness when he's just as bad.
It's worse if he doesn't look after himself, or at least let her do it for him. He's leading an army from one battle to the next, and every time he comes back to her, he sports new wounds.
Addie trudges from the dining cave to Rainroot's grotto to the war room. Caspian is nowhere to be found.
Her heart quickens. He wouldn't have snuck out; Arlian's done with, and no lord in their right mind would go against Miraz this close to his victory. Did he rush out to scout, to meet straggling survivors? He wouldn't surrender, wouldn't turn himself in, he wouldn't -
As Addie marches down the hall from the war room, a soft sound echoes behind her. There's nothing there, only the Stone Table, and she hasn't known Caspian to be the prayerful type.
She's looked everywhere else. Unless Caspian's started taking meetings at his generals' bedrolls, there's nowhere else he could be.
Addie spins on her heel, the willow tea sloshing dangerously close to the bowl's edge, and walks the short distance to the Stone Table.
On first glance, the room looks empty. Addie lingers in the doorway, fingers drumming on the bowl. Caspian can drink the tea cold, but the bitter aftertaste will be much stronger.
Again, that soft sound.
Addie walks around the Stone Table, careful to keep the broken stone slab in sight. If it's really a holy relic, turning her back would be disrespectful. If it's not, then something else is making the Table radiate a subtle warmth and she'd be stupid to expose her back to unknown sorcery.
As she rounds the edge, she finds him.
Caspian is kneeling with his head bowed and his hands braced on his knees before the carving of Aslan. His shoulders tremble with every shuddering breath as it echoes off the stone walls.
Addie is at his side in an instant, sinking to her knees beside him and setting the cooling tea aside so she can pull him into her arms - well, arm. Caspian leans into her touch as she smooths his hair off his wet cheeks.
"He's not coming," Caspian rasps, his head tucked into her neck. "I tried, Addie, I'm so sor-"
"Don't you dare apologise to me." Addie sears a kiss to his brow. "You're a good leader, Caspian. Aslan or no Aslan, you've done everything you could."
Caspian sighs, shakes his head almost imperceptibly as he sags against her.
She's so caught up in Caspian's grief that she doesn't hear the footsteps.
"Not quite everything."
They're not alone.
A/N: Poor Cas, he just can't catch a break... My old fav, a cliffhanger! Who's that voice, I wonder? (I kid, it's not a hard guess.) We'll skirt into some more familiar canon next chapter.
Chapter 37 Preview:
Caspian sighs, his gaze drifting to the ceiling where it vanishes into darkness.
"We're trapped. What would you have me do?"