A/N: Sorry for last week's cliffy! Well, I'm sorry I'm not sorry about that. 😅 I do love to be a little mean sometimes! To that end, I should start apologizing now for the angst - this one and Chapter 39 are rife with it. And, well, mind the content warnings. 😊 If it's any consolation, my beta reader (shoutout to Tom, for being amazing) has yelled at me profusely for my angsty Caslina shenanigans.
Chapter 38 Content Warnings: physical injury, blood and gore, medical treatment, mentions of death, sexual content
Chapter 38: all that's dead and gone
Caspian
The Witch isn't how Caspian thought she would be. He always envisioned her as a terrifying creature of frost and stone, a relative of the northern Giants who had the look of death and greed.
The being… the woman before him, separated from the world by a thick curtain of ice, seems strangely human. Her outstretched hand is no monstrous thing. Her fingers are long and delicate, pale and blue from cold.
She's beautiful, like a marble statue.
It's so cold.
She must be freezing, encased in the ice. Caspian's breath is a cloud from his lips, the wintery air an onslaught of needles in his throat and lungs.
"Come," croons the woman, her eyes darting between his hand and some unimportant commotion behind him. "Come closer. Are you not a prince? My power shall make you a king."
Caspian huffs; he can't stretch any further. He steps closer, closer again, the toes of his boots bumping the icicles growing from the stairs.
Ice. The thought is important. Ice covers the stairs and doorway, blocking the sight of… of something, and this woman speaks of power, but her eyes are as dark as death.
That's alright. Power is good. Power is what he needs to win the war, to cleanse Narnia and make it strong again. This woman has the power of winter. She'll cover the catapults in ice, make them unusable. She'll freeze the whole of Miraz's army down to the last soldier. That would be… good, wouldn't it?
Aslan has abandoned Narnia. What other recourse does he have? Caspian can't lay down arms, can't accept death and defeat. Kings don't surrender; kings use their power to take what they must.
Right now, Caspian must take Narnia back from his uncle. This woman of ice, the White Lady, is the best chance he has – that the Narnians have.
Perhaps she will be warmer when he has given his blood. Nearly there, stretch a little further –
From his left comes a shout. Caspian registers movement in his periphery a second before a strange face looms and an armour-clad body smashes into his side. Caspian crashes to the ground, and the fall knocks clarity into his head.
An instant later, with an almighty crack and an explosion, the ice shatters.
Caspian shoves off the stranger - blond, not in Telmarine armour, doesn't attack again – and stumbles to his feet. Addie, where is Addie?
The Stone Table swims into focus, an empty expanse of cracked rock. Addie was there, her neck stretched tight and blood in the hollows of her collarbone from Nikabrik's treachery.
A wet, dark puddle is creeping past the steps to the Table, burgundy staining the packed earth.
Caspian screams, a raw and bloodied cry tearing his throat from the inside. It echoes as he sprints to her side, slips on blood and it's her blood and what has he done –
This pool of red is a welling ocean, a sea to drown in.
Caspian's pulse thunders sharp and cold, like ice from his head to his knees, stabbing with every unsteady footfall because no no no, he can't lose her like this! For all the world's cruelty, it cannot, cannot be so cruel as this.
It's her. Addie lies still and pale, her neck awash in red, her blood warm and sticky as Caspian skids to his knees and presses his hands to the deep gash under her jaw. Not enough, he's not enough to stop the inevitable seep of life through his fingertips. Too late, too slow, forever too late –
Addie's pulse flutters weakly at his fingertips.
There's noise somewhere close, voices and a smaller hand on his arm. A girl, a stranger, and never mind how she got here – no weapon, she's not a threat. Without looking, Caspian begs her to run to the healer's grotto – across the How, easy to find – and bring the centaur quickly, quickly!
"Go, go!" Caspian shouts, voice cracking, vision blurring.
It will be too late, he knows. The girl could run as fast as Aslan himself and she wouldn't reach Rainroot before… before –
Will it be enough to hold her in these moments? To beg her forgiveness, beg her to stay?
Why is the girl still here? What use are her words now, the cool hand on his forearm, the vial in her hand? Why isn't she trying?
"I am a prince," Caspian tries to say. He chokes halfway through, sobs as the flow of blood slows and Addie grows colder.
"I am your king," he tries, only to hiccup grief as a lonely throne for one and a crimson-bathed crown waiting on the dais swims in his mind.
"Please," he begs. His arms tremble, holding Addie's neck together. "Get the healer. Please, do something!"
"Go!" he roars, his voice echoing in the dark chamber and throwing the words back in his face.
She doesn't listen.
She doesn't obey.
The girl squeezes his arm, her voice floating into focus.
"She'll be alright," the girl is saying, the words melded together like she's repeated them a dozen times. "I know it's frightening, but let the fireflower do its work."
Caspian breathes raggedly. Fireflower? The last he heard of that plant was in Doctor Cornelius' stories. It was extinct, lost to history.
Is it his imagination, or is Addie's heartbeat stronger? A last pulse before the end, or –
Again, her heart beats. Caspian tightens his grip again, tries to find the edges of the wound to hold it shut. Too much blood, his fingers keep slipping.
A third beat, without a corresponding gush over his hands. There's no mistaking it; his palms tingle with growing warmth, and he can't find the gash – only a thin cut.
It's impossible.
Caspian feels frantically at the torn skin, finds even that is shrinking, shrinking, gone. There is skin beneath this stagnant blood - stagnant, no longer flowing, the breach in flesh and muscle knitted shut as if by magic.
Impossible. Impossible!
Before Caspian remembers how to breathe, how to speak, how to do anything but stare and let hope bubble up his throat unchecked, a glass-spun possibility that perhaps, perhaps, she hasn't left him alone after all, Addie's eyes blink open.
Lion's Mane, she's alive!
Caspian pulls her into his arms, clutches her to his chest, trembles as he presses fevered kisses into her hair. After a long moment, Addie's arms encircle him. Her grip is weak, but she's alive and he will never, ever turn his back on her ever again.
"Nikabrik?" she asks hoarsely.
"Gone," Caspian murmurs. "It's over, Addie, you're safe."
When Caspian releases her to see her face, to see the life in her eyes for himself, he leaves bloody fingerprints on her cheeks.
Addie blinks slowly, her eyes still dazed.
"Your hand… that's three."
Three?
Addie's smile shakes. "Arm, neck, hand. Not good for the next battle."
Caspian stares incredulously. Addie's awoken from the arms of death itself, been baptised in blood and somehow lived through it, and she's babbling about his hand? Did she hit her head?
He cradles her head, combs through matted, tacky hair, feeling for a bump.
Again, nothing. If her head was cut or struck, the evidence is gone.
"How do you feel?"
With a start, Caspian remembers the girl who just spoke, who refused his pleas yet wears the face of a healer's concern. A stranger at least six years his junior, kneeling beside Addie with no apparent care for the mess.
Addie sits taller and blinks at her.
"I'm… fine. Not sure how, but– was that you?"
Tapping a small vial at her belt, the girl smiles and extends her other hand. It's a child's smile, wide and easy, but her eyes aren't quite right – as if they've seen more of the world than any young girl possibly could.
"I'm Lucy," says the girl in a voice like spring sunshine – gentle, bright, warm with life. "Pleased to meet you."
Addie clasps Lucy's hand with her right and offers a slight, shaky smile.
"Addie. I… well, thank you."
Lucy, fireflower, a healing cordial… Queen Lucy?
Belatedly, Caspian takes stock of the room. Nikabrik lies dead nearby, his sword streaked in blood. The werewolf is sprawled on a pile of rubble, and the hag lies crumpled beside the Stone Table. The ice walling the doorway is gone, large chunks melting into puddles. Yes, he remembers it shattering.
Four more strangers have gathered – two young men behind Caspian, a red-bearded dwarf, and a young woman behind Lucy.
Caspian gapes as the taller young man with golden hair and blue eyes as strange as Lucy's – more aged, somehow, than he appears – steps closer.
"You must be Prince Caspian," he says, extending his hand.
"Yes," Caspian croaks. His throat is sore, raw from grief and disbelief.
Five strangers, the traitors dead, and Addie alive by some miracle he can't explain. By the hand of a girl with a fireflower cordial.
"Who are you?" Caspian asks. He'd given up on Aslan and the horn – for weeks, every prayer and hope was met with silence and disappointment. How can these four children be who he thinks they are when two of them appear younger than he?
"The Kings and Queens of Old," says the dwarf with a red beard. "I know; it was a mighty shock for me too."
With a rueful smile, the blond boy lowers his hand.
"Sorry," he says. "Forgot you don't do that here. I am High King Peter. With me are King Edmund, Queen Susan, Queen Lucy, and Trumpkin."
"You're a bit late," Caspian says, without thinking. It's a rude, ungrateful thing to say; hasn't Aslan sent help at last? And his first words to the Kings and Queens – it must be them, mustn't it? – are 'you're late'?
But they are late. They've arrived past the eleventh hour, when the war is lost by sheer numbers and Narnian blood has already watered the land. How did they get in with the How surrounded?
The dark-haired boy – King Edmund, presumably – frowns, and Caspian remembers his manners in a rush.
"My apologies," Caspian says. "I… your Majesties are very welcome, of course, though little of Old Narnia has survived to greet you."
"A tragedy we mean to reverse," says High King Peter. "With your help. We've not come to take your place, you know, but to put you in it."
Addie shifts, severing Caspian's attention from the painfully awkward greetings. Later, he will speak with the Kings and Queens and learn what they mean to do, find out whether Aslan sent them and to what end.
"I see," says Caspian. "Forgive me, but I must see to Adelina. Glenstorm, one of my generals, will convene the war council for you."
"We met briefly," says King Edmund, as he pulls the Witch's spear from the stairs' base.
"Good," Caspian says. "I'll join you as soon as I am able."
Addie squeezes his hand. "You can –"
"Addie," Caspian says quietly, in a tone that brokers no argument.
He almost watched her die, and his hands are caked in her blood. He has no room in his mind for war-making until he has relearned every beat of her heart, every breath that proves she's alive.
With a sigh, Addie falls silent. Carefully, Caspian stands and helps her to her feet. His pants stick to his knees as he walks her out of the room, past the traitors' corpses and into the safety of the tunnel.
Caspian's arm trembles from gripping her hand so tightly, his thumb tight to her wrist. Her heart beats erratic yet strong.
She's alive. She's alive.
She's alive.
The centaur stares for a moment when they arrive. It's understandable; Caspian spent much of the walk reassuring the Narnians that he and Addie are alright.
"Someday I'd like to see one of you in proper sorts," says Rainroot. "Up here, quickly."
Caspian nods, flexing his cut hand. He couldn't agree more.
Addie balks before he lifts her, gesturing to her bloody clothes.
"It's not quite… dried," she says.
Rainroot stomps a hoof. "You've seen this stone bloody many times, Adelina. Sire, if you would?"
Caspian lifts Addie by her waist and sits her in front of Rainroot before she can muster any further protests. Worrying about bloodying a healer's table is ridiculous.
The centaur cleans Addie's neck with brusque efficiency. Caspian takes his first deep breath since he entered the Stone Table room when Rainroot's damp cloth reveals smooth, unblemished skin all along Addie's neck and jaw. Caspian traces the healed flesh with trembling fingers, breath caught between his heart and his stomach.
Amazing – thanks to Queen Lucy's cordial, the cut that almost killed her didn't even scar.
Good; Caspian wants no reminder of the sight. He imagines Addie wouldn't, either.
He'll dream of it often, he knows. Another failure to haunt him, a mistake he can never make again.
Rainroot lifts Addie's chin and feels along her neck and jaw. After a moment, the centaur hums.
"Is this blood not yours?"
"It's hers," Caspian answers, because Addie is frowning at her lap, her eyes glazed and sluggish. "Queen Lucy's cordial healed the wound, but I wanted to be certain."
Rainroot's tail swishes, her fingers stalling under Addie's jaw.
"So it's true; the Kings and Queens of Old have arrived at last?"
"It seems so," says Caspian. They're much younger than he expected, but who other than Queen Lucy would have the cordial? It was thought lost in the siege of Cair Paravel, centuries ago.
Caspian scrubs a hand over his face before he remembers the blood crusted up to his forearms.
Addie takes his hand and pulls it away.
"I'll speak with them soon," Caspian continues. "Find out how."
Addie wets her lips, grimacing as her tongue swipes over a bloody fingerprint. Her face is spotted with so many, a constellation of grief and violence.
Those are his doing.
"You can talk to them now," she begins, quietly, "if –"
"I'm not leaving you, Addie," Caspian snaps, not so gently as he could have. "Don't ask it of me."
It would be unforgivably cruel to abandon her when not twenty minutes ago, his inattention was the very reason she nearly –
No. He'll not leave Addie's side until Rainroot declares her entirely healthy and healed.
Rainroot turns Addie to investigate her shoulder. The fresh red stain there probably means more stitches – again.
"You should see to Caspian, too," Addie murmurs as the centaur carefully unknots her sling. "He cut his hand, and his arm –"
"I am aware," says Rainroot. "But first, I will finish with you."
Caspian clutches Addie's left hand so tightly both their knuckles whiten as Rainroot peels off the sling and tugs Addie's shirt down to expose the red-stained bandages. He kisses Addie's temple as Rainroot cuts away the strips of cloth.
There, too, her skin is smooth. It's as if the wound never existed.
"How curious," mumbles Rainroot. The centaur gently pokes the newly healed shoulder. "Any pain?"
Addie shakes her head.
Rainroot flattens her hand on Addie's shoulder blade. "Lift your arm."
Addie obeys. The second her arm moves, a lopsided smile breaks the distant frown that held her face hostage. Addie flexes her arm every which way, stretches down to her fingertips.
"All better," she marvels. "Like it never… amazing."
Caspian heaves another sigh of relief. Addie fully recovered is better than he dared hope for.
"Thank the Lion," he murmurs, lips hovering at her hairline.
Rainroot rights Addie's shirt with a rare smile. "Get cleaned up, and you'll be good as new." The centaur turns to him, eyes warm with understanding. "There is a small pool beyond the dining area, Sire. The water isn't suitable for drinking, but it will do for bathing."
"Thank you, Rainroot," Caspian says. The centaur has gone above and beyond for him and Addie. For everyone, really.
"One moment," says Rainroot. "Give me your hand."
Caspian obliges quickly, because the sooner Rainroot binds his hand, the sooner he can see to Addie. Thankfully, the cut on his palm isn't deep enough to warrant stitches.
After Rainroot ties off the bandage, Caspian slides Addie off the stone and wraps his arm around her again. She seems steady on her feet, distracted by her newfound mobility, but…
He needs her close. Needs to feel her aliveness with every step, every stretch of her arm and roll of her shoulder. Needs to feel her warmth as the air chills the deeper they go into the caves.
She's alive. He can't forget that.
The small, chalky pool is blessedly quiet. The clatter and chatter of the How is hardly an echo; the only sounds in the small cavern are the water trickling from a crack in the wall and his and Addie's breathing.
Addie's been quiet the entire walk. Though her shoulders softened the moment they ducked out of view, her eyes are distant again, like she's staring past the earth and stone.
Her hands shake as she untucks her blood-stiffened shirt.
Caspian stills her, smoothing his thumbs over her chilled knuckles. "Let me," he murmurs.
Without even the pretence of protest, Addie allows it. She lifts her arms when he asks, steps out of her pants and boots when he taps each knee. By the time she's bare, she's shivering.
Caspian shucks off his armour and wraps her in his arms. The water will be cold; he ought to warm her up first.
Addie sags against his chest, her nose buried in his neck. He should have fetched his cloak first; she's still trembling, no matter how tightly he holds her or how he tries to rub warmth into her back.
It's strange, holding her without the sling in the way. To have nothing but skin under his fingertips. In any other circumstance, this could have been a prelude.
Instead, Caspian picks her up like a bride and carries her to the pool, ignoring the aches and pains in his arm. The pool is small, barely the circumference of a castle tub and half as deep, its water clouded with minerals and silt, but it's better than nothing. Caspian carefully lowers Addie into the pool with one hand supporting her head.
Addie hardly seems to notice the chill. She blinks at the ceiling, staring into nothing as he washes away the fingerprints marring her face, the blood caked behind her ear and matting her hair. The pool darkens to pink as he combs out the tangles until Addie's hair looks as it should – dark in the dim light, lightened with hints of bronzed brown, flowing freely around her head like a halo.
He once imagined – hoped – that the first time they bathed together would be as man and wife. He never dreamed such an intimacy would come with so much blood.
Addie reaches up and takes his hand as Caspian rubs at a dried, shallow pool of dark red in the hollow of her collarbone. Still, she shakes.
She holds him there, their hands joined over her heart, as she turns into his other hand and nuzzles his wrist, her cheek a welcome softness in his palm.
Lion, how her heart thunders – as quick and erratic as a war drum. Addie tugs his arm and slides up to sit. Tugs again, meets his eyes at last.
It's all the invitation he needs.
Caspian strips down to bare skin and joins her, the murky water flushing closer to true red as he sits before her on blood-stained knees.
All this blood was hers, is hers… thank the Lion the Kings and Queens arrived when they did.
How easily he almost lost her.
Again.
Caspian brushes her neck with wrinkled fingertips, tracing the scar that never formed. The memory of the wound that nearly stole her away lurks in his mind like a poisonous fog, like nightshade flowers growing between old ruins.
Addie climbs into his lap the moment he settles, thighs bracketing his hips as she wraps her legs around his waist.
Caspian greedily splays his hands over her back, traces her spine, rubs circles into her knotted muscles. It's been so long since he felt her as she is – in nothing but her skin, her curves warm and supple in his hands.
"I ran when you said," Addie whispers into his shoulder. "Really, I did."
Caspian hugs her so tightly his arms tremble. "I know."
He doesn't blame her this time. She did as he asked.
This was his failure in the face of treachery, not hers. He should have fought harder against the Witch's magic. He never should have turned his back on her for even a moment.
Addie was right; perhaps he should have let her continue training with Marcos. Or pushed aside his frustration and trained her himself, as he did in the castle.
Caspian buries his nose in her wet hair and sets his hands to detangling as Addie nestles into his neck. The steady draw of her breath helps to soothe his nerves.
As he combs her hair, Addie trails soft, lingering kisses over his skin. Each one is heavy with a question he knows well, with an answer Caspian has refused to indulge for weeks.
Addie is healed now, every wound that once gave him pause erased in all but memory. This may be the last time they'll be alone before the war's end.
Better to savour this stolen time, before…
Addie sighs the moment he kisses her, her shoulders softening and the tension in her neck disintegrating under his palm. Her mouth moves languorously as she invites his tongue past her lips and sucks – not harshly, not desperately, as so many of their encounters have been. This time Addie's kisses are gentle and soft, uncurling like a flower in his chest.
It's not quite hope, this warmth he feels, because for all the sweetness of Addie's lips and body, the water lapping at Caspian's thighs is chalky red. Not relief, because Miraz's army is still outside and if Caspian lets his mind wander, he'll think of the How choked with corpses, Addie's among them.
Not even happiness – but there is comfort in the simplicity of physical connection, descending on his senses like a balm to overworked muscles. So often, their frenzied lovemaking came laden with the anticipation of loss and all the heartache of their circumstances.
Now, Addie is such a tender, docile thing in his arms. The fire's gone out of her, replaced by something cool and comforting, like waves on a seashore. Like the first light of dawn, the last golden streak of sunset. As ever, Caspian is helpless to deny her.
He misses her fire, her playfulness. Hopes it will return one day.
Perhaps if he meets Addie's kisses, her invitation will wash away the coil threatening to carve out his chest from within. Perhaps if he drowns in her body, allows them both this benediction, he can make peace with what he must do.
Addie reaches down and wraps cool fingers around him. Already, he's ready for her – can't think of a time he hasn't been. Like her kisses, her strokes are slow, heavy with purpose and asking.
Caspian's answer comes in a jerky thrust. For all Addie's uncharacteristic patience, he is only a man, and it's been weeks since he had the luxury of Addie naked in his lap.
Her lips tighten with a smile, their noses brushing as Caspian pants into her mouth.
Addie guides him to the heat between her legs and notches him inside, her breasts softly brushing his chest. Caspian's hips grind up of their own volition, but he can go no further. She's not quite ready, not as slick as she ought to be.
"Addie," he begins, his hands tracing the contours of her body.
"Shh." Addie silences him with her most delicate kiss yet, little more than a brush of lips. "Please, I… please let me."
Sighing, she trails off and seems to relax. Opens up a bit more, works him inside another inch only to withdraw again. But it's alright, because the next moment Addie kisses him again and sinks down further.
Caspian forces restraint as Addie slowly works him in to the hilt, in tiny increments simultaneously not enough and too much, too much heat and pressure and friction as she slowly opens up to him.
When at last she sheathes him fully, Addie stops. Her thighs tremble as she sits still and presses their foreheads together, her measured breathing a stark contrast to his staccato inhales.
Caspian's legs tremble with the need to drive into her, to remind them both of the sweet intoxication of fevered desire.
He keeps still.
If Addie wants to make love in this way, if she needs his tenderness more than she needs his passion, then she will have it.
This, he can give her.
For all the temptation of frenzied fucking, for all his desire to see Addie witless in the wake of a climax wrung from her by his doing, Caspian keeps the roll of his hips slow and careful. He lingers after every thrust, lets them both sigh in the relief of being joined. He dusts kisses over Addie's cheeks and mouth, waits for her to pull him in to give her those open-mouthed kisses she loves.
In every way he knows how, Caspian tells her how much he loves her. How relieved, how glad, how grateful he is to have her in his arms, naked and healed and alive.
He does not whisper how he can't lose her. How this time, it was too close a call. Addie doesn't need his fear or disquiet right now.
She needs his love.
As her walls tighten in the first tremors of climax, as he spills over the edge with her and drowns in kisses until his head spins, Caspian hopes it will be enough. That this joining will comfort her, keep her strong in the coming days and weeks.
That one day, his love will be enough for Addie to forgive him.
In the wake of their lovemaking, Addie clings to him until he softens and slips out. By then, her breathing is deep and even against his neck. Caspian settles her against his side as he washes their clothes one-handed, turning the cave water a darker rust-red. The stains won't come out entirely, but the little scrubbing he manages will help.
If Rainroot didn't need every spare cloth and linen for bandages, he'd find Addie some clean clothes. Unfortunately, her stained shirt and pants will have to do.
She'll have his cloak. When the summer's heat gives way to crisp autumn nights, she'll need the warmth.
Addie blinks sleepily as Caspian helps her into her wet clothes. It must be late morning by now; it's strange Miraz hasn't attacked already. The moment Addie is safely in the alcove, Caspian must run to his war council and its five extra members.
Perhaps the Kings and Queens (Lion, how strange it is to think of legends come to life and waiting in the war room) will bring the wisdom and strategy they need. Perhaps they bring word of Aslan, too. Is that why Miraz hasn't yet attacked? Is Aslan keeping him at bay?
Caspian hurries into his wet things, buckles on his armour, and scoops Addie into his arms.
"M'fine," she mumbles into his chest plate. "Can walk just fine."
In answer, Caspian kisses the crown of her head.
"Just to the dining cave," he whispers. "Please, let me."
Addie nuzzles closer, her hair tickling his chin, and mumbles something that sounds like agreement.
Caspian's pace slows the closer they come to the steady hum of the cave. He should hurry, but his steps lag.
The sooner they reach the cave, the sooner he'll have to put Addie down. If she'd fallen asleep, he'd have an excuse to hold her longer, but Addie is awake enough to squirm when the hum solidifies into voices and fragmented conversations.
With a kiss to her brow, Caspian sets her down as she asked. Addie shivers in her wet clothes and tucks herself into his side. Both her cool hands envelop his right, her fingers clammy in the chilled cave air.
The walk to their alcove passes far too quickly.
He shouldn't – he's needed at council – but Caspian lingers to ease Addie to the ground and wrap her in his cloak. To lie down at her side and wrap her shivering form in his arms. Again, Addie insists she's fine.
In body, surely. But she's shaken from her brush with death, and she's in wet clothes in a cool, damp cave –
Caspian kisses away her momentary, half-hearted attempt at shooing him and holds her close until her breathing deepens into slumber.
She'll need her rest for the journey.
Caspian tucks careful fingers to Addie's neck, where her pulse beats strong and steady. As he counts her heartbeats, Caspian tallies every time he should have sent her away. Every time he has been too late.
One, the first night she came to his study. He should have seen the danger to her even then and kept his distance, should have made propriety and manners his shield no matter how he ached for her touch.
Two, the night his uncle and Lord Sopespian happened upon them – the same night Doctor Cornelius told him of Lady Prunaprismia's pregnancy. He knew, then, how he felt about her, and consequently, how much danger Addie was in. And still, he did nothing but hope and plan and wait.
Three, when Anna disappeared. Addie was grieving, but he could have made her safe. Could have sent her out of Narnia, beyond the reach of Miraz and the war. Or, if Addie would not go, then at least he could have stopped their tryst.
Four, when Addie suggested escaping separately. She insisted she wouldn't leave until he did, but Caspian knows he could have found a way for her. A way to make her.
Five, when he found her and Marcos in the woods. He should have taken Addie to Rainroot and sent her on her way with enough supplies to see her safely to Archenland, perhaps with Vanus, Falmus, or even Tavros – a surprisingly cordial minotaur – as a chaperon and bodyguard.
Six, when he returned after the disastrous attack at the Telmarine army's encampment. When he realized that he and the Narnians alone would not be enough to win this war.
Seven… Caspian buries his nose in Addie's hair and commits her scent to memory, tainted with the lingering kiss of blood and death.
The seventh chance is now. If he follows his own plan and draws out Miraz's army while the centaurs lead strikes to stop the catapults, Miraz's forces will be engaged on all fronts. Two people can escape unnoticed if they know how to blend in.
He will not be with her. He's needed here to finish this war he started. Caspian tucks Addie's head under his chin, relishing the warm puff of her breath at the hollow of his throat. Always, he has been too late to save the ones he loves – his parents, his nurse, any friends of his father.
Addie.
She's never been safe with him. No one is ever safe with him.
Caspian's chest constricts. He alone can't protect her; this morning's near-disaster proved as much. He needs someone who has already proven he can keep her alive.
He needs Marcos.
A/N: Dun dun duuuuuun! So, what do we think Caspian is planning?
Chapter 39 Preview:
"It's about time one of you listened to me," he says. "Guess you really do care about her."
"We both know that was never in question," Caspian says.