A/N: So, I just realized we only have 10 chapters until the end of Part 2! Kinda blows my mind... when I started writing this thing back in 2020, I truly thought it would be a short, filthy 40k fic, and now I've posted 200k+ and I've written almost 500k on this project if we count all the rewrites. Don't worry about us running out of story, though. I've got 5 parts outlined! Part 2: Monachopsis will just wrap up the Prince Caspian era plotlines.
The Narnia fandom is pretty quiet these days, and I really didn't expect much response, but y'all are interacting and favoriting and following and it just really warms this writer's lil heart so sincerely, to all you lovely readers, thank you. ❤ Extra special thank you to everyone who's ever left a review. Your thoughts and reactions have sparked many an idea and kept me excited about this now very long story. I'm always listening to your suggestions and incorporating whatever I can.
Alrighty, to the chapter!
Chapter 43 Content Warnings: mention of birth control, post-battle gore, physical injury and medical treatment, brief mentions of death
Chapter 43: anything so i don't feel you
Addie
Caspian never falters as he holds her aloft, his arms keeping her secure though she can't reach the ground. He's sticky, his hair matted and dripping like he splashed down without washing thoroughly. Addie scrabbles her hands over his head, his neck, back, shoulders. Every time he returns from battle, he sports fresh injuries.
Not this time. By some miracle, some impossible stroke of luck, he's fine. Her fingers find smooth skin everywhere they venture. Skin slick with sweat and river water, but unbroken.
"What are you doing here?" Caspian says, his breath hot on her neck. "You're supposed to be with -"
How easily it all comes rushing back, pulsing like a wound, a knife between ribs.
It would've been nice to have a few minutes. Just a few, enough to properly appreciate that Caspian is alive.
"Don't," Addie croaks. "Don't you fucking dare."
Caspian's arms loosen and he bends down, steadying her as her feet find the river bed.
"How did -"
"Shut up!"
Tash, she shouldn't yell at him. She should be grateful, should be counting his every breath and heartbeat until his life's rhythm is all she knows.
But Caspian is pulling away, and it's not fair how he cups her cheek and looks into her eyes, his brow furrowed like he's concerned.
Like he gets to be concerned after he drugged her and sent her off with -
"Are you hurt?"
A barking laugh escapes her, quickly stifled but loud enough to turn heads, probably.
Not hurt how he means it.
"Are you?" Addie counters. She pulls Caspian's left hand from her hip and finds his palm unblemished, the cut erased in all but memory. Similarly, his sleeve is gashed open at the elbow, but the skin is smooth.
Injuries erased, pain vanished by magic flower juice as if it never was. A mockery of this knot in her chest, panic that made her clumsy as she tended so many who didn't get the luxury of some ancient cordial.
"Queen Lucy?" she guesses.
Caspian tugs free and mirrors her exploration, frowning.
"By the Mane, Addie, are you alright?"
Again, a bitter laugh bubbles up. Addie swallows it, feels her face twist because no she's not alright, the mint of the tea is choking her and Marcos said seeds and general's salary -
Caspian tucks hair behind her ear. There should be nothing more right than his gentle touch, his fingers ghosting down her jaw.
And then, with one question, he splits her relief in half and all she wants to do is shove him.
"Where is Marcos?" Caspian asks - carefully, as if she's some breakable, hollow statue.
"I don't care!" Addie peels his hand off her face and tries to step back, but the current shortens her pace.
Caspian steadies her, and she… Tash, she hates how easy it is to let him.
"I left him in the forest," Addie continues. She's still holding onto his hand - can't bring herself to let go.
He promised me a general's salary to take you off his hands.
Her mouth runs on its own, relief chipping into accusation, bitterness, because Caspian, he… he sold her off and her cheek itches with the ghost of Marcos' finger.
"He said a general's salary," Addie hears herself say. "You bartered me?"
Caspian stiffens, blinking down at her too fast to be anything but guilty.
"A bribe," he says. "He wanted a reward for…" Caspian's jaw tenses. "Blood money, to protect you."
He doesn't stop her when she pushes him and backs out of reach, her steps heavier in her wet clothes. Caspian doesn't reach for her when she wraps her arms over her middle and shivers under the blazing summer sun, drenched in blood and river water.
"I needed you to survive, Addie," Caspian continues, his hands palm-out, a placating gesture. "You of all people should understand that."
She gapes at him. "I, of all people?"
You said we'd do this together.
You once chose differently. You were right.
Caspian held the escape against her for weeks, and now he's saying she was right all along?
Addie backs away another step, two, three. She didn't crawl to bargain with Miraz, never turned Caspian over to Telmarine soldiers, to the guard captain, to Miraz. Yet he turned her over to Marcos and somehow expects her to understand?
Caspian never asked, she realises too late. He understood something happened between her and Marcos, but he never asked outright, and she never explained. Even this morning, before he helped Marcos wrestle her onto the horse, Caspian never asked her what happened.
Would he have chosen differently if she'd coughed up the courage to tell him the whole ugly truth? Would he have touched her the same, loved her the same?
Would he have sent her with Marcos anyway?
"I said I was wrong," Addie says. Her own voice sounds distant, like she's speaking underwater. "And you said I shouldn't have left."
Caspian comes closer, but he stops when she retreats farther out of reach.
"You were right," he says, the roar of the river, of the blood in her ears, nearly washing away the words.
Nearly. How she wishes it would.
When she says nothing, Caspian looks into the sky, his eyes drifting shut as he exhales.
"You almost died in my arms just this morning." Caspian's eyes open, shining as his face contorts. "What else could I have done, Addie?"
"You're right," she snaps, and tastes the venom of her next words like cotton on her tongue, dry and sticky. "I almost died, and I woke up alone while you traded me to Marcos!"
Caspian's eyes flash, his jaw working. "I bought you a bodyguard to ensure you wouldn't do anything foolish. Yet here you stand, caked in blood, and you will not tell me if you're hurt!"
"Of course I'm hurt, Caspian!" An empty sob, hoarse, because her tears died somewhere between escaping Marcos and finding Caspian. "Not like you mean, but no, I'm not alright!"
Addie hugs herself tighter, hand on her roiling stomach as Caspian splashes to her, and he has no right to touch her like he's worried, like he's sorry. Who does he think he is, scooping water and wiping at the patches of strangers' blood on her cheek, her shoulder, her hands -
Addie yanks free. He doesn't get to touch what he's broken.
Caspian clenches his jaw, but he lets her go.
"Would you rather have faced battle?" he asks, advancing closer but not touching. "Would you have had me keep you here only to die at my side?" His hands stray toward her waist before he catches himself.
She hates how much she almost lets him. Almost falls into his arms like a stupid girl begging to be tossed aside again.
"Would you have me watch as a soldier cut you down the second I was distracted?" Caspian continues. "I couldn't have protected you on a battlefield."
She hates that look - the plea in his eyes, tortured and distant, like when he washed her in a cave pool. As if he has any right to defend himself when he threw her at Marcos like a reward for soldierly service, like he can excuse tea and general's salary with 'for her safety.'
Like he gets to claim he was protecting her when he gave her to Marcos.
Addie's fingers itch with the blood she didn't let him wash off.
Does he think she wanted to die, to risk distracting him in battle? Caspian never would've let her on that field, and she'd have obeyed, would've stayed in the How -
It's caved in, the one entrance destroyed by catapults. She'd still be trapped inside.
When her silence stretches too long, Caspian softens, sighing and running both hands through his hair.
"I couldn't have borne your death, Addie. I couldn't," he says.
As if that's a proper excuse. As if he didn't once blame her for thinking that about him.
Addie almost laughs again, nearly repeats what she said to Marcos - that she'd rather have died here.
"But you expected me to bear yours?" she snaps instead.
It's strange to be on the receiving end. To look into Caspian's face and see fear wrestling love and trust into submission, desperation masking as practicality.
Is this how she looked saying he was better off without her?
Tash, she was so wrong, before. But Caspian thinks she was right.
This time, Caspian is the silent one.
He doesn't think he made a mistake. He doesn't think he's wrong, as she admitted she was. He has no idea what he's done, how deeply this look on his face cuts her.
Caspian was supposed to be safe. He was supposed to be home!
Addie chokes. She ought to keep yelling, make him feel the weight of what he's done. She should say whatever it takes to make him understand.
And perhaps she could, if only a traitorous little voice wasn't whispering he's right, he's right, he's right and she should have seen it coming.
Don't send me away.
He sent you away. He doesn't want you.
It never would've worked. Deep down, you know that.
Addie wraps her arms tighter around her ribs and wills herself to stay upright, to lift her chin and be strong and not let him see, don't let him see how deep this hurts. Swallow, breathe, stand straight and tall. Caspian is alive; let relief temper the betrayal.
Brave face. She can manage that.
And she does - that must be why Caspian is breathing slower, his brow softening to resignation.
It's her voice that betrays her - cracking like shattered glass underfoot, sharp as a dagger in her throat.
"Why him?" Addie whispers. "Why Marcos?"
Oh, she hates how small she sounds. So weak, so easily crushed.
Caspian flinches. "He once saved you when I could not. He was the only one I knew who could keep you -" He clears his throat, looks away. Meets her eyes, and his are dry.
"You needed someone ruthless," Caspian says. "Someone to protect you better than I could."
Addie bites her lip before she can do something stupid like cry.
"You have no idea," she rasps, "how ruthless he is."
Did Marcos tell him? Does Caspian know and not care?
No, Caspian does care, Addie realises. It's written on his face plain as day, guilt stifled by… determination? Stubbornness? Arrogance?
Caspian knows Marcos is a ruthless man, and he considered it a good thing.
"It was a hard battle," says Caspian, stepping closer. "You wouldn't have survived, Addie."
"You can't know that," Addie protests, but even as she speaks she knows it was a risk he refused to take. She understands, and somehow that's worse than wondering why.
Because that means Caspian was willing to pay any price to keep her alive. It means that even if she'd told Caspian everything about Marcos, he might have chosen the same.
What kind of man does that?
Caspian sighs, and all at once he is nothing but exhaustion.
"Look at the field and tell me I'm wrong," he says.
The injured - they need help. Addie turns back the way she came and jogs awkwardly to shore, hoping, hoping, stupidly, Caspian will follow her, that he'll stop her and apologise and hold her until the ache in her chest subsides.
It's a cruel mercy that he doesn't.
Hours pass on the field, afternoon simmering into a muggy sunset. Rainroot is there calling orders when Addie returns with handfuls of broadleaf and two stones to grind it.
Rainroot, who helped Caspian drug her. Who gave her the tea like nothing was the matter.
Addie grits her teeth. She'll be angry with Rainroot later; the field still echoes with the cries of the wounded. They need her to stop being… emotional and just be useful.
She can do that. She can do useful.
Queen Lucy rides onto the field with her cordial before Addie finishes grinding the first batch of broadleaf. Telmarine healers join the rush too, mostly for their own men. But then one helps a dwarf, Queen Lucy helps a Telmarine, and slowly, it matters less whether the next patient is human or Narnian, only that they're in pain and no one else needs to die today.
By a gouge in the earth, Addie finds a familiar face with bluish lips wheezing and holding his side.
"Alfonso!"
Tash, Sal warned her about this.
How safe will your little friend be when her lover winds up dead in battle?
Addie sprints to his side and finds his fingers dark with blood, his armoured vest punctured and torn. Stab wound, short breaths, blue-tinged skin - probably a damaged lung. Serious, but he'll survive with Lucy's help.
"Try not to move," she says, covering Alfonso's hands with her own. "Lucy, Queen Lucy!"
Alfonso's cough rattles as Queen Lucy runs over.
Addie peels aside Alfonso's hand, apologising when he hisses.
Queen Lucy administers one drop of fireflower. The second Alfonso's skin brightens to a healthier, if still pale, shade, she's off again. Anyone with immediately fatal injuries has either been seen to or passed, but there are patients aplenty.
Addie watches the hole in his side knit together, muscle and blood covered by unblemished skin. Even his black eye vanishes.
Her stomach pinches, caught between relief and nonsensical resentment, that Caspian was hurt too and she saw none of it. Wasn't there for any of it, by his doing.
Alfonso blinks and traces the healed skin.
"I must be seeing things," he muses. Then he looks up, a lopsided smile breaking across his face. "Addie? What the hells are you doing here?"
"What are you doing here?" Addie says, helping him to his feet. "Did Miraz empty the whole castle?"
Alfonso prods his cheekbone, the dark bruise gone.
"Very nearly," he says. "Prince Caspian should have no trouble when he arrives - though I suppose he's king now, isn't he?"
Addie's stomach churns at the mere mention of Caspian, but Alfonso is right; Caspian is king in all but name. Assuming the Kings and Queens aren't taking charge.
To Alfonso, she mumbles agreement and asks if Lola and the other maids are alive.
"Oh yes, very much alive," Alfonso says, pulling off his helmet and tossing it aside. "Though Lola's been worried sick about you."
A soldier's wounded cry distracts him; Alfonso straightens at once, boyish cheer fading.
"What can I do?"
Caspian
Duty becomes his solace once more. Fortunately, Caspian's had practice ignoring personal heartaches amid the endless parade of decisions to be made - organising the Telmarines and the Narnians into groups that won't kill each other, sending any questionable Telmarines to the jail in Beruna (with provisions), planning the coronation and journey to Telmara. Aslan's right that quicker is better; with the Telmarines spread throughout Narnia and southern Ettinsmoor, better to secure his claim to the throne.
Hours Caspian's been in the Lion's presence, and still his head spins. So much doubt and now here Aslan stands with the Kings and Queens, conversing with him as casually as if this were a normal summer afternoon.
More unbelievable - yet he must believe, when the proof of answered prayers is before his eyes - is that Aslan said he's ready to be king.
He doesn't feel ready, can barely wrap his head around what Narnia's future holds, but he is ready to try.
Politics, he can do.
He knows how to try.
He is ready to believe in Aslan. Ready to trust that the Lion who made trees come alive and summoned a river god knows what he's doing.
"Your coronation must be soon, Caspian," says Aslan with a glance to General Glozelle and Lord Scythley, who stand whispering in a tree's shade.
"A small force could reach Telmara within two days," Caspian says. "But I can't say how many soldiers Miraz left at the castle, nor speak to their loyalty."
"Probably enough to stifle an uprising," answers King Edmund. "What do you think, about eight companies?"
"I expect so. Perhaps as few as six, though I'd not gamble on it." From Caspian's estimations, Miraz brought troops from here in Beruna, Ettinsmoor, Galma, and every man he could spare from Telmara. Caspian expected some from Tashbaan, but he's seen no soldiers in the pointed helmets of their southern cousins.
"Then we should take companies of our own," says Queen Susan. Gentle Queen though she is, Susan hasn't yet tucked her bow into her quiver. "The castle guards may attack when we arrive."
King Peter gestures to the ongoing surrender. Thus far, no Telmarines have tried to fight - no doubt thanks to Aslan's presence and the river god's miracle. Even Caspian, for all his love of the old tales, hesitated before fording the foaming waters.
"They'd be fools to try," says High King Peter. "The story of Aslan's return and our victory here will grow quickly. If we send soldiers from each region back, they'll spread the word for us. No one will challenge Caspian's coronation."
Queen Lucy frowns as she looks at a cluster of younger soldiers. "I agree. Miraz wasn't exactly well-liked, was he?"
Caspian's mouth twists bitterly, even with Aslan's soothing presence so close. Miraz wasn't liked, but he was feared, and all of Narnia suffered for it.
"No. If we arrive with the remaining lords at our side, I believe we'll be welcomed. Lord Scythley should be able to confirm how many soldiers occupy the castle." Caspian follows Queen Lucy's gaze to the soldiers setting up camp on shore. "Sending what soldiers we can back to their families with provisions would help. I want to set a different tone than my uncle."
It sounds like the right thing, but Caspian glances to Aslan.
"That will be well, Caspian," says the Lion.
Caspian breathes easier. After weeks without any sign, every word from the Lion's mouth is a relief and a blessing.
The moment Caspian strays from his new council, Lord Scythley approaches, his mouth set in a thin line and deep-set furrows across his brow.
Before Caspian can speak, the grey-bearded lord bows.
"Your Majesty," says Lord Scythley. "The victory is yours. Of the lords who remain, none will contest your claim to the throne."
A knot in Caspian's chest unwinds, the tension in his shoulders easing. One less concern, at least for now. With luck and a bit of politicking, any who might rebel should leave for their home world; Aslan has said he will provide a home for any Telmarines who don't wish to live in the new Narnia. At first light, every fleet-footed and winged creature (mostly birds and squirrels) and a few Telmarines will leave to disseminate the news.
Personally, Caspian will be glad to be rid of as many of these lords as possible. They backed Miraz and abandoned him - and his parents.
But Lord Scythley's congratulations, Caspian accepts. He needs his help, and sour manners are no way to get it.
"We have great hopes you will prove more… gracious than Lord Miraz," continues the lord, straightening to stand tall and straight.
"It is my sincere hope," says Caspian, "that all this killing is done with."
Lord Scythley nods at once. "Yes, precisely. I couldn't agree more. To that end, I must appeal for your clemency, Your Majesty."
Caspian clasps his hands. He did not kill his own uncle; why would he kill Lord Scythley?
"Not for myself," the older lord adds in a hurry. "For my daughter - your aunt - and for her child. They were no party to Miraz's crimes; I ask for your mercy on their behalf."
Caspian's words fail him, a bout of terrible timing. Lord Scythley thinks he would have Lady Prunaprismia and her babe killed?
Lord Scythley continues, his words nearly unintelligible in his rush. "In exchange, I will personally ensure the council -"
"My Lord," Caspian interrupts, lifting a hand to silence him. "I have no intention of harming Lady Prunaprismia or her child. I am not my uncle."
Lord Scythley exhales, his shoulders sagging in relief. "Thank you, Your Majesty, thank you."
What thanks indeed; Caspian knew Lord Scythley as a proud, taciturn man at the castle - a key figure in the council by his sparse, carefully chosen opinions. Lord Scythley was sometimes a voice of reason against Miraz's worst policies, but he tended to stay out of the way.
How strange, to see this stoic lord scrambling for favour.
Caspian dismisses the thought; he needn't be cruel. Lord Scythley may prove a valuable ally.
"You have my word they will live in peace," Caspian says firmly. "Now, on the matter of Telmara, I must make a request of my own."
Lord Scythley agrees quickly. "Of course, Sire."
Caspian tries not to think how he could have used this lord's loyalty not two days ago. A good king must know how to forgive as much as judge.
"I would have you among my company when I return to the castle. Your visible support will smooth the transition of power."
Telmarine tradition says the crown is Caspian's, but he'll arrive with Narnians at his side. There may be resistance at first.
"As you wish," Lord Scythley says with a bow. "If I may, perhaps General Glozelle would be a valuable addition. The soldiers will more readily respect one of their commanders than a lord of the council."
Caspian considers. It's true that Glozelle is respected among the Telmarine army - he's known as a fair, exacting general who bolstered the men's salaries a few silvers above the typical pay. The extra coin bought soldiers willing to do Miraz's dirty work without question.
But when Caspian fell into the pit on the battlefield, Glozelle had the chance to kill him and did not.
"I will speak with him," says Caspian. "Good day, Lord Scythley."
Alliances, generals, lords. These are familiar duties, a dance of politicking and favours he knows well.
Better to stay busy than think of Addie, because if he lets himself remember the look on her face, he'll abandon his every duty to kneel at her feet and beg forgiveness.
Caspian leaves Lord Scythley and searches the shoreline for Glozelle. He cannot go to Addie now, and he cannot afford to regret hurting her so much.
She's alive. That will be enough for him.
It must.
Addie
By nightfall, the worst is over. The remaining soldiers - Narnian and Telmarine alike - are either stabilised or well enough to bring themselves to one of the three healer's stations scattered across the field. A team of minotaurs, dwarfs, and moles are busy clearing the How's entrance; the Telmarines shared their medical supplies, but they don't know herbs and poultices like Rainroot. Her supplies are needed.
Alfonso proves helpful. He holds bandages, puts pressure on wounds, holds patients still when bones need setting or cuts need stitching. He even runs to the woods stockpiling supplies, though he hesitates at the treeline every time.
"Thank you," Addie tells him when Rainroot sends them and half the inexperienced healers off to rest and eat.
Alfonso shrugs and scratches behind his ear. "Of course. I mean, I couldn't do nothing."
Addie almost smiles. "I know what you mean."
Again, Alfonso pauses at the field's edge, glancing up at the trees before following her between them.
"Alfonso," Addie begins, ducking a low-hanging branch. "Can I ask what happened? At the battle?"
Alfonso startles as a warm breeze rustles the trees' canopies. After a moment, he steps over a fallen tree and offers his hand.
Addie's heart squeezes. Polite, just like Caspian.
I like that he treats me like I'm a lady, Lola once said.
"It was ugly," Alfonso says as he helps her over. "I didn't expect otherwise, but… well, you saw the field."
"I did," Addie says, swatting a mosquito on her arm. "I thought the Narnians were outnumbered."
"They were," says Alfonso. "Until the trees came."
Addie frowns, overgrown ferns tickling her pants. "What do you mean?"
With another furtive glance upward, Alfonso leans in, his voice dropping to a whisper.
"I mean the trees came alive. They walked - more like waded, I suppose - through the field and snapped the catapults like twigs."
"Walking trees?" Addie repeats. Caspian's stories mentioned dancing trees at Narnian festivals, but she thought that was a figure of speech, like saying branches dance in the wind.
"I swear, they moved like living things," Alfonso insists, lifting a branch and staring at it a moment before following her through. "It was like the land itself was fighting back."
Addie regards him. Alfonso isn't weaving, his steps are steady, and she watched Queen Lucy's cordial heal him.
"Are you sure?"
Alfonso continues like he didn't hear her.
"I grew up in a mountain valley. Good soil, short growing season. Pa and Ma used to say the land needed a firm hand. But my sister said the land was listening. That if you wanted a good crop, you had to be kind, too. The land wasn't something you could beat into submission."
Alfonso watches an owl fly by and doesn't look away until it lands on a branch, a mouse in its beak.
"I think we Telmarines have been beating this land for centuries, and it finally had enough," he says. "That's what my sister would say."
His shoulders relax as the trees open onto the river bank, where a constellation of campfires spots both shores as far as the eye can see.
Addie stares at the river, painted red by the last streaks of sunset. Alfonso's interpretation is… superstitious. Surely there's another explanation for the torn-up field and splintered catapults.
She could've seen the truth for herself if Caspian hadn't -
"Stories from the Golden Age talked about Narnia like it was alive," Addie says. "It's possible, I suppose."
It's not so unbelievable after these weeks of seeing fairy tales and rumoured ghosts come to life. But it's easier to make skepticism her shield with the forest looming behind her.
After they splash themselves clean in the river, Alfonso finds three friends from his unit making a mess of dinner - poorly stripped tubers, a half-filleted fish, and their salted meat rations. They're all too happy to turn the cooking over to Addie, and Alfonso returns to the forest with a torch to fetch some desperately needed herbs. He returns with all but one herb, along with Sproutbringer - a badger who worked the How's kitchen - and a faun.
Sproutbringer comes bearing a small clay pot, and the soldiers make quick work setting it over the fire and fetching water while Addie and the faun slice the tubers into edible chunks and dice herbs. It's familiar work.
Numbing. Useful.
Cooking keeps the press of too much emotion at bay, and so Addie cooks and dices and stirs until her arms tremble.
The result is a surprisingly hearty fish stew, thickened by the starchy tubers and seasoned as well as anything can be without Perla's spices. Addie forces down two bowls; in the day's excitement, she's forgotten to eat until now, and her stomach's been in knots for hours.
Eating is something else to do. Another desperate attempt at distraction, so obvious to herself it barely works.
Addie tilts her bowl, slurping the last drops. It works because she wills it to - because it must. Because she can't break any further when there is no safe place to leave her shattered pieces.
The war stories start the moment the stew is ready. That's expected; they're soldiers who just survived the last battle of a war. Of course they're spinning tall tales already. Even Sproutbringer - grey-snouted, soft-spoken Sproutbringer - joins in when the conversation turns to the walking trees.
"In the old days," says the badger, "you would've had a harder time finding trees who couldn't walk. They were said to be lovely dancers."
"Maybe you ought to wander the woods in the morning," says Arria, the faun with blonde ringlets and a wide, dimpled smile. "Make some friends."
A slender soldier with a beak nose and a constant fidget shivers and scoops himself more stew.
"Everyone around this fire's more than friends enough for me."
Addie almost finds a smile before she remembers the dead, the warmth and itch of their blood coating her hands. She feeds the fire kindling, tries to force the bloody memories down by staying busy. By the time her buzzing ears quiet, the conversation has moved on and there's no reason for amusement.
Addie tunes out the battle stories - she saw the aftermath, and Alfonso filled in the rest. But then, when her too-full belly and the warm fire makes her eyelids heavy, someone mentions a duel.
That's new.
Addie blinks herself to alertness, following overlapping fragments of conversation.
"- no shield, thought for sure he'd -"
"- younger, and no one can see shit in those masks -"
"- put the training field to shame -"
"- awfully considerate to give us sport before the battle -"
"- earned that crown, if you ask me -"
Addie's gaze darts from soldier to soldier as they talk over each other, recounting a glorious duel before the battle began.
Earned the crown?
"Alfonso," Addie whispers, waving off the dried meat he offers. "What duel?"
"Between Prince - sorry, King - Caspian and Lord Miraz," Alfonso murmurs. "Didn't you see?"
Addie's wooden bowl creaks, threatening splinters if she breaks it.
"No," Addie says. "I wasn't there."
The conversation swirls on, praising Caspian's swordsmanship, Miraz's use of his shield, their traded blows, the entertainment of it all.
Entertainment, they call it. Entertainment that Caspian waited all of five minutes to be reckless and stupid and try to get himself killed!
Not only did he send her away, he did so knowing he might never see her again. Expecting not to.
I'll find you after, Addie.
Addie stares at her empty bowl, her nails digging into the wood.
That's why Caspian didn't promise; he was lying.
She stays busy through dinner and dishes and stoking the fire until the others are snoring around the smouldering embers and the only thing left to do is sleep.
Addie curls up on her borrowed bedroll - extra supplies, a courtesy taken from the dead - and stares into the fire. She tries counting sparks, but when wind stirs the low flames, she sees brown eyes by candlelight and she aches, and how dare her body betray her, forcing her to miss him when things will never be as they were in that study.
Next, she watches the lightning bugs dance, trying to find a pattern in their light.
She remembers catching the bugs with Lola, making bets with Marcos who they'd land on first.
She once wondered if Caspian would ever catch fireflies with her, if he'd smile the boyish grin she sees so rarely.
Maybe Caspian would've ushered her into the courtyard and left her to Marcos.
Tash, she needs to sleep.
Addie turns on her back and stares at the stars, visible in patches through the smoke of dozens of campfires.
Her fingers itch at a memory of Caspian's star maps, charts sketched on fresh parchment and scrolls of old Narnian maps on brittle paper.
There, directly above, shines the Ship - Caspian's favourite.
Tash's sake!
Addie turns toward the fire, sighing at the coals. The jagged spike of anger at these incessant thoughts of Caspian and his ridiculous stars isn't wholly unexpected, but what's the use in her watering eyes, blurring the fire into a dazzle of light? Crying won't undo Caspian's betrayal, won't rewind time and warn her not to drink the tea, not to go with him, not to trust him.
She can choose not to feel, can't she? She can make herself untouchable, build a castle of stone and resentment around her trust.
Untouchable, unbreakable, all she has to do is stop feeling so much.
She can decide that.
Sleep, better to sleep. She's tired enough she won't dream.
Addie forces slow, steady breaths until her eyelids droop, eyes burning from campfire smoke. There will be plenty to do tomorrow - cooking breakfast, cleaning dishes, helping the other healers. She ought to scour the forest for more broadleaf and other helpful herbs; better not to show up empty-handed.
Behind her, footsteps - boots grinding pebbles, a familiar rhythm she knows like her own heartbeat, and the soft hush-rattle of chainmail.
Addie clenches her hands into fists. She hates that she knows him by sound alone, that she feels his presence like an outstretched hand.
Addie tucks her fists under her chin. She can't let herself reach back, can't take whatever he's offering.
The footsteps stop. Caspian hesitates, his silence a question, a gentle are you awake? Are you listening?
No, she should tell him with deep breaths mimicking sleep. No, I am not listening. No, there is nothing you can say. No, I do not want you here.
But she hears him kneel, feels the sand and stones shift under his knees, and her breath catches before she can stop it.
"Addie, I -"
Caspian sighs. Addie wonders if he's tugging his hair, if his jaw is clenched, muscles knotted, brows knitted into a single line.
What right does he have to be frustrated?
"I sent guards for you," Caspian says, words wound tight. "They couldn't find you."
Addie traps her tongue behind her teeth and says nothing.
"It was too dangerous," Caspian begins, hardly above a whisper. Then, firmer: "I had to make sure you…"
His voice cracks into nothing, and the fire pops in the quiet.
Addie presses her lips shut and forces herself to breathe. She's asleep, she's not listening, she does not have to listen to him.
This is a choice she can make - to ignore him, to hold her own hands so tightly they hurt, to breathe slow and steady and decide that her heart will beat normally.
So why can't she keep from forgetting a breath here, an exhale there? Why can't she stop herself from trembling at the sound of his voice?
She can choose to listen, too, if she wants.
Fabric and chainmail rustle. Addie squeezes her eyes shut. She knows, somehow, that Caspian is reaching for her.
Her heart is a traitorous thing, throbbing with pain but craving comfort, a silent plea she traps behind clenched teeth.
Caspian's touch never comes. Instead it's his voice, back to a whisper, barely audible.
"I've almost lost you too many times," he says. A beat, a breath, then fingertips brush bare skin where her shoulder meets her neck.
She stiffens, her shoulders tight and her back in knots, because how dare he touch her like an apology, like he's begging her to understand. How dare he!
Caspian's hand retreats, leaving a chill in its absence.
"The castle, the night we… and the infection, the fever, and you wouldn't listen -" A strangled breath. "Then Nikabrik, and I couldn't even…"
Addie curls tighter, elbows pressed into her stomach, bracing. It's a small cramp, a warning her monthly is coming.
Perhaps she should tell him so. Twist relief into an accusation, a cruelty to make him feel another piece of this hurt.
I'll bleed soon, she could say. Aren't you happy? The tea is working, are you proud of yourself?
Addie swallows the temptation and blinks through the sudden burning in her eyes. She doesn't need to be that cruel.
Doesn't want to be that cruel.
Caspian's touch returns, little more than a ghost.
"I love you," he whispers, with all the audacity of the truth. "And I couldn't… I had to make certain you were -"
"Stop," she says, hoarse and so fragile it turns her stomach. It's as good as inviting him to hurt her again, as baring her neck to a wolf and daring it to bite.
No, Caspian is no wolf. And that's worse, because how was she supposed to know he would hurt her like this?
Addie feels him about to speak again, and interrupts early.
"Caspian, don't," she says, her tongue a whip in her mouth. And then, softer, because he has always made her weak and he doesn't listen when she's strong: "Please."
His hand lingers, calloused fingertips she knows as well as her own, a touch she misses before it's even gone.
Stupid, she's a stupid girl.
Addie grabs him before he retreats. She says nothing, because she still has some pride and she will not beg him to stay, but she tugs, tugs, tugs until Caspian sinks beside her.
It's not begging. It's not even asking. It's just fingers around his wrist; Caspian can pull free if he wants to.
It's not pathetic.
Caspian obliges without a word, heat settling behind her as he lays down. His chainmail is rough and cool, an unpleasant reminder of someone else, but his body is warm like home and it's too tempting to squeeze her eyes shut and try to pretend everything is alright.
That she's alright.
Metal is cruel. These metal rings, safety in battle and needless noise now, are the reason she can't feel his heart beating. She has nothing of him but the sound of his breathing, the barely there shape of him at her back.
Addie inches into him, shameless when she should be stoic, should be still and make him come to her, make him keep reaching, make him hurt too.
But Caspian is alive, and she…
She is not ready to lose him yet. After they've both survived a war, this cannot be how she loses him.
She gets to have him now. That was the hope all along; get out of the castle, live through the war, carve out a life together. She finally has what she wanted, doesn't she?
Addie sucks in a breath, too loud, and a breeze chills her wet cheeks.
It isn't fair that Caspian knows to pull her close with an arm around her waist, that he cradles her like promises, like love, and she wants, she wants these things she can't trust.
How dare his arms feel like coming home when he gave her to Marcos. The only reason she's here is her own will, her own fight.
Not Caspian's.
Addie scoots closer until his breath is her own, until Caspian holds her so tightly her ribs ache in protest.
It's cruel that yes, her heart beats raw and bloody and bruised in her breast, but with Caspian here, it beats stronger too. That his love wraps around her like a balm in the hesitant kiss he presses to her hair, and it is almost enough.
Let it be enough for now. She is allowed to have these little weaknesses by night.
She is allowed, still, to have him.
A/N: So, um, welcome to the pain train? I'd apologize, but I take too much delight in this angst. Any guesses on our endgame for Part 2? 👀
Chapter 44 Preview:
'I won't hurt you,' he wants to say.
He has.
'I will never hurt you again,' Caspian tries to tell her with a gentle smile and soft eyes and a slow, careful approach.