A/N: I appreciate y'all's patience waiting on this chapter! Work absolutely destroyed me these past 2 weeks so this chapter would've been 2k if I'd posted last week. I did have to rush the editing job on this so if you see a typo or something please let me know 😅
Chapter 51 Content Warnings: mention of pregnancy/children, menstruation, portrayal of PTSD, reference to battle gore and death
Chapter 51: why are we still suffering?
Addie
By the time Addie sneaks to Caspian's rooms, the sky is already a dark grey. Not dawn, but sunrise is a mere hour away. Her fault; she waited until the next guard change to go, and only realised they were satyrs when she heard their voices.
After a quick stop in her room to change her rags, Addie slips into Caspian's room - through the bedroom door this time, an improvement - and finds him asleep, as he should be. The bed curtains are still tied back, hiding none of him from her sight. Dark hair fanned over the pillow, half on his face. Caspian isn't snoring tonight; he's sleeping on his side, frowning at the other half of the bed. After a moment, he twitches and mumbles. Even in sleep, he's not fully at rest.
Maybe she should leave. Caspian's tired, exhausted, needs his sleep. She shouldn't disturb him.
Her heart will beat raw as a wound no matter whose bed she sleeps in.
Caspian's frown deepens, one arm stretching into the empty sheets, the other hidden by his pillow.
Addie toes off her shoes and shrugs, her robe pooling at her feet.
Caspian's brow furrows as she leans onto the bed. Before the war, he was a heavy sleeper.
The mattress creaks.
Caspian's eyes fly open.
Before Addie can blink, cold steel presses under her jaw.
She startles, but the sting of a sharpened edge roots her in place. A ghost of remembered warmth gushing down her neck - not real, not real. The blood is memory, the shape of Caspian's name, an unsteady whisper, is the now.
"C-Cas?"
His dark eyes focus, the hand on her shoulder trembling as he throws the dagger away, metal clattering to the floor.
"Lion's Mane, Addie -"
"I'm so sorry, I -"
Nerves skitter up her throat, tittering out as a shiver.
"I'm sorry," Addie repeats as Caspian bolts upright and pulls her onto his lap. "I wasn't thinking, I should've -"
"- for Tash's sake," Caspian is saying, hands mapping her skin, fingertips warm under her jaw. "- thought you were -"
"- I know, I should've realised -"
"- hurt? I'm so, so sorry."
Finally, Addie's tongue cooperates, sense cutting through the phantom memory of blood painting her neck. Past, that's the past. Not real anymore.
"It's not your fault," Addie says. "I should've knocked."
Or better yet, left him undisturbed.
Caspian lifts her chin and kisses her neck, his lips warm and slippery. When he straightens, his mouth is smeared with red and his eyes are distant, lost somewhere in the past - in a shared ghost that Addie shakes off like a cobweb.
She wipes Caspian's lips and kisses him, pretending not to taste the coppery tang of her own blood. It's nothing, barely more than a paper cut; she's had worse in the kitchens many times.
"I'm fine," Addie whispers. She cups his face, thumbs stroking his cheeks, yet Caspian stays trapped in memories of the How, of -
Addie kisses him again, and again, and again, until his mouth just tastes like him.
"Caspian, I'm alright."
Instantly, Caspian shakes his head. "I hurt you. I keep hurting you."
She hushes him with another, harsher kiss. "My fault. I startled you."
"I should have known -"
"But you didn't. I didn't knock, I'm sorry."
Caspian exhales roughly and pulls her hands away. "Stop apologising. You shouldn't apologise when I nearly -"
"No, you stop," Addie snaps, still-warm terror lashing against affection - a harsh, volatile mix. She knew Caspian felt guilty for Nikabrik's blade, but to see it naked on his face, to hear his voice tremble with his hands is too much. "I woke you, not the other way around."
Caspian's fingers tighten around her wrists, firm without bruising. "It's not… this was my doing, not yours."
"Not yours either," Addie says. "Old ghosts, that's all." Then, if only to prove to Caspian he's not alone in this: "I get them too."
It works; finally, Caspian meets her gaze. But instead of understanding, Addie finds another facet of guilt staring back at her.
Tash, she said the wrong thing.
"Those aren't your fault," Addie hurries to say. "I had them before you. Before I ever met you."
Caspian's eyebrows knit together and he releases one of her wrists to cup her cheek. "But I have given you more."
Addie shakes her head, helpless. Can't he at least try to understand what she's saying?
"That's not what I meant."
She tries to kiss him, to drown out his ghosts the only way she knows how, but Caspian holds her fast, staying her lips excruciating inches from his.
"It's still true," he says. Caspian's face is a map of pain she should be able to take away, or at least distract him from, if he'd just let her. But Caspian kisses her forehead before she can lean in, his lips lingering as he mumbles another needless apology.
Distraction another way, then. Because thanks to Caspian, there is one less ghost haunting her footsteps.
"I heard about Marcos," Addie says. "Thank you."
Finally, Caspian's frown softens. His arms wrap low around her hips, settling her closer on his lap.
"He's imprisoned for accessory to murder, not… I wasn't certain if you wished others to know. If I assumed incorrectly -"
"No, you… you're right, I don't." Addie's breath shakes a little, caught on old shivers as she tries to summon a smile. She can't, so she hides her face, nuzzling into Caspian's neck. "Besides, politics. What would your court think?"
"Addie." Caspian pries her from his shoulder by her chin, though he's careful not to strain her neck. Something about his tone makes her look up despite her burning cheeks.
Caspian kisses her so soundly her toes curl, a messy, uncoordinated dance of tongues, like he thinks he can suck the shame right out of her.
When Addie's lungs burn for air, Caspian gives it to her, as if he knew, somehow.
"In this," he says, "I care not what my court thinks. I only care what you want."
"You," she whispers. "I just want you."
Caspian's next kiss is soft and searching, a question and an answer wrapped together.
"You have me," he says, every syllable thick like a promise.
Addie blinks back sudden, irrational tears.
"Promise?"
Caspian traces the swell of her cheek, then her jaw, his touch feather-light.
"Always. I swear to you."
Caspian
When Addie falls asleep curled in his arms, Caspian tucks her into bed and cleans the cut he carelessly made.
Foolish, foolish; who else but Addie would enter his rooms so late? No, so early - dawn beckons outside, the sky creeping from midnight to grey.
He should have known it was her, not some faceless assassin. He should know her by sound alone, by breath, by the very whisper of her presence.
When Addie's neck is spotless and the cut soothed with ointment, Caspian wraps himself around her and listens to her slow, deep breaths, lays a palm on her chest and lets the rhythm of her heart reassure him.
She's alright. She's alright.
At the first orange of sunrise, he wakes her with careful kisses - a neat line from her shoulder to her neck. Addie sighs when his lips press into the junction of her shoulder: a favourite spot of hers, he's learned. Caspian lingers there, chasing another sigh, hoping for the beginnings of a sleep-addled moan.
It's a relief to know he can still affect her this way.
Caspian lets his hands roam her body by feel and memory. He avoids the ticklish spots under Addie's breasts and at the divot of her hips. But when he kisses down her stomach and tugs her shift up, Addie jolts and grips his wrist.
"I can't," she whispers.
Can't, or doesn't wish to?
Perhaps she was more affected by last night than she let on.
Caspian smooths her shift back down and retreats, hands chastely at her waist.
Addie pulls him into a sudden kiss, heated, the opposite of rejection.
"I would," she says. "I'd like to, but…"
"But?" Caspian tucks a frizzy curl behind her ear. Perhaps after last night, she's on edge - rightfully so.
Addie's cheeks flush a delightful red Caspian stops himself from kissing.
"I'm, ah…" She glances down. "I'm bleeding."
Caspian's hands fly to her neck. He was certain it had stopped, but -
Addie chuckles. "No, I mean… it's my monthly."
Caspian blinks down at her, fingertips frozen over the cut.
Addie's blush deepens, and she guides his hand to hover between her legs. There's a lump there, unexpected thickness - cloth.
"I'm bleeding here," she says, tangling their fingers. "A few days more. You can use my mouth until it's done."
Caspian stutters, a desperate bid to ignore his twitching cock.
Addie tilts her head. "Did none of your secret library books mention this?"
Somehow, Caspian summons the wits to shake his head and answer.
"One or two mentioned a monthly convalescence, but I didn't know you bleed." Belatedly, his sense returns. "Does it hurt?"
Ridiculous question; blood means pain.
Addie's hurried head shake is unconvincing at best. Another lie, even here, with no audience but the morning sun streaming through his windows?
"No," Addie says.
Caspian waits.
"Not much," she amends.
There, that is closer to the truth. Caspian kisses Addie's hand up to her wrist.
"Not much is still yes. Where?"
Addie glances away. "I'm fine, Cas."
Any contentment from the nickname only Addie uses for him evaporates in the face of her deflection.
Patience, he must have patience. She only needs coaxing.
Caspian slants his lips over hers - a probing kiss inviting honesty.
"I don't like when you're in pain," he murmurs. "However slight." Caspian repeats the question at her mouth; Addie is most honest when distracted with desire. "Where does it hurt?"
With a sigh, Addie relents.
"Here, mostly." She guides his hand to the curve of her lower stomach, two fingers' width above her mound. "It's not too bad, it's… it's like pulling a muscle in training and pushing through. Or if you write too much and your hand cramps." Addie shrugs, dodging his gaze. "A few days, maybe a week, then it's done."
Caspian strokes her stomach, pressing careful circles and watching her face intently. "Days?"
Addie's eyes drift closed, the tension in her brow easing as he finds a rhythm she likes.
"On and off. Really, I'm fine."
Caspian narrowly avoids rolling his eyes. Time and experience have taught him anytime Addie insists she's fine, he'd do well to worry and tend to her. However, he can't say as much to her face.
"I never said you weren't."
Satisfaction curls against relief as Addie hums and pushes into his palm. Her skin is heated, just shy of feverish.
As he watches, Addie's momentary contentment cracks into uncertainty, the precursor to more needless, senseless protests.
Caspian hushes her before she can.
"Shh. Let me."
Addie's lips part, and he tastes her protest like an under-ripe grape, sour when he wants her sweet. Can she not accept this small tenderness?
"I have hurt you lately," Caspian tries. He can't bear not trying to help her understand, to be content with quiet moments such as this. "It… soothes me. To care for you."
Addie's eyes dart around the bed - the curtains, the canopy, the sheets bunched at her thighs. Her hand snakes down his chest to his waist, then further, a breath away from the hunger that first woke him.
"I meant what I said about my mouth."
Lion's Mane, she is determined to shatter his self-control.
Caspian groans and grabs her hand before Addie can properly unravel him, as she's so wont to do.
"Addie," he says. "Let me care for you."
When he nuzzles her nose, Addie meets his gaze. Her eyes flit between his, never settling. There is a shadow in her, a hurt beneath this restlessness. Not anger, not dismissal, not sadness…
Fear.
Addie is afraid.
Her whisper floats up, tentative in all the ways he hates. This isn't her, this hesitation.
"Can't I take care of you, too?"
"Later," Caspian manages, coaxing her hand from his trousers. "Let me tend to you."
Addie's silence stretches heavy, undecided. So he kisses her, deep and yearning and edged with the recklessness she loves.
"You don't need to," Addie says. Still protesting.
Someday, he hopes she will learn how to accept all the ways he loves her.
"I wish to." Caspian slides down to kiss her stomach. His heart warms as Addie sighs, pleasure creeping towards contentment. "Let me give you this."
Caspian has won a war, claimed a crown, sat on the throne his father's blood gives him the right to. But no victory, no crown, no throne brings half the joy as Addie's surrender, hard-won and precarious and even more precious for how rare it is.
Caspian massages every part of her Addie allows until a sharp knock heralds the day's responsibilities.
As he kisses Addie's stomach one last time, he imagines, fleetingly, a rounder swell.
Addie
After dance lessons - fun made a chore by cramps and persistent soreness in her back - Addie asks Queen Lucy discreetly about Caspian.
"I'm worried," Addie says. "He seems…"
Lucy's blue eyes soften with understanding. "On edge?"
Addie glances around the near-empty ballroom; sound carries here. She palms open the door and murmurs over the creak.
"Yes," she says. "He's… not sleeping well."
Queen Lucy links their arms and sweeps into the flow of foot traffic, perfectly at home in the bustle.
"We should speak with my brother," Lucy says. "He's considering a career in medicine, you know."
Addie falls into step. If Queen Lucy knows how to help Caspian - or her brother does - she'll follow her anywhere. She covered last night's mishap with a blend of powder, but all day, she's thought of little but the look on Caspian's face when he saw her neck.
It's superficial, wholly unworthy of notice or guilt. She's given herself a dozen worse cuts rushing with Perla's knives. It's nothing.
But Caspian's guilty eyes will make this tiny cut fester.
Addie dodges a pair of manservants before realising they've stepped out of her path first.
"Which brother?"
Queen Lucy pats her arm. "Peter. You met a few days ago, yes?"
"Briefly." Addie says. Officially, she probably met High King Peter at the dinner Caspian invited her to, for reasons she tries not to think about. "He won't mind?"
Lucy looks at her strangely as they turn into another hallway, stepping aside for a faun trotting past, arms overflowing with scrolls.
"Of course not," Queen Lucy says. "Why would he?"
Why wouldn't he? High King Peter must be as busy as Caspian - or nearly.
Yet, so are Queen Lucy and Queen Susan, and in daylight, Addie can hardly take five steps without one of them beside her. Queen Susan even came with her to this morning's fitting, however frivolous it seemed.
Royals don't fret over each other's busy schedules. They simply state the need and make time if they think it's important. And Caspian is important.
Addie swallows insecurity and papers over her nerves with gratitude.
"Lady Adelina, isn't it? Forgive me, there are so many new names."
Across the sunroom, High King Peter approaches with an affable grin at odds with the age reflected in his ice-blue eyes, his hand extended.
Addie shakes his hand before she remembers to curtsy. High King Peter either doesn't notice or care for the breach in etiquette; he calls a farewell to two centaurs and gestures to an armchair angled in front of the open window, polished wood gleaming in the afternoon sun.
Addie waits until Queen Lucy sinks into a third chair before sitting. The High King follows suit, sitting across from her.
"You didn't really forget my name," Addie guesses. "Did you?"
High King Peter's blue eyes sharpen, his smile widening and flashing straight teeth. "No, I did not."
A ruse designed to disarm her or set her at ease. Royals have reasons for both, but a High King wouldn't bother with disarming.
It was an attempt to reassure. A courtesy, of sorts.
Royals and their damned etiquette.
Addie glances at Lucy, but the younger queen waves her on.
No sense mincing words.
"I'm worried about Caspian," Addie blurts. "He's… stressed. I know he just led a war, but I…" I hate seeing him like this. "I don't know how to help…" Addie clears her throat. She's just trying to be useful, be helpful. There's no weakness, no soft underbelly waiting to be cut in that. "Him. How to help him."
"She's right," says Queen Lucy. "At council, yesterday? You saw."
Addie tries not to stare. She shouldn't be surprised Queen Lucy noticed Caspian startle and reach for his hip.
"Caspian did that before the war, too," Addie says. In those last weeks, she rarely saw Caspian without a dagger within reach; if she timed her entry wrong and he heard the distant rattle of guards' chainmail, Caspian jumped up, dagger in hand, until he saw it was her and the bookshelf slid closed. "It's just worse now. Not that it doesn't make sense, it's perfectly rational, but -"
High King Peter lifts a hand, palm out, and Addie's voice fades. The High King led a war, too - several, in the Golden Age. He must know how to drive away battle ghosts and the shadow of assassins.
"Back in Engl- well, Spare Oom - doctors called it shell shock. Soldiers returned from the war haunted." The blond king leans back and steeples his fingers. "You might recognise the symptoms: fatigue, nightmares, hyper-vigilance bordering on paranoia."
Addie's nails dig into her palms, fists hidden in her skirt. "Caspian's always had nightmares."
High King Peter trades a look with Lucy. She speaks next, a welcome familiarity.
"You tended the wounded with me. When you close your eyes, do you ever see them?"
Addie shifts. Caspian seems… the war affected him more, surely. He led it, and he spent more time on the battlefield than she did.
"Sometimes," Addie says. "I see flashes, wonder if I could've saved more if I knew what I was doing, but it's past. Nothing for it, now."
Lucy and her brother trade another glance.
"I imagine the castle was dangerous when you escaped," says Queen Lucy - an entirely obvious statement. "Do you ever think about that?"
Addie sits straighter, rolling a kink from her right shoulder. The sound in the hall is the bustle of servants, of slippers and hooves and wooden clogs on stone. No crossbows.
"Not much."
Lucy tilts her head. "And the How? The Stone Table? Do you ever think of those?"
Phantom warmth seeps down her neck, an itch scrabbling to life under her jaw. She's cold, too cold, an icy edge sharp at her throat, and she can't breathe -
Not real, not real. She is in Caspian's castle, sitting on a plush armchair warmed by the afternoon sun. She is in a noble's dress she didn't pay for, and she is wearing slippers that pinch her pinkie toes.
Addie forces her hands back to her lap, because it's not polite to scratch her neck when it itches. What would Nadni say?
Perla wouldn't care.
"What does any of that have to do with Caspian?" Addie snaps. "He's the one I'm worried about. I just need to help him, so how do I do that?"
High King Peter rests his elbows on his knees, bright blue eyes unblinking like he just read her mind, which is ridiculous.
"You should talk to him about it, if he's willing."
Bitterness steals her tongue too fast to swallow.
"Caspian doesn't really talk to me about those kinds of things," Addie says, forcing a shrug. "I think he thinks he's protecting me."
Somehow, Caspian got to thinking that's what he needs to do for her. It's his way of loving her.
"I believe you're correct," says the High King.
Of course she is, but that doesn't solve the problem.
"What else?"
"A sleep aid, perhaps," says Queen Lucy. "Some may help with nightmares."
That's something; bringing Caspian tea when she comes to him at night is easy enough. The castle healers must have a blend, or know how to make one.
"I'll see to that," Addie says. That's two things: knocking and a sleep tea. Perhaps a third, if Caspian ever deigns to tell her about his nightmares like he used to. "What else?"
"In truth?" The High King's gaze is piercing, like he's trying to decide what kind of person she really is - and how much he can tell her. "The best you can do is be there. Caspian is much calmer when you're nearby. The rest is up to him."
Last night's cut stings a contradiction. Caspian wasn't calm last night. When Addie closes her eyes, she sees his, wild and wide in the darkness.
Queen Lucy rests a hand on Addie's fist. The queen has the face of a young girl, but her touch feels a little like Lola's - warm with understanding. An invitation, though Addie's not sure to what.
"Time will help," says Lucy. "Truly, it will. You're both still settling in, and I think the assembly tomorrow will help."
Addie finds a smile. She's learned a few useful things, and a few is better than nothing.
"I hope so."
Caspian
Caspian forgoes afternoon tea in favour of the castle library. Sunlight streams through the diamond-patterned windows, deceptively welcoming when the heat outside is stifling. A good spar might help his tense shoulders, his restless hands, but what time has he for sparring now? The coronation ball is tonight, the assembly is tomorrow morning, and a ruby ring sits in his palm. Red, for the fire she stokes in him.
He has no idea how to ask.
Part of him wonders if he even should. Does it matter if he wants to, wants it so desperately he can hardly breathe from anticipation? He will be asking Addie if this life she's lived in the past few days is what she wants for all her days. He will be asking, in a way, if her love for him and his for her is enough to outweigh the pressures of his court, of a crown and a throne and a kingdom.
Caspian regards the ring, the twinkle of the expertly cut gem flashing a rainbow of red in the sunlight. It's a ring worthy of a queen, as he commissioned, but…
He can't guess what Addie will say. She's barely settled in; this evening might be too soon.
The sound of footsteps cracks past Caspian's musings. The door clicks open and he jumps to stand, one hand fisting over the ring and the other flying to his hip.
High King Peter enters, hair gleaming burnished gold and posture tall, unflinching as Caspian forces his to unclench, to abandon his dagger hilt. Shame heats his neck - a familiar, stinging companion.
"I did that too," says the High King. "After the Battle of Beruna."
"You did?"
Caspian wipes sweaty palms on his trousers, blinking at this King of Old who can't be more than a year his senior. It seems impossible that High King Peter the Magnificent, the same man whom Aslan gave dominion over the clear, northern sky, ever felt so… frightened.
Perhaps even storybook heroes are as human as he.
High King Peter crosses the room, striding tall and sure past towering stacks of leather-bound tomes and half-empty shelves. Doctor Cornelius will need days yet to finish sorting the library, deciding which Telmarine books belong in storage and gathering Narnian books to fill these shelves.
The High King stops at the window, face turned into the sun. Library dust drifts through the golden light - a ghost of a crown lost to the ages. The bookshelf to his left is one of the few full rows, where Doctor Cornelius organised tales of the Golden Age. It's not hard to imagine High King Peter stepped from the very pages.
"I did," he confirms. "Had a devil of a time sleeping, too."
Caspian clasps his hands behind him. Are the circles under his eyes so obvious?
The High King follows suit, thumbs cradled in his palms. "Battle changes a man. When you've seen and meted out death… it lingers. Yes?"
Caspian swallows roughly. "Yes."
When he closes his eyes, the battlefield stretches out before him, rancid with the stench of death and blood, echoing with the cries of the wounded. Telmarine and Narnian bodies alike, enemies and friends, people he killed and people who would have killed him.
Yet, callous as it is, killing his fellow Telmarines is not what haunts him. Caspian remembers their faces, still hears the crunch of blade through skin and sinew, but worse are the casualties of his orders - deaths of his own soldiers, of the Narnians who trusted him enough to accept his leadership and paid with their lives.
The war is won, and he will always be grateful. He'd be a fool not to feel some satisfaction at victory, at this new, more just Narnia he and the Narnians can now build.
But he can't help but wonder if he had been wiser, a better strategist, more patient, trusted in Aslan more, if more Narnians would be here. If he had simply been better, how many lives could he have spared?
Caspian says as much before he thinks better of it. Surely - perhaps - High King Peter might understand.
Blue eyes as bright as a sunlit ocean halt Caspian's temptation to fidget.
Caspian swallows. "You understand."
"Yes, I do."
With a sigh heavy under years of wisdom, High King Peter turns to face him and sits on the windowsill. "It can't be helped, I think. Any leader who loves their people would feel as you do." His grave expression flickers, as if weighing his every word. "Aslan would not have given His blessing if you weren't ready."
Caspian bites back a frown. Aslan gave His blessing and reiterated it when Caspian came with doubts. That ought to be enough.
In the preceding weeks, where was Aslan? If Caspian is as ready as Aslan and High King Peter think, was there not a better way to learn the kingship than so many losses, so much blood?
What would have been Narnia's fate had Aslan never come?
Caspian knows he's dwelling on the past, the precise thing High King Peter advised him against, but how can he not?
"Before you arrived," Caspian says. "It was my decisions that cost so many lives."
"And your uncle's," says the High King. "The burdens of the crown are heavy enough. Don't take on others' malice as your mistakes."
Addie would agree; she said something similar about Nikabrik.
Not every brush with death is your fault.
King Peter's firm expression softens - attempted reassurance. "Aslan guides us, but we must all make our own choices. Miraz made his, and he paid the price for his tyranny. You have made your choices, as you will for years to come - for yourself and now for all of Narnia."
A terrifying, if motivating, thought.
"You cannot dwell too much on the past," he continues. "Your people need you looking to the future, not regretting every step along the way."
"I'm trying," Caspian says. "Truly I am. But at night…"
The High King nods. "In the Winter's War, we nearly lost Lucy in a river. We nearly lost Edmund to the Witch. And later, Susan was nearly forced into marriage. At night, it was their faces I saw. But when morning dawned, there they were, whole and safe."
Caspian flinches and says nothing. Early this morning, when he woke and Addie was there, he nearly…
No doubt all the Kings and Queens of Old faced dangers, but never at High King Peter's hand. That is the difference.
How is he to admit such a thing to this ancient king, the storybook hero whose tales he devoured as a child?
"For Ed, he saw the Witch," High King Peter continues. "Not so very often, and he bore as you do - in silence. After Beruna, Lu - she was so young, you know - woke crying for those she couldn't save in time. She and Su saw Aslan's sacrifice, too. And after Rabadash, Su's only now thinking of suitors again."
The blond king stands and clasps Caspian's shoulder, the strength of ages in his hand. "We all have ghosts, Caspian. Yours will pass as ours did. And when they resurface, you will outlast them just as we have."
Caspian nods agreement he barely believes. Yes, he will, because he must.
The High King's gaze sharpens as he tilts his head.
"And the…" Caspian's voice breaks. He steadies himself, remembers he is a king now and the man before him is the High King of all Narnia. "The guilt? That too will pass?"
King Peter's hand tightens. "As my brother will tell you, yes, it will pass - if you allow it. But guilt will paralyse you, and Narnia cannot afford a king mired in past mistakes."
"How am I to learn from the past if I don't understand it?"
"There is a difference between understanding and ruminating."
Caspian's gaze drops to his boots. That's… fair. Addie might call it wallowing.
Silence that ought to be awkward but isn't stretches, something close to camaraderie soothing Caspian's restless hands.
"How did you protect them? Your siblings?"
Because as much as he fears not being enough for Narnia, he is not alone in ruling; the Kings and Queens are here, Aslan is here, Doctor Cornelius and his advisors are here.
But who else is there but him to protect Addie? Doctor Cornelius did not, Marcos certainly did not. Even the Narnians stood by and let Addie push herself too far at the How.
Between Addie and the dangers of the court and the world, there is only him - and he has failed her several times by now.
High King Peter smiles. It's jarring; he has a wide, amiable smile, young and old and grounded and effortless all at once.
"Too much, in the beginning, perhaps. I smothered them at times." he says. "I learned to trust that as much as I could keep them safe, they were perfectly capable of the same."
Caspian can't summon an answering smile. This is a levity he can't relate to; Addie does not protect herself.
King Peter sobers. "We protected each other. We trusted each other. We shared all the dangers and burdens and joys of ruling together." He points to Caspian's left hand, his bare ring finger. "Share this burden, Caspian. You have us, you have Aslan. You have your council and your professor and a kingdom of two peoples. And you have her."
Not quite, Caspian thinks. He doesn't have Addie yet, not in entirely.
But soon.
Soon, he shall.
If she says yes.
A/N: I love exploring characters' trauma, don't you? Two chapters left in Monachopsis... who wants a cute Caslina dancing scene? 😇
Chapter 52 Preview:
"I still don't know what I'm doing," she mumbles. "So you'd better."
He barely does, and he tells her so. "Don't worry," Caspian says. "If it helps, we shall be fools together."