A/N: I appreciate y'all's patience while I finished this chapter! 62 clocked in at 7.3k, so right on target. If you have any final guesses about how Addie gets back, lock those in now because you'll know by the end of this chapter 👀 For any book fans out there, let me know if you recognize the route I chose!
Chapter 62 Content Warnings: mentions of parent death
Chapter 62: you dream alone
Addie
A train whistle echoes off the tunnel walls, piercing through the murmur of chatter and rolling luggage. Addie clutches her second suitcase's worn strap - used to be Mum's, now it's hers - and leans into Josie's arm. Josie agreed to store the third suitcase of keepsakes. But Mum's diaries are safe in Addie's.
"Send a letter when you arrive," says Ted from Addie's other side.
"Or a telegraph," says Josie, tugging on a curl by Addie's ear. "Telegraph is faster. You sure you have enough?"
Addie takes Josie's hand and nods at the heavy wallet tucked into her coat pocket. "More than enough."
Josie frowns, but purses her lips and says nothing.
"Josie," Addie says, grabbing Josie's free hand and kissing her knuckles. "I'll be fine. I'll send a telegram the minute I arrive."
Ted pats her back. "Please do, else we'll both be on the next train to Glastonbury."
The train screeches into the station, wheels whining as it grinds to a halt and the waiting travellers bottleneck at the doors.
Addie lingers at the back of the line, leans into the cradle of Ted and Josie's arms. It's not forever, only a few weeks, but her chest is tight.
Addie?
Addie whirls back, and for a moment there's a third face between Ted and Josie, and those eyes -
She blinks, and the mirage disappears.
The countryside will do her good. She's been seeing things ever since Mum passed.
A family of five fills in as Addie's hesitation opens a gap in the boarding line. Addie's luggage clatters to the platform as she throws her arms around Ted and Josie. Ted kisses her cheek and murmurs not to fret.
She looks beyond them, and for a moment, a moment, the mirage returns. Addie stares into eyes dark as a moonless night and there is warmth on her cheek and her heart is thundering and her lungs are burning and she wants, she wants -
All at once, there is nothing but strangers' faces passing by, busy with their own lives and loves and losses.
She's crazy. She's going mad with grief.
"Addie?" Josie's voice clears her head.
"Thank you," Addie whispers to Ted and Josie, still in her arms and real. "For everything."
She wants to list every memory, every meal Ted made these past weeks of mourning, every surprise visit from Josie, every time they were simply there. Every time they reminded her that she's not alone in London's unending bustle.
Josie hugs her tighter. "Don't be silly. We'll see you soon."
"Whenever you're ready," Ted says, his arms falling away. "Take what time you need out there."
The conductors shout the final boarding call. Addie wipes her cheeks, grabs her luggage, and rushes to the nearest train car, ticket in hand.
Don't look back; it's only for a little while. A few weeks to clear her head.
Addie gives the conductor her ticket and leaps aboard just as the train whistles its departure. When she glances back, Ted and Josie are waving from the platform, arms around each other's waists. Behind them, London hurries on - men with briefcases, women in low heels, older children in school uniforms rushing up the stairs.
Addie blows a kiss and waves until Ted and Josie fade from sight.
Caspian
The next island the Dawn Treader finds is a magician's purview, and Coriakin is a welcoming host. The Dufflepuds are the island's other inhabitants - one-legged dwarf-like creatures who agree with everyone that utters a word (except Coriakin) and do not possess great intellects (or common sense). But they welcome the Dawn Treader's crew and that is all Caspian desires.
After such hospitality of feasts, lodging in Coriakin's mansion, and a magical map depicting their voyage thus far, Caspian has no right to steal through the halls like a thief in the night. He ought to conjure a plausible excuse to see the book- perhaps to seek information on the blue star Coriakin bid him to follow eastward - and ask properly. If he asked to see the spell book Lucy found, he doesn't doubt Coriakin would oblige.
He'd rather Coriakin doesn't know. He'd rather no one knows.
It is past midnight, he can't sleep, and ever since Deathwater, his internal fortress has cracked.
These three years, he's been so careful not to think of the last time he saw Aslan.
Even now, if Caspian thinks of the Lion, his old heartbreak throbs fresh and raw as if his efforts to mend it have been for naught.
The last time Aslan appeared, Caspian lost someone. He thought there was no one left to lose, but then Lucy and Edmund returned. He's tried not to grow attached or think of them as siblings he never had. Though Caspian listens to their advice and stories, welcomes their company on this adventure, he hasn't allowed himself to feel more than that, and for good reason.
Aslan's appearance means soon, the two Pevensies and their frustrating, grudgingly improving cousin will leave.
Their impending departure should not rattle him. He's survived greater losses.
Caspian creeps into Coriakin's library undetected and there before him lies the Book of Incantations on a pedestal, its leather cover closed and title scrambled just as Lucy described.
He shouldn't.
He shouldn't. Magic has never done him any good.
He must.
Clutching the pedestal's edge, Caspian blows on the cover, waits as the title organises itself, and carefully opens the book. Lucy mentioned reading a glorious story she couldn't remember, a spell for snow, and the spell to make the unseen seen, but this thick tome holds much more.
Oblivion. Freedom. Peace, perhaps.
Caspian flips past spells for battlefield prowess, to know a loved one's last thought, to pass unseen at a wish, immunity to all poisons, to hear another's thoughts for a day, to know whether anyone is speaking true. All useful and tempting, but not what he needs.
He needs to forget. He needs to carve out this rot, to draw the poison from his heart and make it beat for his kingdom alone.
A spell for a final farewell with the one you miss most.
The four-line spell is written in swooping calligraphy on the left page. On the right, a gilded frame on a blank page stares back. The paper wavers, like a still lake disturbed by a breeze.
Caspian traces the spell's title. Not quite what he wanted, but it's close. Perhaps closure is as good as forgetting.
No, he still must forget. A last farewell, then he will turn every page in this book until he finds a forgetting spell. He will tear through every tome in this library if it will grant him peace.
Caspian clears his throat and utters the spell carefully, following each word with his finger. He may see his parents he was too young to know, and magic is too dangerous to cast a spell carelessly.
The right page ripples, darkens, and either the book is growing or Caspian himself is shrinking. He stares, refusing to blink, expecting the Telmarine castle to appear on the paper and his father's face to stare back at him, a mirror he never got to see.
Caspian's eyes water, and he blinks.
When his eyes open, Caspian finds himself in a strange tunnel surrounded by people in drab coats and brimmed hats rushing into windowed carts with metal walls and roofs. He dodges a mother running toward the nearest grey cart with her wailing child. In the clamour, a man walks through him, somehow, as though he were mist.
Caspian looks down, and his hand, arm, all his body that he can see is transparent, barely there and apparently imperceptible to everyone else.
Dozens of strangers' voices ring past his ears as he spins, punctuated by shouting men in flat, front-brimmed hats waving papers and a greyish haze obscuring sight.
Where is he? If he didn't know better, he might think this scene looks how Lucy described train stations in -
Impossible.
Caspian stops, and everything inside him stills in shock.
Because he sees her.
He swore to forget, he wants to forget, but even now, he knows her shape as well as he knows his own - even under that worn coat, even with her hair cut short, barely longer than her hat.
Her name falls from his lips like a prayer and a curse, tainted with a question because it's been three and a half years and it's possible he's mistaken, that the spell was faulty or he said it wrong despite his caution.
The woman he thinks is Addie turns.
Why? Why did the spell bring him here, to her, of all people?
She is not the person he misses most. Adelina taught him how to never miss anyone again.
He should have known better than to trust magic. It's only good for ice, blood, and rot.
Caspian wills himself motionless as Addie runs into the arms of a young woman and a young man, her eyes moist. The young man - boy, really, reeking of a puppy's pining - tells her not to fret and kisses her cheek, an easy familiarity Addie leans into.
Caspian forces a measured breath. He should have expected she'd move on.
How quickly she managed it. How easily she forgot.
She is the one who left. He shouldn't be surprised.
Yet the heart is a stubborn thing; Addie's eyes lock on his (Lion's Mane, can she see him, too?) and Caspian sees his own ghostly hand reaching out, driven by memories he thought long banished.
Damn him, he is not so strong as he thought.
The curve of her cheek fits into his palm like a puzzle, warm and -
No!
Caspian shakes his head, blinks, and Coriakin's dimly lit library wraps around him as if he never left it. The Book of Incantations lies beneath his palm, its pages as solid as his own hand. As impassable as twin trunks twisted shut.
Caspian stumbles back and falls to his knees, but to his relief, he does not weep. A chill trickles down his arms, and the cool, dry air of the library caresses his cheek.
Magic is cruel.
He stares into the tile floor and into nothing, remembering the kiss another man laid on Addie's cheek, how eagerly she ran to him and the woman and threw her arms around them. She left, and she has clearly moved on and found happiness outside Narnia.
Good. Let her have her life in England. He has the crown and a peaceful kingdom he fought wars to win and protect. He has everything a king could want.
Caspian leaves the Book and the vicious temptations of magic behind, and he does not look back.
Addie
Mrs Shaw is waiting at the Glastonbury station with the horse and cart. Good old Piper - the chestnut Josie and Ollie used to sneak apples to - stands with a back hoof cocked, eyes half-closed, and her lower lip twitching. Her ears and muzzle are speckled white now.
Mrs Shaw jogs to the platform the moment Addie disembarks. Addie sprints to meet her, dropping her suitcase to throw her arms around the shorter woman. Much like Piper, Mrs Shaw's long braid is streaked with grey. But her grip is strong, unchanged by the years.
After a hug that crushes the breath from Addie's lungs, Mrs Shaw pulls back and looks her up and down.
"Look at you, child, all grown." Mrs Shaw pinches her cheek, a smile crinkling the wrinkles around her eyes and mouth. "No more baby fat. How old are you now?"
Addie's smile comes easily, as naturally as breathing. It's good - to return to something.
"Twenty-one. Twenty-two in the spring."
She picks up her suitcase and lifts it carefully into the back of the cart. From what she remembers Piper rarely spooks, but if Addie had a cart strapped to her harness, she wouldn't appreciate unnecessary jostling.
After Addie dashes into the telegram office - a new addition, the only building in town not covered in ivy and fading paint - and sends her promised message to Ted and Josie, Addie joins Mrs Shaw in the cart as she takes up the reins and clicks Piper to a walk.
"We'll have to celebrate before you go back to that stinking city. I'd not deprive your mother of your company on the big day, however much I'd like to. You've been good to her, yes?"
Addie's throat seizes. In her letters, she didn't mention Mum's death. She knew she ought to, but the words wouldn't come and her tears ruined the paper when she tried to force them.
The grief, the loss… it belonged to her. Still does. There's comfort, intimacy, in holding the worst of it close to her heart, away from others' eyes, whether prying or well-meaning.
Addie clutches the cart's edge white-knuckle tight. "Mum wouldn't mind," she manages. "Though Ted and Josie might."
The cart rattles over a dip in the road. Mrs Shaw's glance rests heavy on her profile, though Addie keeps her eyes straight ahead.
"Mum died," Addie murmurs. "Few months ago. I think… I think I wasn't so good as I could have been."
Mrs Shaw stops Piper with a sharp "whoa." The cart slows, rattling wheels halting and leaving nothing but chirping birds and wind-rustled trees to hide Addie's admission.
"Oh, child." Mrs Shaw drops the reins and opens her arms, an invitation that burns deep in Addie's chest. "Come here."
Addie falls into wiry arms made strong from years of farm work and wills herself not to cry.
Mrs Shaw strokes her back and pats her head, coaxing free the tangle of grief and regret and those ugly threads of anger at her own helplessness in Addie's stomach. Anger at Mum, for waiting too long for the doctor and hospital, for hiding her sickness so long, for working herself into an early grave and insisting she was fine when she wasn't. For not letting Addie help sooner - or at all, really.
Addie blubbers out a half-formed explanation, a messy and nonsensical string of confessions Mrs Shaw shushes.
"I could've got that second job sooner," Addie sniffles. "I could've convinced her to go to the hospital earlier, see the doctor, or maybe just -"
"Shh, shh." Mrs Shaw's rough thumb wipes away Addie's tears. "None of that. Is this what she'd want?"
Addie shakes her head, but the pangs in her heart linger. Josie told her the same, and Ted said that imagining all the shoulds and could-haves would only make her feel worse.
London numbed her. It was easier to let the city's frenetic hum hollow her out.
Here, under the bright sunlight undimmed by smog, there's no escaping it - the knowledge that when she returns to London, she will have no family waiting for her.
She could have done more.
"You did right, coming here," says Mrs Shaw, patting Addie's wet cheek. "Come now, let the country air clear your mind."
Addie sits up and scrubs the tears from her face as Mrs Shaw urges Piper onward. This distance from the city - from the place she lost Mum - will be a good thing.
Her grief has burrowed inward like the roots of a towering, twisted oak. She can't lose it because that'll be like losing Mum all over again, but maybe here, she can learn to breathe through it. Transform it into a keepsake to treasure instead a festering wound.
It's a relief to work with her hands again. To milk cows and churn butter and tend the herb garden until her shoulders ache and her arms are jelly. To help Mr Shaw feed the cows and horses and chickens, heaving hay bales over fences and measuring feed into buckets. The barn reeks, but Addie prefers the earthiness of barn stink to London's metallic, industrial stench.
The only thing missing is Josie. Maybe she and Ted can visit for a few days; yesterday, over dinner, Mrs Shaw tutted that Addie's the first and only of the four children to return.
A hard day's work on the farm should leave her exhausted and send her into a dreamless sleep. Addie stayed late in the barn repairing a harness with Mr Shaw so she would fall into bed the moment her head met the pillow.
Instead, Addie lies awake with the quilt tucked up to her chin, staring at the ceiling and listening to the distant roll of thunder. Her limbs are already stiffening into soreness from the day's work, and her fingers ache from chores she hasn't practised in years. Yet every time Addie closes her eyes, her mind won't rest.
She saw him.
For half a heartbeat, she felt him.
She's losing her mind.
If Josie were here, they'd sneak out for old times' sake and tell each other fairy tales as they wandered through the trees. After a few mishaps when Mr Shaw rode out to find them stumbling around lost past midnight, they learned to find their way.
Sometimes, when Addie wandered alone through the trees, she felt…
She imagined.
Nothing more.
A flash of lightning brightens Addie's bedroom, illuminating the treeline beyond her window. The thunder rumbles softly ten seconds later, and the rain hasn't yet arrived.
Addie drums her fingers on the quilt, her cuticle snagging on a loose thread.
She's not a child anymore, and going adventuring in the forest while a storm's on the way is a childish thing to do - to say nothing of foolish. After years away, she'd likely get lost and spend all night and early morning trying to find her way back.
Another white flash, another delayed roll of thunder.
Addie throws off the covers and shoves on her rain boots.
The blustery autumn air is thick and humid with the approaching storm. The clouds have covered the moon and wrapped the countryside in darkness; Addie clicks on her torch before she steps off the porch, grateful Josie insisted on buying a new one. Addie checks her coat pocket once more for the map she snagged from Mr Shaw's collection and sets out for the trees with the wind tugging at her coat, urging her along.
The trees rustle as she steps into the forest, greeting her like old friends. Shadows lie thick between their trunks, a cosy reminder of hide-and-seek and afternoons hiding up in the boughs. The darkness whispers of secrets, of childhood memories and something else. Something like longing, murmured in a language Addie can't parse.
As a child, she swore the wind whispered to her, carrying secrets she could never quite understand.
Silly nonsense. She's hearing things, imagining ghosts in the dark.
Childish.
Addie breathes in the smell of damp leaves and moss, of weathered trees and the sharp promise of the coming winter. If she hadn't promised to spend Christmas with Josie, she might ask Mrs Shaw if she could stay here.
Lightning flashes, chased by booming thunder much closer than she thought. Addie barely pulls her hood up before the sky splits open, dumping rain in thick, lashing sheets that soak her in seconds. Addie shivers and crosses her arms over her chest, tucking her fingers into her armpits. A sensible person would turn back and hang her wet things to dry in the washroom.
A little rain never hurt anyone. Henry and Ollie - the two redheaded mischief-makers and fellow evacuees - used to play tag in the rain. Her first night, Addie wandered all the way to Glastonbury in a storm worse than this.
As Mrs Shaw's said a thousand times, she's not a sensible girl.
A whistling wind gusts past, clearing the ground mist as lightning illuminates a path through the undergrowth.
Foolish; she should turn back, dry off, and let the storm lull her to sleep.
Instead, when the wind blows again, pushing between her shoulder blades like a hand, Addie obeys.
The wind guides her on a snaking path through the trees, around gnarled roots, carpet-thick moss, and patches of wild heather. Sometimes in the darkness between lightning, Addie swears she hears a voice, and she tastes cinnamon.
Every time she looks, there's no one there.
When she reaches a wall of tangled ivy, the wind stops. Addie peers through the leaves and finds more forest exactly like the one at her back. She's wandered in a giant circle.
The farmhouse must lie half a mile or so behind her, toward the rain's tail. It's a fast-moving storm to have come up on her so quickly.
Spice blooms in her mouth, too much of a good thing, sucking the moisture from her tongue. Addie coughs and turns back toward the farm.
At once, the wind returns, blasting rain into her face. Addie tumbles through the ivy curtain, almost landing on her arse in the mud before she catches herself.
"Oh bugger off!"
Perfect, now she's yelling at the wind. She really is loose in the head.
Addie braces against a tree as the wind gusts again, as insistent as she once was convincing Josie to keep exploring the forest after dark. A crack of lightning - immediate thunder, pain in her ears - illuminates a small clearing surrounding stone stairs to…
To nowhere. There's no house, no tower, no building or mark of civilisation. The steps end at twice her height - three and a half metres, thereabouts - and they lead to nothing but air.
A dull ache sprouts at the base of her skull. She's seen these before, years ago.
Once upon a time, a young girl climbed these steps, and she fell.
Once, these were stairs to somewhere.
A child's imaginings. No more real than the fairy tales she used to read with Josie, as fictitious as the boy - man - prince - in her sketchbook.
Rain lashes her left side, then her back as Addie turns to shield her face. She goes to the stairs for protection from the wind. They're carved into a towering boulder cut straight on the sides that widens at the base, as if it grew up from the earth. There… she remembers there should be a tall oak at the far end. A decent haven until the storm subsides.
A rough-cut stump is all she finds, as wide as she is tall and splintered on one end. The sight of it catches in her throat, lances through her chest, buckles her knees. Addie kneels in the mud amid a lightning-crack of pain and her name and a hand on her sleeve, the plea of a heart breaking, and she knows, she knows -
Addie, no!
Run. I will not stand in your way.
I have known grief, too.
No. No!
Addie scrambles away. Her cheeks are wet from the rain, from this storm she stupidly stumbled into. That's all.
The wind picks up again, clearing the fog obscuring the stairs and prodding her toward the first step.
They're stairs to nowhere.
Nowhere.
She is not the girl she was.
Addie fights the wind and rain and undergrowth back the way she came, coughing as her throat burns with cinnamon.
This is foolishness.
By the time she finds a path out of the forest, dawn is breaking through the wispy clouds left after the storm. Addie slogs through the muddy trail past the cow pastures and finds Mrs Shaw glowering on the porch, hands on her hips and narrow nostrils flared.
"Bloody saints, child, where have you been?"
Grimacing, Addie wipes her mud-caked boots on the grass and trudges up to the house. She's not a child anymore - hasn't been for a while.
"Couldn't sleep," Addie says, washing her boots in the water pump by the porch. "Storm caught me. I got a bit turned around."
Mrs Shaw's face reddens. "Turned around? You were out all night, scared us half to death!"
Addie winces through a prick of guilt. Mrs Shaw's scolding is sharper than mere annoyance, and Addie hates to have worried her.
"I was just exploring. Like old times."
Addie shakes off her wet boots and leaves them by the porch stairs. She'll clean them later.
Mrs Shaw swats her arm. "Explore as you will - Lord knows there's plenty to see, and don't think I've forgotten how you wandered as a wee thing - but spare a thought for my nerves and leave a note next time. Ride out on Piper; at least she knows the way home."
Addie mumbles a tired apology and half-hearted agreement she doesn't quite mean. Piper's old and shouldn't have to plod through the forest and rain just because she can't sleep.
Mrs Shaw blows an exhale through pursed lips, the tension slowly bleeding out of her shoulders. "Alright, into the house. Leave your coat here, and straight into the tub with the rest of you. I suppose I should be flattered - London didn't grind the country girl out of you."
Addie shrugs off her coat and scuttles inside.
No more adventures.
She is not a child anymore.
The weeks pass. Freckles and a light tan overtake Addie's city-pale skin, and her sore muscles relearn the rhythm of the farm, trading aches for strength. It's a good life - a quiet life of hard work in exchange for room and board - that keeps her mind busy. Keeps it from wandering places Addie doesn't want it to go.
"We could use hands like yours around here," Mrs Shaw says over breakfast on an overcast November morning.
Addie stalls with a towering forkful of eggs and sausage. The farm is more peaceful than London, its business centred around subsistence rather than train schedules and factory shifts, and she's grateful to be here, but…
"Josie might protest," she says - an excuse, but true enough.
Mrs Shaw huffs and tops off her cup of tea. "Just think about it."
Caspian
The Dawn Treader sails from Coriakin's Island to an island of darkness, where they find a wild-eyed man haunted witless after decades trapped alone. The man is Lord Rhoop, and he bids them flee from the place at once.
"This is the Island where dreams come true! Not daydreams, Dreams!"
Every person aboard scrambles to their posts; everyone has dreams that haunt them, terrors of the night they could not fathom facing in their waking hours.
Caspian sees ghosts he would give his sword arm to forget. A disappointed father, a grieving mother, and…
And her.
Again.
Will he never be free of her?
Five, ten, fifteen minutes of rowing, and still the darkness stretches. Murmurs of "We shall never get out" and "It's no use, we're going in circles" sweep the ship, but just then, a white albatross shining as bright as a star cuts through the gloom. The bird calls out in a strong, sweet voice Caspian doesn't understand. By the mast, Lucy watches the albatross with euphoria Caspian can only wish for.
Drinian steers the Dawn Treader to follow the bird, and Caspian tries to feel something. By Lucy's reaction, this is an incarnation of Aslan. He should be glad, or relieved, or hopeful, or just quietly filled with faith.
Caspian watches the albatross fly into the sun and disappear the moment the ship enters daylight, and the only thing he feels is emptiness. And a prick of pain.
He glances at his hands and finds a splinter digging into his palm.
Caspian digs it out, tosses it into the waves, and orders Drinian to continue following the blue star east.
The blue star leads them to an island of rolling hills and verdant forests, painted so red by the sunset that it seems afire until the Dawn Treader puts in at a cape and a cliff's shadow shields them from the sun. At the isle's heart, they find the final three lords sleeping at a table spread with a feast worthy of kings - towers of fresh fruit, steaming honey bread, roast fish and blackened pheasant and cold cuts of venison, cuts of boar and turkeys and duck, decanters of garnet-red wine, ice puddings, grilled salmon with candied lemons. Even Caspian's annual feasts have not come close to this abundance.
He orders his crew to touch none of it; the air of magic lies thick over the island, and he knows too well what trouble magic wreaks.
That island is the beginning of the end.
The blue star descends in human form and tells them how to wake the sleeping lords, and for a wild moment, Caspian thinks he should order everyone back to the ship and set sail west for Narnia. Surely Lucy and Edmund would not object; is not Narnia their home? Even Eustace is adapting well enough.
Because if this star who calls herself the daughter of Ramandu speaks true - he cannot look at her face and think otherwise - then the Dawn Treader must sail to the world's end and return having left one of their company behind.
Reepicheep volunteers, of course; the mouse has spoken of little else this voyage but the Utter East.
Then the star calls this place the Table of Aslan and Caspian knows what lies ahead.
Deathwater. The albatross. And now, the table.
Aslan is calling the Pevensies home to their world. Why else has He appeared twice in the same month, while Caspian has prayed for years and seen nothing?
That evening, after he's told the crew their task and bid anyone who wishes to stay behind to wait on the island until the Dawn Treader returns, Caspian tries to warn them. Eustace doesn't understand the gravity, Lucy is too caught up dreaming of Aslan's Country in the east, and Edmund merely hums to himself and says nothing.
Caspian swallows bitterness down his pinched throat and steels himself.
He has survived loss before. He will again.
But he is tired of it all the same.
After departing Ramandu's Island, the Dawn Treader's journey to the world's end takes them into sweet waters, blinding sunlight, and a lake of lilies. When the water is too shallow for the ship, Caspian takes the longboat with Lucy, Edmund, Eustace, and Reepicheep.
There's no sense of time as they row through the lilies, and there is no ache in Caspian's shoulders no matter how far they travel from the Dawn Treader. The lilies end at a strip of white sand that stretches as far as the eye can see in either direction and meets a curled wave as tall as a castle parapet. Though the wave curls forward as if about to crest and white froth edges its peak, it never falls.
It is there, at the very end of the world, that he loses them.
He knew he would.
First, Reepicheep. Aslan appears on the sands and grants the mouse's request to see His Country, and so off Reepicheep goes in his little coracle up the wave, over the edge, and beyond. Caspian stares at the rushing, crystalline water and wonders if his father and mother are there, but he doesn't ask. Even if they are, he cannot go to them.
He has duties. He has sworn to be Narnia's king, and so he must.
When Reepicheep has paddled beyond sight, Aslan turns to the Pevensies.
"Children," He says.
Edmund bows, unsurprised, but Lucy's smile drops.
"Aslan, you can't mean… but… oh, this is our last time, isn't it?"
"Yes, dear one," says the Lion.
Caspian's eyes sting. He blinks it away as Aslan roars at the wave and the sound carves a tunnel through the water.
He knew this was coming. Knowing was supposed to make it more bearable.
It doesn't.
Caspian hugs them all, Eustace included, and tells them they are the closest thing he has to family. Because they are, and they would have been, if only they had stayed a little longer.
He never has enough time with people he loves.
Lucy hugs him fiercest, sniffling into his shoulder, and how lovely it would have been to grow up with a younger sister like Lucy.
"Do return to Ramandu's Island," Lucy whispers into his ear. "You deserve to be happy, Caspian."
Caspian hugs her tighter and swallows the lump in his throat. He must return to Ramandu's Island to offer the three sleeping lords - hopefully awakened, now that he will return having lost four instead of one - passage back to Narnia. Afterwards…
Narnia is happy. Narnia is at peace. Perhaps, in this life, he is not meant to have more than that.
Edmund hugs him longest. He claps Caspian's shoulder twice before squeezing so tightly Caspian can barely breathe.
"I'm glad Narnia has you to look after her," says Edmund. "But don't forget to look after yourself, too."
Caspian inhales shakily and promises to try.
Taking care of himself does not come so easily as taking care of Narnia.
Eustace shuffles for a bit before awkwardly stepping forward. Caspian thinks of every time Eustace scribbled in his diary, every time he complained. Every time he ran around the deck sparring with Reepicheep. How, as a dragon, Eustace kept them warm on the beach of Dragon Island and gathered enough supplies that they reached Coriakin's Island without crisis.
Caspian pulls the sandy-haired boy into a brief hug. "I consider you as much a part of my family as your cousins. Be good to them for me."
Eustace is red when Caspian steps away, but his eyes are moist. "Right, well then," says Eustace. "I will, I promise."
After a teary farewell to Aslan, the three children walk into the wave and Caspian is alone on the beach but for the Lion.
Caspian half-expects Him to disappear with the Pevensies.
Instead, when he turns to meet Aslan's gaze, Caspian almost wishes He had.
"Caspian," says the Lion. "These years have changed you."
Caspian grits his teeth. Of course they have; he became who he had to be for Narnia. What more could Aslan have wanted from him?
Aslan's tail flicks, disturbing the bone-white sand. "I commend what you have done for Narnia. Yet you have taken no queen."
Is Aslan concerned about succession? That Caspian has no heir?
Caspian's composure slips.
"In good time," he says, sharper than he ought. "Finding a suitable queen is no easy task."
Aslan hums and sits, tail curled around His body. "You still have not let her go."
The words strike harder than an arrow to the lung, robbing Caspian of breath.
If Aslan expected him to move on so quickly, He should have orchestrated a kinder parting.
"I have," Caspian counters hoarsely. "I had to. And I am still young."
Aslan blinks, His golden eyes burning bright as suns.
When he was a prince, Caspian would have fallen to his knees in equal measures fear and awe at this look on the Lion's face.
Now, he clasps his own hands until they crack and holds his peace.
"Not so young as you were," Aslan says. "But perhaps that is for the best." The Lion stands, taller than He seemed before, and nods at the empty longboat. "Go now and finish your quest. You will find the sleeping lords awake, and a swift western wind will bear your ship home."
Caspian bows stiffly and turns his back on the world's end. It will be a long, lonely row back to the ship.
Addie
Winter arrives with a mild chill and light frost disproportionate to the turbulent autumn. Addie delays her departure for another week before Josie writes to hurry her return in time for the winter holiday.
Addie packs her suitcase the next day and leaves the Shaws' Christmas presents on her bed with a note not to open until Christmas Eve. Mum always insisted on waiting until Christmas morning, but the Shaws' tradition is to open one present each on the Eve.
She doesn't promise a return. She still doesn't know what she wants.
Addie asks the forest the night before she leaves, breathing in the biting promise of rain and sleet. A stiff breeze tugs at her skirt and flattens the underbrush in a momentary path.
Addie does not follow. She watches and waits, haunting the treeline with indecision until the wind dies down and leaves the forest still and quiet.
There's nothing there but whispers and old stairs.
"I expect a letter twice monthly." Mrs Shaw pulls Addie into a fierce hug the moment the cart stops. "Don't you forget."
Addie clutches the older woman until her arms tremble. "When have I ever?"
With a pat on her head, Mrs Shaw slowly lets go. "Good girl."
Addie's throat is tight as she fetches her suitcase, stopping for a moment to pet Piper's soft muzzle.
"You be good too," Addie murmurs to the mare. Piper wiggles her lower lip and whuffles in reply, her breath warming Addie's palm.
The train chugs closer, its piercing whistle announcing its imminent arrival and the end of Addie's autumn holiday.
Addie sniffles against the cold. She's said goodbyes here before, and she returned. No reason to blub.
Ticket in hand, Addie grips her suitcase and ascends the three steps to the platform as the train whistles again.
"Adelaine!"
Addie spins around to find Mrs Shaw at the steps, her slender cheeks ruddy from the winter wind.
"I meant it," she says. "You are always welcome here."
There's nothing for it. Addie's lip wobbles, an annoyance because she was doing so well keeping herself under control, reminding herself this is temporary and goodbyes doesn't have to mean forever.
Addie's suitcase clatters to the platform as she jumps into Mrs Shaw's waiting arms, her cheeks wet despite her best efforts.
She's never been good at goodbyes. She doesn't think she ever wants to be.
Grip tight, Mrs Shaw pats her back and tugs Addie's hat tighter over her ears.
"Alright, off you go," she says, brushing imaginary dust from Addie's shoulders. "Don't miss your train."
At the conductor's call, Addie takes up her suitcase and boards with a handful of other passengers. She sits in a window seat and waves to Mrs Shaw until the train lurches onward and Glastonbury Station fades into the distance.
"Such a shame about that old house. Did you see how they tore up the grounds? Dreadful business, absolutely dreadful."
"All the professor's treasures auctioned off. Simply unacceptable, if you ask me."
The first woman tuts. "It was sold before, but to tear it down? Unnecessary and capricious."
Addie tunes out the chattering older women across from her and stares out the window, watching the countryside speed by. Her eyelids are heavy with the temptation of sleep, but the two women's lively conversation has proved too distracting.
The intercom crackles to life, the conductor's nasally chords echoing in the sparsely populated train car.
"Next stop, Romsey Station."
"Oh, Romsey, at last!"
Their thick winter coats rustle as the train slows, the bare-branched trees and grey sky giving way to a covered platform and white-washed walls. The train whines to a halt and whistles its arrival. The two women shuffle to the doors, their full skirts catching momentarily on an armrest.
"That Wickford boy best be on time," says the taller one with severe cheekbones and spectacles.
"Not to worry," trills the shorter one, hiking her fur-trimmed coat higher up her neck. "There he is now; see the holly on his hat. How festive!"
Addie rests her forehead on the chilled window. Christmas isn't for another three weeks; it's a bit early to be festive.
This will be her first Christmas without Mum. The first without their wreath of hand-picked fir branches from the tree trimmings. The first without making Gran's mince pies and pitching in with the neighbours for a Christmas goose.
The ladies' voices fade into the background, cut off by the train's whistle and new passengers shuffling to their seats and chattering about a white Christmas. Silly talk; England rarely has those.
"Excuse me, miss, is this yours?"
Addie blinks up a moustached man pointing to the seat the women just vacated. A wooden box the length of her hand with an apple tree carved into its lid sits on the faded navy cushion.
"Sorry, no," Addie says. "The ladies must've forgotten it."
The man regards the box. "Shame, that. Beautiful craftsmanship."
Addie bounces her heel. It is a shame; the box is lovely - detailed without needless ornamentation, polished like a treasured possession.
Outside, the two women hurry off the platform. A puff of steam momentarily blots them from sight, then reveals them greeting a man in a top hat.
It's a short dash.
Addie's up from her seat and grabbing the box before she can overthink it. Spirit of the season, goodwill, something like that.
The conductor calls a warning she ignores as she sprints past and leaps to the platform, calling after the ladies.
"Oi, you left your box!" Addie yells.
They don't seem to hear her. The man loads the ladies' bags into his automobile trunk.
The train whistles. Addie pumps her legs faster, clutching the box to her chest. The platform seems to stretch, lengthening as she runs.
"You forgot something!"
The taller lady steps into the car's backseat and sits primly, hands folded in her lap, as the man helps her companion settle in beside her.
When did this platform get so long? Addie breathes raggedly and squints through a steam cloud, coughing.
Metal grinds on metal, wheels screeching.
Addie skids to a stop at the platform's edge, nearly tipping over as she scans the street. She catches a brief flash of a car bumper and a fur coat through the back window before the traffic swallows it.
Behind her, the train groans. Addie spins around but it's too late, the train is moving already, too quickly to catch.
Bollocks, bollocks! Her suitcase, her keepsakes…
Addie sighs and tries to tuck the box into her coat pocket before realising it's too large. She remembers the train's number, at least, and she's not the first person to lose her luggage.
Head tucked against the wind, Addie goes inside and buys a ticket on the next train to London, relieved she kept her wallet in her coat.
Addie thanks the ticket master and takes her ticket. "One more thing - two ladies left this box behind."
The ticket master squints through his spectacles and scratches his grey stubble.
"Take it to the sheriff," he says. "He handles all that."
"Thanks," Addie says again, tucking her ticket into her breast pocket.
She sits on the bench closest to a radiator. She must have stood too close to the train; her ears are still ringing.
Addie rubs her chilled hands over the radiator's warmth, hissing when she ventures too close and burns her pinkie. A few minutes, then she'll go to the sheriff with the box.
The station slowly fills with waiting passengers - an elderly couple with hair like snow, rosy-cheeked mothers and doting or bored fathers wrangling fussy children. The room fills with the chaos of holiday travellers, and she's warm enough.
Addie trades the heat and restlessness of the ticket booth for a windswept walk down Main Street. The air is thick and festive with the scents of the holiday season - fresh-baked bread, roasted chestnuts, spiced gingerbread, mulled wine. Josie made her promise to make cinnamon buns for Christmas morning.
She'll be home soon.
The wind gusts, knocking the box to the ground and cracking it open.
Bollocks, this weather.
Addie kneels and gingerly rights the box. Two velvet pouches fell out, one pine-green and the other caramel-gold. A yellow ring sparkles on the pavement, too brightly for the winter sun's pale, distant light.
How could the ladies have been so careless? A ring like this must be worth a fortune.
Coughing at a cloud of smoke from a chestnut booth, Addie picks up the two pouches and reaches for the ring. The ladies will be overjoyed to have this back.
Her cold-bitten fingers close around warm metal, and in an instant, Main Street vanishes before her eyes.
A/N: And there we have it, the end of Exulansis, at last! I originally estimated 10-12k for this section, but we all know how my estimations usually pan out 😅 So, Part 4 will be A Ride and probably about on par with Monachopsis with length. Who's excited? 😋
How do you think Caspian will react to seeing Addie after four years?
Chapter 63 Preview:
"Adelina," he says by way of greeting. "You've returned."
Addie flushes; she never intended anyone but the maids and Perla to find out.
"I didn't mean to. Just let me say my goodbyes and I'll… I'll go."