Chapter Eight
His thorough and increasingly frantic search of the castle, while not resulting in the location of a missing monarch, caused Edmund to locate the shreiking alarm. Edmund's mind cleared as the ringing died out, and he knew his efforts were needed elsewhere. Caspian would not hide from battle, nor sleep through the alarm. As much as it gave him stomach knots to think about it, the thing preventing Caspian from assisting in the counter-attack most likely wasn't hiding in the corner somewhere. Trying not to think of Caspian, or what Peter would say when he found out, Edmund returned to the front.
Lucy, having located Herley and taken him to his sister and the other children, was back on the scene, directing the leaders of each group on their actions. Without a proper battle plan, she had reverted to the Base Plan for Attack, instructing the archers to fire off the top two levels, those in charge of the trebuchets to release only while the archers re-loaded for lack of ammunition, and putting at least one able-bodied man at every possible scaling point.
For the child sent away from every battle field, she has done a damn-fine job of waging war. Edmund thought to himself as he ran to join his sister. A look of relief spread across her face when she saw her brother.
"Thank goodness you're here!"
"Why? You knew perfectly well I was fine."
"Yeah, but still, I think I prefer healing the people after the battle, instead of sending them to fight in it." Edmund nodded sympathetically, being mentally capable of staging an attack was very different than being emotionally able. It didn't surprise him that Lucy took issue with sending people to their potential deaths, and having forced her to do so only added to the guilt he was trying to temporarily repress.
The Basic Plan seemed to serve their purposes well enough, and Edmund decided to continue with it until the rebel army started showing signs of potential retreat. Wanting to take some prisoners for questioning, but unwilling to open the gates of the castle unnecessarily, Edmund shouted a change of attack to his primary generals who spread the word quickly to those working under them. Within seconds the Narnian attack stood completely still while the archers, well out of view of the rebels, reloaded with their new weapon. The rebels' confusion at this sudden cessation quickly turned to terror as the first firework sped its way down to earth. Having been artfully designed by their top physicist only weeks earlier, these firework arrows burned feircly for exactly one hundred feet, the perfect distance for shooters off the top level, before disappearing altogether. Not knowing this, the rebels retreated in panic, fearing some sort of detonation.
The fireworks served their purpose, and the rebels retreated quickly- leaving their wounded behind. Edmund sent men out to collect said wounded while he gathered everyone else in the foyer and Lucy made her rounds to check on their own injured soldiers.
"We fought courageously and well," he started, adressing the crowd of tired, but mostly pleased men and women, "because of your efforts today, the citizens of remain free. I thank you for your courage and bravery. May Aslan be with you." Concluding his inspiring speech, Edmund gave final instructions to put the castle right again, and departed. Checking in first at the infirmary, Edmund found Lucy with the doctors and nurses, going bed to bed, talking with patients and helping in whatever way she could. Not all required her elixer, but no one has ever walked away from a talk with Lucy feeling worse for it. Thankfully, the rebels had planned a particularly poor attack, reminicent of Peter's attack on Miraz' castle, Edmund couldn't help but think, and the Narnians suffered few casualties.
After visiting the infirmary, Edmund walked through all the groups, making sure they had the necessary resources to complete their tasks. Mutterings filtered through the castle, wondering where King Caspian had been during the battle. Some were concerned, others angry. Incapable of assuaging their anger and fears at the present time, Edmund continued on until his travels eventually led him to the dungeons. Taking a breath for strength, he pushed open the door to find his prisoners in various states of disarray. Most surprisingly, he found Lucy there with a few nurses, helping to treat them.
"Queen Lucy! But you were just upstairs in the infirmary! So were you, Nurse Erica, Nurse Allan!"
"We have done everything we could for them. Our services are needed here more."
"May I please speak with you for a moment?" Edmund asked, careful to preserve his composure. When Lucy had joined him outside, out of earshot of the nurses, prisoners and guards, he turned on her, the frustration and anxiety built up inside him coming out in his tone, "why are you healing them, Lucy? They are the ones attacking us!"
"They are people, too. Though if you can't see things that way, think of it as an investment. They wouldn't be much use to you dead."
He knew his sister was right, as much as it killed him to admit, and she knew his anger did not truly stem from her treating the injured.
"Any word on Caspian?" she asked.
"None." Lucy nodded. She knew her job at the present time was to heal the sick, and neither of them would get anywhere sitting scared in a hallway. With a mutually reassuring glance, the siblings returned to their prisoners of war.
A mile away, deep underground, the leader of the rebel army did the same.
Caspian awoke hours earlier in darkness, mind hazy, a sharp pain in his side. The shackles binding him to the hay-coverered floor restricted his movement and rendered him incapable of investigating the source of the pain. Over the following hours, Caspian's mind cleared considerably, and while he could not rid himself of the stabbing pain in his side, it did not appear to increase in severity, which comforted him slightly. By the time the rebel leader opened the cell door, blinding Caspian with the dim light of the hall candles, the King had negotiated his body into a slightly more dignified position with his arms at his side, face turned toward the door.
"So, then, dear Caspian, it appears we have an issue."
"Why yes, Arnie, it does." It took Caspian only seconds to indentify his old fencing instructor, who faltered at being addressed by name.
"As I always told you, it's Arnold to most and Mr. Jansen to you!" Caspian snorted, remembering fondly how he and the other staff members had always refered to him as Arnie in order to get a rise out of him. Evidently, it still worked. However, now did not seem like a good time to anger his enemies, and Caspian bit back the stream of retorts flooding through his brain.
Instead, he met Arnie's eyes and asked the man's intentions.
"I intend to rule this pathetic country. Someday, everyone shall bow to King Arnold and quake with fear when they cross me, as you no doubt do now. Caspian did not, infact, quake with fear, but thought it best not to mention this to Arnie, who continued with his schpiel, "You, Caspian, are necessary as a form of collatoral. Once the two British Brats come to rescue you, I shall have no blood kings or queens standing in my way."
Ah.
"In the meantime, I shall release you from your shackles, but remember, we can always reinstate them, and have plenty more Valerienne Root."
Valerienne! No wonder I can't remember anything. Somehow the rebels had gotten ahold of the enhanced sedative and used it on the king.
"I understand." And with that Arnie gave the orders and a guard entered the cell, removed the shackles, and opened the small, high window Caspian had not noticed in the darkness. Light from sunrise barely trickled into the room, but after the guard followed Arnie out of the cell, shutting the door and effectively cutting off all artificial light, Caspian could still make out basic shapes. He did not, however, need light to finally identify the object causing pain to his side. His newly freed hand felt the leather binding of a book, the corner cutting sharply into his abdomen.
Struggling to refrain from shouting for joy, Caspian held the book as close to the window as possible, waiting for the sunlight to illuminate the page enough to read any writing. It took about half an hour before Caspian could recognize writing on the page, nay pages, and a bit longer still before he could make out what the writing said. When he finally could, what he read broke his heart.
Hi Cas!...
Cas? You there?...
Caspian, did you forget?...
Edmund, are you there?...
Guys, it's been half an hour I'm getting bored…
Okay I'll just doodle until you answer…
The writing then stopped for a few pages, replaced by fabulous illustrations of Narnia, all places with special significance to Caspian and Peter. Aslan's Howe, where they had first kissed, the orchard in which they had walked together, the library in which they had spent hours swapping secrets. The memories pained Caspian as he relived them through Peter's drawings. Eventually the writing continued, this time with a more frantic note.
It's just, I don't want to head off to bed because I know everything is probably fine and you probably just forgot and fell asleep…
"Never"
…but I worry a lot and I'm worrying a bit now. I suppose I should just go to bed…
I can't. I'm sorry, I know I'm coming off awful paranoid, but just, write back when you get these messages, okay?
"Not okay. Not. Okay." Caspian whispered vehimently to the book. Peter would continue looking to the book for answers, answers he could not give, and Edmund was not around to give for him. Sure enough, messages soon started appearing in the book of an even more frantic nature.
What's going on, guys? I know you're awake by now…
Has something happened? I'm so worried…
And so it went throughout the day, with every message Peter sent, Caspian's resolve grew stronger. When spirals first appeared on the page, a nervous habit Peter had told Caspian about in the library that one night, it took all Caspian had not to shut the book in frustration. Not wanting to lose the illustrations from the previous night, the king contented himself with shaking the book in a frustrated manner. At the less-than-optimal display of annoyance, an object flew from the spine of the book, landing in the haystack. Upon investigation, made difficult by the setting sun, Caspian identified the object as the pen. He stared at it, comfortably cradled in a nest of hay.
Fucking pen. He didn't know the word, but Edmund seemed to use it frequently when angered, and Caspian had to admit it helped quell some of the frustration raging in his mind. With a deep breath, he resolved to let the pen have the bed for the night, and returned to the book by the window. However, upon seeing the message Peter had written in his absence (Oh god, Caspian, I'm so scared. Please be okay. Please…) the king grabbed the book, walked straight to the haystack and picked up the pen.
As if writing with the wrong hand didn't provide enough challenges, for Caspian had enough sense not to ruin his dominant hand, the pen instantly began searing his flesh. Struggling just to hold on Caspian fought to write one message to Peter. With much effort he managed to write, in barely legible writing:
I'm fine. Can't write. Love you always.
I hope you all liked it! For the next chapter, I could include a segment set in England or continue straight on with the Narnian plot. Thoughts? And as always, reviews are greatly appreciated!