A/N: Did not plan on a long hiatus, but to be perfectly honest, life threw one too many personal things at me all at once and I'm still not at 100%, so apologies, it will likely happen again. Thank you to all you lovely readers for your patience and for some very sweet messages.
Anyhow, here's Chapter 85, after far too long a wait. Addie's on the run, Caspian's giving chase, and we've only got 3 more chapters of Heartworm after this one 👀
Chapter 85 Content Warnings: the usual fare of some battle gore/violence and dark enchantments
Chapter 85: used to be mad
Caspian
Mere hours after his company of soldiers gallops from the city gates, thick grey clouds roll over the sky and a thunder-blizzard blots out the moon. Winter lashes sheets of ice and snow across the landscape, whistling through the forest and reducing visibility to less than a horse-length. Lightning flashes intermittently, chased by crackling thunder that rattles the men and spooks a few horses.
Caspian curses into the biting gale. His men are forced to slow to a trot, then a walk, and soon the horses even to move. The treetops disappear in the whiteout and the snow covers their tracks almost as soon as they're made. The dogs and foxes lost Addie and the northman's scent, and the birds have not reported back in hours. Only the bears would have a prayer of making headway, and they're far too slow.
In desperation, Caspian throws a silent prayer to the Lion. Lift this storm, Aslan. Lead us to them.
The gale howls on, mocking him, the wind itself seeming to push him back.
His next prayer is not so respectful. You can't allow this! Where are you when I most need you?
There is no answer.
In the storm, there is no day or night - only snow and frigid, bitter cold like he's never seen. Even Narnia's coldest winters are nothing compared to this.
Caspian shivers under his armour and fur cowl, cursing himself for not donning more layers. His fingers and toes are beyond feeling, and were his jaw not so clenched, his teeth might have cracked from chattering. The men are grim and silent. A few hours ago, a minotaur and a faun tried mightily to spread a Christmas chant to no avail.
A gust knocks him back in the saddle and Destrier whinnies in protest. With a swear, Caspian resettles and squints against stinging, icy snowflakes. Around him, his snow-crusted soldiers trudge on. Half of them are Telmarines on war horses, and the other half are Narnians. Usually his company is mostly Narnians, but fewer Telmarines celebrate Christmas, and therefore, those soldiers were the most ready to deploy at a moment's notice.
A detail Addie must have calculated in advance.
Caspian pulls his cowl over his nose and urges Destrier onward.
Finally, the blizzard lulls. An impenetrable, wailing wind surrounds them, but here, at last, is a pocket of respite. His company's mounts plod through two feet of snow, powder spraying from tired hooves.
Grimclaw the gryphon swoops down from the sky, startling the horses as he lands beside Destrier in a flurry of icy feathers, lion-claws crunching into the snowbank.
In the chaos after Addie's escape, Caspian ordered every flying creature after her. When the blizzard hit, only the gryphons were strong enough to keep flying.
"We lost them, Your Majesty," says the gryphon, more eagle-caw than human voice. "Unnatural, I say, most unnatural. But you're right, they were headed toward Ettinsmoor."
"Has the storm slowed them?" Caspian has to shout to be heard over the wind. Already, it's closing in again.
"They were making good headway last I saw them," caws Grimclaw. "Seems to be a northern storm, worse at the head than the tail."
"Keep tracking them," Caspian orders. "Find them!"
He almost bids Grimclaw to bring him Adelaine, but now that she has the rings, she could use them and drag herself and anyone touching her to the Wood Between Worlds - with dubious hopes of ever finding Narnia again.
The desire to slumber, that unnatural peace… those do not strike me as the workings of the Great Lion.
He would not condemn Grimclaw - or anyone - to the clutches of dark magic.
The gryphon shakes out his frost-tipped wings. "Forgive me, Your Majesty, we can't fly through this storm. Nothing can."
Glenstorm comes beside him, his armour awash in white.
"The men are exhausted, Sire," says the centaur. "We ought to make shelter until the worst passes."
Stop now, when Addie holds the very gate to Narnia in her treacherous grasp? He cannot!
"No, General," Caspian says. "We must press on; rally the men. Grimclaw, I care not how you track Adelaine and her companion, but find them."
The gryphon and General Glenstorm trade a glance. After a moment, Grimclaw bows to Caspian.
"It will be done, Your Majesty."
Addie
All she knows is the cold - its insistent sting on her face, the pin-needle punishment of every breath.
Her horse plods into the wind, hooves crunching snow, a barely noticeable sway. Hallgrim rides ahead, a frosty mountain not large enough to shield her from the wind.
She'd rather he didn't. If he's right, that this days-long, freezing journey's almost over, she wants to ride in front. Wants to see the Lady first, to make everything…
Right. To make everything right, because it is now, isn't it?
Addie touches her bodice. Two velvet pouches press to her sternum.
Hers.
These are hers.
Her path home, and Opheodra's. The promise of true freedom, away from everything here.
Soon, this will all be just a memory. If she asks nicely, maybe not even that.
She just has to get to Opheodra.
A vicious gust whips icy snowflakes into her face.
Addie covers her eyes, skin burning with cold.
The pain isn't good. It sets something inside her rattling, makes it jab the tender parts of her mind, something she knows better than to investigate. Opheodra would tell her to settle her worries and think only of the future she's won for herself.
But Opheodra isn't here. And without the tonic…
Teeth chattering, Addie braces against the storm, her cheeks stinging.
Reach Opheodra. Share her… triumph.
Don't think about anything else.
Ahead, two figures take shape through the blizzard. Lightning shows the very face she's longed for, the only one who can set everything right again.
"Opheodra!"
Addie tumbles off her horse and catches herself in a snowbank.
She leaves two rust-red handprints behind. Her stomach lurches into her throat.
She swallows acidic bile and sprints, high-stepping through snow up to her knees. It's been days without the tonic, her last remnant of Opheodra's care, and the castle walls the Lady helped her build are dangerously close to crumbling, a dam ready to burst, and there's something terrible on the other side, she just knows it!
Don't think, don't think. It's all fine if she doesn't think.
"Opheodra!" she cries again. The plea scrapes like steel on whetstone, floods her mouth with a burnt taste that bleeds away the closer she draws to the Lady.
Addie runs forward as Opheodra rushes to meet her, her spring-green dress and cloak a fluttering beacon. The other figure bears a glassy - no, icy - shard in her webbed hands. It - she? - is shrouded in a tattered cloak, a curved beak and round, bird-like eyes peeking out, so similar to… a hag?
What is Opheodra doing with a hag?
A shiver jolts through her as Opheodra takes her hands.
"Do you have them?" Opheodra looks her up and down, eyes glinting expectantly.
Yes, yes, of course she does! That was the purpose of her errand, and now she's returning triumphant with everything Opheodra asked for.
She didn't fail.
Behind her, Hallgrim dismounts and crunches through the snow, a hulking presence between her and the worst of the blizzard. Addie pulls the rings' pouches from her bodice and presents them, cursing herself for shaking in this cold.
"Yes," Addie says, victory as lush as butter. "I have everything - the rings, the cordial."
Opheodra snatches the green and gold pouches, snapping the leather tie around Addie's neck. The Lady loosens the drawstrings and peers inside.
Her frown melts into a brilliant smile.
"You've done well." Opheodra closes the pouches and tucks them into a pocket. "I was right to entrust this task to you."
Something rattles in her mind. Addie's stomach twists like she ate spoiled meat, sour bile tainting her mouth, but one glimpse of Opheodra's smile calms her.
Still, there are a few details she should share.
"I, um… you should know that getting those didn't quite… go as planned." A peal of wind whips Addie's tangled hair. She pushes it back and offers the healing cordial.
Opheodra takes it, pleased, and Addie breathes easier.
"I tasked you with bringing these items to me, and you have. I care for naught else."
"But…"
"Hush, Adelaine. Your methods have succeeded and were therefore correct, and your pursuers will be dealt with. Now banish the castle's trials from your mind."
Like a sigh from tired lungs, the worst moments ebb away - haltingly at first, but then as steady as a train chugging down the tracks.
Addie's eyes well in relief. She didn't realise how loud all those worries were until the Lady banished them.
"Hallgrim, stable those horses and ready new ones," calls the Lady. "Malfeasa, tend the storm until you hear our guests. Then make yourself scarce."
The hag bows. "Very good, your Ladyship."
As Hallgrim leads the horses toward the stables, the hag raises the ice-crusted shard of metal. Her scratchy voice hisses and caws sounds that never quite make words, echoing unnaturally loud as the wind screams a crescendo.
Addie follows Opheodra toward the manor, glad the hag's on their side.
"King Caspian will soon be upon us," the Lady says over her shoulder. "Gather your things, then join me in the sitting room. I will tend to you before the final leg of our journey."
Addie hurries to oblige, almost tripping up the stairs and throwing her door open in her excitement. She's going home, away from all the mess and bother of Narnia! She wraps her sketchbook and Mum's diaries in cloth and packs another set of clothes, in case the journey is long. Nothing else here is important.
She'd like to have something to remind her of Opheodra - maybe this small jade serpent, or that glass figurine of a snake coiled around a mandolin. But surely she'll see her dearest friend again; there are two sets of rings, after all.
The worst is over. The rings are theirs; they'll both be home soon, with the cordial in hand in case the pools are unstable and lead them into danger. Unlike the king, Opheodra isn't afraid of testing the rings, of taking chances to set things right.
Even what happened in the dungeon can't spoil that, not when she was just…
How about a favour for an old friend?
I could yell for the guards. Would that convince you?
Just defending herself. Protecting her mission.
The thought pinches, a wrinkle in her otherwise quiet mind, and her hands go clammy.
When Addie shakes them, reddish-brown stains catch her eye.
She washed her hands on the road, over and over until Hallgrim admonished her for wasting water and risking frostbite. Yet blood is still crusted under her fingernails.
Thump. Squelch.
The glass snake slips from her fingers.
It thuds onto the rug and breaks in two, beheading both the mandolin and the snake.
"Adelaine!"
Addie curses and leaves the broken figure on her vanity, praying it wasn't important.
"Coming!"
Opheodra's magic soothes better than any balm, any medicine - a greater benediction and vindication than she could've hoped for.
Her mind is her own. Every crack is mended, each wrinkle of doubt smoothed into peace and purpose.
Addie cries silent tears of gratitude too great for words and thanks Opheodra for giving her relief and guidance, for never turning her away. Others have either discarded her or been all too happy to see her go, but not Opheodra. Never Opheodra.
Addie leans into her hand, sorry to taint an unblemished palm with tears but desperate for an anchor all the same.
"There, that's better, isn't it?" Opheodra traces her cheekbone with a dry finger. "Discard your worries and trust in me. I will not forsake you."
Addie smiles, her eyes swimming. "I know."
Opheodra stands, the cool comfort of her touch falling away. "Very good. Now we must depart for Underland; there we may test the rings in peace."
Yes, better to put as much distance between themselves and the king's army as possible.
Addie stands. "And King Caspian?"
"He will arrive by day's end, and he will find a fitting welcome for his trouble," Opheodra says, so unshakably calm Addie can't find it in herself to worry. "Come."
Addie shoulders her knapsack and follows the Lady outside, where Hallgrim awaits with fresh horses, the blizzard wailing behind him.
Addie mounts her bay mare, and she does not look back.
There is nowhere left for her in all the worlds but the Lady's wishes.
Nothing else matters.
Caspian
Caspian shields his eyes against the blinding snow and peers ahead. Opheodra's manor is nestled betwixt two craggy hills, its stone face crusted in white. Many of its windows are dark; what little light ekes from its facade is concentrated on the west wing, where a sickly green-yellow glow flickers behind frosty window panes. Destrier tosses his mane and snorts, snow flying as he prances in place. Caspian steadies his stallion with a firm hand and turns to Grimclaw.
"You're certain?"
The gryphon bows his feathered head. "As certain as we can be, Your Majesty. The hounds swear by it as well. Their trail leads here."
Of course Addie and her accomplice bastard would come here. They are but one symptom of the rot of Ettinsmoor, an evil that spread right beneath his nose.
Caspian's fists tighten on Destrier's reins.
"Take a wing of your gryphons and search the surrounding countryside. Report anything of import immediately," he says. "Leave the other wing here to warn us if danger approaches."
Grimclaw bows and flies off with a great beat of his wings, cawing orders to the other gryphons circling the skies. The first group spreads out, while the second swoops overhead to cover their flank.
With General Glenstorm at his side, Caspian rallies his blizzard-beaten forces and rides onto the manor grounds.
There is no one out to either greet or challenge them. If not for the windows' unnatural light, the place would appear abandoned.
The storm is finally slowing, but the freezing temperatures still burn his lungs. No doubt the household is inside sheltering from the snow, and yet…
It's quiet.
Too quiet.
Caspian elects to keep his men close, despite his temper roaring to surround the manor in case Adelaine tries to slip away.
He can't be certain she's still here, and he can't thin his forces on enemy territory.
When the manor door looms large before them, Glenstorm slows him with a hand.
"Your Majesty, you shouldn't be at the front," the centaur murmurs. "Without the cordial…"
"Peace, General," Caspian says, waving forward two minotaurs as an honour guard. "Aegos, Darius, with me. If no one answers on the second knock, break down the door."
Appeased, Glenstorm spreads the men into attack-ready positions, with shield-bearers in front in case of archers.
At Caspian's nod, one of his guards bangs on the door with an armoured, furry fist. Snow falls from the frame, and the minotaur shakes it off.
"Open in the name of the king!"
Silence.
The minotaur pounds the door again. "Open in -"
The door creaks open.
A servant girl wrapped in a thick shawl stands on the precipice, her gaze cast down. She appears unarmed, her posture hunched in either deference or fear.
"Begging your pardon, good Sirs," she says in a reedy voice. "We expected no one in this storm."
Caspian pushes past the minotaurs and throws open the doors, sending the girl skittering to the walls.
"Fetch the Lady Opheodra at once," he orders. "We seek the fugitive maid Adelaine and her guard."
The girl curtsies, stiff as a wooden puppet. "Lady Opheodra is presently indisposed, milord. If you'll follow me to her office, I will fetch her for you."
At his nod, she retreats down the hall, hunched into herself as a wintery blast rattles the open doors.
Before following, Caspian murmurs orders to Glenstorm. "Secure the manor; no one leaves. I want everyone on these grounds questioned by sundown."
"At once, My Liege."
Flanked by his guards, Caspian clears his throat against the heavily perfumed air and follows the servant deeper into the manor, hand on his sword.
The deeper they go into the manor, the more he coughs, his throat constricting against the overpowering floral incense. Its sweetness is cloying, like rotting wood and lavender. Shaking his head does little good - the hall wavers, and his eyes water against the greenish haze.
He's almost tempted to return outside - for all the biting cold, at least the air is fresh.
The servant leads them upstairs and down a dim hallway covered in tapestries. Stitched Giants both humanoid and stone-faced battle on the walls, their blood woven in black and grey. In some scenes, krakens drag primitive ships under frothing waves; in others, human-faced gods blow gales across the land and crack the earth in two with their thunder-fists. One god looks startlingly akin to the River God of Beruna as he floods the Northern River, bringing the frothing water to the cliffs' edges.
Every eye glitters green with sewn-in emeralds.
Caspian squares his shoulders and walks on. Behind him, the two minotaurs march along, their halberds clanking and their hooves muffled by the hall's thick, green rug.
Lady Opheodra's office is scrupulously tidy. Her desk is ornately carved in figures from the tapestries outside. Its wood is strange - darker than black walnut, more fibrous than any wood he knows, cool and slightly damp to the touch. Possibly an import, though he can't say from where.
After the servant leaves, Caspian rifles through the drawers and papers as his minotaur guards monitor the door. He finds official papers aplenty, filed and labelled in swooping but legible cursive, more delicate than the Telmarine hand yet more flowery than Narnian texts. The ledgers are in order, the village reports speak only trivial matters of justice (a stolen chicken, a drunken brawl, a price dispute), and the few letters he finds are official correspondences from himself, Lord Trumpkin, and one from Doctor Cornelius inquiring after the Giants' activities before the quake.
Nothing of concern. Nothing even of note.
Caspian tests the desk drawers for false bottoms or trick latches and finds nothing.
He abandons the desk to investigate the rest of the room. He tests a torch sconce, feels under two paintings' frames, and flips up rug corners. Aegos and Darius exchange a glance at his searching, but remain silent at the door.
Nothing.
Wait… there.
Along the back wall, the rug's edge doesn't sit flat, and light scrapes and scratches mar the floor in front of the bookshelf.
His old study bore the same marks by the hidden door.
He tries pulling on the bookcase, anticipating it'll swing outward along the scuff marks on the floor, but it won't budge. Pushing and shoving yields no results, the bookcase shifting nary an inch.
There must be some hidden mechanism keeping it shut. His bookshelf door had a lock.
Caspian runs a hand along the edges of the bookcase and under each shelf. He feels neither latch nor lock.
His brow furrows.
Perhaps the books?
Caspian tugs on spine after spine, until a black, gold-trimmed tome resists.
When he pulls, it gives way with a click.
The bookcase swings outward on silent hinges and reveals a tall, gristled man in plate armour, his broadsword drawn.
Caspian throws himself back with a shout of alarm, the man's steel kissing his chin before burying into the door. He draws his blade and yells a warning to the minotaurs, but it's already too late. The office door crashes open and a wave of fighters - some guards, some mere servants - flood the room, all bearing spears and blades. Aegos and Darius fight to keep the mob at bay with sweeping kicks and blows, the office too cramped for them to effectively swing their halberds.
"'Ware, 'ware! To arms, we're under attack!" Caspian bellows, praying his voice or the sounds of battle will carry and alert Glenstorm and the others.
Cursing, the northman wrenches his sword free and lunges. Caspian sidesteps the blade and brings his own down in a disarming hit.
But the northman keeps hold of his weapon. And with a yell, he charges.
Caspian tries to brace himself - and fails. The northman is taller, broader, and heavier; his shove sends Caspian flying. In the moment before impact, Caspian curses himself for not taking the kill strike.
Then his back slams into the desk.
Pain.
Caspian gasps for breath, back and ribs aching as black spots swim in his vision. A war cry clears the cobwebs from his eyes. He looks up, and steel sings a deadly promise above him.
Not like this. He has survived worse than this!
Caspian rolls away just as a minotaur's bellow cuts through the skirmish. Cloven hooves land in front of him, and with a snarl, Darius blocks the northman's blow. As Caspian gets his feet under him, the northman breaks the grapple before it can take hold and their eyes meet. The man's icy-blue eyes glint with battle-promises - of blood and pain and death. Behind him, more soldiers spill from the hidden room like a dark tide, faces a-shine with blood-lust.
Gritting his teeth, back afire with his every breath, Caspian braces for the attack.
It never comes.
The northman raises his broadsword, and in the same breath, Darius charges and throws the man into the soldiers. With a sickening crack, the northman's helmed head hits the bookcase door. He slumps to the floor, groaning.
Caspian thanks the minotaur and lifts his blade to meet their next attackers in a clash of steel. Even in the cramped space, he falls into the ugly rhythm of battle - of defence and attack, swing and parry, dodge and counter-strike. The minotaurs take several hits meant for him, bellowing as enemy swords come away with black fur and blood. But together, they block more blows than they take.
Caspian sets himself to the task at hand and thinks of nothing else. The world has narrowed to swords and wounds, enemies and survival.
He's locked in a grapple when a shout like thunder breaks through the melee.
"Stop!"
Caspian changes his sword's death-arc at the last moment, sparing a one-eyed soldier. In the sudden silence, the northman he first faced staggers to his feet, hands raised in surrender.
At best, the northman's tale - Varn's tale - strains credulity.
At worst, it is yet another lie with a dagger of betrayal at its core.
He will not be so easily taken in by a story of dark magic, enchantments, and a witch who bends even the strongest minds to her every whim and will. Glenstorm, Darius, Aegos, and Eneko all share his scepticism, though they hide it well behind soldierly stoicism.
Caspian rubs his forehead, excess battle-fire shaking his arms. How is he to believe this… this impossible yarn? He rode frigid days and freezing nights through the worst blizzard Narnia has seen since the Hundred Year Winter, all while expecting political treachery, an ambush, yet another grasping would-be tyrant reaching for his throne for the low, low price of his life.
But dark magic? Here, slithering unchecked under his very nose?
Dear Sire, who ever heard of a witch who truly died?
Lady Opheodra is not the White Witch; she can't be, can she? Or is she some new darkness come to claim his kingdom and his people?
She has already claimed Addie.
Exhausted and heartsore, Caspian sinks into the armchair's solid cradle and scrutinises the northman across the coffee table. The man's been disarmed, stripped of armour, and hands bound. His blond hair is matted with blood, but his blue eyes are clear as a snowmelt lake.
The northman looks exhausted, defeated, and yet…
Something about his face is different - as if he bore a great yoke and finally cast it off.
"Tell me again," Caspian says. "Everything, from the beginning."
The second telling is even more earnest and frantic, as if the man can barely stomach the words yet desperate for someone to hear them. As Varn tells it, Lady Opheodra is a wicked and powerful sorceress who slowly enchanted him and everyone else in her manor until they were little more than puppets.
To what end? She desired an army, he says, but cannot say for what.
"Lady Opheodra spoke of a great purpose, a long journey, and reclaiming something precious," Varn says, hoarse. "She specified no further."
The throne of Narnia is precious indeed, but Lady Opheodra has no right to it.
Caspian leans forward, elbows on his knees. "You claim this enchantment stripped you of your will, yet a knock on the head cleared your wits?"
That cannot be true, because if this enchantment is so easily broken, then Addie…
No.
Varn rubs his brow. "The Lady's magic… it muddles the mind, dulls the senses. Pain cut through the fog." His gaze darts around the room, as if searching for Lady Opheodra. "But the very air we breathe is tainted. And if - when - she returns, we will all be her slaves once again. Her very voice is a poison, silken as fine wine."
There is some truth in his words; the manor reeks of incense, and Caspian's every breath weighs heavy.
If this man speaks true, if Lady Opheodra has poisoned everyone in the manor with dark magic, then…
Addie's not herself.
She's shown me more kindness in a single season than you have since the day I set foot in Narnia!
Then Addie's actions, her northman lover's failures, their treachery…
Something happened to you in the north, Addie. I will find out what.
What if Addie's actions of late have not been her own?
No, she would have come to him. From her letters alone, he would have known, he -
Caspian clenches his jaw, teeth aching from the force of it.
He's had proof enough that he doesn't know her nearly as well as he thought. Years of proof!
And yet… and yet.
Addie was not long in Ettinsmoor before she started acting strangely. Closing down, distancing herself, writing and speaking so formally with no warning. And her gleeful cruelty, her conniving manipulations, her meticulously executed plan…
Her cold-blooded murder…
Was it all an evil enchantment? Was it truly not her?
Or has Addie grown so desperate to escape his reach that she was willing and happy to betray him in every possible way?
"Where is Lady Opheodra now?" asks Glenstorm, towering to Caspian's right.
"She was headed toward Underland."
Underland?
When pressed, Varn explains Underland as a kingdom beneath the northern lands, where Lady Opheodra's stronghold lies across an underground sea.
Caspian regards the man, searching for any kernel of deception. This "Underland" may well be a trap, and he's had enough ambushes for one day.
"My spies tell me she has close ties with the Giants of Harfang."
Varn shudders, horror and grief twisting his features. When prompted again, he answers quickly and clearly, though such marks of honesty could also be prepared answers.
"She has an… alliance, yes. She earned their trust by… she gives them gifts - of people. Slaves and the sick, the weak, those who can't work." Varn slumps, head in his hands. "The Lady delivers at least a dozen every season."
Bile sours in Caspian's throat. He prayed he was wrong about the human offerings.
How has he heard nothing of this?
"And Underland?" he prompts.
With a shaky sigh, the northman wipes his brow and looks up. "The Lady would not stay where you could easily track her. Underland is her domain; you could spend weeks lost in those caverns without a guide."
Caspian narrows his eyes. "And you propose to lead us there?"
Varn grimaces and goes pale. "I'd just as soon never set foot in that wretched darkness again."
"But you know the way?"
The northman meets his eyes, his own filled with dread. "If you ask it of me, I will lead you there. But in the Lady's kingdom, I would not… I cannot trust myself there. Even now, her whispers haunt me." Varn shivers and briefly buries his head in his bound hands. He hits his brow once, twice, thrice, before straightening again.
His eyes flash green.
Caspian jumps to his feet and draws his sword, heart thundering a warning.
Groaning, the northman digs a finger into a cut on his cheek. Blood seeps.
"Open the windows," Varn pleads, panting raggedly. "Please!"
After a moment, Caspian nods to Darius.
The minotaur opens the windows, and icy air blasts into the sitting room.
Oh Lion, that's better! How long has his head been pounding?
Caspian sighs in relief even as he shivers and sneezes. Varn's thrown his head back, inhaling the biting wintery blast as if smelling sweet rolls. The northman slumps against the chair and stares outside, wild-eyed anguish giving way to calm.
When Varn speaks, he's his steadiest yet.
"I can show you the best paths - on a map, on foot, by horse. If you intend to stop her, name any task and I will do it."
Trust him, this man who tried to kill him not an hour ago?
Caspian rises, sheaths his sword, and paces. He can't divine if the thunder outside is a warning from Aslan or the storm's dying clap. Varn straightens, eyes fixed into the snowy moors stretching into the horizon.
The northman seems sincere. Something haunts him - a dark enchantment recently broken, perhaps, if that story is even true. It bows his soldierly posture, tics in his hands, and Varn can't go ten seconds without looking around, but could these signs just be the nerves of a betrayer?
If Varn spoke true, he's proposing to forsake his Lady, whom he claims enslaved him, by returning to her lair with the King of Narnia in tow.
It could be a trap.
Lion, it has to be!
Yet Caspian can't look at him and declare him a liar with any certainty.
More thunder rolls, and the manor shivers.
Has this blizzard not said its piece?
"You will lead us to Underland," Caspian begins. "You will mark the path you propose on a map, and if you stray from it, or if you lead us into an ambush, I swear on the Lion's holy Mane you will die by my blade before you can summon the wits to beg for mercy."
Most men either shrink from a king's threat or meet it with short-lived relish.
Varn merely nods, as if accepting fair judgement in the royal court.
"Her Ladyship -"
A double-clap of distant thunder, louder than before.
Varn's brow knits together, body snapping to awareness. Darius stops him halfway to the window, and though the northman doesn't resist, dread pales his face.
"No," he moans. "No, no, no…"
Caspian is already running.
"Get him paper and a stylus!" he shouts over his shoulder.
He bursts through the front doors just as Grimclaw swoops down, his feathers all a-ruffle.
"Giants, Your Majesty! They bear Harfang's colours!"
"To me!" Caspian roars, racing through knee-deep snowdrifts to the stable. "Into the manor, ready the archers, take up your weapons! Giants attacking!"
The rest of his company floods into the manor, their faces pale with cold and weariness.
He has only a hundred men. The manor is all that stands between them and the bloodthirsty Giants of Harfang.
Help us, Aslan, Caspian prays as the ground shakes and the first brutish, gleeful shouts break over the moors.
Help us.
A/N: Poor Caspian just can't catch a break 😅 But however mean I'm being to him, canon started it! (Side-eyeing C.S. Lewis as I type.) No preview yet for Ch. 86, and no firm update schedule yet. It'll probably be a month or so because guess who still has a ton of moving stuff to get done? (It's me, lol.)