A/N: Welcome to the fifth and final part of What Grows! For everyone who's been waiting patiently (or not so patiently 😉) for the happily ever after, this section is all about finally getting us there. I'm not actually 100% how long this last part will end up being (Caslina do love to take their sweet time whenever I get them in the same scene, and we've got a lot more of that in Amneria) so take that 105 estimation with a grain of salt. It's probably accurate-ish, but it might shift. But after all the hell I've put y'all through, I don't think anyone will be upset if I luxuriate in the Caslina scenes a bit, yes? 😇
As for the update schedule, this story is my NaNo 2023 project and I'm about 3 chapters ahead as far as drafting goes. By the end of the month, I should have even more lead time, which means... *drumroll* as of December 2023, we should be back to weekly updates. I'll confirm that schedule when Chapter 90 goes up in two weeks on November 26th. And with that, enjoy the chapter!
Chapter 89 Content Warnings: self harm as unhealthy coping mechanism
Amneria - the flooding relief as one season turns over to another. The dry, never-ending heat of summer bowing out to the welcome rains of fall, the crisp bite of winter cutting through the rot and decay of autumn, the life and pulse of spring bursting through the dead precision of winter, the shine and light of summer breaking the marching rains of spring. A momentary amnesia, remembering only the best things of the next season, and the worst of the previous, cementing an unspoken belief that things, on the whole, eventually get better. (From the Dictionary of Obscure Joys)
Chapter 89: all that's left
Caspian
After four days of plodding through snow and slipping on ice, assaulted on all sides by Ettinsmoor's unforgiving winter gales, what remains of the former Lady's manor greets their tired eyes.
The reinforcements have arrived - three regiments' worth of tents sprawl over the frozen grounds, their royal red stark against the snowy white landscape. Patrols of minotaurs, humans, and satyrs circle the encampment, while hawks and falcons circle high overhead as vigilant scouts. The manor itself is much as Caspian left it - a mass of rubble and ruin.
His troops have disposed of the Giants' corpses, thank the Lion. Piles of ash mark where the bodies must have been burned, and soldiers are busy shovelling the sooty remains into sacks to be buried.
The stench still pollutes the air - a foul soured-meat and pungent burned-hair reek tainting the clean scent of freshly fallen snow.
He will be glad to leave Ettinsmoor behind.
"What happened?"
A frigid gust nearly drowns out Addie's murmured question, but the sound of her voice is a welcome surprise. For days, she hasn't said ten words put together; she seems caught between memories and reality, a ghost in her own skin. The other disenchanted have fallen similarly quiet, though not a nightly hour has passed without one of them waking the entire camp with a nightmare.
There must have been more than twenty-three humans trapped in Underland; Caspian hopes more will emerge in the coming weeks from those who crewed the ships on that dark underground sea. His falcon spies patrolling the Wild Lands will spot any stragglers. With the reinforcements, he should have enough men to post scouting parties on the northern border, ready to retrieve survivors and bring them to safety.
Addie said the witch was disposing of her human slaves; there may be few left to save.
Caspian squeezes her hand as he flags down a falcon to alert Glenstorm of their return.
"Harfang," he answers.
Addie swallows.
"Fitting welcome…" she whispers. When he glances down, her eyes are swimming.
"Your Majesty!" The falcon swoops onto his offered arm and shakes snowflakes from its feathers. "We'd begun to worry."
"Bring this to Rainroot immediately," Caspian says, trusting Queen Lucy's cordial to the bird's strong talons. "Have healers prepare beds for twenty-three, and send word to General Glenstorm of my return."
"Yes, Sire." The falcon takes off again, a fast-flying brown arrow flitting toward the manor.
Again, Addie speaks.
"How many?"
She doesn't mean the Giants.
"Fifty-three, when I left for Underland."
Addie's next breath shudders, and she retreats into herself - brow furrowing, eyes dimming, like the very life is leeching out of her.
Caspian hastens toward the encampment, his men urging the crowd of disenchanted onward with the promise of rest and a warm meal.
Queen Lucy's cordial saves two soldiers who were hours from succumbing to festering wounds.
Caspian entrusts the cordial to Rainroot's capable hands; the centaur has both the most practice and the most discretion in its use. With the Lion's grace, it will not soon be needed.
Rainroot's healers descend on the disenchanted, and soon the tent is buzzing with medical examinations and instructions to drink certain tonics or teas with breakfast and dinner.
Rainroot examines Addie herself, and the centaur is kind enough to make no comment as Caspian hovers.
"I'm alright," Addie says before Rainroot touches her. "I can help, if you need—"
"Right now, you are more patient than healer, Adelina," Rainroot answers firmly.
At the sound of her old name, Addie's forehead smooths.
"Be still," Rainroot continues, gently stilling her shoulders. "We'll discuss your helping later."
Addie sits quietly.
Caspian tries to stay quiet so Rainroot can assess her in peace, but after the harrowing journey to and from Underland, his patience is thin.
"How is she?"
"I see nothing that will not heal within the week." Rainroot tips up Addie's chin and tilts her face side to side. At length, the centaur nods to herself, only to frown. "You haven't been sleeping."
Addie squirms on her cot.
"I have," she counters softly. Addie's gaze flits toward him. "A little. Enough, I mean."
"Not quite." Rainroot takes an herbal pouch from her waist and offers it to Addie. "This can help you sleep, but I cannot promise you will not dream."
Addie shies away as if it holds poison.
"No, I… I'll manage."
Strangely, Rainroot doesn't insist - the centaur simply ties the medicine back onto her belt.
Addie has spent days stumbling along as if caught between reality and nightmares; she's as skittish as a hunted rabbit, and all Rainroot can offer is a sleeping tonic?
Caspian gestures for the centaur to step away with him. When he's certain Addie is out of earshot, he asks, "Is there nothing else you can do?"
Rainroot shakes her head.
"Aside from mild malnutrition and sleep deprivation, there is nothing physically wrong with her."
"There must be—"
"Against wounds of the mind, there is little I can do." Rainroot flicks her tail and continues in a whisper. "Many of the disenchanted are reacting poorly to sleeping medicines. I suspect the witch's brew used similar herbs. Some wounds must heal in their own way."
Caspian glances back at Addie.
She's fidgeting again, picking at her own cold-reddened fingers. Left to her own devices, Lion only knows how long her recovery will take.
"React poorly how?"
"They sleep," says the centaur. "But they meet night terrors rather than peace. For some, they sleepwalk as if the enchantment has returned. I'm sure you've already observed that for yourself." She gestures at a pair of sleeping servants - one is the girl who greeted him at the manor door. The other, a young man, shares her waifish build and narrow nose. Both are asleep and strapped to their cots, their faces haggard and drawn with disquiet.
"How soon will they improve?"
Rainroot sighs. "It depends on their exposure. Optimistically, a few weeks. This is a cruel magic we've not seen before."
Caspian's focus strays back to Addie. She's picked one cuticle bloody and her gaze darts around the tent as if chasing a ghost taunting her at the edges of her vision.
"At worst?"
Rainroot meets his eyes and says nothing.
He will not entertain that possibility. He won't allow it.
Addie is strong. She'll fight her way through this.
"She'll want to stay busy," Caspian says, rubbing his beard in thought. "When she asks, I'd rather she stay where you can monitor her."
Rainroot bows shallowly, brow furrowed in understanding. "A healer always needs more hands. After she's rested, hers will be welcome."
"Thank you."
They return to Addie, who startles as their shadows fall over her. Caspian tangles their fingers together to stop her picking as Rainroot gives her parting instructions.
"Go to the mess hall and eat at least one half-portion. Drink this with your meals twice daily." The centaur takes a burlap pouch from her belt and opens it, showing Addie the contents. "Ginger root, to prevent a cold."
Addie bites her lip, hesitating. "Can I…?"
Rainroot tips a few pale shavings into Addie's palm. Addie sniffs the ginger gratings carefully, then puts a pinch into her mouth. She grimaces at the intense flavour, but finally, she nods and accepts the tea.
"A spoonful per cup will do," says Rainroot. "Off you go."
First, to the mess tent for a meal. Then, when Addie's settled, he must meet with Glenstorm to discuss what is to be done about Harfang.
There will be war, but wisdom may dictate that it waits until spring. The fallen he left at the City Ruinous, however, must be retrieved with all haste for proper burial.
"Thank you, Rainroot." Caspian starts to pull Addie to her feet, but she resists.
"What about Caspian? He—" She looks at their joined hands and tugs free, cheeks pink. "He was hurt in Underland. Rather badly, actually, and the cordial didn't—anyway, shouldn't you check him, too?"
Rainroot arches an eyebrow.
"No need," Caspian says. "The cordial did its work."
"Not right away." A shiver wracks her, and Addie's face pales. "It—for a minute, it wasn't working. Just… you should be sure."
Caspian sheds his damaged chestplate and submits to Rainroot's appraisal for Addie's peace of mind, though it's unnecessary. For those at death's door, the cordial's healing takes longer, but its efficacy isn't affected.
He first learned that with Addie's blood on his hands and the Stone Table and the Kings and Queens of Old witnessing his wild, unchecked grief.
As Rainroot inspects his shoulder, Addie hovers. She tracks Rainroot's every movement in hawk-eyed silence, her fingers twitching as the centaur pokes, prods, and stretches the joint.
Caspian takes her hand again.
"Any pain?" Rainroot asks.
"None."
"Good. Off with you now - both of you."
He's all too relieved to take Addie and leave the sight of so many haunted patients behind.
Addie… tries. Her appetite is smaller than he'd like, and she sips her ginger tea and chews chunks of boar meat and stewed parsnips like a puppet with tangled strings, but she is trying.
Caspian eats his own meal slowly despite the gnawing hole in his belly, determined not to rush her. Though duty calls, it will keep for another hour. The falcons already delivered the news of his arrival and Opheodra's demise to Glenstorm. Moreover, he will have to explain both Addie's role in the witch's plans and her current state.
When Addie finishes her portion, Caspian ushers her back to the healers' tent and posts two guards at the entrance. Inside, Addie's cot is piled high with blankets and furs, and a pan of coals sits at the foot, warding off the winter whistling outside.
"You should rest," he says. "Rainroot's orders."
He hopes, strangely, that the notion of a command will spark more life into her. Yet Addie obeys without complaint, sitting on the cot with no hint of defiance.
This is temporary. She'll recover, be herself again soon.
She has to, because this time, he wasn't too late.
Addie's leg bounces.
"Caspian, I… there's so much I have to tell you."
There is so much I have to ask you.
But his questions, like her explanations, will have to keep.
"Later." Caspian pulls back the blankets for her. "You haven't slept in days, have you?"
"I'm not really sure. But I'd… I'd rather not." Addie weaves her fingers together, picking that same bloodied cuticle. "Not sure what I'll find."
"There are two guards outside," Caspian says. "I swear to you, you're safe now."
Addie's mouth flickers, an attempted smile that drops instantly.
"I know. I won't keep you."
Caspian falls silent. Though the matters of the north need his attention and he's provided every feasible comfort, it feels cruel to leave her.
For four days, she hasn't left his sight for more than two minutes. Now…
Now, his kingdom calls, and he cannot delay it forever.
He leaves with a promise to return in the evening.
The guards salute as Caspian exits.
"Permit no visitors," he instructs. "If there's any trouble, send for me at once."
"We are glad of your safe return, My Liege. I have already sent word to Lord Trumpkin of your successful mission."
Caspian clasps Glenstorm's arm in a soldier's shake. He could afford to chase down the witch because he knew Glenstorm would defend Ettinsmoor valiantly.
The centaur reviews the state of affairs. The reinforcements arrived last week, and the injured soldiers well enough to travel have been sent south to the safety of the capital. Scouts captured and killed a solitary hag in the western foothills and broke her shard of magical ice. Ever since, the weather has been more bearable - frigid, snowy, but nothing out of the ordinary for the season.
"Well done, General," Caspian says, rising from his wooden armchair and appraising the map spread on a table before them. "Has there been any more trouble from Harfang?"
With a grim nod, Glenstorm turns to the map. Its parchment is a clean white, its markings crisp and precise. Caspian remembers commissioning this detailed cartograph after his first Ettinsmoor campaign.
"We lost a border village just yesterday." Glenstorm taps Wolfsmere, a small village nestled in a foothill valley not two miles from the Giant Bridge. "Nightwing spotted a Harfang hunting party crossing back into the Wild Lands earlier this morning."
"They took captives?"
Glenstorm's sombre answer is as he feared.
"The village lies empty. None escaped."
Caspian swears. He knew Harfang would have to be stopped, but he hoped a winter war wouldn't be necessary.
Those villagers are under the crown's protection. He will not abandon them.
"Ready two regiments, General. We ride at dawn."
While Glenstorm sees to the army, Caspian assigns Arrus - one of his trusted captains who fought with him in the War of Deliverance - to oversee the manor during the campaign.
"I leave this manor and its people to your charge," Caspian says. "But on the matter of the disenchanted, there is one thing more."
Questioning - each of them must be thoroughly - yet compassionately - interrogated to ascertain their loyalty. Though he cannot look at them and see traitors, he must be sure.
The witch fooled him for nearly five years. After Hallgrim, he cannot assume all the disenchanted were unwilling, however much he wants to believe that.
"All of them, Sire?"
Caspian meets the faun's knowing glance.
"I will speak with Adelaine myself," he says. "The others, I leave to you."
By the time Caspian finishes his duties and his preparations to ride north in the morning, it's past dark - supper has come and gone, a waxing crescent moon shining in a clear, starry night sky. Caspian's breath clouds as he returns to the healers' tent, pausing to check in with the guards.
"No trouble," they say.
When he enters, Addie is sitting on the floor, head in her hands. She jerks up at his quiet footsteps, but her shoulders relax when she sees it's him.
Addie looks just as exhausted as she did this morning - her eyes dark-ringed and bloodshot, lids heavy, skin dull, lips pale, movements sluggish.
"I tried," Addie murmurs, avoiding his gaze. "It's just… it's better if I don't."
Caspian approaches her cautiously, trying to show only his concern, not his displeasure. Even so, Addie scrambles to her feet, uncoordinated and coltish, almost knocking over the small bedside table.
The bowl there is empty.
At least she managed supper.
Caspian rushes to steady her, pleasantly surprised when she doesn't flinch. Sometimes, when he woke her from a sleep-deprived stupor on the journey out of Underland, she did.
She's shaking.
Caspian takes a blanket from the bed and wraps it around her.
"I'm fine," Addie says, like a child struggling to recite her letters. "I'm fine."
It's an obvious lie.
He would gladly sit here in silence, a source of heat and familiarity if nothing else. But with a shuddering exhale, Addie speaks again.
"I have to tell you," she begins. "There's so much you need to know - about her, what she did, what she—what she was." Addie swallows, some mixture of grief and loathing twisting her face. She sounds like Varn did in his rushed, overwrought confessions, desperate to speak freely in what little time he feared he had.
"Addie—"
"You already know about the tunnels, the river - the one we crossed. Opheodra said that's how she got supplies into Underland, something about spring and summer, and I'm not sure who she traded with but—"
"Addie."
She rushes on, heedless of the touch of his hand and the other patients' stares.
"There were caves in the mountains, and in the City Ruinous. And Harfang, the alliance, she said they were there to rest, and they—" Her voice breaks, but with a hoarse little whimper, Addie charges on. "There was this girl. She—I could've been her, she was a servant. Looked like a werewolf got to her, her shoulder was—she didn't even remember what the sun was, Caspian."
She's talking with her hands, slipping out of reach when he tries to calm her, and half the tent is staring now.
"And the gnomes." This, Addie whispers, staring blankly at her lap, cradling her now-unscarred left hand. "There was a ritual, and…"
Her tears fall, and that decides him.
Caspian silences her with a finger.
Addie freezes, eyes wide.
Her lips are dry and pale, warm to the touch.
Caspian remembers himself and lets his hand fall.
"You can tell me later," he murmurs. "For now, you should rest."
Addie's eyes fill anew, overflowing in twin trails that drip onto his sleeve.
"I can't," she says, quiet as a rabbit's breath. "I need to—you need to know. You need to know."
And she needs to recover.
And, perhaps, to explain. Tonight is the only time he has to give her before he rides off to battle at sunrise.
Caspian takes her hands.
"Come with me," he says. "We can speak more privately in my tent."
Caspian leads her outside, and together they head through a row of tents until they reach his. The whole way, Addie intermittently mumbles that she's fine, she's alright, she's fine.
She's talking to herself, not to him.
Perhaps the lie is not a lie at all, but an attempt at self-soothing - at making truth out of repetition and sheer will.
You will be, Addie. I promise.
Inside his tent, Caspian guides them to a pile of carpets and wraps a thick bear fur around her.
"Do you still hear her?" he asks gently, wrapping Addie's hands in his own, trying to rub warmth back into her fingers. The witch's enchantment haunted Varn even after he came back to himself.
"No, I—Not exactly." Addie curls into herself, staring at the floor. "I hear the emptiness where she isn't. Echoes too, of what she'd say. But it's not… it's ghosts, not commands." She swallows and shrinks even smaller. "At least, I think so."
Rainroot said recovery will take weeks, at best. He cannot expect Addie to be herself half a week into freedom.
But she has never sounded so small, so unsure, as she does now, and he hates it - hates what that witch has done to her, hates that there is no further justice or retribution his hands can mete. Hates the pity she must smell on him like smoke.
He hates that at the break of dawn, he must leave her again, and he will know little of her progress until Harfang falls.
"Perhaps the cordial—"
"No, I… no." Addie shuts down his offer before he's finished, as vehemently as if he suggested marching into Harfang alone with nothing but his sword. "No," she says again. "Don't waste it."
"It would be no waste."
"It would." Addie wets her lips. "I don't think it works like that."
Against wounds of the mind, there is little I can do.
Addie speaks so softly he almost doesn't hear her. "It's a long story. Where do you want me to start?"
"From the beginning," Caspian says. "From the moment you met her. Tell me all."
He never imagined Opheodra's influence reached so early into Addie's return. She was in Narnia barely a fortnight before the witch sank her fangs into her.
"Where are your mother's diaries now?"
"Underwater." Addie fidgets, her hands hidden by the fur. "I didn't grab them, before… I wasn't even thinking about them."
It's familiar - that quiet guilt in her words. It will likely colour her speech for some time.
"Do you believe they were real?" Caspian asks.
Addie looks at her feet, her eyes glistening. "They seemed real. Now… I don't know." She shrugs, her face twisting before she smooths it into the same blank mask she's donned for the past hour. "I don't know," she repeats.
With the diaries lost to the Sunless Sea, there's no way to be certain.
But he believes her.
"The witch's magic didn't frighten you?"
"It should have." Addie's brow furrows, and her hands move faster, though he can't see what they're doing. "But I…"
"She offered you a piece of your mother," Caspian says softly. "When you'd lost everything else."
Addie nods, but the tortured look in her eyes worsens.
"It should've frightened me," she whispers. "It should have. But I wanted something to hold on to, and I… I didn't care how I got it."
He tastes her apology before she says it, the tenth one in half an hour, and he cannot bear hearing another.
Caspian quickly changes the subject.
"Was it she who urged you to visit Ettinsmoor?"
Addie inhales slowly, a pained breath. "She invited me here, but it was my choice. She didn't force me."
That assumption, then, was true: Addie truly was trying to get away.
From him.
Caspian schools his features into impassivity as Addie explains her sojourn in the moors - the archives, the research, her nightly sessions with Opheodra and her mother's diaries.
Every night for four months, that witch poured poison into her ears.
And he knew nothing of it.
"When did you stop reading my letters?"
Addie hesitates and will not meet his eyes, even when he says her name.
"After the harvest," she whispers. "About a month, I think."
Right when her letters changed tenor.
"Opheodra read them after that," Addie continues, pulling her knees into her chest. "I… I asked her to."
The witch's poison already had a hold on her by then.
"Why?"
"You were getting married. At least, I thought you were. Everyone thought you were."
There are no words for the sudden, reckless lurch buried deep in his chest.
"And that troubled you?"
"No."
Too quick, that answer - it reeks of a lie.
As if she realises her mistake, Addie buries her face in her hands.
Dried blood stains three of her fingertips, and half her cuticles are scratched raw.
"I was happy for you," she says, as if every word pains her. "I should've been… I was trying to…" With a shaky sigh, Addie wipes her cheeks and faces him again. "I needed more distance. I thought we both did."
Something keeps him from asking her "why" again.
Then Addie explains it was Opheodra who read his letters, though her replies were written in her own hand, and Caspian has to sit back and clench his jaw to trap his fury behind his teeth.
To think that when he poured his heart onto the page trying to mend their broken past, it was not Addie's eyes that read his apologies and questions and overtures, but Opheodra—
That vile witch had no right! His words, the most tender he had allowed himself to speak or pen in years, were meant for Addie - no one else.
Little wonder that Opheodra tempted him with Addie.
Caspian forces measured breaths through his nose. Addie's stopped speaking, but he doesn't trust himself to fill the strained silence.
When he wrangles his temper, narrowly sparing the chair's arm from cracking under his grip, he finds Addie sitting still as stone, as if frozen in wait for his censure.
He has seen this posture, this round to her shoulders before.
He saw this in Underland, when Addie knelt before the witch, where swirling green had erased sparkling hazel.
It is not Addie who deserves his ire.
For months, the witch had chiselled away Addie's will, her strength, her very self. He cannot blame her for this.
He will not blame her for this. By the time he wrote to her of his regrets, Addie was already overtaken by the witch's magic. She was a puppet, a pawn, and it would not be just to lay his righteous anger onto her.
"And the rings?" Too harsh, his tone - more accusation than question.
Caspian clears his throat and tries again.
"When did you tell her of their power?"
Addie tucks her hands into the fur. "A few weeks before Christmas. She took me to Underland the next day."
Strange, then, that the witch took such interest in Addie for months before she knew of the rings. She must have deduced Addie was not of Narnia long before then, and used the ruse of friendship to uncover the details.
If Opheodra's purpose was world-travelling, she must have. She claimed no interest in Narnia, and her treatment of her unwitting followers suggests she saw them only as a means to an end.
Yet a conqueror's errand worlds away does not explain her dealings with Harfang, nor the werewolves' summer and autumn attacks.
"There's something else."
Caspian extricates himself from the twisting caverns of his thoughts and meets Addie's watery gaze.
"I asked her to," she says. "The enchantment, I… she didn't force me. I asked her to do it."
Caspian stares.
Why would she ask for such a thing?
Addie answers his unspoken question with a fresh, quiet sort of devastation.
"I wanted to forget about… a lot of things." Addie sniffs, nose red, and looks away. "I was being selfish and a coward. I wanted to run from everything, and she could erase anything I wanted. Well, anything she wanted, but I didn't care about the difference."
She's picking again - her hands are hidden but busy, moving frantically under the fur.
"Stop that."
Addie's brow furrows. "But you need to know—"
"Your hands. Stop that."
Eyes wide, she stills.
How he hates that wounded look she's trying - and failing - to hide.
Caspian reaches across the chill of hesitation between them to take her hands.
Lion, she's cold.
In the stretch of silence, he wonders if he was too harsh. Addie's busy looking everywhere but him, though she isn't trying to free herself.
"It helps," she says, finally, as if she wants to crawl into a dark hovel and wishes he'd let her. "It… not much does. But it helps."
Caspian asks what she means, even as he dreads her answer.
"Pain," Addie whispers. "It's the only thing that cut through her magic. I've tried everything else."
There must be something else. Anything else.
Caspian lifts her chin with a firm hand, holding her there until she meets his eyes.
"The witch is gone, Addie. You yourself saw to that."
"But I still…" Her lip trembles. "I feel where she should be. The place she carved out inside of me. I can't stop hearing it - what she'd say, what she'd want me to do. But it all… it sounds like…" A shiver of a breath, and Addie turns away.
Caspian guides her back to face him, but Addie won't meet his eyes.
"Like what?"
"Like…like me." And her face just… crumples.
He's up and beside her in an instant, pulling Addie into his arms as she sobs - great, gasping, guttural, like her lungs are caving in.
"It's not you," Caspian murmurs into her hair. "I swear to you, it is not."
Addie shakes her head and cries harder. "What if it is?"
It cannot be, because this is the real Addie - here, in his arms, crying and broken but still here, despite everything the witch did to her. These dark musings are guilt and symptoms of delirium, possibly caused as much by sleep deprivation as the enchantment's lingering effects.
He says so, but Addie doesn't seem to hear.
In the end, all he can do is let her cry. No reassurance he offers is any help.
Finally, she quiets.
As she sags against him, Caspian busies himself inspecting her hands, frowning at a bleeding scab.
When Addie has calmed, he helps her stand and pulls her to the wash table.
"It was not you," he concludes, carefully rinsing off blood both old and new, leaving pink swirls in the small basin. "None of it, do you understand? The enchantment was months-spun by then. You didn't know what you were asking."
Addie frowns, lips parting, sticky with salt.
"You weren't yourself," Caspian continues before she can argue. "The woman who welcomed the witch's magic wasn't truly you."
He dries Addie's hands on the wash towel and rubs warmth back into her fingers as he guides her to the carpets. Her hands, he keeps in his.
"What if it was?" Addie whispers.
In her eyes, there is only hazel.
"It wasn't."
"But what if it was?"
She sounds so certain.
Addie is wrong. No matter how lowly he thought of her before Christmas, there are lines Addie would never cross of her own volition. His tenacious, contrarian, impossible Addie would not have surrendered herself to Opheodra had she known the witch's true intentions. Addie can be stubborn and selfish, even willfully obtuse, but she was never vicious - not until enchantment made her so.
For months while the witch wove her wicked web, he thought Addie's coldness was all her own doing - and when she returned to his castle, clearly altered to the point of concern, he readily believed Addie's cruelties were her own machinations.
That was before he knew of Opheodra's wickedness. Before he saw Addie rendered a blank-eyed doll, hollowed out until there was almost nothing left of her.
She would not be so haunted now if she chose this - truly chose it.
Of that, he can - must - be certain.
Caspian squeezes her hands, as much a comfort for him as for her.
"Were the witch here, she'd be delighted to hear you say such things - for you to heap all the blame on yourself." He tucks a wayward wisp of hair behind her ear, cupping Addie's cheek when she glances away. "But you shouldn't. Don't claim guilt that doesn't belong on your shoulders, Addie."
"It does."
Caspian opens his mouth to disagree, casting about for a reassurance that might mean something to her, but Addie is shaking her head, a stubborn tension in her jaw as she interrupts.
"No, Caspian, listen to me. I could have fought her so many times, and I didn't. I never even tried until it was too late. That much is my fault. I… I let her control me, and I thanked her for it."
It must have infuriated you - how much she fought your manipulations.
Ah, but she didn't. A pinch of patience, a sprinkle of indulgence, and she was mine.
The witch was lying. She had every reason to.
She responds best to a gentle touch, you know.
Opheodra sought only to convince him Addie was already beyond help, but she wasn't.
She isn't.
Standing, Caspian retreats lest Addie see his momentary doubt. She's been through enough; the only things she needs from him are patience and understanding.
"You should sleep," he says, straightening his overcoat to keep his hands distracted from the loss of hers. "It may clear your mind."
Nodding, Addie shrugs off the fur. "You should, too."
Caspian offers his hand, pleased when she takes it and stands.
"I'm leaving in the morning," he tells her. "For Harfang."
Addie's eyebrows draw together.
Caspian leans in and lowers his voice. "They annihilated a border village this morning."
Addie grimaces, pain and revulsion twisting her features. "They're probably hungry. No tribute. Opheodra, she'd…"
"I know."
She looks up, eyes shining. "Be careful."
He will. Rainroot and several of her best healers will accompany them, and he is in no hurry to test the cordial's power again.
Caspian escorts her to the healers' tent, settles her on her cot, and turns to go.
"Caspian?"
When he looks back, Addie's eyes are shining with ghosts.
"Can you… will you write? You don't have to tell me anything, just… just so I know you're alive."
"On one condition," Caspian says. "Write back."
Fresh guilt taints her face, and he is too late to reverse the words.
"Truly," he hurries to say. "Write to me every day and tell me how you fare. Even if you think you've nothing of note to say, write anyway."
Addie's teeth worry her lip, but she agrees - haltingly, yet there's no mistaking her sincerity and the heaviness of an unspoken apology.
"Get some rest."
With that, he leaves her.
A/N: I know we're in angst central a bit here, but hey, Caslina are talking again! The witch left a bit of a mess for them to clean up, but at least they can do it together now, right? 😅
Chapter 90 will go up in 2 weeks, at 6pm EST on Nov 26! (trying to get as ahead of these chapters as possible!) I'm not sure when the next video edit will go up since the chapters take priority, but given NaNoWriMo, you'll probably see that sometime in December.
Chapter 90 Preview:
To His Royal Majesty, King Caspian X,
Can you just tell me you're alright? Just a word is fine, or your name, even a scrawl if that's all you have time for. Fleetwing said the campaign's progressing well, but nothing else.
Sincerely,
Addie