Ramandu's Island.
2307.
4th Year of the Reign of King Caspian X.
Liliandil.
The world breathed.
Calm.
Serene.
They sat beneath a sprawling willow tree, its silver-green tendrils swaying like dancers in the wind, offering shade that dappled the ground with shifting patterns of light. Wildflowers grew in profusion all around them—vivid bursts of crimson, gold, and indigo mingling freely with the soft whites and purples of delicate blossoms. The air was fragrant, sweet with the scent of blooming jasmine and honeysuckle, though the occasional briny tang of the nearby sea whispered through as well.
The garden had a beauty that was unrefined, unapologetically wild, as though it had been planted by the hand of nature herself and only lightly tended by human care. Ferns unfurled in chaotic elegance along the edges of the mossy paths, and the gnarled roots of old trees pushed through the soft earth like veins in a living tapestry. A trickling brook wound lazily through the greenery, its clear water catching the sunlight and turning it into a thousand tiny sparks.
Lord Rhoop's voice carried gently through the garden, a steady counterpoint to the rustling of the breeze through the untamed foliage.
Liliandil sat cross-legged on the grass, her long, pale hands tracing patterns absentmindedly over the soft moss beside her. She kept her head bowed, though her ears caught every word Lord Rhoop spoke. In truth, it wasn't the tales of King Caspian's father that held her in such rapt attention, but the very mention of Caspian himself. The young king, whose name felt like a melody in her mind, a song both unfamiliar and deeply resonant.
The lords reclined on weathered stone benches that seemed to grow naturally from the earth, their surfaces worn smooth by time. They appeared at ease, as though the unkempt splendour of the garden had drawn them into its tranquillity.
Lord Rhoop continued his tale without pause, his voice weaving through the garden like the brook winding through the flowers, unhurried and timeless.
And for though the lords were in Liliandil's care, their wounds tended with her gentle hands and their spirits lifted by her kind words, her mind was far from the garden. It was far elsewhere – on the sea, on the Dawn Treader, and most especially on the young king who had first stepped into her life like sunlight breaking through clouds.
She thought often of Caspian (more often that she would care to admit, even to herself), of his deep, warm eyes that seemed to hold both the weight of a king's burden and the spark of youthful dreams. His face filled both her dreaming moments and her waking ones – his handsome face, bronzed by the sun, framed by unruly dark locks. And then there was that grin, so unexpected, so disarming – it had softened him, making him seem years younger, less a monarch and more the young man he might have been before the world laid its demands at his feet.
And as Lord Rhoop spoke of the great deeds of Caspian's father, Liliandil found herself wondering if Caspian ever thought of her. She could still see him standing on the deck of the ship as it sailed away into the unknown, his gaze meeting hers with an intensity that had made her feel seen in a way she never had before.
She had been raised among stars and light, yet no radiance had ever warmed her as much as his simple, sincere smile.
The lords' voices drifted on, blending with the rustle of the untamed garden around her, but their words became a distant hum in her ears. Liliandil's heart fluttered at the memory of Caspian's hand brushing hers, a brief, fleeting touch that had lingered in her mind for the weeks passed. She had wanted to speak to him more, to ask him about his life, his hopes, his dreams – but duty had called him away, leaving her with only those small moments and her own imagination to fill the silence that he had left behind.
So as the sunlight filtered through the willow branches above her, dappling her face with golden light, she closed her eyes for a brief moment and let her smile show. The garden seemed to hum with life, the untamed beauty of it a reflection of her own unruly thoughts.
The peaceful stillness of the garden was broken by hurried footsteps and the rustling of leaves as Pittencream stumbled into view as Liliandil's eyes snapped open, his face flushed and his breath coming in short gasps. His boots left faint imprints in the soft moss, and a few wildflowers tilted underfoot as he half-ran, half-staggered toward them.
"Your Grace! My lords!" he panted, clutching at a stitch in his side. His greenish-brown eyes were wide, a mixture of excitement and unease glinting in their depths. "A ship – there's a ship on the horizon!"
Liliandil's head snapped up, her heart leaping to her throat. "A ship?" she echoed, her voice a breathless whisper, as though afraid the fragile hope blooming within her might shatter if spoken too loudly. She rose swiftly to her feet, her light footsteps almost soundless against the moss.
"Yes," Pittencream replied, waving his hands for emphasis. "Looks like it's headed this way! Could be hours before it reaches us, but no mistaking it – it's there!"
Liliandil's heart soared, and her breath hitched.
A ship, on their distant shores at the Beginning of the End of the World?
It could only mean one thing – Caspian.
She tried to steady herself, to still the smile that broke across her face, but the thrill coursing through her veins was too strong, too insistent to be subdued. She glanced toward the distant sea, though the thick boughs of the garden obscured her view.
Still, she imagined it there, the ship sailing steadily closer, its proud sails billowing in the breeze.
Could it truly be him?
The thought of seeing Caspian again sent a rush of warmth through her, though it was tinged with nervous anticipation. Had he come seeking her, or was this voyage merely another chapter in his noble quest?
Questions swirled in her mind, but she pushed them aside, unwilling to let doubt steal even a moment of this newfound hope.
The lords exchanged glances, their expressions a blend of curiosity and cautious optimism. "A ship," Lord Rhoop said, rising slowly from his seat. "It seems we may have visitors after all."
Liliandil clasped her hands in front of her, her fingers trembling slightly. "I must see it," she said, her voice soft but firm. Without waiting for a reply, she stepped past Pittencream, her bare feet carrying her toward the edge of the garden and the cliffs beyond. The untamed wilds seemed to blur around her as her focus narrowed to the thought of the sea, the ship, and the man who might be upon it.
Her heart raced as she reached the edge of the garden, her gaze sweeping toward the distant horizon. There it was—a majestic ship with sails as white as clouds and a prow carved in the shape of a great lion.
The Dawn Treader.
And Lilliandil, the guiding star, smiled.
…
Caspian.
Caspian stood at the prow of the Dawn Treader, the wind tugging at his dark hair and the salt spray cool against his face. His eyes were fixed on the cliffs that rose ahead, jagged and proud, their edges softened by the wild greenery that crowned them. As the ship drew closer, he found himself scanning the horizon, his gaze darting from rock to tree to shadow, searching for something—or someone.
He told himself he was merely taking in the beauty of the land, yet his heart betrayed him, beating faster with every passing moment.
He had not let himself hope, not truly.
She was a star, after all, a being of light and wonder who surely belonged in the heavens, far beyond the reach of a mere king. Still, as the cliffs loomed larger, the yearning he thought he had tempered surged anew.
And then he saw her.
Or thought he did.
High above, where the cliffs met the sky, a figure stood, her silhouette framed by the golden light of the afternoon sun. Her hair, loose and shimmering, seemed to catch the breeze, and the flowing lines of her white gown made her look as though she were part of the sky itself, an ethereal vision brought to earth.
"Liliandil," Caspian whispered, the name escaping his lips like a prayer. His heart clenched, and for a moment, he gripped the ship's railing to steady himself. Was it truly her? Or was his mind playing tricks, conjuring her image from the depths of his longing?
He thought back to their last meeting, the way her voice had wrapped around him like music, the kindness in her deep indigo eyes, the gentle strength that had captivated him. He had never dared to say the words that burned in his chest, to ask her to go with him. How could he, when the stars themselves seemed to lay claim to her?
And yet, the figure on the cliff did not vanish.
She remained there, motionless but unmistakably real.
Caspian's throat tightened, his mind warring with itself.
"Majesty," came Drinian's voice, pulling him from his reverie. "We'll make landfall within the hour."
Caspian nodded absently, his eyes never leaving the cliffs. "Thank you, Captain," he said, his voice distant.
As the ship edged closer, he allowed himself one fragile, trembling hope: that the figure on the cliff was not a vision, not a dream, but Liliandil herself, waiting for him as he had quietly, desperately, hoped she would.