Somewhere in the Great Eastern Ocean.
2307.
Two-score and six nights til the full moon.
4th Year of the Reign of King Caspian X.
Caspian.
Liliandil let out a soft laugh, the sound carrying across the deck like music.
Caspian leaned against the rail, a fond smile tugging at his lips as he watched Liliandil seated at the small wooden table, her focus entirely on the cards in her hand. Across from her, Drinian wore his usual stoic expression, though there was a glint of amusement in his pale brown eyes as he laid down yet another winning hand.
She was losing – badly, in fact – but it didn't seem to bother her in the slightest. If anything, the challenge only seemed to delight her.
The torchlight flickered over her, casting a warm glow against the cool silver-white of her hair, which she had braided and pinned. Unlike Queen Lucy, who had once donned borrowed sailor's garb to blend in among the crew, Liliandil had not needed to make do with what was available. The skirts and linen shirt she wore had been tailored to her slender frame, the vest she wore over it doing nothing to hide the curves that he had spent far too long thinking about.
She was radiant, though it was not the glow of a star that made her so.
She furrowed her brow in mock seriousness, studying her cards as though she could will them into a better combination. "I think I've almost got it," she declared with a confidence that made Caspian chuckle under his breath.
"Do you?" Drinian asked, raising a sceptical brow as he shuffled the deck for another round.
"No," she admitted with a grin, her indigo eyes sparkling. "Not at all."
Caspian shook his head and even Drinian, who rarely engaged in such frivolities, appeared to be enjoying himself, though he would never admit it aloud.
As the game continued, Caspian found himself moving closer, captivated by the simple scene before him. Liliandil's laughter, her easy camaraderie with the crew, the way she leaned forward, utterly absorbed in the game—it all felt so natural, as though she had always been a part of their world.
He caught himself staring and quickly looked away, his fingers tightening on the rail.
A sudden burst of laughter drew his gaze back to the table. Liliandil had just revealed her cards, and judging by Drinian's smirk, it was another abysmal hand.
"I think you've beaten me again," she said cheerfully, surrendering her cards with a theatrical sigh.
"You're improving," Drinian said with a wry smile.
"Am I?"
"No," he replied, deadpan, and Caspian couldn't help but laugh softly.
Liliandil caught the sound and turned, her gaze meeting his across the deck. She smiled at him, her expression warm and unguarded, and for a moment, he forgot to breathe.
"Would you like to join us, Your Majesty?" she called, her tone playful, though there was an openness in her invitation that made his chest tighten.
He shook his head, unable to trust his voice, and instead raised a hand in polite refusal. She tilted her head, as if considering him for a moment, before turning back to the game with a shrug, her laughter ringing out once more as the next round began.
Caspian exhaled slowly, his smile lingering.
Aslan, help him.
…
Liliandil.
The deck had come alive with music, a lively tune spilling from fiddles and pipes as the crew stomped and clapped in time. The rhythmic pounding of boots against the wooden planks reverberated through the ship, and laughter rang out as sailors spun each other in a merry jig.
Liliandil sat on a barrel near the edge of the gathering, her cards forgotten on her lap as she watched with quiet fascination. She had seen countless dances from the sky – elegant waltzes in castle halls, solemn rituals in distant lands, wild revelries around crackling bonfires.
It was not a dance of studied grace or careful steps; it was unrestrained, bursting with life and joy. The sailors moved with an energy that seemed to shake the very air around them, their movements uninhibited, their laughter carried away by the wind.
And it was unknown to her. Not one she had watched before.
That realization sent a small thrill through her. For all she had witnessed from above, there were still things in this world that could surprise her, that she had never seen or known.
The music swelled, and one of the crew let out a spirited cheer as another pair locked arms and spun in a dizzying whirl. The merriment was infectious, and even Drinian – who so often carried the weight of responsibility on his shoulders – was drawn into the revelry, clapping in time with the beat.
Liliandil's lips parted slightly, as if on the verge of laughter, but she simply watched, absorbing every detail.
A faun had settled beside her, his cloven hooves swinging idly over the edge of the barrel as he plucked at the strings of a lute, though he did not yet play. He had been watching her for some time, his dark eyes thoughtful, his ears twitching with curiosity.
Finally, he spoke, his voice lilting with warmth. "Why don't you glow anymore?"
Liliandil turned to him, momentarily startled.
"When we first saw you," he continued, tilting his head, "back on your father's island, you were like moonlight on the water. It was as if the very air around you shimmered. But now…" He studied her, as if trying to glimpse something that was no longer there. "Now, you look like—well, like us. Sort of."
She blinked, her lips parting slightly.
She had not thought about it, not really.
When she had first fallen, she had shone with a soft, celestial radiance, the light of the heavens still clinging to her form. She glanced down at her hands, at the smooth skin that no longer held that faint, ethereal glow. When had it faded? Was it when she had stepped aboard this ship? Or had it been fading from the moment she chose to walk upon the land rather than watch from above?
Liliandil watched the faun's thoughtful expression as he plucked absently at his lute strings. The question lingered between them, carried by the wind and the music that filled the deck.
"When I return to the sky," she said at last, "I will glow once more."
The faun looked up at her, his ears twitching curiously.
"My light is not gone," she continued, her voice soft but certain. "Just because it cannot be seen does not mean it has vanished. I am still a star – only in a different form."
She held out her hand, palm up, as if testing the air. Once, it had shimmered with an otherworldly glow, but now it looked entirely mortal – smooth, real, warm. And yet, she could feel it, still thrumming within her, the quiet pulse of something ancient and luminous.
The faun considered her words, plucking a few gentle notes from his lute, thoughtful and slow. "Like the moon when it hides its face," he mused, nodding to himself. "It is still there, even when we cannot see it."
Liliandil smiled. "Yes. Exactly."
He grinned, satisfied, and strummed a brighter chord. "Then I think you were meant to be here, for a time. Even the brightest stars must fall closer to the world now and then."
She turned her gaze to the sea, where the moonlight rippled over the waves in endless, shifting silver.
The faun grinned and sprang to his hooves, offering her his hand with a flourish. "Well then, Lady Star, dance with me."
Liliandil blinked up at him, startled. "I do not know the steps."
He threw back his head and laughed, a rich, merry sound. "No one does!" he declared. "That's the beauty of it."
Around them, the sailors stomped and twirled, the music surging wilder, freer. There was no rigid form to the dance, no pattern to memorize – only movement, only joy.
The faun wiggled his fingers, eyes twinkling. "Come now, what's the worst that could happen?"
Liliandil hesitated for only a breath before she placed her hand in his.
He was right.
She let the faun pull her into the whirling chaos of the dance, her breath catching as the world spun around her. The deck was alive with motion – the stomping of boots, the clapping of hands, the wild, rollicking tune of the fiddles and pipes. Laughter rang in the salty night air, twining with the music, lifting like the waves beneath them.
At first, she moved carefully, uncertain of her steps, but the faun only grinned and spun her faster. "Forget your feet," he called over the music. "Let them follow where joy leads."
So, she did.
A happiness, a lightness that she had never known before coursed through her. It bubbled up from within, an untamed thing, rising like the crest of a wave. It was nothing like the graceful dances of royal courts, measured and restrained. This was something freer, something wilder – something that belonged to the sea and the stars alike.
Her laughter joined the music, unbidden and bright, as the faun twirled her beneath his arm. Her loose braids tumbled free, silver-white strands catching the lantern light, but she barely noticed. The air rushed past her, cool against her skin, and her heart pounded in exhilaration.
Everything was new.
Everything felt so right.
She had watched lovers dance beneath the night sky. She had seen joy from a distance, traced it like patterns in the heavens. But never had she felt it. Never had she been part of it.
The faun released her hands, and she spun on her own, her skirts flaring, her body light as air. The ship swayed beneath her feet, and she swayed with it, unafraid.
The ship rocked slightly, but it was not the sea that made Liliandil stumble – it was the wild, dizzying joy of the dance, the way her feet barely seemed to touch the deck before she was spinning again. The faun had let her go, laughing as she twirled, but the movement carried her too fast, her balance tipping, and for a fleeting second, she was certain she would tumble straight to the planks –
But strong hands caught her.
Caspian.
His arm curled around her waist, steadying her as if he had been waiting for that very moment. She found herself pressed close to him, breathless, laughter still clinging to her lips. His dark eyes met hers, warm with amusement, shining in the torchlight.
She let out a breathless laugh. "You're making a habit out of catching me."
He grinned, holding her a moment longer than necessary. "And you're making a habit of needing to be caught. If you don't be careful, I might not let you go."
The words sent a strange thrill through her, but she had no time to dwell on it before he took her hand and – rather than stepping away – pulled her back into the dance.
A surprised laugh escaped her as she was swept into the movement once more, but in that moment something shifted, it was different. Where before she had been following the rhythm of the crew, then she followed him.
Caspian moved with surety, guiding her easily, his grip firm but never restrictive. There was no hesitation in the way he spun her, no uncertainty in the way he held her close before letting her twirl away again.
It was effortless, exhilarating.
The music swelled around them, lively and unrelenting, but Liliandil hardly noticed it now. Her world had narrowed to the space between them – the way Caspian's fingers lingered against hers even when he let her spin away, the way his warmth seemed to wrap around her like the summer breeze.
Each time she twirled, she found his hand waiting, steady and sure, catching her effortlessly. Each time she moved, he followed, as if the dance had been written just for them.
Her breath came fast, but not from exhaustion – from something else, something deeper. A giddiness unlike anything she had known, a rush that had nothing to do with the spinning of the ship or the music that carried them. It was the way his dark eyes never left hers, the way his touch never strayed far.
He pulled her in again, and for a moment, they were close – closer than they had been all evening. His chest nearly brushed hers, his arm a solid warmth around her waist. She could feel the rise and fall of his breath, could hear the soft, unguarded laugh that left his lips as she stumbled slightly, her balance thrown by the sheer rightness of it all.
Liliandil laughed too, breathless. "You are very good at this."
Caspian grinned, his thumb absently tracing the back of her hand. "I've had practice."
His voice was low, meant for her alone, and something about it sent a shiver down her spine – not from cold, but from something warmer.
She looked up at him, her heart pounding in time with the music, and for the briefest of moments, it felt as though the rest of the world had fallen away. The crew still danced around them, the lanterns still swayed with the ship's gentle rocking, but none of it mattered. There was only this. Only him.
The song reached a peak, wild and merry, and instead of releasing her, Caspian lifted their joined hands and spun her again. Her white hair fanned out around her, catching the lantern light like a halo, and when he pulled her back, he did not let go.
His hand came to rest at the small of her back, holding her steady, holding her close.
Liliandil's breath caught.
She had never been held like that before.
Never danced like that before.
Never felt like that before.
The music began to slow, the energy of the dance fading into something softer. But neither of them stepped away.
His thumb brushed her spine, barely there, a touch so light it might have been imagined. But she had never been more aware of anything in her life.
"Liliandil," he murmured, her name like a whispered secret.
She did not know what he was going to say, and she was not sure she wanted him to say anything at all.
Not yet.