Chapter Text
When Caspian wakes on what he thinks is going to be an ordinary day, he takes a few minutes to lie there and enjoy the quiet of his room.
It’s a sunny day in Narnia, the bright rays of her sun shining through the arched windows, warming the wood of the furniture. This is Caspian’s new bedroom, switched shortly after the successful battle against the Telmarines; his last bed, after all, was shot and splintered into pieces. He had no desire to wake up in that room again, and so was given this one, instead.
He likes this room. It’s spacious, more so than he needs, but it has a wonderful view of the surrounding courtyards and forests. The ceiling that greets him when he opens his eyes is carved with intricately made patterns, swirls and shapes that he lets his gaze lazily trail over as he comes to.
It’s a peaceful morning. He’s hoping the day will be just as kind.
When he feels as though he’s rested enough, he gets up and stretches out his limbs before getting dressed. The two guards posted outside of his room greet him politely as he emerges. This is something he’s had to adjust to since becoming king. He had guards as a child, yes, but he never saw their presence as a comfort, nor something that would actually protect him. If anything, a part of him always worried that they would be the ones to attack him one day. He was proven right about that, in the end, and so it takes him a lot of trust to allow these guards to man their post all night. But he keeps his sword by his bed, a dagger or two below his pillows, and his wits about him.
He might like to sleep in, but he’s a light sleeper now. Any sudden noise might wake him.
He feels a little tired this morning, his body sore in various places that he rubs at absently as he walks through the castle halls. Last night was one of many sparring sessions he’s had with Peter. Caspian always looks forward to those for several reasons, one being that he does need to better his swordsmanship. The other is just to spend time with his friend. Peter is much more skilled than Caspian, having roughly thirty years (give or take a thousand) more experience, but Caspian is improving, and even bested him on more than one occasion last night. He’s still not quite sure how, but it’s an achievement he takes in stride.
He doesn’t feel a sense of competition with Peter like he did when they first met, and in the time leading to the Telmarine battle. This is partially because Caspian is now king, officially and legally, and so any real or fictional competition has already been won by him.
But the real reason that feeling stopped is because him and Peter resolved those differences. Sure, there are moments where they disagree on a certain policy or how a king should be doing things, but since Caspian’s coronation, Peter has let him have the final decision every time, with seldom arguments. A sarcastic comment or two, sure, but no fighting. Not anymore.
Their dynamic is new now, shifted and ever shifting, often unnameable. They are friends, Caspian thinks, but they were also rivals not too long ago, and yet also veterans of the same battles. A king and a consort. Their dynamics change often, speaking as colleagues one moment and generals the next. It’s hard to keep track of, all this change. He finds himself lingering on it often.
He’s reflecting on it now as he walks the familiar path to Cornelius’ study. It’s incredible to think of how much his life has changed in these past months, and even more so since becoming king. He usually feels like he’s struggling to catch up, his life moving faster than he can keep pace with. Even with the Pevensies’ near-constant guidance and the new support of his trusted advisors, he does not feel ready to be king.
Perhaps if he could slow down time, just for one day…or maybe a few. Just enough for him to catch his breath, get his bearings, and take a moment to himself. Stolen moments like this morning are all he gets before the whirlwind of his life kicks up again. He wishes, silently, that it could all stop, just for a little while.
Caspian shakes himself out of these thoughts once he reaches Cornelius’ door. He knocks.
“Come in,” he hears from the inside.
He opens the door and finds Cornelius looking out of his own window. He looks calm, present, ever sturdy and reliable. In all of these months of change, Cornelius has been the one consistent, the one thing that has always been there.
(It’s that consistency that made Caspian so insistent that he change the raid’s plan to rescue him. He does feel guilt for that failed invasion in many ways, but he never regrets saving Cornelius. He probably never will.)
“Professor,” Caspian greets. Cornelius turns to him with a smile.
“My king,” he says. “Good morning. What brings you by?”
Caspian shrugs as he walks further into the room, eyeing the familiar shelves of tomes.
“Just saying hello.”
“Well, that is always welcome.”
There’s a minute or so of silence as Caspian walks around the room, observing the environment. There’s been some changes made to the study since Caspian’s coronation, most notably that Cornelius no longer has to hide his Narnian artifacts and scrolls — he’s even been lending some books out to the Pevensies, mostly Edmund, since they are some of the few items left standing from their time. Caspian can tell they appreciate it.
It’s a reflection of the castle as a whole, the changes within. The staff populating the premises are no longer only Telmarine, but Narnian too; dwarves, fauns, and humans all sharing the same space. It has not been an entirely smooth transition, with some infighting and occasional protests from both sides. But they are making progress.
Caspian pushes these thoughts to the side as he sits down at Cornelius’ desk. He did not come here to dwell on the state of things. He just came to talk with a friend.
And talk they do, at least for as long as they can before someone inevitably comes looking for one of them. Most likely Caspian. The whirlwind continues.
“I will get it,” Caspian offers when there’s a knock at the door. He opens it to find Lucy there, smiling wide when she sees him.
“There you are!” she exclaims. “I’ve been looking everywhere!”
Caspian raises his eyebrows, perplexed but amused. Lucy has a sort of quality to her that makes everything she says seem good and exciting. Blossoming his friendship with her has been one of the great joys of his new life. She is often able to break him out of any slumps or bouts of depression he feels. He imagines that’s true for many, not just him.
“Really?” he asks. “And why is that?”
“Well, I was thinking. We haven’t really sat and had breakfast together for a little while, since we all tend to wake at different times, and we’re all so busy. Today feels special, so I thought we should eat together!”
“It feels special?” Caspian leans against the doorframe, crossing his arms.
“Yes. You can’t feel it?”
Caspian takes a second to really try and feel what she is. Lucy has often suggested that he try to “listen to Narnia” now that he is king, but he has never really been able to.
“I am sorry,” he admits. “I do not.”
Lucy shrugs. “That’s alright. Most people don’t.” She looks past Caspian and into the room. “Good morning, Doctor!”
Caspian turns to see Cornelius perk up, bowing his head.
“Your majesty,” he says.
“Would you like to come to breakfast, too?”
Cornelius seems to ponder this for a moment before looking at Caspian, who would love to have him join them for a meal. But for whatever reason, seeing Caspian seems to change Cornelius’ mind.
“I am honored,” he starts. “I think your siblings and Caspian should have a nice morning together.”
Caspian tilts his head, curious but not enough to say anything. Lucy takes this without offence.
“Alright,” she hums. She then grabs Caspian’s hand before he can protest. “Come on!”
Caspian chuckles as the much smaller Lucy pulls him along the castle hallways, as if he does not know how to get there, or perhaps how to walk. He lets it happen, and he watches as the various servants and passers-by in the halls smile at the sight.
Their destination, the lower hall, is a very spacious room, mostly meant to host large dinners and other such gatherings. Tall stained-glass windows on the back wall bathe the room in swathes of colored lights. In the center of the room is an exceptionally long table, Edmund and Peter already seated across from each other in the middle, having what looks to be a passionate dispute. They stop and turn in tandem when they hear Lucy and Caspian enter.
“Hullo,” Edmund greets. He glances at Peter after he speaks, who is looking at Caspian slightly strangely, his eyes trailing along his outfit.
“Good morning,” Caspian says with a nod.
Peter startles slightly. “Morning.”
Lucy pulls Caspian towards the table as if he doesn’t know how to sit down. She makes him take a seat across from Peter.
“I’m going to find Susan,” she announces. “Don’t start eating without us!”
She then prances out of the room before anyone can respond, the three of them left smiling in her wake. As was common.
“What were you two discussing?” Caspian asks lightly. “It looked like an intense conversation.”
Edmund’s smile morphs into a smirk.
“Would you like to tell him, Peter?” he offers.
Peter blanches, his blue eyes going wide.
“I—” he starts, then stops. He scowls a bit. “It was stupid. Nothing you need to bother hearing about.”
Edmund snickers to Caspian’s left.
“Alright,” Caspian concedes. “If you wish.”
Peter’s face softens.
“Sorry,” he mumbles. “I wasn’t trying to sound crass.”
“It’s fine.”
“I was just—” Peter huffs. “I was admitting to Edmund that you bested me during sparring yesterday.”
Caspian chuckles in amusement and surprise.
“It is a very rare occurrence," he admits. “It felt like a fluke even to me.”
“Nonsense,” Edmund waves a hand. “You’re a young, fit king who bested an old man out of the prime of his life. Makes perfect sense to me.”
“‘Out of my prime’?!” Peter repeats in dismay.
Caspian sits back and enjoys watching as the two brothers continue to bicker. When he first got to know them, he wasn’t sure what to make of these moments of fighting. At first, he thought them fully serious, every confrontation filled with genuine contention and anger. Without having siblings, or really friends, to grow up with, he didn’t know this kind of meaningless argument could exist. The more he spent time with them, the more he realized most often, these exchanges were just their own special ways of expressing their love for each other.
And much like Caspian has adjusted to that, he’s also come to know Edmund’s sense of humor; the dry wit, the blunt comments, the teasing remarks. Similarly to how Lucy is able to bring Caspian out of moments of despair, Edmund’s jokes or plain honesty often snap Caspian back to reality, helping to put his jumbled thoughts into perspective.
He watches them continue to debate for a little while before Lucy comes back into the room, her face slightly red as she talks breathily.
“I couldn’t find Susan,” she frowns. “She’ll probably be here soon.”
“Are you sure?” Caspian leans forward in concern, ready to stand. “If you need help, we can go look for her.”
“It’s alright,” Peter assures, sounding genuine. Caspian looks back at him. “This has been a habit of hers lately. Disappearing in the morning for a while, I mean. We just leave her to it. She’s the smartest of all of us, really. She’ll be fine. She knows what she’s doing.”
Caspian nods. “Right.” On that point, he could not disagree.
It takes a bit longer for Susan to finally arrive, with Caspian’s stomach beginning to growl, but she does. She looks elegant and beautiful, the teal on her dress matching Caspian’s shirt. Her hair is almost perfectly curled, rivets rolling down to her shoulders. She smiles when she sees everyone.
“I was told you were all in here,” she explains as she makes her way to the table, sitting next to Peter. “It’s nice to have breakfast together again.”
“Let me guess,” Edmund drones, “you were in the woods?”
“Yes, if it matters so much to you. I was practicing my archery.” There’s a brief pause before she looks over at Caspian. “We need to continue your lessons, Caspian. You’re getting better, but you could still use some work.”
This is true. Much like Caspian has sparring sessions with Peter, he has archery lessons with Susan. With how hectic their lives have become, both are great excuses to be able to spend time with the other person. They all often end up just talking more than anything else.
Which is fine, since he rather enjoys talking to Susan. She’s very easy to talk to, the two having a natural rhythm and flow. They have a lot in common, more so than he realized when they met. She is a great confidant, someone he often turns to for advice or just to get something off of his chest.
And, well. Talking with Peter is nice, too.
“He managed to best Peter a few times with a sword last night,” Edmund cuts in, an evident teasing tone in his voice. “Isn’t that right?”
Peter gives Edmund a pointed look.
“Are you going to tell the entire castle?” he comments in annoyance.
“Probably.”
Peter rolls his eyes. “Last time I tell you anything.”
“No, it isn’t.”
Edmund gives a smile that declares him the winner of the conversation, Peter biting back a smile of his own as he concedes and leans back in his chair.
Soon after, the servants are coming in and filling the table with a wide array of food options. Most are Telmarine dishes, since they still make up the majority of the kitchen staff, but the Narnian chefs have started to introduce some of their cuisine to the menu. Caspian watches as the Pevensies naturally gravitate towards those dishes, even if the recipes are probably from hundreds of years after they ruled.
They sit there for a little while, eating and talking. It is nice, having them all together like this in something outside of a formal meeting. Caspian often feels his most alive, his most at purpose, when he is with all of them. In truth, he seldom sees himself as the solitary king of Narnia; whether the four siblings admit it or not, they are as much active rulers of the land as he is. They are strongest together.
When their plates are cleared and the meal is nearing its end, Caspian feels before he sees Aslan come into the room. The legends and stories about him all seem to be as true as were written, unlike the ones about the Pevensies, which were only accurate some of the time. Aslan is every bit as grand, mystical, and intimidating as the old words said.
Everyone instinctively stands and bows their heads when he comes into the room; except for Lucy, who gives an excited squeal and runs over to him. He leans affectionately into her hand as she rubs along his mane, and the sight is both familiar and perplexing, the lion tamed by the child. Something Caspian has seen before, but never accustomed to.
“Hello, dear one,” Aslan greets Lucy before looking towards the others. “And good morning to you all.”
“Good morning,” the remaining four say.
“It’s been a while since we’ve seen you,” Lucy laments. “What were you doing?”
“Do not worry,” Aslan nods. “I did not stray far. I was watching you all continue to grow, and continue to help Caspian grow into his new role. You have all done a wonderful job. You should be proud.”
Caspian bows his head again, feeling both relieved and unworthy.
“Thank you,” he says with a nervous exhale.
“Young king,” Aslan continues, now addressing Caspian directly, “I came back because there was something important I wished to discuss with you. With all of you.”
Any relief Caspian just felt immediately gives way to anxiety. He tenses up, but tries not to let it show.
“What is it?” he asks.
Aslan walks further into the room, making long strides with his enormous paws.
“The integration of the Telmarines and Narnians into one culture has been going smoothly,” he begins. “However, we do not want to force the Telmarines into our land like we were forced into theirs. Not every Telmarine citizen was a proponent of the invasion, even if they did benefit.”
Caspian nods, not seeing any fault in his words. As if that could ever happen.
“What do you suggest?” Peter asks in the beat of silence.
“I have the ability to create a portal that will give the Telmarines passage to the land of their forefathers,” Aslan explains.
Caspian pauses, suddenly confused.
“What land do you mean, exactly?” he questions, keeping his tone gentle so as not to sound accusatory in any way.
“Your ancestors come from the same world that your fellow kings and queens do.” He looks over at the Pevensies with soft eyes. (Soft for a lion, anyway.) “They were sailors, sea-farers, who were eventually stranded on an island. That island had a rare and magical cave that was able to transport them here, to Narnia.”
Caspian looks down as those words sink in. It’s quite something, to realize that the heroes he looked up to all his life originate from the same land that he does, that all of his people do. The Pevensies only continue to become more alike him with time and knowledge.
“Incredible,” Caspian whispers. He sees Peter look over at him after he says this, and only briefly catches his eye before looking back at the lion.
“I can bring them back to that island,” Aslan continues. “Any who wish. It is their right. But as king, Caspian, you are the one who must make this decision. Not I.”
Caspian almost laughs. It’s quite humble and kind of Aslan to treat Caspian like he carries more power than him, or like his words hold more meaning. Anyone paying attention knows who the real ruler of Narnia is. Still, Caspian can play along.
“I wish to know what my advisors think,” he answers. “They understand being brought from one land to another.”
“I think it’s a great idea,” Lucy cheers. “Everyone should have a choice.”
“They should,” Edmund adds, “but it might cause a bit of a problem if a large portion of our population is suddenly gone. We would have to plan for that.”
“I’m not sure that many people will leave,” Peter counters. “The Telmarines are experiencing real liberation for the first time. Even under Narnian rule, the more conservative might still want to stay.”
“It could look like a lack of faith in Caspian’s leadership if people would rather leave than be ruled by him,” Susan mentions. “Yet he’ll also appear as a just king for given them the option. So I see no reason not to.” She pauses, pursing her lips. “But what do you think, Caspian? The Telmarines are your people, after all.”
Caspian nods, knowing that she’s right. He does appreciate their input, but Aslan ultimately wants to hear him make the decision.
“I think,” he begins, “that you are all correct. Some extremists or doubters might leave. Some may see that and think me a weak king. But most will see the truth of it, that we are offering them a choice to make their own destiny.” His eyes meet with Aslan’s. “It’s a wonderful idea. Thank you.”
Aslan smiles. “I am glad you think so.” He turns to where Lucy and Edmund are standing. “If you two would not mind, could you help Caspian prepare everyone? Have everyone gather by the square when you are ready.” He then turns to the opposite end of the table, where Susan and Peter are standing. “I should like to have a moment with you two alone, if you’d please.”
At first, Caspian is not phased much by Aslan saying this; there’s nothing inherently wrong with him wanting to speak to the eldest Pevensies. But when Caspian sees the way the two of them look at each other, a sort of unspoken fear and understanding passing between them, he suddenly becomes nervous. How do they already seem to know what Aslan is going to tell them? And why do they seem afraid?
“Of course,” Susan responds for both of them. “We’ll see you all later.”
They smile politely, yet strained, the energy in the room clearly shifted. There is a moment before Peter turns to walk away where he catches eyes with Caspian, and the gaze lingers for longer than expected. Caspian wishes he could read the expression there, hear whatever it is Peter is thinking. But as it is, all he sees is a face suddenly etched with regret. And Caspian has no idea why.
The two royals and Aslan leave, leaving the remaining three standing there in a room that suddenly feels far too large and empty. If the younger ones noticed the difference in their siblings’ energy, they don’t comment on it.
“So,” Lucy hums, “should we begin?”
Caspian takes a long exhale, trying to have his nerves leave with it. He now has a lot to do today.
“Let’s,” he says.
The three of them spend the next hour or so planning for the meeting. It’s not particularly exciting, mostly filled with logistics on how to gather everyone, what Caspian should say, and what steps they should put into place depending on who leaves. Not all kingly work is adventurous — in fact, most of it isn’t — but it is important work, and doing it with two of his friends makes it a lot more enjoyable.
Caspian doesn’t often get to spend time with just Edmund or Lucy. He sees them both once a day, at least, but they also have their own duties and responsibilities to tend to. Yes, neither are technically acting rulers of Narnia anymore, and have free will to go about as they wish, but they also know Narnia is in a transitionary period, and they help out wherever they can. With Peter and Susan, he can disguise spending time with them under the excuse of lessons. He’ll have to come up with something similar for these two.
When they all look out the castle window to see the crowd gathered in the distance outside, they know their work is complete.
“I should find Peter and Susan,” Lucy mentions. “I thought they’d be back by now.”
Caspian notices the undertone of nerves in her voice. Maybe she did sense the strange energy from them before, but put her duty first.
“I’ll go,” Caspian finds himself offering. “I’ll meet you down there, with the others.”
Lucy looks unsure, but eventually nods, Edmund throwing an arm around her shoulder and leading them away.
Caspian heads down to where he saw Peter and Susan last, exiting the back way of the lower hall. In the last hour, they could have wound up anywhere, but somehow he doubts Aslan would have taken them too far.
It takes him a bit of wandering around the courtyards, but eventually he does come across them. They don’t notice him at first, clearly deeply involved in an intense conversation. Caspian steals a moment to glean their emotions.
Aslan, walking between the two royals, has a purposeful yet slightly resigned look to his features, humanizing him in a way that is hard to explain. To his left, Susan frowns, is perhaps even crying, her face scrunched up yet still graceful. To Aslan’s right, Peter looks as emotionless as a statue, completely straight-faced and unflinching. He holds Rhindon out from his hip, his hand firmly grasped around the pommel; a habit Caspian has picked up on. Normally done when Peter’s nervous, or thinking, but right now he seems to be neither, just a calm and composed king.
It’s a stark contrast to how Susan is appearing, and it makes Caspian shiver to wonder what Aslan could have possibly told them to gain such different reactions.
He’s only realized he’s stared without speaking when Aslan calls his name, the three of them turned and now looking at him expectantly. Even though they are a few paces away, their eyes might as well be directly against his own, that’s how close they feel. Aslan seems curious; Susan, even more upset; and Peter, still devoid of emotion. If anything, seeing Caspian makes him straighten his shoulders that much more.
Caspian clears his throat. “We are ready. Everyone has assembled."
Aslan and Peter nod. Susan looks at the ground. None of them say anything more.
Feeling awkward, Caspian turns and walks away, not knowing what else to do.
A short time later, Caspian and the others have met up with Edmund, Lucy, Bultitude, Cornelius, Trumpkin, Glenstorm, Trufflehunter, Reepicheep, and thousands of Narnian and Telmarine citizens who wait for Caspian to speak.
Seeing them all gathered together like this, facing forward and staring at him, does bring Caspian some pause. The last time they were gathered like this was for his coronation, a day that was filled both with great joy and anxiety. The ceremonies had been a purposeful blending of Narnian and Telmarine customs, a symbolic merging of their cultures. At the end, he recited several vows said by Peter before being crowned by him, and then bowed to — firstly by Peter alone, and then everyone.
(Caspian has been bowed to his whole life, being a prince and all. The coronation was the first time it felt strange, felt almost wrong. And seeing Peter bow to him was the strangest of all.)
Now everyone is being gathered to possibly send some Telmarines away. He still thinks it is a good idea, and necessary, but recognizes the slight irony here. A subtle anxiety sends goosebumps down his arms.
He didn’t get a chance to talk with Peter and Susan — or Lucy and Edmund — after arriving here. Aslan got everyone into their places and roared to signify the gathering had begun. Caspian has thought about what to say all morning; he hopes he does it right.
“Thank you all for being here,” he begins. “It has been an honor and a privilege to be your king for these last months. I want to thank all of you, both Narnian and Telmarine, for helping make this new era a hopeful one. I know it has not always been easy, but I have seen the strides we are making every day to give Narnia back their land while honoring the rights of Telmar’s citizens. And it is Telmar that I wish to speak on today.”
He stops there and lets the crowd process what he’s said so far. They vaguely nod in agreement, so he continues speaking.
“Aslan is offering the Telmarines a choice. Narnia belongs to the Narnians just as it does to man. Any Telmarnies who want to stay and live in peace are welcome to. And for any of you who wish, Aslan will return you to the home of our forefathers.”
“It has been generations since we left Telmar,” a soldier pipes up from the crowd. Caspian’s heart skips, fearing what other trepidations are about to be vocalized. He opens hs mouth to respond when Aslan speaks first.
“We are not referring to Telmar,” he explains. “Your ancestors were sea-faring brigands, pirates run aground on an island. There they found a cave, a rare chasm that brought them here from their world, the same world as our kings and queens.” He takes a moment to gesture at them with his head, and Caspian can’t help but wonder again what conversation happened this morning. “It is to that island I can return you. It is a good place for any who wish to make a new start.”
There’s a few, seemingly long seconds of silence where no one moves or speaks. Caspian briefly considers the possibility that no one will take Aslan up on the offer, which is something he hadn’t considered until now. But that idea is quickly squashed when Glozelle makes his way forward.
“I’ll go,” he announces. “I will accept the offer.”
Then Caspian’s aunt, Prunaprismia, stands besides him, holding her son in her arms. Another soldier — her father, actually, Lord Scythley — joins them.
“So will we,” she adds, a hint of sadness to her voice.
Caspian is surprised to see her. She had become somewhat of a recluse after the last battle, likely grieving the death of her husband and the loss of her crown. He imagines it would be a lot to deal with while also raising a newborn. Is it possible Glozelle and Scythley had been helping her with that? He’s a bit ashamed to admit to himself he doesn’t know, but his relationship with his aunt was never great, and was recently tainted with blood, some of it his own.
He doesn’t think to speak up when the four of them walk towards Aslan, watching it happen in a sort of awe. Aslan greets them without judgment.
“Because you have spoken first, your future in that world will be good.” Then, surprisingly, he blows out a breath of air, which comes out like a great gust of wind. Caspian feels nothing, but he can see the way it effects them, as if the Deep Magic has settled into their bones.
Even more astounding, the tree next to them twists apart, two halves splitting to form an ovular opening in the middle of their trunks. Caspian hadn’t paid any mind when Aslan told them to gather everyone here, assuming it was just a notable landmark, but now it makes sense. He hadn’t pictured what the portal would actually look like, nor where it would be, but it’s fitting that it would be in a tree, part of Narnia herself.
The portal is seemingly invisible — the opening in the tree can see straight through to the other side, with no visual indicator that there is anything special in the middle. Still, the three Telmarines understand as they turn and slowly walk forward towards the tree, into the opening and…
Disappearing from sight. All at once, faster than Caspian can blink.
A gasp runs through the crowd, mirroring the shock Caspian feels at the sight. He turns around in a panic as he hears the people begin to erupt in protests and concerns.
“They disappeared!” they scream.
“Where did they go?” more ask.
“How is this possible?” many wonder.
“How do we know he is not leading us to our deaths?!” one voice stands out.
Caspian flounders, suddenly feeling powerless and not like a king at all. In truth, he himself does not know how the portal works or what lies on the other side. He trusts Aslan, but he feels wholly unequipped to give an answer, let alone one that would satisfy the mob.
Reepicheep then steps up, always so brave despite his size.
“Sire, if my example can be of any service, I will take eleven mice through with no delay.”
Aslan doesn’t answer him, instead waiting for the Pevensies to speak, a hopeful look on his face. Caspian follows his gaze to see that Peter and Susan are looking at each other, communicating silently amongst themselves.
A horrible feeling of premonition shivers down Caspian’s spine. He feels as if he is standing on the edge of a very sharp and narrow cliff. He somehow knows that once Peter steps forward, Caspian will too, over the edge and into whatever after his life is about to become.
“We’ll go,” Peter declares, sounding so bold and noble, and there it is. Caspian’s heart dropping, the fear in his body becoming real, made manifest. All this morning, and then again now, he felt it, maybe somehow knew it, but was denying the truth.
He always knew the Pevensies were going to leave again. Whether by accident or choice, it just made sense. It is part of their story that they do not get to stay, in their timeline or the next. Caspian had only been hoping he would have gotten more time with them before it happened.
“We will?” Edmund retorts, seeming confused.
“Come on,” Peter urges softly, looking at his two youngest siblings. “Our time’s up.” The words make Caspian flinch, as if Peter’s been given a death sentence.
“After all,” Peter continues, suddenly turning and fixing his eyes on Caspian. His eyes stay there, glued and intense, as he walks over to him, slowly unsheathing his sword from where it’s been faithfully at his side. He holds it out pointedly, clearly, to Caspian, in view of the entire crowd. “We’re not really needed here anymore.”
In this moment, time seems to completely stop, Caspian barely able to comprehend what is happening. He’s already been delivered the blow that the Pevensies are leaving, and now Peter is handing over his sword — Rhindon — for Caspian to take.
Caspian is not ignorant to what this gesture means. Rhindon is from the Golden Age of Narnia, one of Peter’s few prized possessions left in existence. And this sword in particular not only represents Peter, but his role as king, Narnia’s king. To give it to Caspian in such a public display is Peter’s way of saying he trusts Caspian to rule over the land in his absence, and that everyone else should trust him, too.
He feels profoundly honored, more so than he could probably ever express. This symbol means more to him than anything Peter has done previously, including the coronation. Despite all of their struggles, all of their fighting and competition and blind rage, Caspian has managed to earn enough favor and good grace in Peter’s eyes to be seen as someone able to care for Narnia and keep it safe.
Caspian doesn’t know what he’s done to earn that. He finds it hard to believe that he has.
But looking at Peter now — or rather, seeing the way Peter is looking at him — he knows it must be true. The expression on Peter’s face is complex, multilayered and impossible to fully read, but what is undoubtedly there is trust, confidence, and faith. In the bright rays of Narnia’s mid-morning sun, he looks absolutely golden, radiant, one last glance of the Magnificent before it falls over the horizon line once more. Caspian takes a selfish moment to drink it in, grateful that he’s able to be in its presence.
(Peter is no longer a legend to Caspian, now a human being. But sometimes…sometimes. His greatness cannot be denied.)
When Caspian feels as ready as he’ll ever be, he takes the sword, the two of them holding it together for a brief, shining moment. It feels strangely more intimate than if he was to hold his hand.
“I will look after it until you return,” Caspian promises, his voice steady.
“I’m afraid that’s just it,” Susan cuts in, her small yet remorseful voice seeming to cut right through the center of them. “We’re not coming back.”
Now Caspian’s world has really come to a standstill. Yes, he always suspected the Pevensies would be leaving Narnia again, but he always imagined they would come back. Hopefully not another 1300 years later, but still. They would come back. They always come back. What good is Narnia without the promise that her kings and queens will one day return to her?
Caspian feels like he can’t breathe, his vision suddenly going dark at the corners. These four people are the first real friends he’s ever had. Sure, he made brief friends of visitors from other lands who came to the castle, or children of the soldiers, but none of it ever lasted. He was far too guarded, too royal. These were the first people who ever really understood him, who ever stayed. At least, apparently, for a little while. And not only that, but their knowledge of ruling Narnia was invaluable. Caspian turned to them every day for some sort of advice or consort on what to do in his new position. What is he meant to do with four of his best advisors now gone?
Peter said they weren’t needed here anymore. Caspian hates to think that he’s wrong, yet he can’t help but to feel it. He can’t ever imagine a world where the Pevensies aren’t needed in Narnia. The peace they are in now is inevitably going to end. Some new threat will rise, with them needed to save the day. Or even just in their daily lives, helping usher in this new era. How could they not be needed?
Caspian hasn’t realized Peter has let go of the sword and walked away before he hears him speak again. He blinks himself into awareness, looking down at his reflection in the metal as Peter talks.
“At least, I think he means you two,” Peter is saying, responding to something Caspian didn’t hear. He’s looking towards Lucy and Edmund.
“But why?” Lucy asks Aslan. “Did they do something wrong?”
Aslan shakes his mane. “Quite the opposite, dear one. But all things have their time. Your brother and sister have learned what they can from this world. Now it’s time for them to live in their own.”
Caspian can barely process what’s being said. Learned what they can? What does that even mean? How could Narnia be done teaching them?
“It’s alright, Lu,” Peter says, his voice almost achingly gentle. “It’s not how I thought it would be, but it’s alright. One day, you’ll see too. Come on.”
Peter then takes her by the hand and leads his siblings towards the line of people standing across from them; Cornelius, Glenstorm, and their other allies. Caspian watches, feeling helpless and numb, as they say their polite goodbyes to everyone. He thinks maybe he should say something, say goodbye to them too, but he finds he cannot speak. And for whatever reason, they do not come over to him.
But they do look at him, all of them. They all look pained in different ways, but trying to conceal it. Lucy is the most emotional, sniffing away the tears she freshly shed hugging Trumpkin. Edmund looks regretful and surprised. Susan has calmed herself from before, donning a saddened acceptance. And Peter looks across at Caspian with a mouth that opens and closes a few times, uncertainty lining his features. But he doesn’t move forward, and neither does Caspian, the great line of their destinies dividing them.
Caspian’s hand is in a vice grip around Rhindon’s pommel, and he can feel the rivets its leaving in his skin. He finds himself recalling when he helped Peter up after sparring yesterday and felt scabs lining the curve of his palm, and realizes with a sudden clarity where they came from.
With Lucy taking one last, lingering look behind her, the four of them walk through the portal, there in an instant and gone the next. It’s almost insulting how fast it happens, how quickly the life and fire of the royals are snuffed out. There was no proper sendoff, no parting celebration, just a quick lineup of goodbyes to the people standing closest to them before making a few small steps forward, small steps that nevertheless took them away from Narnia, of which half would never return.
The silence that follows after the Pevensies are well and truly gone is deafening.
It’s not just the lack of sound, but a feeling; thick, unsettling, and almost smothering, as if the air that Caspian’s breathing in is too hot, getting stuck in his throat. He’s not the only one affected. Everyone seems to be bound and paralyzed to the spot, fixated on the opening in the tree. Caspian stares into it as well, the empty space there almost pulling him in.
Even Aslan, who Caspian has never once seen even so much as flinch, looks alarmed, glancing at the Telmarines with something like worry on his face.
A chill suddenly blows by with a pronounced wind, Caspian’s arms prickling. He looks up to see the skies filling with clouds faster than he thought possible, daunting in how quickly they change from open and blue to heavy with grey. There’s no rain, but lightning flashes in the distance, with a low grumbling like thunder making its presence. The crowd gasps and murmurs in worry.
“Everyone remain calm,” Aslan declares. “There will be no storm. It will not rain upon you.”
Caspian has no idea how Aslan knows this, but he said it confidently enough that he knows not to question him. Still, it’s hard to shake the feeling, or threat, of rain that hangs over everyone’s heads, as if the clouds could break open at any moment. He finds himself tensing his shoulders, bracing for an impact that never comes.
“Now that you have seen that the passage is safe,” Aslan continues, “any others who wish to go through it are welcome.”
The crowd falters, seemingly concerned not for the safety of the portal, but the storm that threatens to spill. Caspian turns to Aslan, who does not look at him, just waits patiently as he gazes over the Telmarines. Caspian thinks he still sees an undercurrent of worry in Aslan’s eyes, but he hasn’t seen it before, and shouldn’t now.
Eventually, someone does step forward; Caspian recognizes her as the daughter of one of the Telmarine soldiers, but is saddened to say he doesn’t remember her name.
“I’ll go,” she announces, her voice definitive and a little deep. She steps forward, walking with a mix of confidence and sadness. She seems unafraid, but something is clearly troubling her.
Caspian will never know what, because she’s soon gone through the portal as quickly as she came, her father rushing through the crowd and following after her, not wanting to leave his daughter behind. More people slowly trickle in afterwards, not enough to significantly decrease their population but enough to leave noticeable gaps in the crowd. Caspian is not sure whether this is something he should be proud or dejected about.
When it seems like everyone who would want to leave has left, Aslan motions for Caspian to dismiss them. He hesitates, once again instinctively grabbing Rhindon’s pommel to steady himself, perhaps a part of him hoping that Peter’s influence is lingering within, that his strength can travel back here all the way from England and help Caspian find the right words to speak — or, really, any words at all.
He clears his throat. The Telmarines wait expectantly.
“Thank you,” he begins, “for choosing to stay. There is no shame in leaving, but I am honored that you wish to continue living in Telmar, and now Narnia. I promise you, as I did when I was crowned, that I will continue to do everything in my power to make you proud of this choice. The kings and queens taught me much before they left. I will do my best to carry on their legacy.”
The crowd vaguely applauds, then turns around and begins the somewhat rushed journey back to their homes, the skies still heavy and grey overhead. Aslan walks over to Caspian.
“You did well, son of Adam,” he compliments. Caspian bows his head. “I know you were not prepared for them to leave.”
Caspian swallows. “I think I always knew they would, somewhere inside me.”
“You are very perceptive. In time, I am sure you’ll understand my reasoning.” He then glances at the sky around them, his smile fading. “You should get back to the castle.”
“I thought you said it was not going to rain.”
“It will not. But the land is grieving. It would be wise to give her some space.”
Caspian sort of nods, only somewhat understanding what he means. Aslan nods back before pouncing off into the distance, making great strides across Narnia’s hills. His speed is alarming, and he’s gone before Caspian can process what he’s said.
Cornelius comes up and puts a comforting hand on Caspian’s shoulder, bringing him to attention. His expression is easy to read, filled with both pride and pity, and the fact that he knows exactly what Caspian is feeling makes him almost start to cry. They share a silent moment before Cornelius speaks.
“What will you do now, my king?” he asks, the words gentle.
Caspian doesn’t answer. He has no plan. Not for right now, not for tomorrow, not for anything. His mind is swimming with thoughts, but the one that’s shouting louder than the rest is that he has a deep and unstoppable urge to run.
He often thinks he hasn’t stopped running, really, since the day he left the castle: running from Miraz, running from the Telmarines, running towards the Pevensies, running away from the Pevensies (well, mostly Peter, but still), running back to the Pevensies, running back towards Miraz, running back towards the castle. And between it all, running away from and towards his destiny to be king. He has never quite settled himself on how he feels about it, and today has made him more uncertain than ever. His friends and most trusted advisors are now gone. How is he meant to lead Narnia? How is he worthy of this, of the sword in his hand?
“I…I do not know,” Caspian finally admits, and he can hear how broken he sounds, flinching at his own weakness. “I need to get out of here. For a little while.”
Cornelius opens his mouth, clearly wanting to protest, but something in Caspian’s voice or expression must change his mind, because his mouth closes as he takes a step back. He hesitates before speaking.
“Be safe, Caspian,” he urges with love. “We cannot replace you.”
And I cannot replace the kings and queens , Caspian thinks.
But he nods, even if its small, because no matter what has happened to him, he cannot let Cornelius down, cannot hurt him with purpose.
He starts by just walking, getting away from the remaining Telmarines until he finds himself on the outskirts of the grounds, the open fields of Narnia in front of him. The air still feels heavy, like he’s moving through smoke, and suddenly walking is not enough, he’s not far enough, and so he finally runs.
He runs for a while, feeling the weight of Rhindon in its scabbard as he moves. The further into the wilds he goes, the more angry Narnia seems to become, as tears sting Caspian’s eyes with wind that grows in intensity. Thunder roars all around, and he swears the ground is shaking beneath his feet, almost in time with his steps. The trees shake madly, leaves flying everywhere. More lightning flashes in the distance, sickly sharp and jagged, and Caspian knows he should be going inside, should listen to Aslan, but he feels more at home here, in the chaos of the wild. He has a need to scream, so he does, and the sound is drowned out by the noise encircling him, the storm the only thing able to match his rage.
At some point his eyes glaze over, not even taking in what he’s seeing, losing himself to the raw physicality of running. He no longer thinks specific thoughts, but is instead engulfed in simply feeling , regret and grief tearing apart his ribcage. It blinds him to his surroundings until he trips over some vines in the ground, sending him stumbling forwards and onto his knees. He’s barely able to keep himself upright with his hands, which sting with impact as they’re scraped by dirt and rocks.
He takes a moment to catch his breath, which is heavy with the weight of a long, labored run, and grips his hands into the soil, feeling the tactile coolness there, damp and grounding. He realizes then that the storm suddenly is far away, still there but in the distance, as though he was in some circle of protection. The thunder has stayed with him, though, lodging itself in his body, his limbs shaking as he blinks away his teary eyes, the clouds of his vision clearing.
When he finally stands several minutes later, his body struggles with the effort, but he manages. It is dark around him, very dark, any potential light covered by layers of clouds and tall, leafy treetops. The wind doesn’t reach them here, it seems, and everything around him is almost painfully calm, as if he has been plucked out of reality.
His eyes adjust eventually to see that a pond or maybe a lake is close by, the lack of light making it appear like an endless pit. It looks like he could fall into it, if he wanted. He does want to, a little bit. Maybe a lot. It could be peaceful there.
He settles down and lies on his back, looking up at the canopy of trees, which appear like a quilt draped over the sky. He lets his right hand lay in the water, not expecting it to be as warm as it is, and lets his body go very, very still, all of his manic energy and misplaced anger feeling drained.
This outburst has done nothing to quiet the storm in his heart. The thoughts he were able to briefly shake off come back and race wildly through his head, none of them staying for long but leaving him increasingly frustrated, restless, and unsatisfied, with no avenues of which to do anything about it. He can barely move, his hand dead like a stone in the water, and the darkness around him feels enveloping, sinking on top of him.
It’s wrong , he thinks, or maybe hears someone say. The voice doesn’t seem quite his. It’s all wrong.
His eyes close.