Chapter Text
A piercing look cold as ice from the mountains was the first thing Caspian drew attention to at the first meeting. Later, he thought — not like ice, but like a clear northern skies, in whose name the High King Peter the Magnificent was crowned. Eyes, perhaps, the only thing that betrayed the years of his reign; the hero of Caspian childhood, those tales that Dr. Cornelius secretly told. Little prince dreamed that when he ascended the throne, he would definitely become the same as His Highness — just as brave, strong and wise, and maybe he would try to find old Narnians in the forests and make friends with them.
Well... One year left before the coronation and the uncle-regent decided to stage a coup d'état, the old Narnians chose whether to kill him or not, and King Peter — with his piercing eyes — was a boy, like Caspian himself. He would not have believed (he did not want to believe) that these teenagers were the Great Kings and Queens of antiquity they had been waiting for, but Rhindon was as heavy in Peter's hand as in the pictures. And Caspian didn't know what to feel. Is it joy that the horn worked and they had more chances to win, disappointment that everything was completely different from what he imagined, or maybe resentment that the hero of his childhood aspirations obviously doesn't see him as a worthy successor. It was like... well done, that you gathered an army and called us, thank you, then we ourselves. It's annoying.
They had different views on the state of things, on how to wage war, Peter was sharp and caustic, he said hurtful things with his beautiful mouth and... yes, that was another problem. Caspian was a recluse in the castle, his social circle consisted only of a mentor, and, occasionally, an uncle who every year became tougher towards him. The children of the servants avoided him, hid their eyes, as they always do with respect to royal persons. He only knew that, upon reaching adulthood, a wife from a noble family would be found for him and she would give birth to an heir, probably Caspian XI.
That's maybe why Peter got him excited. Caspian knew that he was older, that he had lived here part of his life before he left Narnia, but sometimes Peter acted in a completely childish way, and this could not fit in Caspian's head. The books did not lie when they wrote about the golden hair (which was shorter than he imagined), about the cold clarity of the eyes, about the heavy hand that could ruthlessly cut its enemies. What no one wrote about was full lips or moles on the neck. It is understandable who would even mention such things, but having discovered these seemingly simple things, Caspian was amazed. He... wasn't ready for this. He was not prepared for the fact that his hero would be so young. He wasn't ready for his hero to be so... handsome. And he was completely unprepared to face such ardent and unreasonable contempt.
Peter didn't think that his opinion was the only correct one, as it might have seemed before. On the contrary, he listened to his sisters and brother, to other Narnians, for some reason taking only him with hostility. Caspian don't understand. He wanted to understand, but every time he got the chance to talk in private, he just... couldn't find the words. He just stared helplessly into Peter's eyes, muttered something, losing all the bravery that had accumulated at the war council, and hurriedly left-read-as-escaped from this gaze.
He wished hud tutor were here. Of all people, only he could explain the reason for his strange condition. Now he was most likely languishing in a dungeon — Miraz was no fool — and the only thing that pleased Caspian in their suicidal plan was that there was an opportunity to save him.
They planned a trip to Miraz's Castle at night, so there was time to rest and gain strength. After the council, everyone dispersed to the corners and, with the exception of a several lookouts, few could be seen at this hour. He meets Lucy's gaze as she braids Susan's hair in her lap. Edmund sat beside him, polishing his strange lantern. Peter was not with them, and Lucy, apparently understanding what Caspian was thinking (she was surprisingly perceptive), nods deep into their fortress. Her sad look is so piercing that he remembers that Peter, in general, was not looking for, but just nervously wandering around here and there, only when he find him.
He stands over their impromptu map of the castle, where Caspian tried to indicate all the entrances and exits that he himself once found out of nothing to do.
Peter stands with his back to the entrance — recklessly, if there were any spy among them — but his hand was on the golden handle, his shoulders were tense, and Caspian had no doubt that whoever wanted to attack him now would be the biggest fool in the world. He himself remained standing in the entrance. He could have said something, but, first of all, he still hasn't decided why he came here, and secondly, well... he still doesn't know how to address Peter. Therefore, it was necessary to leave and not interfere, but he could not force himself to move; completely ridiculous. In the end, Peter sighs, slightly turns the head, so that in addition to the back of the head, a snub-nosed profile is now visible, and asks:
“So are you going to stand there?”
Caspian feels embarrassed, but mutters in response:
“You ordered your men to rest, and you yourself, apparently, are going to stand here until nightfall.”
Peter chuckles, finally turns around and crosses his arms over his chest, resting his hips on the Stone Table.
“You don't like my plan, do you?”
Now he doesn't look like he's infuriated by the very existence of Caspian, he just squints with a kind of gleam in his eyes. In the soft orange light, in the semi-darkness of the room, he looked somehow... different.
“Yes. It might work, but I don't like risks.”
He doesn't want to argue again, he wants to get away, especially from close scrutiny. Peter doesn't answer, so Caspian takes advantage of this opportunity, throwing in the end:
“Still, get some rest, okay?”
There is a smirk in his voice.
“Thanks for taking care of me.”
* * *
The botched foray into Miraz's castle hurts everyone, and Caspian, dumbfounded by the news of his father, allows himself to be less than attentive to the fact that the loss of their people has crippled Peter the most. Their different views, all the petty disputes and grievances accumulated like a snowball and turned into a clang of swords. And they would probably have grappled in a fight right in front of the entire suppressed army, if not for the wounded dwarf.
Maybe hitting each other, so childishly, and blowing off steam would be a lot easier than talking.
But here they are, after the unsuccessful resurrection of the Witch, there were only two of them, in ringing silence. She presses on the temples; Caspian wants to leave again, to talk to Dr. Cornelius about... about everything. But Peter nods grimly at the steps, inviting him to sit down, and silently takes his wounded hand.
“Scratch,” Caspian mutters, but Peter shakes his head.
“I'll call Lucy.”
“No need,” the king gives him an angry look, so I have to hastily add, “No need to waste Cordial on such trifles, it will still come in handy.”
Peter chuckles and pulls out a flask of water. For some reason it seems to Caspian that he himself said the exact same thing.
“The wound still needs to be washed and bandaged. There may be blood poisoning and reach up to amputation. And without a hand, it's hard to be a king.”
Irony comes through in Peter's voice. Caspian purses his lips.
“Why don't you believe in me so much?”
“That you can't be a king without a hand?”
“You know what I mean.”
Peter becomes serious and at that moment the water touches the injured palm. Caspian hisses. Peter hesitates to answer. In the end, when he begins to unwind the bandage, and the pause drags on for an indecently long time, he replies:
“I don't... I don't believe in you. Actually... I feel guilty,” the words are hard for Peter, he is definitely not one of those who like to talk heart to heart, “You know, for abandoning my people and dooming them to extinction.”
Caspian understands this feeling — of course, he is not responsible for the actions of his ancestors and he is here to stop other Telmarines, but Narnia will not soon recover from the troubles that they brought.
He looks at Peter, who is and bandage wound. In the dim light of the torches, his eyes looked completely dark.
“Apparently, I want to prove to everyone that I can still lead. I want... I want to win, to redeem myself.”
He fumbles with the knot for too long, probably not to look up. He must have felt Caspian staring at him.
“We have similar goals, Peter,” Caspian is surprised at how easily a name he never said just like that comes out of his mouth. As a child, it was always the High King — with reverent awe, but now he tried to avoid any conversions at all, “I also want to atone for the guilt of my people before the Narnians. And prove to them that I can be a worthy king. We have similar goals, but we constantly collide in them, and it doesn't help anyone.”
Peter finally finishes the banage and has no choice but to look up. All of Caspian's ardor vanishes abruptly when he realizes how close they really are to each other. He forgets what else he wanted to say — it seems to suggest burying the hatchet or something, but instead he suddenly admits:
“I wanted to be like you.”
Peter's eyebrows go up, the corners of his lips twitch up a little.
“Like me?”
Caspian's cheeks burn; in the depths of his soul, he rejoices that the twilight hides a shameful blush. But his changed expression spoke for itself to the amused Peter that he had said something that he did not want at all.
“No wonder,” Caspian mutters, “You were legends. Not only for me, even though in Telmar the tales of Narnia were not welcome, but sometimes, from the windows, I saw how the boys played with sticks, thinking they were Peter the Magnificent. I wanted... play with them.”
Caspian turns away, looking towards the stone image of Aslan. Now Peter continued to look at him.
“Apparently, I disappointed you.” He says it like a fact, based on their complicated relationship, but it was only half true.
Of course, Peter was not at all the same as Caspian imagined, and their eternal quarrels... But over time, he began to see why Peter became king, why the Narnians follow him, even though the Great Kings and Queens left Narnia. The truth is, Peter didn't have to prove anything to them. They will follow him and give their lives for him without hesitation. Caspian had yet to earn it.
These feelings he could not call disappointment, more precisely... he began to understand him? Plus, well... yes, Peter was younger, and obviously more attractive than Caspian could have imagined. He feels his cheeks burning again.
“No,” Caspian finally replies, cutting off inappropriate thoughts, “You didn't disappoint me. It just takes some getting used to. To you and your terrible temper.”
“Hey!”
Peter laughs — a startling sound Caspian has never heard from him — and shoves him in the shoulder.
Caspian hisses in pain and regrets that the laughter has stopped.
“Damn, she shot you.” Peter reaches for his flask again.
Caspian himself forgot — somehow there was no time before — and throws an apologetic glance in response.
“Take off your clothes,” that's all Peter says as he unwinds the remaining bandage.
The prince has no choice but to obey, ignoring the heat that spread through his body at the thought that he had read about similar things in those books that he secretly dragged from sleeping cooks. This was absolutely not the time or place for such thoughts.
He takes too long to fold his shirt, straightening all the folds, before he lets Peter touch his wounded shoulder.
“I’m amazed at how you even survived to this day,” Peter grins, and the air that he sharply exhales goosebumps somewhere down, “Trufflehunter was talking about how you crashed into a branch.”
Caspian feels quite embarrassed.
“And for the future, don't yank arrows or knives out of yourself, next time you might not be lucky enough to bleed to death.” Peter leans in even closer, trying to see if there are any splinters left. Caspian seems to be holding his breath. Maybe after all it was not worth playing the hero and asking for Lucy's help? Then he wouldn't have to endure the torture of this intimacy and these... fingers.
“You know what you're talking about,” Caspian chokes out, just to keep the awkward silence from falling.
“I wanted to be a doctor.” Peter shrugs.
Edmund bursts in just as he has finished fiddling with the bandage.
“I don't want to interrupt your… whatever it is,” Peter rolls his eyes, and Caspian hurriedly pulls on his shirt, “But we have guests.”
They exchange glances. All the strange atmosphere immediately disappears.
* * *
Miraz gathered an impressive army, especially in comparison with them. Spies reported on the coronation — and the first thing the self-proclaimed king sent out about forest monsters throughout the continent.
Fury, ferocious fury was the only thing Caspian felt towards this man, for everything at once: for a lonely childhood, for an assassination attempt, for seizing power and, above all, for his father. The last thought is sobering — it was this blind rage that killed so many Narnians. And he never apologized.
Caspian didn't like the plan to send Lucy into the woods alone, but this time he knew there was no other way out. Without Aslan, their army, small in comparison with Miraz, will suffer a crushing defeat, only catapults will smash everything here to the last stone. Dr. Cornelius, sitting modestly nearby, told that the ruins near the Great Eastern Ocean, which used to be a beautiful four-throne palace, were taken just by catapults.
Caspian tugs thoughtfully at the bandage on his palm as the question of how they buy time for Lucy comes up. He recalls an ancient Telmarine tradition that could play into their hands, with Miraz's fondness for their history. It was also a great chance to get even with him for everything he had done; Caspian cherishes this sudden opportunity, because what was the chance that they would meet face to face in battle? But Peter breaks his expectations, cutting off that he will fight himself. Caspian feels discontent and some kind of childish resentment, as if his favorite toy was taken away from him, but impulsiveness does not lead to anything good, he remember. One cannot undermine the spirit of the army by another disagreement; he, clenching his teeth, only watches how Peter dictates a letter to the professor, his head thrown back, apparently trying to remember all the formalities. To distract himself, he watches how Peter's Adam's apple moves; counts the moles on his neck. Seven.
When Edmund is sent with a letter to Miraz, when they are alone, there is a ringing void in Caspian's head. He realizes that during all this time, from nerves, he tore his long-suffering bandage only when he catches Peter's displeased glance.
“Almost healed,” he protests weakly.
“In an hour?”
“It doesn’t matter,” Caspian rises and stands close to Peter, “Why are you going to fight Miraz?”
He only now notices that Peter is a little shorter. The king smiles mirthlessly.
“Because I am the High King of Narnia. Because he is the king of Telmar. It makes sense, right?”
Caspian rolls his eyes at the sarcasm. Peter looks away, looks at the stone image of Aslan, and adds in a quieter voice:
“Because I'm going to leave the future of Narnia in your hands. And dead you can't help her.”
He smiles sadly, and Caspian realizes that someone once said those words to Peter himself. He has no arguments, only the bitter realization that this young man is preparing for death.
“What about your future?”
“I have already said that I am thinking about a career in medicine.”
And Caspian understands from his tone that the king does not really think about his future.
Peter lets him help with the armor. Nothing he couldn't handle on his own, but Caspian didn't seem to want to leave him, and there was nothing left for him to do. They are very close again when they reach the shoulder pads. Peter seems to want to say something, but they already realized that they were both terrible at it. In the end, all the straps were tightened and the armor was adjusted, and Caspian had no choice but to look Peter in the eye. It had always been a lottery — what he would see in them: most of the time it was annoyance, but now... he couldn't figure it out. He hadn't seen this before.
Caspian clears his throat.
“Sorry, I couldn’t contain my emotions then. I shouldn't have...”
“If I were you, I would do the same.”
Peter immediately understands what he is talking about. His pupils were dilated; blackness filled the light iris, adding some surrealism to what was happening. He looks up from the bottom, the difference is small, in fact, but so close... it feels. As well as it is felt, how noisily he draws in air. Caspian for some reason looks at his nose. He can see a rare scattering of freckles, which Peter had significantly less than his brother and sisters. You can't even see it from afar, but up close...
“I should be the one to ask for forgiveness. For taking it out on you. If you want to know... in fact, I do not blame anyone but myself,” Caspian reads his lips, “I was afraid. And I'm afraid now.”
It is difficult to return to the eyes again, but necessary. To see vague anxiety, but at the same time determination. Caspian wonders for the first time how old the boy who fought the Witch was.
“Miraz won't stand a chance against you,” and Peter's lips (again lips) curl into a grin.
It's a strange desire, a strange thought.
It must be strange to press against those lips, even if only for a few seconds.
“Have you gotten used to my terrible temper yet?” In the voice — an unfamiliar playfulness, in the eyes — fleeting fun. Caspian catches his breath.
“You know I still don't want to know what you two are doing,” comes indifferently from the outside, “but it’s time already.”
Edmund knows how to choose the time, but his presence here is sobering. They are at war and Peter is going to a fight to the death. Perhaps later... If they have this "later". In the meantime, Caspian can only give Peter his helmet.