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The ice shatters outward like a spray of water from a fountain. Caspian turns away and shields his face a fraction too late. He registers the shock before the sting of it, quite like he had when the crossbow bolt grazed his arm the night previous. He doesn't turn back until silence falls and the shards and chunks of ice lay motionless at his feet. Only then does he feel thoroughly assured he will not be blinded.
Edmund stands across from him and Peter, knuckles white around the hilt of his sword. Some of the ice has landed in his deep chestnut hair. He doesn't seem all that bothered by it—not outwardly, anyway. His brows knit together and his mouth is pressed into a thin line.
"I know," Edmund says to Peter, and there's a sort of weight to it that Caspian feels but doesn't entirely understand, "you 'had it sorted'."
And then Edmund is stepping back away from the stone frame. His gait is off; not a lot, but enough to be noticeable. He's favoring his right leg just slightly. Caspian's gaze travels down and lands on his calf. There's a shard of the ice digging into the meat of it. Caspian almost says something, but stops himself when he hears the sound of boots descending down the steps into the heart of the How.
Susan appears in the archway of the entrance. Caspian turns and mistakenly makes eye contact with her. Her expression is set into disappointment, maybe, and Caspian feels something clawing at the inside of his stomach. He has never been quite sure of Susan, of her guarded demeanor. She never stops thinking. That makes her dangerous.
She says nothing before she turns to Edmund, who has since hobbled closer to the table. She catches sight of his leg and wastes not a second moving to him. She slings one of his arms over her shoulder and helps support him as they leave.
Then Caspian turns back to Peter. Peter, who Caspian is less sure of than Susan. They make eye contact, and Caspian feels like Peter is looking past his eyes and directly into his soul. He squirms like a bug under a microscope. Peter eventually lets up, but only after he lets his expression falter. His face scrunches up—just slightly—in what Caspian recognizes as pain.
Caspian's gaze travels downward once again. There's a shard sticking out of Peter's side.
It's not wide, at least the part of it that is visible, but it looks long. Caspian can't be sure of how deep it penetrates yet. Peter's hand raises, almost hesitantly, up to rest underneath it. Caspian starts to reach out, but aborts the movement. Their eyes meet again.
“You're bleeding,” is what Peter says, and Caspian frowns without meaning to.
There's a cut on his cheekbone. He felt it happen. He moves his hand up to palpate around it. Like the shard in Peter's side, it isn't wide, but it is bleeding steadily. He wipes at the blood with the back of his index finger.
“As are you,” Caspian helpfully points out. He does take a step forward this time. “May I?”
Peter hesitates. He starts to take a step back, but he stops abruptly with a sharp hiss through his teeth, and looks to concede. Caspian waits a moment longer before approaching.
Slowly, to give Peter a chance to prepare himself, Caspian's hand finds the buckles keeping his tunic closed while Peter starts to remove his sword belt. Caspian unbuckles the tunic and carefully opens it. He decides to leave the undershirt on for now—it'll come off after the ice comes out.
The wound looks better than Caspian was expecting, but that isn't saying much. It's a jagged thing, stretching across the length of Caspian's knuckles—maybe seven centimeters. It doesn't look as deep as Caspian initially assumed, either.
“Well…it could be worse,” Caspian murmurs. It must be unhelpful, because Peter scoffs at him.
“That doesn't sound very promising,” Peter replies through gritted teeth as Caspian brushes his fingers around the shard. “We don't have anything down here.”
“We should go up.”
“No,” Peter barks before Caspian even finishes his sentence.
And Caspian isn't quite sure why he agrees to it. He has nothing to help with down here, and he isn't sure how he's meant to treat a wound like this. But if this is Peter's will, then who is Caspian to argue?
He purses his lips and looks down at his shirt. He pulls his hand back and then begins to rip at the bottom of his shirt under his armour. He can feel Peter staring at him, but he doesn't say anything at first. Caspian's mouth feels dry.
“I am going to have to take the ice out,” Caspian tells him.
“Any chance we could just let it melt?” Peter replies, not joking but not seriously. Caspian gives him a look, and Peter sighs through his nose.
Peter's words from earlier still ring in Caspian's mind. He hates that it's all he can think about right now. It makes him feel bitter, because perhaps Peter is right. But perhaps he's wrong. It's that confusion that's wearing him down. That, and the way Peter keeps twitching as if to leave, as if he can't stand Caspian's hands on him. Part of him wants to start another argument (“This is because I'm Telmarine, is it not?” he wants to ask, just for Peter to admit it), but he recognizes it won't help, so he doesn't bother. It's tension so thick Caspian could choke on it that keeps him from saying anything else.
He doesn't warn Peter when his hand goes to the ice, but he knows Peter sees it. He lets out a strangled sort of grunt when Caspian starts to extract it. Caspian almost stops to check on him, because he is decent, but he won't torture Peter any more by doing this slowly.
He tosses the shard away with the rest of the ice when it comes out fully. It only seems to be a couple centimeters deep. When it begins to bleed more heavily once the ice is removed, Caspian first covers it with his hand. The cry Peter lets out is less restrained this time. Caspian winces.
“I am sorry,” he whispers, quiet enough that he isn't sure Peter hears him at first.
But then Peter nods and says, “It's alright. Thank you.” He's breathless. Caspian's chest constricts.
After a few moments, he pulls his hand away. He stains the strip he'd torn off his shirt red when he grabs it to wrap around Peter’s torso under his shirt. It will certainly be redressed when they rejoin the others, but it will work as a makeshift bandage for now, even if it is already beginning to bleed through.
Caspian only realizes his hands are still on Peter's torso when Peter begins to take a step and almost crumbles entirely. Immediately, Caspian is supporting him, and Peter is not pushing him away.
“Here.” Caspian gently guides Peter toward the Stone Table, encouraging him to sit, even if just for a moment. Peter sinks down to the ground on the steps leading up to it, back pressing against the Stone Table. Caspian sits down to join him.
“I'm sorry,” Caspian says again. Peter doesn't look at him. “I…did not know that would happen. There was just this—”
“—pull,” Peter finishes softly. He turns to Caspian now. “She has that way about her. I won't blame you. Neither will the others.”
That eases Caspian somewhat, somehow. He feels looser with it. While he doesn't feel quite forgiven, and his guilt isn't entirely alleviated, it gets rid of the clawing in the pit of his stomach.
Peter opens his mouth, closes it, takes a second, then speaks, “I'm sorry, too. About what I said. I was upset, and I shouldn't have taken it out on you.”
Caspian has no words for that. He has received many apologies in his life—from his aunt, from his uncle, from his professor—but none that have ever made him feel strange like this. He feels sick about it, suddenly, though he can't identify why. It's an apology. Simple, clean. Perhaps it's the sincerity that throws him. Or maybe it's just the way Peter is looking at him like he's the only thing in the room.
So Caspian's mouth is dry, and his brain short-circuits. All he can give Peter is a little nod of acknowledgement and acceptance without once breaking eye contact. He clears his throat.
“I should—”
“Stay for a moment,” Peter interrupts. He looks surprised by himself. Caspian takes a moment to study him.
It's Peter's eyes that Caspian always seems to defer to. They're a cold, detached blue, but only on just the edge of piercing. There's something soft in them, something safe. Something he reserves. Caspian tries to find it, but Peter hasn't let him in yet.
“Alright,” Caspian agrees. “Only for a moment.”