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    Summary

    Caspian swallows roughly and presses down. The boy’s gaze, previously fixed on some far-off point above them, snaps from distant to sharp in a second, like a blade drawn from its sheath. He stares upwards at Caspian, mouth twisted up with something more than pain.

    They’re very blue, his eyes, Caspian notices again. He cannot be a Telmarine, then. He’s far too fair. Perhaps he’s from Archenland? Terebinthia? But why is he here? Why his sword, unsheathed; his clothes, fine but ill-fitted to his rawboned frame?

    “Sod it all,” the boy half-laughs, half-wheezes. Caspian tries not to shudder at the way it makes torn flesh slide beneath his fingers. Nearly jerks back when the tip of one thumb slips into the open wound, warm and wet. “You’re him. Prince Caspian.”

    (or, caspian's first meeting with narnia's high king goes more than a little awry. somehow, this ends better than anyone expected.)

    Language:
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