Work Text:
It follows him around like a shadow. An indistinct shape that grows and diminishes with the passage of time, but so distinctly part of him, that he won’t know to question its presence for the longest time. It will take him even longer to call it by its name, but by the time that moment comes he will long since have accepted that he is destined to be lonely.
It might make him a bad son, but the first time it threatens to spill over and swallow him whole, isn’t when his father passes, or in the years he watches his mother fade to nothing under her burdens. It’s on the day he stands on his tiptoes to try and see out a castle window, watching his nurse walk away from the gate not daring to look back.
It’s an easy wish to make. The kind one makes on falling stars and stray eyelashes. The kind that in another world people make on birthday candles and scarps of paper burned in New Year’s bonfires and coins thrown into wells. Though it feels like it’s of such a magnitude that it might be worth hunting a magical stag for.
And who knows who can read the innermost wishes of Caspian’s heart? It might be a seemingly unimportant blue star, overeager to grant their first wish, a nature spirit carrying an eyelash loosened by tears or looking for a distraction at the bottom of a well, or even a mythical beast letting itself be caught by a small child in some inexplicable moment of mercy.
*
1
The air tastes of spring. That’s the first thing Caspian notices. Not the first hesitant sunshine after a long winter that lets itself be chased away after a week by stubborn winds and late snowfalls, but the unmistakable warmth that has come to stay for the rest of the season, ready to grow heavy with summer in just a couple months’ time.
It is such a contrast to the cool castle walls Caspian is used to that is makes him startled for just a moment, before he embraces the inexplicableness of his situation with the swiftness only a child can muster.
He’s standing on a large lawn, grass still unkempt from where is must have shaken the last snows only weeks before, patches of flowers raise their heads, eagerly drinking up the sunlight, and the lingering wetness of a spring shower that lets some mud cling to Caspian’s boots.
There is a boy only a few paces away from him picking flowers with a furrowed brow and an earnestness almost undeserved for such a simple task. Caspian doesn’t quite dare to walk over to him, although that is why he’s here, isn’t it? It’s what he wished for after all.
But his feet stay rooted at the spot, as if he was standing knee-deep in quicksand. So he just stays where he is and waits for the boy to notice him in return.
It doesn’t take long, of course, for the boy to look up and see Caspian standing there, feeling like a fool. But the boy doesn’t look at him disapprovingly, as his uncle is wont to do, he doesn’t even look at him funnily like so many others would within the castle walls. He just looks at him and lets his eyes light up, in a way that for once doesn’t make the young prince feel as if his presence is unwanted.
“Hello”, the boy calls over, voice loud and bright.
“Hello”, Caspian answers, not sure if his voice carries, despite there not being the slightest bit of wind.
The boy cocks his head, and Caspian is half expecting judgement to finally set in. But what comes instead is an invitation: “Do you want to help me pick flowers?”
Instead of answering Caspian bends down and gently plucks a flower to hold out to the boy, who comes closer inspecting it, before concluding: “That’s a pretty one.” And with that they are all set.
*
The boy, Peter – he introduced himself – is a talker. Which Caspian doesn’t mind, he hasn’t felt like talking much lately anyway.
He tells Caspian all manner of things, about the sound of birds in the air and the buzzing of insects, about the squirrel he saw earlier, about his favourite games. At the rate he’s going, Caspian will know everything there is to know about Peter by the end of the afternoon.
And he asks Caspian a million questions in return, about his favourite kind of flower, whether or not he has any pets, what he wants to be when he grows up. Some answers come easily, some don’t come at all. Peter doesn’t seem to mind. He just keeps smiling at Caspian and talking over any silences right before they threaten to grow awkward.
“I like you”, Peter declares eventually. “We should be friends, you and I.”
“I would very much like that”, Caspian offers, face alight with the widest smile he’s smiled in weeks, maybe ever.
Peter nods, matching grin pulling at his cheeks so much, Caspian wonders if they ever grow sore.„You can be my second friend ever. My first friend ever is Susan. She’s my little sister. That’s her over there. And that lady is my mum.” He points to the woman sitting on a colourful blanket further away, whom Caspian hasn’t paid too much attention to until know, and the little girl beside her. They paint quite the idyllic picture, the woman with the patient demeanour, belly round with a child that will be due soon, and her daughter, dark curls spilling out beneath a hat, giggling as she waves around a doll in a matching dress.
“That’s who the flowers are for”, Peter explains further, “that’s why we need only the prettiest flowers there are.”
And Caspian quietly agrees, because why wouldn’t you present your loved ones with the best there is?
And when Peter’s mother and dear little Susan shower the both of them in thanks, and there is a kiss on the head for Peter, and gentle smile for Caspian, and two pairs of the same kind eyes, and matching sweet smiles, Caspian feels elated. Because who wouldn’t bask in a family’s love?
And what kind of family would not so readily give it?
*
After the flowers, there are games and make-belief. Silly things Peter does and makes up to draw a laugh from Caspian and Susan alike.
Peter tells Caspian how Susan and him will get another sibling soon. Peter tells him how he hopes it will be a boy, since he has a sister already. And that maybe Caspian can have the baby, if it does turn out to be a girl. Because being an only child must be a very lonely life.
Caspian doesn’t tell Peter how it will be a brother. But that he shall have another sister too. And that Peter will cherish her, probably most of all, and that he would not trade her (or any of his siblings, really) for the world. Caspian does not know how to tell his friend what he already knows of his fate.
He also doesn’t tell Peter what sorrows his siblings will cause him, because he himself does not yet know of them. That will come later, a first hint that the golden heroes of Caspian’s childhood might not be so golden after all. That they are real, and flawed, and painfully, wonderfully human.
That time will come, but as for now, the High King is just like Caspian imagined him to be. Adventurous. Kind-hearted. Golden in the soft glow of an afternoon sun. Easy to like and easier to follow. A companion. A friend. A boy his age.
*
(A dandelion puff, blown on, on a warm spring day under a mother’s watchful gaze.)
2
His jaw burns with the sting of an incoming bruise. He presses two fingers into it, closes his eyes to savour the feeling.
He should really stop getting into fights.
He can imagine the look Edmund is going to give him, a two-flavoured disapproval, because his younger brother can never decide what he hates more: that Peter keeps getting into fights, or that he isn’t always there to have Peter’s back, when the inevitable fists come flying.
Either way, it is not a look Peter cares to see, which is why he is hiding out here, on a wooden bench in a quiet park, feeling sorry for and hating himself in equal measure.
The bench creaks softly under the weight of someone sitting down next to him. And when Peter opens his eyes again, there is a young boy sitting in the spot that was empty mere moments ago.
He looks like he is about five, though he could be older, it is difficult to tell by the child’s scrawny frame. He is also clad is unusual clothing, old-fashioned one might say, although Peter’s heart yearns at the sight. There is another memory there, somewhere at the back of his mind, hazy and just out of reach, something half true and half imagined.
“Hello”, Peter says, stretching out the syllables questioningly.
The boy keeps looking at him with an intense stare. His eyes are huge and wondering in that endearing way little children have. “Have you been in a fight?”
For a brief second Peter considers denying it, but that would hardly be believable considering his bruised face and the drying blood smeared across his knuckles. So he just nods. “I have”.
“Was it against a minotaur?”, the boy asks next, with a mixture of awe and fear in his voice.
The question strikes a cord deep inside him, and Peter is a weak man, so he lets himself indulge in this strange child’s make-belief, instead of sharing the shameful truth of his teenage anger.
“It was”, he stage-whispers, “and he was awfully large. Put up quite a fight too.”
The boy nods eagerly: “I bet he did! I used to be scared of them, when I was little. But my uncle said, that men shouldn’t be scared of fairy tales, and that minotaurs were extinct anyway. But I knew! I knew, there were still some left!” He smiles up at Peter, and then tacks on “I’m not scared of them any more though” for good measure.
Peter lets himself laugh. “It would be alright, if you were scared. Minotaurs are quite fearsome creatures, any person in their right mind would do good to keep their distance.”
“Not you though. You can fight them.”
“I can”, Peter says, almost conspiratorially, almost proud. “But I have been training for a long time.”
“I have yet to start my proper sword training”, the boy admits. “But I’ve been learning how to ride and the stable master says that the horses like me. And I’ve been quite enjoying my lessons, especially when my professor tells me about the old legends.” His eyes shine as he talks, and at that last sentence he shoots a smile up at Peter, as if they were sharing a secret.
And Peter wants to ask questions, soak up this child’s stories, because it has been the only thing coming close to filling that hole in his chest, the only thing that isn’t a memory covered in pain.
It is not even that the boy looks or sounds particularly Narnian. In fact, he doesn’t. But there is a certain otherness to him that makes Peter’s heart contract in his chest.
And so Peter indulges a childish fancy – the boy’s, his own – for an afternoon. Lets himself be admired as his younger siblings used to do, but don’t any more. Lets himself be a fabled hero for the time it takes to tell a story to a stranger who overeagerly tries to complete his sentences, stumbling over his own words and into Peter’s with the grace of a fowl taking its first steps.
Peter smiles at him, so much his cheeks start to hurt even more than the bruises do. Right up until it’s time to say goodbye. It should be ridiculous to have such a hard time saying goodbye to a child he just met earlier today, but there is a heaviness to it, stemming from the fact that Peter, as he is wont to do, is not ready to say goodbye just yet. Especially, since he is sure that he’ll never see the boy again.
He doesn’t know yet, that he is wrong on that account. And that every other time they’ll say goodbye will weigh even heavier. What he also doesn’t know yet, is that the next time Peter will see him, there will also be a fight and a minotaur, and Peter’s sword swinging for a young man’s head, who as a child shared a park bench with him.
*
(A lady bug with exactly seven dots, crawling over a boy’s shoe, so slowly it looks like a speck of blood.)
3
The air is filled with so much noise, Caspian can feel it buzzing against his skin. All around him are people shuffling around, hurrying along their way, side-stepping each other like joyless dancers. There are scarcely any children around and Caspian has to crane his neck not just to look up at the passers-by, but also in the hope of getting any sense of his bearings.
Someone nearly runs him over, and Caspian darts out of the way as well as he can, feeling like a kitchen boy must do, when the castle is bustling with an impeding feast. Unfortunately, he lacks a servant’s grace and nearly stumbles in his hurry.
A strong pair of arms catches him, before he can fall.
When Caspian looks up, they belong to a smiling young man; the golden-crowned hero of Caspian’s bedtime stories and daydream adventures.
As always he looks as strange as the people around him, but realer somehow, as if touched by something that has passed all the others by.
Or maybe not all of the others. Because next to him stands another man, younger still, though that assessment is more so based on knowledge about who this must be, than any true grasp on their ages.
Edmund the Just wears a light frown on his face. It’s the expression people make, when they try to figure out what might have happened behind their backs, which also happens to be an expression Caspian’s uncle wears quite a lot. Although there is usually an anger carved into the lines of his uncle’s mouth, that is missing from King Edmund’s face.
Instead the younger king’s voice is filled with curiosity, when he asks: “Is that...?”
“It is”, Peter chokes out. And there is something in those blue eyes of his, that Caspian cannot name, but that he has seen on his mother’s face before, though she never wore it as plainly. Maybe that’s the reason why it ate her up.
As was the case with his mother, Caspian isn’t sure how to interact with this version of Peter, what words to chose. So as with her, he chances a smile at him, hoping that Peter will know what to say instead. (It never worked with his mother. But a boy can dream.)
To his great relief, Peter smiles back. Ignoring the way his brother’s gaze bores into the side of his head, his voice adopts a fragile gentleness, when breathing Caspian’s name like a sigh of relief and asking him how he fares.
It would be unfair to burden the king with the shadow that Caspian still can’t quite shake, the loneliness that lingers in the corners of his heart like cobwebs that no one ever bothers to sweep away. It it easy not to voice it here, to ignore it, now that the High King’s presence has dulled its edges. So Caspian tells him that he’s doing good, excelling at his lessons, excited at the prospect of one day receiving a cousin (he doesn’t yet know that it will be long years until that day comes, that he will barely meet the child, that shortly after the babe’s birth he will lose his uncle to the end of an era and his aunt to the unknown shores of a new beginning).
Peter asks questions, voice laced in an interest few grown-ups in Caspian’s life take. He also continues to smile that sad smile of his, the one that reaches his eyes but does not do so without carving a heavy, unnamed emotion into his features.
Next to them, King Edmund pretends not to listen in on them by watching the people that continue bustling around them, not sparing any of them a glance, as if the three of them were just some boys. Every once in a while, he still looks over at them and tries to suppress a smile, but the fondness makes his eyes shine nonetheless, though it takes Caspian a while to put that name to the light in Edmund’s eyes.
“I missed you”, Caspian tells Peter eventually, because his friend ought to know.
From the way Peter swallows it is hard to tell whether or not he should have kept that truth to himself. “Yeah?”, he asks, sounding not at all like a king, sounding even less secure than the boy Caspian knows he used to be. But again, he supposes that’s what happens, when you grow up. “I missed you too.” There it is again, that grief Caspian himself will come to know in time.
But there is nothing the young prince can do now, except nod with a child’s earnestness and add: “I’ll miss you, when I’ll go back.” He doesn’t call it home. Because it isn’t. And it won’t be for a long time still. There is a sadness that hangs between them, thick and heavy. Bone-deep. Something one can recognise the shape of, but never truly grasp. The weight of an ocean, leagues of pressure, but nothing to hold on to.
“Don’t you worry, we’ll meet again”, Peter whispers comfortingly.
“We’ll meet again”, Caspian echoes. Maybe promises too.
Neither of them can bring themselves to say goodbye.
(A ring in a pocket, drawing you home.)
*
It takes years for that promise to become true. At least, it does for Caspian. By the time the moment finally arrives, Caspian has nearly forgotten all about it: it lingers somewhere in the back of his mind, less a memory than a dream of a dream, and muddled by stories and legends besides, a truth bend like aged wood.
The High King is nothing like Caspian imagined him. A fierce warrior, yes. But with an anger so biting, Caspian can feel its teeth sinking into his flesh despite parrying the blows of the king’s sword. In the next weeks Caspian will learn to see beneath that anger, to see both the king of legends, as well as the young man who will own his heart.
But first he will see him as flawed. As impulsive and stubborn. A thorn in his side. An opponent on every council meeting. A mirror showing him his own faults. A boy his age.