Chapter Text
An ache was setting into Caspian’s joints. He ignored it.
It was a grey day; rain had been drizzling for a few hours prior, and had left a sheen of damp over everything along with a faint, hazy mist that covered the world with a misery that was rare for late summer. It had been long enough since for Caspian’s clothing to dry, but not for the chill that had settled into his skin to dissipate. Feeling as though he deserved it, he ignored the shivering, ignored the pangs of hunger in favour of sitting, watching the world go by, his mind turning over the events of the past day. Memories mangled themselves together. Thoughts flew. Over and over again, he watched as Ianthe turned away from him, watched as she, pale, face twisted in pain, looked down at the wounds that she had taken for him.
Had he lost her?
Nausea turned his stomach. The prospect made the lead weight of dread and guilt sitting inside of him sink further.
Movement behind him drew a small part of his attention away from his ponderings. Cornelius shuffled out of the small tunnel that led to the balcony that Caspian had chosen to be his retreat. With little fanfare or announcement, he took a seat next to Caspian, folding his hands over his stomach. He peered through his spectacles at the landscape.
A moment’s silence passed. “Why did you never tell me about my father?” asked Caspian.
Cornelius sighed. “My mother was a black dwarf from the Northern mountains. I risked my life all these years so that one day you might be a better king than those before you.”
Cornelius was a Narnian. A Narnian who had placed himself in the viper’s pit in order to have a chance at bettering the life of his people. Caspian squeezed his eyes shut, the pictures of Asterius crushed below the portcullis and Ianthe covered in her own blood springing unbidden to his mind.
“Then I have failed you,” he said quietly.
“Everything I told you, everything I didn’t… it was only because I believe in you. You have a chance to become the most noble contradiction in history. The Telmarine who saved Narnia. And you are not alone.”
Cornelius nodded down at the ground below them. Ianthe had emerged from the How. She was looking around, wandering back and forth, most likely searching for Caspian. Her clothes were different, Caspian realised, more Narnian in style. It suited her well. Caspian smiled despite the sombre air. With a sly, knowing eye, Cornelius cleared his throat.
“Once, when the both of you were sixteen, your uncle had had you punished for something or other. Disobedience, insubordination, what exactly I forget, only that it was greatly unfair upon you.”
Caspian could not recall the specific instance. There had been so many.
“After you were taken away,” Cornelius continued, “Ianthe stayed behind. She turned to Miraz and, bold as brass, said to him that, one day, you were going to kill him. And if you did not, she would take the sword from your hand and run him through. It was the most defiance she had ever shown. It took two weeks for your aunt to persuade him to allow Ianthe to stay in the castle.”
Now Caspian remembered; during those weeks, Ianthe had been locked in her room, and he was not allowed to even speak to her through the door. After two days he could bear it no longer. Using the passageways that Cornelius showed them, he snuck into her room night after night, taking her treats and books. Most nights he would fall asleep with her and had to be fetched by Cornelius before dawn broke.
He had never been told the reason for it before.
Cornelius patted Caspian’s shoulder. “Go to her.”
That was all the permission Caspian needed. He leaped up and, cursing his stiff limbs, began to run. He approached the entrance of the How just as Ianthe was going back inside.
“Ianthe,” he said.
Her name was spoken with such a quiet fear that it barely carried across the distance between them. Still, Ianthe looked up at the sound of his voice and smiled. Caspian thought it would feel less painful if she frowned or put up those cold walls again; somehow her anger was better than her joy. He did not deserve it, not after what he had done. But oh, had Caspian missed that smile; less of a smile and more of a baring of teeth, Ianthe’s primary expression of joy was bunching up her nose and eyes until her irises were little more than a glimmer.
“Can— can we talk?” asked Caspian, his eagerness to speak with her hidden behind hesitancy.
Ianthe began to nod before Caspian had even finished speaking. “Please,” she said quickly, “I… please .”
Caspian smiled. Ianthe’s heart warmed at the sight. Knowing that it was she, she who had exacerbated the rift that had split between them, who now caused the smile— his smile— made that warm feeling only grow.
A quiet nook on the top of the How made for a comfortable, private space to talk. Ianthe guided Caspian through pathways he had never known existed; a foolish assumption, he supposed, that he could learn all the secrets of the How. As they walked, Ianthe pointed out various details about the world around them; things that Asterius had taught her. Caspian was glad of her gentle chatter.
Sitting down and crossing her legs, Ianthe winced when the movement pulled at her shoulder. The way her face grimaced was awful to see; an unfamiliar expression of bared teeth and narrowed eyes with tears pricking at the corners. Fingers twitching with the need to help or comfort, Caspian clasped his hands together to still their fidgeting.
“I'm so sorry, Annie,” he said softly, “I— what I did was so stupid, and it got you hurt. It's all my fault.”
Ianthe looked at him, raising her eyebrows. “You made a mistake, Caspian. You let people you didn't trust goad you into something you knew was wrong. If anything is your fault, it's that. Learn from it. I hold nothing against you.”
Caspian nodded. He did not know if this gentle, stern side of Ianthe was worse than her anger. Even so, it was the most her that she had been since he set out to raid Miraz’s castle.
“I don't deserve your forgiveness.”
“Doesn't matter. I'm giving it to you anyway.”
Caspian laughed. The sound was damp with unshed tears.
“I don't deserve you.”
“Doesn't matter,” Ianthe smiled, “I'm here anyway.”
Caspian nodded. He allowed himself to shuffle a little closer to Ianthe, their knees now touching. Ianthe took Caspian’s hand. Turning it over to rest on her hand, her palm cradling his knuckles, she began to draw lines across his skin, following the silver threads that crossed his palm.
“You draw so many maps. Plot so many journeys. This is just another point to sail on from, navigator.”
She looked up from her tracing. Caspian was looking at her with something unreadable in his face. She tilted her head. A glimmer sparked in his eyes. Ianthe smiled. There was the Caspian she knew.
“For what it's worth, I am sorry, too,” she said, her smile waning, “I shouldn't have been so cold to you back in the infirmary, shouldn't have blamed you for not being there. You were going through just as much… I shouldn’t have punished you for it.”
Caspian shook his head. He turned his hand and caught hers. “I think neither of us reacted how we wanted to. But that’s the past. We’re here now. What is it you say… to the ends of the earth?”
Ianthe nodded. “To the ends of the earth.”
Tilting her head, she noticed the wound on his arm and frowned. It was bleeding through the bindings already there.
“That bandage needs changing. Come,” she stood, taking Caspian's hand and gently tugging him along with her, “let me do it. While we're at it, let's get some food in you. You haven't eaten since you got back, I can tell.”
Smiling, Caspian allowed himself to be directed as Ianthe wished. If this was the rest of his life, he thought, this mutual care, ease, and rest, then he would live it with joy.
Shortly after Ianthe tended to Caspian's arm— during which he also insisted that she got something to eat, causing a mock-argument that had a fair few Narnians concerned and an even greater amount amused— they were walking together through the How when Ianthe stiffened. Reaching out, she grabbed Caspian by the arm and stopped the both of them.
“Get your armour,” she said, her voice leaving no room for questions, “get your armour, and meet me outside.”
Caspian nodded, turned, and ran.
A moment later, Banklee the otter came hurrying down the corridor. She skidded to a stop in front of Ianthe, panting, urgency in her eyes, her heaving ribs, even the trembling of her sensitive whiskers. Her rudder thumped twice against the floor— a traditional otter greeting, never to be missed except in the most grave circumstances— in an impatient manner.
“Ianthe—” she began, then stopped and peered closely at her. “Ah. Yes. Good. I'll let their majesties know, shall I?”
Ianthe nodded. “Thank you, Banklee.”
With a serious, yet hopeful, look, Banklee dropped to all fours and set off, scenting the air for the kings and queens. Edmund was in that direction, Ianthe thought— good, he would be the quickest to action. Turning, Ianthe made her way to the How's lookout post, slipping through the secret ways that Asterius had shown her.
Soon, Caspian joined her. Occupied with attaching his sword to his belt, he did not see what was beginning to taint the field in front of the How until Ianthe slipped a trembling hand around his elbow. He looked across at her. Pale, grim, she stared out from the How, her eyes flickering from one unseen point to another.
“There are so many, Cas,” she whispered weakly.
He turned.
First, branches snapped. Then, ferns swayed and bent. Finally, a rumbling set into the ground. From the woods emerged a dark swarm. Soldiers in Telmarine blue and grey, armed to the teeth, marching in formation, each step leaving a tremor in the earth as it landed with forceful precision. Worst of all were the masks. The visage of Miraz, lips curled into a triumphant sneer, was stamped in steel on the face of every single soldier. They moved as a unit; all their individuality, all their sense of self erased in the name of becoming one great war machine. From where Caspian and Ianthe stood, they appeared as a swarm of ants; though they would not be so easily crushed.
In the midst of the war machine that was the Telmarine army, siege weapons rolled, sending a constant shaking through the ground that quickly drowned out the noise of the soldiers’ marching. A mockery of the trees they were made of, they towered above the soldiers; if they came close enough, those standing on the How could jump onto them with little issue.
Right at the front, dressed in golden armour, Miraz rode. He looked up at the How.
Caspian looked back at Ianthe. Her eyes were distant, unfocused, not resting on the approaching army but on something beyond.
“You're not talking about them, are you?” asked Caspian.
Ianthe looked at him. She bore the face of a child being handed a weapon for the first time. Caspian suddenly felt a weight upon him; a decision he would have to make, sooner or later. He reached out for her, took her hand.
“Annie—”
A sudden presence of another promptly stopped Caspian from pressing further. Lucy, closely followed by the rest of her family, burst onto the lookout, staring with utter dread at the moving mass below. Cornelius and Trumpkin were mere paces behind.
They all stared out and watched as Miraz rode forward. An obvious challenge. One that set dread and anger into the heart of everyone who saw.
“Cakes and kettledrums!” Trumpkin exclaimed, near irate. “ That’s your next big plan? Sending a little girl alone into the darkest parts of the forest alone?”
Now in the Stone Table room, a strategy meeting had been called. Peter had just finished explaining the plan that he and his siblings had come up with, much to the displeasure of Trumpkin. Glenstorm, Windmane, a Bulgy Bear and other key leaders watched thoughtfully.
Caspian and Ianthe sat together, quiet. Ianthe could not help but think of the last time a plan had been devised in this room— the feeling of being taken over, of losing herself to a message that tore itself from her body, was disturbing, however necessary it had been. Every single glimpse of the threads that trailed through the room had her tensing. What if it happened again? Caspian was thinking the same. Not to mention the myriad of worries that were flowing through him. With their sides pressed together and their hands intertwined, they kept each other grounded, stopping Caspian from worrying and Ianthe from floating away.
“It’s our only chance,” Peter protested.
“And she won’t be alone,” Susan said.
“Haven’t enough of us died already?” Eyes welling, Trumpkin looked desperately at Lucy.
“Nikabrik was my friend too, but he lost hope,” Trufflehunter soothed, “Queen Lucy hasn’t. And neither have I.”
“For Aslan.” Reepicheep said, grand and gentile all at once.
“For Aslan!” the Bulgy Bear present echoed in his usual manner.
Everyone gave him a near-identical look of fond exasperation.
Trumpkin turned back to Lucy. “I’m going with you.”
“No, we need you here,” she said, reaching out and giving his hand a squeeze.
“We have to hold them off until Lucy and Susan get back,” Peter explained further, looking both frustrated and hopeful at the beginnings of the plan being made.
Movement beside Ianthe caught her attention. Caspian had raised his head. Looking across at Ianthe, he seemed to be asking her permission. She almost laughed; he was still trying to get in her good graces despite their mutual forgiveness, it seemed, and was reigning in his usual headstrong nature. Smiling, she tipped her head forward. Caspian’s eyes gleamed. He stood and faced the room.
“If I may,” Caspian spoke up, “Miraz may be a tyrant and a murderer. But as king, he is subject to the traditions and expectations of his people. There is one in particular that may buy us some time.”
Ianthe smiled as she watched Caspian stride over to plot and plan with the other kings, admiring the shining threads trailing from him that caught the light whenever he moved in a certain way.
“The sun rises on a new day,” she whispered.
On the morning of the next day, King Edmund, Glenstorm, Wimbleweather and Ianthe approached Miraz's camp, green branches with white flowers in their hands as a sign of peace. They spotted Miraz and his generals on the edge of the woods, peering at them through a telescope. Miraz nodded to the others beside him.
The first part of the plan was in action.
A small patrol of soldiers walked out to meet them. Wordlessly, they surrounded the Narnians, guiding them towards the camp whilst also ensuring no foul play occured.
One soldier in particular fell into step alongside Ianthe; the lady of the group, it was clear he intended to appear noble and gentlemanlike to Ianthe, but the hand he wrapped around her elbow was anything but. She shuddered.
“Cold, milady?” he asked with a leering smile.
“Not at all,” Ianthe said, not hiding the bite in her tone.
The soldier's hand began to slip from Ianthe's elbow to her waist. She turned to him and, unexpectedly to both the soldier and her companions, snapped her teeth. He leaped back, paling before laughing as if it was a fine game; a fine game that ended with him putting a good arm's length distance between Ianthe and himself.
Ianthe did not have to say it, get that close again and I will draw blood, but it was certainly implied well enough.
The Narnians were taken to a gazebo at the centre of the encampment. Within in, three tables were set up in a horseshoe shape, the lords on either side, Miraz at the very centre. Miraz faced the entrance, lounging in his grandly carved chair like he was not facing the final hours of a long war.
Edmund stopped only a few paces in front of the doorway. He produced the missive he was to read and held it out in front of himself.
Ianthe stood just behind Edmund, biting her tongue, keeping herself silent. She knew why she was there. Cornelius had spoken of the rumours that Ianthe had been murdered by the Narnians; that she was ripped apart by ruthless beasts and left for dead in the middle of the forest. Peter and Edmund knew the doubt it would sow in Miraz’s ranks to see Prince Caspian’s closest friend alive, well, and fighting on the side of the people who had supposedly killed her.
She could not let herself compromise this. Not her stubborn side, and not her portents.
“Ianthe,” Miraz said before Edmund could speak, “I am glad to see you alive and well.”
“Lady Ianthe, if you would.” Ianthe tilted her chin up, echoing the aloof airs that the Telmarine ladies put on in court. “The rumours of the Narnians' viciousness towards me are, indeed, false. The man who spread them made many foolish assumptions.”
Miraz chuckled nastily. “Lady Ianthe, then.”
Edmund cleared his throat.
“My apologies. Please, begin,” Miraz waved.
The missive was as follows:
“I, Peter, by the gift of Aslan, by election and by conquest, High King of Narnia, Lord of Cair Paravel, and Emperor of the Lone Islands, in order to prevent the abominable effusion of blood, do hereby challenge the usurper Miraz to single combat upon the field of battle. The fight shall be to the death. The reward shall be total surrender.”
Once Edmund had finished, he furled the parchment back into a scroll and looked up.
“Tell me, Prince Edmund—” Miraz began.
“King.”
“Pardon?”
“It’s King Edmund, actually. Just king though. Peter is the High King. I know, it’s confusing,” Edmund explained.
Ianthe had to cover her mouth to hide the smile that crept onto it. The movement was not unnoticed; a nearby soldier gave her a glare whilst his companion tried to hide his own slight amusement.
Miraz sighed, returning to business. “Why would we risk such a proposal when our army could wipe you out by nightfall?”
“Haven’t you already underestimated our numbers?” Edmund shrugged. “Only a week ago, Narnians were extinct.”
A sneer came over Miraz's face. He leaned forward. “And so you shall be again.”
“Then you should have little to fear.”
Edmund's ability to craft words, to be so politically canny whilst maintaining equilibrium, was one Ianthe had yet to see in the Telmarine court. The Kings and Queens of Old were truly something else.
Miraz laughed. “This is not a question of bravery.”
“So you’re bravely refusing to fight a swordsman half your age,” Edmund said with a wry smile.
That time, Ianthe had to cough.
Miraz's face fell. “I didn‟t say I refused,” he said with a tone that betrayed the blow to his ego.
“You shall have our support, your majesty,” one of the lords placated, *whatever your decision.”
Sopespian leaned in close to Miraz. “Sire, our military advantage alone allows us the perfect excuse to avoid—”
Standing suddenly, Miraz drew his sword and wielded it. “I am not avoiding anything!”
The flinch that shook Ianthe could not be hidden. A few concerned glances were sent her way from the kinder council members, but for the large part she was ignored.
“I am merely pointing out that my lord is well within his rights to refuse,” Sopespian said.
From behind Ianthe and Edmund, Glozelle spoke, “his majesty would never refuse. He relishes the chance to show his people the bravery of their new king.”
Was it obvious to anyone else, Ianthe wondered, that Glozelle and Sopespian were clearly goading Miraz. Considering what pathway lay ahead of them it was not surprising; what was was how heavy-handed they were being. Still, it seemed to be working.
Miraz pointed his sword at Edmund. “You had better hope your brother’s sword proves sharper than his pen.”
Edmund smiled.
Once outside, Ianthe breathed deep, her hand resting across the front of her ribcage. Her head was spinning. She had not realised how much fear Miraz struck into her until she was free from his oppressive presence; to return to that presence felt like willfully climbing under a lead weight. How much had been normalised, she wondered. How much hiding, bowing and scraping had she done in that castle? She had thought that she was free. She did not know what freedom felt like. Lion’s Mane, were all the Telmarines walking around blindfolded in this way? How could so many choose to keep the blindfold on?
“You alright?” Edmund asked. “You look sick.”
His bluntness almost made Ianthe laugh. She nodded.
“Miraz’s unjust behaviour towards the Narnians cannot be outweighed,” she said, “but he was not kind to us, his people. Even his own family was not free from his tyranny.”
Her hand drifted to her cheek. Miraz had once struck her for ‘encouraging disobedience’ in Caspian. It was fortunate that Caspian had not been there, he would have certainly done something stupid.
“That’s usually the way it goes. Tyrants don’t really have a reputation for being exclusive,” Edmund said, dry in a way that did not come across as unsympathetic.
“Except when it comes to truth, apparently.”
“Yeah. That’s how it goes, too.”
Ianthe hummed. Edmund had seen tyranny first hand, she remembered. The White Witch’s enchantment of him must have left some deep scars.
“How are you?” she asked gently. “It must not be easy, sending your brother off to such a daunting task.”
Edmund shrugged. “It happened a lot during the Golden Age. In truth, I’d rather it was me, but…”
“Your brother would never let that happen.”
He nodded.
“I’m the eldest, too,” Ianthe said, “it’s funny, there are many things I cannot face, that I am afraid of. But for my brothers and sisters? I would endure and die if it meant they were safe.”
Edmund was a stoic boy. His face did not give much away, but for a moment there was something sad in his features.
“I hope for all our sake it’s the former,” he said sternly.
“As do I.”
“Lady Ianthe,” Miraz called after them.
Ianthe turned to face him. She returned her countenance to a stony passivity.
“Your brothers are nearly of fighting age, are they not? Perhaps you may see them sooner than you think.”
A look of such fierce rage, of such murderous intent, came over Ianthe's face that Edmund tensed, ready to reach out and stop her from doing something drastic. Then, the flames in her eyes died, and they left behind something worse. Something cold, something piercing. Something that cut through the very fibres of your being and exposed its inner threads to the world. Those around her were only glad they were not on the receiving end of such a look. Instead, her target was Miraz. She raised her hand and pointed.
“You shall have what's yours, Miraz,” she spoke soft and clear, “and you shall have it soon.”
Drawing her hand back, she clasped it to her ribs with a sharp gasp— the sound of someone being struck suddenly. Hunching over, sucking in harsh breaths, she pantomimed a slow death. Then, she tipped her head back and laughed. Loud, yet lilting and sonorant, her laughter echoed from the trees and rang in the ears of those who heard it. All knew that the merriment was not truly merry. Around her, Telmarine soldiers cringed, their teeth on edge, their hair raising, and wondered what had gotten into the shy girl that bowed her head and never met their eyes. Glenstorm smiled a wild smile.
Miraz, visibly shaken by the display, pointed at Ianthe.
“Out,” he hissed, “out with you, she-beast.”
Giggling like a child, Ianthe clapped her hand over her mouth. Her eyes shone with mischief and an almost sadistic glee over her fingers. She tilted her head, smiled, then turned and walked out of the camp.
Edmund, having watched all of this occur with an incredulous expression, cleared his throat. “Thanks for having us,” he said, before he and the other Narnians followed Ianthe's lead and made a hasty exit from the Telmarine base.
“What in Aslan's name was that?” he caught up to Ianthe.
Ianthe had stopped giggling. Instead, her humour was replaced by a thunderous expression and rigid demeanour.
“Mm. Just a bit of fun.”
“Fun,” Edmund repeated. “Well I'd prefer a warning, seeing as that fun almost sparked the battle off early.”
“My apologies,” Ianthe said sincerely.
They continued to walk for a few paces. Then, with a less-than-regal snort, Edmund said, “his face was priceless, though.”
He turned to Ianthe to see her reaction. She was gone. Blinking, Edmund looked around for her. Glenstorm and the others were staring into the trees, watching some swaying ferns with detached interest.
“I never knew Ianthe learned that,” Edmund said, referring, of course, to the Narnians' skill of melting into nature.
“Asterius taught her,” Glenstorm said with a brief smile, “though we may come to regret it.”
Caspian was waiting outside of the How when they returned. When he could not see Ianthe, his hackles raised immediately. Hand drifting to his sword, he strode forward, mouth opening to speak.
“Hold your horses,” Edmund said with a hand raised, “she disappeared off into the trees, not sure where she'll pop out but I'm sure she'll find you soon.”
Caspian nodded. “Thanks. How was it?”
“He's accepted.”
“Good. Good, that's good. If you excuse me, I'll…” Caspian gestured inside the How.
Edmund waved him away with a knowing half-smile.
Ianthe was on top of the How. Sat on the roots of the tree that she had slept in so many times— much to Caspian's fond exasperation— she faced out into the leagues of forest surrounding them. She did not react to his presence. He knew by now she could sense him coming. He liked to think that it was him alone she could feel like this; that they were uniquely attuned to one another. He never had the courage to ask.
“Annie?” he said softly.
She inhaled. Then, with a trembling, stern voice, “I'll kill him.”
Ianthe turned to Caspian. The look in her eyes sent his stomach somersaulting. He remembered what Cornelius had told him.
She turned to Miraz and, bold as brass, said to him that, one day, you were going to kill him. And if you did not, she would take the sword from your hand and run him through.
For a moment, Caspian was almost frightened. Then he saw the tears flooding down her cheeks. Walking forward, he came to a stop just behind her and wrapped his arms around her shoulders and the top of her chest, holding her tight to his middle as he bent over her. Her hands immediately fixed on his wrists, not tugging them away but clinging onto them. Gently, he pressed a kiss to the top of her head. Ianthe sighed and slumped into him. A great release came over her, and she wept openly.
When her tears had dried up, she pulled herself together and turned to face Caspian properly. “I'm sorry,” she said, “I shouldn't be so upset, he never treated me as badly as he did you.”
Caspian shook his head. “No, Annie.”
“Still. At least let me comfort you, too. I know you're anxious about what's ahead.”
Together, they fell into the nook between the great roots of the trees, holding one another tight. Ianthe pressed her own kiss to Caspian's temple as he rested his head against her own. For a brief moment, everything was right, everything was good, everything was calm.
The next morning would come. And with it it would bring either the end of their new lives, or the beginning of a fresh start to Narnia. Ianthe could see both; laid out in threads of silver, each pathway glistened like spiderwebs in evening light. Blinking she willed them away. This moment was for her and Caspian. The future could wait— she would make it wait. And, when it arrived, she would do her greatest to guide her loved ones to victory.
This time, she would not stand by.