tampered | Log; Complete

Little does Caspian know, that behind that door stands the High King, arms crossed, eyes staring down what he is certain is the source of all his conflict these recent days. The White Witch said nothing of the wand's properties, not that he asked, and he finds himself regretting not finding a way to force such information out of her before he killed her. Having died more than once now, she isn't likely to find the threat of death to be anything too weighty--if she ever did--and he knows that. He also knows he should not be thinking in these terms, of death so coldly, of old enemies so carelessly, or their tools, but he cannot help it, and here is the problem aching in the empty space around him.

At first it was so close to nothing that he could ignore it, in favor of simple tasks such as looking for a job and helping out new arrivals. Then it became a bit of a whisper, something that made his head turn when there was nothing there to see or listen to. Of late it has moved into less stable territory, and he isn't sure he cares to categorize it at all. It shouldn't be happening in the first place, this illness of mind that puts the taste of blood in his mouth when there is no blood there. Such thoughts bring him here before it, however, jaw clenched, one hand flexing when he drops his arms to his sides, as if looking for a hilt to grasp, even though he should have no need of his sword, especially not here. Minor fortunes, he is not wearing Rhindon, no, just plain day clothes--it is very late but he did not bother to change yet--and bare feet.

...my King.

Those once whispers are louder, and maybe he should blame it on being cooped up but he's not being rational in the least, beginning to pace around it, as if he can find the off button that will make it stop putting ideas in his head, words he doesn't mean--or worse, does.

How does more of the poetry go? Peter wouldn't know and that is just one of his misfortunes tonight.

...the way into my parlor is up a winding stair, and I have many curious things to show when you are there.

Only when he hears that suspicious creak of the floorboard outside does he pause, turning sharply to stare at the closed door. There is something to be said for the fact that his reaction is not to question who but to will whoever it is--two guesses--to go away. There is also something to be said about the way it feels as if he is being pulled back at the shoulder with words that do not sound like his own: your time is over, but it does not have to remain this way.

To his credit or the credit of luck, he does not look back at the wand, gaze fixed on the door, air growing colder with each half of a breath.

In the stillness he hears the weight of another, pacing back and forth like a caged predatory cat. A cat guarding his prize. He would not say a lion, that is too great for him and there is only one lion and He isn't here right now. He said they would not come back, they have learned all they can. So what is this? Why should there always be another before him and Caspian caught in the shadows. Why must he always be in the shadow? He narrows his eyes, hands turning to open that door and face that which keeps his glory at bay. Two guesses. Caspian is not surprised by who he sees on the other side. Peter Pevensie.

It's always you.

High King. You before me. What have you done to earn such a title?

Who are you really doing this for?

You leave the dead in your wake and still you are High King.

Caspian remembers to breathe. His eyes appear black in the darkness. Only the moon shining through throws any light in this quiet space. And the moon is full. The circumstances are ripe. He sees it beyond the High King, the very thing he almost had once, and he had to ruthlessly force him out of the way. You must always take the first sip of everything, he thinks to himself, everything, even me. His tone is calm, cold, cautious.

"Peter."

He shuts the door behind him.

"What are you doing here?"

He hardly has to ask. What else? Peter had told all of them: it is done. It meant as much as to leave everything be, to leave it alone. Yet here stands Caspian, tenth of that name, and questioning him, again. Making no move to go forward or backward, Peter remains stoically between the new king and the old spoils. Always second guessing him, isn't he? Or is he? How many times? Reason is distant and feeling scrapes behind his irises. The point stands, however many times he has or has not shown doubt: the other man should not be here at all. This is not his place, and Merlin's words come back to him in a fashion the young wizard surely did not mean for them to: how can Narnia have two Kings? At the edge of his memory his own reply rests, true as his name, but the edge is too far away from the center that Peter finds himself pulled toward. What that center is, he isn't sure and has not the words to describe what happens when regret and fulfillment go head to head and leave no one standing, least of all their host. So he doesn't try.

What are you doing here?

He wonders again, returning Caspian's gaze with the ease of years spent wordlessly ordering things of any number of people. Staring, his mind feels heavy and hidden even from himself, but one thing remains loud if contained, like waves caught in a shell.

Leave.

"I didn't think it should be left unguarded. What are you doing here," he offers his retort, from one king to the next. He has no right to decide who should be doing what and where, Caspian has decided. Still the Telmarine remains near the door, his back to it, as if considering the obstacle between him and the crystal thing.

"Really." He is skeptical at best and a few other things as well, not yet shifting, because why should he? If anyone moves, it will be Caspian, and then only to leave. The reply is not telling beyond vague displeasure, but he isn't here to have a civil conversation with anyone, least of all present company.

"Really," he folds his arms across his chest.

"At least share the responsibility, Peter," Caspian says, quite presumptuous of him to think that the blond is up here to do the same. To guard the wand because it reaches out and speaks to them in gentle temptations like spider legs ghosting across the skin. It takes a strong mind and an even stronger heart to withstand it alone. Obviously, Peter Pevensie is not the man for the job in this Telmarine's opinion.

"That's completely unnecessary," the blond shakes his head, and if his tone borders on patronizing, it is nothing compared to the way he looks at Caspian who seems less and less the king meant to succeed him, more and more the child that makes a mess for no apparent reason. In his words and in his silence, Peter is aware of what might be cold fingertips on his shoulder and he shrugs as if to rid himself of that nonexistent touch, sighing.

"That attitude of yours is completely unnecessary," Caspian replies, ever confident and cool in demeanor. He must be the better man.

"Just go to bed, Caspian," he sighs again, as if he has been dealing with the brunette for three hours instead of barely three minutes, and he cannot keep from rolling his eyes as he turns his back on him.

"No."

That's right, you heard him. The word you hate to hear isn't it Peter?

Don't defer. Never defer.

True, there are few words Peter Pevensie dislikes more than that which refuses him what he wants or, more than that, what he demands, but something tells him Caspian expects him to react to it, and it is for that reason that he does his best not to. Instead he pretends as if the other king is not there at all, and that is easy enough for the moment, like ignoring a fly too small to make a proper sound.

If he is going to be so complacent (what a mistake to think that Peter is being complacent) then Caspian wastes no time venturing forward, to close the distance between the wand and himself. If anything he must make the distance equal to that of it and Peter. You will not come before me as you always have. Titles are earned.

He half expects that forward step and turns around to intercept, moving quickly to place himself once again between Caspian and what is not his. Of course, it is no more Peter's, logic says, but logic has been replaced with something that watches with eyes covered and strings pulling at the fingers. No verbal retort comes yet to him, but the haze of inexplicable anger that has been shrouding him begins to mingle with old feelings in front of the How. Blades and horrible words he thought he regretted were all drawn then, but now he rethinks that regret. No. Why regret when he was in the right--unlike this person standing in front of him--when their failure was his fault? Is this the person he trusted to take care of his family? Is this the person he trusted to take care of his kingdom? Is it a mistake?

And can he take it all back?

A quiet whisper, tinged with gold, asks him: didn't you let this go? But it is too quiet and Peter cannot hear it over everything else.

"It's none of your concern," words at last, and they are not so many, but they cut clear enough to the point.

Now he must point, as he has been known to do, at the High King, the tip of his finger so close to prodding the other man's chest.

"It isn't your concern alone," Caspian argues rather quickly.

Always the exclusion, because you aren't one of them, you aren't like them.

But you can have your own Age of Gold, my King.

"I never said that it was," he replies, teeming with a false calm. He never said as much, but he did mean it, still...technicalities. There is something else to be brought to the moonlight. "Why are you really here?" I don't trust you.

And you shouldn't.

"I should ask the same of you. Do you always think you're so much better and more deserving than the rest, to act alone and on your own accord," he asks of Peter, eyes narrowed.

Don't roll over.

"Your time is over, Peter. Stand aside."

He wishes these words weren't coming out of his mouth, but they do.

"You dare," he begins and changes course, pushing back now, a hand none too lightly to the other man's chest. "You can't even begin to imagine how this family works. You don't know us." Obviously, because you are not yielding, even now. He refers to himself and his siblings, but it feels less like is speaking for them and more that he is using the heft of brothers and sisters against an only child, as if to make him feel more alone.

Those regrets from after the night raid will be joined by others slipping from his lips now, but not for a while yet.

Don't let him.

"According to some, my time is not over until I am dead, and even if this was not the case, I won't be taking any orders from you." You are beneath me. These thoughts and words, to be shelved at a later point and boxed over, are rampant like cold fire, nothing to stand between them and the nearest thing to burn.

He who dares wins.

Of course he dares.

We Telmarines would have nothing had we not taken it. Peter is putting this theory to the test. He can feel it. Caspian's eyes don't drift away from those blue ones for one second. Not even when he mentions this family.

Not your family.

"...." To the statement on orders he says nothing. Not over until he is dead, that can be arranged. Why would you think these things, Caspian? He focuses on Peter's mouth forming ridiculous words. Those crystal whispers distort the memory of other things he knows that mouth can do. He hears the words: You, him, your father. Narnia's better off without the lot of you. Is that it, Peter? No, Narnia doesn't need you, and the lion Himself said it as much.

"Lions do not lie, Peter Pevensie."

His hand whips up to snatch the wrist at his chest firmly. He cares not for causing pain. And then he pulls the blond forward to emphasize the rough shove back.

The wand does not rest on a pedestal. They had level enough minds when Peter first brought it into this room, set it down like a dead thing he would rather not be held responsible for. It sits on a table, a small one that is easily knocked over when, in the grappling that ensues, they run into it.

"You would have died without us," without me. There is a fury rising here, but it falls breaths short of bitterness and other more solemn things. You called us, remember? Using the momentum, he steps forward, a leg going to sweep the floor out from under Caspian even as he attempts to wrench one hand free while using the other to push back again, fingers digging into a shoulder. Let him bruise. Let something break for all Peter cares right now.

At least he will remember it.

Like his wounded pride and the pride of his father and the pride of his father's father? You broke it well enough, Peter.

He stole your glory.

The sweep to his legs brings the Telmarine down, but he keeps that clutch to take the Englishman down with him. He will not let go. Caspian does not care if he bruises. He cares if he hears a break only because it puts him at a physical disadvantage. But who cares? Do what it takes. With sword, broken bones, or stinging tongues. He hisses at Peter, a sneer to his lips. Don't treat me like a toddling prince. He tries to wrestle his weight to the top.

"Better dead than forgotten."

This would be over a great deal faster if he had Rhindon, but as he does not, his fist connecting with the other man's jaw will just have to do. There is no hesitance in any movement he makes, from one punch to the next, and unlike a fight between schoolboys or kings, there is nothing properly categorical here, no way to really discern who is getting ahead of who, if anyone is.

I won't just disappear. How could he leave me?

And quite suddenly, it's not about Caspian anymore, but Caspian is here and the trickle of ice in his blood tells him that this is good enough.

How could he?

He remembers telling Lucy it was alright. He remembers not telling Edmund anything because his brother wouldn't buy it anyway. He remembers looking at Susan and feeling absolutely helpless in the face of her controlled smile and regal bearing. He remembers not looking at Caspian at all because he had already lied enough. He remembers. But it's all buried very far beneath the water right now, water still as if frozen for a hundred years.

Peter ought to draw the connections, but instead he draws another hit to the Telmarine's face, shifting his weight off to dive for the wand that will not leave him alone.

Not until you claim me as your own.

He should not want this symbol of endless winter, of so many lives lost, of his own brother's treason. He should not.

Go on.

He reaches.

It's not yours.

For the love of Narnia. It's. Not. Yours.

There it is, the taste of copper in his mouth. And then another. The red turns the crevices in his teeth a sick orange and yellow. Caspian growls, unfazed by these attacks. It isn't until Peter dives for the wand that he's able to move again and he does so quickly. Whiplike. The Telmarine turns over to clutch the blond at the hip and waist, bearing his own weight down to stop him just short of the mark. Out of reach, just like Narnia. He finds the cruelty in that gesture deliciously cold, like frost on his hair and eyelashes, clouding everything in winter. Peter betrayed Narnia first, abandoning it once, he should not be so surprised to be turned away from it. He is not fit to rule, not fit to protect. Caspian is.

He doesn't even think as he grips blond hair tightly between his fingers and pushes downward. Peter wanted something to break, didn't he? Perhaps the floor will do so to his face.

Peter never would have left, given a chance, but he was not given a chance. Does that mean something? Caspian's people invaded Narnia, nearly destroyed it, robbed it of its magic, of what made it Narnia. So what's to be said to that? And supposing Peter had gotten the chance to remain, he never would have met this unworthy one, digging those fingers into the back of his neck.

Time is a messy thing for them, but right now, everything is a mess. When his face connects with the floor, the taste of blood on his tongue is justified by actually existing now, and while normally he would wonder why no one has stopped them, no one has come to ask them what in Aslan's name is going on, this is not normally. This is far from it.

You were not sure you were ready. You were right. You never will be. The blond will later be sick with gratitude to any given thing that that particular thought does not escape his mouth.

The air feels thin with its ice laden chill, allowing for only short, visible breaths, and for all the scrambling about the two of them are doing, Peter is everything cold, dark, and far away. Pretending as if he is thinking, as if he has a plan, as if he knows exactly why he is right and Caspian is wrong, he jabs an elbow backward at the other man--ribs? stomach? he doesn't give care to aim, only for sheer strength--his other arm still stretching for the wand like a thing possessed.

Aslan himself has not come. Gold fur hasn't seeped out of the cracks in the floor to form a lion. The reflection of white teeth hasn't stretched to roar in place of the full moon. Where is Aslan? Couldn't he settle this manner once and for all? But Caspian doesn't find himself asking these questions. He doesn't think of the lion's absence at all, only that he is absent and that leaves the order to the King and that King is Caspian X.

A silent moment passes in which the Telmarine holds the High King in his grasp. Saying nothing. Doing nothing. Just holding. And thinking.

He catches that elbow, feeling a finger fracture from the impact when he tries to pull that arm up and keep it behind Peter's back. It's enough to maintain his clutch on the back of Peter's head. Then that hand angles downward again. Another strike to the floor.

This is for my father. He was a greater man than you can ever imagine. The trade his father and his father's father and his father's father's father made pulled your damned kingdom out of the dark age that befell it when you left. You have no right to claim what's better for Narnia.

And another strike to the floor.

This is for inspiring me. Inspiring me to care and giving me that sword and allowing me to prove myself a better man for nothing more than to have him killed anyway and to have everyone else leave. Everyone else. You left me to shine in an empty house.

"What makes a king, Peter, tell me what makes a king," he all but shouts into the blond's ear. And for a moment he looked not unlike his uncle Miraz.

Something is wrong. Something. Everything. Peter knows and yet he cannot stop it, any of it. What war is this, waged with bitterness he once thought himself above even when he knew his ankles could never shake the feeling. The blood in his mouth is no longer alone, as warmth where his head hits the floor tells him, matting through his hair. He can smell it. Disgusting.

"I do."

With both a kick and a push, he shoves Caspian off at last, head reeling--he can't see straight still, but he is seething, eyes with the northern sky in them narrowed the way the ocean narrows into one blue line on a darkening horizon. As moonlight is their only candle, everything falls into shadow, light touching only whites of eyes and glint of wet blood, and what a sight the two of them make. He can only imagine, out of breath, pulling himself to his feet, looking down on the Telmarine, hoarse whispers in his head: long live the king.

Turning, eyes still directed toward Caspian as he does so, he picks up the wand.

Cold.

But it's not like he expected any different.

What makes a king? You ask. You ask because wouldn't know, would you?

He growls from the kick, hitting him heel to the stomach and ball to his rib. Crack. There's something broken there now, it hurts.

Caspian has the time to get to his knees, fractured fingers to the floor, almost to his feet when he catches the flash of moonlit ice in the High King's hands. This is not good. Not good at all. For one, it's not his. For another, he knows what it can do. He has no desire to test it in the hands of someone else, White Witch or not. And still it calls to him with a velvety smooth tongue, in his ear, in his mouth, around the tip of him. It is sick and desecrating like the blood running down his chin, the blood in the gold of Peter's hair. It's what that thing wants. Why are you giving in? He cannot think. Die with honor, die without humility. Unlike that man, he does not bow his head.

"Run me through," Caspian dares Peter. His fingertips pull at the open collar of his shirt, laces loose. It is almost intimate the way he bares just a little more of that tanned skin, stained with blood now. It got the taste of blood from one brother once before, and that taste is addicting. His fingers, the ones purpling at the knuckles, beckon.

Trouble. He's in trouble and he can taste it, hear it, feel it. They're both too far gone but he's still close enough to look back to the line he was supposed to adhere to. Maybe that is what the words that do not belong to him want though, maybe, just to remind him that he can see where he went wrong and cannot bring himself to care. There ought to be guilt for this entire situation and there should be that one word: wait. They both elude him.

Instead there is grief, because he left for the last time and there is nothing he can do about it, and there is disappointment because he had thought, had dared to believe after they won that they were finally done it...that he was home.

Run me through.

He wants to scoff at that because what does Caspian really think he's doing? What bold and uncalled for idiocy is this? Peter wonders, tilting his head as if eying him from a different angle will bring out something more obvious about his words and the baring of flesh, and he adjusts his grip on the line of question in hand.

"You're a child." With those words, the High King once again sends the Telmarine to the floor, wand drawing back as if to do just as he has been dared to.

The old king is dead. Long live the king...long live the king.

The noise didn't wake her. She'd been laying awake for a long time. Only dimly did she realize that she had been staring at the ceiling, and the rumble of footsteps. Susan had slipped out of bed and into her robe and slippers. That restlessness they all had been fighting while they made it through a few games finally got to her. In a sleepwalk like daze, she grabbed her bow and quiver full of arrows.

Ice air on her face made her conscious. The noises--and voices--were louder the closer she approached. Tentative steps brought her to Peter and Caspian, their words were heated in the chill of night. That wand, that tool of the Witch that terrorized all of Narnia for so many many years was in her brother's hand.

A stab of greed struck her brain. It was not his. He shouldn't have something like that. Peter didn't understand. He didn't now what it was like to be a girl, to be wanting to take on the world. To be so scared, to seek that right kind of approval. Everyone loved him.

And so did she.

Why was she thinking like this? The exchange embittered, Susan realizes she hadn't moved at all from her observation spot. Caspian was exposed like a sacrifice.

"No." Her whisper was a hoarse hiss, not as loud as the stringing bow. She wouldn't be able to stop Peter in time. But an arrow on the other hand could. Thoughts moved like mud, but her fingers were fast to act. The red feather marking the back of the arrow was a blurred line that struck Peter's shoulder, nearly knocking the wand held aloft.

Not once did he break his gaze from Peter's, not even when he sent him to the floor, cheek scraping against the wood. His dark eyes locked on, waiting, daring, chanting that real kings shed blood and he, Caspian X, was willing to do that now. He would not be that merciful boy, he would not be that forgiving thing to let others walk on him, feet, hoof, or paw. Lions wait for no one.

And then he hears the soft thud of an arrow, narrow strait barely whistling till the sharp head buries itself in its mark. Susan. Caspian glances to her briefly. Good timing. Yet there's no indication on his face if he feels this is a good thing for them all or just good for him. The expression he wears wavers between that Telmarine Prince on the riverbank and a hungry opportunistic wolf. Without another word he jumps up, eager to wrench the wand away from Peter, and as an after thought he thinks to pull the arrow from his shoulder, not to remove the offending projectile from his flesh but because he knows it will hurt.

At this range the arrow hits hard, sending him stumbling backward, into everything else piled up behind them in this tiny attic, too tiny for the three of them, too tiny for any of them. His eyes dart to Susan in the doorway: what do you think you're doing? And just as quickly they are back to Caspian because it is impossible to avoid him.

Though he manages to hold the wand out of the other king's reach, moving it behind him, he does not escape the removal of the arrow. Granted, it would have had to happen anyway, but the way that the Telmarine rips it out of his shoulder is cause for Peter to gasp and then to yell something incoherent as he brings the wand back toward him, a hitting him none too lightly against the side of his head. No time is wasted as he drags himself backward, as far as he can, back to the wall at last--somewhat for support though he would rather die than admit that-- and the wand held staunchly at his side, a death grip.

"What are you doing?"

Or rather, what are they all doing. Blood on Peter, blood on Caspian only makes the silvery surface of the wand seem more pristine, jewel like. No particular color, it would match with any fine queenly robes. Obviously not the kind of instrument meant to be wielded by a man. It's almost beautiful.

Almost. Not for what it is, the White Witch's wand. She saw the statues. And there were statues all around this City. There was no Aslan to breathe upon them, to charge in with soft words and sharp claws. What if one of them were to--?

No Caspian or Peter, she would most definitely be seen for the strong, beautiful queen that she could be. No need to fight to be noticed. High Queen Susan, how lovely that could be.

How lonely. How could she?

"Stop it! Peter! Caspian!" It's a plea and a command. While they're wrestling like little boys at too rough of play, that calm collected demeanor so admired and refined was at combat with this terrifically different line of thought.

One arrow was not enough to stop Peter. Maybe Caspian. He was like a bear! The only weapons at hand were arrows. So an arrow she would use. Susan leaps at Caspian with her own kind of animal demeanor, holding the little arrowhead like a knife. She wants him to stop. She wants them all to stop. Her grip on the arrow is tight with certainty as she stabs at him once then again holding onto his frame to avoid being thrown.

Just as he is about to aim that arrow like a dagger to a blue eye--he loves those eyes, and he hates them for being so much bigger than him--he hears her and doesn't turn in time. The arrowhead pierces him under the shoulder blade, causing him to drop his own makeshift weapon. It isn't lethal and yet the second time sears him like it's been dipped in hot oil first to spread like Greek fire across his back. He feels teeth in his shoulder, lion's teeth, lioness' teeth. And then it clamps even though the jaws and the paws aren't there. Caspian drops to the floor with a grunt, upright but down for the count. He thinks he sees blood everywhere, soaking his sleeve from a bite that doesn't exist. What is going on? Why is this happening. He looks up to see Peter with that wand. Why are you carrying it? And why are you looking at me like that.

"Susan," he says her name as if her reply will ground him back to some kind of reality because the sight in front of him is too unreal.

Something about the scene unraveling before him grapples with that which keeps his fingers firmly wrapped around the wand, enough to shatter, perhaps. Something in Susan's eyes strikes him deeper than the arrow and what's worse? He has no idea what he sees there, no fathomable reach with which to even touch upon whatever concerns she has, whatever impossibilities weigh her down, whatever world looks to make things so hard for her. But I can help, he thinks weakly, and his grip loosens--even if he doesn't know what to help with, or how.

Things only veer more off course when the Gentle attacks again, arresting Caspian with something desperate and fierce in her hold and movement.

"I..."

His train of thought is no better than it has been so far but maybe he does not like the cold so much, maybe his body remembers, his heart remembers: always winter, never Christmas.

And without Christmas...

Well they all asked for the same thing didn't they?

The wand hits the ground and he kicks it away, letting it roll unceremoniously underneath an old dresser in the far corner. That hand free, he lifts it to where the arrow was pulled, bringing it away wet and warm, black in the blue moonlight, though he knows the stains will be the shade of rust. Even without the wand, he doesn't move from where he stands, braced against the back wall, only staring down at the other two in front of him.

What happened here?

What have we done?

And maybe most importantly: what now?

Telmarine blood is the same dark color and temperature of Peter's, except it is on her fingers. Susan drops the arrow, stepping backward rapidly until her back is to the wall.

She stabbed Caspian. And shot Peter. All for what? All for that ridiculous awful thing?

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry. Peter, Peter..." Susan is stammering like a little girl, her voice straggled and small, nearly a squeak. "Caspian, I'm sorry. Very sorry."

If only the wall would swallow her. Take her to someplace else. Narnia has no more lessons for her. Is this cruel session by moonlight one that couldn't be learned there?

He isn't thinking of the pain in his shoulder and that she did this to him. He only hears her voice, that same voice that was strong on the battlefield and never wavered even when things were crumbling around them. Queen Susan's face never cracked, not when son nodded goodbye to father and brother, not when her brother couldn't turn away from the gate. Her voice did not shudder when they said goodbye. Susan is not supposed to be small. Caspian wants to tell her it's all right, whatever happened, it's all right, except that it's not. But he doesn't blame her for the blood, for the open flesh. He blames the wand. That wretched thing tearing holes in weaker seams. That wretched thing sitting so lifelessly under a dresser. It doesn't speak anymore, or maybe Caspian is beyond listening. He hears the pulse at his temples the loudest.

And then there's Peter's face, marred by bruises and blood. Did I do that to you? He wipes his mouth with the back of his sleeve, staining it.

"Downstairs," says the Telmarine followed by a swallow. He doesn't even have the sense to complete that suggestion, which is to go downstairs and simply get out of here. They will not do well tending to wounds and comforting small voices up here. It is vital that they don't spend anymore time with that thing so near.

She's sorry? She's sorry? For all that she let an arrow fly in more than one way, Peter is angry with himself for letting this happen, as if he had some power over it, which is irrational, but there, that is the thing of it, isn't it? To perceive the waver in her voice, in her expression makes him feel like a failure, makes him think he is not fit to protect his own family. How was he ever a king of anything? She's sorry? I'm sorry, he thinks but his throat is dry and he can't form words right now. Pushing off of the wall with some effort, Peter nods at Caspian's suggestion, walking over to Susan because sentences fail him at the moment. He is an utter mess, but he hopes she doesn't mind as the hand of his good arm and shoulder--the right--reaches out and takes hers.

"Come on," he says, thumb brushing over her knuckles. "It's," he pauses. "It's not your fault...so...come on." And he's standing in the doorway, tugging gently at her hand so as to guide her to pass through before him. The look he gives Caspian over his shoulder is brief, but pointed. What a mess. All of this. He shakes his head. What apologies he has are not good enough but he will try to give them later anyway. Later. For now, he releases Susan's hand apologetically, only to turn fully to the Telmarine and walk back, kneeling beside him.

It is with a look of I know that he offers his right arm. It's better than nothing.

No, she doesn't mind at all. In fact, she wants to hold him tight. That's not the kind of person that she is. She's Susan the Gentle, just Susan. His hand will do for now, she gives it a squeeze and follows his lead. They'll walk away from this together. Somehow.

There's something more than she can say. I love you to both of them. She does, of course she does, and this remorse for such foreign harshness is just part of the proof. And so is what she's done. What she had to do, helping and hindering at the same time.

That wand does not belong here. That is what is crystal clear.

Her quiver is still over her shoulder, while Peter approaches Caspian she picks up the discarded bow. She'll wait for them so they all can go at once.

He looks to Susan again, feeling a bit ashamed for causing injury to Peter and making it necessary for her to cause injury to him. There's another moment of doubt, doubt that he really belongs here, that he is welcome to the family. Not by the family themselves but by something else. Maybe he should not be here no matter how close they are. Just look at what they've done. Caspian's brow furrows and he thinks for a moment they should leave first. Then he remembers what Luna said and it's erased just as quickly, leaving only the faint outline of self-deprecation when that arm comes into view.

He takes Peter's arm and gets to his feet with assisted effort. His mid-section hurts something terrible, the only part of him that really demands attention even though it's the only injury that doesn't bleed. He says nothing of it, knowing it will heal in time. And then to blue eyes the Telmarine recently tried to gouge he also says nothing, save for a look.

It will be okay.

And to Susan when he walks towards the door, slowly and with Peter to join her. Because she's not alone, not this time. Not yet. He reaches to her hand with those bruised hand, giving it a grip that tries to be firm with three good fingers.

It will be okay.

Log; Complete

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