It is officially November 17th, which means Caspeter Week 2025 has come to an end!
The mods here want to thank everyone in Caspeter Nation that participated in this little event, whether you actively created something or just enjoyed what was made. For a ship based on a movie that came out in 2008 (and the book way earlier than that), it's nice to see a new influx of content. In fact, here's some statistics:
There were 23 fanfictions made and posted to the official ao3 collection.
This brought the Caspian/Peter Pevensie tag to now have over 300 works!
When combined, the fanfictions made a total of 101,318 words of NEW Caspeter content.
Aside from fanfictions, we also had 17 visual art pieces made, from gifsets to drawings to edits to even a ruana!
And now for some event-end announcements and reminders:
The ao3 collection will remain open for late creations that were inspired by our prompts. This blog will also likely reblog late posts as well if they may appear. If we happened to miss your creation, please let us know and we will share it.
Some fics in the collection did not have an accompanying Tumblr post, so please check there for any works you might have missed!
There is a chance we may run this event again next year, so keep an eye out!
The Caspeter Nation Discord runs year-long and is always welcoming new members.
for the final day of @caspeter-week ... the werewolf au is back! yay. read on here or on ao3 with the link above, and if you want to see the first part (likely necessary reading) it's here.
⧠⧠â§
âYou should leave,â Peter says, at least the fifth time this evening. âItâs not safe.â
âI am not leaving,â Caspian answers, definitely for the fifth time this evening, this time not bothering to justify his response. Once Peter has decided something, itâs near impossible to convince him otherwise. They are similar, in this account.
Instead, he shifts his attention to the rope in his hands. He doesnât know where Edmund got it, only that it was thrust upon him near a week ago along with an almanac and a long list of dead-faced advice. The rope is mostly for him. Make sure your knots are secure, but something you can undo yourself. Keep his arms in front so he doesnât dislocate a shoulder. The moon will rise at half past four, remember, we got an hour on Wednesdayâmake sure he gets something to eat, and hopefully no one will be prowling the halls so early at night, but hereâs what to do if they are. A multitude of contingencies that Caspian only half remembers, but heâd embraced Edmund on an impulse and whispered, you donât have to worry. Iâll keep your brother safe. Edmund had nodded, tightly. The circumstances are less than ideal, but Peter wouldâve skinned his brother alive had he missed such an important trip on his behalf.
The rope goes around Peterâs wrists three times, held out of the sheet heâs wrapped himself in to preserve his modesty without ruining another set of clothes. Caspian wonders that he isnât freezing on such a cold November eve, even in Peter and Edmundâs room, but the brush of his hand to one of Peterâs while tying the knot is fever-hot.
Caspian tries to keep his expression clinical and detached as he tugs the ends of the knot tight, but it is hard. Peterâs hands are trembling slightly. The evening sky outside Peter and Edmundâs window has deepened to a dusky indigo.
âThese should be tighter,â Peter says, wriggling his wrists in their bounds. Surely they can beâCaspian cannot see the rope wound around Peterâs ankles, tucked under his sheet as they are, but no doubt theyâre already rubbing the skin under them raw. Around his wrists, Caspianâs left a small amount of slack.
âThey are tied to fit a wolf, not a man,â Caspian tells him.
âWhat if I break out? When IâIâll hurt you.â
âYou will not.â
Caspian only realizes heâs been holding Peterâs hands when they ball into fists, trembling.
âYou should leave,â he says. Caspian does not answer this time, only holds his ground.
When Peter sighs, itâs almost a growl. âDâyou have enough rope for a gag?â
Caspian starts. âA gag?â
âI will scream.â His tone is flat, matter-of-fact.
Caspian looks around the room. The walls in these dorms are thin; while there are not many around at this hour, any who remain will be certain to hear Peterâs shouts. There is a reason that rumours of monsters in the woods slide through the student body like spilled oil at the end of every month.
He thinks to reach for the trunk at the base of Peterâs bed, before stopping himself. This is not the first time Caspian has been in this room, yes, but Peter Pevensie keeps his secrets so close to himself that it feels like a violation. Instead, he unbuckles his belt and slides it out of the loops securing it to his trousers.
âIf it hurts, bite this.â
Peter looks as if he is going to protest, at first, but his face screws up suddenly, a shudder wracking his body. Caspian wonders if he has been hurting this whole time, and says nothing. The thought makes something unnamed tighten in his chest.
Gingerly, and a bit awkwardly between bound hands, Peter accepts the leather belt.
âThanks,â he says, and nothing more.
Caspian looks down at his watch. The moon will rise soon.
There is nothing to do, then, except wait.
Peter does not move, sitting and staring straight ahead as if he is holding his muscles and bones inside his skin through sheer force of will. His face is flushed, even in the cold, and thereâs the slightest dampness to the hair falling in his face. His breathing is laboured.
More than once, Caspian wishes to reach out, feels his hands ache with the need to do somethingâanythingâto help this boy in front of him who he has only known a few months, but who has inexplicibly put his life within Caspianâs hands. Who Caspian knows would flinch from any comforting touch offered as if Caspian were pressing a hot iron to his skin. Horribly, the knowledge only makes him ache more.
As the minutes go on, Peterâs stillness begins to resemble an injured animal more than anything else, and the shudders that overtake him become constant. His eyes screw shut, his shoulders hunch. Caspian counts the minutes.
Peter hisses, a sharp intake of breath between tightly clenched teeth, and Caspian realizesâit is happening now. He does not chance a glance at the window to see the full moon, does not dare take his eyes off of Peter, but he knows it nonetheless from the way that Peter suddenly curls in on himself, the way his back arches a little too far when he does. He hisses again, the sound rumbling deep and wolflike in his chest, before the sound cuts itself off as he bites into thick leather.
As fur is thickening on Peterâs skin, his shoulders shifting and nails blackening into claws, he flinches, a horrid sort of action accompanied by a soft pop that must be a bone shifting. Caspian is at his side before he can think better of it, though he stops himself from doing anything more than easing Peter gently to the floor instead of letting him fall. He does not touch Peter as he curls into himself, lying on his side, knowing that any more sensation will only cause pain. Edmund told him that. For some reason, it is one of the few bits he remembers.
The ties around his wrists and ankles hold, though the ones around the latter look just as painful as Caspian imagined they would be. He looks more wolf than man, now, pale, thick fur covering his body, tall ears twitching and long snout wrinkling. He can smell like a dog, Caspian has been told, like this, and it is rather disconcerting. He hopes, stupidly, that he himself does not smell too badly.
Slowly, the change settles. Peter-the-wolf lies on the floor, stuttering gasps and groans evening out into heavy, deep pants. Caspianâs belt is completely unsalvagable, but he finds he cares very little for that at the moment. Some of the horror of seeing Peter so pained fades, and wonder takes its place. What a magnificent creature rests before Caspianâs very eyes, white and burnished gold as his sunkissed human hair. Caspian has never given much thought to wolves before he met Peter, but he is becoming rather fond of them. Though, Caspian thinks, as his eyes open, cold and mountain-blue, he has been quite spoiled for normal wolves after meeting one such as this. They are unlikely to compare.
⧠⧠â§
When one is a wolf, many things become less important. Wolves are not dumber than humansâthey simply care less about the past, and the future, and wasting hours of their days worrying about what their classmates might do if they knew they were a wolf, or what that sparkler-feeling in their belly means when their dark haired friend touches them, or whether they might fail their next Physics exam.
When Peter-the-wolf comes to his surroundings, he remembers that heâs horribly afraid. He canât name the source of the fear, but it permeates everything. Itâs outside of the walls, in the air, tangled up in his intestines and deep, deep, within his bones.
There is something wrong with here, with this, and he wants to run, but his paws are tied together with thick rope. He struggles. The rope is tight, and heavy, but itâs not a chain, and that is important. Chain hurts more, but itâs also secure. He feels strangely weightless.
Something touches the ropes, suddenly, and he flinches, twisting to snap at it. What is that, he thinks in his fear, why is it here? No one should be here.
Then, the voice that belongs to the touch says, âI'm sorry. I did not mean to startle you.â
The voiceâit is known. With it, the scent becomes apparent, and the memory of gentle touch is pulled to the forefront of his wolfish mind. He relaxes. These hands are trustworthy.
âMay I untie these?â asks the trusted voice.
The wolf stiffens. He wants the ropes gone, yes, wants to tuck his legs comfortably under his torso, but he cannot. There is fear that way, bone rattling and belly-churning. It would not be safe. It would not be safe.
âShhh,â murmurs the voice, though the wolf has not made a sound. The hand that belongs to it comes near his face, slowly, leaving ample time for him to turn it away. He doesn't. The hand comes to rest at the back of his head, and digs its fingers behind one ear.
That feels very nice. He leans into the touch.
âYou are safe,â the voice tells him, scratching his ear and stroking the fur on his neck. âYou are in no danger here. I am in no danger, also.â
The wolf grunts softly, pleased at the gentle hands, comforted by the gentle words. The voice says, âNothing here will hurt you.â
The voice, he knows, is trustworthy. The hands mark the truth of what they say, soft, calming, never hurting, so he believes them. Trusting is simple for wolves, easier than for boys who've spent their whole lives afraid.
The wolf tries to shift towards the owner of the kind hands and safe voice, to wrap around him and offer the same comfort and protection in return, but he is hindered by the ropes still restraining his legs.
The hands pause. âMay I untie these, now?â
The wolf cannot nod quite like humans do, but he pushes his front paws towards the hands of the safe one in answer.
âThank you,â answers the safe one as he uses his spidery human appendages to undo the knots, as if it was him being hurt by the ropes, which is silly. Even so, the wolf finds himself endeared.
After both sets of limbs have been freed, the wolf curls his body around the small human one and promptly places his head in its lap. The hands return to their place at his ears, and he huffs, satisfied.
His fear is gone. Itâs in the past, which does not matter. What matters is now: the murmuring of a voice in a language he cannot understand, familiar nonetheless. Sure fingers digging into the thick fur at his neck. A clear, soft scent. A steady heartbeat under his head.
Itâs like this that the wolf slowly falls into sleep, unafraid for the first time in quite a long while. After all, why would he be afraid? He is safe.
Unfortunately, I had a lot less time to embroider than I thought I would have, so progress pictures it is:
A caspeter inspired ruana!
A compass rose for Caspian, as a lot of the Telmarine symbology in the movies have compasses, and also for Caspian's canonical sea travels. Around it I'll embroider oak leaves for Peter in a yellow/gold-ish color, as his crown canonically has oak leaves.
The front sections will each have a different flower representing each of them (buttercups for Caspian and forget-me-nots for Peter, with thanks to @folktail in selecting the flowers), and the edges will have full stripes of this pattern:
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Chapters: 1/1
Fandom: The Chronicles of Narnia (all media)
Rating: Teen and Up Audiences
Warnings: Main Character Death
Relationships: Caspian/Peter Pevensie, Caspian & Peter, Peter & Susan & Edmund & Lucy Pevensie, Peter/Ramandu's daughter | Liliandil
Summary:
The look on her face, one of devastation and sorrow, is not one he has seen for fifteen years. Susan and Edmund look to her to, Susan walking up to Lucy gently.
âWhat is it, Lu?â Peter hears himself ask, voice strangely hoarse.
âMy cordial,â she whispers, dropping down to a crouch, eyes staring at nothing.
(or when the Pevensie's return to Narnia, it is not just Susan's horn that is missing)
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Caspeter Week 2025 Day 6: Hurting/Healing
âI would be happy to stay here,â Caspian whispers, too soft and too kind. âBut if you want to be alone, I understand.â
âI donât,â Peter hears himself say. It came out of him before he could think to stop it - perhaps because of his lack of energy, or brain capacity. Either way, itâs already been said. âYou can-you can stay.â
So.
On the list of âWarrants gone terribly wrongâ, this one probably wonât make it to the top five. Perhaps not even top ten. In the grand scheme of Caspianâs rather eventful career as a Killjoy, there have been worse Warrants.
But even if this one is not quite as bad, thereâs still-
âAre you going to stare at my leg all day or are you going to get in there?â Peter asks impatiently, teeth gritted as he tries to apply pressure to the open wound on his thigh.
That.
(or, tending to wounds makes for one hell of a bonding experience)
âCaspian,â Peter says, and it comes out softer than he plans. Caspian startles lightly, nearly shies away like his own steed before realizing itâs only Peter beside him. Immediately, his tension eases. Destrier settles. The hollow in Peter fills.
âYes?â Caspian asks. The slanting afternoon sunlight renders his eyes to gold. A petal from the fistfuls the cheering crowds threw into their path is caught in the ends of his hair, and his crown is still askew.
Without really meaning to, Peter reaches up and nudges it carefully back into place with the very tips of his fingers. Caspian is utterly still under his touch, eyes wide as he stares at Peter, and probably at least one of Peterâs siblings is watching them right now, but Peter finds he doesnât care.
âYour crown was crooked,â Peter tells him, and brushes a stray strand of Caspianâs hair from his face as he lets his hand fall away, because he is suddenly more than a little bold.
(or, peterâs never been very good about letting people in, but heâs trying. he is.)
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Chapters: 1/1
Fandom: The Chronicles of Narnia (all media)
Rating: Teen and Up Audiences
Warnings: Main Character Death
Relationships: Caspian/Peter Pevensie
Series: my dear, dear, world of a father
Summary:
Just as he is on his third attempt at the same sentence, there is a gentle knock on the nursery. Though Caspian expects a nursemaid, it is Peterâs golden head that peeks around the door.
âThere you are. Thought you could escape it, did you? Well Iâve found you now. Time for a dressing change,â he says, head bent in the mock serious way he uses with his siblings.
(Or the healing of wounds, a continuation of the 'in the crevices of his stony hair yellow stonecrop gleamed' fix-it)
I wanted to include a snippet of something I originally started writing with this prompt in mind, then quickly realized the idea was too long for a short fic. I put it on pause so I could complete the other things for this week but have definite plans to finish it. No guarantees that this snippet as is will be included in the final fic, but I wanted to share something since today is what this fic was originally written for.
Context: This is a 2nd POV (of Caspian) fic where, in this universe, the tyrannical and blood-thirsty Mad King Peter legend that exists often in fanon is a real legend of Narnian history - but just how true is it?
---
You were not quite sure if, when you blew Susanâs horn, you really believed that the Kings and Queens would show up. The truth is that you were scared and alone and desperate, and you did the only thing you could think of to do. The fact that it worked, yet in such a strange way, only increased the complexity of your situation. You had just been beginning to accept your role as a leader, truly and for the first time, but the arrival of Peter and the others had clearly overmined the brief moment of it you had.
So you felt a little useless. While the overnight raid on Mirazâs army was a success, it was not your idea alone, and you lacked the proper military training to come up with a further plan on your own. With your new allies here to do that for you, all you were now was, essentially, a very fragile thing that everyone needed to keep alive.Â
That made you pathetic. It made you weak. If all this went well, you were going to become a king, and kings cannot be weak.
All of this and more were what brought your hands to your sword and your feet outside the How to the fields beyond. There was not much out there, mostly trees and such, but the wide and open spaces were enough for you to get some practice in. Now that you had been in a real swordfight, you knew your skills needed sharpening.
Unfortunately, someone else had already beaten you to that.
At first you were not sure who it was, just a vague figure in the distance, but cautious steps closer made you realize it was Peter. He was also training, running some sort of routine youâd never seen before, and you found yourself taking a moment simply to observe, feeling frozen to the spot, compelled to look.
You had read about Peterâs tenacity in battle for most of your life. You had fought him yourself very recently. Those two facts combined made you feel fairly confident as to how Peter would be practicing his swordsmanship; efficiently, brutally, with quick jabs and ruthless cuts. A blade in the shape of a boy.
What you found, instead, was a young man alone in the quiet of his home, a home that had not greeted him for over a thousand years, and he was savoring every slow moment.
To say he was dancing would be a poetic stretch, but his sword and body glided through the air in movements that would not be suited for a battlefield. Each step felt purposeful, yet fluid, like they were well-worn movements of a symbolic practice. The moonlight shone a brilliant glean onto the metal - Rhindon, the sword was called - and cast Peter himself in a bright-white glow, surprisingly softening his edges. At some points, he even closed his eyes, and perhaps it was a trick of the nightâs light, but his feet almost seemed to be floating, ever so slightly, above the ground, as if Narnia was carrying him along.
It wasâŠunexpected. It was hypnotic. You thought he looked beautiful, and then you were so shocked by that, you thought nothing at all.
âIs that him?â you ask, a little awestruck and a little frightened both. âKing Peter?â
âHigh King,â your father corrects, something very like amusement warming his tone as his hand moves to tousle your hair. But then it fades quick and quiet into something you, in your youthful inexperience, cannot yet parse as the two of you gaze upwards at the stern stone visage.
At last, your father says, very softly, âNot as I knew him, no.â
(or, the last rulers of narnia vanished into nothingness as they hunted the white stag. sometimes, rilian wonders what it is that his father pursues.)
for day 5 of @caspeter-week, Legends/Fairytales! read here or on ao3 with the link above :)
---
âCaspian the Seafarer?â Tirian asked in response to Eustace's request, campfire lighting his face in a way perfect for storytelling. âOf course I know of him, though that's not a title I've seen as often.â
âReally?â asked Eustace. ââCos that's what everyone called him back when we two were last in Narnia.â
âWas it?â said Tirian, stroking his chin contemplatively. âI suppose it makes sense enough.â He sighed. âI'd have loved to spend much more time talking to you two, and recording it, if the circumstances weren't what they were. It might sound silly, interrogating Narniaâs great heroes on particulars for my history books, butââ
âNot at all,â Jill assured him. âWeâd have loved to help.â
Tirian smiled. So did Jill and Eustace, but all three of their smiles were a bit sad.
âAnyway,â said Eustace, who did not like lingering on sad conversations, âWhat do you lot call him? Caspian, I mean.â
âCaspian the Liberator, he is called,â Tirian replied. âFor he was the first true Narnian King in a thousand years, and it was his war of deliverance that freed the Narnians from Telmarine rule.â
Eustace nodded. âI guess that bit seems rather more important, in the grand scheme of things.â
âMore important than sailing to the end of the entire world?â asked Jill, who had never liked learning about wars in history class.
âOne cannot sail to the end of the world if one has no home country to come back to in the first place,â replied Tirian.
Eustace, who liked to sound very logical, added, âFantastical adventures might be exciting, but itâs the revolutions and politics and such that give you room to have them in the first place.â
âKnock off it, Eustace,â Jill said, because he was right, but didnât need to say it.
âYou know,â Tirian started, a far-off look in his eye. âIâve always thought of the history of those old kingsââ both Jill and Eustace exchanged a look at something so recent for them being called âoldâ ââhad rather the most fantastical adventures in recorded Narnian history. Caspian especially. There are so many stories about him, you know, that one struggles to parse what is fact and what is fiction.â
âFact or fiction, Iâd like to hear about him,â Eustace said. âI knew him once, Caspian, butâwell...â he became rather quiet. Back in England, heâd spoken about it more, but the sort of grief that came from being the best of friends with someone for a few months and then turning around to see them die of old age wasnât something you could really understand without feeling it yourself.
âYou call him the Liberator?â Jill asked, patting Eustace on the knee briefly. Jill didnât quite understand it, but she was a brick.
âYes,â Tirian said, slipping into that slightly far-off tone he told stories with. It was both similar and different to the way that Lucy told stories back home. âCaspian was the son of a Telmarine king, but his heart was Narnian. He knew of the Deep Magic that lived in the land, hidden under the Telmarine rule but more awake then than it is in these days, and he knew of the Kings and Queens of old, ancient even in those days, of the Golden Age of Narnia.â
âThatâs your cousins he means, right?â Jill murmured to Eustace. Though she knew it was true, she still was amazed every time she remembered Peter, Susan, Edmund, and Lucy were the same mythical heroes she heard about so often. It was a bit like finding that your motherâs strange friend is secretly King Arthur.
Eustace nodded, and then they both looked at Tirian to continue, for he had paused.
âThatâs one of the points of contention for many historians, truthfully,â Tirian admitted. âSongs of the war say that Caspian called the Kings and Queens back to Narnia, young as if not a day had passed since they left, and that they woke the trees, and the very river Beruna itself rose to defeat the Telmarine army. King Caspian only wrote of those events later in his life. So there is doubt as to what is true, from those of more skeptical minds.â
âPshh,â said Eustace, and âshh,â said Jill.
âI always believed Caspianâs words to be the truth, of a sort. We Kings and Queens of Narnia are told a special sort of history, that from our parents and grandparents, though even my father couldnât say what of the stories he told me were meant to be taken as...well, metaphor.â
âMetaphor?â asked Eustace.
âWell, I did not think you would arrive as such until I met you in the flesh. Guidance, I hoped for, knowledge, even, perhaps, but little did I expect to be sent heroes of legend in the flesh, aged not a day exactly as the stories told. In truth, I wonder what else I have heard about those days may be more literal than I previously believed.â
âWell, Iâd hope I look a bit older, at least,â Eustace grumbled, not without humour.
Jill asked, âWhat else have you heard?â
âWell, my grandfather always told me that us Kings of Narnia have the blood of the stars in us, since Caspian. My father always said it was more representative of our duty, our ties to Narniaâmay your wisdom grace us till the stars rain down from the heavens, and all, but grandfather was not so sure.â
âYou mean Liliandil, donât you?â Eustace asked.
Tirian paused, thinking. âLiliandil, wife of King Caspian and mother of King Rilian?â
âThat would be her, alright.â
âDid you meet her?â Tirian asked. There was a spark in his eye that neither Jill nor Eustace had seen previously, and they were both suddenly glad they could give him something like this in a time so dreary and dire indeed. âWas she truly a star come down from the heavens?â
âWell, I didnât know her for longâwe had to leave, before she and Caspian got married, and all that, but she told us her father was a star, at the very least, and she certainly looked like it. Though Iâve not seen many other stars since.â
Tirian did not seem to realize it, but as Eustace spoke, his hand came to twine around a lock of his own hair. It wasnât as bright as Rilianâs had been, but the silver-gold strands still shone like soft starlight.
âYour love is gone, past the end of the world, from whence youâll take back treasures untold, but to reach who you wish, you will leave behind all else that you hold dear,â Tirian intoned, his mind elsewhere.
âWhat was that?â Jill asked. âIt sounds almost familiar.â
Tirians eyes seemed to refocus on the two of them. âI imagine it might,â he said. âIt is a rather old song. Old as you, likely.â
Jill held back a laugh, because it was not quite the time for such things. âWhatâs it about?â
âLost love, though the specifics are debated. I was thinking of it becauseâwell, it has many names, but the most common is Mandate to the Seafarer.â
âCaspian the Seafarer,â Eustace said, half question and half remark.
âYes. Few writings of the time have been preserved, but from everything I have read, he always wished to return to the end of the world, though he was never able to.â
âThatâs where he was going, when we were here last,â said Eustace. âBefore he had to turn around, of course.â
âTruly?â asked Tirian.
âThat was what everyone said,â answered Jill.
Tirian twisted a lock of hair around his fingers again, contemplative. âIf so much of it is true...did he truly carry it? Was he buried with the sword of the High King?â
âRhindon?â Jill asked, for she had heard it spoken of often, though never like this.
âIt had a name?â
She could not tell why, but suddenly Jill felt quite sad. âYes. I donât know if he was buried with it, though. We didnât get to see the funeral. Iâm sorry.â
âDonât be,â said Tirian. âParts of history are bound to always be hidden from us. Either way, a mystery solved for me is doubtful to do any good now.â
And none of them truly wanted to think of that, just then.
âThe story of the song is,â Tirian said, breaking the silence before any of them could dwell on it, âwell, the story it goes with, which is one of many histories, that isâKing Caspian called the Kings and Queens of the Golden Age to help him deliver Narnia from Telmarine rule, and they came. And,â here, Tirian grinned, âKing Caspian fell in love.â
Jill grinned back. It felt a bit like schoolyard gossip, and a bit like a wonderful fairytale.
âHe fell in love,â Tirian repeated, âthat particular history goes. And if you take the song, and the right stories, well, a King or Queen of old was his beloved. Andâit is muddled, for this is talk of legends, and not histories. But as you know, all stories have a bit of truth to them. So if it is true that the Kings and Queens came to him in the flesh, and that they also had to leave, as they did before, back to the world they came fromâyour world, then perhaps it is also true that King Caspian did travel to the end of the world to reach his lost love, not one who had died and gone to Aslanâs Country, but one who lived, but somewhere beyond Narnia. And when he returned, it was with a star, whom he married. Though a star, a lost Hero of the Golden Ageâthat is where it stops aligning. And you say Queen Liliandil was truly a star.â
Jill nodded, for Eustace was looking rather far-off at the moment.
Tirian sighed. âWell, he was buried with the sword of King Peter the Magnificent. And you say he tried to reach the end of the world once more before he died. Perhaps it is not a story with a happy ending.
âNo, I donât think it was.â Eustace seemed to be speaking to himself more than them.
âOh, pish,â said Jill, âWhy is it that the most famous romances always end in tragedy?â She was not really mad at Tirian, or even the story, but sometimes you must be mad about a small thing, so that you donât despair about a large one.
âNot all of them, Lady Jill,â said Tirian. âHave you ever heard the tale of the Two Knights?â
âIâm not sure. Tell me.â
âWell, there were two knights, and they loved each other as much as two beings can love without becoming one, so much that each could fight with the otherâs sword as well as their own, and each sharpened the otherâs sword on their own whetstone, becauseââ
âBecause a knightâs sword is their soul outside their body,â finished Jill. âOh, yes, I know this one. Though Lucy always told it to me as, what was it, Stormwind and the Lady Hark. When they both died, their weapons were melted down and forged into one, so that they could be together for eternity. She said that more than a few knights she knew had done that, back in her day.â
Tirian smiled. âIncredible,â he said, almost reverently. âDo you think King Caspian was buried with it, then, truly? Peter the Magnificentâsâwhat did you say it was called? Rhindon?â
âIt means âSpringâs Tooth,ââ Eustace said, and both of the others were surprised, for he hadnât spoken in a while.
âSpringâs Tooth,â Tirian repeated, slowly. Eustace nodded, shortly. âHe carried it, then? After the Kings and Queens left?â
âOften enough,â Eustace replied.
âIs it true, then?â Jill asked. âThe whole story? I had no idea Peter wasââ
âWell,â Eustace cut her off, a bit sharply, âCaspian never said he was taking that journey for any other reason than to find those seven Telmarine lords, and to find what was there at the end of it all.â
âTelmarine lords?â Tirian asked.
âYou didnât know about that?â Eustace asked, and then shook his head. âNevermind. Itâs not at all interesting,â he amended, which was very unlike Eustace, who (in Jillâs opinion) often found the most boring things quite interesting.
âYouâd be surprised,â said Tirian, who often found boring things quite interesting too. âBut either way, oneâs official reasons for doing something and oneâs personal reasons can be two very different things, especially when one is a King. I would know, myself.â
Eustace shrugged stiffly. âI wouldnât,â he said. âAndâif I did. It wouldnât be my business to share.â
Jill saw how uncomfortable Eustace had gotten, and remembered quite suddenly that sometimes legends did not just have a bit of truth to them, but were not legends at all. She reached over to squeeze his hand, as if to say sorry, maybe, or perhaps simply, I understand how you feel. She had never liked the things Molly Stockbridge said about the two of them.
She turned to Tirian. âIs the story of King Gale in your history books?â
âItâs the Magnificent, sir.â
A kernel of dread lodges deep in Caspianâs chest as he receives the spyglass from Drinian and lifts it to press against his eye.
It was to be expected, he supposes, swallowing back a curse at the sight of the blood-red flag flying in the wind. Sooner or later it would come to this.
(or, an unexpected meeting with the past)
