Fruits of the Spirit (A Narnia Fanfic)

Temperance

Caspian stormed into the cabin he shared with Edmund and Eustace, drowning too much in an ocean of his own rage to be appreciative that neither of them were present to see him lose control like this. Snatching up the nearest object he could reach—a hairbrush made by Naiads with glistening shells embedded into the handle like pearls—and, pretending it was a certain Talking Mouse who had provoked him mere moments ago, threw at the wall behind his hammock.

It hit the wall with a satisfying think before landing on his blanket. Ah, that would have taught Reepicheep a thing or two if the hairbrush had really had been Reeicheep. The blasted Talking Mouse would think twice before opening his big mouth about how he was going to Aslan's country while Caspian, the king, remained behind like a wretched lackey if he risked getting scooped up by his tail and hurled into a wall.

"Caspian." The lion on the cabin wall came to life, and Aslan's eyes pierced into Caspian's. His stomach churning as if the calm, sweet sea had suddenly become tempestuous under the Dawn Treader, Caspian felt terribly vulnerable, as though those unwavering, omniscient eyes could see everything he had ever done and thought—every cruel comment that had left his lips, every bitter idea, every flash of temper, every petty act, every unforgiving thought. Then, in a voice that could had compelled compliance from all but the most hard-hearted, Aslan ordered, "Pick up the brush and sit on your bed."

His fingers shaking, Caspian picked up the hairbrush and placed it on the nightstand. Then, glad to get off his quaking knees, he sat down on his hammock, wishing that some force beyond his control wasn't forcing him to gaze deeply into Aslan's eyes.

"Wrath and pride were the monsters that destroyed your uncle Miraz's soul," declared Aslan in a tone that was all the mightier for its softness. "Be wary of your own anger and sense of entitlement, Caspian, lest you follow the same path to destruction that he did."

"I expect more from a rightful king than from a usurper," Aslan growled, and Caspian felt a force lift his chin, so that his eyes were once again fixed on the face of Aslan that filed the lion's head on the wall. "However, I demand nothing from you that, with Me inside you, you lack the power to achieve."

"Don't be mad at me, Sir," Caspian pleaded. "I just want to see Your country."

"Serve Me faithfully, and you will see My country," rumbled Aslan. "Know, though, that it is not My will for you to travel to My country today, and people only go to My country if I will them to come. You still have a duty to lead Narnia. Your parents and I will be very disappointed if you try to shirk that responsibility to your people, who are also My people. Do your duty to Me in life, Caspian, until I call you to join Me in My country."

"I wanted to see my parents, Sir." Caspian's throat tightened. He had wished to look in his father's eyes and hug his mother. He wanted to hear their voices and see for himself which of them he resembled more and which features had come from whom. He wanted to hear their life stories from their own lips and to tell them about his adventures. He wanted to make them proud of him, but he wished so desperately to see them and speak to them right now.

"One day you will see them, as long as you do not make a habit of taking My name in vain." Aslan's voice was quiet but still powerful enough to cause earthquakes if that had been His intent. Cringing as he recalled his furious shout of "By the Mane of Aslan," Caspian listened, biting his lip, as Aslan went on, "You did not make a single hair on your own head, nonetheless Mine. Keep that in mind the next time you open your mouth to speak about My Mane. Remember, too, that no matter how disappointed I am with you, I never use Your name as a curse. You should show My name, which is above all names by the Deepest Magic, at least as much respect as I show yours."

"Forgive me, I beseech." Caspian could think of nothing else to say that might repair his broken relationship with the Great Lion. "I promise that I will serve You better in the future. I will not take Your name in vain, and I will try harder to control my temper if You will just forgive me."

"I love you with an everlasting love, Caspian, and I will forgive you whenever you humbly ask for my pardon." Aslan's tone was as gentle as the velvet that covered His gigantic paws, and Caspian was left wondering who he was that the Great Lion would care to even know his name, nonetheless comfort him and calm the storm of his temper. "Realize that, just as you heard My Voice when you were little because I was claiming you as My choice to lead Narnia, you hear Me correcting you now because, like a father, I reprimand My beloved children out of love. Therefore, it is not because I don't love you that I command you to not only allow you to not only allow Reepicheep to sail to My country, but also to tell Edmund, Lucy, and Eustace to accompany him."

"Reep is one of my best friends." His anger at the Mouse forgotten, Caspian's jaw trembled with grief. "I need him to fight for me and to challenge me. Don't take him from me, please, Aslan."

"Unless one of your company sails to the very end of the world and remains there forever, the three lords on Ramandu's island will not awaken until the end of the world, and you will not have fulfilled your quest," Aslan said, gazing into Caspian's eyes with an expression that was unyielding but not unsympathetic.

"But couldn't you make an exception?" Caspian begged. "You control the Deep Magic that put the three lords to sleep."

"I never make exceptions to the Emperor's Deep Magic, son of Adam," Aslan answered firmly, his eyes darkening. "I always come to fulfill the Emperor's Deep Magic, not to break it or fight it. Understand that or you won't understand Me and what I did for you centuries before your birth on that Stone Table."

"Anyone else in the company can go, Sir, but not Reep," Caspian said, wishing that he didn't already sense how useless it would be to attempt to bargain or barter with the Great Lion.

"Don't attempt to deny Me My own, Caspian. That is the path of misery." Aslan's voice was the unshakable one in which He seemed to deliver all His unalterable pronouncements. "Reepicheep is ready to sail for My country. He won't thank you for trying to stop him, and it is selfish to attempt to hold onto creatures when I am calling them to join me in My country."

Caspian longed to protest, to argue, and to throw the hairbrush at the wall again, but he couldn't, not when he had just promised to be a better follower of Aslan. Anyway, he recognized as if the revelation were a blow to the head, Aslan's will would be done. He could either submit to Aslan's will with grace and humility, or he could struggle against Aslan's will, letting his pride and anger devour his soul more effectively than the sea monster the ship had narrowly escaped.

"I will obey," Caspian choked out, feeling as if his tongue were broken, or, at the very least, would break under the weight of these dreadful words. "I'll tell Reep he can sail to Your country, after all, and I'll explain to Edmund, Lucy, and Eustace that You want them to go with him. Just please don't abandon me, too."

"If you keep the promise you have just made to me, I will be well-pleased with you." Aslan's voice was gentler than it had been during their conversation. "And you need never fear that I will abandon you, son. I am the father you have been searching for all your life, for I am the Perfect Father, who has loved you before you could even draw breath."

Then, Aslan's voice faded along with His eyes, so that only the lion head statue remained on the wall, and Caspian was left reeling at the thought that the Great Lion had called him "son." That one word was enough to demonstrate forever how incredible Aslan's affection for Caspian truly was. That one word would always endure in his mind as a reminder of how much Aslan wanted a close, loving relationship with him. That one word was enough to fill the emptiness in his heart where his father should have dwelt. Caspian was no longer an orphan. He had Aslan—the ever just and ever merciful—as a father. Nobody could feel abandoned or unloved he thought if, instead of just being a Son of Adam, they were a Son of Aslan.

That didn't completely erase the pain of the idea of saying good-bye to Reep for as long as his own life lasted and of losing Edmund, Lucy, and Eustace to their own world. Nor did it remove the sting of Aslan's earlier reprimands. If anything, the realization that Aslan loved him as a father made the earlier chastisements smart more, pointing out to him more clearly than anything else could have how much his anger hurt the One who loved him most and how he was nowhere near as good a son as Aslan was a father. For Aslan to call him son—well, that was the best and the worst thing anyone could possibly have said to him. It was an undeserved honor he would have to devote the rest of his life to trying—and failing—to live up to. After all, Aslan had died for him, so he should try to live for Aslan.
 
Joy

"It's a pity that we don't have a son," murmured Lilandil, leaning across the blanket she and Caspian were picnicking upon to celebrate a late August afternoon that was neither rainy nor broiling. It was a little over nine years since they had married after their return to Narnia, and their only sorrow was that Aslan had not blessed them with a child. "You could have waded in the waves with him, and I could have helped him build sand replicas of Cair Paravel."

The wind whipped her gold hair around her, moistened her cerulean eyes, and turned her cheeks to cherries as she added in barely more than a whisper, "I'm sorry that I've failed you by not conceiving a child."

"You haven't failed me." Caspian folded his fingers around hers. "For all we know, dear, I could be responsible for our lamentable lack of progeny. It wasn't like I was running around fathering children before I met you."

"That's only because the girls who were shoved under your nose as suitors all had freckles and squinted." Lilandil's lips quirked. "I hardly take it as a mark of virtue, but rather as a sign of aesthetic appreciation that you weren't fathering children before you met me."

"It was one girl who squinted and had freckles." Caspian chuckled. "I should never have made the mistake of telling you about her, because you'll just tease me about her until I die from mockery."

"And men claim women are dramatic." Lilandil's face softened into a smile for a moment before her forehead knotted again. "I wonder if you should have married someone more fertile. I didn't think there would be complications, because I'm half star and you're all human, because my star father had no trouble reproducing with my human mother, but maybe things are different with us, or perhaps I'm just defective."

"You are more perfect than defective." Caspian kissed her cheek and then her forehead. "I will always love you, even if we never have any children, and Aslan willed that we would be married, so if it is His will that we have babies, we will have them. If it is not His will that we have children, I believe that one day we will understand why He wants us to be a loving but barren couple…"

In the same way, Caspian thought, that one day they might come to understand why his cousin and heir had died on Aunt Prunaprisma's birthday two years. The younger Caspian had been stringing fresh, blossoming garlands of lavenders, which were Prunaprisma's favorite flowers, from his mother's balcony as a birthday surprise when he had plummeted to his death from the balustrade he had been standing upon to do the decorating. He had perished before he had hit the ground, denied even a final scream, and the only consolation any of his family or friends could find was that he hadn't suffered before he left this life, and that, as loyal, generous, kind, honest, brave, and noble as the young man had been, he surely had been welcomed into Aslan's kingdom. The only mystery was why the young Caspian—courteous and charming at banquets, strong and valiant on the practice courts, and clever and dedicated in academics—hadn't been Aslan's choice to rule Narnia after Caspian X had died.

In the wake of his young cousin's death, Caspian could only tell himself that eventually he and his wife would conceive a child, if that was indeed Aslan's will, and that Aslan had picked out the perfect person to rule Narnia while the young Caspian enjoyed an eternity of peace in Aslan's kingdom.

He had to hold onto his faith in Aslan, despite the unexpected, tragic end of his cousin, especially because Aunt Prunaprisma had not permitted her son's fate to turn her into a bitter person. In fact, she seemed determined to bring some good out of the tragedy and had become a much better individual. After losing her only son, Aunt Prunaprisma devoted herself to being the mother of all the palace children, turning a blind eye to their exuberant pranks, hiding sweets in their pockets, and kissing their knees when they tripped playing tag. Indeed, Caspian often noted inwardly that if he and Lilandil ever had a baby, he could only pray that he would be as good a father as his aunt Prunaprisma was a mother to the castle children.

He was jolted back into reality when Lilandil, pulling on her silken locks, sighed. "I just can't help but wonder if we're being punished by Aslan. I don't think He's ever been angry at me before, but I fear—"

"Don't be afraid," Caspian told her firmly, removing her fingers from her hair and kissing them, too. "We'd know if Aslan was displeased with us. He's always made it clear when He was not happy with my conduct, and the last time He was mad at me was more than nine years ago for preparing to abandon my duty to Narnia. He wouldn't punish us for trying to do our duty and give our country an heir. It just might not be His will that we have one."

"Do you think that we should stop praying for one?" Lilandil asked, swallowing hard.

"No, you should never stop praying, My precious and long-suffering children." A voice, as strong as the waves crashing against the shore and dragging sand back into the ocean, proclaimed, and, perfectly dry and golden, the Great Lion emerged from the surf. His mane, shimmering in the bright sun, was so brilliant that Caspian was tempted to avert his eyes, lest they be damaged, but he found, as always, that a force deep inside him was compelling him to keep his gaze riveted on Aslan. Something within his soul recognized that to look away from Aslan after seeing Him would be to turn away from the love, grace, and forgiveness streaming from the Great Lion's eyes like rays of summer sunlight.

"I always hear your prayers," Aslan continued, crossing the sand in several quick strides and flicking His soft, moist tongue over each of their foreheads, as if to wipe away all the doubts that had clouded their minds. "More importantly, I answer every prayer you say, even if it is not in the way you intended, in My own time, because My way and My time is better than your way and your time. I never forget that, even if you do. Now is the time when I will answer your prayer for a child, because you have been faithful to Me, and I always reward those who remain loyal to Me. Within a month, I tell you that you, Lilandil, will conceive your husband's child, and, because you and your husband believe in My words, I will give you this prophecy to hold close to your hearts: He will be a true king of Narnia, saving it from a terrible, unseen peril, and he will find the truth, even if he has to travel to the very heart of this world to find it. Raise him to fulfill his destiny well, Caspian and Lilandil."

"What threat faces Narnia, Aslan?" Caspian frowned, his hand itching toward his scabbard. He focused on the relatively tangible idea of a threat to his country, because his mind was refusing to accept the fact that Aslan had pronounced that, after all these years of praying, he was finally going to be blessed with a son.

"None you need that weapon for, Son of Adam." Aslan shook His mane. "I am talking about years and years from now. You can't travel into the future to defeat every menace that confronts Narnia, so be at peace, dear child, and enjoy your day at the seashore with your beautiful wife."

Caspian's hand fell away from his sword hilt, as he imagined cradling a baby in his arms, bouncing a toddler in his knee, clutching onto little fingers as his son learned to walk, and hearing his child's first stumbling words. There were so many little miracles that he could look forward to experiencing all because Aslan had answered this one desperate prayer from him and his beloved wife. Thinking that he would raise his son to praise Aslan every day, Caspian murmured, "Thank You. We will bring him up to know, love, and serve You."

"He will be raised to call upon My name, and there will be at least one occasion where calling upon My name will save him." With a flick of His tail, Aslan pivoted, and, leaving a trail of gigantic paw prints in the sand, faded back into the water, saying as He disappeared, "Raise him well, My beloved children."
 
When all that remained of Aslan was the paw prints He had left in the sand, Caspian discovered that he was flooded with what he had come to identify as the classic post-Aslan emotion: simultaneously humbled and elevated; at once hopeful and somber; both unbearably happy and comically aware of his own folly.

"I'm going to be a father," he said, testing the word as applied to himself on his lips and realizing that the sound both terrified and elated him. "Aslan's favor never ceases to amaze me."

"You're a good man." Gently, Lilandil squeezed his fingers, and he gazed into her soft, loving eyes, causing him to marvel again that such a sweet, gorgeous woman would ever want to marry him. "That's why Aslan favors you."

"I could never have earned His favor, Lilandil," he replied, shaking his head. "I was but a young boy who had done nothing remarkable when He spoke to me for the first time. If anything, it is His favor that has made me good."

"It's probably a combination of the two." Lilandil patted his cheek. "Aslan calls to all creatures, or so my father always said, but not all creatures chose to answer. Those who choose to answer receive Aslan's favor, and those who decide not to respond do not get His favor. Every time a creature replies to Aslan's call, that creature grows in Aslan's favor, but the fact that Aslan calls to each of us at all proves that He favors us all at least a little even if we have done nothing to deserve that favor."

"Well, with the way Aslan growls at me when I displease Him, I'd have to be deaf not to respond." Caspian chuckled wryly. "I'm not sure that is much of a testament to my faith, though it may be a testament to my hearing."

"Some beings are too deaf to hear Aslan when He shouts at them," Lilandil pointed out quietly.

"My son better not be among them," Caspian commented grimly, "and he best answer me when I call him, too."

"And what will we be calling him?" Lilandil laughed. "You know, it's funny that with all the wishing we did for a son, we never got around to thinking of a name for him."

"I've always liked the name Rilian." Pensively, Caspian's brow furrowed. "It's a strong name that sufficiently honors his Telmarine ancestors without reminding the Talking animals and the spirits of the water and woods of the Telmarine invaders named Caspian. It also means 'burning brightly' and so suits your star heritage, my lady."

"Rilian," repeated Lilandil in a whisper. "I rather like the sound of it myself."

"Excellent." Smiling roguishly at his wife, Caspian remarked, "We both know that Aslan's prophecies always come true, but why don't we do what we can to fulfill His latest one?"

"Let's unleash a miracle," she agreed softly, bringing her lips to rest against his with a desire that echoed the one raging in his heart.
 
CORIN THUNDERFIST II said:
Rather sad that Caspian's young cousin had to die so young, but I really like the way you had Prunaprisma cope with her loss: very positive.
Click to expand...

Thanks for reading and reviewing, Corin:D

It was sad that Caspian's cousin had to die so young, but we certainly have reason to hope that he is enjoying eternity in Aslan's country, so it's not all bad for him, and I had to have a reason why Caspian would have no other heir besides the vanished Rilian in SC.

I think that Prunaprisma coped with her son's loss in the best possible way: by turning her grief into a source of purpose and turning her sorrow into a cause for joy in others. Horrible things happen in everybody's life, but we all have to decide how we are going to deal with them. Some people let themselves be destroyed by the bad things that happen in their lives; others try to turn the bad into good.

I hope you'll enjoy the next installment:D
 
Gentleness

"That's settled, then," Caspian said, referring to a dispute over land between a faun and a satyr in Lantern Waste. "The faun receives the larger portion of the property, and the satyr gets the piece with the better trees. I'll have a scribe write land deeds to that effect for my signature tomorrow. Now, what is next?"

"The case of the Calormene merchant," Lord Drinian answered, discreetly checking the pile of parchment on the table beside him. The king, queen, prince, and top royal advisors Drinian, Trumpkin, and Trufflehunter were supposed to be enjoying a quiet, private supper celebrating the king's recent return from a diplomatic visit to Archenland. However, the meal was still largely a state one that merely took place in a different venue than the banquet hall.

"Ah, yes, the man who refuses to trade with non-humans and then complains that he can't engage in trade involving the fish water rats ferry down the river," Caspian said dryly between bites of roast beef and mashed turnip. "What a charming fellow and a real class act, too."

"We should tell him that if he wants the water rats' fish, he'll have to overcome his disgust with non-humans long enough to trade with them," growled Trumpkin, cutting into his meat with vigor.

"And not to come to court, either, as some of us are part star," Lilandil remarked coolly. "I suspect even the purity and the beauty of the stars revolt him."

"We won't tell him about your star lineage. It might give him reason to question the legitimacy of our royal offspring." Caspian nodded his head at seven-year-old Rilian, who was entertaining himself by swirling a mass of mashed turnips around his porcelain platter. "We don't want to provide the Calormenes any reason to wage war against us or ferment rebellion in our dominion."

Caspian's nod in his direction seemed to give Rilian the permission to speak, for he offered the first words besides greetings to leave his lips since the meal started: "This is boring."

Privately, Caspian agreed with his son, because most of the discussed disputes involved beings who refused to attempt to resolve their own conflicts, preferring to act like sullen and spoiled toddlers. Aloud, he replied only, "You chose to come, Rilian, even though your mother and I warned you it might be boring. Now, eat those turnips instead of playing with them, please."

"I hate turnips, Father." Rilian's chin lifted into a miniature image of what Caspian knew to be his own expression when he had no intention of surrendering or compromising and planned on fighting for every bloody inch. "You know the dislikes of some random Calormene better than your own son's, but that's fine. I understand that you didn't have time to read Nurse's briefing."

"Your father and I know you don't like turnips, dear, but you have to eat them because they're good for you," Lilandil put in, her voice a perfect, serene blend of mildness and firmness. "We want you to grow up to be healthy and strong."

"Turnips are disgusting." Rilian's face softened into a definite pout, and Caspian couldn't decide if that was progress or not. "I don't want to eat them, Mother."

"Think of it as an opportunity to develop kingly tenacity, Your Highness," commented Lord Drinian, who had been named Rilian's lionfather when the prince was born and would probably spend the rest of his life trying to talk male royalty—mainly Caspian and Rilian-out of obstinate, black moods as a result. "When your father and I sailed to the End of the World, we had to live off water and dry biscuits for days and days in a row."

Normally, references to the trip to the World's End prompted Rilian to demand an account of the whole adventure, but this time he just observed, "I'd rather have dry biscuits and no water for a meal than turnips, my lord."

"Crumpets and cudgels, my prince!" exclaimed Trumpkin, whose scant patience had plainly been depleted. "Just eat your turnips, and then we can all have dessert. I hear it is a delicious cherry pie."

"Be quiet, you misshapen midget," Rilian snapped, flipping over his plate and no doubt causing the white lace tablecloth to be horribly stained beyond even the skills of the laundrywomen to clean.

"Apologize at once," ordered Caspian, barely able to hear his own words over the blood pounding in his eardrums. He was standing behind his son's chair before he even realized that he had moved. "Then clean up this mess."

"No!" Rilian gave the table leg closest to him a vicious, petulant kick, and then twisted around to face his father with rage and rebellion blazing in the bright eyes he had inherited from Lilandil. The sight of Lilandil's eyes challenging and undermining him instead of supporting and comforting him filled Caspian with an eerie feeling of wrongness that only increased when his son continued, "Aslan **** you all!"

Caspian felt himself flooded with such incredible ire that he reacted without pausing to consider what he was doing. That his own son would wish eternal suffering and separation from all the love and meaning there was in the universe shocked and hurt him—and it couldn't go unpunished. Rilian would never draw on Aslan's name as a curse or hope for anybody's endless damnation. Caspian would make sure of that.

Somehow grimly determined though he had no conscious idea what he was doing, Caspian yanked Rilian out of the chair by the arm and landed a sharp slap on his son's backside. It was one spank, but the sound of it seemed to reverberate a thousand times in his ears. He expected his son, whom he had never spanked before, to cry out in pain, but Rilian made no noise beyond an astonished gasp and a whimper so faint surely only a parent could hear it.

"Go to your room, son," he commanded sternly, trying not to remember how he, like Rilian, used to attempt to preserve his battered dignity by refusing to burst into tears at an unexpected smack. He didn't want to be cast in the role of Miraz—because Rilian had deserved that spank in a way Caspian hadn't earned Miraz's cuffs—and he certainly didn't wish to consider whether Miraz had felt the same furious need to punish a headstrong boy that had torn through Caspian a moment ago. "I'll be there to talk some more with you shortly."

"I hate you," Rilian muttered, looking as if only sheer willpower was keeping the tears welling in his eyes from streaking down his cheeks. "You're the worst father in the world."

Then, covering his bottom to protect it from further assaults, Rilian fled the room. The words speared directly into Caspian's heart because he couldn't help but recall how he had turned his own pain and humiliation when his uncle hit or shouted at him into an impotent anger and helpless hatred for the man that he sometimes thought would remain with him all his life. Unable to stand, he collapsed into the seat Rilian had just vacated.

"I promised myself that I would never strike my son or lay a hand on him in anger," he murmured, staring at his palm, and searching for some kind of evidence of the violence he had inflicted on his own flesh. "I swore that I wouldn't be like Miraz, but bad blood will out, and I've got plenty of bad blood."

"Don't beat yourself up, Your Majesty." Drinian reached across the table, avoided the spilled turnip, and clasped Caspian's hand tightly in his own. "Your uncle already hurt you enough to last a lifetime."

"I can't make the same mistakes that he did. I can't let myself cause my soul and my son's so much misery. I can't allow my anger to go as far as he permitted his." Hating the part of him that was still convinced that it was still a weakness to even talk about the abuse Miraz had heaped on him, Caspian shook his head and looked at his wife, saying hoarsely, "Lilandil, you should talk to Rilian. I'm a danger even to myself right now."

"You have to talk to Rilian," Lilandil informed him gently, looking at Caspian in a way that made it clear that, while she sympathized with his weaknesses, she wasn't going to allow him to give into them. She was going to force him to be more than he could be, just as she always had, ever since he had first met her, and she had insisted that he could only kiss her after he had broken the enchantment on the sleeping men on her father's island, not before. "You said that you would be the one to discuss his behavior with him, so you have to keep your promise to him, even if he might wish that you wouldn't."

"I don't know how to be a father." Again, Caspian shook his head. "I grew up under Miraz's hand, remember?"

"You had Doctor Cornelius," Lilandil reminded him softly, and he couldn't help but smile at the memory of his wise, gentle tutor, who had gone to Aslan's country several winters ago. "Just think about what he would do, and you'll have some idea how to behave."

"That means a valid option is waking Rilian up at midnight and taking him to the highest tower for an astronomy lesson," Caspian pointed out, his grin broadening.

Then, as he remembered exactly how offensive his son's conduct had been, his smile faded again, and turning to Trumpkin he said, "I'm sorry for Rilian's comment about your stature. You will, of course, be receiving a formal letter of apology from him tomorrow."

"Don't worry." Obviously, Trumpkin had chosen to be amused, rather than miffed, by Rilian's assessment of his appearance. "Every time I look in a mirror, I think that I'm a misshapen midget and that I should stop eating so much cherry pie. Then, when an opportunity to eat cherry pie presents itself, I have second helpings. It's quite hopeless." Here, he emitted a full-bellied guffaw. "I'm doomed to be a misshapen midget forever. Misshapen midget. Nicely alliterative, isn't it? Maybe I'll use it next time I meet a dwarf I don't like."
 
"I'm glad somebody can afford to have a good laugh at my son's impudence." Caspian grunted and pushed himself out of the chair. Heading toward the door, he added over his shoulder, "Speaking of cherry pie, feel free to have the servants bring it in. I've eaten my fill."

He stepped out into the palace corridor, which was mercilessly empty of nobles and servants, and hurried down it to his son's chambers, reminding himself with every step that he would not shout or hit. After all, Doctor Cornelius, no matter how much Caspian had provoked him, had never yelled at his charge, and the closest Doctor Cornelius had ever come to hitting Caspian was tapping him on the arm with a quill.

Wishing that his gentle mentor were here to provide a final guiding word, Caspian opened the door to Rilian's room to find his son curled up in a ball, shoulders heaving in rhythm with aching sobs, on the bed. With a jolt at the revelation that the big annoyance Rilian had been moments ago could be reduced so quickly into a little, crying circle, Caspian crossed the room, shutting the door in his wake, and sat down on the thick blankets covering the prince's bed.

His strength surprising, Rilian, weeping still more loudly, launched himself into Caspian's arms, burying his head in his father's chest, and soaking the king's shirt with his tears.

"Here now, what's this, Rilian?" Caspian asked mildly, stroking his son's golden hair with one hand and patting the boy's trembling back with the other palm. "You'll have your mother thinking I skinned you inch by inch."

"I didn't mean what I said." Rilian managed to choke out through his tears, which were starting to abate as his father continued to stroke his hair and back. "I don't hate you, you're a good father, and I love you."

"It's all right, son." Caspian took advantage of the fact that Rilian had pulled away from his chest by wiping the tears away from the boy's flushed cheeks. "I love you, too."

"Are you going to spank me, Father?" Rilian asked. He looked as if just asking the question was bringing him to the verge of tears again, but as though he also wanted to be brave enough to take his punishment—whatever it was—without crying.

Remembering how he had posed a similar question to Doctor Cornelius on the tower of his uncle's castle after a display of awful insolence, Caspian arched an eyebrow. "What do you think?"

As he repeated the words his tutor had spoken to him so long ago, he recognized for the first time how much of a test that question had actually been. Doctor Cornelius had been seeing if he needed to be punished—because if he could realize that he deserved to be punished, he needed mercy, and, if he couldn't understand that he deserved to be punished, he needed justice. Caspian had just enough time to appreciate once again the wisdom of his tutor before his son answered.

"I guess I deserve one." Rilian's voice was barely more than a whisper, and his chin and gaze were lowered. "I was rude to you, Father, and I wouldn't obey you."

"Look at me, Rilian." Gingerly, Caspian tilted his son's chin up, so that the boy's wide eyes were fixed on his own. "I won't insult your intelligence by pretending that I wouldn't be justified in giving you a sound spanking for your behavior at the table tonight, but, because you seem to have some understanding of what you did wrong, I think we can have the rest of this discussion with just words."

"Thank you, Father." Rilian's eyes shone with relief and gratitude. "I promise we can."

"Good." Caspian nodded in satisfaction, and then went on somberly, "Son, it was very wrong of you to refer to my friend Trumpkin as a 'misshapen midget.' All the creatures in this country, however comical they may appear to us humans, have been created by Aslan for His pleasure. They deserve to be treated with our respect, and I expect you to write a formal apology to Trumpkin tomorrow, expressing how sorry you are for insulting his dignity and his race. Am I understood?"

"Yes, sir," responded Rilian, all seriousness. "I'll do it first thing in the morning, I promise."

"Then we can move onto the most important issue." Caspian gazed deeply into his son's eyes to let the lad understand how serious he was. "Rilian, Aslan is the ultimate power in this universe. All meaning and all love stems from Him. I understand that you can't grasp that completely, because I don't, and I doubt that anyone except Aslan can comprehend fully what it means to say that He is the greatest power in the universe, but you cannot call upon His name and the power it represents in vain. You shouldn't use His name as part of a curse. You wouldn't like someone to use your name as a curse, so you should treat His name, which is set above all others by the Deepest Magic, at least as much respect as you would like your own to be treated with."

"Yes, Father." Looking pale as he seemed to begin to understand the depth of his offense against Aslan, Rilian nodded. "I understand."

"And you must never ask for Aslan to **** anyone, son," Caspian continued, giving his son's shoulders a small shake to emphasize this crucial point. "Those Aslan damns are doomed to spend eternity without Him. They know no joy or love or hope. They suffer far more than we could possibly imagine, because, even when we are in a lot of pain while we are alive, Aslan is still there to provide comfort. We shouldn't wish the agony of being endlessly separated from all the good in the universe upon anybody, even our greatest enemies. We certainly shouldn't wish it upon our family and our friends. Our duty is, instead, to pray that everybody will come to know and love Aslan, so that they may enjoy eternity reveling in His presence."

"Do you think that Aslan is terribly angry at me, Father?" Rilian bit his lip. "Do you think He'll ever forgive me?"

"When I took His name in vain, He appeared to me, and, with a very stern lecture, made it clear that He was not pleased with what I had said, but—" Caspian squeezed his son's shoulder in reassurance—"when I humbly asked for His forgiveness, He granted it to me. Aslan loves us all enough to die to save us from our own wickedness, and He will forgive us for anything as long as we can overcome our pride enough to humbly ask for His pardon and as long as we sincerely intend to reform our lives to serve Him more fully, Rilian."

"Oh, right." Rilian looked as shamefaced as if he had forgotten to finish a reading assignment and been caught with a pointed question. "I did know that, Father."

"Of course." Caspian fought the urge to smirk at his son's expression, and instead cleared his throat meaningfully. "Well, son?"

"Well what?" Rilian asked, baffled.

"Well, are you sorry?" Caspian demanded, raising an eyebrow. "That is the biggest question, isn't it?"

"I am." Earnestly, Rilian nodded. "You know I am, Father."

"Then tell Aslan that." Caspian tapped his son's knee. "Not me."

"Now?" Rilian wanted to know, his cheeks flaming.

"Why wait when your soul is involved?" Caspian pointed out.

Swallowing hard, Rilian lifted his hands, bowed his head, and closed his eyes, praying, "Aslan, I'm sorry I used Your name as part of a curse, and that I asked You to **** Father, Mother, Lord Drinian, Lord Trumpkin, and Lord Trufflehunter. I love them, and I don't want You to **** any of them. I don't want You to **** me either. I just want to meet you and be with you forever and ever."

His prayer complete, Rilian lowered his hands, lifted his head, and opened his eyes. Shooting his father a curious glance, he asked, "Father, what's it like to talk to Aslan face-to-face?"

"Like talking to a perfect Father." Caspian smiled. "Sometimes He's awfully stern. Sometimes He's surprisingly gentle. Sometimes He's incredibly demanding. Sometimes He's marvelously reassuring. Sometimes He makes no sense, but you understand perfectly anyway. Sometimes you rebel against Him, but, in the end, you just want to apologize, because you know that, if you're in His embrace, everything is going to be all right and whatever you did wrong will be forgiven. Always you know that, even when you fail to be good, He loves you more than you could possibly believe. To be called His child is the greatest honor and joy any creature could receive, Rilian."

"I can only imagine that." Rilian sighed. Then, cocking his head inquisitively, he asked, "Do you ever think I'll see Aslan?"

"Those who love and serve Aslan always look on His face in the end and live forever." Caspian patted his son's cheek. "That's the reward He promises to all His faithful, but rest assured, my dear son, that Aslan has a plan for you. He knew you before you were conceived, and, months before your birth, He made a prophecy about you."

"Really, Father?" Rilian's eyes were as wide as the ocean, and a mixture of shock and delight mingled in every syllable.

"I wouldn't joke or lie about Aslan's prophecies, because they are serious matters." Caspian reached out to rest his palm against Rilian's chest, feeling his son's heart beat steadily against his hand. "They are to be kept close to our hearts, giving us hope and purpose, Rilian."

"What was Aslan's prophecy about me, then?" demanded Rilian, all eagerness.

"If He had meant for you to know, He would have told you, son," Caspian said dryly. "You'll just have to find out when you fulfill it."

"You take all the fun out of life, Father." Rilian emitted a long-suffering sigh. "I bet it's that I die of curiosity."
 
"I take all the fun out of life, eh, Rilian?" Smirking, Caspian tossled his son's hair. "And here I was going to suggest that we go riding together tomorrow afternoon because I missed you while I was away in Archenland, but I don't want to burden you with my torturous presence, so…"

"No, I want to go riding with you!" Rilian exclaimed. "Crumpets and cudgels!"

"My friend Trumpkin does have the best expletives, doesn't he?" Chuckling, Caspian leaned forward to kiss his son on the forehead. "Good night, son. I love you."

"I love you, too, Father," answered Rilian, as Caspian rose and left the room, shutting the door softly behind him.

Deciding that he wanted nothing more than to breathe in some fresh night air scented by the garden flowers and gaze up at the bright stars and the full moon burning in the heavens, Caspian continued down the hallway until he came to a balcony at the end of it. When he stepped out onto the terrace, he saw a golden mane gleaming near the railing and immediately, he fell to his knees, waiting for the Great Lion to speak.

"Arise, My child," Aslan said, and Caspian got to his feet again. With a soft purr of welcome, the Great Lion added, "Come stand beside me, and enjoy the evening sky you went out to admire."

Caspian moved to stand beside Aslan and stared up at the stars, marveling at their bright beauty and filled with awe at the Lion who had sung them into being on the day Narnia was created so many centuries ago. He didn't know why Aslan had chosen to visit him tonight, but he was content to hold onto the peaceful quiet the Great Lion made for him—an easy silence where it was fine if he had nothing to say and that could keep the world at bay as nothing else could have—until Aslan revealed the reason for His presence.

"Rilian is a precious child," Aslan remarked after what could have been minutes or could have been hours, because time was a meaningless concept to Caspian on that balcony that night.

"He has his moments," observed Caspian wryly.

"As do you, My son." Aslan made the sound that Caspian had come to recognize as the laugh that indicated His delight at His creation.

"Rilian has to get his stubbornness from somewhere, and it isn't from his sweet-tempered mother." Caspian grinned. Then, sobering, he asked the question he now realized had been hovering in the back of his mind since he first laid eyes on Aslan on the terrace. "So, how badly did I do tonight in the parental realm?"

"You made your son understand what he did wrong and repent for it, you told him about Me and My nature, and you made it clear that you love him very much." Aslan's eyes were as deep as the sea, and His voice was as gentle as silk. "I say you didn't do so badly, Caspian."

"But I-I hit him." Caspian didn't know why he had so much trouble making this simple confession when Aslan already knew the truth of his action more than he did.

"Son of Adam, you've felt my claws." Aslan's tail flicked out to brush Caspian's arm. "Of all people, you know it's better to suffer a moment's pain than an eternity's agony."

"Spanking my son reminded me of Miraz." Caspian found himself stumbling over the words as they tripped first in his throat and then on his tongue. "I don't want to be like my uncle. My greatest fear is becoming another him."

"A not unfounded fear, given that some of your weaknesses were his flaws, as well." Aslan tilted His head, so that His mane shone ever more brilliantly in the rays of moonlight glowing down onto the balcony. "Yet, as long as you worry about such a thing, you can rest assured that it hasn't happened to you."

"All these years later, I still harbor the same anger and hatred toward my uncle that I felt for him as a child," whispered Caspian, clutching the balustrade so tightly that his knuckles whitened, and finding that now he had started confessing everything that lay heavy on his heart, he needed to continue. "I know I shouldn't, and I don't want to, because he's dead, and my bad feelings can only hurt me, but I can't just forgive him. I need your help."

"Caspian." As Aslan said his name, He breathed on him, the air blowing the king's hair away from his forehead. "You suffered much at your uncle's hands. You don't have to be ashamed of the pain, and you can know that, whenever an innocent suffers unjustly, he can better relate to My agony on the Stone Table. You can also know that every time you uncle abused you because you believed the stories you heard about Me, I blessed you. That makes a lot of blessings, so you can realize that, even when your uncle tried to do his worst to you, he only ended up doing good to you."

By the time the final word had left Aslan's mouth, Caspian felt a peacefulness more profound that any he had experienced descend over him.

"I love you, Aslan," he murmured, marveling that he was able to speak at all, and feeling as if the strength of that love was finally powerful enough to drive out even the memory of his hatred and anger for Miraz.

"I love you, Caspian, and you are Mine," Aslan said, and Caspian thought that was all he needed to hear, and maybe all he would ever need to hear.
 
Peace

Caspian had come here—to the Stone Table and the sanctuary he had restored as best he could to the glory it had known in the centuries preceding the Telmarine invasion—as a pilgrimage to find whatever remnants of peace could possibly exist in his battered soul.

His beloved Lilandil was gone. His mind accepted that fact, but his heart obstinately refused to do the same. At banquets, whenever some pompous noble said something unintentionally hilarious, his head would jerk quickly upward, searching for Lilandil’s gaze, so they could exchange glances of silent and secret amusement, and then, when he remembered that the love of his life was dead, he would wonder how he could think anything, even for a second, humorous.

On cold evenings, curled up in his chair beside his bedchamber fire, with a quilt over his knees and a steaming mud of cider in his hands, he felt the absence of her warm head resting upon his shoulder. Spring mornings sitting in the gardens, smelling the perfumes of a hundred flowers mingling in the air and hearing the tinkle of the fountains dotting the gardens, held no beauty for him without the smell of her hair and the sound of her laughter rising and falling in harmony with his. Summer nights on a balcony staring up at the stars bright no lightness to his heavy heart without the bright gleam of her smile and eyes. She had been the star by which he navigated his life, and, with her gone, he was more lost than a shipwrecked sailor.

He missed her gentle firmness, her humble wisdom, her quiet strength, and her sparkling wit more than words could have expressed. They years that had passed since her death had not diminished his love of her. In fact, even death could only increase his love of her, it seemed, because he discovered that the memory of her was enough to keep him enthralled with her.

Sometimes he wondered if the suddenness of Lilandil’s death, which had denied him the opportunity to say a final farewell to her, made it so difficult to accept that she had sailed onto Aslan’s country just as Reep had so many years ago.

Oh, and what a mess he had made of things once she had traveled onto Aslan’s country. He had let their dear son—the young man they both would have died in a heartbeat to save—slip away from him. He had done anything—and indeed had barely noticed—about the fact that after Lilandil’s death, Rilian, who had forever been ready with some wisecrack, no longer joked or even smiled. He saw and yet didn’t see that his son, once so popular with the young knights and ladies of the realm, ignored their company.

Even when he watched Rilian ride out every day to the place where his mother had perished, he had done nothing to instruct the young man on dealing appropriately with his grief, because Caspian had always needed somebody to tell him how to handle loss, and he couldn’t begin to do it by himself, nonetheless tell his child how to.

He had not tried to explain how that vengeance never brought peace or satisfaction, either. He had stood back and let Drinian try to be the father Rilian needed, and when that failed—when Rilian disappeared on one of his morning rides—Caspian had been ready to slay Drinian as a traitor, even though it had been Caspian who had turned his back on his own son.

Tearing at his silvering beard and trying not to remember how Rilian, as a waddling toddler used to giggle like a maniac reaching up to grab that beard before it had started to grow gray, Caspian thought that if he had known the last time that he had hugged his son that it would be the last time, he would have held onto Rilian and never let go.

As it was, he would have searched to the End of the World and back again to find his child, but he couldn’t leave his kingdom for that long, and none of the bold knights who had rode out looking for the lost prince had found anything except bloody deaths.

Somehow, Caspian know that Rilian—always willing to risk personal injury to throw himself into a situation where an innocent was threatened—would not have wanted to be the death of so many loyal knights. Yet, Caspian wanted more than anything to wrap Rilian in his arms and know that his boy was safe and Narnia had an heir.

He had come here, to the Stone Table, to discern whether continuing the search for Rilian or forsaking it would bring him and Narnia the most peace.

“Do you think that Rilian is still alive?” Caspian asked Drinian, who was the only person he had requested to join him on this journey, almost choking on the last two words.

“Rilian was always a good son to you and Lilandil.” Drinian’s tone took on the gruff quality that it did whenever he was trying to conceal how much he cared about someone. “If he is not at your side, comforting you, it is because he is with his mother.”

“Before Rilian was born, Aslan said that he would save Narnia from a grave peril,” Caspian snapped, because his son wasn’t dead until a body was found. Until then, the prince was out there fighting like an enraged dragon for freedom and justice. “How can he do that if he is dead?”

“He might have already saved Narnia from a danger he discovered on his last ride,” Drinian pointed out, his grim eyes filled with sorrow for his king and lionchild. “By dying, he might have saved Narnia, and the truth he was supposed to uncover might have been the threat to Narnia that he destroyed at the cost of his life.”

“He was not supposed to die,” Caspian hissed, his hands balling into first. “He was supposed to be saved. Aslan said that if Rilian called on His name that would save him.”

“Rilian could have called upon Aslan’s name before he died, Your Majesty,” Drinian countered sharply enough to make Caspian’s hackles rise still further. “That’s what Aslan could have meant when He said that Rilian would call on His name and be saved.”

“Are you saying Aslan lied to me, man?” demanded Caspian, his voice rumbling in a way that reminded him of the echoing growls of the werewolf he had once fought in this very room. “Are you saying Aslan misleads His faithful?”

“No, sire.” Drinian was breathing harshly now, his eyes were burning with barely suppressed anger, and his jaw was clenched. “I’m faithful to Aslan, too, you know. I just think that followers of Aslan can make the mistake of deluding themselves into believing that Aslan said what they wanted to hear rather than the truth He did say. I think that they can add so many assumptions to His prophecies that they misinterpret everything.”

“In other words, you doubt your king,” Caspian snarled, as a terrible need to shout and destroy anything—even a long friendship—that he could reach tore through him with all the strength of an apocalyptic thunderstorm. “You think he doesn’t have the wit to understand a few important sentences the Great Lion says to him.”

“On the contrary, I thought my king wise enough to listen to other opinions before reaching a conclusion.” Drinian gave a stiff bow of his head that contained more argument than apology. “Forgive me, Your Majesty, for presuming to offer you my honest advice when you sought my opinion. Next time, I’ll be certain to play the part of the dissembling sycophant just to please your delicate ears, sire.”

“I could have your tongue for your insolence, and yet you will continue to bait me,” Caspian growled. Past of him knew that he shouldn’t be saying anything in his temper, but that was a small fraction of his mind and heart compared to the wrath controlling him. The ire that wanted him to shout out a thousand vile things that he couldn’t take back. The rage that wanted to inflict some of the dreadful misery of the loss of his son and wife on somebody else, even a loyal friend. Especially a loyal friend who loved him enough not to abandon him for this inexcusable abuse. “I could have you killed for a traitor, but you insist on defying me to the last.”

Drinian opened his mouth to retort, but he was cut off by a roar that could have shattered the heavens: “Silence, Sons of Adam!”
 
Caspian would have known that voice anywhere, and, the power of it made him shut his mouth and collapse upon his knees. Beside him, Drinian, his mouth falling further agape in shock, knelt before the Great Lion, who was lying on the cracked Stone Table in the same posture He had assumed when suffering as the ultimate innocent a traitor’s death.

“How dare you desecrate this hallowed ground with your petty debates?” Aslan’s words rumbled through His throat. “You didn’t walk with Me to my death here. You didn’t see the Witch’s minions tie Me to this Table. You didn’t hear them squeal with awful delight as they shaved My mane. You didn’t watch the Witch plunge her dagger into Me. You didn’t weep over My body, or free it from the knots that bound it to the Table. You didn’t hear the Stone Table crack as I shattered the hold death had over My creatures. You didn’t see Me rise from the dead on this very spot. Yet, over the ground where I sacrificed Myself for you, you would argue as if you wish to kill each other. Sons of Adam, all who come to My Table in a spirit of humility and love are welcome in this place, but all who come here in pride and anger will be cast from My presence.”

“Slay me as a blasphemer now, Aslan,” Drinian said, and hearing the same courage and honor in the man’s tone that had flooded it when he had Caspian to kill him as a traitor after Rilian’s disappearance, Caspian marveled that he could ever have considered, for even a second, executing the captain who had sailed with him to the World’s End and back again. How could he even be angry at a man who believed he deserved death for every mistake he made? “I am unworthy to kneel before the Stone Table like this, nonetheless stand before it and argue with the king You appointed to rule over this land.”

“I always come to save the contrite, not to slay them, Drinian.” Aslan’s tone was soft—almost a purr—now. “You have been loyal to the death to the king I appointed to rule Narnia. He knows it, and so do I. Be at peace, you are a good, faithful servant, and I call you My child.”

“I apologize.” Caspian was speaking to both Aslan and Drinian. “I just need to know I’ll have my son back and Narnia will have an heir again. Not knowing whether Rilian is dead or alive is driving me insane.”

“In the end, I will show you who will be king after you, all that is lost will be found, and all that was taken will be restored,” answered Aslan in the placid tone in which He made all of His unchangeable proclamations. “That is my promise to you, Caspian, and you will know its meaning when I have fulfilled it.”

“Rilian is my son,” Caspian said brokenly. He had lived through Miraz’s abuse, the war to restore the old Narnia, the voyage to the End of the World where he lost Reep, and even the death of his beloved wife, but he was convinced that he could not handle even one more day without his only child. Part of him even felt that it wasn’t fair for Aslan to expect him to deal with one more terrible, aching loss after all he had already endured. “I’d give anything to have him back.”

“I know.” Aslan’s tone was steady, and His bright eyes were unblinking. “There are two ways to handle suffering, Caspian. One is to doubt My goodness, despair of My power to save, and to rage against My will. The other is to use the suffering as a chance to grow closer to Me, to develop more faith in My goodness, more hope in My power to save, and more trust that what I will is best for all of My creation. You have to pick your path, but, when you do, remember that the Emperor-beyond-the-Sea lost His only Son, too. He sent His only Son to suffer death to save this world and all worlds. Use your pain to connect with His.”

“I’m sorry.” His cheeks blazing with shame, Caspian ducked his head. “After what You suffered on the Stone Table for me, I shouldn’t complain about anything. I can’t even begin to imagine the agony You endured here.”

His stomach knotting, Caspian wondered if Aslan, tied to the Stone Table so many centuries ago with the Witch’s dagger poised to tear into His body, had seen ahead in time to the moment where Caspian and Drinian had argued like wolverines at the site of His greatest sacrifice. All times were now to Aslan, which probably meant that he had seen every single crime that Caspian—and everybody else—had ever committed that made it necessary for Him to suffer death in order to save them as He was executed in the most painful and shameful fashion imaginable on the Stone Table. Caspian felt as though that realization was going to make him sick, and he could only be grateful that he hadn’t eaten much in the past few days, so there was little chance of him vomiting all over the Great Lion in his disgust with his own wickedness.

“I would willingly suffer a million deaths on the Stone Table to save creatures like you and Drinian.” There was only assurance and no rebuke in Aslan’s voice now. “When I died on the Stone Table, I was telling all My precious creatures that I loved them enough to die for them. I was telling them all that I was ready to die so that we could be reunited for eternity in My country. You see, Caspian, just as you miss your dear son, I am lonesome for My beloved children. I have been separated from My creatures for many centuries, but when we are reunited in My country, it will be as though we were apart for no more than a moment. When your son is restored to you, it will be the same. However long you are separated from him, upon your reunion, it will feel as if you had scarcely parted at all.”

“Thank You,” Caspian murmured, thinking that, from now on, he would accept his woes as a way of uniting with the unfathomable agony Aslan had suffered on his behalf so many centuries ago on the Stone Table, and he would not despise his wounds, because those wounds gave Aslan a chance to heal him. He would always be growing nearer to Aslan, even if it was unbearable pain that pushed him into the peaceful paws of the Great Lion. Aslan’s strength would be proven when Caspian’s was gone.

Looking deeply into Aslan’s eyes, which contained eternity, he continued softly, “You’re my savior, and Rilian’s, too. Every day, I will choose to trust in You, serve You, and worship You.”

“Then My wounds will strengthen you in every weakness.” Aslan leaned forward to breathe first on Caspian and then on Drinian. “My tears will heal you, and My blood will cleanse you of every wickedness. Believe in My great promise, Sons of Adam, be at peace, and enjoy everlasting life.”
 
With that final word of benediction, Aslan vanished, leaving the king and his faithful advisor gawking at the now empty Stone Table.

“Aslan be praised.” Obviously dazed, Drinian reached up to touch his forehead, where the Great Lion’s breath had rippled his hair gently away from his face. “He came to bless me when I was most unworthy of it.”

“I’m sorry I provoked you, Drinian,” Caspian said, wondering why he had struggled so hard to be tough and in charge at the beginning of their time before the Stone Table when it felt so much better to be vulnerable before someone he trusted with his life. “It’s not nice when He scolds.”

Thinking that might be the understatement of the decade, he winced and went on, “Every time Aslan has to tell me off for something, I promise myself that I won’t make any more massive mistakes, but I always fall short of that. It’s meant to keep me humble, I suppose, along with the fact that every time I think I’m at my best, I’m at my worst, and every time I think I’m at my worst, I’m at my best.”

“I don’t mind the reprimand.” The severe lines of Drinian’s weather-beaten face had slid into the broadest grin Caspian had ever seen part his friend’s cheeks. “I deserved it, and I got to see Aslan face-to-face. I always hoped that I would get to meet the Great Lion when I died, but I never presumed to hope that I would speak to Him face-to-face in this lifetime.”

“Aslan blessed me when He brought you into my life, my friend.” Caspian clapped Drinian lightly on the shoulder. “I could never actually kill you, you know.”

“I wouldn’t complain if you did kill me, sire.” Drinian bowed his head in his gesture of undying fealty. “Nothing I have—even my life—belongs to me. Everything I have—even my life—belongs to you, because you are my king. I don’t have the right or the ground to stay upon to complain when you take anything that is yours.”

“If I could keep a similar perspective in my relationship with my King, I would be a more peaceful man.” Caspian sighed. “I would be better off if I could remember that my family belongs to Him, not me.”

“Come, sire.” Drinian urged Caspian to his feet, and then rose himself. “Old knees aren’t used to kneeling on hard ground like this.”

“Old knees and old hearts are meant for breaking,” remarked Caspian grimly, clutching Drinian’s hand in his own. “I shall not bring any more grief upon this realm I love so much by sending any more knights out so seek my missing son. Aslan will bring him back if he is meant to be my heir, and, if not, Aslan will point me to another heir. He will not abandon our country, and we must not forsake Him. We must rest peacefully in His claws instead of fighting as if we had to survive on our own.”

“We are blessed to have a king who puts the well-being of his land before his own desires,” Drinian said, his tone making it clear that he understood how much it had cost for Caspian to abandon the search for Rilian. “I will always be praying for your son and your happy reunion with him.”

His voice cracking in a way that told Caspian more plainly than words could have that Drinian had not given up on Rilian and just could not bear the pain of having his hopes of the prince being alive dashed, the king’s friend added, “Ever since Rilian was born, he has been in my daily prayers, and they’re he’ll stay, because I’m too old and crochety to welcome any sort of change.”

“Good.” Wanly, Caspian smiled. “Rilian needs all the prayers he can get, given that he has a knack for getting into any trouble he can find, and he can locate trouble the way a greedy dwarf can uncover gold. I have no idea where he gets that from.”

“Oh, of course not, Your Majesty.” Drinian was all irony. “You wouldn’t be the same Caspian the Tenth who wanted to sail off beyond the End of the World.”

“Insufferablity is not in the top ten desirable traits among royal advisors, Drinian.” Caspian chuckled quietly. “Every time I speak, you don’t have to prove me wrong. That’s not a requirement in a best friend, for your edification.”

“I’m quite tactful compared to Trumpkin, though, you must admit.” Drinian smirked.

“That goes without saying.” Caspian waved a hand dismissively. “A charging ram has more charm and sensitivity than Trumpkin.”
 
Love

Caspian, Tenth of that name, knew he was dying, but somehow, he had never been happier in his life. When he had sailed out of Cair Paravel, he had hoped only for some revelation from the Great Lion as to whom should be king of Narnia after him, or, that failing, at least a graceful sail out of this world into the eternal peace of Aslan’s Country. He hadn’t expected that the Great Lion had planned as perfect, glorious, and joyful an end for him as He had for Reep so many decades ago.

Caspian wouldn’t sail across the End of the World on waves of soft, sweet petals, but he would die beside his living legacy. His long-lost son, finally found again, was bending over him, and, when their eyes met, shining with tears of mingled sorrow and elation, met, all the many years that they had been separated faded from their memories, so that it was if they had never been apart. Aslan, as always, had been faithful. Everything that had been lost was restored, and Narnia’s future was assured. He could hear Aslan’s voice inside his soul, telling him to be at peace at the end of the long, sometimes hard, journey his life had been.

“Father,” Rilian whispered, resting his warm forehead against his father’s cold one. “I’m so sorry.”

“No apologies.” Caspian struggled to gasp out the words, and tried not to remember a time when he would have been able to run and shout at the same time without losing his breath or his voice. His frail body was about to be renewed by His Maker. Clutching Rilian’s hand as tightly as he could, and thinking that his strong son was the only part of this world that he wished to hold onto, he continued despite the difficulty involved in speaking at all, “You’re a good son, and a brave man.”

“I love you, Father.” Rilian brought Caspian’s varicose hand to his lips and kissed the wrinkled fingers. “I always have.”

Those words were all Caspian needed to hear on his death bed. They were his assurance that—despite all his manifold doubts and failings—he had been different than his uncle.

“Love you.”Gently, Caspian withdrew his hand from his son’s clasp and rested it upon his son’s head in what he knew would be a final benediction. Gathering all his remaining energy as he said the words that would ensure that the Narnian throne passed seamlessly to Rilian upon his imminent death, Caspian went on hoarsely, “I leave you all I have. May Aslan bless, protect, and guide you and your kingdom until He calls you, and we are reunited in His country.”

“May His will be done through all always,” Rilian murmured.

Caspian could feel his spirit slipping away from his body now. Dying wasn’t like he had feared. It wasn’t falling into darkness. It was moving into a light brighter than he could possibly have imagined. It wasn’t getting cold. It was finding a warmth he could never have imagined. It wasn’t leaving behind those he loved. It was falling into the embrace of the one who loved him most. It wasn’t running out of time. It was being lifted into eternity. It wasn’t a final, panicking realization that he was alone. It was the revelation that Aslan was right there with him, and that the Great Lion had always been beside him, even when Caspian had failed to notice him.

As Caspian’s last breath sailed out of his lips and his heart churned out its last beat, he was ready for his greatest journey—his trip to Aslan’s Country.

The journey was by water, as Reep’s had been, or at least, he thought that the stream he was lying in was water, although it was more rejuvenating than any water he had ever felt before. It seeped deep into his soul, cleansing areas he had never realized were dirty, and burning him like a fire that he somehow knew was forging him into the beautiful vessel Aslan had always intended for him to be. He wasn’t in pain, so much as he was in a very hot bath.

Above him, he could see Aslan’s face, weeping in sorrow over him, and he felt a terrible grief tear through him, as he finally understood the agony he caused Aslan. He had spoken to Aslan face-to-face. He had walked beside the Great Lion. He had felt Aslan’s breath heat his cheeks, and still there had been times where he had doubted and stumbled—when he had lost his faith or his temper. Now he really understood what Aslan had suffered on his behalf on the Stone Table, because he at least realized that he had been the one who had slain the Great Lion—not just the one whom the Great Lion had died to save.

Whenever he shouted in anger, that was a hair that he had shaved from Aslan’s face. Whenever he questioned the goodness or the power of the Great Lion, that was another insult he had hurled into the dying Lion’s merciful face. Whenever he disobeyed the Lion or rebelled against His will, that was another rope he had bound against Aslan. He saw that with an awful clarity now, in a way he never had before, and, finally, he came not to hate himself—because Aslan loved him enough to die for him—but to hate the hideous parts of himself that had made Aslan’s dying on his behalf necessary, in a way that he never could have while he was still fettered to his body. He rejected completely his faults and all his petty attachments to them. He wanted to be separated from them for eternity, but he knew that he could not make himself that clean, not without Aslan’s help.

It was at that second that a drop of blood—a single drop with the power to redeem a whole world—fell from Aslan’s paw, hovering brighter than a sun in the stream above him. The blood fell through the water, and landed on Caspian. He felt himself being remade. His soul was being reformed, so that it was filled with only love, joy, peace, gentleness, and faithfulness. Along with his soul, a new body—one that burst with the promise of eternal youthfulness and wisdom-- was being created for him.

Then, the same power that had brought him to the stream brought him rising out of it. He was leaping out of the water, laughing and smiling as he had never laughed or smiled before. When he stepped out of the stream, he saw that he was surrounded by a lush, green country, but his eyes weren’t drinking in the new land. His gaze was riveted on Aslan, and, finally, now that he had left behind all the bitter baggage, he could run to the Great Lion with his arms open wide. Never again would he doubt that the Lion would be ready to receive his hug, because he knew now that he had always been held in Aslan’s paws. He had never been his own. He had always been carried by the Great Lion all his life, and thank Aslan for that.

Before he was aware of what he was doing, he was running to the Great Lion, hugging Aslan more tightly than he ever had before, and kissing the Lion’s marvelous mane. In return, he received Aslan’s wild kisses on his cheeks and nose, which told him more clearly and more deeply than words could have that Aslan was overjoyed that he was in His country, living a new life with Him. There were no questions left for Caspian now. There was only love and mercy stretching out into an eternity of bliss. All his life was meaningful only because it had led up to this moment, where the wanderer and the Guide, the hurt and the Healer, the criminal and the Savior, were reunited at long last.
 
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