Daughter of Nowhere || A Narnia (Prince Caspian) Story

Epilogue

The azure sky was brilliant and cloudless, an unending stretch of blue broken only by a ball of fire. Silently, Caspian wondered if the sun took pleasure in scorching them with its rays. Despite the shawl wrapped around his head, he knew patches of sunburn would greet him in the mirror later.

"My lord," said Drinian, his quartermaster. The heat seemed to have added a dozen more wrinkles to his already pockmarked face. "The men are taking the supplies back to the Dawn Treader. We'll be ready to set sail in a bit."

The Dawn Treader. Drinian had spoken the name with no small amount of pride—a feeling that Caspian shared as well. He had overseen her construction himself, after all. It was no coincidence that she turned out to be the finest ship in the Narnian navy.

He clasped Drinian's shoulder briefly. "Thank you. I'll be right there."

With a bow of his head, the quartermaster left, leaving Caspian to stand alone in the bustling marketplace.

Palm trees swayed in the sultry breeze, their leaves casting thin shadows on the dirt roads. Clouds of dust floated in the air, kicked up by trotting camels, who carried bundles of silk strapped tightly to their backs. Further off, merchants haggled animatedly with storekeepers, their accents foreign to Caspian but not indeterminable. A light fragrance wafted from thatch stalls selling baskets of spice and fruit; the sight of fresh oranges made his mouth water.

In the distance, a baker carried two trays of freshly-baked loaves. He was soon overwhelmed by a flock of grubby children. Their hands reached for the food, but he kept them well out of reach, shooing the beggars away efficiently.

But the baker failed to notice a slim hand snatching a loaf from behind; Caspian did. He allowed himself a smile. The child reminded him of a certain young thief he once knew.

He found a bench and settled onto it, not wanting to return to the ship just yet. Reaching into his vest pocket, he pulled out a piece of parchment, its edges frayed after years of being folded and unfolded again.

Dearest Caspian, read the letter. Unfortunately, this writing is not mine. I had to pay a man 50 pieces of copper to get him to write this. 50 pieces! What a scandal. He is giving me a smug look now.

That made Caspian laugh aloud; several passersby shot him curious glances.

Anyway, I hope this letter reaches you in your castle. It is a long way from Archenland to Narnia, after all. Yes, Cas, the mountains! I never thought they would be quite so cold. And the views! I would always find Cair Paravel the most breathtaking, but Archenland does come close. The forests here are teeming with wildlife, my friend, the likes of which I could never have imagined. I once saw a millipede as large as a snake, and a moose with antlers even broader than tree branches. I bet even the Narnians would be gawking.

How are they, by the way? I hope Trufflehunter is still blessing them with his delicious cooking. And I know Trumpkin would never admit that he misses me, but tell them both I send my love.

Caspian never managed to do so—he never saw Trufflehunter and Trumpkin ever since they parted ways, and he had not found the time to visit the tree cottage again.

Wetting his dry lips, he looked up. Tan-skinned Calormenes passed before him, some dressed in fine tunics and turbans, strolling leisurely through the market, while others were bare-chested, large wicker baskets balanced on their heads and shoulders. A group of women walked by; they tossed appreciative glimpses at Caspian.

He returned his gaze to Ina's letter.

As for you, my dear friend, I hope you are well. From what I hear, you have become quite the benevolent king, as I always knew you would be, though it seems this king remains without a queen. Well, whomever it is that you should choose to marry one day, rest assured that I will be there to embarrass you at your wedding. And for heaven's sake, DO NOT name your child 'Caspian the Eleventh'! It sounds absolutely horrible.

Caspian chuckled at that; he always did every time he reread the letter.

Do you miss them, Cas? Well, I do. You know who I mean.

Caspian did know.

Peter and his sharp wit. Susan's quiet confidence. Kind, joyful Lucy. And Edmund, well, being Edmund. I never thought I would miss them so. Though I know you miss her more than the rest.

The words made him grimace; Ina was right.

But above all, I miss you, Cas. I wish you were here with me. Maybe one day when all is well in your kingdom, you can afford to leave and go on your own adventures. I would love to join you.

Little did Ina know, about a year after she wrote this letter, Caspian did leave Telmar. He tried to tell her that in a message, but he doubted it ever reached her. She wasn't easy to find, coming and going as she liked—not that Caspian expected any different.

Until that day arrives, I wish you well in all things, my brother. Always remember that I believe in your good heart. I pray that your soul finds joy in the work that you do, just as mine does in seeing the world.

Love, Ina.

Caspian brushed his finger over the last line of script. It had been added after Ina's signature, almost like an afterthought.

My father sends his greetings.

He stared at Ina's words for a few moments longer, a slow smile spreading across his face. Finally, he dragged himself up and tucked the letter into his breast pocket, right over his heart.

He was about to leave when someone bumped into him from behind. "My apologies," the hooded figure muttered and shuffled past.

The hand that flitted into his pocket was quick—so quick that Caspian would not have felt it if he weren't already wary.

He grabbed the thief's arm without mercy; Ina's letter fell from his hand. "Anything but that," Caspian growled.

But the thief had twisted out of his grasp with surprising speed, catching the letter with another hand. "It's not stealing if I wrote it," said a girl's voice.

Slowly, she lowered her cowl, revealing dark curls and a strong, brown face, and Caspian realised that she wasn't a girl but a young woman. She looked different without her shadowy gaze, that battle-worn look that used to haunt her expression. But the eyes that stared back at him were familiar, green and laughing. A playful smirk danced across her sun-cracked lips—one that Caspian would recognise anywhere. The hilt of a sword was visible over her shoulder, and on her belt hung a small, metallic object—Edmund's torchlight.

"I'm glad to see my letters mean so much to you," Ina said.

Caspian opened his mouth and found all words wanting. It was only after she flung her arms around him and he hugged her back—holding on as tightly as if she were the last person left in the world—that he was able to murmur a single word. The simplest word of all, and yet the only one that mattered:

"Ina."

"I see you're leaving the Desert, too," she said into his shoulder. And then, already knowing his answer, she asked:

"Mind if I join you?"