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In the grand history of Narnia, the ancient custom was clear: on the day before a wedding, the soon-to-be-wed couple must not see one another—not even by accident. Not just apart in space, but in sight and in presence. It was a day meant for reflection—for bidding farewell to the lonely self one had always been, before becoming half of something greater. A sacred, solitary ritual of letting go.
And, as Peter reminded them with deadly seriousness during dinner the night before,
“It’s a tradition older than the Stone Table. Break it, and the Old Magic might think you’re too hasty.”
So naturally, everyone—including the royal council, a swarm of centaurs, a handful of dryads, and all three Pevensies threw themselves into making sure Edmund and Caspian remained very, very separate.
They should have known better.
By midmorning, Edmund had been officially, formally, and—according to Lucy—“emotionally” banished to the eastern tower.
“The far one,” Lucy said sternly, hands on her hips. “With the door that squeaks. So you can’t sneak out again.”
“It squeaks for you,” Edmund muttered under his breath. “I’m quite good with hinges.”
“You’re dangerously good with hinges,” Lucy replied, unamused. “Which is why Peter’s having someone guard the outside, so it will be impossible for you to leave unnoticed."
Edmund scoffed.
"This is ridiculous. I’m not a criminal.”
“No,” Susan said without looking up from her embroidery, “you’re a groom with a long-standing habit of sabotaging his own romantic milestones. This time, we’re intervening.”
“I don’t sabotage—”
“Would you like me to list?” Susan asked sweetly.
“....I still think it’s excessive to post guards.”
Peter stepped into the room just in time, adjusting his belt like he was preparing for war.
“I’ve posted four fauns in the hallway, actually. Two at the corridor entrance, two at the stairs. They’re very cheerful but also very fast. And alert. And possibly armed.”
“You’re treating me like a flight risk,” Edmund said flatly.
Peter patted his shoulder.
“That’s because you are.”
Meanwhile, on the other side of the castle, Caspian had been trapped under the gracious tyranny of “final floral inspections.”
“We need you in the west gardens, Your Majesty,” said a trembling page who had definitely drawn the short straw.
“For what, exactly?” Caspian asked as he was handed a clipboard full of tulip diagrams.
“Floral...aesthetic...synergy?” the page squeaked.
He was stationed there for over an hour. Every time he tried to step away, someone would gently redirect him with a new flower question.
“What shade of white do you want the rose garlands?”
“There are shades of white?”
“Do you prefer the jasmine trail to be ‘playful’ or ‘elegant’?”
“What does that mean?”
But by 11:00, Caspian was done playing nice with petals.
“Tell the jasmine to be whatever it wants,” he muttered, peeling off from the garden and ducking into the nearby stables under the pretense of checking on the ceremonial horses.
“If anyone asks, I’m looking for Rinna.”
He strode into the stable archway, brushing hay from his boots, turned the corner—
—and locked eyes with Edmund.
Edmund froze in place, equally horrified, holding a carrot in one hand, clearly mid-attempt to bribe the royal unicorn.
There was a long, terrible pause.
“You’re supposed to be in the west gardens!” Edmund hissed.
“And you’re supposed to be in the tower!” Caspian shot back, voice just as panicked.
They both looked around wildly, like fugitives caught in the act.
Caspian’s eyes darted to the back door.
Edmund’s hand twitched toward a shadowy stall.
“We should probably—” Caspian started.
“—run,” Edmund finished.
They turned and bolted in opposite directions at the exact same moment, nearly tripping over hay bales and a very confused goat.
A beat later, Lucy appeared at the stable door, hands on her hips and righteous fury in her eyes.
“WHO LET EDMUND OUT?!” she bellowed into the courtyard.
The page boy next to her shrieked and dropped a pail.
Back in the tower, the fauns were engaged in a heated argument as to who should inform the High King of Edmund's escape, when Edmund sprinted by, leapt the landing, and dove into the room just as Peter appeared behind him with narrowed eyes and a raised brow.
Edmund tried to look casual, sitting in a chair backwards like he’d always been there.
“Hello.”
Peter crossed his arms.
“How.”
“I’m slippery.”
Back in the west garden, Caspian was wrangling a goat out of his path when Susan appeared like an avenging goddess in royal blue and blocked his escape route.
“I was inspecting the horses,” Caspian tried.
Susan just gave him a look.
“I got halfway to the bridle,” he muttered.
“I will personally glue you to a bench,” she said, and took him by the arm.
——
At noon, the castle staff regrouped.
Peter updated the faun rotation.
Lucy ordered the stable doors bolted from the outside.
Susan declared that any future escapees would be subject to “pre-wedding embroidery duty,” which made even the boldest dryad blanch.
“Only six more hours,” Peter murmured.
Lucy nodded grimly.
“I can’t believe we made it to the afternoon.”
Susan sighed. “Barely.”
12:17 p.m. — the kitchens.
It started, as most disasters did, with good intentions.
Edmund had simply meant to sneak a tart. One single lemon tart from the back pantry—maybe two—just to survive the final hours of royal wedding lockdown. He had evaded the fauns on the east staircase by convincing them he was heading to the library for “emotional reflection,” then slipped through a side passage like a ghost.
The castle was a maze of wedding guests, guards, and giggling flower bearers, but the kitchen… the kitchen was a haven.
Or so he thought.
He tiptoed into the cool, shadowed pantry, already reaching for the silver tray stacked with pastries when—
The door on the opposite side swung open.
Caspian stepped through it, tousled and panting, holding an armful of bread loaves like some kind of romantic disaster thief.
They froze.
Again.
“You’ve got to be joking,” Edmund breathed.
Caspian looked at the bread in his arms, then at Edmund, then back at the bread.
“I have nothing for my defense.”
From the main kitchen came a shriek of utter betrayal.
“WHAT did I just say about tempting fate?!”
A dryad cook came flying into the pantry like a storm in an apron, her curls bouncing with fury and her eyes glowing faintly green with righteous culinary magic.
“OUT!” she cried, pointing her wooden spoon like a sword of justice. “Do you want the Old Magic to think you're impatient?!”
“I am impatient!” Caspian called, attempting to shield himself with the bread as she stormed toward him.
That was a mistake.
Whack!
The spoon came down on his shoulder with terrifying accuracy. A puff of flour exploded into the air like smoke from a cannon.
“Impatient men get lumpy wedding cake!” the dryad warned, and began marching toward Edmund next.
“I didn’t even touch anything!” Edmund protested, raising his hands defensively.
“You thought about it,” she snapped, somehow brandishing a ladle now.
“Who told you that?!”
“The Magic sees all,” she hissed, as Edmund was forcibly shoved out the kitchen door by a swarm of apron-clad assistants. One of them slapped a sprig of mint into his hair like a farewell curse.
“You’re ruining the luck, you adorable fools!” another cook called after them, shaking a rolling pin with motherly menace.
Edmund leaned against the cool stone wall outside the kitchens, catching his breath. A few seconds later, Caspian rounded the corner from the other side, crumbs in his hair, holding what looked suspiciously like a piece of stolen bread.
They stared at each other again. Then both burst into breathless, helpless laughter.
“This is getting out of hand,” Caspian said, wiping flour off his sleeve.
“We’re two grown men,” Edmund gasped. “Kings, even.”
“And yet."
They stood for a beat, eyes meeting, hearts pounding—not from the chase, but from the ache of wanting.
Caspian took a step forward.
Edmund stepped back.
“Don’t,” he warned. “If Lucy catches us again, she’ll shave your head.”
“I’d still be marrying you,” Caspian replied, grinning.
“Flirt.”
“Coward.”
Edmund gave him one last look—a blazing, cheeky, utterly unrepentant look—before darting down the corridor with the speed of someone raised on scolding and mischief.
“Don’t let the tart hit you on the way out!” Caspian called after him.
A spoon flew from an open window.
"OUT!!"
1:03 p.m. —
The spiral staircase echoed with the shuffle of hurried boots and the soft thump of two very startled hearts.
Caspian rounded the corner first, breathless from navigating what felt like the entire western wing of the castle. He skidded to a halt mid-step—only to collide shoulder-first with someone coming up from the other side.
Edmund gave a rather undignified oof, nearly dropping the book in his hand. The apple didn’t survive—it hit the stone floor and rolled away like a traitor.
They froze.
Again.
“This is ridiculous,” Edmund muttered.
Then came the low, slow voice from above.
“Are you two for real?”
Peter stood at the top of the staircase, arms folded, expression that of a weary parent who had already warned the toddlers twice not to touch the fire.
Caspian immediately stepped back, looking like a schoolboy caught climbing out a window.
"I took the east corridor this time! I swore it was safe!”
“I took the servants’ stairs,” Edmund said sheepishly, adjusting the simple tunic he'd changed into an hour ago for “mental clarity and peace of mind.” His hair still sparkled faintly with whatever Lucy had forced into it that morning.
“I wasn’t even looking for him!”
“Sure you weren’t,” Peter said, in the exact tone Susan used when Edmund claimed he was just tasting the pie, not stealing it.
“Look, it’s the architecture’s fault,” Caspian added helpfully. “This entire castle is designed to encourage romantic run-ins. I read a scroll about it.”
“Caspian,” Peter said, voice flat as a shield. “Go. To. The. Tailor. Now.”
“Can you close your eyes this one time? ” Caspian insisted, glancing toward Edmund. “One minute.”
“No minutes,” Peter replied sternly, already descending the stairs. He hooked an arm firmly around Edmund’s shoulders and turned him around like a disobedient chess piece.
“Edmund, you’re due for your attire to be ‘rearranged’—which I believe is code for setting it on fire and starting over.”
Edmund groaned but didn’t resist.
“They want glitter now, don't they?”
Peter didn’t answer.
Caspian, still on the step, gave Edmund a plaintive look.
“What if I just follow at a respectful distance and watch you walk away? That’s not breaking tradition, is it?”
“Caspian!”
5:01 p.m.
By this point, the entire castle had descended into affectionate chaos. Every attempt to separate the couple ended in mishaps, tangled corridors, and thwarted schemes. At one point, Edmund and Caspian had to be physically carried in opposite directions by two very tired centaurs who had sworn they'd never volunteer for royal events again.
Cair Paravel, usually so majestic and serene, now looked like a love-struck war zone: flowers everywhere, confused messengers colliding, and one poor satyr who had tripped on a ceremonial ribbon and fallen headfirst into the pudding cart.
But now, at last, there was a breath of stillness.
As the sun began to dip low over the sea, painting the sky in oranges and rose-gold, Edmund found a rare moment alone on the northern battlements. The wind was cool and salty, tugging at the loose collar of his tunic and ruffling the braids Lucy had painstakingly redone (twice).
He leaned on the stone, watching the waves. His fingers brushed over the cool surface.
And then—
Bootsteps.
He didn’t even bother turning.
“Don’t even say it.”
Caspian came to stand beside him, close but not touching.
“We’re not very good at this, are we?”
“No,” Edmund admitted, his voice softer now. “But I think… maybe that’s the point.”
Caspian tilted his head.
“What do you mean?”
Edmund exhaled slowly, letting the wind carry away the last weight of the day.
“Maybe we keep finding each other because we were never meant to be apart again. Not truly.”
There was a quiet pause between them. Then Caspian reached up and gently tucked a windblown strand of Edmund’s hair behind his ear, letting his fingers linger for a second too long. His eyes were steady and bright.
“You’re getting poetic again,” he said with a crooked smile.
“You bring it out of me,” Edmund replied flatly. “I blame you. I became soft—what a disgrace for merciless warrior.”
“I’m honored. And softness suits you, love.”
Just then, from somewhere below, the distinct sound of Lucy’s voice rang out like a battle cry.
“EDMUND PEVENSIE! IF I’LL FIND YOU NEAR CASPIAN AGAIN, I SWEAR—”
Caspian straightened at once.
“That sounded serious.”
Edmund didn’t move.
“She’s closing in,” Caspian whispered. “You should run.”
“Oh, I plan to.”
And before Caspian could respond, Edmund turned swiftly on his heel, grabbed the front of Caspian’s tunic, and tugged him forward into a kiss—quick, breathless, entirely improper. His lips were soft and salty from the sea wind, his tongue hot and sweet, and it only lasted a heartbeat, but it was full of laughter.
Caspian made a startled noise in his throat.
Then Edmund pulled back, grinning like a devil.
“That’s your reward for risking life and limb.”
And before Caspian could chase after him, Edmund darted down the stairs, his voice echoing behind him,
“Tell Lucy I tripped into the ocean!”
“She will skin me!” Caspian shouted after him, stunned and breathless, touching his lips with one hand. “You absolute menace—”
A pause.
Then, laughing to himself, he muttered under his breath, half in awe and half in surrender:
“Oh saints above, have mercy on my soul."