The High Queen II

Sorrow and Hope

Caspian's heart stopped as he saw Eleanor fall. Aelwyn's mighty wings faltered, riddled with arrows, his once-graceful form twisting in a desperate attempt to cushion her descent. Eleanor clung to him until the last moment, her axe still clutched in her hand, a testament to her relentless will to fight.

But there was no saving either of them.

Caspian's voice tore from his throat, raw and broken.

"Eleanor!"

His shout was drowned out by the chaos of the battle, but the grief in his cry echoed in his chest, reverberating through his very soul. He watched helplessly as gryphon and rider disappeared into the forest below, swallowed by the dense canopy of trees. The sickening crunch of branches and the heavy thud of their landing pierced the cacophony of war, leaving an oppressive silence in its wake.

Time seemed to stand still. Caspian's grip on his sword slackened, and for a moment, he was no longer on the battlefield. He was falling with her, powerless to stop the inevitable. The fire, the strength, the defiance that had defined Eleanor—his Eleanor—was extinguished in a heartbeat.

"No..." he whispered, the word catching in his throat as his chest tightened with unbearable pain.

Around him, the battle raged on. Telmarine soldiers charged, Narnians fought back, and the great trees of the forest thundered into the fray, uprooting themselves to crush their enemies. But Caspian barely noticed.

A Telmarine soldier lunged at him, sword raised high, but Caspian moved instinctively. His blade parried the attack with ease, yet there was no force behind his counterstrike. The soldier fell, but Caspian's movements felt hollow, automatic.

His mind refused to leave the forest.

She couldn't be gone. Not her. Not Eleanor.

The thought wrapped around his heart like a vice, squeezing until he felt like he might shatter. He wanted to throw down his sword, abandon the fight, and sprint into the trees to find her, to pull her from the wreckage and make sure she was breathing. But deep down, he knew.

No one could have survived that fall.

"Caspian, focus!" Peter's voice cut through the fog, sharp and commanding, but it barely reached him.

He turned mechanically, his eyes unfocused, his limbs heavy. The battlefield around him was a blur of movement and noise, the clash of swords and the cries of warriors dulled by the storm of grief consuming him. Every step he took felt meaningless, every breath a painful reminder that she wasn't there to take another.

The trees were fighting now, their roots and branches tearing through the Telmarine ranks. The tide was turning, but Caspian didn't care. What victory could matter if Eleanor wasn't there to see it?

Peter stood next to him, looking at the "Lucy!"

Caspian looked up, his gaze dragging toward the bridge. At first, it was only Lucy he saw, standing defiantly at its far end, her small frame dwarfed by the enormous responsibility she carried. She held a dagger in her hand, her face set with determination.

And then, beside her, he saw the impossible.

Bathed in the golden light of the morning sun, a figure stepped forward. For a fleeting moment, Caspian thought it might be an angel—a vision sent to guide them, or perhaps to torment him with what he had lost.

But no.

It was Eleanor.

His breath caught in his throat as he froze, unable to do anything but stare. Her hair was wild, her armor scuffed and battered, and blood streaked her face. Yet she stood tall, her axe gleaming in the sunlight, her eyes fierce and unyielding.