Prince Caspian -Jung Yoonoh NCT

21. Goodbye

After an hour or two - maybe more, I can't be sure - I feel myself pulled to my feet. The wine, which I have swallowed as though it were water, has made jelly of my legs, and I have to lean on him for support. I have scant memory indeed of what follows next. There is music, followed by some singing, and some dancing by girls in glittery dresses decked in feathers, and brandishing enormous fans; they prance about wildly, but their final dizzy whirling - the climax of their act, I think - proves to be my undoing, and I have a shaming recollection of being assisted to some inner room, suitably darkened and discreet, where I throw up, in a most unladylike manner, all over the toilet bowl, roast duck, pancake and all.

I open my eyes and find myself upon a couch, with Caspian holding my hand and dabbing my forehead with his handkerchief.

"You must learn to carry your wine," he says severely.

"It wasn't the wine," I say, in a wobbly voice. "It was the roast duck."

I feel very ill and very ashamed, tears very near the surface.

"Oh darling," he says, and his voice is very tender, "you mustn't cry. Not on your birthday."

He continues dabbing at my forehead with the handkerchief.

"I have n-never eaten roast duck b-before," I stammer, closing my eyes in agony at the memory.

"It wasn't so much the duck as the burgundy," he murmurs. "Lie still now, you'll feel better soon."

In truth, my head is still reeling, and oddly, it seems the most natural thing in the world to be lying sick in a darkened, unknown room with Caspian taking care of me, proving himself so comforting a nurse.

"Thank you," I whisper miserably, "and I'm sorry if I got roast duck on your shirt."

"I'm partial to roast duck," he says kindly, "even if it did not come from my own belly."

I laugh and then fall to groaning again, for the roast duck hasn't entirely dissipated.

"Lean against my shoulder," he says gently. "Poor little Yiseul, what an ending to a nineteenth birthday."

I feel him shake with silent laughter, and yet his voice and hands are so strangely tender.

I sit up finally, after an hour or so, rearranging my hair, while he helps me with my dress.

"Thank you," I say, suddenly prim and conscious of my nineteen years. "I'm sorry I ruined the evening."

"You didn't," he says, and then he gathers me up in his arms, so that I'm lying in his lap, and strokes my head. "It was an interesting evening. I don't think I've ever had an evening quite like this before in my life." I can feel the rumble of laughter deep in his chest, and hear the thudding of his heart in my ear. "And I'm sorry about the roast duck. I wanted you to have a happy birthday."

"We should go," I mumble into his chest. "It's getting late."

But I don't want to leave this moment. 

I want to stay like this forever, safe and snug, his arms warm around me. No one has held me like this since I was little. Grandfather used to rock me to sleep when I had nightmares, and couldn't stop crying. It feels so comforting being held like this. It makes me feel very precious, very cherished. 

"All right."

But he makes no attempt to get up, and I don't move an inch either.

We stay like this for a while, not saying a word.

I stumble out of the little dark chamber to the lighted corridor.

"Where were we all this while?" I ask doubtfully, glancing over my shoulder.