6. Niamh

CHAPTER 6

Niamh

F or now, our return to the other realm seems eons away. Our pace is relaxed and unhurried as we walk through the mortal city. As a reward for agreeing to his request, Caspian humors me. Seething, and quiet, and vigilant, he humors me.

I am grateful. Despite his relentless navigation, he lets me gape and stare to my heart's content. Oh, this world is so very beautiful. Vibrant, that term he used for me: it fits better applied to this realm. The walls of this city are vibrant, the buildings looming yet without blocking the sunlight. The streets are drenched in shadow and sun. Light and dark.

It makes me wonder how it would look as a painting. What colors would an artist choose to depict it all? There aren't enough hues in the world.

There aren't enough sounds to compile the cacophony of chaos that swarms around us. Moving cars. Trucks. Tolling bells. Voices. Laughter. Everything.

I am in a maze of beautiful, violent, perfect noise and I hope to never find my way out.

With Caspian by my side, I will never need to. He knows the way. He's never lost track of every road and turn we've taken. Every twist and alleyway we pass through. He notes it all.

Yet he lets me wander and follow whatever shiny new fancy I spy. Oh, there is a park here! Lush green and ripening flowers. There is a stream cutting through it. Then a path where mortals race by, balanced atop metal wheels.

"Bikes," Caspian explains.

He knows so much. A wealth of knowledge sits in his mind, waiting to be accessed. Unlike Day, I don't have to beg him to share it with me.

I merely have to point, and he explains. So patient, yet indifferent. This knowledge means little to him. He doesn't care that "kites, airplanes, shopping buggies," are all so alien to me. So very interesting.

It is only when we pass a monument of stone that he tenses. It depicts a man, wearing heavy armor. Strange armor, but the garments of war, nonetheless. They have the same air to them as the chainmail and enchanted armor described in the old histories in the archives.

I imagined Caspian to be the sort to bare his teeth at the mention of violence. Relish in it.

He doesn't. Silent and contemplative, he stares instead. His fingers loosen their grip on me, and he steps forward, alone, both physically and in his mind. His thoughts are closed off, his expression unreadable.

Even when I reach out and touch him, he doesn't react.

My heart pounds painfully in my chest. "Caspian?" I picture those horrible days when he sat silent and empty. I can't relive that. I can't lose him again. "Caspian!"

He blinks. Turns his head. Looks at me from beneath his hood.

"Come." He continues onward as if he never stopped, leaving the monument in our wake. I can't stop staring at it. First World War makes up lettering carved into the top of the stone upon which the soldier stands. There is a placard on the wall that reads, "A memorial to the fallen."

Vamryre do not participate in mortal wars, at least not after they become one of their collective mind. Perhaps he survived the wars between the races in the years prior to the last thousand of peace? I don't know. Looking at his face alone, one could never tell his age.

Even his thoughts don't reveal an answer. They are shrouded. Hidden. Dustier than the items Altaris surrounds himself with.

The fact that Caspian dislikes me looking is even stranger. His mind cringes from mine. Anger builds. Like a creature on the defensive, he's aching to retaliate. Shift my focus.

Thus, he does so by the only means he knows.

He leads me down an alley darkened in shadow where the rays of the sun don't reach. It's cold here. There is a rotting smell in the air, and the road is narrow and winding. Even so, I breathe it in. I take in the brick walls covered in layers of faded paint. They are sloppier than the neat paintings in my stolen sketchbook, yet no less appealing. Intoxicating. I stare and stare and find new ways that mortals can express the simplest and most complex of things.

Indecipherable words are written in white ink. Faded portraits depict solemn faces of the dead. Meaningless symbols. Faceless names.

It's here that Caspian refuses to narrate. No matter how many times I point and question him, he remains silent. This is his punishment for whatever transgression I committed by upsetting him.

I'd deserve it.

However, we soon leave this alley behind and turn onto a street that seems familiar. A set of marble steps and gleaming columns appear...

I gasp with recognition. The museum is the one place he knows I will be too distracted to pester him, so he brought me here. How naughty. How cruel. Oh, how this hurts.

"I upset you," I whisper to his back as he walks without me, resolutely forward. "You should be angry with me."

Yet he rewards me. Despite his resentment, he rewards me.

"Come," he commands, still moving, letting wandering mortals drift in between us as I stand and stare at him. Then I remember how to move, putting one foot before the other. I race to catch up with him. Seize his wrist and grasp it tight.

Retaliation I could stomach.

Not this. Not kindness. Not ruthless selflessness.

He is too perfect for words. Too precious to keep. A monster would be mine only until he grew bored, but Caspian? He can't grow bored. I won't let him.

I won't lose him ever again.

Should anyone take him from me…

I will rip out their throat.