A/N: This is set during and after the scene in the PC movie in which King Miraz is discussing with Lord Sopespian and General Glozelle the Narnian night raid on the weapons' carts.
Now, I could be reading far too much into this scene, but I swear when Miraz forced Glozelle to say that three of his men were killed and then handed him the sword...that he was ordering Glozelle to slaughter his own men. That is what I got out of the scene, and though I might be crazy (as my cousin told me I was when I watched it with her and told her my thought last night), I went with that muse. Thus, this fic was born.
I made Glozelle a good guy in this, just so you know. In the movie, he really doesn't seem that bad: I mean, he lowered his weapon in the battle when he came upon a vulnerable Caspian, and he clearly was reluctant to cooperate with his King in this scene (among others)! Therefore, he is no Sopespian or Miraz in this fic!
Warning: This is one of the darkest stories I've ever written, possibly the darkest, so if you are queasy when it comes to graphic images or blood and guts...steer clear! Thank you!
Disclaimer: I don't own the Chronicles of Narnia. The awesome C.S. Lewis does, as well as 20th Century Fox and Walden Media. The movie merely inspired this. (Speaking of which, Miraz's two lines are from that source, but the rest is mine!)
False King of Men
"I apologize, Lord Sopespian. Caspian is not a victim of a savage uprising," Miraz mounts his horse, "he is the instigator."
The King's words rang clearly through the air even after he rode off, his Lord just behind, but they barely made registered in the General's ears. In fact, Glozelle hadn't been aware of the world around him for the past ten minutes. The only thing he knew was the repeating phrase in his mind: How many men were killed in this bloody, Narnian attack, of which you were a fortunate survivor? General…how many?
His voice had shaken when he'd answered, been forced into answering, feeling the very real, very alive presences of his men behind him: Three…
He didn't feel the pain in his split lip anymore, hadn't since that horrid, distasteful word had left his mouth. He didn't feel anything, actually. He was numb.
It had been his fault, not theirs. He had been the one to station them, the youngest members of his squadron, as night guards for the weapons' carts, knowing they needed more sleep than their seniors and ignoring it because he had been too wrapped up in tracking Caspian's trail.
He should be the one dying…
He chanced a look at them, knowing he was a vile sight for the men used to seeing him so strong and resilient. They were watching him, definitely, but not in the way he'd expected, the way he'd wanted.
They were pale and wide-eyed, yes, but there was something else in their faces which forced further saltwater to gather in his eyes. If only he could decipher it…
The softest sound of something splashing onto the pebbles of the river bank was heard, and the General's churning, disgustingly unstable insides told him it was a blood-tear mixture.
He was bleeding; he was crying; he was showing weakness.
Oh, how his Father would have loved to see him now…! A disrgrace was he, for once worthy of his Father's verbal and oftentimes physical abuse, ready to take any of the half-hearted taunts or snickers from the petrified men behind him.
They were not stupid, after all. They were not so young as to misunderstand the concepts of consequences in the army and of death therein. No…they knew what was coming…
Forced to kill his own men by his King (a ruthless usurper, no less, one who murdered his own brother out of greed and hatred)…a gash in his lip as he wept bitter tears…
Who knew it would come to this?
He clenches his fists tightly, eyes squeezing shut.
More than anything, he didn't want to be here, didn't want them to be here. If he could command them to run, to hide somewhere or even…even to join the Narnians…anywhere to see them safe! If they stayed they would all, himself included, be brutally, inhumanely murdered for disobeying the King's orders. But if they could just run…!
It would be no use, though, he knew. If they even took a look in the direction of 'treason,' they would be caught and killed on sight by the sentries stationed around the area.
Miraz's mentality was harsher than any ruler's Glozelle had ever seen or heard or read about, and that was indicative of his lack of faith in hearings and, therefore, mercy or clean justice. In finding Old Narnia to be alive along with his nephew, he'd seen the thought-to-be-extinct inhabitants of that 'wild country' as devils to be slaughtered at any available interval until every last one was gone.
Very often, there was no discernable reason or rhyme to his ways—indeed, not even his wife, Queen Prunaprismia herself, knew why he did what he did most of the time. It was so reckless and power-hungry and stupid…but somehow…so far, it's all worked out, and that just didn't seem fair…!
Internal conflict weighed on the poor Telmarine General heavily, and he was not surprised when he noticed he felt faint. Taking several deep breaths with closed eyes in an effort to calm himself, to stop both the nausea and the spinning of his world, there is nothing left to quell the sudden enraged anguish.
How dare such a pathetic, repulsive, callous man ask him to carry out such a task? What right did he have to—?
Glozelle paused, halted in his tracks. As King, Miraz had every right, had every justification imaginable at his disposal. The words merely spilled from his lips, and whosoever spoke out against him would mysteriously vanish.
There was no way to fight this, fight him; there was no way to save these blameless hearts from what was to befall them. And he…he was to be the one forced to act on such heartless orders.
The General's fingers twitched as he uncurled his fists, and he glanced at his sword with an ever-wearying heart.
He would have to do it eventually…wouldn't he? He wanted nothing more than to run himself through with his own sword and charge the boys as he lay dying to lie to Miraz, do anything to prevent 'what must be'—
Suddenly, the shing!, thud, and churgle of a sword being drawn, a body falling to the ground, and a head rolling filled the air.
The General turned around.
There: the head of the oldest soldier of the three, Rozan, lay at his feet, unseeing eyes gazing up at Glozelle as blood gushed from the corpse and its hacked-off appendage.
He was given no time to react, however, as the sound repeated and this time the glassy eyes of his second-youngest soldier, Thalian, pledged themselves to him.
The spreading blood came quicker all the time, dying the rocks, the clothes of the dead, and the accursed weapons' carts a sickening red; the river itself seems to moan at the defiling of its untainted crystal waters.
Only two men stayed through it all, allowing themselves to be taken and consumed utterly.
Glozelle, who had wailed as though he were the one being executed and fallen to his knees, reaching out with uncontrollably shaking hands to caress the cheeks of his fallen soldiers, wept as never before. He didn't understand…! Why was this happening? What was happening?
The other, the youngest soldier by the name of Kulnan, merely caught the eyes of his General and smiled before taking the sword—bloody with the life-flow of his fellows—and relieving himself of his cranium faculties.
And now the General, sick and yet glorified, understood.
The second-oldest had taken the oldest's life; the youngest had taken the second-oldest's; and now, the youngest had taken his own.
Glozelle plunged his hands into the rocks, saturating himself in as much of their lifeblood as possible before it soaked into the shore or flowed downstream, never to be recognized for what it was.
His own men had taken each other's and their own lives because he had been too much of a coward to do it on his own! He had killed them, no matter that he hadn't been the one to physically raise the sword to their necks!
Weeping as he rested his head on each of their cold chests in turn, he was too distraught to realize the most vital piece of the matter.
If he had been paying more attention to the look in his loyal charges' eyes as they sacrificed themselves for his sake, as they cut each other down and let themselves be cut, he would have been in a state far worse.
The trust in him, the knowledge of him that told them he couldn't do this alone, shone in their eyes, had long been branded on their hearts.
As with their Fathers, Grandfathers, and Great-grandfathers before, their destinies were to die in the heartfelt service of their General. And what better way to at once show their love and succumb to fate than by giving everything in their beloved commander's name?
A harsh wind blew, making ever colder the frozen bodies.
The General would not leave them; he would stay by their side until the bitter end, just as they had with him—for him.
Their sacrifices would not be made in vain.
Glozelle of Telmar—of Narnia—would make sure of that.
A/N: I finished this very late in the night/early morning after a tiring day, so if you see any glaring mistakes, please tell me! Plus, I'm staying at my aunt's place down in Mexico right now with bothe her family and mine, and the internet connection is literally so bad I only have a connection for two seconds before it goes off again, so I'll look this over once I get home. XD
Thanks for reading, as always!
Happy holidays!