I have certain issues with Prince Caspian as a movie, but I did like the changes made to the personalities of characters like Glozelle and Prunaprismia (Even if the latter did get the Katharine of Aragon treatment). While they were nasty people in the book, the film shows them more as characters who probably would have been perfectly decent people if not for the influence of Miraz (Who goes from the manipulated in the book to the manipulator in the film). The former even gets his own character arc, though it is a subtle one. Thus, this is quite firmly in the movie-verse.

I own nothing.

There were few among the Telmarines who would teach their children stories of the old days and the Old Narnians. It was never forbidden for them to do so, but at the same time had become an unspoken taboo, even among those Telmarines who would not venture into the woods. They wouldn't tell you why, but everyone knew what they were afraid of—fairy tales and legends given over to the dark.

However, that didn't mean that there were no places were you could find information on this land before the Telmarine conquest, or knowledge about the supposedly mythical creatures that had lived in those days. Occasionally, a child would find a book crammed at the back of a library, an unassuming tome pushed to the side and forgotten, left to gather dust.

In one of the royal libraries in the capital of the Telmarines in Narnia, there was such a book, pressed to the back, forgotten by nearly all. This book contained within lore of satyrs, fauns, centaurs, minotaurs. If you believed this book, once in a time lost to history there were Animals who spoke and in intelligence were the equal of any man. Here, you could read the history of the White Witch and the child Kings and Queens of the Golden Age, and of Aslan, the great Lion who was hailed as the true King of Narnia.

And if they could find them, one lucky boy or girl with sharp eyes and a curious heart might settle down into a patch of hot, bright, dust-glittering sunlight and read snatches of tales with powerful words, in the moments out from under the watchful eyes of parents or schoolmasters.

"Here you are again, reading those fairy tales."

At the sound of that familiar voice, Glozelle abruptly slammed the book in his hands shut and bowed to the newcomer. All the while, he cursed his rotten luck. Of all the people who could have discovered him reading that sort of book, the one who had found him here was among the worst possible.

Miraz, second-born Prince of King Caspian, Eighth of his name, waved a hand to the younger boy. "At your ease. You already act like a soldier." Before Glozelle could put the book back on the shelf and out of sight, Miraz snatched it up, flipping open the book and looking over the smooth vellum pages with raised eyebrows.

The offspring of the King's councilors were often educated alongside the children of the royal family. Given that Glozelle was far closer in age to Miraz than to the Crown Prince, who was already close to manhood, he found himself placed in the household of the second Prince. He suspected, though, that the only reason Miraz even knew he existed was because of his sister—Prunaprismia, currently a member of the Queen's household despite her youth, was promised in marriage to the Prince who stood before him. Perhaps Miraz wished to take stock of the boy who was to be his brother-in-law, some time in the future. Perhaps not. Glozelle couldn't say.

Miraz's narrow face quirked in a thin, secretive smile. "So…" He turned the book around so Glozelle could see the page he'd been perusing. "…One of Telmar's future soldiers—" It was no secret that Glozelle's father intended for him to join the army, and no secret that Miraz was looking towards the army as well to make his way in the world "—is taking stock in morality tales and fear-mongering about lions?"

Glozelle cast his eyes towards the page Miraz had opened. Given over to both sides of the vellum was a sprawling picture. Cracked blue paint forming a sky sparkled in the sunlight, but that was not what drew the eye the most. What inevitably transfixed whatever reader caught sight of this page was the lion, golden, gleaming, fierce of eye and mouth, and judging by the fact that two young girls were riding on its back, larger and stronger than even the most robust of war horses. Though the once-rich paint was now faded and peeling, and the art style was old and unrealistically flat, the creature was still majestic. There was only one name this beast could have. Only one lion was ever depicted in books about the old days.

"No, my Lord. I was just passing the time."

But Miraz caught his furtive glance and laughed. "Have no fear. I'll not carry tales to your father, that his son's caught up in old wives' tales. Keep my secrets, and I will keep yours." He claps the younger boy on the shoulder. "Now come. Master Horatio will be wanting us and the others."

This Glozelle did, leaving the book behind without a further glance. Pictures of Aslan piqued his fascination, it was true, but he was more concerned about avoiding the scolding of his father or the ribbing of his schoolmates.

-0-0-0-

"—and then Fabiola spilled the—"

Realizing who was in the courtyard, Glozelle abruptly caught his sister's arm to keep her from stepping out into the sun-drenched courtyard. Prunaprismia glared up at him, but he remained unmoved. Except in extremis, no one was permitted to directly cross the path of the King or Crown Prince. Given who was in the courtyard right now, Prunaprismia would have just committed a serious breach of protocol. Considering her age, she might have gotten away with a harsh scolding, but it was still better not to take the risk.

Though noble girl-children were not sequestered away here as they were in Calormen, boys and girls of noble families with any means did not grow up in the same household. This was the first time that brother and sister had been alone together in months—well, as alone as anyone could be at court. Glozelle would not be able to confess to being particularly close to his sister, but he got on with her well enough, cared about her well enough, liked her well enough.

Well, he liked her most of the times.

In truth, little sisters weren't always the most scintillating or welcome company in the world. Especially not when they were prattling on about their schoolmates' misadventures with inkpots and the tasks they were called upon to perform for the Queen. Whenever they were reunited for any length of time, it seemed like Prunaprismia just couldn't shut up for the first few minutes. She used to be such a quiet girl, too (If Glozelle was honest with himself, he would admit that she was still a quiet girl—as soon as she shut up). At least she was cheerful; Prunaprismia was usually possessed of good cheer, or was at least good at giving the impression of such.

Prince Caspian, to be Ninth of his name when he was King, paused in front of the pair of them, not seeing them, but instead speaking to a groom who was leading a horse back towards the stables. He was accompanied by one of the pages of his household, a boy of roughly twelve years, who did see the children, and smiled faintly to the pair of them. Brother and sister dipped into a low bow and curtsy respectively, both knowing that they couldn't rise until either the Prince had passed out of the courtyard or until he told them they could rise. The Prince hadn't seen them. They'd have to wait for the former to come to pass.

While the Crown Prince remained in the courtyard, a small squeak of surprise emitted from Prunaprismia's mouth and Glozelle became aware of someone standing—standing, when all but the King would have bowed—to his right. He looked up, and saw Miraz, still straight-backed, staring at his older brother.

The look on Miraz's face was one that Glozelle and any of the other boys who were educated alongside Miraz were by now used to seeing. There was that look again, of envy so great that it seemed to manifest as a physical longing, a hunger, deep, cold, burning. It only ever really showed up in his eyes, which seemed like coal in these moments. Coal, on the verge of ignition.

Glozelle didn't have to guess where Miraz's envy of his elder brother came from. As long as Prince Caspian lived, Miraz would never be King—and to be King was Miraz's dearest ambition; he never said so out loud, but all could see that ambition in his eyes whenever he was in the company of his father, or his brother. Caspian's demeanor did not help to assuage Miraz's envy and wounded pride either. It would have been easier if Caspian was petty, or unpleasant, or pathetic, but instead, Crown Prince Caspian had all the makings of a fine King, strong, decisive, and fair-minded. On top of all that, he was hale and hearty—unlikely to die young.

Miraz, second-born son of King Caspian, Eighth of his name, had good reason to be envious of his elder brother. But this did not change the fact that the envy Glozelle saw in his eyes unnerved him, just a bit.

Eventually, Prince Caspian passed out of the courtyard, his page following behind him. The groom took the horse back to the stables, and Glozelle was able to straighten out of his bow. He looked over at Miraz, who was silent and still watching his brother's back (rather like a cat as it prowled after a mouse across the kitchen floor), wonder what exactly the second-born Prince was here for.

After a moment, Miraz seemed to remember where he was as if awakening from a trance. That hungrily envious look vanished from his face, to be replaced by the neutral mien that Glozelle has long since learned to recognize as a mask for, well, something. No one could ever quite be sure what. "My Lord?" he asked, praying that he came across as polite instead of simply slightly unnerved.

Miraz turned to him and smiled, a thin smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "I'm glad I found you. I wanted to talk to you about something, alone."

Glozelle got the message. He turned to his sister to tell her to go away, but when he looked to his left, Prunaprismia was gone. "Pru?" He craned his head around, brow furrowed, trying to see where she had gone. Where did she go? "Pru?"

Miraz tapped his shoulder briefly to get his attention. "She left a while ago. Probably had to go back to attend the Queen. It's just as well."

They started to walk back towards the interior of the castle. Glozelle stepped out into the bright sunlight—it was almost uncomfortably cool in the shade—but Miraz kept to the shadows, showing no sign of wanting to be out in the light. "I wanted to ask a favor of you, Glozelle."

An elderly Lord passed by them. Miraz nodded, Glozelle bowed, and the former kept his hand raised to hush the latter until the Lord passed out of earshot. The fact that Miraz apparently didn't want anyone to hear what they were talking about, not just Prunaprismia, but adults as well, only inflamed Glozelle's curiosity. "What sort of favor, my Lord?"

Miraz stopped walking abruptly, staring straight ahead so Glozelle could only see the left half of his face. The boy seemed to be steeling himself for something, but whatever it was, it didn't take him long to convince himself that it was something he should say. "Are you familiar with one of the pages in my brother's household, Armel?"

Glozelle nodded. Armel was the page who had been with Prince Caspian today, the one who had smiled sympathetically at him and his sister. "Yes, my Lord."

"Hmm. I want you to take this—" Miraz took a small vial filled with what looked like white sand out of his jacket, and held it out to Glozelle "—and slip it into his food or drink sometime today or tomorrow."

At this point, Glozelle was sure that he had misheard him, and was sure that he had misunderstood the request. He stared uncomprehendingly at Miraz and his vial. "My Lord?"

"You heard me." Miraz frowned darkly, displeased at being balked, even in such a roundabout fashion. "It will be easy to slip some of this into Armel's meat. The food provided to my brother's pages isn't closely watched, and I'm told the powder's tasteless."

So he didn't mishear Miraz after all. If Glozelle was to believe him, Miraz wanted him to take that vial, filled with some unnamed powder, and slip it into the food of one of Prince Caspian's pages. For what end Miraz wanted him to do this, he did not know, and as for motive… The day was a warm one, but Glozelle felt a chill run down his back as he asked, "Why, my Lord?"

Clearly, Miraz did not wish to be questioned on his motives, either, for he shook his head sharply and hissed between his teeth. "Do I need a reason, Glozelle?" When no answer was forthcoming, he tossed his head irritably. "The wretch insulted me. Now take the vial. Or are you an old woman who thinks that lions and witches will come out of the shadows and carry you off if you get retribution on your fellows?"

Filled with misgivings, Glozelle took the vial out of Miraz's hand, staring down at it. It felt very light, he realized, very light indeed. Though he didn't see it, Miraz's face broke into a wide, mirthless smile. "Good man. Bring the vial back to me when you've done it."

Later that day, Glozelle saw his opportunity. Like many of the young boys of the court, Armel liked to take food directly out of the kitchens—in this case, a loaf of bread and a roughly hewn wood tankard full of mead. Armel was not the sort of boy who suspected his friends and peers of slipping some undefined powder in his food or drink, and eventually, there was a time when he was called out of the kitchens, and didn't return for several minutes.

Glozelle cast a surreptitious sidelong glance at Armel's unattended tankard. If he was to do as Miraz told him, now would be the perfect time. But he hesitated.

What exactly was in the vial Miraz had given him? What exactly was that powder? What would it do to Armel? Glozelle didn't exactly know the older boy all that well, but he did like him. Armel was good-natured, amiable. If he had indeed insulted Miraz, he likely hadn't meant it seriously, or hadn't even realized what he had done—if he had insulted Miraz at all, that was; the Prince was sometimes prone to seeing affronts to his dignity where there were none. Glozelle didn't like to think that what he did now might hurt him. Didn't Miraz think that tampering with Armel's food and drink to avenge himself was going a bit too far?

And there was something else that occurred to him.

What if this was some sort of test of Miraz's, but not the way Glozelle thought it was?

What if, instead of wanting him to put this powder into Armel's food or his mead, Miraz wanted Glozelle not to do so, and instead bring the vial back to him still full, with Glozelle flatly refusing to do the deed he had requested of him? If that was the case, then Miraz would hardly be pleased to learn that Glozelle had indeed done as he was told, whatever the powder was supposed to do to Armel, if indeed it did anything at all.

No. That was not Miraz's way. When he asked—or rather, when he told—someone to do something, he always unequivocally meant for them to do it, and was never pleased when someone failed to meet his expectations. If he wanted Glozelle to do this, then he wanted him to do it exactly the way he told him to. He would expect perfection, and nothing less than that.

He could feel his heart pound in his chest. Glozelle thought about priests and sin and punishment that would surely come, if Armel came to harm. And yes, he thought about lions, about creatures that might materialize from the shadows under the table and the door, if he did this now, and drag him off to whatever dark land they came from. He thought about a lion, that would judge him and find him sinful, unworthy of the world in which he lived.

But Glozelle had taunting and veiled threats on his mind, more than he did priests and sin or pagan gods who took the form of lions. All these things were far away; Miraz and his poison tongue were close at hand, and Glozelle feared Miraz more than he did a vanished lion of the old days. He took the vial from his jacket and uncapped it, casting his gaze around the kitchen to make sure he wasn't being watched. His free hand shook slightly as he reached for Armel's tankard.

Glozelle decided he would make a compromise with himself, both to satisfy Miraz and assuage the pangs of his conscience. Instead of tipping the entirety of the contents of the vial into Armel's tankard, only about a third of the powder goes in among the mead. Glozelle sloshed the mead so the sand-like powder wouldn't be quite so noticeable, got up, and left, leaving his own food behind. He found he had quite thoroughly lost his appetite.

Before going back to Miraz to tell him he'd done it, Glozelle found a patch of earth in the courtyard. With his hand he dug a shallow hole and dumped the rest of the powder in it. Then, he patted the overturned earth back down over it, looked about to make sure he hadn't been seen, and took the vial to Miraz. The second-born Prince accepted it without a word, but a strange smile passed over his face briefly and he nodded to Glozelle, before heading off elsewhere.

In the next few days, Armel fell deathly ill. He was seen by a physician, and for a while, it seemed as though he would die.

However, he did not die.

Instead, Armel was laid up in bed for about a week, before he was able to rise again and get back to the business of living.

Miraz never seemed to suspect Glozelle's compromise and the possible effect this had had on Armel's recovery. He scowled at the news that Armel was well on the way to recovery, but all he said was a muttered "The old woman must have lied to me about the strength of the powder."

Despite this, Glozelle managed to convince himself that Miraz hadn't really meant to kill Armel. He just meant to make him sick. That must be it. Surely, Miraz had only meant to lay Armel low for a while, in revenge for his real or at least perceived insult against him. After all, Miraz was just a boy himself. There was no way he could really have murder on his mind.

-0-0-0-

The next time Miraz asked a favor of Glozelle, there was no mistaking what it was he wanted.

They were young men now, one a soldier, and the other his commander. It was tradition that a member of the royal family be in charge of the armies, even if that person was not an experienced soldier themselves. Given that said person could not be the King or the Crown Prince (the King and the Crown Prince only went into battle in the case of a direct rebellion against the Crown), that lot fell to Miraz. There were others, experienced officers who were present to serve as advisors to the second-born Prince, but as it stood, Miraz was in command of the armies.

It was another young soldier he wanted dead. This time, Miraz gave Glozelle no explanation for why he was supposed to kill the soldier, and frankly, Glozelle hadn't really been expecting one. During his time as commander, Miraz had shown himself as a leader who expected his men to follow him without questioning his orders, and to do so promptly.

How Miraz wanted him to dispatch this soldier was simple. During a training exercise, the soldier's shield would shatter, and Glozelle's sword would slip and hit the soldier where it shouldn't have been able to had everyone been operating as they were supposed to. The soldier's death would be written off as a combination of substandard supplies and an accident.

This was very clearly an order couched as a request. That Miraz was choosing to phrase it as a request was little more than a nod to common courtesy. But still, Glozelle had his misgivings. Was it really wise to go about having your subordinates killed for real or imagined slights? Was that really the sort of example you wanted to encourage among your men?

Then, Miraz spoke. "Have you no nerve?" His lip curled sardonically. "Shall I find someone else then? Someone with greater loyalty to their Lord?"

So Glozelle went and did what he was told.

This was not the first time he had killed. In the past he'd killed raiders from Archenland, or bandits even further south from Calormen, who seemed determined to ignore the good relations between Calormen and New Telmar. He'd carried out executions of civilian criminals whose offenses warranted death. Though he could not claim to have the blood of thousands on his hands, Glozelle had killed often enough that it no longer fazed him to watch the life go out of someone's eyes.

But never before had he killed one of his own fellow soldiers. Never before had he contemplated lifting his sword against one of his compatriots with murder in his heart. And it didn't really occur to Glozelle, until after the cheap wood shield of the foot soldier he killed shattered, and his sword slid between the man's ribs, that perhaps he should not have done that.

Afterwards, he wondered at himself, wondered why he had done what he had, why he had not stopped, why he had not simply refused Miraz altogether.

Then, he remembered the weight of the sword at his hip, the helmet on his head, the armor around his chest, and everything, the duty, the responsibility, the promise of obedience that went with that. He saw the look on Miraz's face as the soldier's body was carried away. Dark satisfaction portrayed in a momentary grim smile, predatory and hungry, before the Prince remembered where he was and remembered to look concerned. In that moment, he looked like he could do anything, was capable of anything.

That was why.

-0-0-0-

Some day later, rain dripping half-heartedly off of the broad leaves and sharp spines of the trees of the hated forest, Glozelle and others found themselves standing witness to the execution of a being who should not have existed.

Miraz treated it as some great joke that Glozelle was so shocked that the old Narnians exist after all, let alone in great enough numbers to stage an attack on the outpost at which they were stationed. "The woods hold many secrets, do they not? We are told not to speak of them, we are to act as if they do not exist until they are before us, but exist they do. You would do well to remember that."

These creatures… These Narnians, they had come in the night, intent on killing every Telmarine, both soldier and civilian, that they came upon. However, their numbers had not been great enough, nor their training good enough, nor their weapons keen enough, to rout the Telmarines. All had been killed. All but one.

Glozelle recalled vaguely the ancient book he used to take out of the back of one of the libraries, and read in a bright patch of sunlight. Most of the images were now indistinct and hazy in his mind, but he could, if he strained, recall the names and some of the images. This creature had the hindquarters of a goat, and the horns and ears of one as well, but he had the torso and arms and face of a man. His hair was yellow and ragged, matted down with blood; a gash on his chest open and shut like a gasping mouth with every breath he took. This creature, who remained nameless (if his kind even gave their young names), was called a Faun.

So this was one of the creatures who lived freely in Narnia once, long ago, before the Telmarines were forced to leave their ancestral home and claim this land as their own. Glozelle was amazed that they could have survived so long, making their living in the wild forests. But then again, he had already had his world view shaken once today. Who was to know how it might change tomorrow?

"Fear of these vermin has kept the Telmarines weak. Instead of building decent roads or strong bridges, we allowed the forests to become impassable and the rivers unmanageable."

"Well, my Lord, perhaps someone should change that."

Miraz smiled strangely. "Perhaps so. And who might do that? You?"

For a few moments, Glozelle found himself entertaining what many of those around him would have considered treacherous thoughts, had they been privy to it.

He respected spirit, and he respected any man—or creature—who was willing to fight for what they thought was theirs, even if they were mistaken in their belief that they had been robbed of anything that belonged to them. Glozelle knew that if he believed something had been stolen from him, he would not let it go without a fight, even if it turned out that what he had been robbed of was rightfully conquered. Glozelle thought that he would think worse of these Narnians if they simply laid down and died.

However, die they would, eventually. Telmarines would have had nothing had they not taken it, and they would not relinquish what they had now so easily, or at all. Glozelle shelved those treacherous thoughts of his, and returned his attention to what was going on before him.

In the absence of a proper gallows, the Faun would be hanged from a tree. His hands chained behind him, and shackles about his feet as well, the creature was forced up onto a chair, and the noose was draped about his throat by a soldier.

Standing before the Faun, helmet held under his arm, Miraz addressed the condemned. "Have you any last words?"

"Yes," the Faun croaked. "This can't last."

Miraz smiled coldly, casually. "For you, certainly not."

He nodded to the soldier who stood by the makeshift gallows, and the chair was knocked out from under the Faun. The creature did not die immediately; he was not granted the quick, merciful death that some were provided by a broken neck. Instead, he dangled for a few minutes, before he was finally still.

Miraz commanded that the Faun's corpse continue to hang from the tree and not be cut down, to serve as a reminder to the Narnians what happened to those who resisted the rightful lords of the land. The Faun's corpse rotted on the tree for four days, as crows came to pull at the flesh, prying out the eyes with gusto.

For the first four days, Glozelle found that he had a hard time looking at the rotting corpse. It was entirely too easy to imagine himself, swinging from that tree; that was how he imagined his future sometimes, if anyone ever discovered what he had done in Miraz's name. Then, on the fifth day, the corpse was gone. The forest reclaimed its own.

-0-0-0-

Time seemed to pass by like water through a sieve—swift and inexorable. Years slipped by. It was strange how they did that. At one moment it seemed like time was moving unbearably slowly, and at the next, it was going far too quick. At least, that was how it seemed to Glozelle.

Miraz asked Glozelle to kill for him, not on the battlefield, but off of it, many more times over these years, and quickly, the asking turned to ordering, ordering that brooked no disobedience. Over time, it became easier for him to raise his sword or slide a knife or slip poison into a cup, became easier for him to do the act without thinking. But it never got easier, afterwards, to think about the men he had killed, usually not in combat, and wonder why, exactly, they had to die.

It was easy for him to kill men and creatures in battle. Battle was simple. Battle was easy to understand. In battle, you either killed or were killed. The only people you were ever supposed to spare were the leaders of the opposite side, in order to ransom them or make an example of them later. Everyone else, Glozelle could kill with a clear conscience and without fear of reprisal, secure in the knowledge that he did so to serve his country and that, had he not killed them, they certainly would have killed them.

But the men Miraz sent him to kill were rarely armed, and even more rarely were they expecting death. He remembered their eyes, mostly, how they all looked surprised. They were Miraz's enemies, men who were making the Prince's plans to take hold of power more difficult; Glozelle knew that much. He supposed that was why Miraz wanted them dead, supposed that was reason enough for the Prince to wish them dead, and supposed that that was why he was sent to kill him. Even so, he had a hard time thinking about them, and did his best to push them from his mind.

The years slipped by in other ways too. Glozelle rose quickly through the ranks, but he could never know if this was due to his own skill, or was the result of "services rendered" to Prince Miraz; he did his best to appear comfortable in his position, but that uncertainty always nagged at the back of his mind. Miraz grew into his position as head of the army, proving himself quick-tempered and bloodthirsty, but also calculating, proud, and of a perceptive mind.

King Caspian, Eighth of his name, passed away during these years, God rest his soul. He took ill with a chest cold that eventually grew to pneumonia and took his life before the first snowdrops of spring poked their heads up through the snow. Crown Prince Caspian had his coronation a week after the death of his father, crowned King Caspian, Ninth of his name; his wife of three years, Rosinha, was crowned Queen Consort as well.

With Caspian the Ninth's coronation, Prince Miraz's envy of his brother seemed only to grow in virulence. True to his nature and past behavior, he never spoke of his enmity aloud, but there was still that hungry burning in his eyes, like coal glowing, ready to ignite. The new King never seemed to notice his brother's resentment of him, but he was probably the only one who did not.

Well, there was one other person who did not notice.

Women were considered of an age to marry later on in life than were men in Telmarine society. The summer after the kingship was passed from Caspian the Eighth to his son, Prunaprismia came of age to marry.

"You could smile."

Uncomfortable with being where he was, standing near the door so he could make his escape as soon as she gave him leave to go, Glozelle looked up from his examination of the floor.

Sitting at the other end of the room, Prunaprismia winced as a maid who was seeing to her hair scratched her scalp with a pin. She kept running her fingers over the inside hem of the sleeve of her grayish-lavender wedding gown, seemed deeply nervous and unsure, but at the same time, almost feverish in some emotion that was not elation, but mimicked it closely. Her eyes burned bright. "It rather pains me to see that my only brother has chosen to wear such a dour expression on my wedding day."

He did not know what to say to her.

If they rarely had the chance to have an extended conversation during childhood, Glozelle and Prunaprismia during adulthood spoke to each other even more rarely. The life of a soldier took Glozelle far from the capital and kept him there, often for months on end. That he was one of the groom's subordinates was probably the only reason Glozelle was here now at all; no one cared at all for his relationship to the bride. They had grown apart (not that brother and sister shared a special closeness to begin with), and that must have been the reason Prunaprismia could not discern anything out of the ordinary about her brother's closed-off expression. So much the better.

Telmarines would have had nothing had they not taken it. Those were Miraz's words, but they were also the words on the lips and minds of every nobleman, minister, councilor, and soldier of Telmar. That Miraz killed to consolidate his own power base did not make him all that unusual among the higher echelons of Telmarine society; that he utilized those one of those who answered to him to do his killing for him made him even less unusual. Glozelle might have found himself still thinking about the men he'd killed on Miraz's behalf, remembering their eyes, feeling uneasy every time someone who had been kin to the dead approached him, but he knew that Miraz was no different from many of the other men that Prunaprismia could have been betrothed to by their father.

However, there was something about this that left Glozelle… concerned for his sister. Prunaprismia seemed, at best, unaware that her husband-to-be was the sort of man who was far from opposed to killing for the sake of advancing his position. In a way, Glozelle envied Prunaprismia her ignorance. Ignorance, after all, was bliss. And perhaps that was why he chose not to say anything to her about Miraz. But Glozelle would have preferred that Prunaprismia not go into this marriage quite so blissfully.

He would have preferred that Prunaprismia have a better idea of what she was about to walk into. Miraz was more than willing to kill those who were inconvenient to him; Glozelle knew this all too well, being the one who killed for him. From his wife, Miraz would want decorous behavior and the wealth brought to him by her dowry, but more importantly, Miraz wanted an heir. He wanted a strong, healthy son who could follow after him. Prunaprismia already knew that that was what was expected of her; the production of heirs was the primary task of all aristocratic wives. But for Prunaprismia's sake, Glozelle hoped she came to find herself with child soon, and that that child would be a son. Divorce was difficult to obtain in Telmarine society; he knew what Miraz would do if he wanted to be rid of his wife.

Glozelle would have liked nothing better than to know that, even if his sister wasn't entirely safe as Miraz's wife, that she at least knew what her husband was capable of, that she was at least aware and capable of doing all she could to ensure her own safety.

But he said nothing. To tell Prunaprismia what Miraz had done would expose too much about what Glozelle himself had done. Miraz might have been safe from prosecution, but Glozelle was not. I must keep his secrets, Glozelle mused to himself bitterly, so that he will keep mine. So he could not say anything that would have made his sister safer. For the first time, being able to say nothing, do nothing, left Glozelle feeling dishonest, dishonorable. But more than that, he felt… He felt helpless. She sat there, running her finger along her sleeve hem. She had no idea what she was getting into, and he could say nothing of value.

"Ah… Forgive me, sister. I was preoccupied."

"About your most recent campaign? I heard that things did not go very well. I'm sorry."

"Don't worry yourself with it."

-0-0-0-

It was all Glozelle could do not to cringe when he saw the look on Miraz's face to hear of the birth of the new Crown Prince, just two years after the new King took the throne. Just a momentary thing, gone by in a flash so quick that the messenger who had come to the camp at Beruna did not catch it, but Glozelle did. It was a black look, full of hate, a look he understood on one level, but was strange to him on another. That was the first moment when Glozelle realized that Miraz's envy of his brother might be more than just the resentment of the "spare" son towards his needed brother.

The messenger was waiting for some sort of statement on the part of the Prince, the man who had just discovered that he was no longer first in line to the throne. Miraz, renowned for his composure when confronted with information that did not at all profit him, did not disappoint now.

"My brother the King is indeed the most fortunate of men," Miraz said softly, "to find himself blessed with a son. I only pray that I will also be so blessed."

This time, Glozelle did cringe, and could only count himself grateful that neither Miraz, the messenger, nor any of the men who fought under him noticed him do so. He knew from that soft voice and those keen eyes that Miraz was planning something. Glozelle couldn't be sure just what Miraz was planning (though given the circumstances, he could hazard a guess), but he knew that when the day came that Miraz was ready to put that plan into action, he would ask him, in a voice that did not truly ask for anything, to play a part in it.

Then, that day inevitably came.

Glozelle knew enough to know that what Miraz asked him to do was wrong. He knew enough to know that this scheme would benefit Miraz and any sons of his, as of yet unborn, but would truly benefit no one else, and would indeed be the ruination of many.

However, Glozelle could see no way out. He had already done too much for Miraz, already found himself too steeped in blood. Never had he sought expiation for his sins. He did not trust any of the priests of Telmar to keep his confidence, and these old sins hung on him, like chains without form but possessing all the weight of solid iron, but they were his to bear, and his alone. He could have said no, but found no voice with which to do so. He found no inclination within him to do so, and could not find the impetus to go against the pattern he had become so accustomed to following.

He could do naught but obey.

-0-0-0-

King Caspian, Ninth of his name, was found dead in his bed by his gentlemen-in-waiting in the fifth year of his reign, God rest his soul. He left behind his three-year-old son, Prince Caspian, and the widowed Queen Rosinha, who passed into death not long after her husband. Prince Caspian could not accede to the throne until he was in his nineteenth year; such was the law of the Telmarine people.

Miraz was the natural choice to be named Lord Protector of New Telmar until such time as his nephew could ascend the throne. Young Prince Caspian was taken into Lord Miraz's household, an raised as if he was his son. Prunaprismia showed an immediate fondness for the Prince, a fondness the Prince seemed to return, but Miraz kept his distance, kept his reserve, and always made it clear that a nephew was no substitute for a son. Prunaprismia was still more than capable of putting a smile on when looked upon by anyone, but this smile seemed just a touch strained, a touch forced, and only grew more so as the years went by.

As Miraz's presence was now more or less constantly required in the capital, and the old general was retiring, Glozelle was promoted to general of the Telmarine army, subordinate only to the Lord Protector himself. As a result, while Miraz was nearly constantly in the capital, Glozelle found himself out in the field very nearly as constantly.

Virtually the only time he was ever wanted in the capital was to give status reports, or to "assist" Miraz in ousting or killing another one of the Lord Protector's enemies. In these years, seven Lords of the Council, sensing that their time was short, fled New Telmar to Archenland, and from there, to parts unknown. No one in New Telmar knew what had become of them. Glozelle didn't bother to try to find out; even if they were still alive, they were as good as dead and it was unlikely that they would try to come back to make trouble here.

For himself, Glozelle welcomed the fact that he was rarely in the capital. Life was easier out in the field, less complicated. He didn't find himself making choices and doing things that made him wish for a priest, only to remember that he needed to keep to silence. As a general in the field, his duties were to lead the men into battle, to make sure that efficiency and productivity were kept as high as possible. The rations needed to be distributed and the armor and weapons needed to be kept in as fine shape as possible. The new general, the foot soldiers soon realized, was the sort of man who greatly preferred to be busy, the sort of man despised, and perhaps feared, the call of idle living. He would have them run through their drills just to keep them from falling into stagnancy.

Those little moments of idleness were impossible to avoid altogether, though. There was shift change, and mealtimes, and of course, the middle of the night when he couldn't sleep no matter how hard he tried. In those moments, when Glozelle couldn't keep any guard up over his own memory, the things that surfaced in his mind, well, they simply wouldn't be ignored.

Gasping.

Choking.

Eyes rolling back in terror.

Blood spurting, oozing, dripping, splashing.

They weren't enemy soldiers, or bandits, or the Old Narnians. No, those Glozelle could kill without pangs of conscience, and those he could kill without having any special remembrance of it afterwards, except if the kill had been particularly difficult. These were men whose crime had been to antagonize Miraz, to make themselves inconvenient to him or hateful in his eyes. They were rarely expecting death, and even more rarely were they armed—but he had had this thought, or something like it, many times before. He had this thought often. That it hadn't been a fair fight, that those men hadn't been given a real chance to defend themselves or fight for their own lives. That sometimes, to follow orders was no excuse at all, no excuse for any of what he had done.

The general certainly was not a man who could stand idleness, not in his troops, nor in himself. Those who served under him learned this soon enough.

-0-0-0-

For a couple of weeks, Glozelle decided to take up drinking. Every man, woman and child of New Telmar, and indeed of Archenland and Calormen as well, drank wine, or mead, or beer or cider or ale, but for a few weeks, he would drink in earnest, and heavily as well.

Soon enough, he stopped.

The effect drunkenness and the subsequent hangovers had on his work performance would have been enough on its own for Glozelle to give the habit up. But there was more to it than that.

Too much ale (which was pretty much all anyone could get their hands on away from the capital or any of the major cities) tended to loosen Glozelle's tongue, make him entirely too talkative, and entirely too honest. He could only bribe the barmaid to keep her mouth shut so many times, and he never knew who might be listening. It was just too much to risk.

So Glozelle took up sobriety instead.

-0-0-0-

Once, when Glozelle was in the capital, young Prince Caspian cornered him in a hall and asked him about lions.

"General, I was wondering… Have you ever seen a lion?"

The lad was eleven years old, and had such a sunny, winning disposition that it was difficult for anyone apart from Miraz, who saw the boy as an impediment, to dislike him. Glozelle was far from immune to that bright smile of the boy's, and like most of those who knew the young Prince, he couldn't help but like him. He felt guilty too, guilty whenever he saw Caspian, which led him to be more indulgent of the young Prince's questions than he perhaps should have been. And even if he did not like the Prince, or feel the need to allay his guilt by indulging him, he could hardly have brushed off the future King of New Telmar, especially not over such a trivial matter.

"No, your Highness, I can not say that I have. From what I understand, lions exist only in small numbers this far north. I suspect your Highness would have to travel to Calormen to see one."

Caspian's disappointed expression made Glozelle wonder if perhaps the young Prince knew about the old tales. Miraz, who was determined that Caspian learn nothing of Old Narnia, had abruptly dismissed the boy's nurse a few months ago, and the only explanation he would give to anyone was that her conduct was unfitting for one who cared for a son of the House of Telmar. Perhaps she had been slipping Caspian secrets, and tales of a certain lion. Caspian wasn't really suited for the upper echelons of Telmarine society; he had absolutely no talent for secret-keeping or dissembling. Glozelle could well believe that if Caspian's nurse had told the boy things she wasn't supposed to, Caspian might have let this slip to his uncle without thinking about it.

And Glozelle supposed he was only thinking about this now, because of what was lying half-dead in the cage before him now, at the shores of Beruna. It was perhaps a good thing that Caspian was not here now. If he could see the lion that had been caught here, he would have only been deeply disappointed.

When the creature, skulking about the camp, looking for food no doubt, was first captured two days ago, it was already half-starved, all of its ribs showing through its scarred hide, but at least then it had had the energy to pace the cage, looking out at those who came to gawk. But even then, there was no rancor in its amber eyes, only hunger and a dull tiredness, wearily accepting of its eventual fate. The lion eventually shook its dull golden mane and collapsed on the cold metal floor of its cage, laying its head down on its paws and staring out dolefully at the world that came to gawk.

Glozelle had come to look at it often in these past few days. The lion did not discriminate between a common foot soldier and the general of New Telmar's armies; it saw them as all the same, and did not respond any differently. The lion looked at him, but seemed to stare straight through him. It simply laid where it was, and waited to die.

Not since he was a child had Glozelle sought out the old tales of Narnia; not since he was a child had he looked upon the images that one could find of those days and the creatures that lived there. All the images of that book he had once been so fond of reading had faded from his mind. Some were replaced by reality, but many had no basis in fact, and were now simply vague figments, from which it was easier to recall a certain color or curved line than anything else.

All the images had gone. All but one.

To this day, Glozelle could still easily recall the image of Aslan, the great lion whom the Narnians worshipped as their God and Savior. He was an enormous lion painted bright gold, fierce of eye and mouth. Though the artwork in which he was depicted was flat and unrealistic in proportions, the lion was still a sight to behold, the very picture of majesty. To look at him, even a flat, unrealistic image of him, was to feel as though in the presence of something glorious.

Occasionally, captured Narnians would talk amongst themselves. When they did, the name of Aslan was always on their lips. They believed that Aslan, their long-vanished God, would return to rid the land of the Telmarines.

Glozelle sighed.

This benighted, bedraggled, obviously dying creature (later, he would call on someone to feed the lion, but Glozelle suspected he was only delaying the inevitable and prolonging the beast's suffering) was not Aslan.

Aslan was not coming. He could not save the Narnians, and he could not save him.

-0-0-0-

Glozelle could not have denied to anyone, had anyone actually asked, that he was filled with a mixture of relief and trepidation when he learned that, after many years of marriage, his sister the Lady Prunaprismia had finally gotten with child.

Miraz had never made a secret of the fact that he wanted a son to inherit what was his after him. As the years passed and his wife showed no sign of giving him what he so passionately wanted, Glozelle began to fear, more and more, the times when Miraz recalled him to the capital. He thought again that divorce was not something easily obtained in Telmarine society, and that Miraz would have to find another way to rid himself of a barren wife. Glozelle wondered again and again if Miraz would call upon him to help kill his own sister, and if, even then, he would not find it in himself to object.

But that never happened. For whatever reason, Miraz did not attempt to rid himself of Prunaprismia, even though she had until recently proved herself to be barren. Perhaps he was, despite Glozelle's suspicions to the otherwise, capable of fondness, and did not wish for his wife to die because he was genuinely fond of her. Maybe there was some other reason that Glozelle wasn't thinking of. He couldn't say.

Prunaprismia's happiness was infectious, besides. She had wanted this too, for as many years as Miraz had, perhaps longer. The incipient mother had no dynastic ambitions; she just wished for a child to hold dear, a child to keep her safe.

However, where there was joy, there was also fear.

If the child Prunaprismia bore was a son, then Miraz would have an heir to follow after him, and young Prince Caspian, now nearing manhood, but still not old enough to assume the throne, would become expendable. The fact that Glozelle had been recalled to the capital two months before Prunaprismia was due to give birth confirmed his fears concerning Miraz's line of thought. After all, if Lord Miraz wishes to assume the throne, he would first have to be rid of his nephew. But still…

Glozelle wanted his sister to be happy. He wanted her to be safe. In order for her to be both of these things, the child she carried had to be born both alive and male—a dead son would not ensure her safety, and neither would a living daughter. But at the same time, neither did he wish for Prince Caspian to die. He was… tired, tired of being called upon by Miraz to kill anyone who inconvenienced him. This would be the first time he was called upon to murder a child, as well. An amiable, good-hearted child, utterly unsuited to the life of the Telmarine court, and certainly not someone who would be expecting to be killed.

Miraz would not hesitate to have Caspian killed, not if he was given a son who could help him displace the unprotected Prince.

Another cry, low and baying, more like the sound of a sheep than a woman, echoed in the antechamber. One of the midwife's apprentices came rushing out, grabbed a few towels, and disappeared back inside the birthing chamber without sparing a glance for the Lady's brother or father.

Speaking of their father…

"How are you?" Scythley's voice barley made a dent in the awkward silence that existed between Prunaprismia's gasping moans. Not being a young man, he sat on a wooden bench pressed up against the wall. For himself, Glozelle stood by the window. He was here to deliver news of the birth, and of the child's sex, to Miraz. If he had a choice, he wouldn't be here at all.

He turned to his father, and answered "Well." Father and son had never been close. Scythley had been consumed by his work and his duty, and so Glozelle had been as well. They had never had much to say to one another.

The birth seemed to go on forever, at least to Glozelle. He wondered, in the intervening moments, at all the things that could go wrong. Upon learning that his wife had gone into labor, Miraz had informed Glozelle of how Caspian was to be killed if the child born was a living boy. He wanted Caspian to be shot in his bed. Not poisoned, nor killed as the result of an "accident." He wanted Caspian shot in his bed, with no allowances for the boy surviving his injuries—that meant multiple soldiers, shooting from multiple angles.

Glozelle could think of a number of ways in which this could go wrong. What if the Prince was able to cry out before his death? What if, by some miracle, he survived, and could name his attackers? What if someone saw the state of his bed? What if someone saw the state of his corpse? Glozelle had chosen soldiers upon whom he felt he could rely to be discreet, but what if one of them talked? If any of this information got out, it would all lead back to Miraz. Didn't he know that?

And what will the Prince's eyes look like, when he lies dead? What will his body look like, full of bolts from the crossbows?

Finally, the midwife emerged from the birthing chamber. Her brow was slick and shining with sweat, and her hands were flecked with blood, but she looked jubilant, and Glozelle knew, even before opened her mouth, what she would say.

"The Lady has given birth to a hale and hearty son."

With that information in mind, Glozelle knew where he was wanted.

Glozelle went down stairs after flight of stairs, and eventually found himself at the heavy door of the chamber where he knew he would find Lord Miraz. He paused for a moment, staring down at the floor. His sister had a healthy son. He had a healthy nephew. This news brought him no joy, nonetheless. With a sigh he gently pushed the door open, stepped inside, and bowed briefly.

Miraz stood at the window, fully dressed, staring out at the stars. Anyone else would have guessed that he did not realize that he was no longer alone in the room, but Glozelle knew better. He saw the Lord Protector's back stiffen. He saw his shoulders straighten. He anticipated the news his general had brought him.

"Lord Miraz?" A beat. "You have a son."

Outside, through the open casement, Glozelle could see one star pass over another in the course of an eclipse. In that same moment, Miraz sighed deeply. "The heavens have blessed us," he said softly. Glozelle shifted his weight from one foot to the other, and Miraz seemed to sense his indecision. "You know your orders." He turned his head to look at him out of one eye. "General Glozelle?"

Once again, Glozelle wondered exactly what was solved by killing Prince Caspian.

The boy was affable and eager to please those who treated him well. Had Miraz done more to cultivate his nephew's good will and affection, instead of distancing himself from Caspian and playing the stern, distant, perpetually disappointed father figure whenever they interacted, Miraz wouldn't have needed to kill him.

Instead, when Caspian came of age to rule, Miraz could have manipulated the situation so that Caspian was so reliant on him that the young King would have been little more than a puppet ruler, subject to the whims and wants of his uncle. Miraz would have been shielded from the displeasure of the people in that position as well, so long as he kept his manipulation of his nephew subtle. When the taxes rose, when the crops failed, when bandits came across the border and burned frontier towns to the ground, it would be Caspian who was blamed, not Miraz.

But no. Miraz wanted to be king, wanted to be seen to be king, and wanted his son to be king after him far too badly for this sort of scenario to have ever played out successfully. We Telmarines would have had nothing had we not taken it. This is just that singular truth playing out, all over again.

In that moment, Glozelle felt sorry for his sister, felt sorry for the baby who had just been born in the birthing chamber above, felt sorry for himself, and most of all felt sorry for the boy whose death order had just been given because he had been born to Caspian the Ninth, and not to Miraz. There were so many things that could have been done that would have made this night completely unnecessary, even in Miraz's eyes. There were so many other things that should have happened.

He said none of this. Glozelle felt his throat constrict and his stomach churn, felt the weariness of living life as Miraz's enforcer and assassin settle ever more heavily on his shoulders, but he did not protest. He did not make a plea for the Prince's life. "Yes, my Lord," he said instead, having to swallow on his protests.

Later, after his and his men's crossbows were exhausted of their bolts, though Glozelle knew it would create a great deal of trouble for himself, when he looked through the tattered bed hangings and realized that the Prince's bed was empty, he felt relieved.

-0-0-0-

"First our Prince; now, his tutor. If the members of Miraz's own house are not safe, are any of us?"

It was not hard for Glozelle to imagine that those words of Sopespian's, spoken in an undertone in a corridor, after Doctor Cornelius, the vanished Prince's tutor, was taken away in chains, were meant to needle him directly. Sopespian had always had a knack for finding exactly the right place to jab a verbal knife into others. Glozelle would be the right person for him to remind about "the members of Miraz's own house." Up until now, Miraz had been his favorite target, but perhaps he was thinking of expanding upon his list of targets.

"Lord Sopespian?!" Miraz called for Sopespian from Cornelius's library.

Still looking in the direction of the doctor's library, Glozelle muttered, "Those are dangerous words, Lord Sopespian." While he did not cherish any special liking for this particular Lord of the Council, he did not think it fitting to send Sopespian on his way, with the thoughts he obviously had brewing in his mind (treason, perhaps? Or just needling Miraz into one slip too many?) without reminding him of what he would be walking into if he couldn't worm his way out of trouble.

For once, Sopespian did not smile when he opened his mouth to speak. Instead, he looked deadly serious as he replied, "But these are dangerous times, General. One should choose his words as carefully as he chooses his friends."

Glozelle said nothing, as the two of them went back into Cornelius's library, and Sopespian and Miraz had a very tense, almost acrimonious discussion about bridge-building, of all things, before Glozelle was sent off to take more men to Beruna to finish the building of the bridge across the river. He knew how Sopespian and the other Lords of the Council saw him. To them, he was Miraz's dog. Always loyal, always on hand to do his master's bidding. But perhaps, Sopespian thought, that dog might turn on his master, if the price was right, if he was offered enough a great enough inducement.

It was true that Glozelle had long since ceased to derive any enjoyment from serving Miraz. He hadn't enjoyed it since he'd realized that Miraz would always call on him first to kill a man who was not expecting a fight, a man who had done nothing more than antagonize the Lord Protector. He hadn't enjoyed it since he'd stopped knowing whether his advancements in the army were earned on his own merit, or thanks to Miraz's trying to keep him quiet about the things he had done for him.

But he was still a soldier, and he answered to Miraz, whether he liked it or not. Glozelle wasn't willing to turn on him. Not yet.

-0-0-0-

One night soon thereafter at Beruna, the Narnians came. They were as ghosts in the night; they came, took what they wanted, and left, leaving only several empty supply wagons and a message scratched in the wood ("You were right to fear the woods. X.") as proof that they were even there at all. Glozelle had lost none of his men in this raid, something to be thankful for. But that relief paled in comparison to the humiliation that awaited when Miraz and Sopespian arrived to hear of the situation directly from him.

"I apologize, my Lord," Glozelle said quickly, once Miraz read the message that had been left for him, and his face darkened accordingly. "The blame is mine." No use getting the other soldiers involved in this affair; given what Miraz could be like when his temper was provoked, it was better to shield the others, especially since most of them were new and green and had little to no knowledge of the creatures lurking in the woods.

Miraz nodded, his jaw working furiously. "I know. Tell me, General…" He took Glozelle's sword out of the other man's hand, and unsheathed it. Glozelle cast a wary glance down at the naked blade. "How many men did you lose?"

"None, my Lord." Glozelle frowned. He had already told Miraz this; he couldn't have forgotten that so quickly, surely.

"None?"

"They came like ghosts, in the dead of night. We never saw them."

"Then how do you explain your injuries?" Miraz asked, voice low.

It was at that moment that Glozelle started to realize the direction in which the conversation was heading. He looked to Sopespian, who was standing at Miraz's left hand side, for support, but Sopespian was smirking, clearly enjoying the display too much to intervene. A moment later, Glozelle was left reeling from the blow dealt by Miraz striking him square on the mouth with the hilt of his own sword. Glozelle, tasting blood in his mouth, forced himself to ignore his own anger, boiling up in his throat, and Sopespian's smirking, and the uncomfortable shifting of the three soldiers who stood directly behind him.

"I asked…" Miraz behaved as though he had never just struck his general with a sword hilt as he went on "…how many men were killed during this bloody Narnian attack?" His eyes were hard, and piercing as he handed Glozelle's sword back to him. "Of which you were a fortunate survivor?"

Glozelle gaped at him, shocked. Surely Miraz wasn't suggesting…

"General? How many?"

But there he was, and he was indeed making that suggestion to him.

Glozelle looked around to the three young soldiers who stared, apprehensive and nervous, at their commanding officer, and then turned back to meet Miraz's gaze. There was the slightest implication of a smile on Miraz's face, but his eyes were cold as ice, and burning like coals. This was obviously not a request. "Three," he answered, never taking his eyes off of Miraz as he walked away.

"I apologize, Lord Sopespian," Miraz said to Sopespian, as he approached his horse. "Caspian is not a victim of this savage uprising. He is the instigator. It seems we are in need of a new king," he remarked, some odd elation in his voice, as he began to ride away.

And as for Glozelle, he turned about to face the three soldiers who had been with him during Miraz's interrogation, sword in hand.

He followed orders. He might not have liked it. But a soldier always followed the orders of his lord, no matter what those orders might be. He would not turn on Miraz. Not yet.

-0-0-0-

On another night, the Narnians came in the dark, but this time, they came to the capital, and they came not to steal, but to kill.

Caspian was here, along with three other humans close to his age; the four of them seemed to be the leaders of the Narnians. It was odd, it occurred to Glozelle, that the Narnians had taken humans on as their leaders instead of simply killing them as they normally did to every human they encountered, but that was not what was on his mind now. He was a little more absorbed with the battle that was going on in the courtyard.

Young Prince Caspian had acquitted himself well, far better than Glozelle had expected him to. The general had not had much to do with Caspian's education in the art of war, but he had suspected that even if the Prince was the most skilled swordsman in the kingdom, that kind-heartedness of his would prevent him from functioning as an effective warrior. Tonight, however, Glozelle was proved wrong. From what he saw of the Prince during the battle down in the courtyard, Caspian was able of putting that kind-heartedness aside in order to defend his own life, and in order to further a cause.

Unfortunately for Caspian, that cause was going to be crippled tonight. The Narnians were outmatched, and about to be trapped in the courtyard. There were archers stationed on the walls with crossbows, ready to fire, but Glozelle wasn't quite ready to give them the signal to fire. Not all of the men were out yet…

"Give the order."

Glozelle looked over at Miraz, a familiar sensation coming over him: that of his blood running cold. The Narnians were still in retreat, having the good sense to get out while one of their Minotaurs was still holding the portcullis up on its shoulders, but the fighting was still thick and many Telmarine soldiers were still doing battle down in the courtyard. If those up on the ramparts opened fire now, they'd be killed. "My men are still down there," he protested, praying that Miraz wouldn't force the issue.

From the presence of Prince Caspian down in the courtyard, Glozelle suspected that he knew why Miraz wanted the order given now, and not later. Yes, Miraz would order the death of individual soldiers to advance his own cause, but surely he wouldn't kill dozens of his own soldiers, just to get at one enemy. Wouldn't he?

Miraz soon proved Glozelle wrong. He turned about and took the crossbow out of Glozelle's hands; it didn't occur to him to tighten his grip in the second it took for Miraz to appropriate the weapon. "Now!" Miraz shouted, taking aim and shooting at the Minotaur holding up the portcullis.

In the moments that followed, the courtyard became a slaughterhouse, indiscriminate of race. The Minotaur holding the portcullis on its shoulders was slain, and the portcullis fell. Narnians and Telmarines alike rushed to it, uncaring now of the enmity between them, trying to climb over it or hide beneath the bodies of the slain.

When the morning came, and there was light to aid Glozelle in looking upon what had happened, he felt sick. Not only because of all the Telmarine soldiers who had died, but more because of who had ordered their deaths, and because he himself had done nothing to stop it.

-0-0-0-

After this incident, in which many could attest that they saw the young Prince Caspian among those who had so savagely attacked the very heart of New Telmar, there was no longer any obstacle in the way of Miraz's accession to the throne. Caspian was declared a traitor to the Crown and disinherited; Miraz was the only remaining heir after that, and as he was of an age to assume the throne, that he did.

Beruna, Galma and Ettinsmoor all pledged their troops to the cause of crushing the Narnian rebellion against Telmarine authority; it would take the soldiers from the latter two sites a few days at least to arrive at Beruna, where the main army was massing. There was also news from the Calormene ambassador that the Tisroc had agreed to send troops to aid the Telmarines in their cause; the animosity between the Calormenes and the Narnians was an old one, and the former was eager to help crush the latter.

Miraz crossed the floor of the council chamber slowly, weighed down as he was by a heavy fur-lined cloak. Glozelle watched, stone-silent, at the foot of the dais upon which the throne was seated, as the new King was crowned (by Sopespian, of all people; then again, Sopespian's family had held the right to coronate the King or Queen of New Telmar since its inception), and walked up the dais to assume the throne.

Standing across from him, Sopespian's face was a perfect mask, but as the two exchanged a look, the councilor's eyes were almost anxious. At that moment, an understanding existed between the two of them.

Now, Glozelle was willing to turn on his master, on his King. If in the process his sister became a widow, and his nephew a fatherless child, then so be it—he would do his best to protect them himself, but Miraz could be in power no longer. This man had no caring for the lives of his people. That was clear to him now.

Miraz took his seat on the throne of New Telmar. Glozelle, Sopespian, and every other Lord in the room bowed to their new King.

-0-0-0-

Prince Edmund—or rather, King Edmund, as he had firmly corrected his opposite—was just a boy. He was at least a few years younger than Caspian, with a smooth, pale face and, even in the archaic armor he wore, was as slender as a young girl. But he was shrewd. Glozelle could see that this boy, who claimed to be one of the Narnian kings of old, was a shrewd young man. Edmund, whoever he was, was shrewd and cunning. That was obvious in how he opened the way for the Lords present to manipulate Miraz into accepting King Peter's offer of a duel.

No one was particularly surprised when Sopespian started trying to needle Miraz into accepting the duel. Over the years, Sopespian had shown himself to delight in inciting arguments and bruising egos.

However, Miraz got a decidedly betrayed look on his face when Glozelle drove the point home from the far side of the tent, and everyone else, even Edmund, who did not know him and had no reason to know that it wasn't characteristic of him to speak unless necessary during such meetings, looked surprised.

Glozelle remembered all the Telmarine soldiers dead in the courtyard, and did not feel even the slightest ounce of guilt over this perceived act of "betrayal."

-0-0-0-

As far as the art of warfare went, Miraz was out of practice and past his prime, and it showed painfully during his duel with the Narnians' High King. The leader of the Narnian resistance, Peter, was a tall, yellow-haired youth, around the same age or perhaps slightly older than Caspian. Like his brother, he wore a tunic so bright a shade of red that it seemed to hurt the eyes, and when his helmet was knocked off during the duel, his face beneath showed naked bloodlust.

Miraz lost his temper quickly, and resorted to slamming his foot down on Peter's shield while the latter was on the ground, either dislocating or breaking his shield arm. This was an illegal move in Telmarine duels; duelists were not supposed to attack their opponents while they were on the ground. Glozelle's lips thinned, but he said nothing. Miraz would not have appreciated the interruption, and as Caspian did not arrive until a few moments after this happened, the Narnians did not have anyone on their side at the time who was aware of the fine details of Telmarine duel regulations.

"How does he look to you?"

"Young."

"But his Majesty's doing extremely well…" Glozelle tugged viciously on the bandage he was wrapping around Miraz's leg "…for his age."

After a few minutes respite, the duel resumed again. Miraz's wounded pride and short temper were showing quite clearly now, as was both his and his opponent's exhaustion. His loss of composure led to him attacking Peter after another respite was called, which led to Miraz on his knees in front of the Narnian High King, bleeding profusely from a wound at his right armpit, at the gap between two segments of armor.

For a few moments, Peter stood in front of Miraz, holding Miraz's own sword in his hand as if to behead the Telmarine King.

Then, he turned around, and offered that same sword to Caspian.

Glozelle watched, barely realizing how he held his breath, as Caspian took the sword offered to him by Peter, and stepped out in front of his uncle, the sword poised, ready to strike.

After everything his uncle had put him through, and would likely continue to put him through if they both lived through this day, no one, least of all Glozelle, would have blamed Caspian if he chose to kill Miraz now. Caspian had the right of vengeance; Miraz had, after all, killed his father, and Telmarine society offered a son the right to kill the person who had murdered his father, without fear of prosecution.

"Perhaps I was wrong," Glozelle heard Miraz murmur thoughtfully. "Perhaps you do have the makings of a Telmarine King after all."

Caspian swallowed hard. Then, he screamed.

Then, the sword he held in his hand was plunged into the earth in front of Miraz, not in his throat.

"Not one like you," Caspian half-whispered, his voice shaking. "Keep your life," he said in more normal tones, "but I am giving the Narnians back their kingdom." Straightening, Caspian looked long upon the Telmarine Marshals of the Lists, clear-eyed and tall, before he returned to the side of the Narnians. Edmund clapped him on the back, and the Narnians cheered with reckless abandon, clearly elated at his show of mercy, despite all that Miraz had done to them as well.

Glozelle stared at him, for a moment forgetting where he was, feeling as though his heart had stopped dead in his chest.

When he was a young man, one of the Lords on the border with Archenland was overcome by dynastic ambitions, and called up a couple hundred Archenland mercenaries in order to throw New Telmar into rebellion.

As was tradition, the King or Crown Prince was not expected to ride into war, unless in the case of open rebellion against their authority. As the King had been ill during that time, Caspian, Ninth of his name, who had then still been the Crown Prince, rode into battle against the rebellious Lord. Glozelle was one of the many foot soldiers who served under him in the interest of crushing this rebellion.

The enemy forces were routed, the majority of the mercenaries killed, and those who were still alive left scrambling over the border back into the lands were they were safe. The Lord survived the battle, and was brought before the Crown Prince in chains. Crown Prince Caspian was offered the chance to kill the rebellious Lord, but instead, he sent him over the border to Archenland, banishing him and denying him the right to ever set foot in New Telmar again.

It wasn't the smart thing to do. It wasn't the pragmatic thing to do. It wasn't the 'Telmarine' thing to do. It was only luck on the Crown Prince's part that the rebellious Lord was never able to rally support in Archenland and return with another army. But Glozelle had only been one of many men who forgot himself and cheered until he was so hoarse that he could not speak normally for two days afterwards. The soldiers with the Crown Prince then had been elated to bear witness to such a display of royal magnanimity.

Glozelle wondered what it was he wanted to do more, in that moment. Cheer, as he had as a young man, cheer as the Narnians were doing right now, regardless of his reputation and loyalties. Or perhaps he simply wanted to weep like a child, crying and not knowing why.

Maybe he would have done both, had not Sopespian given him a tap on the shoulder and a nod of the head, conveying It's time.

He would have liked to know.

-0-0-0-

In the end, Miraz, King of New Telmar, met an ignominious fate, stabbed to death with a Narnian arrow, by one of his own councilors, the very man who had crowned him not even a week earlier. But for his General, this mattered little. All that mattered was that today, New Telmar faced either victory or death.

The fighting had been going on for nearly an hour now. A stray arrow had left Glozelle in the trench created by the Narnians, thrown from the back of his horse. A cut stung at his eyelid and the skin around his eye, but he barely noticed this, and instead, halberd in hand, did what he did best, and killed enemy soldiers.

Then, he laid eyes on young Prince Caspian.

The boy had clearly fallen into the trench. He was lying flat on his back, dazed, his sword gone. Glozelle charged at him, howling like an animal. But then, the halberd inches away from Caspian's chest, he stopped.

The boy had tried to scramble away, but Caspian seemed to have realized that this was a futile exercise and simply laid on the ground, sitting up, his eyes full of fear. Glozelle could see himself reflected in the Prince's eyes, a wild man covered with dust and blood.

He stared at the Prince, feeling every heartbeat like a hammer stroke upon his chest.

Whatever direction Sopespian's scheming was heading in, Glozelle could be fairly certain that it did not end with Prince Caspian on the throne as King Caspian, Tenth of his name. He suspected that it would end with Caspian dead. And Glozelle knew that if Caspian was put on the throne, the Narnians would be in a position of power, and he, the top enforcer of a hated regime, would not fare well. Nor would his sister, nor his nephew.

But then, it occurred to Glozelle that he had been complicit in the deaths of many men before this one, men who had been unarmed, who hadn't been expecting to die. Men who hadn't deserved to die. It occurred to him that Miraz was dead, and could no longer order him to kill men who didn't deserve to die. It occurred to him that his hands were stained with enough unjustly shed blood already, and that he was tired of washing them with blood anew.

He drew a deep breath. Then, Glozelle lowered his halberd to the ground.

In a moment, Glozelle would be knocked unconscious by something that attacked him from behind. And in a few hours, when he woke up, he would do so as the general of a defeated army in total surrender. But he felt more like a free man than he had in a very long time, all the same.

And he would not relinquish that feeling for all the world.

-0-0-0-

"Your ancestors were sea-faring brigands, pirates run aground on an island. There they found a cave, a rare chasm that brought them here from their world. It is to that island I can return you. It is a good place for any who wish to make a new start."

Thus the Lion spoke. He was a great creature, who stood head and shoulders with a man. For at least one in the crowd, those words filled him with hope.

"I will go. I will accept the offer."

Glozelle knew that life would be hard, if he did this.

But after everything, a new start was worth all the hardships that would come with it. More than worth it.