Disclaimer: I do not own any of CS Lewis' books or characters or actors that play the characters.

Notes: This is totally AU from the books and movies, yet still maintains many elements from both, so sorry if this is confusing or weird.

Thanks to everyone who reviewed my story! Your kind words inspire me greatly.

WARNINGS: this story contains slash as well as several dark themes, such as non-consensual sex, violence, slavery, etc.

Chapter 3

It wasn't Miraz's own bedchamber, of course. No one but his most trusted guards, valet, and sometimes his wife were allowed in the king's private bedroom. They put Peter in the room that was reserved for the king's illicit affairs, where many other young men and women had been subject to the king's "love."

The Narnian boy was utterly confused and, though he tried not to show it, afraid. He had no idea what was going to happen to him, or what he was supposed to do when the ushered him in.

The room was rather nice though. There was a bed in the center of the room, twice as big as his own back at home. The covers were made of some pale green brocade and he dared not sit on them, lest he soiled them with his clothes. Instead, he sat at the small table where a silver flagon of wine rested, along with two cups. He didn't touch that either.

He at first thought that the guards were taking him to either be killed or punished for assaulting the prince the day before, but since this didn't quite look like a torture chamber, Peter figured he would be allowed to live. For awhile, at least.

When he looked out the window, to see if there was some manner of escape, he was sorely disappointed. It seemed as if his captor, whoever it was, had taken pains to ensure he would stay put. The room was extremely high up and there was a sheer drop to the ground below. Two armed Telmarine guards stood underneath the window, and they had hounds with them.

So, he sat and twisted his hands anxiously. He was all too aware of the stench of smoke and sweat on his skin, the dirt and grime that were caked on his clothes. Four days of such labor had made him incredibly filthy. He thought he must seem horribly out of place among things so refined.

The door opening startled him and he stood, not knowing what to expect. In walked a man, a dark, bearded man. The first thing Peter noticed was the eyes. He had never seen such cold, black eyes. He felt his stomach drop as the glittering beads focused on him, scrutinizing him from head to toe. Shrewd, with no inkling of pity or love. The second thing he noticed was the robes, velvet and ermine, richly dyed. This man must be of some importance in the Telmarine court.

The man gave him a short look and shut the door behind him; Peter heard the latch click. His pulse quickened as he realized now, that there was truly no way out.

Before Peter could say anything the man took a step towards him and his beak-like nose wrinkled in revulsion. "Did they not clean you up?" said the Telmarine stranger with a look of disgust at Peter's clothes.

"Who are you?" said Peter standing behind a chair, gripping the back of it as if to shield himself from the stranger.

The man gave a rather dangerous chuckle. "Do you not recognize your own king?"

"Miraz!" Peter murmured, his eyes widening. This was the one, the tyrant, the king. The one who killed his father, his friends, Narnians, free people. When the Telmarines had attacked his village when he was only thirteen, in the name of the king, they said, his young mind had conjured up some sort of horrible monster. A fire-belching, ten-foot-tall demon from another world was what Peter had envisioned the king to be, all his life. Fear and hatred had been his only sentiments.

But now, in this quiet chamber, he realized that Miraz the Monster, Miraz the Demon was no more than just a man. Not even so remarkable a man, he was. How could this person, not even as evil-looking and powerful as Peter imagined him to be, have had the stomach to do such terrible things? Was he not flesh and blood, himself?

"And this is how you would address your king, boy?" said the man, and Peter felt all the pain and horror he had suffered because of this man, gather up in his chest and threaten to break forth.

"You," Peter hissed, "are not my king!"

Miraz stared at Peter for a moment, and then laughed, as if highly amused. "Of course. You Narnians have no love for me, this I know. Come," he gestured. "Sit, sit."

"What do you want with me?" Peter asked, angrily. "Why have I been brought here?"

"You will know soon enough," said Miraz. "Sit." This time, it was not a request but an order.

Peter, for a loss of what else to do, obeyed and Miraz sat down opposite him. Nonchalantly, casually, the king poured a cup of wine from the flagon and slid it across the table to his "guest.," who recoiled slightly.

"Drink. It's not poisoned, I assure you. I only poison members of my own family," Miraz said drolly, with a twist of the lips that can hardly be called a smile. And the king took some wine as well. Peter saw him swallow, saw the sickly pink tongue dart out and lick at the moistened lips and the boy shivered.

"What do you want with me?" Peter asked again, hating that his voice trembled slightly. It felt wrong, so wrong. Why was he here? Why did the king watch him with such hungry eyes?

"Drink," said the king simply never losing his smile, and he watched Peter as a vulture would watch a dying animal.

His throat was so parched. Breathing heavily through his nose, Peter looked down at the cup. It looked innocent enough. He snatched it up and gulped it.

"Good," said Miraz, his voice sticky and sweet like too much honey. Honey, so sticky, like mire. Peter felt hot and his throat was uncomfortably tight. His hand fell loosely to his side and the cup clattered to the floor. Mired, trapped.

His eyelids had started to droop, but they snapped open wide in shock when a heavily-ringed hand reached from across the table and stroked his flushed face. Miraz's thumb brushed across a smooth cheekbone and Peter's breath came out in a harsh whoosh, his mouth dropping open. His body froze with shock.

"Tell me, boy," said Miraz, his tone suggestive and sensual, "have you ever been with a man before?"

"Wh-what are you doing?" Peter stammered. He was shaking, his hands clenching into themselves. No, no! He couldn't, he wouldn't mean to… The wine was so sweet, so terribly sweet in his mouth.

"Oh, I think you know," drawled the king, and his long fingers slid down to gently stroke the boy's neck, pushing down the fabric of the shirt to expose the collarbone. Peter's mouth and eyes were wide in disbelief as the nauseous feeling of horror coiled around his stomach. His body had already recognized what his mind was refusing to, what the king was intending to do.

"Have you ever wondered, fair boy, what it's like to be with a king?" said Miraz, rolling his tongue over each syllable, his smile twisting into a leer. While the king's left hand played with the skin on Peter's throat, the boy felt the king's other hand reach under the table and lay against his thigh.

"Don't touch me!" he gasped, jerking away and standing so quickly his chair fell over with a dull thump. He almost fell over, himself. His head was dizzy and he thought he would be sick. He stumbled backwards, trying to put as much distance as he could between him and the king.

"Feisty," remarked Miraz, slowly rising from his seat and walking steadily towards Peter. "That will be taken care of, in time."

Peter backed up until he felt his back hit the wall. He shook his head, trying to clear his swimming vision as Miraz advanced on him. When the king held out his hand again, the long, spindly digits like a spider's limbs, Peter panicked and lashed out, blindly. There was a brief struggle as Miraz tried to grab him, and then Peter felt his fist connect.

The king staggered back in shock, his hand going to his mouth. His ringed fingers came away bloody.

"Why, you…" he growled, so angry he couldn't speak. He raised his arm and back-handed Peter so hard the boy crashed into the wall and fell to the floor with a groan.

In an instant, the two guards that were stationed outside of the room came barging in. "My liege, we heard a struggle-" one of them said, and stopped in shock as he beheld his king with a cut lip and a bruised cheek. Miraz let out a wordless snarl and pointed a threatening finger at Peter, who was trying to get up.

"I want you to take this miserable wretch outside and teach him a lesson," Miraz snapped. At the king's orders the two guards went to Peter and hoisted him up. There was almost no resistance as they dragged the almost-unconscious boy from the room.

As Peter was pulled, stumbling, out of the chamber, he heard Miraz call after them, "Don't mark his face!"

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Caspian knew he should not have been sneaking around that part of the castle. The few times he had wandered there, out of curiosity, he had been caught and confined to his room, as punishment. He did not relish being caught again, but he longed to see the boy, the one with the captivating blue eyes. What was it about the Narnian slave that had him so enthralled? All he could think about were cornflower-blue eyes and hair the color of wheat.

He knew the general area where the Narnian captives were usually kept and worked. Ducking through a stone colonnade, he crouched down to avoid two soldiers on patrol, and crept on when they left.

Caspian crossed the lawns and terraces, going deeper and deeper until he reached the inner courtyard. Staying close to a wall, the prince observed many sentries on duty, overseeing the few workers that had not retired yet for the day. He kept an eye peeled for a certain Narnian boy, but did not see him.

He walked a bit way off, towards the prisoners' quarters, and that's when he heard it. A cracking sound and a soft cry of pain. Then it came again. THWACK, and a cry. A shuddering sigh.

Quietly, Caspian crept towards the sound. Around a massive stone column, he wound his way and came upon a smaller courtyard, surrounded by buildings which usually housed prisoners of war. Then, he saw the horrible source of the sound.

It was dark but he saw everything with terrible clarity. The blonde boy was tied to a wooden post, his clothes and shoes strewn across the ground. He was nude, his arms stretched painfully above his head, bound with leather straps. The pale skin of his back, buttocks, and thighs was covered with red strips.

There were two Telmarine soldiers that Caspian recognized as his uncle's personal guard. One of them stood off to the side while the other stood before the naked boy's back, with what Caspian saw to be a birch rod in his hand.

The prince stared, stock-still, as the soldier plunged the bundle of birch switches into a nearby barrel of water. Lifting it out, dripping wet, the soldier swung the heavy rod at the naked boy. Caspian's eyes widened as he saw the rod fly through the air and strike the body, saw the youth recoil with a gasp, his hands and feet flexing helplessly as each individual switch sank into vulnerable flesh, biting into the skin, leaving behind yet another score of painful welts.

The Narnian boy released his breath in a tremulous sigh and Caspian could see his legs shaking, fighting to bear his weight as he gritted his teeth to stave off the tears. It was when the soldier was raising the birch for another strike that the prince snapped out of his stupor.

"Stop it!" he cried, stalking forward. "Stop it at once! What do you think you're doing? Let him down immediately!" Both of the soldiers looked up, startled.

"Prince Caspian!" said the one without the rod. "You should not be here, your majesty. If the king knew…"

"I will deal with whatever the king has to say to me, soldier. Now, let him down!"

The prince started as if to release the boy himself, but the soldier moved to block his path. "I'm sorry you had to witness this, your majesty. Such an ugly affair, but it is simply a matter of discipline."

"Discipline?" Caspian cried unbelievingly. He glanced at the boy, who was now hanging from his bonds, his head buried in his arms. The blond head rose slightly to reveal a tear-streaked face. The watery blue eyes looked upon Caspian and the prince could see shoulders shaking. The cheeks were flushed red with pain as well as humiliation at being so exposed.

"What," said Caspian through gritted teeth, "could he possibly have done to warrant such…discipline? No, sir, this is torture."

"I'm sorry, my prince," said the soldier in front of him, and he lay a restraining arm on Caspian's shoulder. "The slave's offence is with his majesty, the king. It is under the king's orders that he is treated thus."

Another THWACK, from the soldier that had not paused in his task. "Aagh!" a soft cry, torn from the boy's mouth. A thin thread of red saliva was dripping from his lips, where he had bitten himself bloody. The prince was shaking in fury.

"I demand that you release him!" said Caspian, shaking off the patronizing hand. "Am I not your prince!?"

"My prince Caspian," said a voice from behind him, and Caspian spun around to see General Glozelle standing at the entrance to the courtyard, a very grim expression on his face.

"Come, my prince," said Glozelle, walking towards him and gripping his arm. The hold was not tight, but Caspian could feel the firmness and strength behind the grip and knew that he was expected to obey. "It is time you returned to your chambers. Let us leave these soldiers to their duties."

Caspian found himself being led away, rather forcefully, by the good general. It was against the law to strike the prince, but Caspian had no doubt the general would resort to wrestling him out of there by force if he had to. He craned his head around to catch one last glimpse of the Narnian boy. All he heard was a quivering sob, so quiet, helpless in the dark.

They walked in silence, their booted feet making the only sound in the stillness of the dusk. It was only when they left that particular part of the castle that Caspian pulled his arm free with a jerk and glared at the general.

"What was the meaning of that?" demanded Caspian, breathing hard, his fists clenched. "Did you not see what they were doing? How could you have let that continue?"

"That," said the General sternly, "is something you never should have seen. There are reasons why your uncle prohibited you from visiting those parts of the castle!"

"What are you-" Caspian started. He looked at Glozelle as if seeing him for the first time, the lines in his face, testament to the burdens he had to bear.

"General, you have been my teacher and my guardian all these years. You know I honor the Telmarine law like no other, but please, tell me. What is it that my uncle would keep from me? What goes on in these walls?"

The general sighed and Caspian thought that he looked weary, so weary. "These are not the kind of questions you should be asking."

"All my life people have told me that," said Caspian bitterly. "Please, general, tell me, if you have ever been my friend. What is going on in this castle? Why was that Narnian being treated so cruelly?"

"I cannot answer that, Prince Caspian. You must never wander there by yourself again. And never, ever, go against an order made by your uncle. If he feels the need to discipline," Caspian snorted at the word, "one of his subjects, then you must not get in the way. For your own sake." And Glozelle walked away, leaving Caspian frustrated, seeking answers but finding none, and worrying, wishing, to see the other boy again.

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Edmund slammed the cupboard shut, sighing. Nothing but dust and a cobweb. He picked up the last loaf of stale bread. He cut it in half with the kitchen knife, wincing at the crackling, crumbling noises that food should never make. He looked over at Lucy, sitting at the table with Thomas-Bear clutched in her arms, looking at him with large, hopeful eyes.

He sighed again. He put each bread half into a bowl and poured water over them from a pitcher. Taking a wooden spoon, he pounded away at the stale mess until the water softened it into a sickly gruel.

Edmund carried the two bowls over to Lucy and plunked one of them down in front of her, scowling when the little girl looked at it mournfully, then back up at him.

"There's no use scoffing at it," said Edmund impatiently, thrusting a spoon at her. "It's all we've got left."

Lucy lowered her eyes and obediently took the offered spoon, started scooping up her dinner. They ate silently in the dark. No candles to be spared. It was cold and drafty, though all the windows were boarded up, as well as the door, which had been broken that fateful night they came and took his brother away.

Edmund looked up at a small whimper from Lucy. Her bottom lip was trembling, her eyes moist. "Where do you think Peter is?" she asked, in a small voice.

"How should I know?" mumbled Edmund, his shoulders slumping and his face twisted. There was no more talk for awhile.

It was when Edmund was rinsing off the two bowls and spoons in the wash basin later, that Lucy came over and gave him a hug. Her arms wrapped around his thin waist, her face pressed into his back, and her bear squashed awkwardly between their bodies. For a moment, his heart pounds and hot tears fill his eyes, but he forced them back.

"Get off, silly," he murmured quietly. He gives a little wriggle and she let go.

"I love you Edmund," Lucy whispered, her round face tilted up to look into his, and Edmund does not know what to say.

The sound of iron hooves striking the ground, loud and frightening, makes the children jump. Edmund drops what he's doing and rushes to the door. Throwing it open, he sees them, the Telmarine soldiers. His breath catches, and to his great shame, he does not have the courage to dash back into the house and take up his father's sword, like Peter was so willing to do. All the anger, heroic planning, and willingness to fight he had building up inside of him in the past, and now, he found that he was afraid, so afraid. Ashamedly, he found that without Peter by his side, strong and brave, he was just a boy.

The townspeople were coming out of their homes, staring forlornly at the newcomers. There was no outcry this time, no show of defiance, not when so many of their own had just died so recently.

The herald, a different one this time, rode his horse forward with a cocky gait, surveying the gray, weary faces of the villagers with the same disdain as did the herald before him.

"We have intelligence," he announced, "that this village is housing or protecting members of the Narnian Resistance. It is known throughout the land, that such an act against the king is highly illegal and punishable by death. Give up the enemies of the king, and no harm will come to this village. Continue to harbor these traitors, and these soldiers," he gestured to the ten armed men at his back, "will raze this place to the ground."

The villagers were silent, unmoving. Staring with dead, cold eyes, as if they had already accepted their fate.

"Well?" demanded the herald. "No value for your own sorry hides?"

It was a woman, pale and worn, who stepped up, and Edmund recognized her as the carpenter's wife. Her husband was killed during the previous raid.

"There is no one here," she spoke, her voice low and wan. "We do not house any member of the Lion's Army."

Leaning forward on his horse, the Telmarine struck her hard in the face and she fell down.

"Your pathetic lies will not save you," he snarled angrily. "Well?!" he asked facing the rest of the people, who shrank back. "Where are the Narnian traitors? Speak!"

When no one answered, the man smiled grimly and drew his sword with sickening screech of steel. "Then this village burns."

All of a sudden, the man jerked, as if he had been stung. His hand went to his throat, came away bloody, and Edmund gasped as he saw the arrow jutting out of the man's neck.

Slowly, the Telmarine herald fell off his horse, sideways, and crashed to the ground. The other then soldiers cried out in surprise, raising their crossbows and pointing them at the shocked villagers.

"Who was it!" one of them demanded. "Who shot him?!"

Another arrow whizzed through the air and buried itself in another Telmarine's back. The soldiers realized, too late, that the attack was coming from behind, and then, the newcomers were upon them. Narnian rebels, the Resistance that Miraz's men were so eager to stamp out, the Lion's Army.

Shouting their battle cries, about thirty armed men and women charged the Telmarines, some wielding bows and arrows, some wielding swords and daggers. The horsed soldiers taken utterly by surprised, and the clash of steel against steel rang out in the air, mingled with cries of violence. The battle was over in a matter of minutes.

There was only one survivor, the herald of the king, who was lying on the ground, still bleeding from the neck. As the villagers surged forward, cheering, and the Resistance also cheered at their small victory, one lone, helmed, figure walked over to the gasping man on the ground. Her riding kirtle was covered with chain mail, and she held a bow in her hand. It was she who had loosed the arrow that was now killing him.

"To our leader!" shouted one of the Narnian rebels raising his sword towards the woman, and the rest of them did the same, yelling and stamping their feet. She, however, was silent as she gazed down upon the dying man.

"Show… me…your…face, coward," gasped the Telmarine. Silently, she raised a pale arm, gripped her silver helm, drew it off. A wave of jet black hair fell to frame a pale face. So fair.

"It's you!" wheezed the herald, his eyes wide, before they rolled back in his head and he passed out.

The figure raised her head and Edmund felt his heart stop. This was no woman, no warrior, but a girl. A girl with blue eyes and features so like his own.

"Susan! It's Susan!" Lucy shrieked, and dashed from his side.

Susan dropped her bow and fell onto her knees, opening her arms wide as Lucy ran into them. Tears fell down her face as she embraced her little sister, rocking her back and forth as Lucy sobbed against her neck.

"Darling, oh Darling," Susan cried.

And Edmund, stubborn Edmund, who had promised himself over and over again, that he would hate Susan for leaving to join the Resistance, that he would show her no love if she ever returned, found himself running to her like a lost puppy.

Susan, who saw him coming, shifted Lucy to one side and embraced Edmund as he, also, fell on her neck, weeping as if his heart would break.

"Oh, Lamb," she whispered into his hair. "I'm home, I'm finally home."

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Thank you all so much for reading, and please comment to let me know what you think! Sorry there isn't much Caspian/Peter yet, but it's coming, I promise!