Disclaimer: I do not own any of CS Lewis' books or characters or actors that play the characters.
Warnings: This story will contain dark themes such as nonconsensual sex, slavery, violence, mild torture, etc.
WARNING: BAD STUFF HAPPENS TO PETER IN THIS CHAPTER!!
Chapter 11
The king entered the room, closing the door behind him with a click. No guards in the chamber with him, now that the captive was duly subdued. Miraz's mouth curled into a smile as he looked upon the figure on the bed, the tip of his tongue darting out as if he were a viper, licking the pink lips.
The Narnian boy lay on top of the green embroidered covers, limbs slack and sprawled out, eyes closed, mouth partly open. The golden hair was falling into the fair face, the tips of his bangs brushing against pale eyelids, the silky locks framing his head against the velvety green of the pillow.
The boy, though barefoot, was still clothed, shirt, trousers, and belt in place. That would change soon enough…
Like a deadly jungle cat, the king prowled over to the bed, where his lovely prey lay pale and helpless, like a sacrifice. Miraz's dark eyes scanned the length of the unconscious boy's body.
The king's lips parted, his teeth baring into a predatory grin. His hands moved to untie the knot at the waist of his gold and black dressing gown. Sensuously, languidly, Miraz rolled his shoulders and let the robe slide off his body and fall to the floor with a whisper of silk. He was nude underneath, all bronze skin and toned muscles.
One of the boy's calves was closest, and the king reached out and touched it, savoring the feel of the muscle underneath the cloth. His hand moved upwards along the leg, not pressing, not grabbing, just stroking. Miraz sighed lustfully, though he had yet to enjoy any carnal pleasures yet.
Peter moaned softly, his drug-addled head shifting slightly on the pillow as his body registered a strong hand traveling up his leg.
Miraz smiled, hand reaching between splayed thighs, fingers lightly trailing over groin and pelvis. Perverse pleasure made the king's blood grow hot at the confused noises Peter was making.
The ringed hand slid up to the waistband of the boy's trousers. Deft fingers languidly undid the ties. He didn't touch the flushed skin underneath, not yet. That was to be saved for later.
Miraz lowered himself onto the bed, his naked skin pressing into the cool sheets, making the mattress dip. Peter moaned again, tossing his head, brow wrinkling in mild distress. Miraz chuckled, knowing the senseless boy would not be able to put up much of a fight no matter what transpired. The medicine would do its job.
He slid a hand up the loose shirt, touching the bare flesh, laying a palm against the flat abdomen. Grinning, he plucked a tender nipple between two fingers, watching the unconscious boy flinch and squirm.
With one hand still underneath Peter's shirt, Miraz bent down and covered the plump, pink lips in a kiss. The sweet innocence of Narnian boy's quivering mouth was intoxicating. Miraz moaned obscenely, pushing his tongue in, violating the boy's mouth. The king's other hand came up to grasp the boy's cheek, the supple flesh yielding under his insisting fingertips.
As his other hand continued to stoke the boy's bare chest, Miraz withdrew his mouth, looking down at Peter's face, happy with what he saw. Peter's cheeks were flushed, his lips apart and gasping lightly for air.
Miraz bent back down to trail his tongue along Peter's neck, when the boy uttered a strained and broken plea, "Caspian…? Caspian, please…"
Miraz immediately froze, halting his ministrations.
Caspian!?
With a snarl of disgust he pushed himself off the boy, yanking his hand from the body as if repulsed. Caspian, Caspian, Caspian! His insufferable nephew, the bane of his life. Even now, in exile, the brat's existence plagued him. The king flung himself off the bed, arousal fading fast.
In the womb, that boy had tormented him, securing Miraz's brother's right to the throne. Through his childhood and teenage years, Caspian had ever been a challenge to his rule, the people favoring the soft-hearted prince. And now, his nephew's hated name was even on the helpless lips of the Narnian slave!
Angrily, Miraz yanked his robe back on. He glared over at the unconscious boy, his lust all but gone. Well, if threats, bribery, and drugs hadn't worked to help him sate his desire in the boy, perhaps some more forceful methods of persuasion might be employed.
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The bonfire was a liquid mass of heat and light, burning and burning, smoke reaching to the high heavens. The steady rhythm of stamping feet and hooves was like the heartbeat in her chest. The fauns were dancing, a wild, graceful dance, around the fire. Drums were beating, keeping each step in time. It was the night before the battle, the battle that would be remembered for all time.
The Narnians were chanting, beating their fists and feet in time to the haunting music. It was wilder than anything Susan had ever heard or seen. There were no humans present, only her, and what they called the True Narnians: beasts and creatures, children of the earth and the sky, Aslan's children.
It was a dance of war, a chant of vengeance. The rape of their land at the hands of the Telmarines would be finally avenged, after hundreds of years. Susan, Daughter of Eve, scion of kings and queens, though she did not know it yet, would lead them to victory. Tarva and Alambil, Lord and Lady of the heavens, would see it done.
As the last step of the wild dance ended, the fauns panting with exertion and their naked torsos glistening with sweat, Susan stood. The chanting stopped, and all was silent as the Narnians gathered around her. Her blue eyes seemed to glint black in the firelight. Her raven hair was unbound and wild.
"Narnians!" she called. "Tomorrow, we will meet the tyrant king on the battlefield. We will look upon him, and we shall know no fear!" The cheers arose, cries and hails, mingling with the stamping of feet and hooves.
"Flesh for flesh, blood for blood, life for life, we shall have our revenge!" she cried, lifting her bare arms up to the sky, and the following roar of the Lion's Army was deafening.
Edmund came to her that night. She woke when he entered her tent, his thin form looking lost and forlorn, silhouetted by the moon. Without a word, she held aside her blankets for him, and he crawled in, a lonely little boy. He fell asleep against her breast, her fingers stroking his soft hair.
Here, she thought, was something to fight for, something to live for. No thoughts of avenging the cold, dead land. Not for Susan, on the eve of battle. Just thoughts of keeping her family safe, of the warm body in her arms.
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With a terrific splash, the burly guard yanked up the head of blond hair and the boy, coughing and sputtering emerged from the tub of rancid water. Peter choked, mouth open and gasping, trying to draw in air.
He was on his knees, hands bound behind his back, bent over a wooden tub of icy cold water, dirty and stale. Before he could draw another breath, he was dunked in again, the meaty hand pushing him down, holding him under. He struggled, of course, panicking, even though he knew it would make it worse.
After what seemed like hours, he was pulled back up, cruel fingers yanking on his tresses. He coughed, gasped, heaved, the freezing liquid dripping from his nose and mouth. His sodden tresses covered his eyes, obscuring the sight of the dark king, sitting there and watching.
The elegant toe of a booted foot came forward and prodded him under the chin, lifting his head up so that he gazed blearily into the face of Miraz, sitting on the wooden chair before him. The king was watching him with interest and mild amusement as he shivered and wheezed pathetically.
The king was looking at him with a questioning look, a quirked lip and a raised brow. Peter stared back, glaring the best he could, ignoring the presence of the guard behind him.
Defiance, Miraz saw, clear and loud in those blue eyes. So be it then. He removed his foot, letting the boy's head drop back down to his heaving chest. Miraz nodded to the guard.
Peter was grabbed again, his head pushed back into the water, held down as he wriggled futilely, knees scraping on the rough floor of whatever dungeon he was in. He was drowning, his lungs burning. His eyesight was turning black.
With a mighty pull, the henchman pulled him upright again, and Peter coughed, gagging on the air, head lolling about as he struggled for breath. His lips were turning blue, his eyes red and swollen.
Miraz spoke, his voice echoing in Peter's throbbing ears. "You know you can end it. You know what I want. Why suffer like this, boy? Why?"
Peter closed his sore eyes, letting the muffled voice of his enemy slide over him as the water was sliding over him. He imagined that he was safe in his lover's arms, safe and warm, and it gave him strength.
Miraz sighed with the air of noble impatience. He gave a lazy gesture of his hand, and with another splash, the boy was pushed back down into the tub, the shoulders shaking uncontrollably. Over and over, he was drowned. Over and over, he was brought back up, coughing and spluttering like an animal. The king was growing bored.
"You make me believe that you don't wish to live, boy," he drawled, as Peter was brought up again, wracked with coughs. The guard grabbed the golden hair, pulling it back so that Peter looked into Miraz's face. It must have been quite painful, for the pull on his scalp made Peter groan when the boy should have been too breathless to do more than gasp and wheeze.
"Your refusal to acquiesce angers me, Peter. I might be tempted to have you dragged out right now and have your head cut off with an axe."
"Then kill me and be done with it!" Peter gasped out, his voice hoarse. "I'd rather die than have your disgusting hands on me!"
Miraz leaned forward and struck him in the face, backhanded. Peter cried out, the cold, almost-numbness of his face making the pain all the worse when hot gashes were opened up on his cheek. Droplets of blood and water hit the ground as Peter's face snapped to one side.
"But you let my nephew touch you any way he pleased, didn't you?" the king sneered. "Don't play the virgin, boy, we both know you are anything but that." With sarcastic gentleness, the king reached over and brushed wet hair out of the boy's face, tucking it behind an ear.
"How long did he have to seduce you until you fell into his waiting arms, hmm? What did he offer you? Did he promise to make you a prince, like him?"
Peter felt sickened at his words, hating that the king was mocking something special, something sacred. "Love," Peter whispered through numb, bruised lips. "He offered me love."
Miraz laughed. "Ah yes, love. Of course. A prince's love is quite a gift, my boy… but the love of a king is far greater. And besides, when my wife gives birth to a son, your beloved Caspian will be a prince no longer. Instead, he will become someone wholly expendable…"
Before Peter could register the implications of his words, the king's eyes caught on something shiny that had tumbled out of Peter's shirt. Some golden bauble that was hung on a chain around the boy's neck. He reached over and grabbed it, snapping the flimsy chain. It was a ring.
Peter gasped, eyes widening in horror as Caspian's token dangled helplessly in Miraz's hand. The king chuckled, playing with the gold trinket, rolling the ring between thumb and forefinger.
"Dear Deiana's ring," Miraz said mockingly. "How Little Caspian treasured this, wearing it around his neck like a medal. Never took it off. He must love you very much if he has handed it over to you."
"Give it back," Peter demanded heatedly, knowing full well that the king wouldn't.
Miraz sighed and stood. "Enough," he said lazily, tucking the ring into a pocket of his robe. "I tire of this. When you come to your senses boy, then we shall talk. In the meantime, perhaps your time down here will teach you to obey your king." The king's eyes flickered to the guard behind Peter. "Be careful not to mark his face… too badly."
With that, Miraz walked out, the sentry shutting the door behind the king. The guard behind Peter laughed a laugh that was way too cheerful, and roughly grabbed a shaking shoulder. Peter, on his knees and utterly helpless, could not stop a frightened whimper from escaping his throat.
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Rain was falling from the sky. Big, fat droplets fell on and off her armor like crystal tears. Like pearls of water, sliding off of her metallic helm.
The sky was grey and the air was cold as she stood before Miraz for the first time. It was before the battle, and she was strangely calm as she faced the leader of the opposing army. Dark, arrogant, and strangely handsome, in his own way.
They met at Beruna, on one side of the River Rush. Miraz was sitting on a makeshift throne, two servants holding large silken parasols over the king's head, shielding him from the rain.
As Susan studied the Telmarine king, Glenstorm stood by her side, silent and respectful. The king was looking at her curiously and rather scornfully, as if offended by the sight of a woman in armor.
"So you are the commander of the Narnian rebels?" Miraz spoke up, but he was not speaking to Susan. He was addressing the centaur. "Who is this woman that stands before me?"
Susan smiled, an eyebrow quirking upwards. To Miraz's credit, he was taking the appearance of the centaur quite well, which was more than most of the other Telmarines.
"Mighty King," she said sweetly, dipping into a bow. "I lead these people."
She was prepared for the derisive laughter that followed. "You, girl?" Miraz said disdainfully. "Surely you do not mean to mock me so. Is the 'Lion's Army' made up of fools and children, then? I bring my men on a three-day's march to meet with you, only to find out that I will be fighting a woman in petticoats!"
"There are no fools that stand behind me," said Susan, ever so softly, blue eyes serene. "Only soldiers, brave and true." She leaned forward towards the king, ignoring the look of warning the general gave her, who was standing to Miraz's left.
Boldly, she stepped into the shade of the parasol, through the gray veil of rain so that her face became all the clearer to Miraz. "You killed my father and my mother," she said. "You stole my brother from me. You've laid my family into ruins. That, would give any girl-child, any frightened infant, any lost bird, the strength and reason to fight you, my king."
The king lost his cocky grin as the chit moved uncomfortably close to him. Why did he feel so unsettled? He looked at her face. He studied her eyes, her mouth, the lines of her chin. With a little chill, he recognized the features.
"Pevensie," he growled.
"Susan," she corrected. "I see you know my brother. Where is he?"
"His suffering in my torture chambers as we speak," the king snarled, hoping to rile her.
Susan's mouth tightened, her hand clutching harder on her bow. "On the battlefield," she said simply, "I will be searching for you. And before this is over, you will be the one to suffer, my king."
She stepped back, melting back into the rain, as if passing through a beaded curtain. She and Glenstorm retreated. Miraz and his servants fell back as well, each leader calling their troops to arms.
The rich music of the horns was sounded, followed by the clamorous battle cries of the Narnian army. Susan felt every scream of triumph, of valor, pushed back into her own throat until every cry was her own, bursting forth from her mouth in a mighty battle cry: "FOR NARNIA!!"
Like water over rocks, the storm of Narnian soldiers charged forth, Susan at the forefront, mighty yew bow in hand, deadly arrow notched. The Telmarine infantry, their armor glistening in the rain, marched forward like a deadly tide of black metal.
The Narnian line crashed into the Telmarines, Centaurs with their elegant blades flashing, fauns with their mighty broadswords. As her people charged forward on either side of her, so fast and furious she felt the ground shake, Susan shot arrow after arrow, never missing her mark, felling soldiers with each powerful stroke of her arm. The constant singing of her bow was her music, the accompaniment to the raucous cries of war.
Through the rain, she twisted her body, spinning and twirling to find her targets, beads of water flung from her hair and weapons like silver pearls. Her arrows, straight and true, cut through the rain like daggers cutting through silk, burying into the vulnerable spots of Telmarine armor.
Like wraiths in the night, the Narnians attacked fiercely, mercilessly. The Telmarine infantry, who marched in formation, was cut down, line by line. Then, there was a noise like thunder as the cavalry charged. Each horsed knight was a fighting machine, a monster made of armor sharp blades.
Yet, the Narnians were undaunted. No need for walls of spears when there was an army of valiant mice. Reepicheep and his brave knights rushed forward, almost invisible. With their tiny swords, they cut down the horses, spearing the vulnerable legs. From above, the gryphons attacked, dropping boulders upon the horsed soldiers, crushing them. Without his mount, a Telmarine rider was helpless, tumbling down into the mud. The cavalry, Miraz's greatest weapon, was rendered useless in a matter of minutes, and the Narnians rejoiced, fighting ever harder.
Susan fought like a wild woman, shooting her deadly arrows and using them to stab at any Telmarines that got too close. "FORWARD!" she cried, raising her bow high above her head, and the Narnians charged, wave after wave, Susan running with them, in the midst of them.
She halted suddenly, the pounding of her heart loud in her ears as she drew in a gasping breath. Through the grayish mist of water and death, she saw the Telmarine king, horsed and helmed, fighting, but surrounded by a ring of his own people, protecting him. She notched another arrow, her eyesight narrowing.
"Glenstorm!" she called, and the loyal centaur galloped up to her, his sword in hand. He reached out for her, and she grabbed his forearm, vaulting herself onto his back. Hugging his flanks with her thighs, she held on as the both of them charged forward, the centaur bellowing his battle yell, cutting a bloody path in the battle field, heading for Miraz.
Instead of rushing straight into the protective ring of soldiers around the king, the centaur dashed around them, and Susan, smiling grimly, cut them all down with her deadly arrows. They fell, one by one, until Miraz was surrounded by a circle of corpses.
With a hand on Glenstorm's shoulder, Susan pushed off and landed on the ground. As the centaur galloped off to rally the rest of her troops, Susan headed for the king, slowly and deliberately pulling an arrow from her quiver, bow clutched tightly in the other hand. Miraz was desperately trying to control his war horse, the poor dumb beast rearing and screaming.
He saw her approaching, blue eyes cold as ice, and he jumped down from his mount. He turned to face her, drawing his sword, face red and furious. How? he wondered.
As his horse screamed and ran away, Miraz hefted his shield up before him, drawing the sword back, point aimed at the girl who stalked towards him. With a scream, he rushed at her, intending to cut her down, but his blade hit air as she twisted like a dancer, the blood-red skirt of her kirtle flaring out behind her.
Before he could blink, her arrow was notched, and pointed at his neck, her grim lips twisted into a smile as her arm drew the string back, prepared to end his life.
Foolish girl, to get so close. He snarled, and swung his shield at her arm, smashing the arrow into bits. Her eyes widened in pain as she stumbled back, one of her leather bracers torn clean off in a spray of blood. Shock registered on her pale face as she scrambled backwards.
Miraz charged at her, sword raised high, yelling ferociously. She brought up her bow to defend herself, but his sword cleaved it in two. Susan staggered, her teeth shaking with the force of the blow. As Miraz swung his sword again, she leaned backwards, and the blade cut through the air above her head. She twisted sideways, escaping Miraz's line of attack.
Dropping the useless halves of her bow onto the ground, Susan's hand darted to her waist, and she drew her own sword, barley managing to block yet another attack from the king. The blades clashed loudly together. Man and girl glared into each other's eyes as Susan and Miraz circled each other.
He charged forward with a mighty yell. The clang of steel rang out in the air as she met him blow for blow. Still, he was forcing her back, step by step, using his superior weight and height to rain down punishing blows that left her arms trembling with exertion.
One clumsy step, and she fell to the muddy ground, with a pained cry. Still, even as he thrust his blade down at her, she rolled to the side, her sword lashing out and cutting into his leg.
The king fell back with a roar, his leg bleeding through the armor. The little witch had been clever, slicing where the armor was most vulnerable. She had already gotten back on her feet, her white teeth bared into a snarl. Her helmet had fallen off, and her black hair was wet, clinging to her face and neck. For the first time in a long time, Miraz felt his heart lurch uncomfortably with fear, because in her eyes, there was no fear for him, only rage.
Glozelle, blessedly, ran to his aid that moment. The general, ever loyal, pushed the injured king back and kept Susan at bay with his sword. "We must retreat, your majesty!" the general shouted. "They are too many!"
"Then call the retreat, you fool!" Miraz snapped, leaning heavily on Glozelle's shoulder. Glozelle flung the king's arm across his shoulders, and landed a terrific blow at Susan's blade. She was forced to take several steps backwards and before she could recover, Glozelle had dragged the king to safety, running behind the Telmarine line. At the general's shouted order, the soldiers retreated running over the bridge of Beruna as the Narnians gave chase, cheering and yelling in victory.
"Halt!" Susan shouted, sword raised high. They stopped charging, falling back at her command. She was panting raggedly, her heart pounding. Her face tilted up to catch the cool drops that fell from the sky.
"Narnians!" she cried, and her voice was triumphant. "The bridge is ours!" The ensuing cries of the Lion's Army drowned out the noise of the river itself.
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The chains were digging into his bare arms, cruelly pinching and scraping the skin. He was so cold… so terribly cold. They had left him nude, hanging from his arms, adding to his humiliation by taking away what little protection his clothes offered. Peter breathed hard through his nose, biting into his lips to keep from sobbing out his despair.
"So you have grown mute again?" came the coarse voice of his tormentor, a heavily built guard with a scarred face and insatiable appetite for pain. "I have orders from the king, you know, that if you speak up and say what he wants to hear, I am to let you go. No words, Narnian?"
The guard circled Peter, walking in a lazy ring around where the boy hung suspended. The pale skin seemed to glow white in the darkness of the dungeon cell, the painful marks of the cane all too clear on the bare body. Around and around, the guard circled, silently, watching the trembling form as if Peter were some strange specimen of animal to be studied.
Just as Peter started to relax, to let out the breath he had been holding, the wooden cane whipped through the air with a hissing sound and slashed him on the back of his thigh. He groaned out sharply between clenched teeth as yet another line of fire erupted on his skin. The force of the blow drove him forward, and Peter stumbled, groaning again when his bare feet made contact with the floor.
They had whipped his palms and the soles of his feet bloody, so that even the slightest move caused an unbearable sting.
"Why do this to yourself?" said the guard, who was now standing right behind Peter, his foul mouth close to Peter's ear. "Why suffer like this?"
A booted foot kicked at his ankles, forcing his legs further apart. A large hand, callused and rough, touched the newly-bruised flesh on the back of his thigh. Peter whimpered, eyes closing in humiliation as the hand ran up the inside of his leg in a terrible mockery of a caress, smearing the blood that had oozed to the surface of the broken skin.
"But I suppose I do rather enjoy this, boy," said the guard. "I have grown fond of your screams as of late."
The guard stepped back abruptly and lashed at the vulnerable back, the supple cane tearing another red mark into the skin. This time, the boy cried out and the body rocked forward again, injured feet scrabbling to keep his ground. The large man chuckled, viciously excited by Peter's pain.
The man reached between the trembling legs again, fingers pressing into the inside of Peter's thigh. "Such soft skin," he mused. "I wonder if the king would be angry if I introduced one of my branding irons, right here?" He pinched the flesh between two fingers, making Peter gasp softly, shaking with fear. "Just a little burn," the man whispered, mouth eagerly pressed close to Peter's ear. "A little sting. A pretty little decoration…"
He stepped back again, and let the cane fall. Again and again, new wounds over old ones, until Peter's throat was raw from screaming. He didn't know that he swooned until he woke up, shivering, on the floor with his legs clapped in irons. The guard didn't brand him after all, and Peter managed to feel grateful.
In time, he learned that his tormentor fed off of fear as well as pain, and while he would inflict injuries that had Peter struggling not to shriek, the guard would always stop short of seriously damaging him. Still, the knowledge that, at least, he wasn't in any danger, did not keep the boy's skin from crawling when the guard whispered terrible things to him in the dark.
He didn't know how long he was kept down there, swallowed up in the darkness and the cold. Mortification of the flesh, he would tell himself over and over as he lay shivering on the floor, is nothing compared to submitting to Miraz's dark and evil ways.
Peter threw righteousness around him like a shroud, tried to keep warm by imagining Caspian's arms around him, tried to block out the sickening sound of his tormentor's sadistic laughter with the memory of Caspian's gentle laugh. What else could he do?
He ate the rotten food that was thrown to him, always fighting not to vomit. He slept, but his dreams brought him no comfort. Hours bled into each other. Time became meaningless in the dark. How long had he been down here? How long?
A touch of cold steel against his arm. No…!
"I can cut you," the guard was saying, and Peter shook himself awake. He was hanging from his wrists again, his abused back against the rough wall of the stone prison. The man was holding up a long, serrated blade that glinted ominously in the sputtering torchlight.
"I am skilled in the art of the knife." Slowly, almost sensuously, the guard ran the steel lightly over the tender underside of Peter's forearm, not quite cutting, not quite nicking. "I can make a thousand cuts all over your body that would leave you squealing, yet not have you bleed to death."
Please don't, Peter wanted to say, wanted to beg, but he kept his lips pursed, eyes closed. It's just a game, he told himself frantically. Just a game that he's playing…
There was a loud thump, the cold steel on his arm withdrawing, and Peter's eyes snapped open. The door to the cell had opened, and light was streaming in. Though it hurt Peter's eyes, the yellow glow was beautiful to his sight.
A man, accompanied by two cowering servants, stepped in, carefully pulling up his cloak so as not to soil it on the dungeon floor. At first, Peter thought it was Miraz again, but then, as his eyes adjusted, he saw that it was a different man. Lord Sopespian, he recognized.
"Your Lordship!" gasped the guard, who had let the knife fall to his side. "His majesty, the king, has insisted that no one enters here…!"
"Silence, man. The king is not here to restrict where I choose to go," Sopespian intoned, and the guard fell silent.
Nonchalantly walking his way around the pools of filth on the floor, the Telmarine Lord stepped up to Peter, studying him intently.
"So this is the Narnian slave that has made my king so frustrated," Sopespian said with an amused smile. His eyes raked over Peter's naked body, and the boy flushed. How funny, Peter thought, that he could still be embarrassed after all he had been through.
"No wonder he is taken with you. Though," Sopespian's lip curled up slightly, "you aren't much to look at right now." Naked, emaciated from starvation, littered with cuts and bruises, Peter knew he wasn't much to look at, but Sopespian's words rankled him all the same.
"You can tell your king," Peter rasped painfully, hardly recognizing his own voice, "that my answer is still the same!"
Sopespian laughed, and Peter noted how different it sounded from Miraz's cruel laughter. It was light and natural, not dark and frightening. Yet, he could still sense an underlying cruelty and cold calculation in Sopespian's smile. Either his Lordship was indeed a nicer man than the king, or he was just better at pretending.
"My dear boy," said Sopespian, his eyes crinkling in mirth. "The king isn't here, nor anywhere else in the castle. He has gone to war, don't you know?"
Peter stared at him confusedly, through sore and hazy eyes. War?
Sopespian chuckled again. "Oh, don't worry. Our beloved Miraz shall be back from Beruna soon, I think. Then, you can tell him yourself, as I expect he will be paying you a visit. Let us hope the king is victorious in battle, shall we?"
Sopespian took one last look at Peter, hanging limply from his shackles, then turned on his heel and left. The door closed, and Peter was at the mercy of the darkness again.
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"Glenstorm, where is my bow?" Susan asked, her eyes scanning the ground eagerly for her fallen weapon.
All around them, the Narnians milled about, attending to the wounded, checking for any dead. There had been minimal losses; their first great battle against Miraz was victorious. Still, the celebrations were muted, as they were sure that the war was far from over. Miraz had merely underestimated their forces this time, and the king would be quick to retaliate.
"We have not found it, but there are other bows for your use, Lady," said Glenstorm gently.
Susan sighed dolefully, hand holding on to the hilt of her sword, the feel of it unfamiliar in a hand that was used to holding a bow. She continued the search, though she was tired and cold. The bow, her bow, was special to her. Even though it had been broken by Miraz, she wanted to salvage it.
After an hour, when she still had not found it, Susan gave up and finally let herself rest.
……………………………………………….
Peter was trembling. The floor felt like ice, and the thin, ratty blanket did little to warm him. The shackles around his legs were a constant and painful pressure. He coughed, unsurprised when blood flecked his lips. He lay on his side, face buried in his arms.
He didn't look up with Miraz entered the cell, just kept his eyes tightly closed. He could hear the limp in the king's footsteps, could smell the blood and anger on him. Peter was afraid, so ashamedly afraid.
Something was flung onto the floor, close to Peter. The boy dared a peek, and saw a wooden object. He glanced up at the king, who was silent, staring expectantly at him. With a trembling hand, Peter reached out and took it, dragging it closer to him.
A horrified gasp escaped his lips as he recognized it. Susan's bow, splintered in two! Peter would recognize his sister's weapon anywhere. Oh no…Susan…
A cruel chuckle from Miraz. The king looked at Peter's face with satisfaction, savoring the boy's horror and distress.
"She was quite easy to overcome," Miraz said, the poison rolling easily off his tongue. "Just as I thought."
"No!" Peter gasped out in a broken wail, hands desperately clutching the broken pieces of his sister's bow.
"I wonder," Miraz drawled, "if you have become kinder in my absence? Hmm? Or should I go and find myself sweeter company, in your sister's cell, perhaps? She's quite lovely you know, once subdued."
The king turned his back on Peter, started to walk out.
"Wait!" Peter called frantically, and the king halted. Slowly, painfully, Peter stood, using the wall to support himself. He stumbled over to Miraz on bloody feet, arms wrapped around himself.
Smirking, the king turned. Peter, his stomach lurching with self-loathing, laid his hands on the king's robe pleadingly, and pressed his lips to Miraz's.
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Notes: sorry for the darkness in this chapter! Also, I hope I haven't angered any Narnia fans by letting Susan ride Glenstorm. I understand that centaurs don't take too kindly to letting humans ride them, but she did do it in the movie, so I hope that gives me some license. thanks to everyone for reading my story and all your kind comments. you guys inspire me!