Disclaimer: I do not own Narnia or its characters. All of these belong to its original creator C.S. Lewis.
Author's Note: Chapter One has arrived! Updates will come steadily. Feel free to review! I'm introducing tons of new characters that have a slight parallel with the characters in Prince Caspian, such as a Nurse and a slightly sadistic King. There is actually a character from the book that has a very large appearance towards the end of the chapter. Enjoy!
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
~Chapter One: Be More Like Him~
"If only, Miraz, you were more like your brother!"
Miraz watched angrily as nurse dipped the stained woolen cloth into a bronze basin full of warm water, chastising him as she worked. He loved the old, graying nurse dearly, for she was an easy person to love: she had cared for him like a son since the cradle, but he always knew that however hard busy Nurse scolded him, his father would scold him with twice the force. Nurse would scold him, reprimand him, but all with love - while Miraz wondered if his father showed any love to him. If he did, he did not show it to Miraz. It was all hidden - or given to the braggart Caspian.
Nurse now bent over him, her laughing gray eyes scanning his wounds as she dabbed at his dirt-stricken, bruise-ridden face, pushing his unruly dark curls aside tenderly.
"I don't want to be like my brother." Miraz protested, his eyes filled with hate. He tried to shy away from her gentle musings. "You do not know him as I do. In the court in front of everyone, he's as sweet as a rose, perhaps, but as my brother, he's no better than a fox to a hound!"
"Oh, nonsense, young'un!" Nurse tutted, returning to the basin to wash her leathery hands. She wiped them on the cloth and set the rag by the water. She thought this was just Miraz's fiery little temper acting up as it always did. She hoped dearly, after every spasm, that he would grow out of it. "You two are just boys at present. Both of you are growing up, trying to find your place in this good earth." She approached him again. "Now, I believe your father is wanting to speak with you in the hall. So, tut! Off your bottom, then!"
Miraz slid none to happily from the stool on which he sat and approached the wool-clad gentleman-in-waiting by the tall doors. He felt Nurse's merry eyes watch him as he retreated sulkily through the doors behind the servant. She doesn't understand, he thought angrily. She never will. He's not her brother. And I very much wish he wasn't mine either.
The king's hall—a royally studious affair. The great golden throne of King Caspian the Eighth of Narnia stood in front of a huge, purple-curtained window with panes of rich stained glass. A rose-red, albeit worn carpet was underfoot, expanding from the king's chair to the high doorway that Miraz now stood in, feeling dwarfed by its size. Pillars lined the way to the throne like tall specters of doom to the young prince, unprepared for his father, the king, who stood waiting for him.
He walked slowly up to where his father stood by the throne. A figure peeked out impishly from the king's straight form, grinning from ear to ear with a mischievous smirk, his princely brow lifted delicately, as if he were looking at a filthy peasant.
Caspian!
Everyone in the kingdom adored young Caspian the Ninth; Miraz was aware of that. They thought him an angel like his mother. Handsome, glib, and somewhat polite, he was a picture of delight and a near copy of his father, and, not to mention, heir to the throne of Telmarine Narnia. He came from the long line of the noble breed that his father, and his grandfather, and his sires before him were birthed from.
The only one in the castle who hated the boy outwardly was Miraz.
Caspian now stood beside his father, scrutinizing his younger brother with a mockingly vigilant eye. He carried a small arming sword on his silver-studded belt, plain against his velvet tunic and silk, ballooning sleeves. What a fool, Miraz thought, as he glared at his brother and making sure Caspian saw that stare, He makes himself a fop...merely to impress Father!
"Miraz," his father's tone was like the tone of one trying to strike up a conversation, though his voice remained like the stone it was, cold and scraping. He'd never liked his father's voice, for it was always disciplinary and emotionless. "There is dirt on your tunic sleeve."
Miraz, without moving his head, looked down at his tunic sleeve. And etch of dirt bruised the starched white of the cuff. He swore he heard a small snicker from beside King Caspian and tensed. The prince put his hands behind his back innocently, concealing the mark. He glared coldly at Caspian, who had in fact been snickering and was now grinning daftly and leaning against the throne nonchalantly and irreverently.
"You've been out this morning, then?"
Miraz nodded, not daring to meet his father's hawk-like gaze. A scoff escaped Caspian.
"Where?"
Miraz swallowed. "The-the market street, sir."
"Oh?" The king breathed. He paced back and forth slowly in front of the throne. "And on market day, too? It's dangerous to be on that street on market day. Heavy wheels. Strong horses. Many people die 'neath their well-shod hooves. Why did you visit the market, then?" Miraz waited a moment to speak, to organize his words and be sure he didn't sound silly.
"Well, if you understand me, sir—I-I wanted to see the Calormenes who come each week to sell silk. I-I think that they're very—er—interesting, strange people, the Calormenes, and I wanted—well, I wanted to talk to them, sir. I was…I was curious, sir." Miraz rambled on and tumbled over his words stupidly, knowing that he sounded like an idiot and a complete child. Curiosity was one of the many things that King Caspian frowned upon - especially if it was Miraz's curiosity.
Caspian scoffed again, this time louder.
"Interested in those Eastern rogues, eh? How did you get those bruises, then?" The king asked, scanning Miraz's face for lies.
"Well, I fell on my face quite a lot, sir, because I had to get out of the way of the merchant's carts, and once an old peasant bashed me up against a seller's stand while he was hurrying down the road."
The king nodded. "Ah, I see. And I am not at all daunted by your actions, Miraz, but as the king's son, the prince—you are superior to all other life in the kingdom. You are not a mangy hound running around in the streets." Miraz lowered his eyes.
He just doesn't want his pride wounded. Miraz thought angrily. If anyone saw me, a well-dressed prince, scouring the streets like a sick dog as father said, they'd blame the king for not looking after his son and thus not respect him. He cares more for himself than his own kin!
"You know that your deed is punishable, Miraz. You will watch another pay for your transgressions." The king looked to the door.
"I know, sir." Miraz murmured.
Still looking behind the prince, King Caspian the Eighth cried to the servants at the door:
"Bring him in!"
The door opened and two well-dressed attendants standing on either side of a bound, ragged figure entered and dragged the boy before the royal family. He was hunched over and looked double his age, which was probably only twelve or thirteen, a bit older than Miraz. He was thin and emaciated but wiry and long-legged, strong enough to withstand his toils. The matted hair hung around his face in limp black curls and dark, threatening eyes flashed out beneath them, staring right at Miraz, eying his bruises as if to say, you know nothing of pain. Garbed in a threadbare, white tunic and trousers far too short, he looked wild and unnatural against the splendor of the king's hall. But Miraz knew the face of the boy. He knew it all too well.
It was the face of young Glozelle.
One of the attendants pulled back the boy's ragged shirt, showing his scarred back, some of them bumpy and worn down, others still jagged and fresh on the skin. He'd been punished before. The other attendant, the younger and stronger of the two, was holding a long, sinewy whip in one hand. He shoved up his sleeves, and pulled the horsewhip back to strike with intense force.
"This was a paltry wrongdoing. The boy doesn't deserve a lot of pain. But he will have to withstand some because of your sin, Miraz." The king announced. "Five."
The whip-wielding attendant nodded and struck hard. Miraz counted nauseously in his head.
One!
A wince.
Two!
A pained grunt.
Three!
A bearing of teeth.
Four!
A small tear.
Five!
Nothing.
The king nodded, undaunted. "Very well. Prepare the boy to play his lute for me at supper."
"Aye, sir." The whip-wielding attendant said. The other yanked down the boy's tunic and turned him around, letting Miraz see the stained outcome of his deeds.
TO BE CONTINUED