~Chapter Ten: Return~

My Good Majesty,

I return to you your son, Prince Miraz. He is a great fighter now, a man of nineteen years, and a knight as well. You need him at the kingdom more than I need him here. The battle is coming to an end, but the attacks of the barbarians are still eminent and their forces will soon threaten the empire. Your son will come before the fourth month of summer, after the fifth of spring. You must take pride in him. He has been diligent, patient, loyal, and battle-hardened these past seven years. I see a bright future for him. He will not be like the Squire before him.

Your Humblest of Servants,

Commander Steiphen

Night had fallen. Rain pelted the mud of the market street as a straight-backed rider astride a tall black horse marched down the center of the street. Thunder crackled in the distance as peasants running home caught the dark, vicious eyes under the hood of the rider. He is no simple commoner, they thought as they saw his large, long broadsword hanging from the pommel of his saddle, and the velvet of his dark tunic. He handled his horse purposefully, riding toward the castle.

The guards stopped him at the gate to the courtyard. "Oi, you there!" One of them, the older of the two, wielding a halberd, called to him. "State your business, man!"

"Let me through!" The man demanded in a deep voice.

"State your business first." Said the other soldier, shaking a little. He knew that this was not the one to trifle with.

"I need to see the king. Now let me through!" The man boomed. "I'm here on strict business."

"What sort of business do you mean to discuss with the king, then?"

"Business concerning the Campaign. The rest is strictly for the king's ears."

"I don't know—"

"Which of you wants to hang first?! Let me though!"

The older soldier bowed his head shakily and quickly used the lever to open the portcullis. "Aye, sir." He muttered indefinitely. The now angered rider entered into the courtyard. Had the soldier not opened the gate—he had a dagger on his belt he would've been more than happy to use. He dismounted and tied his horse's bridle to a post. He was home.

It's been too long, Miraz thought as he looked up at the dark walls of the castle, only some of its windows shedding light. The terrace was dark, though he did see one pale face in the darkness, and it was facing him. He squinted beneath his hood, peering at the face. He strode up the stairs to the terrace and walked toward the figure that stood by the pillars, looking out under the awning that shielded her from the driving rain.

As Miraz approached, he saw that it was Elizabeth.

She pointed her bright, aristocratically emotionless eyes at him, watching him approach her. By the look on her face, he knew that she didn't know who he was yet. After all, he wore a hood over his face, and towered over her now—her head barely reached his shoulder. But she was more beautiful than ever, in her own frightening sort of way, for she was still pale and slightly gaunt, swathed in that black velvet gown he had seen her in the day he left. But she still wore her ring, he saw now, and the scar around her right hand was still recognizable, no more faded than it had been.

Elizabeth bowed her head to him. "My good knight. You are the returned campaigner we have been awaiting, I trust?" She said huskily, in a shaky voice, as if she'd been crying. Miraz nodded, probably unnoticed by her under his hood.

"Aye, I am he. Has word gotten round so quickly?" Miraz inquired.

It was Elizabeth who nodded now. "Yes. Almost the whole kingdom knows. You are the first to return. Desperate mothers await their sons; they think now the Commander will send home more after you—though I don't even know if the Commander is—"

"Alive?"

Elizabeth nodded again, her eyes tightening like tears were going to start falling down her ashen face. "If you can tell me—"

Miraz walked up to her until he was almost looking straight down into her watery eyes. She grimaced a little. "Don't you know who I am?" He murmured.

Her grimace hardened and she shook her head slowly. "No, I do not…"

He took off his hood. Though he'd grown up quite a bit, his face was still familiar to her, but his once curly hair was now straight and mature, not so boyish and unruly. His eyes were darker and harder than before, and Elizabeth wondered how he could've changed so much, for she did not know of the plot that had chewed at him for the past years after his departure.

"Miraz…?" She breathed. She didn't waste any more time. She needed to know. "Steiphen? He's alive? Oh, please, tell me that he is and do not lie! Please!"

"He is alive." Miraz replied curtly. Elizabeth breathed out a relieved-but-still-shaky sigh. "Now, if you'll excuse me, Lady Elizabeth, I have unfinished business I must take care of."

Miraz made his way down the familiar hall. It was more silent than usual, unlike the days that he'd patrol them as a boy, walking with that condescending air that made everyone look back at him. He rebuked himself for ever trying to be so air-headed and pompous. What was he thinking? He certainly wasn't thinking about any of it right now. He'd nearly forgotten that embarrassing moment—in fact, his whole young life had been thwarted and blurred by his plot to gain power. All of the merriment and pleasure he'd ever experienced was long gone. All because of Caspian.

He knew his way to his father's quarters. Even through all of his struggles it was still embedded in his memory from so many trips there, be it from dodging carts in the street as he'd done when he was nine, or some other "dangerous" exploit of his childhood—or even from the night that he'd found out he'd be the appalled Commander's squire.

The thought of Steiphen entered his mind as well. War had changed him, too, Miraz noticed. He was more intolerant than ever—during one of the final days with Steiphen he'd seen four men get lashed across the back for stealing victuals, one man branded for disobeying orders, and another he had hanged for thoughts of treason. Miraz had realized that he was thinking of treason as well, so it could've been him that had been hanged. But it wasn't. It was another.

He approached the entrance to his father's quarters. No more chirping of that despicably huge bird. It must've died while Miraz was away. Good riddance, Miraz thought to himself. But Miraz heard the shuffling of papers and knew his father was in there. He expected him to have more wrinkles than before, and whiter strands of hair.

He walked in. His father did not look up.

His father—he was actually surprised. There were a few extra wrinkles around his eyes and on his forehead, but not much more than when Miraz had left. His father's hair was still gray, with maybe a few threads of white here and there that passed by Miraz unnoticed. He was still as kingly-looking as ever: a broad-shouldered build, a sword at his side, and wise gray eyes told the prince that it was still the father he knew.

But something did strike him as different. King Caspian did not seem as powerful to Miraz as he had when the prince was a boy. He was slightly bent with age, his back hunched minutely. As a boy, Miraz found his father a striding, powerful figure that could move mountains and shake the earth with his voice—being the perfect model for a king. But now he seemed only like a cripple compared to the figure he once was. Vulnerable, even—a simple old man. But Miraz didn't let this daunt him severely.

He strode up to his father. He was a good five inches taller than him, now, though his father stood over many. His father still didn't look up, but Miraz knew that his father knew of his presence, for he waved a hand dismissively.

"I needn't anymore havoc from a young knight, sir." He said, his voice croaking and dry. "I have enough trouble as it is." He tossed a piece of parchment onto a large pile on his desk. He met the eyes of Miraz, who was hoping that as soon as he did, he'd recognize the young man. But the obliviousness was still in his eyes as he looked up at him. "So…you are dismissed, sir."

"I—" Miraz began, but he stopped himself. He decided to murmur only a single word:

"Father."

The king stopped any movement. He stared into oblivion of a moment, as if trying to analyze the voice. He finally turned slowly to meet the prince's eyes again. Now he recognized him. His mouth dropped open and he gingerly approached him until their faces were only inches apart. He laid a strong, heavy hand on his son's shoulder and squeezed it.

He smiled. At his son. Miraz. It wasn't crooked. It wasn't awkward. It was natural, and it was filled with sheer joy, sheer happiness. "My son!" He whispered. "My son!"

And for a moment, a brief passing moment, Miraz smiled too. It was small, but boasted the same thing his father's did. And for a moment real, satisfying happiness flooded through him, and a sense of belonging put a hand on his father's shoulder. It felt that he had just met his father, but at the same time it felt like he'd known him for an eternity. Whatever the feeling, it felt good.

But then Caspian entered and every cold thought Miraz had ever thought of about him and his father had come rushing back in. The hand slid off his shoulder and two eyes looked over it at the prince-to-be-king who had just entered loudly and boisterously, slamming the door carelessly behind him. Miraz didn't turn around: he kept his back to his brother, feeling the knife at his side.

"Another pact has come from Terabinthia, father. Did you wish to sign it? Or are you still listening to Steiphen?" Caspian's loud—barely changed in Miraz's ears—voice echoed through the room. Miraz heard his footsteps stop abruptly. "Who's this?"

Miraz turned slowly to face his brother. He had not changed much either. His round, childish face was gone, though, shedded off to reveal the stern face of a future king. His eyes were still full of trickery and condescend, though. He hadn't grown much over the years, so he was probably still just a few inches shy of his father's height. And by the looks of it, he didn't recognize Miraz at first either.

"Who's this?" He repeated the question.

Miraz was glad to feel the hand of his father at his shoulder. "Caspian, do you not recognize the face of your brother, Miraz?"

Caspian didn't show the same surprise his father had. Instead he showed disdain. His eyebrow went up a little. "What's he doing back?" He talked as if Miraz wasn't even present.

"I was sent back by Sir Steiphen. I am a knight, now." Miraz said boastfully.

Caspian strode up to Miraz, who crossed his arms and stared down at his older brother. Caspian had to tilt his head up slightly to meet his eyes awkwardly, but he was not intimidated. "Really? A knight?" He raised his voice. "Well, I am to become king, if you didn't know!"

"Oh, really?" Miraz said sarcastically, in the same cold murmur he'd used before. "I had not been informed."

"I would've thought you'd be more hurt by that statement, Miraz." Caspian's voice immediately lowered angrily. "You've changed some. Not for the better, though, I deem."

Miraz clenched a fist. He'd only been back for under a quarter of an hour and all ready his brother was trying his patience. Miraz was taller than him now, they all knew, but what they didn't know was that he matched his brother's strength as well.

"Mother's dead, did you know?" Caspian said almost casually.

"Aye." Miraz replied huskily.

"And you weren't there to hear her final request."

"What was it?"

"For you to become king."

"Really?"

"Well, she was very sick, Miraz."

Miraz's jaw tightened. Now he was really testing his patience! Caspian had said it with such ease and so gravely it made Miraz angry. His older brother was rash, all too rash!

"Insult me to my face, will you?" Miraz muttered.

The king cut in. "Settle down, settle down!" The brothers turned to face their father. "Miraz, you must be tired. Retire to your quarters and there repose. Caspian, I'll speak to you about the Terabinthian pact."

"Father—"

"Good night, Miraz!" The king said firmly. Giving his brother a cold look, Miraz walked out, hand still on his dagger.

Someday, someday very soon…the Brother of Betrayal thought as he closed the door behind him.