Disclaimer: I do not own Narnia.

Author's Note: Well, love can melt the coldest of hearts, and it's finally melted Miraz's. A short chapter that also came on a whim--I've been working on a whim a lot lately...anyway, enjoy!

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Chapter 17 ~ Accepting Love

Night eased into morning, bringing a soft rain with it. Miraz had gone back to his quarters after the encounter with his brother and had tried to find sleep. He was surprised to find that he had some time in the night, for in the morning he found himself opening his eyes and staring up at the wooden canopy of his bed. All of the memories of the previous night came flooding back in. The dagger and belt still hung on a chair nearby, as if saying to him, try again.

But he remembered what his brother had said to him and did not follow it.

The blood of Vostad was still in him, though. That was certain. With every movement he could feel the power course through his veins as they had done so potently the previous night. But now, they did not seem so potent. He dressed and left his chamber, halfheartedly fastening on the belt with the dagger on it.

He wanted to find Prunaprismia. For some reason that he was oblivious of, he wanted to talk to her. About the life they were to share together, though maybe neither of them liked the idea of a life with one whom they would never marry when not under duress.

Miraz was surprised to see that his father's chamber door was opened slightly. It was dark and cold within. He opened it wider to look inside.

The physician was hovering over his father, who lay weakly in his bed. His face was gray, pale, and drawn, with deep, purple circles shaded around his eyes. His wrinkles were craggier, as well, making him look far older than he was. His eyes were closed.

"What's happened?" Miraz asked slowly.

"His Majesty got sick in the night." The physician stated crisply. "Fever struck him all too hard." Miraz looked closer and saw the small rivers of sweat that fell down Caspian's face.

"Is he conscious?"

"Aye, he is. In a heavy sleep, though…I fear that he may not wake."

"What?"

The physician met his eyes innocently. "I'm sorry, my lord, I'm doing everything. But we may need to crown the Prince sooner rather than later."

There is more than one prince, you know. Miraz thought spitefully. Every day, people—even lowly physicians—were becoming braver about insulting him. He counted off the people he could hang…if he were king.

Miraz stood silently for a moment, observing his father's limp, frail body. He was once a powerful king—reduced to an old man.

"Do as much as you can," Miraz said shakily, "and keep him alive."

He left quickly.

To calm his nerves, he decided to take an early morning walk on the terrace. The rain was beginning to subside, but it was still rather bleak and cloudy. Miraz didn't mind. He just needed fresh air. He leaned against the balustrade, sighing deeply. His father was dying. The truth had hit him hard like a charging horse, knocking the wind from him. Miraz wondered if maybe it was his choice to marry Prunaprismia that made his father so indisposed? He dismissed the fact. That was a childish thought. It had not moved his father that deeply…had it?

A figure was walking along the terrace. Miraz turned and saw Prunaprismia herself, strolling idly and close to the wall. She met his eyes, and unsmiling, she said:

"Hello."

Miraz bowed his head slightly and silently toward her. "What are you doing here?"

"Walking." She said simply, approaching her husband to stand beside him. Miraz had the feeling she was trying to be friendly towards him, for her eyes were not as cold as they usually were. He looked up at them, being swallowed by their immense depth and mystery. "You look rather pale. What ails you?"

Miraz sighed heavily again and dropped from her gaze. Of course—she probably didn't know yet. "My father is very ill. He mayn't recover." He said quietly. He shivered when she put a hand lightly on his shoulder. For some reason, Miraz felt something wasn't right. Prunaprismia was never this open towards him—why else had she been running from him for the past five days, after their strange marriage?

"I'm sorry." She whispered. "I really am. It is very hard to watch a family member die."

"He might not die." Miraz said firmly. He didn't want to go and blatantly assume that his father was going to die. There was hope, wasn't there? He met her gaze again. Her eyes were warmer and more sympathetic than ever—he'd never seen so much kindness in them. Perhaps this was her way of accepting that she was his wife and embracing the fact, in a way. Their faces were so close; Miraz almost thought she was going to kiss him. But she didn't. She only smiled.

"I'm sorry, Miraz." She repeated, and then she left.

He found something to love about Prunaprismia after that moment. He'd never looked so deeply into her eyes. They were the most beautiful things he'd ever seen—eloquent and yet so strong and piercing. From that moment, that strange, strange moment, he loved Prunaprismia—he would give his life for her. The power from Vostad had been washed away with the unconditional love he now found for Prunaprismia. But it was still so strange—just in that moment, in that very, very short moment, he had found love. That empty spot that Vostad's power could not sustain was now filled and overflowing. Though he did not feel that power coursing in his veins, he felt something much better than that.

And then, once again, the face of reality peered into Miraz's, reminding him of his plot. He suddenly felt cold, washed over now with fear, though that empty spot still remained filled with its radiant warmth, it seemed much smaller now that he was faced with his plan of death. The feeling of that wonderful love had made Miraz reconsider.

Was it worth killing his brother? Other than having unending power, a king also held the world on his shoulders. But that was another benefit as well. If he supported the world, he controlled it as well. The warm feeling in his heart was beginning to melt into the coldness that was so familiar after his encounter with Vostad. It left him, once again, feeling cold and empty, yearning for the warmth that had enveloped him only moments before.

How cold and empty the world can be.

TO BE CONTINUED