Disclaimer: I do not own Narnia. 'Nuff said.

Author's Notes: Yeah, I know, blame the author. It's been three hundred years since my last post, I know. I'm sorry. Chronic writer's block! Ok, some may call this chapter boring, some may call it the best thing since sliced bread, I, for one, find it to be not the best chapter in the world. But that's my opinion. Please read and hopefully, enjoy. :P

Chapter 21 ~ The Possession of Rage

He knows the plan.

Miraz glanced coldly across the hall at Glozelle. The young man met his steely gaze and gave him a ghost of a nod.

The people of the castle had done what they could to decorate the cold, bleak Great Hall with banners and tapestries to hide its grayness, but to no real avail. No matter how hard they tried, the tapestries and banners melted into the stone, adapting to its frozen, nondescript ways and becoming as bleak and as cold as the stone itself. The only happy interior was the one large hanging chandelier.

On that day, the prince would become king.

All through the night before, Miraz had had horrible dreams and had found himself awake in a breathless frenzy countless times. He never remembered a single part of his dreams except for one recurring instance that haunted him to his very core.

It was in a dark room, and he was alone, save for his brother. Three single torches lit the stone room they stood in. Caspian was turned away from him, his back rigid, the great silver crown—the crown of a king—on his head. Miraz only remembered two feelings: The feeling of rage—

And the feeling of a knife in his hand.

None of them spoke a word. If they did, it was so fogged and distorted Miraz could not discern it. The only moment that he remembered with extreme clearness was the moment the knife left his hand and spiraled toward his brother's back. A great, rushing feeling of triumph had filled Miraz to the brim, but was soon doused by the strange fires of agony, burning the tears that stung his eyes.

Caspian had then turned to face him. Miraz would never forget that sight. It was not the young, handsome face of his brother, the prince; it was the face of an old man, with wrinkles etching his deep-carved cheeks and gray eyes staring endlessly into nothingness. Tears that seemed to glow red traveled through the crags of his face. They were not tears of self-pity. They were of betrayal.

The only words Miraz heard in the entire reverie were these, coming from the mouth of his aged brother:

"Why, brother?"

And then Miraz had woke.

The agony that he had felt from the dream quickly left after he had opened his eyes, but some deep, empty sensation still nagged his soul afterward, though he could not name such a feeling. Envy and rage were the only feelings he truly knew.

Caspian was now walking slowly toward the throne, the large throngs on either side of him watching silently, at least in the ears of Miraz—for all he knew, they could have been clapping. But to the prince, it was only Miraz and Caspian in the room. Caspian didn't move his eyes from the throne. His regal gaze laid steadily on the great chair, the seat that would grant him power until he rested with the kings—the power he thought Miraz would never have.

Miraz saw him draw in a great breath before he approached the final steps to the throne. He walked even slower now, savoring every last moment of princehood. He knelt down before Commander Steiphen, who would issue to him the crown. Steiphen took the precious thing from the pedestal upon which it was set, and reverently it was set upon the head of King Caspian the Tenth.

What was then in Miraz's heart was something that could not and never will be wholly described. He was not just angered—he was enthralled by the worst rage ever experienced, the worst envy, and the most horrible loathing ever inflicted upon a human soul. But only his eyes showed it. His eyes burned with a hate-filled fire that had flared up from his very core, swelling and burning within him until it blackened his heart to ash. For it was only then that his conscience was silenced and hate bound his soul in chains. But did anyone notice? No. Of course not. After all, he was only a prince.

That crown belongs on my head! And yet the naïve fools put it upon the head of a bigot!

The day passed. Miraz did not attend the celebration afterward—there was no way he could face his brother—the king—now. Were he to confront his brother, he might say something that would betray his plan…

But soon the hour of 9 o'clock came around and Miraz was called to Caspian's—the king's—quarters. As soon as he stepped out of his chamber he knew that he could not turn back. Caspian had given him an opportunity, and he had seized it.

He fastened on his dagger before he left.

Caspian's chamber was very dark, except for only a few torches. He was turned away from Miraz, his shoulders slumped like he carried the world's weight on them. His head was bowed, as if he paid homage to his dead father. For a moment Miraz almost felt sorry for him: He was only three and twenty years of age and already he was a king—he did have the weight of the world on his shoulders. But Miraz did not let the pity linger. He remembered why he had come and forgot all of his pity.

"Brother." Caspian murmured solemnly, heaving a sigh. There was a long pause. "I must speak with you."

"I will listen." Miraz said weakly, with a placid layer in his voice, hoping to fool Caspian into his trap.

Caspian sighed again, putting his hands behind his back and lifting his head slowly. He seemed like an old man: bent, lonely, all of his movements slow and noble. "Now, at the dawn of my reign as king of Telmarine Narnia, I ask a favor of you, Miraz. I know that I have not treated you well in the past, but now, I have grown to respect you."

Really? Miraz scoffed in his head. He was not going to be fooled so callously. He had been the animal in the trap before, but now the tables were turned. And there was no going back. Miraz mocked a look of flattery. "You ask a favor of me, brother? And what, pray, is this favor?"

Caspian turned to face him. His eyes were grave and very solemn, gazing subtly at his younger brother. He no longer had the mischievous eyes of a young boy. He had shed them. And with those cheeky eyes went all of the insults he had ever said to Miraz. Miraz remembered when Caspian had nearly pleaded repentance to him. There was no more repentance in his eyes.

"Do you trust me, brother?"

Miraz nodded slowly. "Aye, brother, I do."

Caspian paused, glancing at the ground and then back at his brother, his eyes more probing than ever. "…Can I trust you?"

Miraz did not want to sound too prompt for fear his brother might smell a lie. He bided his time, waiting for the moment to speak his lie. He replied his brother, simply, yet eloquently enough:

"If it is in your will to trust me, brother, then do so."

Caspian nodded and a smile played as delicately as a harp on the sides of his mouth. "You are no longer the whelp you used to be." He said rather mischievously. So he hasn't changed completely, Miraz thought. "You have become a great warrior, Miraz, and a great warrior I can always trust."

Miraz remained silent.

Caspian's straight mouth returned and he turned away again. "During this day I have thought much of betrayal."

Miraz was caught off his guard. Betrayal? Was his brother really smart enough to find him out? The death of his brother would have to come much quicker. He laid a hand on the dagger at his side, his fingers brushing the pommel. Caspian did not notice.

"Betrayal, Caspian?"

"Aye, brother—betrayal."

Slowly, the dagger slid gently out of its sheath and into Miraz's awaiting hand. He made sure the glint of the steel would not catch Caspian's gaze.

"What of betrayal?"

"Many thoughts. The names of many people have come into my mind—none of whom I can trust."

Miraz began walking slowly toward his brother, keeping his armed hand down by his side. "People? What people, may I ask, brother?"

"Commander Steiphen, Elizabeth—even your wife. I can suspect anyone, Miraz. I am king. A king has enemies, even within his own walls. Anyone could be playing a game with me now, Miraz."

Miraz was only three feet away from his brother now, and close enough to bring forth his weapon. But he waited. He knew he had to wait.

"What is the favor you ask of me, brother?"

"I ask you to…"

"What?"

"Kill me now."

TO BE CONTINUED