Thanks to all readviewers. This is a slightly skewed interpretation of the prompt, and I don't think the character voices are right, but my bed is calling my name very loudly so here we are.

Prompt: A character has an injury (or treatment for an injury) that impairs him mentally.

His family had been so proud when he'd been chosen as one of the Queen's servants.

Broash could not open his eyes. He had lost his helmet when he was struck. Now the sun beat hot on his skull, except where the blood ran sluggishly down the sides. And why was he thinking of his selection to the Queen's service now, facedown and wounded on a battlefield? Were his wits leaving him? He supposed it was likely. After all, blood was leaving him, and blood was life, so life was leaving him, and his wits might well follow after. Or before? Yes, if he were dead he would have no wits anyway, so it must be before.

"The poor dwarf!" said a little girl's voice. A small hand touched his shoulder, rolled him over partway—and then was snatched away as if stung. He flopped back onto his face.

"Lucy," said a deep voice nearby, and now he knew for certain he was going mad, for the lion was dead. He had seen it himself.

"Oh, but Aslan! He was with the Witch!"

"What he was before is past. What he may be now remains to be seen."

"You mean I'm to heal him, too?"

The only reply was a sort of deep rumble.

I'm dreaming, Broash thought muzzily. Dreaming, or dying. Dying, I think. Definitely.

"Very well," said the girl after a few moments, sounding rather sober. "Though I don't understand."

Something dripped coolly on the back of his head, directly onto the wound. It felt like dipping his head into a mountain lake after a hard day of smithing, falling backwards into a thick patch of blossoming wildflowers, standing directly beneath a waterfall, or quenching his thirst with the sweet juice of freshly-pressed grapes.

He had never done any of those things, yet this was like all of them at once. He could not explain how he knew it.

The coolness and the brightness and the strength spread across his scalp, knitting the skin back together. It sank into his mind, and he suddenly remembered that he also had been proud of being selected as a servant, and wondered why. What had the Queen ever done for them, except keep them alive in the winter she herself had made eternal? She had given great honor to the race of Dwarves by choosing her house slaves exclusively from their ranks. But did that make her worth serving?

He thought perhaps not. And with another swell of brightness, he realized that his family would never agree. They were too set in their ways—they would see him as defective now, addled, unable to understand truth. He could not return to them.

Broash turned his head and opened his eyes. He was weak still, but the pain in his head was gone, and he could manage that much. Some yards off, a small form topped with a shock of golden curls was bending over another creature. It was the youngest Daughter of Eve, as he had guessed. Beyond her, facing a statue of a leopard, was a lion.

Nay, not a lion. The Lion. Broash was certain of it. Somehow, through some inexplicable magic, the beast he had seen slain with his own eyes now stood living once more. (It was well that he had not yet attempted to stand, for at this realization he would surely have fallen.)

The Lion opened his mouth and breathed on the statue. Color licked up the leopard's legs, across its back, toward the tip of its tail. It shook itself all over and was again a living beast. The leopard frolicked about the Lion for a few moments, and then bounded away toward the edge of the field.

How could this be? How could stone come to life? How was the dead now alive? Most importantly, why had he commanded the child to heal one of his enemies? And what did he intend for that enemy now?

Broash hauled himself shakily to his feet, and set off to find out.