Cords. Cutting into his wrists, binding his soul. He opens his eyes on darkness. A heart-wrenching moan strikes his ears. It is his own, he thinks; but it sounds so dim, so far away.

Shapes begin to appear, light.

He looks around. It is a palace, of a sort. But what palace? No hall of his father is this. The only light comes from lamps set in sconces in the wall; outside all is black as a cave. He moans again, and this time he feels it in his chest.

Against the further wall sits a woman. A snake. The two words come into his mind simultaneously. Who is she, and why does he hate her so?

She sits idle, and yet she is weaving, weaving a spell with her mind. All around him. He can smell the stink of sorcery. He tries to stand, to escape, but he is bound at the legs.

The snake darts her eyes at him. A smile, gentle and cruel, curves her lips.

He strains at the cords, but they are immovable.

Let me go!

Nay, dear prince. Hold fast. 'Tis only your madness come upon you. 'Twill pass.

I am not mad. Oh Aslan, I am not mad!

Aslan? What is this name?

Let me go back, back to Narnia!

Hush, sweet prince. Soon all will be well again. At first your fits lasted all day; now, but an hour. You have improved greatly, dear one.

I will not be your slave! I will fall upon you when once I am free of this chair.

She stands, tall and elegant. Her green dress clings to her serpentine form. He stares at her with revulsion; she looks at him with a feigned pity. She leaves the room. The door closing echoes in his mind.

Who am I? Oh Aslan, who am I? Why am I here?

He closes his eyes and struggles against his bonds. Green grass, cool air. He is suffocating. He must get out. The weight of earth above him is crushing him. Sea breeze. Oh for a sight of the sea! The ship that carried his father to the end of the world, to Aslan's Country.

Remember, remember.

"I am Rilian, son of Caspian the Tenth, the Seafarer!"

The witch enters at that same moment. Two maggotmen follow her. They position themselves on either side of him and grasp him by the side of the head. The witch opens a flask and pours it down his throat.

It is for your good, my love. All will be well. Forget this Rilian. Forget this Narnia. Forget Aslan. They are fantasies dreamed up by a sick mind, but you will soon be well again.

He writhes and chokes on the liquid. It is vile. He opens his mouth but no sound comes out. His tongue burns, his throat constricts.

Aslan! Why will you not save me? Where are you?

Let us hear no more of this Aslan. I will set you free of your madness; he has never helped you.

I am not mad! Oh Aslan, help me! Do not make me go back, back to her slavery! I renounce her. I renounce her. I renounce her!

Soon, dear prince. Soon you will be free. Sleep, sleep away your troubles.

His head falls back and though his mind remains awake, his eyes close and he cannot open them again. The witch's voice goes on, droning, speaking of sleep and darkness. Time does not pass for him. He can see nothing in his mind, nothing that he knew, or knows, or will know.

When he opens his eyes once more, the witch is unbinding him with gentle hands. He smiles and yawns as she kisses him.

"Was I very terrible this time?" he asks.

"Nay, sweet one. I scarce heard a word out of you. The spell is weakening. Soon you shall be free."

"Is there anything to eat?"

"Indeed. I have your meal ready laid on the table."

She gives him her hand and helps him up from the chair. His legs and knees are somewhat stiff; but, he thinks, not as much as usual. He runs his hand through his hair and is surprised to find it soaked with sweat. But no matter; he will have a hot bath after he eats, and then to bed.

The meal is excellent. His lady is so thoughtful of his every need, and has laid out all of his favorite foods. She sits across from the table and, every now and then, smiles her sweet smile.

If he had her not with him, he shudders to think what madness and ravings he might now be going through. All alone. None to watch over him, none to shorten his sufferings. His lady is not only life, but happiness itself.

It is a dull Autumn day, and Jill Pole is crying behind the gym …