Author's Notes: Bookverse. Spoilers for Prince Caspian.

After-- after everything, Caspian wondered if his father had been a good king. He had always believed that it must have been so, and his mother had always told him his father was a good man, but then she would have been biased and Caspian had been very young. Caspian didn't remember his father. He remembered Caspian IX as a tall shadow on the throne and at the dinner table, a gruff voice and a firm clasping hand. He remembered his mother saying, "Your father has died," and dressing all in black. He remembered his uncle standing at his side, telling him everything would be alright. "Don't be afraid, Caspian," Miraz had said. "Everyone dies. This kingdom is yours now, and I will watch it for you until you are old enough."

The crown had seemed heavy on his head and Miraz's words had been comforting.

Caspian walked the halls of his castle once the Pevensies left, once Aunt Prunaprismia left, once many of Miraz's allies-- the ones still alive, at least-- and not a few other Telmarines left. He walked to Miraz's study and stood staring at the desk with all its piles of books and scrolls, opened bottles of ink and quills scattered across the surface where his uncle had left them. "Surround yourself with smart people, people you can trust," High King Peter had told him. "It's hard being king, and I had Susan, Edmund, and Lucy to help me. I can't imagine doing it alone."

Caspian sighed and thought, not for the first (and certainly not for the last) time, that gaining the throne had actually turned out to be the easy part. When he started to think of the mountainous task ahead of him, uniting the Narnians and the Telmarines, making Narnia strong again, rediscovering the sea, forging alliances… He longed for the simplicity of a battle to the death.

"Leave it for now," Cornelius said, suddenly standing beside Caspian. "You've had a trying time. Get some rest-- this will keep till the morning."

But Caspian's steps led him not to his own chambers, but to Miraz's. The room was clean and the bed neatly made, it seemed his uncle and aunt had gone only for the day and would soon return. His father had slept here, once, and perhaps he had died here. Is that what it meant to be a Telmarine king? A knife in the dark, or a poisoned chalice? Enemies sent on voyages, never to be heard from again?

"What kind of king will you be?" Edmund had asked, the crown newly placed upon Caspian's head. Edmund asked with simple curiosity, but Caspian had been forced to answer, "I have no idea." He had stood there, silent, Edmund watching him, until Lucy bounded up, smiling joyfully. "Caspian will be a great king, Ed, why do you even have to ask? Aslan crowned him, after all." As she had beamed up at Caspian, he was unable to help but smile at her, at her easy faith, at her honest belief that Aslan would make all things right. "Thank you, my lady," he'd said.

Caspian wished he could be like Lucy. He wished he could trust in Aslan, that everything would be alright, that he was ready for this. He wished he knew the answer to Edmund's question. A Telmarine king, or a Narnian king? A king like Miraz, or like Peter? Once he would have said he wished to be a king like his father, but now he wasn't so sure. Perhaps Caspian IX had been just like Miraz, perhaps that was the measure of a true Telmarine king.

They had been brothers, after all.

Caspian wondered how much had been a lie. Caspian accepted that quite probably everything Miraz had ever said to him had been a lie. Perhaps his belief in his father had been a lie, as well. And yet Caspian had hope for his father, still. Hadn't Miraz arranged for the disappearance of every lord loyal to his father? They had been good men, Caspian thought, brave and true.

His boots echoed hollowly on the floor in the silence of the evening. The castle seemed so empty, most of its former residents dead or gone through the pieces of wood Aslan had told them was a gate back to their world. What must it be like, there? A country that had produced High King Peter and his siblings? The country of his ancestors. How could one place give birth to such glaringly different people? There had never been a Telmarine like Peter, of that Caspian was sure.

Peter had been nothing and yet everything like what Caspian had expected. He had looked so young, but his eyes had been old. "High King Peter the Magnificent was the greatest king Narnia has ever seen," Cornelius had said, while Caspian leaned over the edge of the parapet and looked down into the tops of the trees. "He ended the long winter and they called his rule the Golden Age of Narnia."

"I suppose he was perfect, with a name like that," Caspian had said, idly, dropping an acorn and watching it fall.

Cornelius's voice had been warm, as though he were smiling. "He was little older than you when he defeated the White Witch."

Now Caspian's interest had been peaked. "Really? Then he was a great warrior."

"Oh yes, but he was much more than that."

Caspian had been not a little intimidated by the Pevensies, the High King especially. But Peter had been kind and humble, and insistent that he was there to help Caspian gain the throne-- not to take it himself. "I didn't defeat the White Witch," Peter had said, in confidence. "Please don't look at me like that-- I know the stories they used to tell and the songs they used to sing. I can only imagine what you must have heard."

Caspian remembered his lips curving into a small, bemused smile. "I expect the stories are exaggerated, but I know also what I see. You are High King Peter the Magnificent."

Peter had chuckled. "There is that, I suppose. Edmund got to be 'the Just', but I got that ridiculous title. How is one ever supposed to live up to being called 'the Magnificent'?"

"And what will they call me?"

"You'll have to discover that yourself."

It was silly, Caspian knew, to yearn to know how you would be remembered before you'd even done something to be worth being remembered for, but if he knew, then he would know what it was he had to do. Why must Aslan always leave so suddenly? Why couldn't he have given Caspian a few instructions? Caspian had told Aslan he didn't think he was ready to be king, but instead of helping him, Aslan had merely said Caspian was ready because he felt he wasn't.

That would never make sense.

In the darkness, Caspian could make out nothing of his kingdom but the outline of the trees against the moonlight, the shadows of the castle walls stretching over the grass and the dusty road. "One day, these lands will be yours to rule," and Caspian couldn't remember who had said that to him, the bearded faces of his uncle and his father bleeding into one.

Tipsy on strong wine the night of his coronation, Caspian had found Peter, an empty goblet in his hand and his face solemn. "What stories do they tell of us leaving? What of Narnia then, with no king?"

Caspian had sunk to the ground, his legs folding awkwardly beneath him. He spoke slowly and carefully, trying hard not to stumble over his words. "Cornelius never told me any stories like that. He said only that you left suddenly, and no one knows exactly what happened."

Peter had grasped Caspian's arm in a lightning-fast motion, his grip like a vice. "You will never abandon Narnia, will you? Promise me!"

Caspian hadn't realized how much he loved Narnia until that moment. The reply had been easy. "I promise, my lord."

Caspian's candle cast shadows on the walls in the flickering light as he mounted the stairs. The flame illuminated the portraits of all the Telmarine kings-- here was Caspian I, the Conqueror, and here, Caspian IX. Caspian paused at his father's portrait, where next to it was simply a nail in the wall. Miraz's portrait had been removed. Was this Caspian's place, now? Would his likeness hang on the abandoned nail, a replacement, the plaque reading 'Caspian X', next to his father as he'd dreamed about as a little boy? The newest in a long line of Telmarine kings, forged with sweat and blood.

Caspian loved his father with all the fervor of an orphan. He loved his father with the honor and duty of a prince (king), and with the adoration of a son whose father existed more in imagination than in memory. Caspian loved his father, and maybe that was enough.

As Caspian resumed walking, he determined that tomorrow he would tell Cornelius to take down all the paintings.