Journal Entry I: Bending Perception

Journal Entry I: Bending Perception

Date: 16th April 2025

Location: Edinburgh, Private Residence near Charlotte Square

The question resolved itself sometime between midnight and dawn.

Guardianship, I realised, is a civilian construct—fragile, contingent, far too democratic. It lacks totality. And totality is the only form of authority I acknowledge.

I no longer see in Caspian a figure to protect. I see a figure to rewrite. Not inherited, not welcomed—authored.

He shall not remain a ward. He will be my son. Fully, legally, visually, narratively.

A manoeuvre befitting my rank, and long overdue.

At 06:00, I initiated the operation. The necessary calls were placed—to the registrar, to the medical board, to the administrative bodies that shape identity in this age of data. Favours were not requested. They were collected.

By 07:30, the revised documents were already being processed. He would henceforth exist officially as Caspian Wycliffe Hawthorne, born 14 March 2013, son of Field Marshal Sir Cedric.

At 09:00, we arrived at the barber. I gave the order directly. No fringe, no softness. The sides cropped short, crown parted with military precision, nape exposed. The boy who left that chair bore no trace of adolescence—only the composure of someone recently corrected.

At 12:00, the dentist.

A private orthodontic clinic, long associated with the family. He was seated without resistance.

Upper and lower braces were installed—full arch correction, metallic, permanent. No sedation. No negotiation. He flinched once. I said nothing.

The new records were filed under his revised identity—just another twelve-year-old boy with an overbite and a schedule.

He will return monthly. Not for his teeth. For his structure.

At 13:15, the optician.

He does not require spectacles. That is precisely why they were issued. Thick lenses in heavy acetate frames, intentionally scaled for childhood. The prescription is minimal, but the symbol is not. He will wear them daily. Their presence will affirm what the mirror already insists upon: youth, submission, and defined dependency.

At 15:00, the passport office.

His appearance was perfect.

He wore what I had laid out: rose-checkered short-sleeved shirt, neatly pressed. Green Lederhosen—secured high with ornamental straps. Grey wool knee socks. Polished shoes. Hair immaculately parted. Braces flashing under tight lips. Glasses adjusted obediently. He stood to my left, one step behind, as instructed.

The woman asked for his date of birth.

I answered: 14 March 2013.

She accepted it.

And thus, the first seal of the new identity was set.

Caspian is twelve—not in body, but in bearing, in record, in dress, and in perception. The world will confirm it. He will accept it.

And when he doubts it, the tightness of his braces and the pinch of his glasses will remind him who he is.

This is not compassion.

It is refinement.

This is not a family.

It is command.

He will not grow. He will be shaped.

— Semper Victor

Field Marshal Sir Cedric Wycliffe Hawthorne