With Courage [Prince Caspian]

Chapter 1

I wake up coughing. Chest heaving erratically, spewing water next to a shallow puddle that had already established itself due to my dripping form, my eyes stay shut tight to keep out the sickness and the dread of what I'll find when they reluctantly open. I gulp in as much crisp, salty air as I can while gathering the courage to face my surroundings. My irregular heartbeat, though near deafening as it pounds in my ears, isn't enough to block out my other senses; something rough is digging into my palm splayed flat on the floor and the scents of wood and the ocean are overwhelming, far too vivid to be a dream. As I gradually adjust, I focus on what I can hear.

Wind billowing fabric.

Steadily rushing water.

Shuffling footsteps.

Many, many voices.

Fingers curl around my elbow, gently tugging upwards to encourage the rest of my body to follow. Once I'm standing, albeit unsteadily, I open my eyes and immediately stumble back, gasping. Standing before me is a hulking, hairy and hideous minotaur. "Are you alright, miss?" It says gruffly, but with a level of empathy I wouldn't have believed possible. Though I hadn't believed a painting becoming a portal to the middle of the ocean was possible, either. Instead of replying, I choose to survey my surroundings.

Over a dozen human faces stare back at me with varying degrees of curiosity and concern, on top of half a dozen unhuman faces, and in the gaps between the wall of bodies surrounding me I glimpse the sky, still displaying its stunningly vibrant shades. It was enough to convince me that I had really entered the painting I adore so much – it wasn't a sight to be replicated in some kind of maddeningly realistic hallucination. That and the minotaur, of course. "Is she deaf?" The minotaur asks, again with a jarringly gentle tone so oppositional to its threatening presence.

"N-No. I'm not." I say, the words leaving dry and weak, as if somebody scraped the inside of my throat with sandpaper.

"Where did you come from?" Asked a man, stepping through the crowd so he faced me directly. He was imposingly tall with a bald head, square face and features so sharp they could cut. Most importantly, he was angry.

"Drinian, that can wait. If she stays in those wet clothes she'll fall ill." I turn to face the new speaker, the man whose hand was still on my elbow. Does he think I'm going to try and run away? On a ship? I think. He's as soaked through as I am, and I distantly piece together that I have him to thank for not letting me drown in unknown waters. His hair, the same shade as the chestnut brown ship, was plastered to his cheeks and dripping water on the towel draped over his shoulders while his clothes, a midnight blue poet shirt and black breeches, were like a second skin against his lean form. Despite the dying light painting his features in gold, his eyes are such a deep brown it's hard to see where his pupil starts and his iris stops.

The man now known as Drinian nods before calling for the crowd to disperse, and I'm led across deck through a door at the stern which blunts the raging wind but retains the creaking floorboards. As we travel down a corridor and into a semi-circular room with windows currently half submerged in the ocean, casting spiderwebbed light fractures across the floor, the man introduces himself as King Caspian of Narnia and apologises for the unintentional intimidation from the crew. He strides confidently across the room to a wardrobe, removing some clothes for himself before stepping away, gesturing for me to come in. The boat rocks unsteadily underneath my feet and I can't find the right balance to stop myself tipping too far against each ebb and flow over the waves, making me stumble awkwardly into a table. Caspian clears his throat, trying to hold back a laugh. "I'll leave you to get dressed and then we'll talk, miss...?" He trails off.