If possible, I'd recommend listening to an ocean thunderstorm playlist while reading this chapter. It certainly helped me while writing it.
Caspian was suffering. In the last few days he had rarely spoken, choosing often to stay within the confines of his office or on the deck until somebody (Drinian, for the most part) physically took him away. Our morning sessions had dissolved, each strike a weak tap and half of his time was spent glancing out of the window and letting the waves wash away his train of thought, so now they've ceased without a word. With each passing day, he looks worse.
Usually his stories are so vivid; I know about Althea his nurse, who first introduced him to Narnian stories, and his tutor Doctor Cornelius, who saved his life. I know of his first interactions with Narnians and High King Peter. He's recounted his travels through the Seven Isles with such detail that the clarity with which I can imagine them often makes me believe that they were my own memories. Now he loses track with each sentence and it appears like nothing can shake him from this cloud of despair that has consumed him.
On the seventh night of the storm, I find out why.
"We're stuck at half rations with food and water for two more weeks maximum. This is your last chance to turn back Your Majesty. There's no guarantee we'll spot the blue star any time soon, not in this storm." Drinian says. I'm crouched in the hallway, leaning as much of my weight on the wall as I can while ensuring that I can make a quick getaway. I'd rather not have them find me eavesdropping like this. "Needle in a haystack, trying to find this Ramandu place. We could sail right past it and off the end of the world." He continues.
"Or get eaten by a sea serpent." I hear somebody, Edmund it sounds like, supply. Another nightmare to add to the list, I think.
Somebody sighs heavily. "I'm just saying the men are getting nervous. These are strange seas we're sailing, the likes of which I've never seen before." A chair scrapes across the floor suddenly.
"Then perhaps, Captain, you would like to be the one to explain to Mr Rhince that we're abandoning the search for his family." It's the most I've heard Caspian say all week, and in a tone so scorched with anger that I fear he'll turn things physical.
Silence. I press closer to the wall. "I'll get back to it." I hear Drinian say, just before his silhouette comes into view in the glass door. My breath hitches and I stand as quick as I dare, crossing the hallway and towards the stairs that lead down to the berthing deck. "Just a word of warning, the sea can play nasty tricks on a crews mind. Very nasty." I hear the door open and slam shut, then a distant set of footsteps leading up.
It's time.
I've grown more restless with each passing day. Everything is surmounting into a terror more terrible than anything the ocean could reveal from its depths, but only I can see it looming over the Dawn Treader waiting for the right moment to drop. Nobody has let me do anything. Lucy and Gael have the same issue, though at least they have distractions. Lucy, forbidden from rowing or going on the deck like me, is preoccupied with keeping Gael as happy and calm as possible while Rhince helps to stop us all from dying horrible deaths and Gael is eager to let her, snatching any activity or game Lucy can come up with to sooth her overactive mind. Eustace has also been encouraged away from helping, not that he ever planned to. So far, he's been perfectly content to isolate himself and scribble furiously in the notebook he keeps in his sock.
While I'd love to do the same, lock out the world until it's only me and my sketchbook, I can't concentrate. It feels wrong. Every time I have tried to draw there will be a crew member entering the room soaking wet or another so tired that they can barely hold their arms up. I'll hear yelling during the day and empty stomachs rumbling during the night and drown in guilt. I don't deserve the luxury of having endless hours to draw when these men are risking their lives every single day for those on this ship. I want to do the same – I need to contribute.
So, with Caspian either distracted or absent all the time, I've been learning. I've spent the last week listening into the conversations of others and asking questions to those too distracted or too tired to care about their intent so I can prepare myself for deck duty.
I've learnt that the ropes used to keep the crew attached to the ship are stored anywhere and everywhere – available to be collected by any sailor willing to brave the chaos. Whenever he was on deck, Drinian was at the wheel which made it off limits for me, at best I think I could last five minutes before he noticed, got angry, and ordered me back to my hammock. Keeping the sail up and the mast connected to the ship required physical capabilities I don't possess, so my only option was the bilge pump.
From split-second glimpses I got when the somebody passed through the door and the snippets of information gathered, I knew there would be a line of men running from the pump to the side of the ship where all water washed onto the deck would be thrown out in bucketfuls. It's my best bet at making a difference, even if that difference is only giving one weary sailor an extra hour of sleep while I take over. Anything seems worthwhile at this point.
Now, with information as my weapon and Caspian tucked away in his office, I can finally follow through with my plan. A voice in the back of my head judges my decision, reminding me of my promise to him, but the situation has only gotten worse. I can't let two words stop me from doing what's right.
I stride down into the berthing deck, retrieve a hooded jacket and a coil of rope unnoticed, and return once again to the corridor. Through the glass door I can see Caspian pacing. My stomach clenches.
I turn away, tie one end of the rope firmly around my waist and breathe deep. Then, I step out onto the deck.
The impact is immediate.
My sight is stolen within seconds, blocked by a relentless pouring of rain which stings my face as if it were icicles. It wraps its frozen touch around my clothes and pushes the cold deep into my bones, so deep that I forget how to move until a wave rams into the side of the ship and sends me lurching into the doorway. My shoulder aches on impact but when I try to hold it, I can barely feel my own touch. There's no time, anyway.
I hurry to the mast and observe the other ropes already attached to it – bowline knots. I mentally thank Tavros for teaching me how to do them during my first week and connect myself to the ship.
I can't believe I thought the sound was extreme from inside. Here, it's multiplied beyond belief. Like fists slamming against walls and a pack of wolves howling to the moon; the applause of a sinister audience watching our struggle and a giant's heavy stomp – it's all of them at once, calling out to the land in an endless, piercing barrage of noise. Thick and teeming and actively snatching our own noise away for its own tower on the verge of collapse where it will deafen us all.
Spray from the see drenches me as I take a step away from the safety of the mast, keeping the barest tips of my fingers attached to its surface until the last possible millisecond where I have no choice but to let go. I squint and focus, concentrating on the line of men through the haze working by the bilge pump. One man, second from the railing, is almost half bent over with exhaustion.
I approach him, putting a hand on his shoulder that neither of us can feel, and pull him out of the line. I want to say something, tell him to rest or that I've got this, but there's no time. Barely a second after I take his place, I'm handed a bucket which is instantly taken by the man to my left, its contents hauled over the side and passed back.
Neither of the crew members either side of me acknowledge that I'm no longer the man who stood here a minute ago and, more importantly, nobody tells me to leave. But there's no time to dwell. Everyone reeks of distress; the kind that makes you believe you could die any second, that one slip up, a single finger out of place, could end it all. So I think of nothing except passing the bucket again and again and again while the waves launching themselves onto the deck try to knock me over and my limbs numb to where I can't imagine ever having feeling in them to begin with and each inhale is torn from me by a vengeful wind.
All that matters is passing the bucket.
Again.
Again.
Again.
Hours later, when I've begun to see the idea of diving into a raging fireplace the epitome of desirable, I'm pulled out of the line and replaced within the blink of an eye. My knees buckle at the sudden movement, the feeling in them long gone, and everything seems to sharpen. The noise, still unbearably loud; the cold, which has numbed my entire body – I doubt I would feel a sword sticking out of my side at this point; and the pain.
I'm half-dragged to the mast to untie my rope and it takes every ounce of my lingering strength to raise my arms enough to complete the task. They're shaking fiercely, and not from the cold.
When I finally detach myself from the ship, my tiredness kindly takes a back seat in my head so I can focus on not dying on the journey from the mast to the stern. I'm heavily aware of the spray coating the deck and how deadly it can be when combined with my sopping boots, bombarded with so much water that even their thick material couldn't stop it seeping through and drenching my feet, but I, along with two other sailors, make it inside alive and unharmed. The door shuts with a resolute snap, muffling the sounds from outside enough for me to register a slight ringing in my ears.
After a few weak attempts to tug at the rope still firmly around my waist, it loosens enough that I can let it fall to my feet with the knot still intact, before picking it up and passing it to a sailor waiting patiently nearby. He pats my shoulder in thanks and when I meet his eyes, his nod tells me that it's for more than just the lame gift. From beneath the towering pile of exhaustion and pain and misery comes elation. Pride.
They accept me.
I did the right thing.
I manage a smile in return and direct my shaky legs downstairs, the thought of three hours of sleep (at best) in a wildly swinging hammock akin to paradise. For the first time since the storm began, I feel like I deserve the sleep.
Then I see Caspian.
Specifically, Caspian with tense eyes and a clenched jaw, processing my bedraggled form. He strides over.
"What are you doing?" He says, voice taut.
"Helping."
"You know you can't be out there. You could have been thrown overboard." He lashes, all in a singular breath. I barely have the physical strength to stay upright, and I especially don't have the emotional strength or energy to match his frustration right now. Which, now I think about it, is probably for the best.
"I'm fine Caspian, just tired." I meet his eyes unflinchingly as they search mine. I expected him to react like this, which is why I didn't intend for him to find out, but apparently when I was crafting out my plan I forgot about the whole 'sneaking back inside unnoticed' step.
"Come on." He takes my hand and guides me into the office, planting me in the centre before leaving without another word, but slamming the door in a way that tells me to stay behind it. For once, I'm too tired to disobey.
I collapse onto the bench and push off my boots with the alternating foot, letting my arms flop uselessly to the sides. It should get easier the more I go out. Hopefully.
Caspian returns in record time and pushes fresh clothes and a towel into my arms and turns to set up a screen for me to get changed behind in the corner of the room, wedged behind a table so it won't fall. He doesn't meet my eye.
Getting the breeches off proves far simpler than the shirt. Having it plastered to my skin is one issue but raising my arms above my head is a new ball park entirely. I'm seconds away from asking Caspian to help me but knowing that would aid his argument regarding my participation on deck, sure to be fired at me the second I step out, I decide not to. I bite my tongue, clench my teeth, and get on with it, trying to ignore the way my back screams in protest.
Once dried and dressed, feeling drained it every way possible but in a more manageable, comfortable state, I sit beside Caspian and wait for him to speak. He's hunched over, elbows on knees and fingers curled round each other in front of his mouth, staring blankly into the distance. His hair is a mess, tangled and wild, from what I imagine is his hands running through and pulling it every few seconds and his face is gaunt, haunting. The dim light stretching shadows across his cheeks and under his eyes only exaggerate how sickly he looks.
"Why did you do it?" He says after a lengthy pause, voice so quiet I almost missed it.
"I wanted to." He looks to me incredulously.
"You wanted to be on a ship deck during a storm and potentially get thrown into the ocean?"
"I wanted to help." I reply, keeping my words firm.
"You promised you wouldn't go up there." Guilt sneaks a lump into my throat, using the hurt in his eyes to blow it up bigger. I try to swallow around it and remind myself to stay strong. Helping is the right choice. I can't let it be taken away from me.
"This journey means a lot to you and if there's anything I can do to help, no matter how small, I want to do it. I want to be part of the crew." I tell myself not to break his gaze as he watches me, clearly in thought.
After a while, he softens and seems to release a measure of tension from his body, shoulders slumping by a fraction. He takes my hand in his and kisses it lightly. "Thank you," He murmurs, breath hot on my skin, before laying our hands in the space between us.
"Does all of the crew get this treatment?" I joke before I can stop the words tumbling out of my mouth, feeling the heat crawl up my neck. He huffs out a laugh and runs a thumb over my knuckles.
"I'll consider implementing it."
The man calling himself King for the past week has not been Caspian. It is, technically, but not really. He's been Caspian with all the colour washed away. But now I can see the barest tinge of life returning, and I'm desperate to have him burn gold again.
"We're going to be okay, Caspian." I squeeze his hand lightly. He smiles and nods.
"I know. But please, if you want to help, the best thing you can do is keep yourself safe."
I take a deep breath. "I can't do that, not in the way you want me to. If I work on the deck for a few hours each day, then that gives another sailor more rest he desperately needs. I know it may not seem like a lot of difference, but I think we should be taking anything we can get right now."
Silence.
He chews on his lip as he faces the floor.
Then, so brief I think I imagined it until he does it for a second time, a nod.
"I'll speak to Drinian and see what he says. If he allows it, then… Then I suppose I do too." We stand. "Don't die." He tells me. I can't help but grin.
"I'll do my best."
"Goodnight, Sleeping Beauty." Ah, he remembers. I'll have to tell him the story at some point. But for now –
"Goodnight, Caspian."
Having been too caught up with my escapades on deck last night, I failed to process the conversation I overheard between Drinian and Caspian.
Two weeks.
Two weeks until our food is gone and we're as good as dead.
No wonder Caspian has rarely been eating, I bet the selfless bastard has been trying to stretch it out for the rest of us, all while neglecting the damage it's causing him and the obvious fact that it won't work.
With Drinian and Edmund occupied with keeping everybody alive and the rest of the crew unwilling to be firm with their King, it's time for somebody to confront him and with all the free time I've been handed it seems that job is mine. I just need to be direct, confident. Like last night. It worked then and it can work again – will work again.
Caspian has been protective of me since I arrived, and I can't deny that I've come to care for him a great deal – maybe more than I should, but that can go in the ever increasing 'Repress This' portion of my brain – and always looked out for my wellbeing despite my tendency to ignore orders against better judgement. Now, it's time for me to do the same.
After finishing my own breakfast and explaining to Talos, distributor of rations, that I planned to take Caspian's to him, he assesses me for a second before handing them to me with a 'good luck'. I wonder if Caspian knows that they know, and if anyone has already tried bringing the subject up to him.
I pause outside his office, take a deep breath and knock.
"Come in," He looks up from his place on the bench as I walk in. "Amber, are you alright?"
"Yes, I'm fine." I pause. "Are you?"
"Of course." He smiles but it's strained. The flame from the swaying lantern in the centre of the ceiling does his appearance no favours.
I move to sit beside him, his breakfast safely tucked in a swath of fabric in my lap and take a moment to think through my words. He watches me, waiting patiently.
"I know this trip means a lot to you Caspian, and that it spiralled into something bigger than you could've imagined," A flash of lightning cracks the sky. "but you're letting it control you too much. You barely speak, you've distanced yourself from everyone, and you haven't been eating."
"I've been eating enough, Am –"
"No." Thunder rumbles in the distance. My voice cracks. Up close the shadows and the new hollows in his cheeks are worse and it's too familiar. I recognise the look and the denial, and I can't –
Calm.
I can't let him do this to himself.
"You haven't. Starving yourself isn't going to help anyone, it won't magically conjure enough rations for the crew to last us past the next fortnight." His eyebrows furrow.
"How did you know we only have enough for a fortnight? Drinian wasn't going to tell them until tonight."
"I, um…"
"You were eavesdropping?" To my initial surprise, he smiles.
"A little."
"I can't say I blame you." He goes to speak again, and it hits me. He doesn't mind that I heard because it offers him a diversion. A new conversation.
"This is beside the point." I hurry to interrupt. "You can't keep going on like this." His face falls.
"It's all my fault. I need to do something."
"That something is being a good King." He eyes the floor. "How do you expect to be a worthy leader if you can barely hold your head up? Besides, they knew there could be trouble, it's not your fault. You didn't ask for a storm." I unwrap the food and hold it out towards him, noticing him swallow when his eyes flick towards the biscuit. "Please?"
"I'm not hungry…" He says feebly, but his resolve is cracking.
"Just shut up and eat it." I say lightly, making him smile.
"Thank you." Like sunlight splitting the darkest of rain clouds, relief floods me in a tidal wave seeing him accept the food.
"Now. It's time you learn how to play hangman." I shuffle closer and take out my sketchbook.
"Hangman?" He asks, biscuit half way to his mouth.
I hum and flick to a blank page. "It's a game we had in London. Marco told me you don't have it here, but you're about to. Here's what you do…"
He picks the premise up quickly, though he wasn't keen on the name and the – for lack of a better word – execution of the game, and soon my sketchbook is dotted with scribbled matches, both successful and unsuccessful attempts to reveal words like Reepicheep, Narrowhaven and Snoozy Sparrow, the latter of which he promises to tell me the story of as long as I tell him of Sleeping Beauty in return.
The knowledge that this nook of peace we've carved for ourselves is heavily limited only fuels our desperation to block out our surroundings while we can, occasionally talking louder than normal to override a crackling of thunder or a worrying creak of the mast up above.
While my decision to tuck my feet underneath me and lean against Caspian was unconscious and didn't register in my head until I got up to leave, the placement of his arm on top of the seat I lent on, mere centimetres away from my shoulders, served as a significant distraction. Resisting the urge to lean back further and hope a wave knocks into the ship at just the right angle to nudge his arm forward cost me what would have been an easy win with 'crow's nest', and we soon decided that it was time to face the storm – literally.
His fingers brushing my wrist and a small smile on his face, he thanks me again before we part and my stomach jolts.
Oh no.
Oh no no no no no.
…
This won't end well.
12 chapters in and she's only just realised she has feelings. Oh boy