The following morning, mere minutes after I leave the deck for a glass of water, I come back out to the dazzling sun to see that a spar has begun. Though not just any spar – Caspian has challenged Edmund.

It's an elegance I've never seen before, a dance in perfect balance. Everyone on deck has either pressed themselves against the sides of the ship or climbed to an elevation where they're not at risk while the two kings caper, attacking with perfect form and precision. I'm mesmerised by their skill, how effortlessly they can transform a leap into a lunge, or a dive into a deflect. Their blades cross into a golden X, the sunlight sliding across the metal as they push, until Caspian twists and swings to rest the sword at Edmund's neck, ending the match.

I clap the best I can with the glass of water still in my hand, admiring how Caspian flips his broadsword back into his scabbard with a casual ease – though I quite like the idea of him practising it religiously in private until the move was perfect. "Alright, back to work!" Drinian barks from the forecastle, where he's often perched like a crow, looking down at the deck while he's overseeing the wheel.

Caspian notices me and I hold up the glass of water in offering – with the way his chest is rising and falling rapidly, he has more need of it than I do. He jogs over and mumbles his thanks before downing half the glass. "I think after some more training, I'd quite like to duel you." I muse. I ignore the obvious – I've won a singular match, and that was through sheer dumb luck – and instead welcome the idea of sharing a moment like that with Caspian. Close enough to see the light in his eyes, how they shine when he's deciding his next move or how he relishes in each successful strike, his movements strong and confident when fuelled with a growing adrenaline. It's hypnotic.

He raises his eyebrows and smirks. "Oh really? Well, after a few years maybe you can last longer than a minute." He winks and takes another sip. I let out an exaggerated hiss and hold my hand over my heart in mock pain.

"How rude, your Majesty. Is that how you talk to your inferiors?" He leans his head back, shaking it slightly and chuckling.

"The ones who say they want to fight me, yes." He responds, turning to me.

"Consider the proposition revoked." I hold my hands up and bow, a teasing smile tugging the corners of my mouth up. He smiles and leans his elbows back on the railing, stretching his legs out in front and resting his cheek on his shoulder as he turns to me.

"Are you more comfortable at sea now?"

"I am. The people here are nicer than most of the people I knew in London." I nod, looking over the deck in gratitude. On the opposite side, Marco is halfway up the ratlines securing a knot that had loosened, watched closely by Reepicheep who's nimbly jumping across the rope talking about a marsh-wiggle he met as a child. Tavros and a group of seamen are transporting crates below deck while Drinian rests beside the stairs leading to the forecastle platform sharpening a blade and sporadically yelling at someone. While Drinian may not be the embodiment of a sweet summer rose, he's still considerably kinder than the man who once bellowed at me because I took a second more to move forward in line when buying groceries last year.

"I accept only the best men in my crew, though you make me wonder if I should have included women too."

"How so?"

"You have a way with ordering the crew that makes them work more efficiently than they would've done if I was the one commanding." I raise my eyebrows in doubt. "Take Marco for example, he's the best in terms of rowing, a skilled fighter with an impeccable memory, though he's always been lax when it comes to deck maintenance. That changed when you started pointing out his mistakes. His clove hitch knots have never been better."

"I was only telling him what you told me."

"Well, he only listened to one of us." We watch as he finishes securing the knot, double checking its stability, before swinging back onto the deck.

"Clearly you're lacking a firm hand, Caspian." He leans in slightly, eyes darting between mine. I force myself not to look away.

"Perhaps you could teach me?"

"I –"

There's a sudden yell from the crow's nest and behind Caspian I can see Drinian straighten. "Your Majesty! The first Lone Island is in view!" Caspian leaps away from the railing, scanning the horizon until a cheer erupts from his throat.

"Excuse me." He says quickly, brushing my arm before racing to Drinian's side to get a better view through the spyglass.

I feel rooted to the spot, stuck fast with shock after what felt like two rapid-fire slaps to the face. Was Caspian flirting? I can't decide if I'm thankful or disappointed at the intrusion, what would I have even said in response to that? Flapped around like a fish out of water I expect. I think instead of the actual disruption – land!

Racing to the opposite railing, I nearly cry in relief seeing a spec of brown in the distance, like an accidental ink blot on an otherwise steady blue canvas. The idea of standing on solid ground again with no swaying or creaking beneath my feet unleashes a painful desperation inside me, a physical ache in my chest urging me to jump overboard and swim there if it would be faster – which, of course, it wouldn't be.

My legs are restless, tapping against the floor and bubbling with energy that's telling me to move. I could run laps around the ship, and I have no doubt the energy would still be there, craving more. Yearning for the sharp tickle of grass between my toes or the crunch of gravel under a boot. Soft carpet and fine sand. Clanging metal and jagged rock. Anything, anything, but wooden planks.

Lucy bounds up beside me, staring at the island too. "Are you excited to take your first step on Narnian soil?" She asks.

"I'd be excited if I could step on a volcano, if I'm honest. As long as it's stationary, I want it."

"I hope you can wait the day until you do." My shoulders slump. I reluctantly tear my eyes away from the island, now looking impossibly far away. I knew it would be a while, but my mind is working overtime imagining what could be there already.

Food stalls where they'll have a fresh hog roast, the deliciously rich scent weaving through the streets like ribbon, ensnaring itself with tobacco and the spicy aroma of cedar trees they'd have growing nearby. Meat you can eat right off the bones, still warm and dripping.

Fruit orchards bursting with apples and oranges, limes and lemons. My mouth waters at the prospect of having fresh fruit again, the juices plentiful and explosive with their sharp flavours so unlike our stews and dried meat on board which all lost their taste to me a week ago. And the colours! Reds, oranges, yellows and greens – shades lost to me except at sunrise and sunset as I'm drowned in blue, brown and black every day. The possibilities are so dizzying that I start to feel sick with anticipation.

"Amber, come meet Eustace." I feel Lucy's hand wrap around my wrist, tugging me forward. I try to pay attention but the thought of buckets full of fresh food keeps drifting into mind.

Eustace openly assesses me, so I do the same. While I sympathise with his shock and wariness of some of the crew, I can't help but find him frustrating with everything he says. His face looks sallow and tinged green, eyes and mouth pinched as if he'd just bitten a lemon, all his movements jittery and tense.

"She's from London too, Eustace." Lucy says.

"Amber Blackwill." I introduce, holding out my hand. He recoils slightly, looking at it like I might use it to throw him overboard. Eventually, he reaches out and gives a singular, brief shake.

"Blackwill… That sounds familiar. Do you have siblings?" His eyebrows furrow.

I ignore the pinch in my chest, which thankfully becomes easier with each time it happens. "I'm afraid not." He nods, clearly still mentally rifling through the possible ways he would recognise my name. Honestly, I don't have a clue. It's not common. If we hadn't just been promised solid ground within the day, I might be questioning it alongside him, but it's hard to ignore the persistent twitching in my legs.

Somebody across deck announces that lunch is ready, trading our thoughts of London for the promise of a sated stomach. As we collect our stew and settle below deck, where the hammocks are strung up at night, everyone talks about the island. So far, they believe it to be Doorn, possessor of the town Narrowhaven where many sailors trade during voyages. Out of the three islands, it's most likely we'll find the Lords here – or information about them, at least.

I'm clearly not the only one infected by fanciful thoughts of what it'll be like. Some crew members wish for new clothes and books, spare whetstones and specific Narnian delicacies I haven't heard of before. Others, the single ones, hope for equally single beautiful women. We remain below deck for longer than allowed, though Drinian and Caspian are absent so they can't chastise us for it, suggesting increasingly ludicrous ideas.

When we finally break away to continue working, I think only of Doorn, letting it consume me to the point where physically looking at the island, still so far away, is painful. I retreat to my (well, Caspian's) cabin and nap, dreaming of the possibilities.


Hours later, I'm woken by someone calling my name. I open my eyes and am met with Caspian's face hovering above mine, making me jump in shock and effectively waking up quicker. "You might want to look outside." He says simply, smiling.

We're close, I realise. I stand and race up the steps, barging through the door leading out to the deck, gasping when I see the view. Drifting absentmindedly to the railing, I stare in amazement at the island in front of me, so sudden and stark it looks like it's been plucked out of thin air.

Sandstone buildings stack high upon one another, spiraling into a towering cone and topped by a formidable grey fortress that casts shadows across half the island. Gravel roads wrap around the buildings like tightly pulled coils of rope, its contents almost spilling out over the sides. It's muted, touched entirely with beige and pewter. While it's not the prosperous fields lined with ripe crops I had imagined, it's hard to be disappointed when it's still the only land I've seen in weeks. Not only that – it's land in another world.

I turn to Caspian, who followed me outside. "How long until we reach it?" I ask.

Drinian steps up beside him, looking as if he were carved from stone. "You won't be going." When I glance back at Caspian for an explanation, he's pointedly avoiding eye contact.

"Narrowhaven does not look as it should be. We think it would be safer if you stayed on board." He says tentatively. I freeze, looking back toward to island. I know they mean well, and I know I'm the biggest outsider possible here, but that doesn't stop the anger that sparks to life in my chest. I bite my tongue and try to control the flames licking my throat, desperate to get out. I am not staying on this boat.

Distantly, I register a crash as two crew members drop a stack of oars onto the deck. Drinian steps away to yell at them and Caspian wastes no time in stepping closer. "Amber, say something." He puts a hand on my arm and leans down to try and catch my eye, currently trained resolutely on the floor.

"Caspian," I begin through gritted teeth, trying to stay calm. "I thank you for what you've done for me, but you are not my King and I do not take orders from you." At that I meet his eyes, trying to look as serious as I feel. "I'm not staying on this boat." His face tenses, eyes flicking to Drinian as a muscle tenses in his jaw. I force myself to stand strong while he opens and closes his mouth in conflict, eventually pressing his lips together and nodding.

"Fine. You can join us, but you stay by the boats until we know if it's safe or not." He sighs. I can't help but cheer, grinning so wide my cheeks hurt.

"Thank you!" I sing, squeezing his hand between mine in gratitude. Caspian flashes me a quick smile, his eyes softening, before going to tell Drinian about the change. I feel only slightly guilty when I see him brace himself for the conversation.


Thankfully, we're set to leave within the hour. I busy myself with attaching a scabbard to my hip, inserting a newly sharpened cutlass and fastening a leather tunic over my chest; though it's hard to take the preparation seriously – I feel like I'm dressing as a pirate for a costume party, playing make believe with friends. Below deck I speak to Fiedan, a crew member who got his shirt caught on a wickedly sharp nail protruding from the wall that morning which effectively tore it beyond repair. He graciously gives it to me, allowing me to cut a sliver off and gather my hair into a ponytail, using it for a ribbon.

When I'm ushered on deck, I stop short seeing the longboat we're travelling to the island in. It's currently suspended in the air, parallel to the ship beside the gap in the railing. I watch as Lucy steps confidently off the ship and into the boat, which rocks unsteadily with her presence. Forcing myself to remember that entering that boat will take me to solid ground, I step up beside it.

There's a gap between them, reminding me of the space between a train and its platform – and the ominous black pit that separates them. I can't decide which is worse; The space of solid darkness and the fear of the unknown, though reason dictates the floor is near and in the seconds after the train has arrived it did not, in fact, transform into a gaping wide void, or the space I'm faced with now, mercifully bright and beautiful, but showcasing a 30ft drop to the ocean. I'll decide later.

I reluctantly bridge the gap and force myself to stay calm as the longboat sways worryingly. I think to the pirate ship rides at amusements parks, packed in with no seatbelt as you rock almost vertically to the ground, and feel sick. I never liked those rides. I keep my eyes firmly rooted to the sky as Edmund, Reepicheep, Eustace, Caspian and Drinian board, swallowing a nervous yelp every time we move and taking reassurance in tracing my hand over the intricate pattern of a lion and the sun on my swords hilt. Then, we're sailing.

My anticipation intensifies as I watch the island grow with each passing minute, looking even more intimidating from this close to the ocean. We bump against an empty port, faced with a wide strip of dusty stone which curves around the side of the island to the left and twists behind a wall to the right. Caspian offers me a hand out of the boat, for which I thank him.

When he lets go, I sway up the few steps to the path and almost fall immediately back down, caught at the last second by Caspian. My body feels light and unsteady, everything in view swimming in and out of focus as if riding a vicious current in my head and the floor feels wrong. Unusual. As if instead of stone it were a thick feather mattress. Beside me, still holding my forearm, Caspian chuckles. "What's happening?" I ask, unsuccessfully keeping the worry out of my voice.

"You've lost your land legs."

"I can't have them and my sea legs? Only one?" He laughs.

"It gets easier with time." I wait for the island to still in my sight, before straightening and attempting to walk forward.

Everything tips to the right and I stumble, steadying myself with my hands on my knees. "How long will this last?" I ask.

"Could be minutes, maybe a few hours."

"Sometimes it's days." Supplies Marco, unhelpfully. I reply with a simple thumbs up.

"Where is everyone?" Asks Lucy. We all quiet and tune in to the island, but all that can be heard is the hush of the water, our footsteps scuffing the ground and a distant bird cry.

"Reepicheep, stay here with Drinian's men and secure the place. We'll head on. If we don't come back by dawn, send a search party." Caspian says, removing his crossbow from its holster and heading into the unknown depths of the island.

I stumble my way to the platform beside the port steps, sitting down roughly and trying to breathe with a rhythm until I no longer feel like vomiting. It works for the most part. But I know the sickness will return when I stand again.

From this low down, I can't see anything unusual on the island. Only the tips of the buildings that seem to raise themselves like the roots of a tree from the one below it, but I imagine from the top of the island it must be a stunning view. To be able to view the layout of the island perfectly, the collection of roofs splayed out like pebbles on a beach, islanders strolling the streets and hanging out washing, living non-assuming lives. I could spend years up there, watching the lives of others unfold, blanketed in a quiet not weighed with fear or despair.

Though I think I'm the only one enjoying it. The others are busy patrolling the area, checking the few concealed areas there are and never straying their hands from their swords. The ruckus of life at sea had its moments of comfort, which grew more frequent as time went on, but undisturbed quiet is an underappreciated gift, one I delight in whenever the opportunity arises. I sit there for a while, undisturbed, eyes always drifting up to the island's peak. One of them would be a public building, surely? Though it's high, it doesn't necessarily look far, or complicated to reach. I could just… slip away for a while. Explore. Appreciate the steady ground once I have my land legs back.

I look around at the crew. Nobody's watching me, all caught in their own conversations or stretching or admiring the view. Standing, still unsteady but more manageable, I inch my way to the left of the island and down the path that curves around the edge. Going a different direction from where Caspian, Edmund, Lucy and Eustace (why he's allowed the privilege of exploring and I don't is beyond me) was an easy decision to make – if I'm caught, I doubt any excuse would suffice.

The crew disappear from view around the edge of the towering wall that encases the town, and I finally turn to survey my options. The path splits into two, one continuing to brush against the sea, void of any barriers to prevent an untimely fall, and the other leading to an inviting stone archway branching from the wall and connecting with a bland building that lines the seafront. I choose the archway, reveling in the crunch of sand dusting the floor as I walk.

I'm led into a small courtyard as dull as everywhere else, the surrounding buildings tall enough to block out the sunlight, leaving the isolated space in shadow. Everything is just a little bit too dirty, a little bit too out of place. It has the air of being woefully unloved. Benches long overdue for a repaint, or complete replacement, bordering a worn stone fountain, left so dry that even the weeds lacing the cracks have withered. The buildings are void of decoration, copycat grey blocks that lack the individuality of a business and the warmth of a home. I try not to read too much into the hastily bordered windows and move on.

Through a few narrow streets, each as empty as the last, I find the cleanest stoop I can find outside another desolate building and rest. My legs are still shaky, in constant anticipation for the floor jerk up or down and unwilling to accept that it won't happen. I centre my thoughts solely on positive ways to view my current situation, trying to ease the weight of disappointment in my stomach.

1: I'm on land not apart of the United Kingdom for the first time in my life.

2: There's no war here.

3: Though dull, I can take inspiration for future pieces while here.

4: I'm not on the boat.

5: After two weeks of rarely being alone, the solitude is more welcome than ever.

I keep the list repeating in my head until I feel optimistic enough to stand and continue exploring, no longer expectant of fresh fruit or meat waiting around the corner.

There can be beauty in anything if you look hard enough. How the roots of a malnourished maple tree snake like spindly fingers through stone tiles, the sombre beauty of a dead flower, its pollen staining its wooden container, or the open possibilities that arise from an eroded statue, able to be anything you want to see within its blurred form – even if that thing is an elephant in a top hat standing on its hind legs.

When I apply my surroundings to art, it becomes easier to love. I've always wanted to try a mixed media piece, maybe I can start one of Narrowhaven; A gaping street, stretched wide in a weary yawn, lined with a mixture of stone and cinder buildings, decorations sparse and paint peeling. A march of leafless trees down the centre. I could mix my paint with sand or gravel for the ground, charcoal to capture the thickness of the shadows clinging against the walls and watercolour for the washed-out shades that drape over the entire area like a grimy glass window.

Bells ring in the distance. I startle, hand instinctively going towards the hilt of my sword. A beat of silence. Then, a scream. My mind splits in two with indecision – I should help, I'm armed and whoever it was is in definite danger. On the other hand, my sword skills are still weak, and it could be a group of people performing an ambush, in which case I'm better off returning to Drinian and having him organise a rescue. Before I decide, I'm racing down the street trying to find where I emerged from.

Each street is indistinguishable from the next, an unforgiving maze shrinking me to the size of a mouse caught in an overly elaborate trap. Shadows morph into cruel, hulking shapes waiting to latch onto me with hands of obsidian, the dust I kick up as I run whispering warnings in my wake. I hear voices in the distance, a mixture of guttural screams and cruel laughter. I stop. My head is reeling, the ground refusing to still itself as I lean against a wall and crawl towards the edge.

The street ends abruptly, opening out into wide stretch of undisturbed stone, at least four times the size as the courtyard I passed through earlier. At the end of it, leaving a set of ornate brass doors so irreconcilable to their surroundings, are a group of men dressed in elaborate layers of fine silk and patterned fabrics and holding four prisoners – Lucy, Edmund, Eustace and Caspian. I clamp a hand over my mouth as to not scream and watch in horror as those holding Lucy and Eustace depart to the left of the doors while Caspian and Edmund are hauled to the right. As far as I can tell, they're all shouting. I need to find Drinian, I think desperately.

I step away from the wall, my eyes unwilling the leave the horrific scene unfolding before me and try to gather enough courage to run. Before I can turn around, a hand clamps itself over my mouth and another grabs at my waist to pull me flush against a body behind me. A strangled scream escapes my throat, drowned out by a deep, rasping chuckle I feel vibrating against my back. He removes the cutlass from my scabbard. I try to cringe away but his hold is firm, the rancid smell of his unwashed hand overwhelming me to the point of tears.

He pushes me out into the open of the square, roughly grabbing my wrists and shackling them behind my back before hauling me forward by the shirt. The collar is pulled tight against my throat, cutting off the air I would have used to yell. "Got another one!" He cheers gleefully.

Another scream, so raw as if it were torn from the soul itself, echoes through the empty space. I twist, scrabbling for purchase against the floor as my capturer continues to drag me like a sack of potatoes and search. My eyes meet Caspian's. He screams again, the same gut-wrenching call that feels like my own throat has been shredded by a whetstone and launches himself away from the man holding his chains. Two more thieves rush to help, forcing back his shoulders and pushing him forcefully down a narrow alley.

A man strolls casually up to me, dressed in flowing sheets of emerald, threaded through with golden starbursts. His mouth twitches upwards in a smile, his eyes raking over me. "Good job." He says lightly. "She can go to market." I'm wrenched across the space and down so many twisting streets that I can't keep track of the path we follow, eventually thrown into a cell with Eustace and Lucy. There are already two other women in the cell, huddled into corners and staring fretfully at us as if we were the enemies and not prisoners like them.

The bars slam shut. I slump onto the floor, Caspian's scream still echoing in my head.