Daughter of Nowhere || A Narnia (Prince Caspian) Story

1: Into the Woods

For a city built upon impossibly narrow cliffs, Telmar, with all its polished turrets and fortified gates, was doing very well indeed.

From afar, one would think that its walls were melded together with the mountains beneath, so seamlessly connected as they were. Perhaps that is why the citadel has stood for a hundred years, and would continue to stand for a hundred more. The kingdom was an old one, spanned over generations of royal blood, passed down from monarch to monarch. Its people were diligent, and boisterous, and they seemed to lack nothing. They lived behind brick walls that withstood even the harshest of winters, their wells never dried up in the summer, and though their work was a tiresome affair, they never had to worry about the food they ate.

Unfortunately, this was not true for all Telmarines.

In a gloomy dirt alley lit sparsely by moonlight, where ne'er-do-wells lurked and nobles avoided, stood a young, wiry girl whose bronze face was shadowed by an oversized cloak. A large mass of dark curls spilled from her head, their ends coming to rest just above her shoulder. Her outfit of choice was a cotton tunic tucked into belted trousers, both of which were worn with age. Her boots, however, were made from fine leather, a dagger tucked neatly into one. See, it would not do for a thief to have poorly made footwear—they were terrible for running.

And being a thief, Ina had to do a lot of running. Because though Telmar was a wealthy kingdom, there were many who did not share in its riches; Ina was one of them.

She took another swig of her drink now; the liquor traced a fiery path down her throat.

The city was loud tonight—more so than usual. There seemed to be a note of excitement in the people's chatter, as if the nobles were about to throw a ball or celebration of some sort. But Ina knew that couldn't be true. Lord Miraz and the royals were as cruel as they were stingy. A ball for the people would never come to pass.

Still, she couldn't complain about the people's excitement. Their high spirits made it easier for her to slip through unnoticed. Nobody would be paying attention to the small, slender hand darting between pouches—not when they've got a bottle in one hand and a lady in the other.

Ina's pouch was full of coins by the time she returned to Bree, a brown steed who has been her companion for years. He nudged her shoulder in response when she stroked his mane, a silent way of communicating they've developed over the years. Sometimes, Ina wished Bree could talk—but Trufflehunter had told her there was no hope for that. For too long the Telmarines have treated horses like mere animals instead of souls who could think and speak. And so, that is what Bree has become.

Ina's mind drifted to the stories her father used to tell her, about talking animals and giants and centaurs and magic. But that was a long time ago, before he abandoned her.

She mounted Bree quickly, shrugging off the memory of her father.

The crowds have died down now, and the city was silent. But this stillness was not one of slumber. Ina felt as if the town was holding its breath as one, anticipation rising as the stars drew higher in the sky. She had only heard whispers during the day, snatches of conversations not meant for her: "child", "heir", "birth".

Ina did not understand why a mere child's birth was garnering so much attention, but she didn't care, really. And so she coaxed Bree forward towards the drawbridge, eager to get out of the citadel before they shut the gates. She didn't want to sleep in the streets; it was a surefire way to get robbed. As for the tavern where she'd spent the past few nights, the landlady had personally chased her out for starting too many fights. Ina still couldn't see why this was her fault. Of course she'd punch anyone who tried to put a hand down her trousers.