stowaway

Stowing away had seemed like a good idea. Hide out in the hold for a little while, let the ship sail far away from my enemies, and then sneak out at one of the many island paradises along the trade route. Now, after two weeks of the dark, the damp, and horrible seasickness, Prell was lamenting that he was slowly dying, lying there in the mildewed belly of this ship, when he could have died quickly, on his feet, fighting in the sunlight of the city streets. He liked to fight. He might even have won. 

Instead he had run, and hid, and now he was alone, with his writhing innards, his regrets, and the taste of bile on his cracked lips. 

"Perhaps it's not to late to be a man," Prell croaked, his voice sending the gathering rats scurrying away. He began to crawl over to entrance of the hold, where he would try give himself up. He doubted he had the strength to climb the ladder, but he still had the cavalry whistle his father had given him. The shrill blast had signaled many men to charge into battle, sometimes their last. 

Maybe he'd even be able to get in one more good fight.