of the wind & the waves & the caves;
It is dusk and all the world has gone soft with color like a faded painting. The moss campion and harebell purples the hillsides and the air still remembers the scent of their sun-warmed petals, at least for a moment longer.
Caspian is, of course, picking his way along the rocky shoreline, heedless of the beauty (which is the kind of thing that happens when you’re an adolescent boy who grew up among such treasures). Overhead Benvolio sweeps back and forth over the water, snacking on mosquitos and keeping a lookout. The posture of the horse below him is relaxed, but within his ribcage Caspian’s heart is a loose fist ready to clench. No matter how many times he does this the feeling is the same, anticipation and nerves that tingled like an anemone sting.
The smugglers aren’t due until moonrise, another hour from now, but Caspian is always early to meetings like these. Everything so far is going according to plan - the tide is out, changing the landscape of the cove, and he has seen no sign of boats. Even the seagulls are subdued.
Often the paint is an impatient creature, but he is never bored near the sea; unlike the flowers that dot the grass he’s never tired of the endless roll of the waves, the chuffs and shushes and crashes, the treasures it brings.
It’s these he’s searching for, carefully pawing at half-submerged shells and bits of driftwood, when Benvolio rouses him. Someone’s coming, says the little bat, an Caspian straightens at once, ears flicking forward. They’re early, he thinks, and squints down the beach for silhouettes. I don’t think its them, Ben says, and swoops further into the darkening dusk. Caspian purses his lips, trying to decide whether he should head them off or slip away and let them pass unknowing.
It’s a kid, says the bat, and that’s enough to decide him. With a snort and a shake of his head, the boy starts forward, preparing to tell whoever it is to beat it.
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