—
He finds himself watching the dog, and not the queen.
There is something about all those teeth, open toward him, that yawning mouth and angular ears and the ribcage he can see rise and fall with each quick breath. He wonders if the dog ever feels left behind, the way he sometimes does when Benvolio skitters out on his wings over the semi-dark water, though the bat never goes too far. Caspian wonders if one has ever kept a secret from the other (surely not, just as Ben’s life was spent sleeping or doing things too mundane to be considered secret.
Sun stripes them gold, and then clouds wrest the light back to soft gray again, in the time the paint wonders what judgement she will pass. He does not miss the sharply blown breath, though he does have plenty of room to misinterpret it. When she replies, he begins to allow the smile back, his agile mind working at how to play the situation the way fingers work a knot. He settles, for now, on casually.
“Marisol,” he says, like he’s trying out the name for the first time, like he hasn’t known it forever. “I’m Caspian. Do you get tired of it, then - the titles? I think I’d make people say it every time.” The curl of his lips suggest he isn’t quite serious, but the angle of his head says differently. For a moment he’s glad his companion is not yet awake; his modification would be difficult to ignore.
Best make the most of it. Truly curious, the boy tilts his head toward the dog, who he still finds easier to look at than the queen (as though she is both Medusa and Helen). “And who’s this?” He is still mindful of the empty expanse and long drop behind him, and of the waves that batter the rock below; once again he modifies his insolence. “I just haven’t heard anyone mention a companion when they speak of you.”
@Marisol
There is something about all those teeth, open toward him, that yawning mouth and angular ears and the ribcage he can see rise and fall with each quick breath. He wonders if the dog ever feels left behind, the way he sometimes does when Benvolio skitters out on his wings over the semi-dark water, though the bat never goes too far. Caspian wonders if one has ever kept a secret from the other (surely not, just as Ben’s life was spent sleeping or doing things too mundane to be considered secret.
Sun stripes them gold, and then clouds wrest the light back to soft gray again, in the time the paint wonders what judgement she will pass. He does not miss the sharply blown breath, though he does have plenty of room to misinterpret it. When she replies, he begins to allow the smile back, his agile mind working at how to play the situation the way fingers work a knot. He settles, for now, on casually.
“Marisol,” he says, like he’s trying out the name for the first time, like he hasn’t known it forever. “I’m Caspian. Do you get tired of it, then - the titles? I think I’d make people say it every time.” The curl of his lips suggest he isn’t quite serious, but the angle of his head says differently. For a moment he’s glad his companion is not yet awake; his modification would be difficult to ignore.
Best make the most of it. Truly curious, the boy tilts his head toward the dog, who he still finds easier to look at than the queen (as though she is both Medusa and Helen). “And who’s this?” He is still mindful of the empty expanse and long drop behind him, and of the waves that batter the rock below; once again he modifies his insolence. “I just haven’t heard anyone mention a companion when they speak of you.”
@
