the salt is on the briar rose,
the fog is in the fir trees.
the fog is in the fir trees.
Caspian does not wander often into Tinea Swamp.
It’s not that he’s particularly superstitious (though he had grown up listening to the stories of the Ilati and their magics and strange rituals), only that he preferred the open expanse of the cliffs and beaches, the wind tousling his salt-stiff hair, watching the clouds move across the horizon. Being among the dense trees, the jutting knees of cypress, the tangle of vines and liquid warbling of birds he couldn’t name gave him a kind of claustrophobia that he never got in the caves that marked the shoreline.
Today, though, he and Benvolio move beneath the arching boughs, the little bat swooping just ahead to feast on mosquitoes (of which there were plenty) and Caspian following more slowly, searching for the slender leaves of Labrador tea. His sister had asked him to gather some, and since she was heavily pregnant with her first child, the young stallion hadn’t argued.
Now, damp with sweat and bogwater up to his knees, he wishes he’d just told her to buy some in the market.
Caspian, says the bat through their mental bond, and the paint lifts his head, pausing to stretch out his neck and shoulders. Yes? Find some? He can just make out the dark shadow of Ben, flitting like a moth between the branches. No. But maybe this unicorn has?
Now the stallion’s ears prick forward with interest, though he takes his time picking through the tangled roots and waterways. When he sees the stranger, he takes a moment to observe her before saying anything; the long, bright horns, the rich brown coat with marbled blue. Because he is also blue-marked, he likes her already.
Caspian does not much feel like swimming - though it might dissuade the biting flies - so he nickers at the mare to get her attention. “Find something good?” he calls.
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