the salt is on the briar rose,
the fog is in the fir trees.
the fog is in the fir trees.
The touch of emerald against the black of her face is arresting; he’d only planned to look her over briefly, a butterfly’s-touch of a glance, but he ends up staring at her the way she’d been watching the sea. Caspian has seen plenty of horses adorned in jewels, but none with any set into their skin. It raises as many questions for him as the waves do for her.
But he is not so uncouth as to ask them of a stranger, so he turns his grin and gaze back out to the water. Angry water, she calls it, and it’s a fitting description; the waves thrash themselves against the cliffside, dashing to white froth; overhead the gulls circle and cry, sharp accents to the percussive boom and slap of the water. It catches his attention the way it always does, almost hypnotic, but her questions draw his attention back.
What is it? she asks, and Caspian shoots her a glance to make sure she isn’t messing with him. She certainly sounds earnest, looks earnest; not even he could pretend such wonder, or fake such awe in his expression. And it does not seem far fetched at all to believe she’s from the desert (though of course he imagines the Mors, as foreign to him as the ocean is to her, instead of any foreign place).
“It’s the Terminus Sea,” he says, still watching her watch the water. Benvolio would tell him to stop staring, or at least quit being so obvious about it, but his companion isn’t here. His smile has turned softer, though there is still a fishhook-curl at one corner. “I suppose it must end eventually, though I’ve never heard of what’s on the other side of it. You should see it when there’s a storm on.” His tone is boyishly confident, and he could easily go on - the paint has a wealth of knowledge about this particular stretch of shoreline, after all - but he resists the impulse. “You said you’re from the desert? I’ve never been. I’m Caspian, by the by.”
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