the salt is on the briar rose,
the fog is in the fir trees.
the fog is in the fir trees.
It is early evening and Caspian has a full belly, a pleasantly fuzzy head and purple-stained feet. The young stallion has enjoyed both the first and final stages of sweet Terrastellan wine today, laughing and singing with others as they pressed grapes beneath their hooves, drinking last year’s bottles in between.
Now he lays with his back to the cool grass, staring up at the emerging stars and giggling over no more than the whisper of the breeze. Lights are strung throughout the vineyard, criss-crossing the grapevines on their posts; they swim like fireflies at the corner of his vision. There’s a band playing somewhere across the green, a lively fiddle and a voice too distant to make out the words (or maybe that’s just his drunkenness, too, softening everything).
Benvolio is fluttering somewhere above him; occasionally, in quiet moments, he can make out the small, high-pitched click of the bat’s radar. Horses drift by in clusters, some laughing or stumbling or both, but none down the paint’s row. His eyes are drifting closed when Ben says Someone’s coming, and sure enough Caspian squints up to see a silhouette approaching, to which he gives a lopsided grin.
“Good evening,” he calls up to them, and giggles at the the slight slurring of his greeting.
@any
