the salt is on the briar rose,
the fog is in the fir trees.
the fog is in the fir trees.
Eventually Caspian gives up on watching her from beneath his pale lashes and follows her gaze back out to sea. While she focuses on the immensity of it, the young stallion picks out the places he knows; the little cove to the south where low tide reveals a wealth of pools brimming with starfish and shells, the pock-marked coastline north of them that disguises the mouth of a network of caves stretching back several hundred yards into the cliffside’s ancient stone, the place where the sea-floor drops abruptly. Not for the first time, he wishes he could explore more throughly, with wings or fins - it’s frustrating to have such hard limits on his learning.
He’s glad to have an excuse to return his attention to the lithe stranger with her cat’s-green eyes. He still has a difficult time picturing anything but Solterra when she speaks of the desert; it is to the north, after all, and while it may not be very, very far, it’s still more than a week’s walking, and farther than he’s ever been. Caspian can’t say he’s heard an accent quite like hers before, but he’s heard there are many bands of horses than roam the desert, and he hasn’t met many from the court of the sun, anyway.
“Well, let me be one of the first to welcome you the Dusk Court, then,” he says, with a toss of his head to shake his forelock from his eyes. The salt-tasting breeze does its best to comb it back into his eyes again. “If you fancy a guide, I was born and bred here. I know a fair few of its secrets.” There is only a little bit of bragging to the words, and surely he can’t be blamed for it when it’s the truth. When she looks back to the water his gaze lingers on her for a moment, tilted boyishly, mouth curved in a smile. “Do you plan on staying, Regina?”
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