the salt is on the briar rose,
the fog is in the fir trees.
the fog is in the fir trees.
Caspian is surprised but not displeased when the figure speaks, revealing herself to be the woman from the market, the one whose shell he still wears around his neck. It wasn’t just the drunkenness that made him slow to recognize her; of course she looks different upside down, but she is also much darker than he remembers, her hair a white halo like a ring around the moon.
Her eyes, when he shifts his head to meet them, are just as iceberg-blue, but they seem less glacial tonight. Though that could be the wine talking. The paint’s grin grows wider when she settles beside him, stirring up the scent of sweet autumn grass, and he snorts at her response.
“Still grumpy, I see,” he says with a laugh in his voice, watching the small silhouette of Benvolio swoop overhead, weaving a complicated pattern through the night in his hunt for mosquitos. When the stars begin to spin and the grass feels like it’s tilting beneath him, Caspian closes his eyes. “Setting aside for the moment that it is, in-dis-putably, what would make it a good one to you?” Almost at once he finds that the spinning is worse with no point to focus on; he cracks an eye open to fix on her.
@Saphira
