the salt is on the briar rose
the fog is in the fir trees.
the fog is in the fir trees.
Benvolio hasn’t quite worked up the will (it isn’t the courage he lacks, no matter how Caspian likes to tease him) to tell his companion that he’s worried about him. Or more specifically: he’s worried that Caspian, hungry by nature, will never be satisfied with the simple cliffs of home again.
There’s reason enough to worry. This fall has brought an unprecedented number of festivals to Novus, with open borders all around, and Caspian has been drunk on them both figuratively and literally. He doesn’t have the money for luxury or goods, but such things are hardly necessary anyway, especially when the weather is good and the fields abundant. Dancing is always free, and a fair amount of alcohol has been too.
But more than any of that, the pair have seen a dozen new landscapes and tasted as many new foods. And the people! Such a wealth of them that Benvolio, shy as he is, is glad to sleep during the day and only stay on the skirts of things at night, doing his part to keep the mosquitos at bay.
That’s what he’s doing now, tracing erratic patterns in the purple sky, a ragged bit of shadow set free. But every so often, his path takes him swooping low over the blue paint, as if to make sure he’s still there.
Caspian has no plans to go anywhere quickly, at least until the curious plant a passerby had invited him to take a pipe-puff of begins to wear off and he realizes he is utterly parched. He shakes his head to turn the blur of lights back into distinct points, scans the meadow, finding a whole lot of beauty and horses and not a bit of water. Unperturbed he begins to walk, his eyes drawn again and again to the sky, where the sunset seems unusually intense.
Funny, he thinks, how different the sky can look from another perspective.
When he looks down again, it is to narrowly avoid stumbling into a gopher hole, and he pauses for a moment to regain his bearings. His gaze catches on what at first seems like a cloud come to settle in the meadow but quickly resolves into a unicorn - luminous, ethereal, she looks separate from the other festival-goers, the spirit of this particular twilight given body.
Caspian does not share his bonded’s shyness. The paint ables up, tilts his head toward her with a smile. “Evening,” he says. “Do you know where a fellow could find some water?”
CASPIAN
@Mesnyi
