the salt is on the briar rose
the fog is in the fir trees.
the fog is in the fir trees.
She is polite, this unicorn, and the improbable color of lilac, or the first spring crocus. (He never thinks his own coat as fanciful, no matter the bits of blue). As she turns to look for the water-bearer, Caspian notes that she is small, delicate, but not in a way that seems less-than.
He has always heard stories of Delumine that hint the land has fairies; he wonders if she is one. The queen of them, even - it seems a little silly, now, but just twenty minutes ago it would have made as much sense as the moon slim overhead, or horses eating cakes and drinking wine.
Caspian is in a patient, amiable mood, dry as his throat is. “That’s fine,” he says agreeably, and at her next remark his gaze moves to hers, all blue-eyed innocence, even as his mouth broadens into something just shy of a grin. “Oh, yes. All that dancing.” When she walks, he is glad to follow, his attention torn between the cloud-fluff of her hair and the pearl of her horn and the way she’s adorned, and all the other marvels of strangers in a strange place on a fine night.
“From the southern coast of Terrastella,” he says, though he does not add that this is the farthest from home he’s ever been. “Have you?”
CASPIAN
@Mesnyi
