the salt is on the briar rose
the fog is in the fir trees.
the fog is in the fir trees.
All is well in Caspian’s world.
Spring has returned, and with it Benvolio; the little bat is somewhere overhead, likely nearer the trees, because he doesn’t care too much for all the smoke and sparks put off by the fires. The winter had been a lean one, as they all were, but not so very lean that the paint was ever worried about it. He split his time between the beach and the cliffside, roving for treasures, and his sister’s house, dreaming about when he could get back to work (and maybe dreaming a little of all the pretty girls he’d met before the snows came).
With nothing tying him to Terrastella, Caspian was eager for the opportunity to travel back to Delumine. Today had been a pleasant bustle of activity, with a pleasant amount of dandelion wine; now he stands among a gaggle of new acquaintances, all of them festively painted and just this side of drunk.
He almost misses his name being called. It takes one of his companions, a black stallion around his age, nudging him for the paint to look up. When he finds Nicnevin there, his smile widens into a grin, and simple pleasure is nearly enough to cover up the butterfly-feeling in his stomach. Caspian could pretend it’s only bubbles from the dandelion wine and not the way the firelight magnifies her autumn coloring, but he knows better.
“Nicnevin!” With a duck of his head he excuses himself from the group and steps over to meet her. She’s grown, he thinks - she’s taller than he is now. “It’s good to see you. Did you have a good winter? Could have used a few nights like this when we had all that snow, eh?” If his cheeks weren’t already warm from the fires and the wine, they’d be flushing now - goddess have mercy on him, he sounded like his ancient uncle, talking about the weather.
CASPIAN
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