the salt is on the briar rose,
the fog is in the fir trees.
the fog is in the fir trees.
He squints over at her when she affirms her claim, a semi-exaggerated search for honesty, as though he knows her well enough to read a lie on her face (or for that matter is in a state to try). It surprises him when he decides he believes her. Not only because he wants to - he has always loved the fables and stories of fantastic things, has always held a childish hope for more, more, more - but because she doesn’t want to talk about it. She doesn’t brag or even further elaborate, as he would. And though he wants to press her, something in him (or maybe it is only Ben, always listening) says don’t, and so he doesn’t.
But when he looks away again, back to the deep dark blue above, it is the sea he pictures and not the evening sky.
His mouth curls up in a smirk when she speaks again, though it is not quite mirth in his eyes. “No one takes anything from me,” he assures her, like a vow.
Then he snorts, and rolls to his feet, and shakes - abruptly and with pleasure, like a half-grown dog. “Be right back,” he tells her, and glances down at her with a quick and lopsided grin. “Don’t go anywhere, or - or change,” he says, a wink at whales, and trots back toward the torchlight and wine without a glance back, leaving the impression of his body on the cool grass.
@Saphira
