the salt is on the briar rose
the fog is in the fir trees.
the fog is in the fir trees.
Caspian receives the outcome he’d hoped for, but he still winces after her yelp, and his little grin fades into a line of concern as the figure scrabbles on the rocks. He knows from experience how slick they can be, coated in algae and ocean-spray, and if Benvolio were awake he’d be chastising him, maybe even with a nip of needle-sharp teeth.
Luckily, the pegasus doesn’t go toppling in, and the paint watches, impressed despite himself, when its wings snap out, flinging water turned to gemstones by the sunrise. It might look like an angel rising in reverse from the froth and stone, were it not for that yelp still echoing in his memory.
When the stranger turns, Caspian’s look is almost contrite. To his relief, there’s no anger on the other’s expression - but what he does notice makes his curiosity return, and he steps nearer still, until they are only a few yards apart and he can make them out clearly in the growing light.
She - for he can tell, now, even before she speaks - gleams like gold, like she’s been dipped in it or painted with it, such color as he’s only seen on the aspens before their leaves fall. Her hair is auburn, red like oak leaves, and ram’s horns curl from behind her ears. And on her forehead is a clear oak-leaf shape, as if Vespera had pressed the most perfect leaf of fall there to keep it safe forever.
He is smitten at once.
Somehow, he manages to comprehend what she’s said, and his nose wrinkles (how did you think something was a fish) but he chooses not to tease her. Instead he says, “Well, let’s have a look,” and crosses to her side in his most confident, self-possessed strut. Once there, he finds it difficult to meet her gaze, and is glad to have an excuse to instead study the tidepool.
Caspian is instantly chagrined when he sees the lion fish and realizes the danger his little joke might have put her in. That’s not something he wants to mention, either. But as he scans the inhabitants of the miniature sea his genuine love of where he lives takes over.
“That’s a lion fish,” he says, motioning to where the spiny creature floats, paddling the water with its fins, “and those are seahorses - no relation - and oh! There’s a royal starfish. I don’t see them often. This is a great find - some of the tide pools around here are only barnacles and urchins.” He glances up at her through his tangle of forelock, feeling unnaturally shy. “I can tell you anything about this stretch of shore,” he says, boasting only a little. “Sorry I startled you. My name’s Caspian.”
CASPIAN
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