He can feel it, a discordant chord humming through the shadows, rising with the moon –
(it's wrong)
– and his hand tightens on his sword. The gunslingers, too, are braced and ready, all four of them here and willing to stand against the darkness, to hold, and small as their group might be, the circle they make is strong. Above the trees, the bloody moon shows its first curving line, and scarlet light washes dully over the woods. The wrongness of it grates at him like sharp-edged metal.
(it's wrong
wrong
wrong will be
wrong will be right)
He doesn't know what it is that catches his attention away from the rising moon, but something does – some flutter of wings or flash of light. Caspian lifts his gaze to the darkened sky and sees a single star glowing, bright and calm, strong enough to be visible even in the weird washed-out half-light of the harvest moon.
(courage, dear heart)
The star pulses, sending a wave of cool light over them, and in it – in it –
(he's the King of the Wood)
– he sees something else moving among the trees, starlight gleaming off richly golden haunches, and a sweet, wild scent fills the air. Caspian, unable to help himself, cries out in joy.
Wrong will be right, when Aslan comes in sight, At the sound of his roar, sorrows will be no more, When he bares his teeth, winter meets its death, And when he shakes his mane, we shall have spring again.
The tree-sisters bow their heads, the breeze flits joyfully around them, and the single star above glows in peaceful encouragement as the Lion paces slowly into the glade, his massive paws velveted and silent on the grass.
no subject
(it's wrong)
– and his hand tightens on his sword. The gunslingers, too, are braced and ready, all four of them here and willing to stand against the darkness, to hold, and small as their group might be, the circle they make is strong. Above the trees, the bloody moon shows its first curving line, and scarlet light washes dully over the woods. The wrongness of it grates at him like sharp-edged metal.
(it's wrong
wrong
wrong will be
wrong will be right)
He doesn't know what it is that catches his attention away from the rising moon, but something does – some flutter of wings or flash of light. Caspian lifts his gaze to the darkened sky and sees a single star glowing, bright and calm, strong enough to be visible even in the weird washed-out half-light of the harvest moon.
The star pulses, sending a wave of cool light over them, and in it – in it –
(he's the King of the Wood)
– he sees something else moving among the trees, starlight gleaming off richly golden haunches, and a sweet, wild scent fills the air. Caspian, unable to help himself, cries out in joy.
At the sound of his roar, sorrows will be no more,
When he bares his teeth, winter meets its death,
And when he shakes his mane, we shall have spring again.
The tree-sisters bow their heads, the breeze flits joyfully around them, and the single star above glows in peaceful encouragement as the Lion paces slowly into the glade, his massive paws velveted and silent on the grass.