He feels her, a warm weight on his shoulder, and keeps his voice low as he talks with Aslan. The gunslingers are quiet, their chests lifting and falling with slow, even breaths, and Susan is slowly slipping off to sleep.

He himself stays awake late into the night, speaking with the Lion about all manner of things: magic and Narnia and Rilian and Reepicheep and more. Around them, the garden is still and silent and growing, the tree-sisters conversing in the whisper of breezes and the rustle of leaves. Overhead, the harvest moon slopes down to set past the treetops, and what's left of the magic it carries drifts harmlessly away.

And it is good.