the_seafarer | [au] Narnia and the North

There's a chill bite to the air, these days. The horses have been growing out their winter coats, and they look shaggy and plump as Caspian turns them out into the paddocks. Behind the stables, in the makeshift woodshop he'd cobbled together, the sleigh from his drawings is starting to come together.

He hopes he'll have it finished by Christmas. With a little luck, and maybe some assistance, he thinks it should be possible. The tack, he's largely left up to Susan's devices, though he'd commission Gimli the dwarf for the various buckles and other metal pieces they'll need.

Once the horses are turned out, he gets to his other morning chores with a will, whistling cheerfully as he does. The stable stays strangely quiet around him. It takes him the better part of an hour to realize the strangeness is because he's become accustomed to Susan's cheerful presence working alongside him, talking or humming or simply working in companionable silence.

Caspian pauses in his task – refilling the grain chest – and looks around. Susan's nowhere to be seen, and when he later wanders through the stables, checking each stall and outside, he can't find her there, either.

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Caspian considers the strange ball with bemused curiosity. He has no idea what it's even made of, or how they managed to produce so many colors. "I think I see," he hazards, but it still seems strange to him.

"That ball is very strange."

"It's his namesake." Susan giggles, and reaches to catch Caspian's wrist, holding it up so that Aslan can see if he wants. "Lilly gave it to him. She calls it a 'koosh' ball, and him Kooshbert."

Caspian has the sudden impulse to throw the ball and see if Aslan will pounce after it, but keeps the mental image to himself. "What's it made of?" he asks, bewildered, running a finger over the strands.

Cuthbert shrugs. "You'd have to ask her - Alain?"

Alain eyes it, then shakes his head. "Much strange stuff in her world. One of the 'plastics', mayhap," he suggests, pronouncing it carefully.

"Perhaps," Caspian agrees, and passes it back to Cuthbert. "Either way, I thank you for the lesson."

"Ye'll be a teacher yet," Alain observes, and Cuthbert snorts a laugh at the idea. He tosses the ball up in the air and catches it again, quick reflexes making it a simple game. Susan watches, leaning her head back against Aslan's side, the gold of her hair blending with the deeper gold of his coat.

After a moment, she tips her head back to look up at the Lion. "Are thee comfortable still?" she asks, softly.

That rumbling vibration against which they recline increases; he's amused, Caspian thinks. "Yes," the Lion tells her. "You are all welcome to rest on me, children. I welcome it. Even I do not like always to be alone."

Reassured, Susan does just that, leaning against him once more. As she does, she gives Caspian a soft, wondering smile, one that's full of quiet contentment.

Alain tilts his head back to look up at the stars. "Time's off," he says, after a little consideration. "Morning'll come when it comes."

"Rest," Aslan tells them. "You have carried much, and carried it far. Your dreams will be sweet, this night. I will stay with you until dawn."

It goes against the grain to not keep something of a watch, especially this night, but if they're not safe in the presence of this Guardian, Alain thinks, there's nowhere safe in all the worlds. More than that, it feels different. Susan's here with them and not their guilty, grief-ridden memory alone; she's not lost in the haze of smoke and fire and pain.

(Roland's still gone, but even that loss feels quieter, here and now. It has the softer weight of acceptance and not the aching one of ka-shume.)

Cuthbert's thinking along the same lines, he can tell, from the quick glance he trades with his friend.

"If ye'd not be bored without conversation," is all he says aloud, however.

There's that same amused rumble, and this time it nearly is a growl, the way a mother cat might scold her kittens. "Son of Adam," Aslan tells him, "I have been conversing with the tree-daughters this last half-hour at least. Not all words are spoken aloud."

"Ah." Alain sounds truly rueful, and Cuthbert laughs aloud. "And you with the touch," he teases.

Susan shifts to come up on her knees, and leans across Cuthbert to hug Alain fiercely, then hugs 'Bert as well before she settles back against the Lion at Caspian's side. "I'm glad thee are here," she says, simply. "Dream sweet."

"Sleep, daughter," Aslan tells her, kindly. "Sleep, children. What magic is here will heal."

Caspian looks up at the sky, now filled with stars, and listens as the rumbling in Aslan's chest becomes almost a true purr, soporific and calming. He expects it to send the gunslingers and Susan off to sleep swiftly enough, after the strain of the last weeks.

For himself, he watches the stars and listens to Aslan breathing, before he opens his mouth again. "Aslan?"

"I am here, son of Adam," the Lion tells him, and Caspian exhales, pleased. Nothing he has to say is of immediate necessity, but it has been long and long since he was able to speak, softly and at length, with Aslan.

I am here, the Lion rumbles, and drowsy as she is, Susan smiles. She's glad, say true, and not only for the kindness he's shown her and 'Bert and Alain - she's glad for Caspian's sake, that he has time to spend together with the Lion he loves so well and has for so long.

She stretches a little, then curls closer against Aslan's side once more. As she does, she rests her head lightly against Caspian's shoulder, and closes her eyes.

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.

[au] Narnia and the North

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