song for Luna

[suncolors]

☾ And we aren't all that we seem, but we are more than we know.
(Caspian)
☾ Is that who you are? To think we never needed to say hello.
(Caspian)
☾ Man-made never made our dreams collide.
(Edmund)
☾ Reconcile.
(Edmund)
☾ You don't need eyes to see.
(Kay)
☾ Where was my head when I needed it most?
(Caspian)
☾ Don't keep appointments with disappointment.
(Aslan)
☾

Comments

so you lost your trust, and you never should have

[suncolors]

"Well," she begins quietly, and this is not so unusual because it is simpler to have a quiet way than any other kind. It lets you think and it lets you dream and it lets others fall into some space that makes both parties a little more reachable, sometimes. Uncurling slightly, she crosses her legs at the ankles, knees bent, hands resting on either knee respectively.

"If it was just temperature," she pauses, eyes a bit sharper, aware. "It could simply be Sdeffeds." There is a most palpable shrug as she adjusts the wand behind her ear. "If you were cold as well, chilled, it could be something else," she murmurs, and she sees dark, cloaked figures that make things freeze with mere presence, things that take all happiness from those who don't have much to begin with. Such a shame, those, she thinks sometimes. Dementors. They've no one to talk to. It's no wonder they all go rather mad and cause such awful things. There is also the possibility that they are just terrible to begin with, but Luna has always believed everything has a starting point, and that no starting point was ever so impossibly sad as that. Even Harry had love in death.

Another possibility is that he is dead, she thinks, but the witch knows how unsettling death can be, and while she often has no reservations about simply saying anything at all, well, this does not mean she lacks tact. She just does not employ it most of the time. Tact can so often accidentally become a hand held lie. So she considers the shape of her words, letting them form a little more carefully.

"But if it was just him," she tilts her head at the young king. "Then it was just him." Somehow that means a great deal. To make one's own deepest chill, to be cold in the presence of winter's snow, this is not something to ignore.

The blond already has an idea of which one it is, just by the way this conversation has begun and continued and she blinks a couple of times. Even temporary death will cause strife. She has seen it, though she has always been able to work around that.

But she knows why it makes for such sadness and anger as it often does. For death is a stranger and not many people have ever welcomed any stranger--cold or warm--into their hands or hearts or homes with ease. It just doesn't work that way for most.

Peering at him, she supposes Edmund Pevensie knows something of the fear of death himself, but this is just one of many other things that she keeps comfortably to herself.