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

Take her there, through the desert shores.

[treadingdawn]

Afternoon brings the warmest rays of light down on one blond and two brunettes. Yes the horse is a brunette. They have been riding long enough to say they may have circled half the city's shoreline and if they continue riding they would certainly be able to say they circled the entire city itself. But Destrier is unwilling at such an hour and Caspian isn't one for forcing his loyal steed since boyhood through such rigorous exercise...even if Luna likely has the ability to cast a spell of wings on the destrier to make things easier. A gallop through the shade of the woods is far more comfortable for the horse who leaps over a mound and lands in a small clearing of fresh earth and spring leaves where they pass a familiar face through the maze of brush. He recognizes her as Cara, he is certain, but her face ducks down and disappears behind boulders and rock so quickly that Caspian isn't sure if he saw her at all or if she made a quick departure to tend to other things. Only Luna's expression confirms that they did indeed pass a person.

"Do you know her," asks the Telmarine as Destrier slows to a brisk trot.

Take her there, through the desert shores.

[suncolors]

There are a few things in any world that Luna will always cherish. Not least among these is time spent with friends. The painting in her room and the charm strung across it as if to reflect and capture sunlight is an unnecessary but affectionate testament to that--well, at home. Here things are different, in no small part because not everyone is here, but not everyone was there at home, in a sense, either. Distantly, she is aware that the point she last left from was dark and cold, littered with the occasional scream of one or two more unfortunate people who could not go overlooked like she could, like Mr. Ollivander could from time to time. It doesn't worry her, not any more than it did being there, to know that's where she will eventually return to. She believes, above all else, that things happen as they must, and that if people can take it into their hands to change the setting or situation when given the chance, then it will have to be enough.

Before Harry left he said they had won, and that is, in the bigger scheme of things, more than enough.

Although she does sometimes think of returning, what it means, what it doesn't mean, for the most part Luna is able to live in the moment, as they say, while never forgetting her origin. Contrary to some peoples' beliefs, the two can coexist. Riding now with the destrier named Destrier and a king of another world who feels somehow always older than he looks, she has been smiling. It's easy, she would say, when in good company beneath the sun. Caspian's words the other day, his answers that were not really answers and the invitation that has led them here. Something weighs on him, but she has, so far on their jaunt, not made much of any effort to unveil that conflict. Even when she does make that attempt, it is most often a natural way of being for her than a conscious seeking of something more concrete than what is initially offered.

It has been enough so far simply to be with friends she had not expected to make and delight in the warmest season's kindness, otherwise uninterrupted until that face--not familiar to Luna--comes into view. When that particular woman ducks out of sight however her sort of wondering gaze turns quieter, a little inward, sharper.

"No," she replies, a barely evident shake of her head sending a section of white gold forward over her shoulder. "Not by name," and she glances at the ground passing beneath them, greenery strewn about in the organic disarray of summer and brightness.

Take her there, through the desert shores.

[treadingdawn]

"I know her as an acquaintance. We have never really spoken," Caspian shakes his head, knees loose so that trot slows in pace, "she came to the tournament."

Whatever it is that weighs on him he keeps it to himself. He knows Luna has a sense for these things but even that considered he's fairly certain she wouldn't pry...directly anyway. So far she hasn't made a remark that required immediate defense or justification. If the ride back to the stable stays that way he has no complaints.

"Peter knows her better. It is strange to be out in the woods alone," remarks the Telmarine before he gestures to themselves, "I mean unlike us" or you. Call it a hunch but he doesn't think Cara is waiting for her shoes either. Briefly he considers going back to her but he promised to spend his time with Luna Lovegood. Cara did not appear distressed or in some sort of danger... It shouldn't be a problem.

Take her there, through the desert shores.

[suncolors]

"She seemed occupied," she states, indirectly saying that she too doubts that most people would be out here for no apparent reason, because while she--Luna Lovegood--frequents places like this often without rhyme or reason, she is at least aware of being in the minority by doing so.

She seemed sad, the blond girl also thinks, but keeps that part to herself, not so much as discretion but because she doesn't think to say it at all.

"I wonder if there is a wishing well here," she muses, as if out of nowhere, but her eyes remain careful and while not calculated, very present, even as she raises them to the dappling of gold through green above them, passing slower now with flecks of blue where the leaves are particularly thin and the branches widespread.

Take her there, through the desert shores.

[treadingdawn]

"She is new to this world, coming from one like my own," Caspian explains but still doesn't see how this would give her any reason to wander the woods other than for a sense of comfort away from the concrete. Except he also remembers that Peter had helped her to find a new place to live so that must be unlikely... Well again, it shouldn't be a heavy concern so he brushes it aside to continue riding.

"A wishing well?" He asks curiously with another look. "I have seen some springs and creeks if you're in need of fresh water."

Yes, that is in fact what he thinks on why Luna wonders about a well. Destrier could use a drink too if they come across a running stream. The actual concept of a wishing well is half lost on him because... It's best not to get into that and how they almost always do not work in reality.

Take her there, through the desert shores.

[suncolors]

A rare moment, this, when Luna tilts her head slightly to one side and her smile does not exactly thin but changes in subtler ways.

"Wishing wells rarely have water that does much for anyone who drinks from them, from what I know," she brushes her hair back over her shoulder again, eyes still skyward. "Most people don't believe in them of course, at all, but that can be said of many things." Pausing, she thinks on several people, on several instances where wishes did not end as well as they might have, and a few that did. All in all, she supposes that like most things, a wish is circumstantial, and how much of that relates to a sense of faith or the like is ever up for argument. Though airy, often guilty of meandering in her musings, Luna has never been dull, much the opposite really, and the thing about growing up with that sort of knowing is that it becomes second nature.

She isn't prying, per se, but really, boiled down, from someone's perspective, someone who doesn't know her, it could sound downright intrusive when she speaks again, ever in soft tones and latticed meaning.

"It is good to see you, both of you," she says, and then, "I did not spend enough time with others who have since made their departures." Here there lives a sadness but it colours itself with blue skies and gold filtered sun, not harsh or pitiable so much as honest. Candid. To say one is glad of one thing because they now know better, even wise creatures, is something worth saying indeed.

Take her there, through the desert shores.

[treadingdawn]

"You are right, that would make better sense...about the water," he nods concerning wishing wells and wells made for actual drinking. As for not believing them again he says nothing about it, not wanting to drag a conversation with good company through murkier waters.

Eventually they come to a stream he knows has always been in this part of the woods. It has a combination of shade and sunlight, good to dismount on foot after the horse quenches his thirst. He knows Luna can climb down without help but being a gentleman he still offers her a hand. It is good to see her too and while she speaks of departures he continues to skirt that subject and how it has come into sharper focus with the nearing end of the month.

"I'm sorry for that," Caspian nods, "Lily Evans was teaching me how to fly on a broom before she left. Ginny has considered picking up where she left off. I believe I may stick to horses either way."

He smiles, more than aware that his prowess on a broom is lacking. His prowess with a gryphon is only slightly better.

Take her there, through the desert shores.

[suncolors]

Accepting his hand down, her own looks almost white next to his, and small too, tapered fingers that most casually hold a wand, more so than say, a sword. Fingertips press ever so slightly to the breadth of a palm as she descends, in some fashion not seeming to step or jump down as much as she simply ends up on the ground. The withdrawing of a hand is no less graceful and she appreciates that one was offered to her, in large part because the gesture itself is not foreign in her world, but foreign to her. A person as weird or odd or out-there as herself surely has no propriety as a normal person might, after all, or so is the common belief about the loony Lovegood. She doesn't mind, of course, but she is of a more conscious appreciation for things like polite hands in the shade and sun of a summer coloured woodland.

"Horses seem to like you," she nods, not disapproving or approving either way, but well aware of how he skirts past departures with a smile. How long has he been here, she wonders, and then she wonders how long he wants to be here. So wondering, and barefoot already--not that this is a surprise--she steps toward the stream, and then into it, not so deep, pale ankles causing similarly sized outward circles around them in the water. Her jeans cut off awkwardly at the knee, a sloppy job all frayed and washed too many times, but at that length they don't risk a soaking, and neither of course does her butter yellow shirt that hangs loosely on her slender frame, long enough to be more of a short dress than a shirt really.

"But Ginny is quite good at flying," she adds, not moving from where she stands, back to the brunette and not looking thus at him or his horse. "And it would not hurt, much, perhaps, to try your hand at it once more." There is the tinge of a smile on her words here, and underneath it all a current of while you have time to take advantage of it and other things more literally ambiguous.

Take her there, through the desert shores.

[treadingdawn]

The gesture is natural to Caspian who always makes an effort as a gentleman to make a lady feel like a lady. No matter what his friend the Majesdane says, he will always exercise that form of chivalry where he sees fit which is more often than not around women. Some say this causes several Problems for a Telmarine but he believes that's nonsense.

"I like horses and I consider myself very good with horsemanship. I think they appreciate that," he smiles while leading the dark horse to the edge of the water. He doesn't step into it like Luna does but after dipping his head to lap at the water Destrier joins her with two hooves in the cool temperature.

"Honestly I saw that she'd offered to teach Peter," he admits behind a soft laugh. Their rivalry and the potential to see the oldest and the blondest take a fall are also motivators to try his hand at flying again. "So I have considered it again."

Take her there, through the desert shores.

[suncolors]

Nonsense. Right. Luna has no thoughts on that whatsoever but if she did you can be sure even she would have a dryness to her undertones and a glint in wide blue eyes.

"Whatever your reason, I'm sure that she would not refuse you," is the mild reply this time, a glance over her shoulder to accompany it. This stare she levels at him for a while, looking for the briefest of moments beyond his shoulder before returning focus to where a heart beats and then where brown eyes set themselves so honestly. Never in a hurry to even out any palpable or potential awkwardness of too much quiet or wordless space, she only continues to stare a bit longer before turning away again, walking just a couple of yards or so upstream, ankles dragging through clearness and soles of her feet touching somehow only on the smoothest of river stones and shallows. When she pauses again, she steps back enough to sit at the edge of the stream this time, knees bent up and feet still dipping just below the water's surface.

Sometimes it's more interesting to wait and see what other people will say than to say something yourself, and she has always been interested in the words of her friends, even ones they might be reluctant to share.

Take her there, through the desert shores.

[treadingdawn]

Her gentle stare is no doubt easy for Caspian to read because Luna is just as forthcoming but ever aware of whom she moves around as he is. If one can accept that truth then what words she does say becomes so much clearer and less 'strange' or 'aloof' as others might claim. He knows she waits for him to say something, leaving the choice in his hands which is what he both appreciates and dislikes. Stepping up to that responsibility is difficult and he doubts she would think him foolish, but he ought to know better. Right?

After a silent moment he averts his gaze to pull at Destrier's saddle pocket.

"I have something for you, but if I am to give it to you now we would have to walk back. It is a little delicate to ride with unpacked," he explains while retrieving a small white box. "Would you like it now?"

Take her there, through the desert shores.

[suncolors]

Standing again, she turns completely to face him, half of her attentive to the diversion and all of her attentive to the kindness with which even that is handled. She wonders who taught him that. Peering at him again, this time she takes a few steps toward the brunette--the king mind you, not the horse--and with both hands still behind her back, fingers curled over each other, she tilts her head to the right.

"I don't understand," she says at last, not ungrateful, and not believing one must have a specific purpose beyond making someone else happy or thinking of someone to give a gift, but sensing some extra reason here all the same. A day for rarities perhaps, this would be one of the few times she seems less knowing, even as it serves as a way of covering said knowing mannerisms by saying in plain words what vague ones could express. "It is not Christmas, and I have never told anyone my birthday," she smiles quietly at him, something older in the curve of her mouth and the depth of her eyes.

What is it for?

What are you doing?

Take her there, through the desert shores.

[treadingdawn]

He taught himself which may be hard to believe coming from someone with the background he has or maybe not so hard to believe if one puts faith in things like the existence of noble contradictions. The question is, who taught her how to flow with any given situation, whether cheerful or melancholic? Caspian believes her answer wouldn't be much different from his.

But upon hearing her question Caspian keeps the little box away from her.

"Wait. When is your birthday?" His question is casual and even mischievous as if learning this will give him a better, more legitimate, reason to be presenting her with a gift.

Take her there, through the desert shores.

[suncolors]

No, it wouldn't be too different from his, and both, if inspected more intimately, turn out to not be absolute answers in the least, but sometimes, contrary to popular belief, close counts. If she was a different sort of person, Luna would point out that the good king has yet to answer her question, having moved on to posing his own, but she is not that other sort of person, and so this truth only flickers across her eyes like a turn of the light.

"July," she tilts her head again, not setting the date, a half answer for no answer. Her eyes never deviate from the face of her friend, though she remains ever aware of the small white box. Her mouth quirks to the side just a little, thoughtful, the same as one often does when chewing on the inside of one's cheek, and this is the closes to looking plainly a combination of curious and dubious as Luna Lovegood gets...and it's still more than a little vague, but blame that on her gene pool maybe. Her whole family, reportedly, has that sort of distant air no matter how closely they are in fact paying attention.

Take her there, through the desert shores.

[treadingdawn]

"You may consider this a birthday gift at least one month in advance, if you wish," Caspian says in half a bow at the waist, hand holding out the white box to her.

Should she open it she'll find some tissue paper wrapped around a palm-sized lotus with petals made of pearlescent shell and edged in gold. The petals can fold too, open like a lotus in bloom or closed like a lotus bulb. What its purpose is he can't say, but it would hold a small candle well or provide a hidden place for jewelry when shut.

Take her there, through the desert shores.

[suncolors]

Her hands close over the box, or under it rather, eying it a while longer before actually opening it and then unwrapping the tissue to reveal the small box sort of thing shaped in a fashion much prettier than a regular box. It strikes her as a nice place to fold up memories for safe keeping.

"Thank you," she says, bowed slightly over, shoulders forward in that manner that people often stand in when curling to peer down at something in their hold. The sunlight through branches above glint off of the gold edges in softening sparks and when just glancing at it, the shimmering floral representation seems almost real, odd, a bit of a contradiction, but the truth. She busies herself folding and unfolding the petals, and upon closing them a third time, she asks, "Do you suppose then that you will not be here when July comes to pass?"

She doesn't have to look up at him. Her tone carries that ever precarious mixture of consideration, concern, and curiosity, as well as that which traces back through to their first meeting: a genuine affection, a sort of non-confrontational form of being utterly truthful. In the end, they are not the kinds of people who have much of any use for lies, even white ones, and Luna prefers, lifting her head just enough to bring blue eyes to the Telmarine's now empty hands, to speak to what is there, even if it isn't always the most comfortable thing to approach.