(Untitled)
The night is cool and clear, stars twinkling above, reflected cleanly in the lake below.
And in that soft light there is another light, brighter, if more contained.
The Lion is here, pacing out of the forest.
There is something solemn about him tonight.
Solemn, and perhaps a little sad.
And in that soft light there is another light, brighter, if more contained.
The Lion is here, pacing out of the forest.
There is something solemn about him tonight.
Solemn, and perhaps a little sad.
He has not felt so tired since the day he arrived back at Cair Paravel, sick and aged and weary of the world in which he had lost his son.
The night air is cool and refreshing, but Caspian walks, troubled, his hands clasped behind him, his mind on his thoughts, and not on the figure pacing so silently in the dim, cool moonlight, though perhaps they, who had been walking alone, are now walking together, and pressure in Caspian's chest grows.
He wishes he could weep.
He wishes--
"Oh, Aslan," he says, unhappily.
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"I'm ready."
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Aslan's mane brushes against Caspian as he passes, tailtip flicking gently at the king's arm.
"Some nights are not meant for solitude."
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