queenofmay: (Horse: Petting/Talking/Love)
[personal profile] queenofmay
The drifts are deep and it hasn't stopped snowing for the better part of the day, which mean its white nearly as far as the eye can see in every direction where the paths of footsteps aren't tracking to and fro. There are thin trails toward the forest and the field, and well worn paths around the loop of the lake and back and forth from the stables to bar. But even those are dusted with the still falling snow.

It's really quite impossible not to be dusted with the snow, with how much is falling. Light but constant, piling everywhere, in everything. So that Marian, who couldn't care less about her own hair jeweled with flakes in a good portion of it now that her hood has fallen away from focus, is laughing and brushing it off the nose of a mare the same color of the icy flakes she dusts away, who is head and half a neck leaning out the window into her.

She could do this from inside, where it is toasty and her fingertips wouldn't be full of chill, but where would be the fun in the that. Insides are always before and after everything already, and she knows how it feels to be cooped in a space too small for too long, without wide enough windows, while people pretend it isn't so. Which is where she finds herself. Behind Lineave's stall and just under the outside eave of the roof, in front of the the window facing out into endless fields of white.

Marian grinned, as her heavy cloaked shoulder was nudged, soft snuffling that broke to a low wicker again, as she was reaching up to stoke the jowl still faintly wet from whenever they were last let free to run for the day. "I should wonder if it is winter or freedom that has made you more impatient."

But she produced an apple from the folds of her cloak staving away another minute of it.

(no subject)

Date: 2012-12-26 02:26 pm (UTC)
the_seafarer: (hopeful)
From: [personal profile] the_seafarer
A few branches have fallen near where the Hope sits, on a trailer near the edge of the woods, covered in canvas and a fair few inches of creamy white snow, and he'd hiked out to make sure none had fallen on the hull, or damaged her in any way. Green needles pinprick the white around the dropped branches, but the Hope remains untouched, and he checks the knots holding the canvas in place before turning towards the stables, snow crunching beneath boots, dusting the warm winter cloak he wears.

He notes the color and motion before the sound: even Marian's laughter is muffled by the snow falling all around, resting in smooth, deep drifts by the stable wall, and when he whistles a greeting, clear and bright, it falls short, a cheerful trill kept from ringing as if by cotton.

She is crowned by glittering flakes, settling in coal-black hair, cheeks red with cold, and he brushes snow out of his own hair as he comes near, looking from Marian to Lineave with a smile.

"She knows this world is made for her. One might hardly see her against the snow, on a day like this."

(no subject)

Date: 2012-12-27 02:43 am (UTC)
the_seafarer: (with a horse)
From: [personal profile] the_seafarer
"She would be a spirit of the snow," he answers, coming close enough to lift a hand and find Lineave's warm nose, as she snuffles at his palm and fingers, searching for treats, as though she had not just had a fine one already.

Which gains a smile all its own, before he's looking back to her mistress, gray eyes bright and voice cheerful. It's been weeks since All Hallow's Eve, and troublesome thoughts are far from reach, this day. "Aye, she and I are thick as thieves, you know. Quite companionable, your mare, if not so talkative as some."

He reaches to find the closest white ear, runs a hand over it, smiling broadly when it flicks back against the touch.

"I'm glad to see you, as well, Lady Marian." He'd be hard pressed to say which makes the prettier sight in the snow; the mare, or her mistress, but in truth it is the whole scene that lightens his heart. His tone turns light, and teasing. "Do you plan to ride, or simply spoil her?"

(no subject)

Date: 2012-12-27 04:25 am (UTC)
the_seafarer: (smug)
From: [personal profile] the_seafarer
"I'm sure she appreciates the thought."

He shifts to look more directly at her, hand resting on the arch of Lineave's neck, under her mane, where body warmth thaws his icy fingers as his smile slides a little sidelong. "You are missed, in your absences."

By the mare or others, he does not say, but perhaps it hardly needs to be detailed. "And I suppose the snow had not a thing to do with your decision."

Idly spoken, as though such a practical concern would, naturally, be front and center.

Truthfully, it had drawn him here, too. The bar is full of warmth and light and the pleasant anticipatory glow of celebration, but the snow settles deep and silent and coats the world in glittering blankets, and he never has been able to resist walking out under the falling flakes. So frosted, the familiar world of Milliways turns strange, like an old photograph, reminding him of Narnia and the woods in winter.

(no subject)

Date: 2012-12-28 01:34 am (UTC)
the_seafarer: (earnest)
From: [personal profile] the_seafarer
"High summer seems but a fantasy here," he teases. "Even in Ambergeldar, winter has crept across the world."

Christmas preparations at the palace are therefore in full swing, a feverish, hectic chaos of activity that Caspian avoids as much as possible -- not least because the Lady Cecily has taken to appearing rather suddenly, hinting strongly at the presence of mistletoe. Amy would, he's sure, hardly condone such a a treacherous plant spread about the halls, but it isn't worth the risk, and he's taken to helping with preparations if he isn't with the children, Amy, or Perry. Lady Cecily might be about, but even she can hardly interrupt if he's attempting to aid the organization.

Even if she did manage to corner him at one point to congratulate him, eyelashes fluttering as if she were blinking away a dust storm, on his commission, while lamenting the fact that it will take him so far away and for so long, and swearing to write every day.

Since he's fairly certain she'll simply write his replies back, he hadn't dissuaded her.

Not that Marian needs to know anything about Lady Cecily or her strange, if mainly harmless, delusions.

"I cannot possibly conceive that a drift of snow might be able to even give you pause," he says, instead. "And Sherwood Forest in the snow must have been an irresistible temptation, indeed."

(no subject)

Date: 2012-12-28 03:42 am (UTC)
the_seafarer: (once upon a time)
From: [personal profile] the_seafarer
"Truly, it would be impossible," he agrees, leaning back against the stable wall with one shoulder pressing into wood, mouth half-turning to a smile. "You'd have loved Narnia in the winter. The fauns would dance in the snow for hours, and there would be hot mulled wine and cider, and the best sort of hot chocolate, when all was done and we wanted to come in from the cold."

And the woods, the Western Woods, stretching to Lantern Waste and the ancient frozen palace between the hills, trees glassy with ice and coated with thick frost.

"Not to mention rather large snowball fights in the courtyard, as I recall."

Not that winter in Narnia was all fun and games and celebrations: there were wars fought, tricky negotiations made, long, bleak stretches of cold and dark, when it seemed the whole land dreamed nightmares of the Hundred Year Winter and the return of the Witch, but it was cheerful and lovely more often than it was not, and Spring did always come with a relieving thaw, in the end.

(no subject)

Date: 2012-12-28 04:32 am (UTC)
the_seafarer: (old memories)
From: [personal profile] the_seafarer
Narnia, in winter. Truly, a few perfect diamond days, more so than the worst. When even storms blowing across the land, raging at icy water below the castle walls, simply drove them all inside to fires and warm blankets lining every available surface, furs to tuck into at night, heavy cloaks lining the throne by day. The Narnian winters, now gone, enveloped in darkness and flame.

(for there is nothing left)

Gaze gone a little distant, at the memory of ghostly boots tramping slow along the stable floor, of his uncle's iron-hard eyes, his iron-gray beard. So real he could have sworn it happened, truly. Telling him the things Caspian has tried without success not to know.

"Well," he says, in reply to words he'd heard, though faintly muffled, "you simply cannot stop the fauns from having fun, you see. Anyone who tried would, without fail, be pulled into the merrymaking and not released til at least the night had passed."

Amusing memories, surpassing those of winter nights now turned to nothing. "There's a faun here, actually. I don't suppose you've met him? Mr. Tumnus is his name."

(no subject)

Date: 2013-01-03 12:00 am (UTC)
the_seafarer: (old memories)
From: [personal profile] the_seafarer
"Yes, he's quite close with the Pevensies. Rather an irreplaceable advisor, from what I heard, though he's from well before my time."

Hundreds and hundreds of years before the seas came crashing into cracked earth and the stars fell from a split sky, so perhaps it is no surprise that Caspian has not, precisely, sought out the company of the faun as much as he may have, previously.

Besides that, it's always been a bit odd to know that Tumnus was going back and forth between Milliways and the Golden Age of Narnia, where ruled High King Peter, hundreds of years before Caspian knew him or his siblings. Still, he smiles at her jest, coming back to himself with barely a blink. "Oh, I think so. No doubt he'll be relieved to see the Spring, but winters here hardly last for a hundred years, witches about or no. Truly, I believe him to be more scholar than dancer, snowfalls notwithstanding. His histories of Narnia are unparalleled, for his time."


queenofmay: (Default)

May 2014

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