livingintrinity | Plot-locked to Caspian

Her hand is still in his, but Caspian is unaware of it, his eyes wide and his head high, taking it in.

They had left a wood, and they are in another--but this wood is as different from the one of the Lodge as that is from Narnia. Trees, ancient and sleepy, allow their knotted roots to twine through the surface of the earth. They reared huge leafy heads and arms to the sunlight, and a breeze rustled through them the way a fingers might slip through silky hair. The same breeze toys with Marian's curls; it smoothes over Caspian's brow and he takes a deep breath of it.

"It's beautiful," he says. Green and gold, aye, just as she had told him. "Lady, your home is lovely. Do you live in yonder wood?"

Breathing in the sunshine, she reached out to the touch one of tree's gently. Stroking he bark the way one would a loved one. She can't help grinning, because there is some penultimate pride in watching someone be blown away by the beauty of Sherwood.

"Tis a small walk to Ravenskeep actually, as Sherwood stretches for a long distance. Come, then," and it is in that moment, as she tugged his arm, that she realized she was still holding his hand which was cause for a blush.

"We," There is a small pause, getting her voice back to herself as she turned in the direction of their path. Not the one that was west but simply through the woods. "We'll be passing the rookery on the way, so I can show you it, too."

"Where the ravens live that lend you their name, I suppose."

Cair Paravel has no rookery, and they keep no birds, save a few colorful ones well-loved by the ladies of the court. They are surrounded by the wild cries of seabirds and gulls, and there are white feathers instead of black in the air when the birds are agitated.

She tugs on his hand and he has to laugh in merriment. "I don't mind a walk, not with such a place to walk in and such fine company to be with."

"Indeed, though they are not specifically ours," Marian says thoughtfully.

She wove him through the unmarked parts of the forest. She had walked these paths since being a small girl. There sounds of the forest, birds chirping, the river, and the wind through the trees, relaxed her shoulders so that not even her damp skirt could cling in her mind.

"Tis right over this next set of hills."

On the other side, there was an opening in the trees, but still far from any housing or buildings. There was a raised and covered feeding trough in old, weathered, browned to black wood which looked perfectly fine regardless of the age it spoke. And for one trained it, it thrummed with its own life.

Scattered all across it were the denizens of it's life. Sharp beaked and soft feathered, with their deep, cackling calls back and forth to each other. The glistened like shadows, not reflecting, but defining the sunlight that stood around them.

The ravens talk sharply and hop, spreading their wings to gleam in the sun and then shaking them back down, as though shedding droplets of light rather than water.

Caspian's smile is immediate, delighted. "Are these your wards, lady?"

Not hers, specifically, mayhap, but Marian and the birds have a kinship. It could be that she spends a great deal of time with them.

There is a soft laugh for this, even as she walk forward, moving them both into the open area. "Pray, no. If anything, I am their's before they are mine."

Here, among them, she is a shifting palette of pale cream white and their own deep dark obsidian. "The rookery was here before I was born. Before my father's life. Has been as long as any can remember, though few others have taken interest in it."

He nods, listening and watching, walking with her so that the birds jump and flap and resettle a little further away. She they know, but he is a stranger and unsettling.

"What are they for? Have you ever heard?"

"Here and there I hear whispers, rumors, not that there is sense in all of them," she takes a handful of seed and sprinkles it before the ones who had lept away to the edge, watching them, watching him.

"The most colorful that once a witch owned this land and that is why they congregate here. Which is also why the opening is cleared as though man had done it, yet not tree was ever moved, nor was a living tree ever at liberty to cross it's branches over the opening."

There is a smile for the birds that start eating, cawing toward the center, as she turned to one who was feet away, perched, with its head tilted as though listening to their voices. "There are many. Though, one I almost believe, is that they might have been used as messenger birds long long ago by our long ago ancestors or the original inhabitants of the lands."

Caspian knows all about witches, and what they can do to the land.

(always winter, never Christmas)

Instead of telling Marian of his thoughts, though, he watches the birds eat, watches the quick delicate movements they make. "I suppose stories like that must abound in places that are so old," he says. He knows that, as well--hadn't he spent his childhood being told stories of the ghosts that prowled the forest and of the monster that came over the sea?

Turning to her, his face lightens. "We've used birds as messengers during battles and marches, but the messages have to be concise. Some of them have very short memories, and they tend to mix up words now and then."

There is a look like first she expected him to be kidding, which smooths into remembering that in his land-this land he plans to take her to-animals can and do talk.

"They have not been used in years here by the people." There is some sadness in her voice. "But I have been coming to keep them company and to spread feed since I was a very young girl who stumbled upon them. I come here when I find myself most in need, even when I didn't exactly mean to end up here."

Looking up at him, she added, blithely, "They seem to like you."

He's distracted from answering immediately by the way her skin glows in the sun, by the darkness of her hair and the smile in her voice.

She's lovely, Marian, and it makes Caspian smile back at her without any very good idea of the fact that he ought to be answering her instead.

"Aye," he says, finally, looking away, a little embarassed. He is not used to spending time talking with pretty young noblewomen. "Well, I have some dear friends among their Narnian cousins; mayhap they can tell. And who knows? Perhaps your friendship with them will aloow for their use again one day. They are good company, aren't they?"

"The very best," Marian says slowly, taking a breath, having gotten herself caught up in truly marveling at the colors which seemed to shimmer inside the gray of his eyes while he was looking at her.

Had it suddenly become warmer?

"The walk to the house is not far now. I was thinking we'd ride into town and see how the Beltane faire set up is going."

Warmer, aye, it must be.

"A fair?" His attention is caught. Caspian is not so very old, after all, and the word conjures up images of silken Calormene tents and their bazaars of sweets and savories, of bright Archenland banners snapping in the wind, of tournaments that he is now old enough and skilled enough to ride in. "I'd like that. Lead on, lady, and on the way mayhap you would be so kind as to tell me what a 'beltane' is?"

Marian grins at the sound of his voice. The small, gentle hint of what it must have sounded like in marvel as a child. There is a fumbled pause at the last question though, which brought a blush because of the imagery and thoughts it brought to mind.

Far, too warm.

There was definitely walking, that the sweet breeze would cool as she went.

"Tis the first of the fire festivals for both gathering and commerce, for which each has a fair. Beltane, the first, is the celebration of the old religion, where the Goddess and God.."

There is a pause. An almost awkward, discerning pause.

"..wed. Well, consummate their wedding, which was celebrated the month before on the holiday of Ostara."

This was not was young girls truly talked to boys of. Mothers told these tales. Girls and boys thought of them together, but rarely discussed them. After all, those were frequently tittered about or referenced to near marriages.

"There holiday and fair is usually a consistent with the holidays to gather everyone's attention and give them some respite from their hard days all at one."

They--

Oh.

Oh.

His cheeks go bright red and he looks away, uncomfortably aware of her own awkwardness.

Caspian was made king at the age of thirteen, and he'd had to grow up quickly, but between Dr. Cornelius and his old nurse and those around him who loved him, he had reached this age, a week shy of seventeen, without ever growing too old for his age, and without, mayhap, losing much of his innocence past that which had been sacrificed on the battlefield.

He's nearly seventeen, and speaking of such things to a lovely and noble young lady is...well, he isn't sure that it's proper at all.

"Your people must be happy for the chance to celebrate," he says, gallantly attempting to clear away the uncomfortable pause. "We've festivals in Narnia, but they rarely fall on the same day--or for the same reason--from year to year."

Marian is relieved for the pause, even though it had started her wondering who might turn up accidentally ~~pregnant~~ married come late June or early August. It was a folk tale that she realized as she got older, was much less tale and much about folk.

"I love the fair. While I have not traveled greatly in my years, the fair brings me into contact with many people from all over this country and many others. All the bussiness that comes from it. And the stories."

Not to mention....the horses. Or the books.

The edge of wood was beginning to near them and beyond a small field Knighton Hall was beginning to come into view as a small brown and white shape.

"Aye, fairs are great fun, and part of their delight is the people that they bring. And you say it is beginning now?"

The sun hits their faces as they step into the cleared area, insects buzzing lazily around them, weaving through the tall grass. He looks ahead to the hall--a small, neat building that reminds him of a few of the larger houses of Beruna--and nods to it.

"Your home, lady?"

"Aye. Tis Knighton Hall of Ravenskeep," she says, addressing it with it's title. The house was well built and beautiful in her mind, all white cream with dark brown accents, surrounded by the rolling feilds and then edged with forest.

It showed it's age, but it went gracefully to repair and to repainting, keeping it's grace. It's wide open windows at the top were welcoming, and the stable to it's right side gave easy access to traveler and traveling alike.

"I wonder if my father is about or in town." Her brow wrinkled slightly.

Knighton Hall--it's old but well-kept and Marian is obviously fond of it. It is certainly more appealing than the cold stone castle of Miraz where Caspian had spent his childhood, and when he turns to her with a compliment for the house and the lands, he is sincere.

Her frown causes him to bring his own eyebrows together, and he nods. It might be...awkward, explaining his presence to Marian's father, should the man be about, and while Caspian balks at the thought of sneaking about underneath notice, he would not want to compromise her.

"Well, we could chance it," she says, considering, looking at the empty road as they crossed it. "Or you could wait out here and I could bring the horses to you."

Caspian crosses his arms, and considers. On the one hand, it might be detrimental to Marian if they were seen.

On the other hand, he hates the idea of waiting out here. It rubs him the wrong way, and for all he knows, there's no reason at all to worry. "I'll come with you," he decides, "but there's no harm in being quick. Do you think your father would be alarmed if he saw me?"

It's a little bit of a joke, and he speaks it lightly, grinning down at her as they make their way towards the house and stable.

"Maybe a little," Marian easily admits. After all, she was a young Lady, unchaperoned, in the presence of a male, especially, who was not known in their town.

There was a grin for the expression he gave her looking down, which faded into a very small smile of awe as she was noting how the sun from behind lit up his hair all around his face.

"In all truth, I think it wouldn't be one of the worst things he'd be alarmed to know I'm doing."

Skirting the door, with only a precursory look of curiosity to whether he might be there, she slipped them into the stable. The scent of hay, horse and ground earth filled her nose, just as welcome as the shadows of the large wooden construct and the neighing which.announced they weren't alone again.

"Tell me about your father," he invites, as sweet hay-scented air surrounds them, and before she can speak, he has stepped over to one of the stalls to look the horse there in the eye, a small unconcsious smile coming to his face.

One thing Marian needn't tell him is that her father has fine taste in horses--the one Caspian is greeting has large mild eyes and a proudly arched neck. Saddle horse, likely, far lighter than his own Destrier at home, but fair indeed.

"Hello, thee beauty," he tells it, his voice low and cheery. The horse's ears flick forward, and he reaches up to rub at them.

Marian can't help the wisp of a smile when he crosses and is making friends with the horses automatically. He's obviously been around them in his life and they respond well enough already to his calm.

"Tis my main one," she said calmly, reaching out to pet the white horses nose gently. "Her name is Lineave. She is very good for helping to continue to prove that I really can be a lady."

There's a petulent smirk with those words.

Turning toward the rest, she smiles to see noses sticking out and eyes watching them, even as feet stamp wanting carrots which she hasn't brought out yet this time. There were only a scant half dozen now, but they were well loved.

"The rest are my fathers war horses, save one," the was a gentle look to the stahl three over from where he was standing as she walked over to it. "He's a courser-destrier mix. I pleaded for two months before father finally gave in. It's not horse for a woman to be riding he ranted for so long."

There is a smile, as she patted the nose gently before leaning in and hugging the horses head very gently, with a whisper to him, "But we had work to do, didn't we?"

He turns to her with an eyebrow lifting and a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth, while Lineave nudges at the cupped palm of his hand with her soft nose, looking to see if he'd brought her any treats.

"Is there much proof of that required?" It's a little bit of a tease, and he nearly ends it with her name, but they've met so few times that calling her Marian rather than by a title might seem rude, if not unforgiveably forward.

It's followed with a nod, and he steps away. "Aye. Which horse ought I to take? And if you'll show me where the tack is...?"

Plot-locked to Caspian

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