Lucy leans on the railings, watching as Caspian sways and sings with the sailors, a cup of ale in his hand as he rocks to and fro. He is very merry.
Her body doesn't understand what she is feeling. But deep inside her there are the stirrings of the woman she once was, who knew desire, and what it felt like to sleep in the arms of her beloved. He was fair haired too, but that does nothing to explain the pull towards Caspian. If her body were caught up...she lets herself imagine, just a moment, what they could be together.
She forces herself to turn away and stare at the deep velvet of the night horizon. This is ridiculous, of course. Whatever she imagines in her head, she knows that everyone sees her as a girl. Caspian must see her as a kid.
The lilt of the accordion accompanies the singing, and beside her she feels the warmth of Caspian's bare arm against hers. She glances up at him. In the torchlight his eyes are dancing, and with this trick of the light she can almost believe he truly sees her.
He covers her hand with his; his skin is dry and warm, the pads of his fingers calloused like an adventurer. He rubs a callous on her palm with his thumb.
'Come and dance, my Queen of old,' he says, his lips curling into a smile. She swore she heard the possessive.
Of course she agrees, because she wants the freedom of music which has always let her believe she might be beautiful. And they whirl across the deck together in perfect time.
A Trick of the light
Her body doesn't understand what she is feeling. But deep inside her there are the stirrings of the woman she once was, who knew desire, and what it felt like to sleep in the arms of her beloved. He was fair haired too, but that does nothing to explain the pull towards Caspian. If her body were caught up...she lets herself imagine, just a moment, what they could be together.
She forces herself to turn away and stare at the deep velvet of the night horizon. This is ridiculous, of course. Whatever she imagines in her head, she knows that everyone sees her as a girl. Caspian must see her as a kid.
The lilt of the accordion accompanies the singing, and beside her she feels the warmth of Caspian's bare arm against hers. She glances up at him. In the torchlight his eyes are dancing, and with this trick of the light she can almost believe he truly sees her.
He covers her hand with his; his skin is dry and warm, the pads of his fingers calloused like an adventurer. He rubs a callous on her palm with his thumb.
'Come and dance, my Queen of old,' he says, his lips curling into a smile. She swore she heard the possessive.
Of course she agrees, because she wants the freedom of music which has always let her believe she might be beautiful. And they whirl across the deck together in perfect time.