It's somewhere m the midst of any number of golden afternoons really. After skittishness has passed with the spring, past the full ﬂush of summer. The way the day has already seen the children running out, come and go, not quite dragging their feet, back to lessons, and the shapes of clouds were long since covered.
When silence has grown quiet and peaceful, as the spell of a thick warm winter blanket, having so long ago stopped being a cold dividing wall thicker than any castle. When Marian says, with no reason or rhyme or prompting, “This would never happened back home."
"What wouldn't?" Is careful enough. She can hear it in his tone, in the way he very barely shifts beneath her head.
There are so many things, both great and small that could fit into that statement are there. Several that are so very light, and several so intensely massive people do not test her on the capacity for even a conversation without the greatest care, even these months later.
"A Lady, and a King." Lightly said, though it's toss up really as to whether this is so, because of the words she chooses, or because she pretends she does not know what concern might have been garnered by her references to a home that will never not be home, no matter what Doors have gone or come.
There's the rumble of something that isn't quite a laugh, and she thinks because of how he moves somewhere to the right of her head, that he must be shaking his own. "I am not a King here."
“You, my Lord Caspian—“ And if the last two words are impishly daring, regardless of reminders or lack of requirements, when she turned her head from the side of his chest to glance up; it is the world before them, so small, and yet precise, that is more important.
"Could no more ‘not be a king ,' than you could not be a sailor, or a stable master, or in love with you niece and nephews. I think they were right, too.” And this ‘they’ is said more teasingly, and very much without specifism, as handful of Ambergeldan garden grass at him, as she recited his own words. "Once a King in Narnia-"
It is not the gold of hay, or deepest black of raven, but the vibrant, alive, green of summer, still not yet having let go.