(no subject)

[treading_dawn]

It is a warm night, as far as these things go, though there is a breeze coming off the lake.

In the forest, deep among the trees, there is a flash of bright gold.





And then again.

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[whitest_witch]

There is, likewise, a flash of white. Someone cold not sleep.



Someone is walking the forest, noiseless on bare feet, gown almost glowing in the moonlight, in the shadows.

[treading_dawn]

He keeps pace with her, velveted paws noiseless on the dry ground, breath blending seamlessly with the rustle of the wind in the trees.

[whitest_witch]

The witch pauses. Turns. Stops very, very still.

"Aslan." It is little more than a breath but, although there is still fear in her voice, there is less blind hatred than perhaps once there was. Still hatred, yes. But no longer blind. This is personal. And this hurts.

[treading_dawn]

"Jadis."

His voice is solemn and deep, like the tolling of a great bell.

"What do you here?"

[whitest_witch]

"I walk. I could not sleep." The witch chooses to interpret his words literally.

To her credit, she holds her ground. Although she does not approach him, never that.

[treading_dawn]

"And is it dreams that trouble you, daughter of Charn?"

There is no fury in the golden eyes, not at the moment.

"Or memory?"

[whitest_witch]

There is a brief pause, when she simply looks at him.

"One begets the other, would you not say?"

[treading_dawn]

"They have their time and place, as all things do. And yet it is you and your actions that beget them both."

And in his words is the faintest echo of a rumbling growl, one last heard a long time ago, and very far from here.

[whitest_witch]

"I would not presume to dispute that," quietly, oh so calm, and yet in the back of her voice is a despair that perhaps he is more familiar with than anyone she has spoken to in a hundred, hundred years.

[treading_dawn]

"And what would you dispute, then?"

He does not have to ask.

He does, regardless.

[whitest_witch]

Another level look. A look that becomes less level, and eventually drops to the ground. Drops to the ground because she cannot bear to meet those golden eyes, that sorrowful gaze.

She opens her mouth to reply, but can say nothing.

But she does not run.

[treading_dawn]

Aslan takes another step forward.




And another.

He, too, is silent.

[whitest_witch]

And she may be shaking, but she's standing her ground. Not in defiance, either. Not now. There's something far more meaningful in her silence, her motionlessness.



And still she does not move.

[treading_dawn]

He paces closer, stopping with perhaps a handspan of space between them.

"No questions, and no answers either?"

There is nothing of surprise in his voice.

"What have you learned in your time away, your time between?"

[whitest_witch]

In a voice that is now very definitely shaking, she replies.

"If I have no answers for myself, I certainly have none for you."

It is the truth. As much truth as she has. As for what she has learned? She has said this before. But. . . it hurts to say it to him. Her eyes close briefly, but then open again, and for just a moment her gaze is steady and clear.

"I was wrong."

[treading_dawn]

"So you were."

His voice is neutral, his eyes still solemn. But they are brighter than they were.

And he has moved a fraction closer.

"Shall you spend your time seeking such answers, then?"

It is not a command.

[whitest_witch]

"Perhaps I already do." Still whispered.



But still she does not flee.

[treading_dawn]

He presses closer yet.

"I would hear your answers, when you find them."

Teeth flash in the moonlight as he speaks, but there is little fierceness in his face.

[whitest_witch]

"Then perhaps you shall."

It is not a promise. Perhaps more an admission. As for how she is still standing, when every nerve that she possesses is screaming for her to run, no-one cold say.

[treading_dawn]

"We will meet again."

It is not a promise, merely fact, cold and implacable as iron, warm and implacable as the sun.

A moment longer he stares at her, stares into her--and then he steps back, steps away, velveted paws silent as he pads away into the forest.

Though he is never really gone.

[whitest_witch]

She could not run, and still she cannot run, but she can crumple to the ground. Try and uncurl hands curled so hard to keep from touchingstrikinghurtingneeding him that her fists are filled with blood from the cuts where her nails had ripped the skin. Learn to breathe all over again.



It is a well-known fact that witches cannot cry.



It is also true that most well-known facts are lies.