𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐑𝐎𝐏𝐘 || A Narnian Autumn Writing Challenge (Oneshot Book)

20. Chestnuts

telmarine occupied narnia // year 2301
prompt: "chestnuts"
word count: 2,146

xXx

Caspian stood to stretch his legs, still sore from a day of riding and none too eager to mount Destrier again for the trip back to the castle.

Not that he wouldn't have relished any other free day in the countryside with his beloved steed, but these trips with Miraz and the Captain of the Hunt and the usual handful of other Lords tended to feel both grueling and unrewarding to the boy who would so much rather have observed nature than shot at it.

His soft leather boots moved soundlessly over the leaf-strewn undergrowth of the clearing they'd made their resting point, skirting the edge of the treeline as the dull noise of overlapping conversation permeated the crisp air—his uncle's voice rumbling several yards away with two of the older men, Drinian's bark of a laugh close behind him where he'd just passed the group of Lords’ sons, the Captain's husky tones retelling some old and most certainly exaggerated hunting story.

Caspian nibbled his last leg of wild turkey, picking it clean and sucking on the knobbly end of the bone as his free fingers trailed the smooth bark of a beech tree, gazing up into the rippling yellow canopy where the breeze played as if with the soft rush of a river, sending the occasional stray leaf fluttering down around him to rest in the grass or catch on a tangle of roots.

He tossed the bone into the brush.

Something moved at the edge of his vision and he glanced sharply up to the crook of a sturdy branch, nothing but an innocuous knot in the bark meeting his gaze.

Had he imagined it?

He scanned the length of the upper branches, seeking he knew not what, but already that old familiar feeling had settled in his chest as it so often did in the depths of the forest where once had burned a lamp that never went out: the feeling that their little human hunting party was not completely alone.

A mere fancy, his uncle would have said—and had indeed said when he was still young enough to make the mistake of speaking these feelings aloud.

But somehow it never felt like fancy. Not out here, where it was only too easy to imagine little woodland creatures popping up from their burrows in proper waistcoats and tiny hats to wish you a good afternoon. Not out here, where he so often felt that the trees didn't always move in complete obedience to the wind.

Almost before he realized what he was doing, he'd strayed from his path and turned between two strong trunks into the thick of the forest, gazing up as yellows blended with reds and the occasional sprig of evergreen, scanning each branch for any sign of movement, boots finding their way unthinking over roots and brush.

For a moment his wits caught up to him long enough to cast a glance back over his shoulder, but already the clearing had vanished beyond the shroud of slender birches and solid oaks, mottled shadows dancing around him as a rush of breeze sent a shower of leaves fluttering down around him like a scarlet snow globe.

A quiver in the branches overhead caught his attention again, and he turned to follow in the direction from which it seemed to have come, the muffled hum of men's voices fading into the background of his awareness as he moved breathlessly among patches of filtering golden sunlight.

He wasn't even sure what he expected to find, but somehow he always did expect something. A spirit of the wood, perhaps peeking out from between shivering leaves, some creature peering down from the tangled branches overhead, some manifestation of the feeling that thrilled in his chest as fauns and beavers and little queens from distant worlds played through his head.