[P] A story of that Icarus design
Ooc: the special cliffs

The snow fell and he watched it without emotion flickering across his face.

About his shoulders, a cloak shrouded his body, hiding him from the world, its hood pulled up to keep the soft falling flakes from collecting in his hair. It'd been pressed on him by Gramma, who had frowned to see him walking about wet and shivery. He'd not the energy to argue with her.

Below him, water crashed expeditiously, a dull roar that flung the salt-water spray upwards, climbing the rocky outcroppings to burst above the cliff and scatter into the air. A frigid scent filled with seaweed and foam. The blast of air swept back the sodden limp locks of his hair, throwing his hood away from him, leaving him open to the elements.

Sitting, cross-legged at the edge upon that which they'd danced before. Maybe he was resolute, maybe he was broken down, maybe he was a lot of things at once, many of them contradictory.

"Uncle." He said, quietly, and from the Silence came the sense of weight and size.

Against the wrath of the sea, and the falling of the snow, his uncle was an aura of calm.

<"She sings the-day, diz it caa ye tay, laddie?.">

Almost as though it had been so soon before, he could feel the lurching of old boards below his feet, the screaming of seagulls ringing loudly in his ears.

"Yes." Caspian said simply. Putting his weight of worth into it.

Tilting his head just so, he could barely make out where the flakes were caught within the ghost's area of effect, billowing diffidently against the faintness that existed. From the foggy face, emerald and amethyst gleamed, casting their light against the night's darkness. A legend captured in his death.

<"Up an' doon she goes, wi' 'er winds callin' yer nam, yoo're loch myself, again an' again she speart me tae lae an' sail 'er waves, Ah ne'er coods thocht, Ah loo'd mah fowk tay much.">

He hitched in a breath and spent it out in a frosty cloud.

Those folk had included Caspian's own father, and his father, and his father.

"Why doesn't it feel like it fits right anymore."

An abrupt turn in the conversation.

<"Coz, mah loon, yoo're still grievin'.">

"It hurts." He pressed a hand to his chest, feeling the jagged edges of the gaping wound there beyond his physical self, raw and festering.

<"It will dae, fur lae ay yer life.">

Caspian exhaled softly. A frozen, freezing hand reached to him, touching at his cheek only with the cold it brought. He closed his eyes and let his uncle pour into his mind, popping green and purple and blinding yellow behind his eyelids.

He saw his mother's bright smile. Heard her soft voice.

"I couldn't catch her." He whispered, his lips numb and the breaking of his young voice there in his throat.

<"Ye waur ne'er meant tae, Caspian.">

There, in the corners of his own mind, he could feel the giant's unraveling sorrow, soft waves that lapped at an invisible shore.

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