milliways_bar | (no subject)

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In one of the more shadowed corners of the bar something stirs, tawny-gold fur catching the light.

It is a Lion, head coming up off his forepaws, solemn golden eyes watching the patrons as they pass by.

Aslan has been here for quite some time.

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Like Oats was really even thinking about moving.

"... Oberon?"

Admittedly, the voice is different.

Kinder.

Or rather ... powerful. But powerful in the sort of way that comes from strength and nobility and beauty, rather than being secure in the knowledge that you could break every bone in a person's body if you really wanted to.

"Hardly a fairy, child."

There is amusement in the golden eyes, now, and a deeper rumble in the voice, almost like purring.

"In my country, most creatures know me as Aslan."

Oats sighs in relief.

Because just about everyone in the known universe ranks higher than Oberon on the 'People to Run Into' list.

"Aslan ..."

He nods, flashing a quick, nervous smile.

"If you don't mind my asking, are you-- ah, I hope you don't think it indelicate of me, but would you happen to be a deity of some kind? Or do lions usually talk in your country?"

"There are Talking Beasts of many kinds in Narnia. Some of them are lions, yes. And as for your other question, I am the Lion. It is enough."

The rumble in his voice is slightly harsher, lowering into almost a growl.

Oats is not a fan of making the Lion growl.

"Oh, er.

"Well."

A pause of careful assessment.

"Ah ... my name is Mightily Oats. I ... um, don't think I mentioned."

"And so you did not, child. But it does you credit--should you live up to it."

The growl has faded, some, and now the golden gaze is assessing.

"Shall you put forth the effort?"

Oats looks almost guilty for a moment, then thinks fleetingly of the phoenix.

A faint, shy smile.

"I-- I think I will. I try."

"It is all that can be asked of you."

But the voice is warmer, now, and the golden eyes are almost kind.

"And I think you will do well enough."

Funny how that sounds so compelling coming from someone else's ... Lion.

"Ah ... thank you. Yes."

He's at a slight loss for other words.

Um.

"... Do you come here very often? I've, um. Never seen you before."

"I am not always easily seen."

He is not, after all, a tame lion.

"It is also true that you may not have been looking."

Oats looks sheepish.

"I'm, ah ... not always very observant, it's true."

"Should you keep that in mind, there is great likelihood you would improve."

Aslan's laugh is warm and rumbling, and it fills the room.

"Though again, I am not always so easily seen."

Oats surprises himself by how nearly he laughs in return; it's that wonderful.

"I was learning to listen, once. Only ... it didn't go so well. I think I, er, probably stopped."

Not so easily seen ...

Well, it's hard to hide a lion.

But it might be another thing, Oats thinks, for a Lion to hide himself.

"Perhaps you should begin again, child."

His eyes are kind, though still filled an odd kind of brightness.

He may not be referring only to the listening.

"Perhaps I should."

It doesn't seem like a wholly impossible idea.

About the listening, at least.

"Though I'm not sure where to start."

The faint growl is back in his voice, rumbling low under the surface warmth.

"That is, in itself, the beginning."

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