Aravis barrels through Cair Paravel like a windstorm, catches Lucy up in her and carries her along. Lucy loves it, and Aravis loves it too. Before, there was always something in Aravis that had been disciplined and ironed into adulthood by way of noble elegance, and while it fed Aravis's hungry ego plenty, it seemed to cut into her too, like wires tied tight round a growing sapling. But Lucy, Lucy's always been young and always will be, it seems, at ease, open, and ready for a laugh. She makes it look it easy, and just like that—it is.
The explanation could be as simple as "Cor is an ass," or as studiedly polite and dignified as, "King Lune of Archenland sends his warmest regards and news of our common enemy." Sometimes Aravis takes a long time to thaw, but no matter; sooner or later the two of them will be on horseback, tearing through the fields, breakneck and grinning fiercely. On a quieter day it's Calormene coffee and and leisurely reminiscing with Hwin and long-shot archery, but those are pretty rare; it usually takes at least one good gallop to settle Aravis down, as if she's part-mare herself.
When battles come, as they always come, they're the better at their work for how hard they've been playing. Nothing's sweeter than saddlebag apples eaten at midnight when Aravis, wracked with insomnia, sneaks into Lucy's tent. They should be grave, but they're giddy with anxiety; they smother giggles even while dressing in the morning. When battle comes, there's better than laughter: certainty. They know the measure of each other; each counts the other's bravery as her own. Afterwards there is a little wine, and the refreshment of night air, and old, old stories of the families they've lost and found.