The eyes of immortals witness many passings. Seasons are no different, and for Aslan, though the winter is harsh and cold, there is an inner warmth it can neither touch or quench.

He sits not so very far from the shore, a solitary figure painted all in gold. He stands out against the slate-grey seas, and the air seems slightly warmer the closer one comes.

Aslan also contemplates the sea -- considers the far reaches of this world that he cannot reach or see. It is a rare thing, a puzzle he can neither perceive nor fathom, but perhaps, that is how it should be, considering he is guest here.

Either way, it is comfortable. He is not expecting company today, but his ears perk slightly upon hearing Saber's approach.

Tilting his great head, Aslan considers her with bright eyes.