It had been a few months now since Bran had joined the other bachelor stallions as captives here in the Peaks. Nattergal had not been pleased in the least, even a bit sorry that Bran had followed him only to end up a captive and yet the gray stallion was not in the least bit upset. While he had not enjoyed the haughty looks many of the peak mares had given them when initially they came to the mountains, they had not lasted long. As the days turned into weeks, the hard stares and accusing eyes began to disappear and instead were replaced with mild disinterest. For the most part, Bran did his best to appear as non-threatening as possible. A task not hard to achieve. From time to time he found himself sparing with his brother and in general enjoying the camaraderie that accompanied finally being free of father's controlling grasp.

He knew their sire was still a sore subject to Nattergal. Though the rumors had reached the peaks of their father's retreat from the islands, Bran had not dared to venture back to the island of Tinuvel to see if it were true. The memories were withering in his mind and that is where he preferred to let them rot and decay until not even an image could be drummed up for recollection sake.

Today he found himself roaming over the short grasses that covered the rocky hillocks and sloping mountainsides. His time on the mountains had taught him a surefootedness that life in the Bay and Prairie had never demanded. Here, one missed step could be the difference between a dangerous tumble or badly bruised or even broken leg. It had definitely given him a new respect for the hardy mares that thrived here with such grace and ease.

Ash dusted muzzle lowers to tear free a mouthful of bland grass. He was not entirely hungry but he also knew better than to let green grasses go to waste, especially with winter snows not long around the corner. Obsidian tail flicks lazily against his sterling sides, whisking away the pesky buzzing insects that seemed to appear with the afternoon sun. All was peaceful, at least in his mind's eye anyway.... but was it enough? Was he content? Was Nattergal? His devotion for his brother was far more than shared blood. They shared a kindred spirit and without him Bran felt incomplete. However, was he happy? Was there something that Bran could do to make him feel the same contentment that he himself felt?

Questions. Always questions and distant thoughts plagued his mind. Mother had once called him her thinker and he scoffed at the idea. Now he could not deny it. He thought about things. It simply helped to pass the hours and kept his sanity when he had no other company but his own. It happened a lot. He never minded. Today, just as others, he lets himself be lost in thought as he moved slowly over the hillside in blissful silence. How long.... how long could it last.