Meadow

"You're right boy, I do not. Go home." He huffed, it was no son of his and lacked any interest. Perhaps, any he'd have to lend to the youth was stolen by Anawar's choice of words. His attention peeled from the foal, and towards his fellow. A laugh barked. And his bones rattled in excitement.

"Anawar of Array." the reply came quick; as soon as the Lyov's name dripped from his lips. Lyov. A man he'd never met, but only knew by the longing of his mother's dreams. Too many years had gathered and went, too many moments missed and memories skipped by the procession of ambitions and changes of heart. He'd never been blessed with a kind mother, one bent by malaise and a lack of love, of kindness. He knew his roots lay, and it seemed true enough they'd call him back to the Isles. There he stood ,face to face with another. And it startled him: the warmth, the familiar, the memories. Another lad, older than he yet of the same. On the gathering grounds of Tinuvel. Too young to know what the future would bring, too young to understand the distance that came with it. It rocked his heart, and blasted a grin across his face; shattering the unkind expression moments before. "It's been too long, fellow son of Tinuvel." Brother. Of a kind; close enough for Nicholas to feel joy.

It had been far too long since he'd known the closeness of kin, and greedily his fingers grasped at the thinness of their familiarity.

"The Arch no longer stands," Sorrow haunted his words, in remembrance of the place his father once loved, where his mother once lived. Not where he was worn, no. Still, his mothers womb expelled him into Tinuvel. But, Anawar would remember, would he not? The time where there was more than the threadbare kingdoms. Now, only thimbleful. Now, wretched and lacking renown as it had in their youth. The glamour rescinded into greed, petty faults. Only but a poor glimmer compared to the ostentatious flood of glory it'd been. They were ghosts of a bygone era; face to face, their father's follies coming home to roost. Nicholas smiled greater, approaching Anawar, negligent of the youth in their company, ensnared by his compatriot. "Do your roots still rest in Tinuvel?"

Too long. It had been too long since Nicholas felt any sort of welcome in this place. "You look a little worse for wear," A jest. His voice came swaddled in jovial tones, bird-like, his thin face titled, allowing is grin be seen and exaggerated by the angle. "But still in fighting form, I hope?"