07-23-2016, 01:37 AM
His father doesn’t hover, he stays around just long enough to make sure he has what he needs and never lingers longer than need be; Reaver can barely contain himself, he hops from foot to foot and snorts in frustration when Gendry gives him the look. “Fine,” he sighs, struggling to hold still. “It’s just that I wanna go play alread—”
“Reaver.”
Another sigh.
Gendry checks him over, he does it every so often—scanning for signs of something, anything out of the ordinary, and the results are always the same. He says it’s peculiar that Reaver shows no sign of magick, not even an inkling of being capable of extraordinary things and Reaver always feels a little pang of guilt. Should he? His brother can heal things, or so he’s heard. He hasn’t exactly had the pleasure of meeting Wesson just yet. He hasn’t had the pleasure of really meeting anyone, he supposes, aside from his father and grandmother.
He doesn’t... doesn’t really remember his mother, he realizes.
“Alright,” Gendry bumps him with his nose. “Nothing today, you can go.”
“Finally!” Reaver beams, half-rearing and slashing at the air with his little front hooves. He springs forwards, keen to get on with his day—he hasn’t explored every inch of the great pine forest yet and that needs to be done before winter sets in and the snow gets too deep; there’s also blackberries to eat, falcons to race, wolf cubs to wrestle with. “I’ll see you later, dad!” He calls, though he doesn’t bothering looking back. He’s far too interested in looking ahead.
—
Come noon, he’s racing a Gyrfalcon through the trees.
The bird is obviously very skilled at flying, it maneuvers around branches and trunks and he has to try his hardest just to keep up. It takes one little misstep, one back hoof caught on a root sticking out of the ground to send him tumbling head over heel into a tree; the bird is gone, it screeches fade in the distance and Reaver grumbles something under his breath while he untangles himself. He winces, stumbles once or twice and then finally makes it back to his feet. He’s going to have bruises come tomorrow and his father isn’t going to like that. (“Always hurting yourself; you should be more careful, Reaver, what if—”)
Yes, what if indeed.
“Reaver.”
Another sigh.
Gendry checks him over, he does it every so often—scanning for signs of something, anything out of the ordinary, and the results are always the same. He says it’s peculiar that Reaver shows no sign of magick, not even an inkling of being capable of extraordinary things and Reaver always feels a little pang of guilt. Should he? His brother can heal things, or so he’s heard. He hasn’t exactly had the pleasure of meeting Wesson just yet. He hasn’t had the pleasure of really meeting anyone, he supposes, aside from his father and grandmother.
He doesn’t... doesn’t really remember his mother, he realizes.
“Alright,” Gendry bumps him with his nose. “Nothing today, you can go.”
“Finally!” Reaver beams, half-rearing and slashing at the air with his little front hooves. He springs forwards, keen to get on with his day—he hasn’t explored every inch of the great pine forest yet and that needs to be done before winter sets in and the snow gets too deep; there’s also blackberries to eat, falcons to race, wolf cubs to wrestle with. “I’ll see you later, dad!” He calls, though he doesn’t bothering looking back. He’s far too interested in looking ahead.
—
Come noon, he’s racing a Gyrfalcon through the trees.
The bird is obviously very skilled at flying, it maneuvers around branches and trunks and he has to try his hardest just to keep up. It takes one little misstep, one back hoof caught on a root sticking out of the ground to send him tumbling head over heel into a tree; the bird is gone, it screeches fade in the distance and Reaver grumbles something under his breath while he untangles himself. He winces, stumbles once or twice and then finally makes it back to his feet. He’s going to have bruises come tomorrow and his father isn’t going to like that. (“Always hurting yourself; you should be more careful, Reaver, what if—”)
Yes, what if indeed.