[...]It’s a past and warm time. The child rolls about a bear fur. The parchment smells good, an old and thick fragrance.
The child has green eyes.
“What are you leafing through?
“The Great War Chronicles.”
"Oh… Read for me, then.”
The child hands out the antique book to him.
The other boy shakes his head. His hair are so blond that the fireplace flame seems to frame him in gold.
“Your voice is beautiful. I like to listen to you.”
The child is happy, because he seldom receives praise: when they think he can’t hear, they say he resembles the beloved birds of his Father.
It’s the only sign of blood peerage they recognise in him.
“Alright… Just don’t get distracted as you always do, Thor.”[...]