[i]Birds,[/i] she brooded, [i]ever are his thoughts with the birds.[/i]

Pyrra Salt made her way through the garden, stepping over the broken petals of noble passings and through the scattered twigs of caustic, careless indifference. She noted each broken branch and trampled petal with a careful eye; staring down the bridge of her nose to take note of those in her path. There were many men in Warrhon, many careless, oafish men who used heavy blades instead of honeyed words. Their passage was marked here; a shoulder brushed against a hanging arrangement of roses, a dirty, dragging foot tearing loose the rich soil and spreading it into the walkway. More signs existed, miniscule and scattered.

 She sighed, striding through the humid bitterness in the air; wiping beads of sweat from her brow. The garden flowed by, scattered petals of myriad hues along her path. Strangely, she counted each one. There were one hundred and seven scattered petals along the path from the Great Hall to the Aviary. It was a fair gamble that her brother, Judam would be there. 

[i]Does he ever think of the flowers?[/i]

He would be there with his falcons, knowing her presence from the first step she took into his domain. She admired that in him, his careful measure of those around him and desire for solitude. Pyrra and her twin were the fortunate Salt children, the oldest and those born to inherit the work of their industrious father. Though Delris Salt still drew breath, there were many who feared that his life was nearing its end. Pyrra paused at the door of the Aviary, her thoughts turning to her brother once more.

[i]Judam thinks of flowers as often as I think of birds.[/i]

 She allowed herself a rueful snort and threw open the heavy door, taking care to make her first footfall the heaviest. Stepping through, Pyrra placed one hand behind her back and extending her fingers to catch the door. It tapped against the tips of her digits and she slowly lead it back into place. With a surprisingly subtle click the door slid into place.

"Judam," she queried up the spiral staircase wrought of dark iron, her eyes trailing up its wild winding and into the dim obfuscation above, "take a break. Your sister's come to visit."

 Pyrra leaned against the door, crossing her legs in front of her, a slight smile creeping onto her face. With her gentle, fluid motions the lute on her hip swayed and the parchment clutched in her other hand scraped lightly against the door.

- - - - -

 It was a song he had learned listening to Pyrra, when she played on the quiet nights where the hall felt to be more a tomb than home to the bastard Hinn. The song was called 'The Reclaimer' and detailed the life of renowned king Giald Loroughe. He had never managed to commit the entire song to memory, but the first few lines had always resonated with him; the words etching themselves into his heart. Ruarc sang quietly into the damp recesses of his tankard, a mere whisper at the first syllable...a quiet growl near the end.

 "[i]Bastard son of the rising sun,
 turned away at the break of dawn,
 such a sight did the gods ever see,
 the fear and loathing that babe would breed.[/i]"

 He stared at his relfection in the bubbling ale. His own eyes, made rhuemy and amorphous in the shifting froth, bored into him. There was a look of disappointment on his face, sour and laced with a pungent, festering hurt. 

 [i]I know your bitterness, cousin,[/i] he told Grey while telling himself, [i]some songs shouldn't be sung.[/i]

 Perhaps it was merely his own melancholy that shaped his thoughts.

 With another heavy sigh, Ruarc lowered his tankard and stood. Perhaps it was that he stood so slowly, that some eyes trailed to him. Or, perhaps, it was their mistrust of the strange boy seated in their midst; the fast friend of The Stolen and ever-silent companion of Seralle Loroughe. He ignored them, casting his eyes to her, where she sat speaking to the northman. She was safe, he supposed and more lively than he expected on a night such as this. It pained him, in a way, to watch her be so quickly comfortable with her betrothed; but it was not his place to question the judgement of royalty.

 Ruarc Hinn left the great hall in silence, tracing the steps of his cousin.