Nealan of Queenscove paused in his act of hitching up his favorite horse at the cheery voice behind him. He groaned dramatically.
"Meathead!"
Sighing, Neal turned around to face his slightly older cousin – by less than a year! - he never failed to point out irritably when Dom rubbed it in his face.
"I wanted to catch my baby cousin before he went back to the palace," Domitan of Masbolle explained, his bright blue eyes dancing in his handsome face. "Though I hear it's not back to the university for you, is it? What, was sitting around in comfy chair reading old tomes too hard for you?"
Neal shoved his nose into the air and looked imperiously down at his slightly shorter cousin – a fact he never failed to mention. "That's right," he drawled. "I've decided that whacking at targets with a stick is more productive way of life. And haven't you heard about the wonderful training master?"
Dom laughed. "Yes, from what Lord Raoul has said, he might be able to whip even you into shape, Meathead! Though personally I doubt it; your tongue will never be blunted."
Neal sniffed. "You are simply jealous, cousin, that you will not experience the joys of page training. Besides," he leaned in closer, conspiratorially, "didn't you hear about the new page?"
Dom shrugged.
Neal whispered, "We're getting a girl."
His cousin laughed. "Then you might have a chance of surviving somewhat unscathed; a girl is a much bigger target for a crusty old conservative than even you!"
Neal stuck out his tongue childishly, then chuckled himself.
They both fell silent, the mood dimming between them.
Dom scratched his head. "I do understand, Neal, why you're stopping Healer training."
Neal sighed, serious for once. "You'd be the first, then. Father is upset. I think he is afraid that I will go the way of my brothers."
Dom considered his younger cousin. At age 15, Neal was tall and lanky with a devil-may-care grin and attitude, much like himself. During the immortals war, he had been exposed to some of the horrors, for even an untrained healer was valuable enough to stop bleeding, to stop precious time.
Dom himself, though, joined the Own as soon as he was 15 and had experienced all war had to offer. He had seen friends cut down under swords, mutilated by spidrens, their bodies unceremoniously fouled by Stormwings. His dreams were full of his daily sights; he couldn't escape them. Dom laughed to dispel the visions for a short time.
As a healer, Neal would have been safe from such terrors first-hand, and would have been safe from falling under hurrock claws. As a knight, he would be in the thick of it, would be in constant danger.
He might die, as had his two elder brothers.
The two men, nearly identical in manners if not in looks, considered each other, one just starting out on his path, the other barely begun yet aged beyond his years.
"Be safe," Dom spoke softly.
Neal nodded. "You as well."
They clasped forearms briefly, and turned to walk into the manor house to gather the new page's saddlebags and belongings.
"So Meathead, maybe one day you'll be able to actually keep up with me. That last sword match, well, you should just be grateful that Lady Uline wasn't watching."
He turned away from the punch and returned one of his own.
Their laughter filled the courtyard, the last remnants of youth in one voice, the desperate attempt to recapture it in the other.