The Bonds We Keep

FREYA

“I want to be outside, swinging my steel with Uncle Ishmael, Mama,” Killian complained, his voice tinged with longing even as he dutifully copied out letter after letter from the leather-bound book the castle's historian was holding open to him.

His artful swiping of the feathered brush left a clean trail of ink behind on the spotless paper.

Despite his complaints, he paid utmost attention to the job at hand as did every other thing.

He was a serious little man, my blue-eyed boy.

“Uncle Ishmael and your father have embarked on a trip, Dearest. They will not return for a while still.” I replied from my vantage point near my favorite shelf of books in the library. “And you need to do an equivalent amount of writing and reading to your swinging.”