Oct. 14th, 2005

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The slight breeze that stirs the branches smells of apples. A delicate hand pushes sweat-soaked black hair off a brow, then strokes the cheek of the child, pale even through the flush of birthing.

The touch makes him open his eyes, and his mother draws in a little breath as tawny-gold eyes blink sleepily at wondering speedwell-blue ones.

"His eyes are an eagle's," says the harper softly.

"Not an eagle's," the mother whispers, and says in her heart, A raven's.

Bran.

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Guinevere

January 2007

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