Whitefish River but the hearts of small children are delicate organs

Dragomir watched with envy the way his mother stretched and half-rolled, settling her weight on her back with her spine in a supple twist. His hind legs were useless and it would only strain his ribs if he tried to turn like that. He'd give anything to be able to stretch out his back that way. When she was comfortable, she began to speak, telling him things she'd never deigned to tell her children before—things from her past that he'd never been interested enough to ask about. Dragomir was too busy pursuing his interests and being angry about the things that were taken from him, then. Now he had all the time in the world to listen.

Somehow, Dragomir couldn't imagine Aurëwen being as gung-ho about fighting as Isilmë was. Her history of going out and getting into trouble and returning hurt suggested it wasn't her calling and was probably for the best she'd been turned to another path. He lacked the drive to fight that his sister possessed as well. With training, perhaps he could be good at it—surely it wasn't much different than hunting—but his heart wasn't in it like his father's was.

If you hated it, why did you do it? Dragomir asked. He didn't think he could pursue any skill that he had no interest in, even if it was for the best. She impishly posed him a question then and he wracked his brain with a little frown. Her mischief couldn't touch him through the haze of his perpetual pain and fear, but he made an effort to inject as much engagement into it when he answered, a bellyache?