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A laugh - one that was evidently charmed - rang through, and Thornley came with an arm roughly locked around his deer's neck. They reeled about as he exclaimed: "ah, it has been an age since I have seen you smile, brother! You should smile more often, it is a look that suits you well."

"I am in no mood to quibble, Locke," he grinned rather unbearably at him, running his hands over his fawn's head with a vicious ruffle, revelling in the indignant deer-sounds, and seizing him about the middle. "Go to your little lady, your face can afford the joy." He lifted his (kicky) little gentleman with one arm and marvelled: "my word, such wee beasties they are now - I can scarcely imagine them growing so large in the end." 

"Aye," Thornley agreed, swinging him about in a manner which such sacred animals should not never be swung...and it expressed that unhappiness with jolts of annoyance that his Chosen took with good grace. "I shall have to ride into battle with a stallion, my little stag alongside - ahaha, he's displeased! Such strange sensations, but they are still - at the moment - they are most amusing." The hooves flailed, but it was a while yet before Thornley had his fill of the activity. "Your long legs will exceed those of your Guardian, Locke - you shall have to crouch upon her like a scrunched-up spider."

Thornley smiled placidly, thoroughly satisfied by this scene of domesticity - today was a surprisingly bright day in Ashford, and the fact that both the sky and his brother were out together with him raised feelings so strong he could not express in his halting words. The sun (how novel) fell gently upon the rolling greens and the well-cultivated hedges of the estate, lighting the stone-marked path back to the stately Ashford manor. They were located close enough to keep an eye out for domestic happenings, but just far enough to be unnoticed and to frolic freely in the grass with their Guardians.

The sight moved him, for here they played too, when they were children - make-believe and silly games. How long had it been since they'd been so content in each other's company? Years, years too long.
"We've not been like this for a while," Thornley noted gently, distractedly closing his fingers around his suspended deer's muzzle (much to his continued annoyance). "Together this amicably. 'Tis so wonderful that we're getting along again - I've missed this, brother. It brings me such joy."

Upon receiving that look Thornley shut his eyes momentarily - the words filtered in and weighed his head and heart, so fleeting that joy seemed to what had been, and would continue to be, an age of regret. Would he that his last foolish outbursts of delight had been kept to himself, if only to enjoy that kinship a little while longer.

And so his lids lifted, to sight Locke's stark, severe figure, back turned. So it would always come to this.

"No, it does not." His voice weary, deflated, but still brimming with endless sentimentality in that instant. "I still know not what I slighted you with, brother, but trust that I would do everything in my power to right it, and continue righting it, and dedicate myself to that cause verily. Whatever you want shall be done - so promises Lord Thornley Ormonton of Ashford."

"Worms, really," He shook his head. "And for that infuriating rook of yours...I would rather it starve. It's growing altogether too well - it needs no more sustenance if you ask me." But obey he did, finally releasing his deer who shook himself out and trotted over to investigate a nearby berry shrub, for if he were to be indignified in such a manner, he might as well eat.

His Chosen, in the meantime, grunted and got onto his knees near a muddy patch, rolling up his sleeves to dig for worms.

His powerful hands made quick work of the surface, though pausing distastefully to pull a doomed worm out of the muck each time. "Others named their deer," he said as he squished one thoughtfully. "And I suppose we should as well, especially if they are to stay with us for years to come." He glanced over his shoulder at his deer (out of earshot, thankfully), then grinned at Locke in the recollection of a boyhood memory. "I've always wanted a dog called Mutt. Ironic, yes? And quite clever." He turned back to the dirt, and smiled at his wit. "A deer called Mutt wouldn't be quite so ironic, but would still be clever."