He plays an eternal tug of war: sea grey eyes peer out over the ocean of golden plains, hands most comfortable with horse reins firmly in their grasp. The blood running through his veins experience a culture clash of land and sea, never truly at home — not really.
"The hands of a mariner," his mother coos over their evening meal.
"Nonsense!" his father chides — in jest? He never can tell, the King of the Mark is well known for his brashness — "Those are horseman hands."
Gone are the days of sea kings, of ships roused in glory, of sailors whose great deeds are told around royal halls. Gone they were, and yet Elfwine still dreams of seagulls.