He looks at his hands, lips twisting into a frown. His fingers are trembling, not in anticipation, nor hunger, or any other strange reason related to the exalted blood in his veins (as he does so love to proclaim). Eyebrows knit as he turns his hands over, his eyes lazily glazing over the cuts and bruises that decorate his knuckles. These scars, he wears them proudly. They are medals, graciously received for his victories. They are blessings, as each battle won was another false hope of a future restored. They are memories, sacredly kept to always remember when his mother...when his father- "Ah." So that's why they were trembling. Owain dabs the corner of his eye, not even feigning shock as he feels wet tears on his fingers. Mother, father. They are here now, their younger incarnations. Smiling and so drunk in new love. Most days he could scarcely believe it, being here that is. What scenery may be natural for the men and women borne of this place...this time... is still an enlightening but foreign spectacle to him. It is an unexplored expanse of anxiety and wonder. But it is one he vows to understand.