it's a melody; it's a battle cry | childhood | for cywyllog

[cadcamlan]

Sometimes, it's just easier to play with girls.

Or, at the very least, with the particular girls he's come to know. They're strong, not silly, absolutely persons to contend with in tree-climbing and racing over rocks and arguing about the things children argue about. They smile at him. They touch his hand and his arm and his cheek and they laugh with him. They never throw rocks or words at him. He never wants to hit them. He always leaves them with a bit of a smile on his lips.

He adores them. He spends his life thankful for them. He does his best to steal away when he knows they'll be free, playing away from their nurses, making the world calm and wonderful.

Today is no exception.

The difference, today, is that he's been playing with boys all morning. He's got a cut on his lip and a bruise around his eye, is stepping only slightly more gingerly than usual as he scrambles down the rocks toward the shore. He's entirely unconscious of trying to avoid the girl closest to his own age.

He doesn't know why he dislikes the idea of Cywyllog seeing him sporting bruises. He doesn't want to think about it.

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[cywyllog]

Slowly but surely.

"Did you win?" Because really, that's what matters.

[cadcamlan]

"I did." And there's briefly a vicious edge to his smile, although it smooths quickly enough back toward neutral. "He's much worse off."

That's what winning meant, right?

"He said-- I was worthless."

[cywyllog]

She nods, satisfied. That's what winning means to her, or it does according to her father and brother. Especially with Ireland threatening to invade at any time.

"Why would he say that?" Her hand reaches over to cover one of his lightly, being more used to giving out affection. "You're not."

[cadcamlan]

It takes a touch of effort not to jerk his hand from hers. But she deserves that much, doesn't she, being kind to him while he's out of sorts?

"Because I'm not-- like everyone else."

Which in part came from what was handed down to them, from their parents murmuring about his own lack of a lineage. Which in part absolutely of the simple air that hung around him and set most people into nervousness.

[cywyllog]

Cywyllog leans over to look him in the eyes, closely. After a few moments she seems satisfied and leans back out of his personal space.

"You look like everyone else."

[cadcamlan]

Being examined has his shoulders stiff, although her reaction has them relaxing again almost instantly. It's confusing, true, but... in a good way. "You think so?"

[cywyllog]

She laughs a little. "Of course. Why would you be any different?"

[cadcamlan]

Her laugh is a touch comforting. It makes it feel a little safer to pull his own lips in something like the mockery of a smile, chin jutting defiantly out at the sea.

"Some of them say I'm the son of a witch. That a demon left me here. D' you not listen to the boys?"

[cywyllog]

"Why would I listen to boys?" That is possibly the silliest question he's ever asked her.

"Besides, it doesn't matter what people say. You're... nice and I like you. That's all that matters."

[cadcamlan]

"T' know who to hate irrationally."

Which doesn't mean his smile isn't relaxing into something a little more comfortable. That his hand isn't nudging her fingers briefly with his.

"You're nice too."

[cywyllog]

"This is why boys make no sense. Why would I want to hate anyone?" She looks at him expectantly, waiting for him to explain his brethren.

The slight blush on her cheeks from his compliment is nothing to notice. Really.

[cadcamlan]

It takes a few moments to sort through the thoughts, frown slight and eyes focused on the horizon for the moment. "...d'you never get-- angry? Really, deeply angry and just-- need to let go of it, somehow? And-- sometimes it's easy enough to let it out by screaming or smashing your fist into a tree, but-- sometimes you need to-- direct it at something? Or someone? Do girls not do that?"

[cywyllog]

Cywyllog waits patiently for the answer he's clearly trying hard to sort out for her. When it finally comes, it's not quite what she was expecting, but it's something she can understand, in a fashion.

She nods. "I try to go swimming then, take a deep breath and go a few feet under the surface. Then I scream it out into the water. Doesn't happen often, though."

[cadcamlan]

She's special. She always has been. That's why it's easy to settle in with her, to let his shoulders relax and to look at her with a quiet hopefulness.

"Does... it work?"

[cywyllog]

She'd have to disagree with that. She's one of a set of nine, nine dark haired, tall, skinny girls, who know the shores of Anglesey like the back of their hands and sing prettily before dinner. The only difference is their ages and their names, and even those are often confused for each others'.

Cywyllog draws through the sand with one finger, creating waves and a tree, with birds flying overhead. "Usually. Though I'm not sure if it's the screaming or the water that relaxes me."

[cadcamlan]

"...suppose I'll have to try it, then." And, for the moment, to add little figures to her doodle, heads bobbing in the water. "Might hurt less."

And be less of a burden on the few people who did actually care.

[cywyllog]

"Might," she agrees. "Just mind the seagulls."

[cadcamlan]

"Are they vicious?" His laughter isn't quite right, is certainly subdued, doesn't have even the slightest bit of spark to it.

But he's laughing. That has to count for something.

[cywyllog]

She grins at the sound of his laughter, something she doesn't hear often or enough of.

"Maelgwn used to scare me and say they'd snap my fingers off. They're not that bad."

[cadcamlan]

"Other people are far more likely to snap fingers off."

From what he can tell, at any rate. And from what he knows about interacting with other people--or, at least, people who aren't her or her sister.

She knows he's going to reach over and pinch one of her fingers, right?

[cywyllog]

She giggles, a sound light and airy, pulling her hand away. "Stop that! You're worse than he is."

[cadcamlan]

"Am not." But he is going to chase the touch with a little poke at her arm, at her shoulder. This is... good contact, right? Acceptable?

[cywyllog]

"Are so." She bats at his hand ineffectually and then decides to give him a good dose of his own medicine.

The tickle wars are upon them.

[cadcamlan]

It hadn't been his conscious intention. It absolutely makes his smile perk back up toward something genuine, his laughter turn into its usual pleased bark as he squirmed to retaliate without exposing too much of his neck. "So're-- you, apparently--"

[cywyllog]

Cywyllog attempts to looked shocked and offended. It isn't working so well.

"I most certainly am not! I am a lady."