cadcamlan | it's a melody; it's a battle cry | childhood

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.

Threaded | Flat

The hunt for seashells has already begun.

Eyslk and Siwan are aways down the shore together, their occasional laughter floating back toward the rocks and their other sister. Cywyllog is crouched down searching the sand intently, her face serious as her hands sift through tiny pebbles.

It's clear they've been here for a while already: the hems of their skirts wet and dirty, shoes tossed to the side and their hair no longer in the tight, neat braids they started out in.

The sounds of steps attracts Cywyllog's attention, though, and she greets the newcomer with a bright smile. "We thought you weren't going to come!"

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