There were a lot of candles on the top of the walls, having a gap that was about 3 metres or nearly 10 feet.
He murmured the path over and over whilst going there. He unconsciously went there, fully seeing a door filled with sculptures of Ddraig Goch. Next to the door was a heraldic flag of the house.
He opened the door, hearing "—ot about you, you child. Don't be selfish, understand that you have to do this for our kingdom."
"THAT'S ALL YOU THINK ABOUT! YO—YOU JUST WED ME OFF TO ANOTHER PRINCESS WITHOUT ME KNOWING! WHAT— WHAT DO YOU THINK I'LL SAY OTHER THAN NO?! I DON'T WANT THIS! I DON'T WANT THIS AT ALL! I TRY SO HARD, AND YOU—"
There was an audible thud. He opened it more to see that Pwyll was punched down, tumbling over and getting a bruise.
"We want to get their favours, we want to be their ally, and all you think about is yourself. What a troublesome brat." Llywelyn waited for the boy to stand up, but all he did was to stumble backwards.
Llywelyn huffs. "If you're only going to bark, then leave and think about what you said."
He quickly stood up, dashing to the door. He was blocked by Chrysostomos. He was in shock, but he winced after, quietly saying "Get away," as he pushed him. Chrysostomos stared at the boy's frame, hand holding on his bandaged wound.
Chrysostomos did as told, getting inside immediately. The princeps was startled, unsheathing his blade as he saw the bloodied clothes of the musician. "I'm certain that you wouldn't wish an expensive bard to die, would you, Lord Llywelyn?"
"Ah, it's you." He took the blade and covered it back. "You heard the discussion I had with him. What will you do, are you going to lecture me?"
"You're old enough to have a lecture, find it out on your own." He waved that discussion off, saying after "No, but I do need one of your finest sculptors."
"Sculptors? What do you need them for?"
"You see," He pulled his tunic, showing the pus and blood. "Prince Pwyll hunted a wren and I've skinned it to preserve its form."
"If you've the skin, why do you want a sculpture?"
"It's for show. Display of power that your son killed a wren and took it home as prize, with it being a realistic looking thing than just a pelt that anyone would sell off."
Silence came and went, the wind blowing delicately. "What are you going to make?"
"Not me, I'm not good at the parts after. Someone has to sew the skin, the sculptor has to make the base of it and I've been doing the rest. It seemed that I took a long time, as you've already talked to your son about matters that don't matter to me."
"It's only for display?"
"The look of glory to the court as your spare hunted a wren like your heir did."
The lord stood up and took his sheathed blade. "Better be careful on that mouth of yours, bard."
"It is of truth." He sat on the dusty ground, the windows illuminating the room. "You act as if you don't treat him like one."
The metal blade glinted on Chrysostomos' neck. There were some parts of the blade that weren't well polished, making a few holes in the reflection of his face. "It would be best if you don't mention that at all."
He pricked his finger on the blade once more to be certain of its sharpness. 'It is the truth, and how I wish to say it once more as there's something that can cut my head off but alas.'
"I'll respect your wishes. But, of course, I do hope you will do as I've asked. It was he who thought of it anyway." He stood up and told him "I'll give a sum of my money to the project, but the brunt of it will be on his payment."
"If that's all, you may leave now. Unless you wish to have your tongue out." The bard gave the royalty a half-hearted grin and left. He did so, limping as his legs had rested and made him stagger.
'Now that's done, I gotta do shit for the other fucker.' He went back to his room to change his bloodied, sand-filled clothes. He wishes though, to take his cloak that wasn't here.
He went to take his instruments, cleaning it as hard as he could with his dirty clothes and went out.
He went to the back of the castle after going through the bridge. The trees may be large, even one could topple and would destroy another, but there was that one. One that hovered over the rest.
He darted there, scaring away small critters that roamed to get back to their own home. "Dammit, I wish it was night already."
He heard murmurs and sobs on the distance. He shuffled through the grass until he saw the shivering ball that was Pwyll. And that was Chrysostomos' cue to say "I thought we didn't need this."
"Go away…"
"I told you I'd give you sweetmeats before," he started, coming closer. "But you just had to run down outside and seclude yourself here. Then again, it's Lent…"
"I said go away! Leave already!"
"I don't plan to, boy." He went to the side of the tree, chipping away the bark. "You know, I'd expect someone like you to enclose yourself in your own room."
"JUST SHUT UP AND LEAVE!" He pushed Chrysostomos although the other didn't fall or move much at all.
"It isn't professional for me to leave you in a situation like this." The bard lay down on the tree. "That doesn't mean I've to do something. If you wish to break or beat something up, vent out your anger. But that won't help you now, would it?"
"SHUT UP!" He attempted to throw the man out as he said "AND I'VE TOLD YOU A LOT OF TIMES, GET OUT!".
"It's a good thing that you don't show this publicly." Chrysostomos was pounced and repeatedly punched down by Pwyll. His wounded arm was restrained, but the rage pushed through for power.
The assault never stopped, it slowed down. Time ticked as the man was bruised up, nose bleeding red yet clear liquid.
He felt every punch go softer and softer, so he held the hand of the prince. Pwyll gasped for air, lips mouthing an incoherent apologising and phrases of "I can't", "I'm sorry", and "F—father… why, father…"
"Shhh, shh. I know it's tough. Your father is forcing you to do something you don't want. You're going to bear with it, and I loathe that such a child like you is forced to do so."
He pushed Pwyll away from his chest, him still looking down as he knelt. "Politics is a horrendous thing, and your father tries his best so that his home will not fall."
The bard patted his hair. "It's fine if you're angry, especially when you feel like you've been brushed off for something more important," he said.
He only assumed, he didn't know if what he said was right, but he knelt and continued on as he didn't hear the boy reply. He probably tuned Chrysostomos off of his head.
"By God's hand, I know how that felt, being discarded for a larger plan for me instead of them looking at me, my accomplishments, only thinking about my forthcomings instead, for their gain.
"However, don't make it come to violence again. I would not shame you if you cannot, although there's no guarantee that I'd be with you as your squire if you do so. Now go, dinner will pass if you stay."
Chrysostomos held Pwyll's face, wiping away his tears. The ward gave him a smile, which was responded with a small sniffle.
The tranquil mood passed on, the bard swiping away the stray hairs on the prince's face. Chrysostomos glanced at the eyes of the kneeling, sullen boy.
He was holding the hand of Pwyll to raise him up. The prince ran to God knows where, ashamed with tears smeared across his face. The bard sighed. He only wished that he came back safely, he didn't want to get stressed about it.
He touched his face, feeling the still-wet face of his and smearing that mixture of sweat and blood. It mended itself, the bruises now gone and only the dried stains remain. "Why does it always come to this." He was mainly talking to himself, not thinking about the boy anymore.
Rather than walking back, he roamed and breathed the outside world until the whole twilight afterwards came and went. He didn't even realise he wasted his afternoon. At the castle, the boy was there for dinner, but he hid his face. His brother and father were there.
It felt awkward, shaming and terrifying. Pwyll would've been fine with the boredom instead, especially with the calming tones of the harp, now empty, but he felt suffocated. His bruise was showing, but he couldn't tend to it, so he touched it.
With utter regret, he missed the strumming of the bard. A passing mention of his hunt came, but it was as if it meant nothing.
Chrysostomos, debating whether to walk to the castle or stay, mumbled to himself. He knows that his ward's emotions are in distress. Chrysostomos needed to calm down before he made another half-arsed attempt of emotional help. So, he came back to the sea.
"What to draw, what to draw…" He didn't hear the rustling on the grass near the beach. He wasn't that far and it wasn't quite loud.
Chrysostomos put up the ends of his trousers to his knees and his sleeves to his elbows. He knelt and thought. Thought about serpents and dragons, either of benevolence or of danger. So, he made something else.
Before he could even start, there was something small that was flying to his eye. It was something similar to a splinter. He took the hit, feeling it stuck on his cheek. "If you're gonna kill me, aim better." Chrysostomos took it and put it in his artery.
"I was trying, alright?!" There came out a small person, their height going from Chrysostomos' feet to his knees. "Also, you're looking at the side, not at the front at all!"
"What can I say? I like to look for a perfect place to draw each part of what the hell I want."
"By the way, I've heard your conversation with that little one."
Rolling his eyes, the bard said "Don't say that when you know you're the smaller one."
"Not the point, ya dumbass." The small person tugged on his trousers. They were raised to the shoulder of the man. "By the way, why do you like getting hit? It's not fun for me anymore."
"Make a large trap with your friends, make me scream as I fall in a pit." He shrugs, continuing with "Whatever you want, really. Have fun with my body, just don't… Kill this body? Kill me? I still don't know what wording I should use for that."
"I don't think I can even do that at all!"
"On your own, yeah."
"You're insufferable."
Chrysostomos nodded. "I know, Celyn. I know." The little guy pulled out their own hair.
They screamed, shocking the man. "You know what, let's make a deal."
"Oh?"
The fey proposed "I help you with your crappy art and you reconcile with the boy."
"Hah!" Huffing, he told him "No. You don't get to tell me what I do. I don't want to be that guy."
Tilting their head, Celyn said "Why though?"
"I just don't want to let someone tell me what I should do. It's horrendous."
"No, no. Not that one." Raising his brow, he looked at the tiny creature. "You know, the boy, you two fighting—"
"Beating me up." He corrected, making them parrot what he said. He replied "It's better for me to not do anything. Let the boy learn for himself, I'm only one person anyways and he can be influenced by the rest."
"Oh gods almighty… Can you, even for a moment, try not to do that?"
"Nope. Not even once. Other than a song I wrote before, I'd really not know what to do. A kid's a kid, they're smart enough to get over their own problems."
Baffled, they ask "You're not going to do anything?"
"… You know what, I'll just see if he's still awake and sing to him. I want someone to at least listen to the story of Ddraig Goch in my own style. But you have to do most of my work since I'm gonna stay there for a while anyways."
Celyn turned quickly, saying "WHAT?!"
Chrysostomos laughs, saying "What?" as well.
The fey shook his head. "No! Absolutely not, I don't agree."
"Then I'll just do it tomorrow afternoon."
"Oh come on! You could do it right now!"
Chrysostomos shook a stick nearby and mentioned the sand with his hand. Rubbing his face, the fairy said "By the gods no. I don't even know what I'm going to do if you left me with that problem." Chrysostomos clapped his hands and rubbed them together. "The child won't forget shit but it's best to leave him alone, ya know?"
"Yeah, yeah." Celyn stretched their back, saying "What was the song you were going to sing anyways?"
The man sat, taking the instrument mostly forgotten to his own chest. "Ddraig Goch and the Britons is what I call this piece."
"Sounds boring."
"I know, I know. It's still a work-in-progress unless I'm lazy to change it." Chrysostomos' fingers touched the strings of the lyre. He paused though, looking at Celyn. "When'd you think my hurdy-gurdy will be delivered?"
"Don't you like the crwth?" Celyn asks.
Chrysostomos tilts his head. "Ehhh… I mean, yeah. But I'd rather have a little bit of hand movements that let my fingers jive and move around than just bowing an instrument. Been a while since I've used a portative organ or something similar anyways."
"What in god's grace are you— you know what, just shut your mouth and play." Chrysostomos chuckles. He said "Yessir, will do." He opened his mouth first, a tune not accompanying him.
"I brought an old tale for you
The familiar, red dragon of Cymry
He who met the white dragon and battled
The beast of which that had our homes rattled
Alongside the battle-hardened Anglo-Saxons
And we, who wish to protect as we see their harsh actions
Their cries, oh, their cries
Loud and booming as many plants come and die…"
Faint music comes to fade away, the night sky brightened by the sultry moon. The wake of nocturnal creatures can be heard, and yet all the rest snore unto the endless, starry black.