(no subject)
"Iesu mawr: I can't believe it." A long string of annoyed Welsh follows and it's nothing he'll ever translate for Sophie: he throws up his hands in disgust, slams his spellbook down on the workbench, pushes back his chair, and starts to pace. That's never a good sign. Even the spiders -- his constant companions at the workbench -- scurry away quickly, hiding deep in the recesses of the stone wall, protected by layers of webbing and dust.
He's not sure how much more of this he can stand. A fight for justice and equality makes sense to him; he can understand a war that hinges on ideals and lofty human needs. But a war over territory, and a needless one at that -- and one that turns into a petty and spiteful pissing contest -- is the worst of all. As engaging as it's been philosophically to watch the balance of power shift back and forth, it's time for the war to be over so everyone can get on with things.
He's tired of it, tired of the constant back-and-forth to audiences with the king, tired of standing on the front lines triplicating the army's size, tired of coming home at night exhausted. Mostly, he's tired of what it's doing to him and Sophie: this is no way to start a marriage.
He's not sure how much more of this he can stand. A fight for justice and equality makes sense to him; he can understand a war that hinges on ideals and lofty human needs. But a war over territory, and a needless one at that -- and one that turns into a petty and spiteful pissing contest -- is the worst of all. As engaging as it's been philosophically to watch the balance of power shift back and forth, it's time for the war to be over so everyone can get on with things.
He's tired of it, tired of the constant back-and-forth to audiences with the king, tired of standing on the front lines triplicating the army's size, tired of coming home at night exhausted. Mostly, he's tired of what it's doing to him and Sophie: this is no way to start a marriage.