(no subject)
It's been one of those days: he went over the spells with Michael, and went over them again, and again and again, but there was far too much distraction on both sides, and things simply didn't work. Eventually he sent Michael off to town just to get him out of his hair. Now he's at their kitchen table going over the latest missive from the King. If he thought things were going to slow to a manageable crawl after the war ended he was sadly mistaken; there's an entire list of things to be done.
Sometimes, he yearns for the days when things were easier. When he wasn't accountable to the king at all, when he was free to menace the countryside at leisure from the comfort of his very own spider-infested castle. What he wouldn't trade is Sophie, not for a minute. He'd like that simpler, less obligation-filled life with her at his side. But just because he's a wizard doesn't mean that things happen the way he wants. He knows: he's tried to press the issue and failed in stunningly miserable ways.
At least now his heart is where it belongs, solidly in his own chest. Still, he's tired: with the parchments pushed aside, he rests his forehead on the table itself.
From the comfort of the hearth, Calcifer sings a familiar little tune.
Mae bys Mari Ann wedi gwywo,
A Dafydd y gwas ddim yn iach;
Mae'r Baban yn y crud yn crio,
A'r gath wedi scrapo Johnny bach
Sospan fach yn berwi ar y tân
Sosban fawr yn berwi ar y llawr
A'r gath wedi scrapo Johnny bach.
Dai bach yn sowldiwr,
Dai bach yn sowldiwr,
A chwt i grys e' mas.
Without so much as looking up, he waves a tired hand in Calcifer's general direction.
Sometimes, he yearns for the days when things were easier. When he wasn't accountable to the king at all, when he was free to menace the countryside at leisure from the comfort of his very own spider-infested castle. What he wouldn't trade is Sophie, not for a minute. He'd like that simpler, less obligation-filled life with her at his side. But just because he's a wizard doesn't mean that things happen the way he wants. He knows: he's tried to press the issue and failed in stunningly miserable ways.
At least now his heart is where it belongs, solidly in his own chest. Still, he's tired: with the parchments pushed aside, he rests his forehead on the table itself.
From the comfort of the hearth, Calcifer sings a familiar little tune.
Mae bys Mari Ann wedi gwywo,
A Dafydd y gwas ddim yn iach;
Mae'r Baban yn y crud yn crio,
A'r gath wedi scrapo Johnny bach
Sospan fach yn berwi ar y tân
Sosban fawr yn berwi ar y llawr
A'r gath wedi scrapo Johnny bach.
Dai bach yn sowldiwr,
Dai bach yn sowldiwr,
A chwt i grys e' mas.
Without so much as looking up, he waves a tired hand in Calcifer's general direction.