He screamed. His heart raced and each beat rose to a critical amount. He took his breath, attempting to stabilise it. He went to close his eyes. He put his blanket on his chest as he heaved. He felt the wetness of his cheeks.

Upon the moon-touched morning, he waited. To calm down, to sleep once more. Whichever one came first. The boy, however, heard a knock upon his door. “Prince Pwyll? Are you there or are you dead?”

He didn’t know what to do. Or more likely, he didn’t know what to say. So, he did nothing. He heard the squeaking of the door. 

The windows were still closed, the block of wood locking them not moved at all. Chrysostomos whistles.

“Either the criminal’s very smart…” He started before he pulled the blanket on the noble’s face. “Or you just had a bad dream.” The boy had furrowed brows, forcing himself to sleep. Chrysostomos sighs, sitting at the edge of the bed. “If you want to sleep, I could sing you a lullaby.”

“I’m not that young.”

“I thought you liked Dinogad’s Smock?”

Sitting up, Pwyll whispered “No. I don’t think… I need that.”

“Do you wish for water, then?” The boy stared at him. “Can I come with you?” Pwyll asked. Giving him the same blank look, the bard asked “Why?”

“I want to calm down. Before— before the meeting my father gave me with…” 

Closing his eyes with his hand, the bard said “Then you sleep.”

“But I don’t want to.” he murmurs, putting away his hand.

“I’ll wake you up later. Rest your eyes. I’ll sing to you the song I didn’t sing yesterday, how about that?”

Pwyll pouts as he said “If you make it good, I’ll do as you say.” The man laughs. “Will do, your highness. Will do. Sadly, I only have a crwth like yesterday.”

“Just start already, you bastard!” Pwyll silently screamed, not wanting to wake anyone else. Nodding, Chrysostomos started with these familiar lines:

“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”

He continued on, gently weaving his tale once more. Rather than the deadpan tone he gave the small creature, he went with zeal.

“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

Ferocious as the dragons may be

They had ravaged this land as you can see

The conquerors of Cymry fought with savagery

Their faces filled with utter glee”

A longing tone came to his voice as he sang thusly

“But, for us to be free

We’ve to beg to the dragon and plea”

Gradually, it became stronger, booming, yet still silent enough to not cause any unnecessary noise. Then again, the crwth’s droning and strings were loud enough to wake a few close by.

“The dragon, of wit and grace

Rose to the skies and face

He of the foreigner’s beast

And none of their cries had but ceased

Their claws have been released

And both breathed fires as much as they pleased

The battle of the people of Cymru and Angles

Have all seemingly turned

To the side of the native and tangled

To get what they have yearned

The dragons up above

Who all but push and shove

Slashed and gnawed the hide of the other

And let their flames come to smother

As a final strike, the red dragon had pierced

The teeth of his came to the neck

Of the white dragon, once called fierce

That now was all but a wreck

The white serpent’s neck was gone

And now the battle has been won

The war was lost for the barbarians

They fled back to their home again

They cheered as the bloodshed was done

And the upcoming, rising sun”

The bowing had ceased to be, a soft hum complementing the silence. 

“‘Twas but incandescent

Nobles and peasants feeling pleasant

After the battle, the dragon has slept quite deep

If Cymry is in need once more, the dragon will wake and leap”

Similar to how he started it, he became more quiet and soothing. After a bit more of the humming, then thereafter, he stopped.

Pwyll’s eyes were glimmering with great interest. “When was this made?”

“If you meant the song, just recently. If you meant the story, it’s uh… mid 600s or so. Lovely piece, symbolising the battle of both the Brythonic people and their enemies.” He tapped on the prince's nose, saying to him “And now, your kingdom is experiencing the same thing, dear prince.”

“Ah.”

“Indeed. Now, you sleep. Today’s going to be horrendous, and it isn’t the princess talk you had before.” 

With a horrified look, he said “If it’s mathematics, I’m going away immediately.”

“Armament class. And I’m going to beat you a lot.” His ward touched his bruise, Pwyll hissing in pain as Chrysostomos murmurs in a foreign language he heard him speak, yet unable to understand it.

“Oh, come on. Play fair, Chrysostomos. I’m wounded.” 

Tapping his chin, the bard said “Perhaps. If, and only if, however, you answer what I asked yesterday. And if you yourself could clean that wound yourself, I taught you how.”

“I… no.” The boy shuffled. “I don’t want to.” Humming, he closed the eyes of the boy once more. 

“Then sleep. Maybe your bruise will magically disappear.” Grumbling, Pwyll forced himself to do so. Releasing his hand, Chrysostomos uttered “Goodnight, sweet prince.”

It took him a while before he went back to the void, engulfing him.

The windows opened. The morning breeze caressed his cheeks. He woke up, groggy as the servant there greeted him. He ran his hand over his face, tired. The strand of dry tears he could feel was his wakeup call.

He went to the bathroom, washing his face on the basin. Going back to his room, he asked the servant there “When will the princess come?”

“In about a week, your highness.” Groaning, he went to dine alone. His family’s either not yet awake, or are already busy.

“What time is it?” he asked, exhausted and eyes droopy.

“The sun has started to rise, your highness. It’s still early.” He leaned over to the table, glancing at the clay plate of fruits. 

“Will you have a meal for today?” The servant questioned him. Pwyll shook his head. “Are you sure that you would be alright?” The child hummed, hand on his cheek.

“Yeah, sure. It's been like that for weeks anyways. Other than that preserving thing, of course." The rest of his early morn was simple. Nothing much but a bore. He went outside, going to the barracks. He heard a tune similar to the lute yet it felt off.

꧁༺ “𝓙𝓾𝓼𝓽 𝓯𝓸𝓻 𝓪 𝓶𝓸𝓶𝓮𝓷𝓽, 𝓘 𝓼𝓽𝓸𝓸𝓭 𝓽𝓱𝓮𝓻𝓮 𝓲𝓷 𝓼𝓲𝓵𝓮𝓷𝓬𝓮

𝓢𝓱𝓸𝓬𝓴𝓮𝓭 𝓫𝔂 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓯𝓸𝓾𝓵, 𝓮𝓿𝓲𝓵 𝓭𝓮𝓮𝓭 𝓘 𝓱𝓪𝓭 𝓭𝓸𝓷𝓮

𝓜𝓪𝓷𝔂 𝓽𝓱𝓸𝓾𝓰𝓱𝓽𝓼 𝓻𝓪𝓬𝓮𝓭 𝓽𝓱𝓻𝓸𝓾𝓰𝓱 𝓶𝔂 𝓶𝓲𝓷𝓭 𝓪𝓼 𝓘 𝓼𝓽𝓸𝓸𝓭 𝓽𝓱𝓮𝓻𝓮

𝓘 𝓱𝓪𝓭 𝓫𝓾𝓽 𝓸𝓷𝓮 𝓬𝓱𝓪𝓷𝓬𝓮, 𝓪𝓷𝓭 𝓽𝓱𝓪𝓽 𝔀𝓪𝓼 𝓽𝓸 𝓻𝓾𝓷” ༻꧂

Chrysostomos continued on, singing the song like the original. He didn’t even change the lyrics. It was as if he’s speaking in tongues, though. “What the fuck is he singing?” one of the soldiers asked.

“About someone in the western town on the very far west. In fact, the maps have not yet compensated for that, since it’s the so-called ‘new world’. HOWEVER! Your descendants will see the new world, nonetheless.”

“Alright then…”

“Look, just give us a ballad, or a folk song not what the hell kind of shit you just put us through.”

With a raised brow, he asked them “You didn’t like it?”

“Not the mood we want, ya know?”

He scratched his chin. “Well… I’ll just sing with a powerful voice then.” He took upon him the crwth he had always with him. Raising the bow, he played away.

“Who in the hell would get in the way

Of the Princeps Walliae!

He who spat on his greatest foe

The Briton’s Goliath, he went toe to toe”

He paused for a bit, glancing at the boy that entered the barracks. He smiled at him softly as he continued on.

“With his men, here comes Owain!

Many arrows, they shot with no strain

And with him, his son who nearly slain

The King of the Ænglish, caught in a trap

Nay, the king was nearly wrapped!

All the English have left after the battle are their shitty scraps!”

He came back with the zeal he had in the morning. His volume arisen that whoever was outside the buildings heard him. The soldiers’ cheer came aloud for such an event that Chrysostomos was singing.

“He had the makings of great Arthur

Great hatred did the Ænglish harbour

Insurmountable victories for the great Owain

And although he lost land, which is a great pain

At least he wasn’t the one that was caught in the rain!”

Those who knew of what happened, be it from their fathers or their own personal experience of being in there laughed at the last line, alongside the grand bard himself. Composing himself, he went to finish it with one last verse.

“Owain Gwynedd, that be his name

The one who gave a mightier kingdom shame

Proclaimed himself the ruler of all of Wales

His dominating hand and reddened sword held a trail

Defiance and shitting on the Ænglish crown

Owain and his heirs gave Wales such renown”

He ended it, with a faint smile adorning his face. The rambunctious applause came soon after. Chrysostomos had a sheepish yet confident grin as he said to them “Sorry, but I couldn’t fully stop myself from our former Princeps Walliae. Now, I need to go. His dearest prince awaits his class.” 

Now noticing the child, they became sheepish and greeted him with a bow or a simple “Mornin’.” Some of them stared at the recent bruise and the bandaged arm Pwyll had. They didn’t comment on it, as they do not wish to step on the wrong foot.

Chrysostomos packed up, carrying all of his instruments. Which, of course, were only the guitar and the lyre he played with. “I wish to sing on stage after this, but my motivation needs to be elsewhere.”

Dragging him to the outside, Pwyll asked “What did you sing before? Since I don’t think I understood you one bit.”

“An English song that’s literally from the far west.”

“ENGLISH?!”

"Not the English people, boy. The language isn’t even the same from now and what I sang in.”

“Oh.”

Stretching, the ward told the boy “Now, if you don’t want to be beaten to your death bed, you have to do what I tell you.”

“WHAT?! I THOUGHT I ONLY HAD TO—” That same hand that covered his eyes now covered his mouth. 

“Change of plans.” Pulling away the hand, Chrysostomos clapped and said “ First, I want my cloak back. Next, I want you to answer my questions. And finally—” He put the boy in his front, pushing him to the open field. “Take care of your non-dominant hand.”

Even though he heard the rest, the first was the one that made him nervous. “Uhhh…”

“What’s the problem?”

“I… don’t remember where I put it.” With opened eyes, he came near the boy and said “That was about a hundred pounds of gold, Pwyll. The cloak isn’t cheap.”

And the boy thought to himself ‘Oh God, oh God, what do I do?’