What Would Rhys Cadwallader Do? (cymru) wrote in disorderic, @ 2018-01-18 12:39:00 |
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Entry tags: | rhys cadwallader |
WHO: Rhys & Dafydd (NPC’d by Jill!) Cadwallader.
WHAT: Finding some optimism.
WHEN: This afternoon, Thursday, January 18th.
WHERE: Cadwallader & Sons Musical Instruments & Instruction, Caerphilly.
WARNINGS: Music nerdery.
During a lull in practice, Rhys took a break from practicing dull wedding standards to turn to his brother and grin. “I’ve been, uh, I’ve been composing again. Can I get your thoughts on something?” he asked, knowing Dafydd always had many thoughts to express on any and everything related to musical composition. The bow came down suddenly, Dafydd’s grip on the violin loosening as he stared at his brother. “That. Is. Tremendous,” he beamed, somehow still instilling a comical intensity to the words. It was serious, Rhys hadn’t so much as drawn a treble clef (to Dafydd’s knowledge) since his spinal cord had been damaged. And now he was finally away from the DMLE, living a safe, unassuming life. This was a sign. “I will absolutely give you my honest feedback,” he quickly set aside the violin. “I’m sure it’s rubbish.” Dafydd's enthusiasm was heartening, and Rhys flashed him a genuine smile. It was nice to see him happy; he hadn't been his usual, boisterously pompous self since Gruffyd and his mother had left. Rhys didn't have the heart to tell him that his own life wasn't as uneventful as it seemed. “It's a tremendous pile of rubbish, I'm sure,” Rhys said cheerily, though he was confident that it was not. He was self-conscious about a lot of things, but musically, he was fairly sure that he could identify rubbish when he heard it. “Thanks in advance for indulging me,” he said, then began to play. It was a lilting, buoyant little piece, hopeful with a hint of bittersweetness. Rhys’ fingers were quick and light as they deftly fluttered over the keys; though he hadn’t played as consistently during his years at the DMLE, he hadn’t lost any of his carefully-honed skill. He’d spent a great deal of his free time at the B&B perfecting this composition, and it was likely clear that he’d put a lot of thought into it. He finished with a flourish before turning again to his brother. Rhys bit his lip, then hesitantly asked, “On a scale of rubbish to utter shit, how was that?” “Your B Major chord was sloppy at the end,” Dafydd said, blinking away any hint of moisture from his eyes. He was, above all things, including a proud and emotional brother, a music teacher. “It was beautiful.” He sniffed. Rhys beamed. “Well, I have a great coach,” he said, affectionate. He paused again before adding, “Do you think Nora will like it?” To this, Dafydd heaved a long sigh. “Rhys, has there ever been anything you’ve given Nora that she hasn’t liked? You’ve written her a composition. There is no greater gift or higher standard for romance. Ever.” He was firm on this. “Well, love is the greatest inspiration,” Rhys said, without a hint of irony. “I just don’t feel as though I ever have the words, you know? Music comes a bit closer to adequately expressing it maybe, I don’t know.” Realising that perhaps he was straying closer to sentimentality than he would have liked, he cleared his throat, then changed the subject. “What about you? Are you working on anything?” Rhys asked. Listening, Dafydd had nodded sagely, music was the greater of the languages. When the conversation turned towards him though, he grew uncomfortable, obsessively checking the strings on his violin. “I tried,” he admitted after a moment of hesitation. “I haven’t had the same inspiration.” Rhys’ expression softened. “How did Christmas go? You haven't talked about it much,” he ventured gently, unsure of how to approach the subject. “How uh, how was she?” “She was…” he stopped fiddling with the strings, “fine. Good. Perfect,” came out softly, despairingly. “Sometimes I would forget, it would be the three of us again, you know? And it felt good Rhys, it felt right. I couldn’t honestly find an excuse for why I didn’t just go with them.” He cleared his throat, wistfulness falling flat. “She’s seeing someone.” Rhys’ stomach sunk, all of his previous hope knocked out of him with those words. “Oh. Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t know,” he said quietly, feeling embarrassed for having caused his brother pain. He fell silent for a moment, unsure of how—or whether he should—continue. Finally, he cleared his throat and glanced down at his hands, lacing his fingers nervously. “Do you want to talk about it?” Rhys asked gently. Dafydd shook his head and sighed, already resigned to it. “There isn’t anything to say. She’s doing her best to move on and I need to respect that. I want her to be happy,” he said, “even if it’s without me.” It was what he’d feared, what he’d admitted to Rhys. “They’ve a life without me, and it’s a safer one.” As much as it stung, Rhys knew that had their situations been reversed, he would have said the exact same thing. “I’m sorry,” was all he could manage. He couldn’t imagine what it would feel like to lose the one he loved most, and he didn’t want to. He lifted his arms and beckoned for Dafydd to come to him for a comforting hug. “Hey, come here. Someday, this’ll all be over, alright? And you’ll still be great, and you’ll have a great life. It’ll be okay, Davey.” Dafydd only hesitated enough to safely move his violin out of the way. He wrapped his arms tightly around his brother, resisting the burning sensation behind his eyes. “Ya,” he sighed, clearing his throat. “I’m doing my best to believe that.” It couldn’t possibly go on for longer, this death eater occupation, but Dafydd was already making whatever number of lettered plans he needed to. Unassuming, harmless music teacher and shop owner was a pretty good one. “We’re doing our best aren’t we, I mean look at you, composing again,” he smiled, certain that things would get back to some semblance of normal. “Free from the dangers of the DMLE.” Rhys returned the smile, though inwardly, he felt guilty for betraying Dafydd’s trust; he didn’t tell him about the poor souls he and Nora were sheltering, or the Death Eater that had stayed at the inn in order to torment him. Dafydd had enough to worry about without worrying about his younger brother, too; Rhys had already caused him more than his fair share of worrying over the past year. “We’re doing our best, and I think we’re doing pretty well, considering,” he said optimistically, giving Dafydd a reassuring pat on the back before letting him go. “The Ministry was shit, anyway. I don’t know if I ever would have gone there in the first place if I’d known this was how it would have ended up. But you know what they say, ‘Adfyd a ddwg wybodaeth, a gwybodaeth ddoethineb’. We’ll move forward. They haven’t seen our best yet.” Dafydd frowned a little to hear the Welsh phrase: Adversity brings knowledge and knowledge wisdom. It wasn’t that he didn’t agree with the sentiment, he just wished it wasn’t true. Rhys had gone through his fair share of adversity during this war, and wisdom or not, Dafydd would have him the most obtuse fool in Wales if it meant he hadn’t suffered. He cleared his throat though, a teasing smile tugging at his mouth as he took his seat again. “I don’t know about them, but I certainly haven’t seen your best. Composition aside,” he amended, and then raised his brow, “I don’t know what that was supposed to be before. Wagner? You sound like a drunk Chopin.” He snapped his fingers and grinned enthusiastically. “I know, let’s try it on fiddle and banjo.” He leapt up to retrieve both instruments. Rhys was grateful for the change of subject. He gave Dafydd a playful frown. “Whoa whoa whoa, let's not get ridiculous now. What are we—Americans?” Dafydd looked perplexed. “It’s important to expand your repertoire musically, Rhys. Do you want to musically atrophy? Who knows what musical horizons we’ll discover by playing Wagner on the banjo.” He smirked then and strummed the banjo hard. “Adversity brings knowledge.” Rhys rolled his eyes, but accepted the fiddle anyway. “Adversity, maybe, but this is just suffering.” he teased, bringing the instrument up to tuck the instrument between his chin and shoulder nonetheless. “I’m an innkeeper, not a farmer.” He cracked a grin as he raised his bow, then jokingly played a jaunty little tidbit of ‘Turkey in the Straw’. “You look like one,” Dafydd fired back, and the shop suddenly erupted with the energetic sounds of what was definitely not a little Welsh country ditty. It was the lightest the brothers had felt in some time. |