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Halt didn't get much free time. He didn't get any, mostly. What his father described as 'free time' still had rules, or, well, encouragements, let's say. He was encouraged to train or to learn, one or the other. He didn't have to, not really, no one was forcing him. There was no physical punishment. Shall he abandon these encouragements, however, he'd receive cold looks, words of reprimanding. Not from his mother. Never from his mother. He didn't see her much anymore, anyway. But his father was enough; he walked past with a frown and Halt would know that he'd misbehaved. There was a very thin line between misdoing and just wanting a moment to rest and to think about nothing at all. Not strategy, not swordplay. To make up a game, to get his clothes all dirty, to fall asleep outside on the grass and to wake up when the sun's already being swallowed by the darkness of the night's sky.
Sometimes he'd be angry he couldn't do that. Sometimes he'd be angry that Ferris could. And sometimes he'd be content. He was the heir, after all.
Halt was oddly down, now. It was his 'free time' - and he'd decided maybe if he tried to pretend to be practising outside, he'd slip through some kind of loophole and his father wouldn't notice how lazily he was dragging his limbs. If he were fighting against an actual opponent, he would've been on the ground many times over already.
He couldn't tell why he was tired. Maybe he hadn't slept. Maybe study fatigue was getting to him. Many excuses, none of them acceptable.
"Do you count your bruises?"
A curious voice came from the side of the fence that had squished the training area within. Halt threw his sword down, weary and more or less glad about the distraction. He knew the voice well, and he knew the bearer of it. It was one of the very few who brought him genuine interest.
Caitlyn sat on the very top of the fence, looking down on him with eyes so wide only an eight-year-old could manage. Halt squinted at her, trying to blink past the sunlight. She didn't so much as flinch at his upset expression. Only smiled.
She was good at it, as much as someone could be good at smiling. Halt couldn't ever force himself to do it, and she had a big grin on her face at all times.
What a child.
"So?" She asked again, and Halt figured she'd given him a question he hadn't heard.
He made for the fence and opened his arms, reaching for her, waiting. "What?"
She leaped down for him to catch. Seeing her jump was like watching a bird fly, skirts in waves, fingers splayed as if she could stop her fall at any time. Halt lowered her to the ground gently, despite his frustration at his own day, and she immediately hopped to his sword, picking it up and swishing it around carelessly.
"Your bruises," Caitlyn sang, spinning in place. Halt had learned a long time ago that she knows what's safe for her and what's not. Forcing her to do only what he thought wouldn't harm her would only make her blue, and, as much as Halt wanted to share his annoyance with someone else, he didn't want it to be her. "On your hands and legs and face. Do you count them?"
"My-" His eyes darted down, a dead giveaway. His knees were the worst, black and blue from falling and kneeling and climbing. "No, I don't." It was probably another of her games she made up to fend off boredom. Caitlyn had a good head and intended to use it.
"I do." She stopped on her heel and leaned on the handle, pressing the blade into the soft ground. The illusion of strength made her giggle, then turn and look at Halt with one finger pressed up to her lips as if she was about to tell him a secret. "I count them every morning and every evening."
If only Halt had that much time...
Well, he didn't really know what he'd do. She probably had fewer bruises than him anyway.
"And?" He sat on the lower slat of the fence, closing his eyes and allowing himself a moment of the rest he oh-so-desired and that his sister had provided just now.
They had a strange relationship, him and Caitlyn. It was wildly different from the one he had with Ferris. Brothers and sisters would pull each other by the hair, snarl and intentionally bump into each other when passing, and he probably had gotten into enough matches with Ferris for both of them to most likely be completely out of hair that could be pulled by thirty. Caitlyn wasn't Ferris, however.
"I found seven." She sounded sheepish, as if she was secretly proud of the amount. "This morning, that is."
Halt tore his eyes open to find her hands planted firmly on her sides, awaiting his judgement.
"Seven?" He echoed, feigning surprise, and Caitlyn beamed.
"Uh-huh! Counting those!" She tapped her finger just above her lips. "I don't know exactly when they appeared, but it looks like someone pricked me with a spike."
Halt couldn't keep himself from snorting out loud.
"Those are moles," he corrected, but Caitlyn only shrugged.
"They weren't there before and they hurt," she said simply. "They're bruises."
Halt, promptly and rightfully deciding that this wasn't up to him, bowed his head in acceptance. Caitlyn, seemingly content with his response, left the sword in the dirt and searched around the training grounds for more weapons she could touch.
He was fine with keeping it a secret- although a princess technically wasn't allowed to run around in the mud with all her skirts dragging behind her, but, the way Halt saw it, she was first his little sister and a kid and then royalty.
Eventually Caitlyn pulled out his bow and tried to shoot it- emphasis on tried, here. After a few times when an unfortunate arrow was dropped by her feet, she gave up and plucked it out of the dirt, resorting to throwing it around. A few quiet minutes were like heaven for Halt, pleasantly interrupted only by the occasional shouting from his sister to watch this and watch that.
He closed his eyes for a few more seconds after they grew strained from the sunlight, and when he blinked through, Caitlyn had made a seat for herself on the ground right in front of him, staring him down with the same curiosity written on her face as before.
"Are you tired?"
He shook his head no, but she only inched a bit closer.
"Why have you been yawning then?"
He hadn't noticed. And so he had nothing to say to that. Caitlyn was just as good a people reader as he was, unfortunately.
"When I'm tired, Mom lets me stay in my room and sleep," she said, and it sounded like a suggestion. "She sings to me too, sometimes."
Halt's throat tightened with unjustified annoyance. He wasn't envious of her most of the time, but that stupid kind of jealousy would sometimes resurface when she reminded him of the life she had. She flied as she lived, freely, and Halt felt like there was nothing like that to him.
If he were free like she was, he'd fly too. And he'd only listen to people when they would be right.
"I can't go to my room yet," he said, maybe a bit harsher than he wanted to. "I have to finish training."
Her grin didn't falter. It never did.
"Do you want to?"
Halt glanced above, away from her. It wasn't too difficult. She was quite short.
"No," he admitted. Quiet, so quiet he could barely hear himself. No, he didn't want to train anymore. No, she didn't deserve his pointless anger.
"Then we can both go." She pulled her skirts up with one hand and grabbed the fence with the other, fully intending to climb over rather than leave through the gates like anyone else. "I'm bored and you're tired. You can say you finished training early."
A ghost of a smile passed over Halt's face. "Where would I go?"
"With me," Caitlyn said, absolutely sure of her words. "You can sleep or something if you want, and I want to draw."
Halt huffed, crouching to pick up his sword and leaning it against the boards of the fence.
"Ferris won't keep a secret," he warned, watching her reach up, up, up. Caitlyn barely glanced down over her shoulder to give him a thoughtful look.
"I'll tell him that you're teaching me how to write better. I'm a rather good liar, you know."
He turned away so she wouldn't see him stifle a chuckle. His own handwriting was a mess compared to her identical and carefully arranged letters. Halt teaching her how to improve it would be like her teaching him how to use a bow.
"Are you going?"
Maybe Halt could simply kick Ferris under the table during dinner if he notices something. It'd be worth it.
"I'm going." He slid the arrows she'd discarded back into the quiver and leaped onto the fence, making his way over faster than she did and dropping down to catch her again.
They snuck past the guards in the halls and up the stairs to the towers, mostly by Caitlyn jumping on Halt's back so they could walk quietly. There was really no need, they had a (questionable) excuse, but Caitlyn adored his ability to make so little sound when moving, and he was oddly willing to entertain her, even though he could barely make it around without stumbling head-first into a corner.
Halt could teach her how to be more or less quiet someday. When they're both older.
Finally closing the door to Caitlyn's room behind him, Halt put her down. As she rushed to the table and ran her fingers over the quills she had, full of glee, he made for her bed, settling in the corner where he could see her clearly and rested his head against the board.
Caitlyn lived close to the kitchens, so her room always had a sweet smell of finished dessert of some sort. She carried some of it herself most of the time, and Halt knew her to think it was better than perfume. Maybe, to some degree, he agreed.
He closed his eyes almost involuntarily, and exhaustion picked him up at once, making him feel like the room was swaying to the sides. Like a ship. Then, after a few minutes (or ten, or twenty - he couldn't tell) came the rustling of paper and silent humming, which slowly turned into singing.
It was an old song that people sung in fairs and festivals, most people in Hibernia knew the words by heart, but Caitlyn was frankly making hers up. They didn't exactly rhyme, they didn't even make sense most of the time, it just sounded like gibberish a child would think of on the spot. Halt didn't particularly care. Caitlyn had a nice voice and a cheerful tone, and her high singing made the swaying of the room softer, somehow. Halt shifted, muttering something that made sense only to him and only in that moment, and finally gave in.
Minutes or hours passed, but Caitlyn looked up from the paper she was doodling on eventually, putting the quill down and blowing on the smudged drawing. Well, she was no painter - who even draws with ink? - but she liked it anyway. Carefully lifting it by the corners, she turned at Halt to ask for his opinion, and her voice suddenly trailed off.
Caitlyn watched her brother sleep for a moment, his knees drawn up to his chest, the whole body taken the shape of an odd ball. It was strange; he looked small, even smaller than her.
Thoughtful, she picked at the two moles above her lip and smiled.