"Neu ydwyt ti?" Or are you?
The Arglwydd's question, sharp as flawed iron, seemed to suck the remaining warmth from the small room. The mind within Cadogan – the detached, analytical observer from another millennium – registered the challenge with a cold clarity, even as the borrowed body tensed, a familiar dread coiling in its gut. This was a test, a goad, perhaps even a final dismissal cloaked in a query.
He met his father's icy gaze. It was an effort. Cadogan's instincts screamed to look away, to shrink under that heavy, disapproving stare. But the new consciousness, the one that had "drawn a line" against the squalor and despair, held firm. He could not speak the language with any fluency, could not offer a witty retort or a reasoned defense. All he had was his gaze, and he willed into it the flicker of hard resolve he'd felt kindle moments before. Let the Lord Maelog see that something had changed within this failing son.
The Arglwydd's lips thinned, a minute tightening. He seemed to hold his breath for a beat, scrutinizing Cadogan's face as if searching for a sign – of what, the traveler could not guess. Weakness? Deceit? Or perhaps some spark he'd long given up on?
"Hmph," the lord finally grunted, a sound of profound skepticism. He did not wait for a verbal reply. Perhaps he expected none. He turned his head slightly towards Morfudd, who still stood with her head bowed, almost vibrating with unease. "Dal i ofalu amdano," the Arglwydd commanded, his voice flat, devoid of any warmth. "Os bydd yn byw drwy'r tymor hwn..." He paused, then his gaze flicked back to Cadogan, cold and assessing. "...fe geir gwaith iddo."Continue to care for him. If he lives through this season… work will be found for him.
The unspoken implication hung heavy: work unsuitable, perhaps dangerous, or simply far away. A test, a burden, or a convenient way to be rid of a lingering disappointment. The "poisoned chalice" the traveler's historical knowledge might have predicted.
The Lord Maelog gave one last, lingering look at Cadogan, a look that promised nothing and threatened much, then turned on his heel. His fur-lined mantle swirled, and with a few decisive strides, he was gone, the door thudding shut behind him with the same finality as before, leaving an amplified silence in his wake.
Morfudd let out a shaky breath, her shoulders slumping. She hurried to Cadogan's side, her face etched with concern. "Cadogan bach, fy mab i," she murmured, her voice trembling slightly as she reached out to straighten his rough blanket. Little Cadogan, my son… (though he knew it was a term of endearment, not literal). "Paid â gwrando arno. Mae calon dy dad yn galed fel carreg."Pay him no mind. Your father's heart is hard as stone.
He looked at Morfudd, truly looked at her. This old woman, with her rough hands and her simple remedies, was perhaps the only ally he had in this hostile, primitive world. He felt a flicker of something akin to gratitude, an emotion his detached, analytical self rarely indulged.
"Gwaith?" he managed to rasp, focusing on the one word from the Arglwydd's pronouncements that had snagged with a sense of concrete, future dread. Work?
Morfudd's face clouded. She busied herself for a moment, avoiding his gaze, fetching the cup of water and offering it to him. "Paid â phoeni am hynny nawr," she said softly, her tone evasive. Don't worry about that now. "Cryfhau. Dyna sy'n bwysig." Get strong. That is what's important.
But he would worry. His mind, free from the immediate, oppressive presence of the Arglwydd, began to race. Lord Maelog's visit, however brief and brutal, had provided crucial data. Cadogan was clearly a disappointment, his life hanging by a thread, his value questionable. If he survived, he would not be coddled. He would be put to some "work" – likely a test designed to break him or prove him utterly useless.
The old Cadogan might have despaired. But the new mind, the one forged in a world of complex systems, relentless competition, and the study of power dynamics, saw not just a threat, but a narrow, perilous path. This "work," whatever it was, could also be an opportunity. A chance to observe, to learn, to demonstrate capabilities the Arglwydd could not imagine this "gysgod prin" – this barely a shadow – possessed.
He needed to accelerate his recovery. He needed to master this guttural, nuanced language. He needed to understand the political landscape of Caer Maelog, the nature of his father's rule, the identities of his allies and enemies. He needed to know what skills the original Cadogan possessed, if any, and what was truly expected of him.
The "defiant spark" from earlier now had a focus. It was no longer just about surviving the filth of his sickroom. It was about surviving his father. And, perhaps, one day, surpassing him. The thought was audacious, almost mad given his current state, but it lodged itself in his mind with a cold, satisfying weight.
He looked at Morfudd again. "Morfudd," he said, testing her name, pleased when it came out relatively clear. "Dysga fi." Teach me. He touched his chest. "Cadogan." Then he gestured around the room, then towards the door, a look of intense inquiry on his face. He needed words, hundreds of them, thousands. He needed the keys to this kingdom, however small and grim it currently appeared.
Morfudd looked at him, a strange expression dawning on her face – surprise, confusion, and perhaps, just perhaps, a dawning ember of hope. She hesitated, then a slow, rare smile touched her wrinkled lips. "Da iawn, Cadogan bach," she said, her voice a little stronger. Very good, little Cadogan. "Fe ddysgaf i ti." I will teach you.
The lesson, he knew, would be a harsh one, and the stakes impossibly high. But for the first time since awakening in this alien flesh, the traveler felt not just the will to survive, but the first, faint stirrings of a purpose. The forging had begun.