The words froze Morgan in place, the block of salt in his hands almost cracking in half and crumbling towards the floor before he cursed and quickly plopping it down on the counter top. He stared down at Polydor in utter shock. For years, he diligently shielded them from the more brutal reality of the world. His only hope to spare them the horrors that he, himself, has witnessed and suffered heavily from. And now, in a moment of naive boosting, he could not help but feel the crushing realization that his son's innocence has been stripped. "Polydor..." He spoke, slow in and gruff with an emotion he dared not name but felt closet to fear as he sought out clarification in hopes he heard wrong. "Repeat yourself. Now."

Noticing the shift in his father's mood, Cadwal looked up. His fingers nervously picked at the onion skin while he looked between his horrified father and crooning brother. His brows furrowed in confusion, and it was but a small moment of satisfaction for Morgan that at least one of his boys had his blissful naiveté still. "Father, What's wrong? And what's this war you're harping on about brother? Don't make up such silly notions, why would we battle the Romans?"

"It's true, I heard from Olwen myself." Polydor huffed, a little slower on the uptake of his father's anger—even if he normally was the first to spark his temper. Polydor leaned further on the bench, smirking confidently as he continued. "He said his brother, Bayn, is set to march and joined the British legions today. The pay is immeasurable! So when can we join father? When can Cadwal and I have a go?"

*"Have a go?"*Morgan scoffed. A bitter, mocking laughter bubbling from his throat in disbelief that sent the cabin into silence. "You think solely of gold and glory, don't you, you foolish boy? Do you believe war is some game with a prize to win at the end?" Something in the back of his mind reminded him to tread this carefully, but the recklessness of Polydor's words slowly began to fuel his temper. This was not how he had raised them. "Never, I forbid it. That's the end of this discussion. Now, Cadwal hand me the damn onio—"

But Polydor, never one to hold his opinion scolded, jumped up from the bench with a reckless bravado that made Morgan's heart fill with unease. "Forbid? What for!? War could be good for us, father! Imagine if we be victorious, the fame, the coin? We'll be able to live a life much better than this." He argued, his hand waving dismissively at their more than humble surroundings. His lips curled into a petulant pout. "Don't you want better?"

Morgan slammed his fist into the table, and Polydor followed suit in an act of retaliation. Cadwal's eyes flicked between the both, unsure who to support as Morgan snarled back. "You'll hold your damn tongue, boy! Not a damn word more lest you wish to feel the back of my hand understand me?"

Scoffing, Polydor lips curled into a sneer too, snatching up a surprised Cadwal's wrist and dragging him to his side. "I'm a grown man, father. Do not call me boy, we don't need to be treated like bloody children any longer. We can make our own decisions. All you do is stay in the house anyways, you know nothing of—"

"If you're a grown man, go find your own damn food, you ungrateful brat! Go on, seek your blood with the wolves and bears for all I care. A no is a no!"

Cadwal tried his best to intervene. His lips gaped as he tried to keep the peace and sooth the embittered waters between the two he treasured most. Both men were beyond reason, their tempers too alike as Polydor's hand slipped up to grab his twin's arm, dragging him towards the door in his fury. "Oh, we will. Just as I'll go to war, and take Cadwal with me. You can't stop us, Father!"

With that, he wrenched the door wide open. The old, rusting hinges cry out in protest before it slam shut behind the men. Leaving Morgan alone in an agonizing silence, fists clenched upon the table.

"..Ah." The old man grunted, turning back to his salt and meat tiredly. His mind swirling old memories and bitter regrets. As each day passed and his boys grew into men—it was as if all the lessons of humility he had taught them had begun to shed from their flesh, turning into something more demanding, regal. he told himself at first, it was just their youth making them become more spirited, Polydor in particular. But each year they stood taller, spines straighter. Eyes filled a royal fire that knew they were strong, smarter—better, then all around them. A look that could only have been inherited from... Cymbeline.

Those eyes... so confidential and sure, were the very same as their true Father. And the fact was like a fiery sword to Morgan, robbing away his breath and burning away at his sanity. "Damn boys."

He tried to distract himself with the act of salting, coating the meat in the saltpeter with a heavy heart and mind. He felt guilty having robbed those boys from their golden cradles in his moment of rage so many years ago. For bringing them to his poor cottage, away from society and the life they rightfully deserved through birthright alone. Yet at the same time, every time he thinks of the castle—his anger for Cymbeline returns. "Damn the man," Morgan muttered gruffly. "Damn him for saddling my boys with his infernal stubbornness and sense of duty."

Falling back into silence, Morgan continued his task. He stashed away the spare cured meat and tossed out the unwanted pieces into the nearby woods. He took a moment to stop by the well, filling it up with enough clean water to drink and clean the dishes for the night. And although he demanded them to hunt on their own, Morgan found himself preparing three meals irregardless. He prepared a dessert too, one of sweet bread and honey. Such things were typically reserved for the grandest of celebrations or holidays. And on the rarer occasion, apologies when he could not find it in him to speak the words. His boys deserved such indulgences every day. If only he had not let his anger and pride cloud his judgment all those years ago.

Morgan was sprinkling sugar over the pastry when he heard the door finally creak open. He swallowed thickly, trying to remind himself to be more gentle now, yet even as he tried his voice came out rough. "Oh. You both done running around now, are you? That was quick."

He expected Polydor to huff back up at him. Either admit defeat or slam their capture onto the table. But he received neither. "Father," Polydor called out, nervous and unsure. "We've brought someone back with us. A noble, from the looks of it. W-what do we do?"

Turning around quickly, Morgan could only blink owlishly at the sight before him. A stranger, draped in his eldest arms half-conscious. The stranger was dressed in a plain black cloak. But he could see the fine, expensive hints of their garments underneath it. Their face soft, skin clean as if they have spent a life of luxury and ease. How did they get here?

"Put 'em down there." Morgan ordered, still stunned as Polydor hurried to lower them on the bench. Cadwal hovered closed, peering over his brother's shoulder in curiosity of the stranger. Both the men chattering concernly over {{user}} as Morgan grabbed his bowl of soup and rushed to the person's side. "Hush, boys. Don't crowd them so." He grunted before kneeling down beside where they laid. Balancing the bowl on his knee, Morgan tilted {{user}}'s head back, allowing their face to come into the light. But as he did he was shocked still from the sense of... familiarity that struck him. Something in {{user}}'s face he knew he'd seen before, was certain of it. But of where and what context eluded him.

Whatever it was, it filled him with an immeasurable amount of protectness—and frustration. Much like his sons. Much like... Morgan shook the thought from his mind.

"Eat."

He fed them spoonful after another in silence. Jaw clenched tightly as he tipped the last dribble of soup between {{user}}'s weakened lips, lonely the few large chucks of boar's meat he doubted they could chew. "Why are you here?" He finally asked. Lips curled into a gruff frown even as he wiped {{user}}'s face clean. "Speak, and quickly. What brings a noble like to my humble doorstep on this blighted day?"