Something wrong swirls within him when he sees that ring. His own rests, heavy and always there, hidden beneath the veil. It fits this Connla. Maybe he shouldnât- no. He definitely shouldnât feel jealous, but he does.Â
ââŚit fits ya.â And itâs obvious, the bitterness, the way the thumbing glints under his veil, where it has been looped over his shoulders because itâs too big for him, because it wasnât meant for a child, and despite everything, despite being the oldest he ever dreamed of like this, he is a child.
âIt⌠it never fit. Not⌠when I was alive, either. I had ta wear it rounâ my neck then, too. Donâ⌠think he ever saw it.â He doesnât like pulling it out, but he will here- it still doesnât fit, even as he idly slips his thumb in as he holds it. Itâs far, far too large for Connla. Even older than he was in life, the ring wonât ever fit.
It fits this Connla, though. Heâs bigger, and older, and probably a better warrior, probably doesnât even want to be anything but a warrior, a hero, and he isnât bound by the geas that proves Connla failed, failed what their father, his father wanted from him, provesthat he couldnât be good enough, so it means-
But he gets cut off, despite the way his fists are already balling up at his sides. Confusion cuts through it, and the way he wrinkles his brow looks little like Cu Chulainn- rather, despite the emotion that bleeds through, he looks more like heâs trying to imitate Scathach than anyone.
âWhaâdâya mean, like mom? Mom wasnâ ever round, she didnâ wanâ us cause we were some bratâs kid. Thatâs what Teacher said, an Teacher never lies, she just tells us that we donâ gotta know yet an to go back to practicinâ our runes.â But heâs a kid, and something in him puffs up at the idea of looking like Cu Chulainn. Looking more like Cu Chulainn than this better Connla. A bit of a grin breaks his expression, then, the anger and frustration smoothing away to something quietly smug.
Heâd try to puff up even taller, but Connla knows when to cut his losses, at times. Maybe.
âWhy donâ ya look more like me? Aife has white hair, like some weird kinda inversionâa Teacher. An why are your eyes green? Momâs eyes were more silver. Actually- ya donâ look nothinâ like either! Ya look⌠more like how they said, uh⌠whaâwas âis name⌠I- I dunno, ya look like someone else!â But the idea that their stories differ doesnât even occur to Connla, tilting his head back and forth, trying to figure out how he grows up into, well. A redhead, he guesses?
âŚmaybe itâd be worth being a redhead instead of looking more like Teacher to be tall, but stillâŚ!
      Despite the hot weight of guilt and sadness settling in his stomach, the other Connlaâs words are strange enough to jar him from his thoughts.  âWhite hair...?â That didnât describe Connlaâs mother at all. She looked so much like Connlaâs aunt, sometimes people would think that they were twins instead of only sisters.  âMom doesnât... didnât have white hair. She looks like me and Auntie,â the hair isnât the only proof, itâs written across Connlaâs face.
     Even more upsetting is the idea that his mother would abandon him entirely, even if it wasnât him him.  âShe kept us- me. Didnât want to push her burden onto Auntie,â and thatâs an odd thing to have to say out loud on its own. It was one of the undercurrents of his life, something that everybody just knew.
    ...The way this other self moves is certainly like Auntie. Connla canât help but glance down at his own hands. Is this what other people see looking at him? All these bits and pieces borrowed from more famous figures?
    â...Forget it. Itâs not important.â Itâs better not to dig too deep into this, lest he kick either of them back into the hole.  âJust... take care of yourself. Okay?â Itâs a strange, hesitating sentiment, something he isnât sure of the origin of. Not any of his business.
    âYou can go wherever you want, so have fun,â Connlaâs heart catches in his throat. Trying to hide his face, he tousles the other Connlaâs hair before quickly turning to try and leave.
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