"You're It!"
He nearly dropped his pen in surprise, turning an eye quickly to the small child who stood before him. Seeing who it was, he put on an annoyed expression and continuing his scripture.
"I've no time for this."
"But-- but-- I can't catch anyone, they're all too fast..."
He looked up, briefly, from where he was writing, and, his trained hand not stopping in its writing, said steadily, "I do not wish to participate. Understand?" The child gave him a pitiful look, and had it been Mist in his place, he was certain that the soft girl would forget her duties and go run with the children. But then, Mist was nearly a child to him. He turned his eyes back to his writing, where his hand had produced a neat line of script and continued. He glanced back up to find the child still there and, annoyed, sighed and straightened himself against the tree. "If you can't run fast enough, outsmart them."
The child tilted his head and sat down, as if he were intent on learning. He cursed Griel for putting him in charge of the villagers' children. Wouldn't it be easier for them all if they just dumped the brats into their fortress? It was quite certain that they would not lose hold of it, as their mission was quite far from their base. But he was there, with a sniveling child in front of him, doubled over in angst at his failure to succeed in tag.
Not believing that he had yielded even this length, he buried himself in the pad again. There was the longest silence, a subconscious contest. The child relented and whined, "Tell me, tell me!"
He pointed with his pen to the clearing and said, bluntly, "They've started without you. Does it matter?"
"I know they'll tag me again." The child sniffled, self-piteously, and the writer noted that he was increasingly agitated at this aspect.
"Then don't. Play."
The child looked at him dismally, projecting an innocent "meanie" in his face, then walked away, rolling in the clover in utter boredom, picking at its three leaves and tossing them back into the grass.
He gave a disgusted sigh and turned back to his writing. He had barely spanned a page when he was aware of vocal protests from the clearing.
"But I'm not playing!"
"You don't have a choice, if you're here, you're in the game!"
"Says who?"
"ME!" At this moment, the larger child pressed his intimidating figure into the smaller's face, and the smaller backed away instinctively.
"Well then..." the smaller child paused, then darted forth, pushed against that figure, and screamed, "YOU'RE IT!" running off while the larger stumbled.
Underneath the tree, he pressed the end of his pen to his lips, a sigh parting from between them. He then continued to write, without his eyes leaving the clearing. Though it was but a childish game, the childish part of him still wished that he could discard the name of It so easily.