A/N: This is a one – shot fanfic for How Green Was My Valley by Richard Llewellyn. It is written in the style of prose that was in the book, so it might be a little hard to understand. If you need me to clarify something, just PM me and I will put it in the Author's Notes in the story.
I Know the Truth
Her father had pulled me aside after the ceremony to warn me. "That girl is…odd at times. You best be watching her, boy." Then again, he was full to his hat of sadness about his daughter leaving. I never gave it thought, really. Until that night.
Marged looked a treat in her long lace nightgown. Her dark brown hair blew a little in the breeze, and her eyes – the eyes that were the perfect shade of blue – were filled with warmth. When I went in to her, though, everything deadened. It was as her soul got up and ran out the window for fright of me.
"Owen," she said. It wasn't for the asking what she meant. I knew in my heart what she meant, and it was sickness in my soul to hear it. I had to break it to my wife gently. Surely, she knew Owen had left and might never be back to the Valley again.
I moved to sit on the little bed, and I then touched her hand. The moon and the old candle by the table there afforded me enough light to see Marged giving me a questioning look. I began, "Sweetheart mine, Owen is gone –", but I was immediately interrupted by her wailing.
I'd seen girls from school cry if they fell or some such. But those sobs were nothing beside this tragedy. It was as if she were mourning a beloved's death. Surely Owen couldn't matter much to her now. He'd trifled, sure, but that was the fault of him. He should be nothing but an irritant, a little dirt in the eye.
I moved to put an arm about her, but she pushed me away. "Don't even dream of your touch on me!" she snarled. "How could you, when Owen is my love? Owen, who loved me for five thousand years! He knew me when I was at Hebron, in jewels and gold! I may have married you, Gwilym Morgan, but with Owen is my heart." She got up from the bed and sat in the little rickety chair by the window.
So it would be this. Owen had dumped this poor, sad girl on the family and expected us to help her. But to what end? If I made her forget Owen and love Gwilym, Marged would not be Marged to me. But, if I let her be, to what reaches would the madness go?
Suddenly, Marged let out a cry of pain and put a hand to her back. Out of my care for her, I went to her and asked, "Sweetheart, can I get something for your back?" She looked up at me with such eyes as would put men twice my size into shame to think that they had caused that look.
She whispered, as one parched in midday, "Cold compress. Quickly." I ran to get a dish towel, then soaked it in the frigid river. Back to our little room and to Marged, who was lying on her side, with the robe off. I took the compress to her back, gently press as I went down her back. She still whimpered and her face was full of suffering. How many parts her back and how many parts Owen, I probably would never find out.