Inspiration
What is this life that pulls me far away
Where is that home where we cannot reside
--Loreena McKennitt, "Caravanserai"
To readers of my earlier fics (especially of my note at the end of "Out of the Ashes"): I'm back, after all. But you always knew I would be, didn't you?
My title has a double meaning, referring not only to Prince Fflewddur's inspiration but to my own: I am immensely grateful to my forum friend CompanionWanderer for suggesting the idea for this story.
Needless to say, while offering thanks for inspiration, I must acknowledge Lloyd Alexander. The world is his, but he has inspired me—greatly!—to visit whenever possible.
Chapter One: The Queen
The leaves on the embroidery canvas mirrored the ones framed by the casement window: tawny orange, hectic red, pure bright yellow. Flashing silver like a fish leaping upstream as it glinted in and out of the fabric, a needle outlined a leaf that, unlike the others, was still deep, vibrant green. Sole among its neighbors, it had as yet refused to adopt the dress of the dying of the year.
The woman creating this renegade leaf sat stitching with two other ladies in a round, sunny room on an upper floor of the castle. The grey stone walls were hung with brilliant tapestries, presumably of their making, like the one with the autumn scene on which they were now working. The three sewed companionably at the large canvas stretched before them, in the friendly silence of those who do not need to make small talk. The woman sewing the green leaf sat closest to the window, looking out from time to time at the glories of fall.
She seemed in her early thirties, pleasant-looking rather than beautiful, the smooth hair plaited close to her head more the color of straw than of gold. And yet, while not classically lovely, she radiated a presence, a self-contained completeness of character, that was indefinably striking. Seeing her in her russet dress, a gently amused smile lurking at the corners of her mouth, one could sense that here was a person who viewed the foibles of those about her with affection and a healthy dose of humor.
Only if one looked closely could one detect in her face a faint pallor, a slight tightening of the skin around the high cheekbones. The older, gray-haired lady sitting closest to her glanced at her now and again, an anxious crease between her eyebrows. At one point the queen—for such she was—caught the older woman's eye and smiled reassuringly. The other quickly dropped her eyes to her sewing.
The third lady, who had not noticed this interchange, looked up. She was younger than the other two, only recently entered into womanhood, and her blue eyes sparkled as she broke the silence.
"Before I came up here I heard a bard's just arrived. There'll be good cheer this evening, and"—her voice dropped conspiratorially—"Dilwen in the kitchen tells me he's young and very handsome."
She giggled. The two older women smiled indulgently.
"Young Prince Fflewddur will be glad to hear there's a bard," the older woman said. She addressed the queen. "Wouldn't Your Grace say he's fond of music?"
"Yes," agreed the queen, sewing carefully at the leaf. "Every time a bard's come he's managed to sit still during all the songs. Now there's a change!" The quirk at the corner of her lips blossomed into a full-fledged smile.
"Speaking of sitting still," she added, glancing out the window and laughing, "he isn't doing so now."
The other two left their seats and came to the window too. In a corner of the greensward below, near a great tree whose remaining leaves were rich with color, a skinny boy of around eight or nine with spiky yellow hair ran in circles, slashing enthusiastically at the air with a toy sword while he held a loud, one-sided dialogue with imagined adversaries.
"Take that! And that!" the women heard. "A Fflam never surrenders!"
"He's got the right spirit," said the young woman fondly.
The queen laughed again. "That he does!"
They went back to their seats. The queen, though, continued to gaze out the window even after the others had returned to their stitching, the green leaf unfinished on the canvas before her. Her hitherto smiling face was now thoughtful, withdrawn. The older woman glanced at her again, the line of worry back on her brow. As if sensing the gaze of the other, the queen turned her eyes from the window and took up her sewing again.
And yet her face remained clouded for some time. Even after her expression regained its customary placidity, her thoughts remained far away, in some space known only to herself.
I do this so often now, the queen thought as she stitched. My mind goes back, back, back, to the beginnings of things, to how I came here and all the days since. Why is that, I wonder? Is it the way one becomes at times like this?
She sighed the smallest of sighs, as if aware her alert older companion might hear her. The woman sewed on, however, and the queen's thoughts reverted to their former channels.
It's no wonder Fflewddur enjoys it so much when a bard haps by, she thought. We haven't many visitors, after all. Most of those passing through don't intend to stay for even a little while; they're going someplace else and don't realize they've entered our kingdom until they see the castle. If they blink—here the characteristic smile crept back to her lips—they can miss even that.
Yes, when Fflewddur climbs that tree he's probably imagining all kinds of journeys he'd rather be taking, away from the handkerchief of land he'll someday inherit, a patch so small you can cross it in a day. From the top of that tree, in fact, you can probably see almost to the border. For now, though, our prince travels only inside his extraordinarily imaginative little head.
She smiled again, affection vying with amusement on her face.
Thinking of her son reminded the queen of his father, whom he greatly resembled, in mannerisms as in looks. Tall, lanky, with similarly disordered fair hair, King Godo shared with his heir a habit of sawing enthusiastically at the air when he spoke. A kindly, boyishly youthful man, Godo had a tendency to embroider the more banal realities of his life (much as I am decorating this canvas, the queen thought with a smile). When Godo spoke of his poky little kingdom in the north of Prydain, it seemed to grow grander, more golden, like everything the king described. It was not that he was a liar or a braggart; rather, he was a tale-teller, who loved regaling the few members of his court and whatever visitors ate at his table with vivid anecdotes of the glories of the House of Fflam, which after all was related to the royal House of Don, family of the High King. If Godo's stories—particularly upon frequent retellings—were enlivened by a certain coloring of imagination, one thing about Godo remained constant: his generosity. He would give the cloak off his back to any who came in need to his door, and no inhabitant of his kingdom ever starved. They were all, unsurprisingly, utterly loyal to their king, and fondly indulgent of any of his eccentricities.
I was lucky to wed such a man, the queen mused. Gwennan Daughter of Gwennant was the only daughter of the king of another small kingdom not far from Godo's. While her father was not cruel enough to force her to wed Godo, he made it clear he greatly desired the match, and at seventeen Gwennan obediently exchanged the drafty castle of one northern kingdom for that of another. Yet, happily, almost magically, the young newlyweds fell in love. Godo was entranced by his bride, whom he considered the wisest and most beautiful of women; while this was, as far as Gwennan was concerned, a prime example of his tendency to see everything as more marvelous than it actually was, she was not complaining. Godo adored her, and she—infinitely grateful to have such a considerate mate in a land where many women had worse fates—nursed for her husband an ineradicable affection, even as she smiled at his larger-than-life vision of the world.
It was well that Godo and Gwennan's relationship was strongly rooted in love, as there had been hard times along the way. For the first few years of the marriage, Gwennan had been unable to conceive. While this would have created strain in a typical royal union, in which the woman was given a role not unlike that of a brood mare, Godo showed no sign that he valued his wife any less because she had not yet given him children. Finally, Gwennan did become pregnant, and gave birth to a beautiful little girl. Again, Godo expressed not the slightest disappointment in the baby's sex, and indeed adored his daughter with as much pride as he did his wife.
And the little girl had been adorable. Remembering, Gwennan felt the tightening of her throat she always experienced when she thought of Ffion. In her mind's eye she saw her daughter's shiny blonde hair, her laughing face as she ran around the castle grounds. At three, she succumbed to a fever, leaving her parents with holes in their hearts that would never heal.
And yet, thought Gwennan, even that ache, the burden of grief I have borne for so many years, has eased lately. Well, why not, when I am coming ever closer to the time when there shall be no more pain, no more longing for those who have gone before me?
Yet now she felt heartache when she thought of Fflewddur. Fflewddur, who had come into her life and Godo's after their shattering loss, and who had been a source of great joy for his parents. Bright and good-tempered, the little boy shared his father's generosity of spirit, while also inheriting an all-too-vivid imagination. Indeed, Gwennan worried about this trait. It was common, of course, for children to spin wild tales, and to live in lands of their own making. Still, Fflewddur had a tendency to exaggerate everything, to an even greater extent than his father, who embroidered the truth but generally stuck to its basic outlines. Fflewddur never lied to get out of trouble—that was good—but he seemed to have difficulty distinguishing fantasy from reality. Still, he had a sound enough heart that his mother hoped this habit would not get out of hand.
And he did, she thought, have musical ability, unlike Godo, who couldn't hold a tune to save his life. Fflewddur, on the other hand, had been able to sing, whistle, and hum quite complicated tunes from fairly early on. True, he had a tendency to bellow his favorites at the top of his lungs, especially when he was supposed to be going to bed. Presumably he could learn subtlety later.
Of course, Gwennan asked herself, what would a king do with musical talent? Well, he could at least keep himself entertained. It might prove terribly boring for Fflewddur whenever he did become king—something Gwennan found hard to think about, for this would mean his father had died. Again, she felt a pang—Fflewddur would be so alone when that happened . . .
She sighed, this time audibly. The older woman—who had been Gwennan's nurse and remained her main attendant and friend—caught her eye, concerned. Gwennan could scarcely help sighing again. Hard times lay ahead, for her and those close to her; soon that would be only too clear.
But first, tonight, there would be music.