Taran, instantly provoked, lashed back at Ellidyr. "I shall warm my courage, Son of Pen-Llarcau, in whatever fire you choose!" He pulled away from Eilonwy, shaking his arm free of her grasp in agitation. "Go back, the rest of you, if that's what you want. I was a fool to listen to the thoughts of a girl!"
Eilonwy recoiled. A cry of pained outrage tore from her throat, and the turf fire suddenly roared, showering sparks toward the ceiling, singeing Gurgi's fur so that he yelped and leaped away. The hot fury that had been directed at the arrogant prince now swerved to Taran like a deflected arrow, all the sharper for its poisoned tip of betrayal. She jerked toward him blindly, intending she knew not what, but a pair of strong hands at her shoulders halted her; Fflewddur, protective as ever, held her fast. She felt him, a mix of dismay and shocked sympathy, a confusion that kept her, at the last second, from ripping away from him as Taran had from her, though she was furious at his intervention. She shook with rage, her throat tightened…Belin, she was going to cry — no, no, she would not, not in front of them all, especially after having girl flung at her like an insult. Trembling, throwing her chin up to force the tears back, she glared at Taran, who avoided her stare.
"This is not a game of courage," he said, through gritted teeth, clearly trying to regain his temper. "I would be twice a fool, and so should we all, to be goaded by an idle taunt. This much, at least, I have learned from Gwydion. But there is also this: Arawn seeks the cauldron even now. We do not dare lose the time it would take to bring help. If he finds the cauldron before we do…"
Doli was almost at his limit. He paced the earthen floor, jabbing a finger in the air for emphasis. "And if he doesn't? How do you know he knows where it is? And if he doesn't know, how long will it take him to find out? A merry while, I'll be bound, even with all his Cauldron-Born and Huntsmen and gwythaints and what-have-you! There's a risk either way, any clodpole can see that. But if you ask me, there's more risk than otherwise if you go popping off into the Marshes of Morva."
"There!" Eilonwy burst out, witheringly, "You can't accuse Doli of being a girl. So why won't you listen, Taran of Caer Dallben?" He finally turned his resentful eyes toward her, and she knew him well enough to see the shame at the back of them, the guilty acknowledgement of wounding her. But it was too late, and not enough. "You're only making excuses for some harebrained idea of your own," she spat, seeing him wince, "and you can talk all day about it, but you've forgotten one thing. You're not the one to decide anything! And neither are you, Ellidyr." She whirled to the other boy with a scowl. "Adaon commands you both, if I'm not mistaken!"
Taran looked momentarily thunderstruck, frozen in the midst of preparing to respond. He flushed again, and turned to Adaon, who stood near the fire. In all the commotion their leader had said no word of counsel, and at her attention Adaon had almost seemed to startle a little, as though drawn back to them from a far distance. He made no move as Taran bowed and apologized. "I did not intend to disobey your orders," the boy stammered. "The choice is yours, of course."
Adaon was silent for a moment, his expression unreadable; he looked at Taran, but seemed to see something else entirely. "No," he said finally, shaking his head. "This choice cannot be mine. I have said nothing for or against your plan; the decision is greater than I dare make."
Eilonwy stared at him in dismay, hopes for an authoritative resolution dashed. Wasn't it his duty to make the decision? How could he stand there and let a spat between these hotheaded boys determine their fate? What was the point of being put in command if you refused to take command when the need arose? She clenched her fists at her sides, internally churning.
Even Taran was confused. "But…why? I don't understand. Of all of us, you know best what to do."
But the young man had turned his face toward the dancing fire. Lit from beneath with the red glow of the flames, bones cutting sharp shadows over his brows and temples, he looked otherworldly and ageless, like something that belonged in a Fair Folk waypost after all; some fae prince called forth from fire and earth, speaking mysteries past comprehension. "Perhaps you will understand one day," he murmured. "For now, choose your path, Taran of Caer Dallben. Wherever it may lead, I promise you my help."
Oh…blast him, blast them all. Eilonwy, with a huff, pulled away from Fflewddur and turned her back to the company, taking a few steps from the circle until she faced the earthen wall. The warring emotions in the room beat upon her like drums, amplified her own until she thought she would scream. She wanted to beat her fists upon the walls, to crumble to the floor and cry. It was all wrong, all of it, and there was nothing she could even say - nothing anyone would listen to, apparently; no, it all rested, inconceivably, in Taran's hands, and he had made quite clear what he thought of her opinion.
His decision was no surprise. "I shall go to the Marshes of Morva," he said aloud, though without the bravado he had effected before; he sounded distressed and uncertain, and when she turned to look at him he, too, was staring into the fire, as though he hoped to find some sort of confirmation there that the choice was the right one.
Adaon spoke quietly. "So shall it be."
Silence fell, like a blanket of muffling snow. That was it, then; the decision made and fate, whatever it was, sealed, though no order had been given. Adaon had promised help, and only on his own behalf; they were, she realized, no longer his band assigned and tasked by Gwydion, but a handful of individual free wills, to join in this new scheme or not as they pleased. She glowered at Ellidyr, scowling in the corner and fingering his sword hilt, and wondered if he realized it, too.
Doli, who had stood stiff and silent while Taran delivered his verdict, drooped his shoulders with a defeated sigh. "Well, I suppose I might as well go along, too. Do what I can. But it's a mistake, I warn you."
Fflewddur, spurred to action, clapped the uneasy Taran on the shoulder. "Mistake?" he said, "by no means! I wouldn't be kept away from it!"
Whether he really felt that way or was only trying to console Taran, it nettled her; really, sometimes Fflewddur seemed the youngest and most impulsive of all of them. "I certainly won't either," she declared, frowning at him. "Someone has to make sure there are at least a few of us with good sense along." Fflewddur colored sheepishly; Taran was back to not meeting her eyes. "Marshes," she added in disgust, hating the anguished thickness of her own voice, "ugh. If you insist on making fools of yourselves, I wish you'd picked a drier way."
Gurgi, undaunted, proclaimed his eagerness, and Gwystyl, at Doli's orders, disappeared into his hallway to fetch the powder he had mentioned.
"I'll go up to see if it's safe to leave," Doli grumbled. "Now that the thing is decided we may as well be off as soon as we can. Rest while you're able, all of you. I'm going to be thorough, and it'll take some time." He took a deep breath and flickered out of sight, and little puffs of dust rose from the floor seemingly of their own accord as his invisible footfalls moved from the room.
Eilonwy slumped to the floor, her back to the earthen wall, and wrapped her arms around her up-drawn knees. Silence had fallen - a thick silence, full of things no one was saying, from fear or from prudence…or, in her case, from a warning sense that once she began she would not be able to stop. She would have liked to shout, to let them all know, with merciless precision, what she thought. The turf fire in the room still tossed out hissing sparks in sympathy with her anger.
But there was something else…something beneath the anger that was too hurt to speak, that twisted and wrung her like clenched fists, squeezing out every bit of breath that should have gone into giving her voice. She pushed it down, trying not to look at it, but it pressed up like a geyser into her mind, a fountain of pain that shoved her will aside like loose gravel, raining down sharp words in a pelting, relentless shower.
I was a fool to listen to the thoughts of a girl.
How could he? She would have expected it from Ellidyr, not Taran.
But…no. Stupid of her. He'd been that way when they'd met, but that was a long time ago, and she had let herself believe she meant more to him by now. But hadn't he called her a burden, a few days ago in the scullery?
In the scullery. Scullery maid.
She crushed hands to her ears, as though by blocking external sound she could also stop the mocking voice in her head.
You were a burden on your own kin. Why do you think they sent you away?
There had been times, this last year, when she had thought that voice gone, when the welcome and safety of Caer Dallben had silenced it, when the word home had meant assurance of being not tolerated but wanted. But perhaps that voice would always lie in wait for her, ready to dig its claws into her heels the moment her guard dropped. She wouldn't have expected Taran to be the one to strip her of defenses. Maybe that was her mistake.
She pushed her face into her knees until her lips ground painfully against her teeth, seething with the effort of holding back the bitterness that wanted to break forth, the impulse to ridicule his audacity in claiming anything learned from Gwydion. Gwydion, who had never, not once, rejected her words because they came from her mouth instead of some man's.
And no one there had said a word of rebuke to him. Not one.
Princess, you should not have followed us.
What are you doing here?
None of them wanted her.
The tears came anyway, despite her resolve, and she pulled her hood over her face to hide them, hating herself for not being able to stop them. Gods, if she could only get away from them all for a few minutes and howl! Then that at least would be over and done with and she could think properly. What was so horrible about crying, anyway; why should she feel so humiliated about it? Dallben would probably say she should meditate until her emotions were under control, but…oh, hang Dallben. She didn't want them under control; Taran had hurt her and she wanted to be angry, she wanted to be hurt, and by Llyr she would feel it, all of it, if she damn well pleased.
Salt water trickled into her mouth, biting, potent, demanding acknowledgment. The fire popped again, and Eilonwy rose her eyes to it, sullen, grimly appeased by its unpredictable flicker, focusing on the fluid, untamed radiance at its core. The scintillating movement of it was captivating; a luminous, serpentine flow of liquid heat and light that drew her in, that seemed to reach out and burn itself into her veins. Her pounding heart calmed. She inhaled slowly, exhaled, and the flames rose and fell with the movements of her own breath, though she was sitting across the room. A pleasant, satisfying warmth pooled in her chest, spread into her tight throat and loosened it, flooded her arms, tingled at her fingertips. She felt strangely tethered, as though invisible cords threaded from her body to the flames, and when she moved her hand experimentally the fire shifted, in an instant, synchronized response.
Her chin rose from her knees as she stared, surprise glittering through her like sparks. She twitched her hand again, and again the flames followed the movement - a natural, uncomplicated motion that drew no one's attention. No one saw her slight movements, or noted anything unusual about the behavior of the fire. All there were too drawn into their own thoughts to notice the subtle connection between them.
The insidious words in her mind stumbled, sank to rankling murmurings, and were silenced. The painful thorns of betrayal burned away like cinders beneath the dizzy, breathless delight of discovery. She was angry still, but it was a focused and valid anger, bright and clear, without pain, purposeful. It was free of the poison taint of chaos, void of the bitter desire to bring suffering to those who had caused hers. This fire was not raging uncontrolled; she willed it as she chose, and it felt…right. Like a glove, made for her hand alone.
Again she flicked her wrist, curled her fingers in the air, and watched the blaze respond, dipping and flashing and curling in turn. She pulled at the invisible cord and a tongue of flame licked toward her, breaking off from the central conflagration and hanging suspended, writhing and glowing in midair for a second longer than a flame should.
Adaon, still gazing into the fire, made a startled movement that broke her concentration. The invisible cord snapped, and she gasped, as though just woken up, yet still filled with a strange sense of euphoric, powerful determination. She saw him glance around at the company until his clear eyes rested upon her. Some shrinking thing in her mind tried to make her look away, to deny any knowledge of what he had seen or now sought, but the strength she had found made her scorn it, and she met his gaze unapologetically, feeling triumphant.
He squinted at her, his thoughtful face speaking volumes, and he looked about to speak, but there was a scuffling at the doorway, and Doli popped into view, looking furious.
"There's five Huntsmen camped over the rise. Oh, my ears," he groaned, rubbing said appendages, their pointed tips trembling and tinged with blue. "They've settled down for the night. If that powder of Gwystyl's is any good, we can be well away before they even know we've been here. Where is that whinging clot? Don't tell me he's run off."
Gwystyl came slumping in at precisely that moment, likely having waited, Eilonwy decided, until Doli's return, for fear of sharing the company of humans without the presence of another fae. He was carrying a mouldering sack, and looked almost gleeful; his movements were sprightlier, his posture straighter; if the strange expression on his face could be called a smile, however, it required a mightily loose definition of the term. "Come along," he said, "you should do all your feet along with the horses. It'll make a fearful mess, but at least it will be all in one place."
Taran and Ellidyr made for the doorway so swiftly she thought they might fight to be first to leave, but at the last moment Taran hesitated and allowed Ellidyr the exit, following him with clenched fists. Gurgi trotted upon their heels and Adaon, after one last curious glance at her, followed the rest. Fflewddur had turned after them, but paused, and held out his hand for her to precede him.
The bard still looked abashed, and she had no intention of ignoring the unspoken tension, glaring at him frostily until he cleared his throat. "He didn't mean it, you know," he murmured. "We all say rash, thoughtless things when provoked. And that prince could provoke a dead bull to charge."
Eilonwy sniffed. "That may be. But I didn't hear anyone scold either of them. Only got held back from saying or doing anything myself. I'll thank you," she added, standing up straight, throwing her hood back and meeting his gaze squarely, "to stop doing that."
He looked startled. "I…I only…thought to…"
"I know," she snapped. His mouth closed, and he looked at her unhappily, his warm hazel eyes full of hurt. Her heart twisted, pricked with remorse; he loved her, and he had only done what he had always done: saved her from acting on her worst impulses. Perhaps she had needed it before, but…
"Fflewddur," she sighed; he opened his arms and she sank into them. The lankiness of his frame was a deception; he was strong, and she relaxed against him, pressing her face into his chest with a long, shuddery exhale. She would not cry, though it wasn't due to humiliation now; there just wasn't time for it. "You can't rescue me from myself every time, you know," she mumbled into his jacket. "If you think I haven't done and said worse to him over the last year, you've less imagination than I give you credit for."
"Oh, well." His voice hummed, with a hollow sort of cheerfulness, near her ear. "Whatever you've done, I daresay he deserved it. And…" He hesitated, and when he spoke next he sounded almost surprised. "And you're quite right. I should have rebuked him, instead of just stopping you. I got too caught up in all the excitement about this cauldron and rushed right on past it. That's no excuse, and I'm sorry." He patted her back. "Forgive me?"
She nodded silently and squeezed his slender ribs until he grunted, then let go of him, sniffling. Fflewddur held her at arm's length by the shoulders and smiled ruefully. "I know you're not in agreement about this plan. You think we're a pack of idiots. Yet here you are, determined to see it through anyway." He shook his head. "You're worth a dozen fool boys, my girl. One day he'll see it, you mark me."
"Hmmph," she said, irritated at the warmth that bloomed in her face at this, and turned to the door as he gestured toward it, chuckling to himself.
Among the company once more, she dusted her feet with the black substance Gwystyl procured from the sack, and they led the horses out into the darkness of the night-shrouded woods.
"Goodbye, goodbye," Gwystyl muttered continually, as they passed him. "I hate to see you waste your time, not to mention your lives. But that's the way of it, I suppose. Here today, gone tomorrow, and what's anyone to do about it? Goodbye. I hope we meet again."
Eilonwy was passing at this point, and paused, looking at him. He caught her eye and shuddered, gripping the front of his robes at his throat, as though something choked him. "But not soon," he amended, and gulped. "Goodbye!" And he scurried backwards into the portal, dragging the brambles behind him.
A/N: It's a fascinating thing, how small moments and single lines that I barely second-glanced in the books become things of enormous import once I am, so to speak, in-character. Taran's slight in this scene is easy to downplay as a thoughtlessly sexist comment born of his wounded pride and Ellidyr's admittedly intolerable behavior. In the book she reacts with a shriek but everyone just moves right on to arguing about the cauldron and NOTHING is ever said to address Taran's being such an ass here; he never even apologizes to her, which suggests that even Lloyd didn't think it was too big of a deal as the rest of his characters certainly didn't. This is disappointing, and I hope not just from a modern perspective. This chapter makes quite clear what I think the emotional and psychological ramifications of it are to Eilonwy, so I won't elaborate further, but it's a real shame that the book didn't give it more attention. I've struggled with finding what I really wanted to say in this story and where I think her arc should be, and I think this was a breakthrough. It also gave me a true title. The muse, apparently, is currently well-fed and happy.