Beneath the arching boughs of the ancient oak rested a world unto itself, secluded and sheltering—a haven of newly-flushed green and gold, of dappled light and dusky shadow, of life coursing between earth and sky—small enough for two, yet expansive enough to hold past, present, and future in one embrace. Fflewddur and Telyn had claimed it as their own that afternoon, enthroning themselves among the twisted roots.

His hands paused upon the harp strings for a moment while he chased the drifting cloud of an idea. She, reclining with her head upon his knee, allowed her own thoughts to drift within the silence. At last, a quiet melody hummed its way from his throat, to his tongue, to the hollow shell of her ear, bearing with it a fragment of song…

"…and the true Summer Country

lies within her embrace.

For the sake of her beauty

and the sake of her love,

I would gladly forsake living forever…"

Telyn glanced up, favoring him with a wry but self-satisfied look. "Now, I'm not the reason you chose to stay in Prydain, and you know it," she teased.

"Poetic license, my dear, poetic license," Fflewddur replied. "It's the spirit of the thing that counts."

"Hmmm," she purred, eyes twinkling. "Fair enough. I will let you get away with it this once." She returned to gazing up at the leafy boughs, while he reached out to trail his fingers through the silken spill of her hair.

"Was that the same melody you were playing after the battle?" she asked a few breaths later.

"It was—although it had no words at all until just now. It was waiting for you, I suppose…" As he, himself, had been waiting all his life, like a a song unfinished. That song was still unfolding, really—still knitting itself together in pieces and scraps, and in flights of fancy that eventually transformed, somehow, into something solid and real, far better than any enchantment. Dark notes and light, brightly lilting melodies and deep, rumbling undercurrents, sweet harmonies and the occasional errant dissonance, all played by calloused fingers upon mended strings…

For an instant, as he drank in the sight of Telyn lying there, he could scarcely breathe for the swell of emotions brimming within his chest. He had only enough breath for a murmur: "Telyn… My living harp… My healer…"

She looked up again, studying him for a moment in the low-slanting afternoon light—the planes of his face, the quirk of his lips, the long line of his nose, the unabashed adoration shining in his eyes. "My bard…" she answered with a smile, reaching up to run her hand through his ever-wayward hair. "My gallant, good-hearted, irrepressible bard…"

"Alas, not quite a bard yet," he reminded her ruefully.

"Unofficially—for now," she replied.

"Until when?"

Her smile widened. "Soon."

He chuckled at the certainty in her tone. "You can see the future, then?"

"No, not see it—it's nothing so clear. But I can feel it, like wind brushing a cat's whiskers."

He laughed again, lowly. "And how does it feel? What will this future of ours be like?"

"Hmmm," she hummed again through a knowing smile. "Imperfectly lovely—and full of song."

.

"Eilonwy—there is something I want to show you…" Taran said, ducking through their chamber door.

"Hmm? What is it?"

"It's a surprise."

Eilonwy replied first with one arched brow. "A good one, I hope. We've had rather too many of the unpleasant sort lately."

"Of course it's a good one," Taran chuckled. "At least, I think so. I hope so…" He shook his head and extended a hand. "Just come and see."

She took it and followed.

Through the corridor, down the stairs, and out across the courtyards, Eilonwy's curiosity mounted with every step. Then they were passing through the gardens, where the earliest vegetables were beginning to break through the dark soil and into the sunlight.

"Well, this is all as fine as ever, Taran—very green, and promising, and lively—but it's hardly a surprise that things would grow after you and the gardeners put so much effort into—oh!"

She stopped in her tracks as he pulled her past the stone wall that bounded the orchard, her hand slipping from his as he continued a few steps further. Three tiny apple saplings stood before them, laden with tiny clouds of soft, white blooms. "Oh, how lovely," Eilonwy breathed, stepping forward to brush her fingertips across the petals.

"They're from Caer Dallben," Taran explained as he moved to take a closer look at the trees himself, checking them over again for any signs of injury or blight, as though he hadn't done so just a short while before. "I took cuttings from your favorite tree before we left, and grafted them to the old stumps here—so you might have a bit of our old home, you see, when you're missing it. I had hoped more of them would survive the winter… And I'm afraid it will be several years yet before these bear fruit, and certainly much longer before you can climb them, but they do hold promise…"

At last, he dared to lift his eyes to meet Eilonwy's, afraid he might see only puzzled amusement in them—that she might think him a sentimental fool for going to such lengths for the sake of a few trees.

Instead, he saw those bright eyes glistening with tears. His heart skipped. For a moment, he feared those tears were wistfulness distilled: for Caer Dallben; for their childhoods; for the simple, humble future they had stepped away from in order to serve their land. But then he saw the tremulous bow of her lips bend into a smile. A rosy flush swept across her cheeks. An instant later, she plowed forward and threw her arms around him so forcefully that he staggered back a pace.

"Oh, Taran… I believe that is the sweetest, most thoughtful thing anyone has ever done for me! Or one of the sweetest, at the very least. All this time you spent in the garden, and I never guessed…"

Taran heaved a deep sigh of relief. "They please you then…"

"Yes, they most certainly do."

"I did not wish to make you sad—to make you more homesick…"

"No, no, no," Eilonwy assured him. "They're splendid. They do make me a little sad, but it's a good sort of sadness, if that makes any sense at all—like crying over a beautiful song, or feeling the loneliness of a windswept shore. And mostly, it makes me happy for the days to come. I should like to climb an apple tree again someday…"

She glanced away, then, resting her chin on his shoulder while her gaze alighted once more on the delicate blossoms bursting forth from slender stems. Like Taran just a moment before, she drew in a deep breath and exhaled a long, cathartic sigh. "We've been through so much this past year, just like these trees…" she mused. "And perhaps I've gone mad, but it seems like we're getting stronger along with them, learning how to grow in this new place…" She pulled back slightly to catch his gaze in hers. "Are you satisfied with this orchard we're growing?" she asked.

Taran felt his heart stutter again. "I am," he said with a solemn nod, closing his arms more snugly around her waist. "It is far from finished, but I am pleased with what is taking shape—very much. But what of you?" he asked more tentatively. "Are you content with it? Is it… Is it worth what you sacrificed to stay here?"

Eilonwy huffed lightly through a smile. "Taran of Caer Dallben—and it will always be 'of Caer Dallben', no matter how long we live here—why do you insist on asking questions you ought to know the answers to? Of course, it is worth it. I'm surprised you even felt the need to ask—although I do appreciate your asking anyway."

Another smile. Another kiss. Another embrace like so many before and countless more to come. One heart growing slowly into another, season by season, reaching hopeful branches toward the sun.

.

.

The weaving lies unfinished,

loose threads trailing,

with a few more hand-spans of cloth complete,

and a few more strands of weft in play.

Take up your shuttle.

Ply your hands.

Continue what others before you began.

Dream on,

weave on,

and share the bounty

of stories that unfold.

.

A/N: Deepest thanks to my steadfast companions on this writing journey. Your gracious comments and helpful critique gave me heart and nudged me several steps farther down the road toward becoming the author I hope to be someday. Best wishes for you on your own journeys, written or otherwise.