It was strange, this aftermath. Not like after the battle at Caer Dathyl years ago; that had been a celebration, at least as far as the warriors were concerned; the general atmosphere had been one of jubilation at how easily the enemy had been routed, how certain was the righteousness of their cause.

But the mood now was somber. Eilonwy, moving through the camp, heard no triumphant exclamations. Warriors wept over their fallen comrades, or led captives from Morgant's forces, who awaited their sentencing with resignation—some stoic, others not so much. Riderless horses stood still, waiting for their masters, for guidance, cropping the grass to pass the time. As she came near Gwydion, she heard him giving orders in a voice that was hollow and grim. When she approached him, steeling herself for rebuke, he only looked at her with that strange melancholy she always saw in him, and laid a hand on her head. "I knew better than to disbelieve Gwystyl when he told me you were with the company," he said wearily, "and I know better, now, than to lecture a Daughter of Llyr on what she ought not to have done. I am glad to see you safe, Princess. Perhaps we shall speak later."

She gulped, and could think of nothing to say to him. It didn't matter, anyway; he was already striding away to address some other matter, and she stood alone, bewildered and discouraged, in the midst of a roiling sea of movement. She had lost sight of Taran in the crowds, and saw nothing of her other companions. Perhaps Gurgi was still in the tent; they'd left him there, barely conscious; she should see how he fared.

Halfway there she heard a halloo, and there was Fflewddur, hurrying toward her. She ran and threw her arms around him with a sob, surprising herself, and he patted her back with his good arm, exclaiming, "Oh, great Belin, you're safe!"

It seemed to be a common theme. She hiccuped and stood up straight again, a little indignant at the implication that she needed so much looking after, but too relieved and overwhelmed to be difficult about it. Fflewddur took her by the shoulder and looked her over. "All in one piece, then? I never thought for a moment that you couldn't handle yourself, of course. But a Fflam likes to be proven right, you know."

Eilonwy hiccuped again, over a rather hysterical laugh. "Oh, Fflewddur, it's so odd. The day is ours and the cauldron is destroyed, and…I don't know how to feel."

He grimaced, turning with her to walk to the tents. "There, now, that's the hard truth about battles. It's all songs and stories until swords actually clash. And when you're clashing with those who should have been your allies…" he trailed off, and shook his head, his demeanor dimmed. "Then it's a bloody nightmare."

On their way to the tents they found their weapons, piled with the rest of Morgant's stores. Eilonwy recognized the plain, smooth pommel of Taran's sword and picked it up with mixed emotions. It was his, and he had well-earned it, and yet…she sighed, and tucked it beneath her arm.

Gurgi had rallied enough to crawl to the doorway of the tent, and called to them feebly as they approached. Eilonwy hurried to him with a cry of concern, dropping to her knees and cradling his head in her lap. His amber eyes blinked at her confusedly. "Poor Gurgi awakens alone," he whimpered, "and he does not know what has happened."

She told him, in what terms of comfort she could, and found her heart grow steadier as she put the morning's victory into words. Fflewddur brought water and bandages and the herbs from Taran's saddlebags, and she bound Gurgi's head and bade him chew the leaves she had seen given for pain. Presently Taran himself joined them, with Doli clomping on his heels. The boy knelt beside Gurgi and clasped his hands.

"Poor tender head is filled with breakings and achings," Gurgi said weakly. "He is sad not to fight at side of kindly master. He would have struck down wicked warriors, oh yes!"

Eilonwy clucked disapprovingly. "There's been more than enough fighting," she declared, and Taran looked at her with a small, rueful smile, as though he agreed but could not quite bring himself to say so. She retrieved his sword from where she had laid it aside, and held it out to him. "I found this again. But sometimes I wish Dallben hadn't given it to you in the first place. It's bound to lead to trouble."

He chuckled as he took it from her, and then held it in both hands and looked at it thoughtfully. "It's not quite what I imagined," he admitted, "carrying it. But I am glad to have it back. Thank you."

The glance he gave her made her feel oddly warm, and she covered her confusion in tartness. "Well, you can gird it on yourself this time. I shan't be responsible for any trouble you get into, at least."

"Oh, I should think our troubles are over," Fflewddur said lightly, cradling his injured arm. "The beastly old kettle is smashed to bits, thanks to Ellidyr. The bards shall sing of our deeds…" He hesitated, and his face grew serious. "And of his."

Doli snorted. "I don't care about any harp-scrapers warbling their romantic nonsense," he declared pointedly, his red eyes twinkling when Fflewddur huffed. "I just don't want anyone, not even Gwydion, dreaming up another scheme to have me turn invisible."

Taran laughed. "Good old Doli. The more you grumble, the more pleased you are with yourself."

Doli looked outraged, his ears going pink. "Good old Doli. Humph!"

Taran stood and buckled on his sword; Eilonwy followed his eager gaze and saw Coll sitting beneath a giant oak next to the red-bearded giant who had felled Morgant. She recalled her first sight of him, squeezing into the door of Caer Dallben like a bear stuffing itself inside a hollow tree after a beehive. So that was the infamous King Smoit. Settling Gurgi comfortably in a nest of folded cloaks, she rose and followed Taran curiously as he ran to the tree.

The boy fell to his knees beside Coll. The old farmer, looking a bit the worse for the wear, beamed with pride and pleasure. "Ah, my boy!" He embraced him warmly. "We did not meet as soon as I expected, for I hear you were busy with other things." Noticing Eilonwy, he spread his arms wide again; she tumbled down into them. "I won't ask what you're doing here, cariad," he said, somewhat gruffly, "as I'd be a fool to expect you to have done aught else. No doubt you'll hear enough from Dallben, whatever. Have you taken good care of our lad, now?"

She blushed, but before she could answer, Smoit clapped Taran on the back. "My body and blood," he roared, "you looked like a skinned rabbit last time I saw you. Now the rabbit is gone and only the skin and bones are left!" He looked at Eilonwy, his eyes popping. "And what's this! A red vixen chased after the rabbit? No wonder he's worn so thin!"

Coll coughed, overriding her quick indignant breath. "This is our Princess, my lord," he explained to Smoit, with a wink at her. "Eilonwy of Llyr."

"Oh, ho!" The bear's demeanor changed in an instant; his eyes widened, and with an energy almost difficult to believe he hoisted his bulky frame to its feet. The king bowed, extending a massive red-furred hand, which swallowed hers when she took it. "Beg pardon, my lady," he growled, "and well-met." He glanced at her curiously, and she braced herself for impertinent questions, but a loud squawk interrupted them, and all turned toward it.

There sat Gwystyl on a nearby boulder, looking out at the camp as though he were observing a funeral…though in a sense, watching the men piling boulders around the bodies of Morgant and Ellidyr side-by-side, he was. On his thin shoulder, Kaw hopped up and down and bobbed his head, delighted at having drawn their attention.

Eilonwy dropped a clumsy curtsy to Smoit and followed Taran as he hurried over. Gwystyl sighed at their approach. "So it's you again. Well, you shan't blame me for what's happened. I warned you. However, what's done is done, and there's no sense complaining. No use in it at all."

Eilonwy snorted out loud, and Taran laughed. "You shall not deceive me again, Gwystyl of the Fair Folk. I know who you are and the valiant service you have rendered." He reached out to Kaw, who croaked and preened as Taran scratched him beneath the beak.

Gwystyl waved a hand vaguely. "Go on, put him on your shoulder; that's what he wants. For the matter of that, you can have him as a gift, with the thanks of the Fair Folk. For you've done us a service, too. We were uneasy with the Crochan knocking about here and there; one never knew what would happen. Yes, yes, pick him up," he insisted, when Taran hesitated in surprise. "He's taken quite a fancy to you and it's just as well. I'm simply not up to keeping crows anymore, not up to it at all."

Kaw hopped onto Taran's offered wrist, bounced jauntily to his shoulder, and tweaked his ear. "Taran," he croaked, and made chortling noises, manifestly pleased with himself and everyone else. Eilonwy laughed at the expressions of both boy and bird, the melancholy of the day beginning to lift from her heart.

"I warn you again," Gwystyl said, "pay no attention to him. Most of the time he talks just to hear himself talk—like some others I could mention. The secret is: don't listen. No use in it. No use whatever."

He sighed again, a sound that seemed to come from the depths of his toes, and they left him there, too delighted and distracted by their new pet to mind his morose warnings. They brought Kaw back to Gurgi, whose doubtful reaction turned to cautious acceptance as the crow hopped onto his back and began industriously plucking leaves and twigs from his hair.

And so the day passed: the dead buried, the wounded treated, the leaders conferencing together on their next steps. Taran seemed content, for once, to stay upon the edge of things, observant and thoughtful, and Eilonwy was content to stay there with him, as the effects of the events of the last few days finally began to make their presence felt. Exhaustion dragged at her limbs like anchors; in mid-afternoon she slept, waking to campfires being kindled and food prepared.

"There you are," Taran said, as she joined him and Gurgi around one of the cookfires, and handed her a bowl. "Eat well; we're breaking camp and leaving at first light tomorrow. Gwystyl's already gone back to his waypost."

Eilonwy served herself and sat, just as a shadow passed overhead; she glanced up and gasped as a flight of gwythaints darkened the sky, the great birds careening toward Annuvin. "Don't worry," Taran told her, seeing her fear. "That's been happening all day. Lord Gwydion thinks Arawn must know about the cauldron, and has called all his forces back to reconvene."

Eilonwy had instinctively dropped to a crouch. "Feels odd not to hide at sight of gwythaints," she said shakily, sitting up again. Kaw hopped to her knee and squawked.

"Stop that," Taran ordered, shooing him off. "You've had your dinner and she hasn't. Be careful," he added. "He'll steal meat right out of your bowl, as I found out a bit ago. Anyway—yes, doesn't it? Uneasy. I shall be glad to head home tomorrow, even if there's no hair of a Huntsman from here to Caer Dathyl."

"Will you?" she teased. "There'll be chores waiting, you know. Stable-mucking and cutting firewood. Feeding a pig."

Taran chuckled, and tossed an acorn at her. "And straightening up the scullery."

"That's true," she said, "but I'm not the one who couldn't wait to leave it all."

His smile faded, and he stared into the fire. "Eilonwy," he said quietly, "why did you come?"

She blinked, surprised, and opened her mouth to say it was just common sense, only fair that she should have an equal share in any quest…and stopped. Not because it wasn't true, but because it wasn't the reason, not really.

"I'm not quite sure," she confessed. "To prove I wasn't useless, I suppose."

His eyes flew to her face in dismay. "Useless! Is that what you thought?"

"Of course it's not what I thought," she snapped irritably. "But it's how it feels everyone else thinks, when you're told you've no part in something for no good reason. You've called me a burden, twice now, and yourself a fool for listening to me. So I don't know why you're shocked now, Taran of Caer Dallben, that I might want to prove otherwise."

Taran looked down, shamefaced, and scratched the dirt with a twig. "You know I didn't mean any of that. You needn't prove anything to anyone, least of all to me."

Well, she thought bitterly, that just makes everything all right, then, doesn't it? But she said nothing aloud, for his unhappiness was clouding the air, and she knew he would take the words back if he could.

"It was so quiet after you all left," she said, poking listlessly at her stew, "and I could only think of how it would be, staying there not knowing what was happening. I couldn't bear it. Even Dallben was worried, and you know he never worries."

"How did you ever get past him?"

"I'm still wondering that."

She laid her bowl down, and reached out toward the fire experimentally. It quickened in her blood in an instant, as natural as breathing. How was it that she had found this so difficult merely a few days ago? A flame licked toward her hand and trembled in midair. Taran watched, startled. "When did you learn that?"

"A few days ago. I don't know what Dallben will say. He's been so careful about how much magic he'd let me do. Which seemed to be as little as possible," she sighed. "Now I think I know why."

"What do you mean?" The warm light played over his face like a caress, danced in his mesmerized eyes as she manipulated the fire. "It's amazing!"

With a flick of her wrist, the flame winked out, and he was blinking at her, dazzled. "I burned Ellidyr," she said flatly, and winced as his expression turn from admiration to confusion. "When he was trying to kill us by the river, I set the brush on fire around him."

Taran swallowed. "Oh. But…in defense, of course. Surely there can be nothing wrong—"

"I kept on," she interrupted, "even after he had given up. After I knew he would not slay us. I might have burned him to death if Fflewddur hadn't stopped me. Did you see how his hair and clothes were scorched? Morgant's men didn't do that to him." She stared into the flames, and took a long, shuddering breath. "I did."

The fire crackled, heating her face, and she tried not to think of how it would feel, to have that searing flame wrapped around her like a garment. "I hated him for what he'd done to you," she went on, "to all of us, and…in that moment at least, I liked hearing him scream."

He was silent, the air thick with his surprise and dismay. She gripped her hands together anxiously, watching her knuckles turn white. "I think," she said, in a quavering half-whisper, "that Dallben won't teach me, because he thinks I'll be like Achren."

Taran slid onto his knees next to her. He took her tight-clasped hands in his. "You are not Achren," he said fervently, "and you need not follow her path just because of one wrong turn. Eilonwy, I hated Ellidyr, too. Only the brooch made me see him differently. And we were all affected by the Crochan—it may have driven you as near to madness as it did him."

"But I was the more dangerous," she murmured thickly, "because of my magic. It's like a dam that could break at any moment. What if I can't hold it back?"

He thought, frowning in concentration. "Fflewddur stopped you?"

"Yes. I saw his face and…it was like being woken up. Or like remembering who I was."

A half-smile pulled at his mouth. "It sounds like you must surround yourself with your friends, then. I shan't let you forget who you are."

A flood of grateful affection brought tears welling to her eyes, and an overwhelmed little sob to her lips, and Taran squeezed her hands again before letting go, looking slightly embarrassed by such an emotional display. He sat back on his heels, cleared his throat, and grinned. "Dallben probably just didn't want you setting the roof on fire, that's all."

Her sob turned into a gasping laugh, as an invisible weight lifted from her shoulders. She had not realized how much she had feared his disapprobation.

Somehow, if Taran was not horrified by her confession, then neither was she.

I shan't let you forget who you are.

Who am I?

The rising moon caught her eye, glimmering through the trees, and she fingered the pendant at her throat—its smooth, cool curve contrasting with the pricking points of its crescent horns.

I am fire and water. Child of the sun and of the moon. I am Eilonwy of the House of Llyr.

She glanced at the boy next to her, his profile silhouetted strong and dark against the firelight, just as she had often seen him at the hearth of Caer Dallben, surrounded by safety and comfort and the happiness of their strange but steadfast family.

I am Eilonwy of Caer Dallben.

She shut her eyes, and saw whitewashed stone walls, a golden-thatched roof, green fields, garden rows of turnips, and wind-fallen apples.

And I am going home.

And that, as they say, is that.

I seem to have lost many of my readers, or at least my reviewers, halfway through here, which I suppose is my fault for taking so long to slog through this! For those who are still with me after all this time, as always, I thank you, and hope you've enjoyed the journey. For a story that I really had no notion of how it was going to play out, I have had some wonderful moments of realization and revelation about where it took me. Perhaps most delightfully of all, I've had the pleasure of reading it with my daughter, who is just the right age for it, and whose persistent demands for "the next chapter" have been my best motivation for the last several months. To her, my own wild ember, I dedicate this story.