Note: Eventually, I hope to weave this into a long-arc Achren fic, trailing her throughout the Chronicles. In the meantime, I shall let it stand alone...
She could almost feel their suspicion prodding and probing her after she offered to keep watch over her erstwhile foe. Certainly, she could see it in their eyes: puzzling over her motives as if she were a hawk wishing to mother a hound. Let them wonder. Let them guess. She, herself, could not fully comprehend the rash of pity that had beset her. Such a sudden, foreign thing, it was—yet, it felt real enough, keen enough, compelling enough. Perhaps life at Caer Dallben had rendered her soft inside even as it hardened her body. No matter. If nothing else, this would be favor for favor: as Gwydion had sat a vigil for her on the shores of Mona, now she would do the same for him.
He made no sound when Coll laid him on the couch in Dallben's chamber; remained limp when Eilonwy eased a pillow behind his head. Achren would have thought him a corpse already were it not for the faint rise and fall of his bared and bloodied chest. The rest of the room lived for him. Coll fetched a pail of steaming water from the scullery, then set about clearing paths through Dallben's clutter so that Gwydion's caretakers might have room to work. The enchanter himself stood bent over the Prince of Don, palms laid over his breastbone, deep in concentration as he worked a silent, healing magic. Eilonwy hovered for a while near the ancient enchanter's shoulder, curious and concerned, before turning to the task of cutting cloth for bandages. Every few moments, the young woman cast wary, knife-sharp glares Achren's way.
She scarcely noticed any of it; her eyes were fixed on Gwydion, absorbing every detail.
His skin was so very, very pale—parchment pale—etched with the lines that inscribed his years of travel, but without its usual leather hue. As Achren moved silently to fill the washbasin with fresh water, she noticed her own hands: once white as moonlight, now sun-browned and roughened by field and scullery. How odd a reversal. How time turned things on end. Her gaze flicked back to Gwydion, scanning again for a sign that might foretell his fate. She had seen him broken thus before, years ago, in a fortress of tortured madness. She had broken him thus, and taken pleasure in the piecewise fracturing. But now… Now… Seeing such a fierce wolf laid low and vulnerable, stripped of his power, something stirred and struggled to life within her—something deep and aching that she had long since forgotten how to name.
She allowed it to sit there, cradled within the shelter of her ribs. Whatever it was. Whatever it meant. Whatever it would be.
Uncertainty strained the silence. Time dragged its feet under the weight of consequence. Despite the enchanter's efforts, Gwydion still lay unconscious. Eventually, Dallben heaved an exhausted sigh and straightened. "As ever, the wound dealt in an instant requires thousands more to undo," he lamented. "And I can do no more for now; I must rest for a time, and regather my strength. Eilonwy and Coll, you ought to do the same. Achren shall take the first watch, and you may assist me in the early morning."
With more than one suspicious backward glance toward Achren, the young woman grudgingly departed. The old farmer followed close behind, one reassuring hand upon her shoulder. Stiffly, Dallben hobbled over to his bed and collapsed into it. Within moments, he was quietly snoring. It was plain how heavily both age and exertion were weighing on him, and Achren felt a pang of what might pass for sympathy. Indeed, she understood the cruel price of magic: life does not spring from nowhere; restoring it to one requires stealing it from another. There was no escaping it.
Nearly alone, now, she moved quietly to Gwydion's side. Carefully, she perched upon the edge of his couch and rolled back her long, dark sleeves. She dipped a cloth into the basin of now-tepid water, then wrung it out—slowly, deliberately, feeling the water sheet between her fingers like slipping time. She leaned in closer, pressing the soft linen lightly to his forehead, his cheekbones, his jawline and neck, sweeping away the dirt and dried blood. No cloth would wipe away his wounded pride or return Dyrnwyn to his hip, but she could erase the physical residue of defeat. Gingerly, she tended next to the angry slashes across his arms and torso, spreading the torn flesh with slender fingers so as to better flush the wounds clean. She pressed more healing herbs against them, and wrapped those she could with bandages. Gwydion did not stir beneath her touch—both a disappointment and a relief.
She watched. She waited. She moved to a bench close by, and sat with her endless thoughts—and unsettling emotions. Outside, the wind shrieked and clawed at the cottage like a furious, invisible beast, desperate to devour what little scrap of peace remained within. Winter would be upon their doorstep soon; all around, the land was already dying back. Could any of them—even Dallben—really keep death at bay?
Night continued its slow stride, breath by breath and heartbeat by heartbeat.
At last, in the first whisper of dawn, Gwydion woke. He shifted beneath the blanket. He groaned faintly. He struggled up to his elbows with a wince and a cough. Green-flecked eyes, verdant as spring fields and keen as any blade, found their focus and darted nimbly around the room. They alighted upon Achren. She drank in their first flash of surprise, quickly guarded, and ensuing wariness. She weathered their scrutiny, sitting as tall upon the rough bench as a queen upon a gilded throne. Memories flickered, good and ill; she saw them reflected in Gwydion's own gaze.
Whatever he saw in her now must have put his mind at ease, for he relaxed back slightly against the pillows. Achren's own iron-willed tension released its hold—a little.
"Gwydion."
"Achren."
His voice was hoarse—parched, and torn by shouting. She rose and fetched him a mugful of water. He murmured his thanks as she drew close and placed it into his hands. She sat once again upon the edge of the couch, teetering on the brink of closeness.
"How have I come to be here?" Gwydion croaked. "My eyes last closed on a pack of snarling Huntsmen…"
"The harper brought you. He drove off your attackers, then carried you here. It appears," Achren added grudgingly, "that I underestimated his worth."
Gwydion eked out a wan smile. "Indeed, Fflewddur is easily misjudged, to the chagrin of many a foe. His sword is nearly as quick as his tongue."
One corner of Achren's pale lips twitched upward at the jest. "You are fortunate he rides quickly, too," she noted. "You were barely clinging to life. Any longer, and you might have slipped beyond the help of Taran's herbs and Dallben's magic." She flicked her head over her shoulder toward the sleeping enchanter. "As it is, the healing has taken a toll on him."
Gwydion's brows knit together.
Achren smirked. "He will recover. You do not think Dallben has survived this long without knowing his own limits, do you?" Soon, though, her expression sobered. She reached out and trailed her palm lightly over Gwydion's bandaged forearm. "I have done what I can to assist him. Alas, I have lost the power to ease your hurt with a touch…"
"Not true," Gwydion murmured roughly. "Not true."
Achren's eyes flicked up to meet his; their unwavering, inscrutable intensity held her there for a breathless beat. Her hand closed around his wrist. The moment stretched between them like a line of spider silk.
"Besides," Gwydion continued at last, "seeing you turn away from death is a balm of its own."
Achren withdrew her hand sharply. "I am dying daily. And slowly."
Gwydion's cracked lips pressed together, acknowledging his role in that. After a moment, he asked, "Are you finding ways to live, too?"
Achren exhaled, briefly closing her eyes. "Yes, and living, too. I must—I yet have a score to settle."
She could sense his gaze sliding over her, taking in her calloused hands and summered skin, the plainness of her unpainted lips and the fine lines creasing her once-flawless brow. She wondered what he saw beneath those things—or if there was anything left to be seen at all.
"You were in tumultuous seas when last we met," he said slowly. "Have you found some peace here at Caer Dallben?"
A breath passed. Then another. "Some," she answered at last. "I am finding… some stillness, I suppose."
He nodded once. The glimmer of satisfaction in the gesture sparked Achren's ire. "If you expect gratitude—" she snapped.
"From you?" A rueful smile ghosted over Gwydion's lips, and his brows quirked in kind. He shook his head faintly. "Nevertheless, it pleases me to know you are in a place of safety. As is plain," he added, gesturing scornfully at his wounds, "Arawn grows bolder, and Prydain more dangerous, by the day. If you are willing to live for the sake of your spite, I have no doubt he would slay you for the sake of his."
"I still fail to understand why my survival is of any importance to you."
"Every life holds importance, Achren. Each plays its part."
Her lip curled. "You seem to have taken a particular interest in mine. Why did you bar the sea from swallowing me at Caer Colur? Why did you stay my hand when I sought death? Surely, it was not sentiment."
Gwydion's deep inhale and long sigh filled the hollow between them. All the while, he held her gaze. She squirmed inside, but held her body as rigid as steel, staring back in kind.
When he spoke at last, regret darkened his words like frost blackens the edges of leaves. "When first we met, I was vain enough to think I had the power to redeem you—to unearth the goodness buried so deeply beneath rage and pain that you, yourself, thought it forever abandoned. I believed I could make you see what was still possible…" He shook his head ruefully. "I learned. Only you possess that power, and you alone. Even so… I could not stand by and watch you cast aside the chance of it."
On instinct, Achren sneered. Yet, beneath her disdain, an old wound flared, tender and throbbing. She felt a softness lurking beneath her shell, felt it beginning to bleed through the cracks... A surge of spite rose in opposition, and she plunged into it desperately, seeking cover.
"But you have stood aside," she countered. "You crushed me, then abandoned me in this far corner of Prydain and kept your guilty distance. For years. Without a word." Her chin cocked upward, and her next words were shadowed with a secret, melancholy pride. "But you will reach for me again," she assured him quietly. "My own power may be gone, but magic still slips through my mind in the pit of sleep. You will need me one day. You will even hold me your arms again. I have seen it."
Puzzlement drew Gwydion's countenance tight. "What have you seen?" he whispered.
"You will need me," Achren said again. "You will need my knowledge—and my ruthlessness."
"To what end?"
"Dyrnwyn is lost."
Immediately, Gwydion tensed, every muscle reacting to the blow. His already pale features blanched still more, passing swiftly from shock to livid, jaw-clenched anger.
"You did not know, then…" Achren mused. "I wondered, when you did not immediately ask after the sword."
"The Huntsmen…" Gwydion growled roughly.
"It was not only Huntsmen who assailed you. Oh, no—you have come face-to-face with Arawn himself, wearing the mask of a friend." She watched that revelation sink in, watched Gwydion's hands clutch with suppressed rage. "Indeed, it is true," she continued. "Even you, in all your wisdom, were deceived—betrayed by an illusion, and your own selfless urge to save a companion." Her head tilted, and her lips twisted in wry empathy. "Now you, too, know what it is to be robbed of your power by one twist of the Death-Lord's form. It burns, does it not? A scalding pain, as potent as bodily wounds… I know it well."
His eyes locked on hers—and in their living, raging fire she saw it: he did understand now, fully and for the first time.
But he had no chance to acknowledge it. An instant later, Eilonwy reentered the chamber, eliciting a creak of protest from the old door's hinges. Across the room, Dallben shifted in his bed. With difficulty, he sat up, and immediately looked to Gwydion. "Ah," he said. "So, I will be spared another bout of effort, I see. Our prince is courteous, as always." The enchanter's voice rattled with the dregs of sleep, and his joints crackled as he dragged his old bones across the room to Gwydion's side.
The prince wasted no time on greetings. "Achren has said that Dyrnwyn was stolen—and by Arawn himself. Is that true?"
For an instant, the question took Achren aback. Why ask when he knew the answer? Then, she realized: he hoped against hope that she was lying. The truth was so unthinkable that he actually craved her deceit. She might have laughed outright at the irony—had it not bitten her pride so sharply.
Dallben's face fell into somber lines. "Indeed, Achren spoke truth," he confirmed. "For once, Arawn seems to have taken matters into his own hands, putting himself at great risk for great gain. Unlike many such gambles, this one paid."
For a painfully silent moment, Gwydion sat absorbed in racing thought. Then, he gestured to Eilonwy. "Summon Taran and the others," he said. "I would speak with you all, and at once."
As the companions arrived and circled around Gwydion, Achren retreated to the corner and sank into the shadows. Fate stood in the room with them. She could feel it hovering, crowding, invisible but inescapable. The others would face it together. To her, it extended a solitary, cold embrace.
So be it. She had ever stood apart—but so long as Arawn fell, she would not fall alone.