Okay, I've decided to write something cheerful for a change. This spin-off of my earlier fic "The Measure of Our Hearts" provides us with more backstory of Adaon's father Taliesin and his mother Cerys, as well as giving me the pleasure of imagining Adaon not as a handsome, oh-so-wise hero but as a tiny, scrunchy-faced baby. Well, even he had to start like that, didn't he? And that way we get to focus on life rather than on death. Sorrow lurks on the margins of this story, not only in terms of Adaon's later history but (if you've read my other fics) of his mother's. Still, while we inhabit it, life is sweet—sometimes unimaginably so.

Need I remind you that this world is not of my making? Drat and blast, as Fflewddur would say.

A New Life

Gazing through the narrow casement Taliesin, Chief Bard of Prydain, watched twilight drape the world with darkness. Washed of color by the soft dusk, autumn leaves glimmered on the trees like ghostly moths. Turning from the window Taliesin walked to the bed where his young wife, Cerys—also a bard—slept beside their several-hours-old son. Her face smoothed of the pangs of labor, Cerys lay peacefully, her shimmering brown hair—which, when unbound, reminded Taliesin of a waterfall—draped in a braid over the covers. Nestled in the protective crook of her arm lay the infant. Crowned by a quiff of black hair, he looked remarkably dignified for one who, like others of his tender age, was red, wrinkled, and still spotted in places with the waxy substance that coats babies in the womb.

Taking a chair by the bedside, Taliesin beheld them with profound gratitude that both were alive. Birth was a risky business in Prydain, many mothers and infants surviving but many not. There had been times that day when Taliesin was numb with fear he might lose Cerys, for her first labor had been painfully prolonged. Even when the midwife assured him that, for a first baby, everything was proceeding well, Taliesin had continued to worry. He had also, frankly, been appalled by what his wife had to go through. He had lived many years and thought he knew a great deal, but he was humbled by the realization that what the average woman endured during childbirth made the bravest warrior look the veriest milksop. True, even in her most agonized moments Cerys had not hurled execrations at him for getting her into this mess, behavior he'd gathered was not uncommon. Once a warrior famous for battlefield ferocity sheepishly confessed to Taliesin that his wife, while in labor, had knocked him nearly senseless by heaving a basin at him. Cerys had not engaged in either verbal or physical abuse, but then again she scarcely needed to. Taliesin had proved only too fertile at inventing fluent curses to heap upon himself for his role in bringing about the afternoon's events.

Still, the culmination of these events had been an amazing experience. As his son slid into the world looking mildly surprised, Taliesin, who despite his trepidation had been pressed into service, helped the midwife catch the small, slippery body. Weeping by then with joy rather than with pain, Cerys grinned triumphantly through her tears.

Now, regarding his slumbering wife and son, Taliesin could scarcely believe he had a family. For a long time he had had everything else: a legendary scholar, poet, and composer, he had amassed his share of honors, accolades, and adventures. Yet, until several years ago, he had not found a life-companion who was his intellectual peer. Fewer women in Prydain were as learned as they had been before the depredations of Arawn Death-Lord, who, in stealing the secrets of artisans, reinforced male dominance, as much of this knowledge lay in the hands of women. So Taliesin had looked long and hard for a fit mate, but found none. He had, it is true, had various romantic encounters, especially when he was young, dashingly handsome, and a blazing new star in the poetic firmament. Taken together, these circumstances had proved a winning combination with women, particularly those who were more independent, powerful, or adept at magic than most. Taliesin, however, was not such a slave of sensual pleasure that he welcomed relationships lacking emotional depth. Finally, too, he just couldn't find anyone who obsessed about books the way he did. So he entered middle age, vital and vigorous but with graying hair and the suspicion that the possibility of finding a soul-mate lay behind him. An irrepressibly cheerful man, he had resolutely focused on what he had rather than on what he had not. Still, whenever he read a poem about love or spotted children playing in the castle of Caer Dathyl, the castle-home he shared with the ruling family of Prydain, he had to talk himself out of feeling too wistful.

Then, when he thought he'd resigned himself to his wifeless, childless lot, along came Cerys. If once he had been a rising star, she was an incandescent comet streaking across bedazzled skies. A strikingly original poet, rare scholar, and accomplished musician, this young woman in her early twenties singlehandedly shattered the myth of female intellectual inferiority to which many subscribed. Among those whose prejudices she'd overcome were several of the more old-fashioned types on the Bardic Council, over which Taliesin presided. Watching Cerys outperform everyone since himself on her bardic exams, the Chief Bard inwardly chortled as his more backward colleagues could find nothing to complain about. After initiation, Cerys scandalized several of these same holdovers by—as rumor had it—cropping her hair and posing as a young man to travel the countryside as a wandering harper, an occupation considered hopelessly immodest for a woman. Pitching her contralto voice low, Cerys, who was tall and slender enough to pass for a leggy boy prodigy, brought off the act with the aplomb with which she accomplished everything. When she returned to Caer Dathyl flushed with triumph and serenely ignoring scandalized whispers, Taliesin had, at last, to admit it: he was as hopelessly smitten as a teenager. Ecstatic that he had found a genuine intellectual equal, he was planning to present his suit when he was overcome by self-consciousness about the disparity in their ages. Would this gorgeous young woman welcome the attentions of a man twice her age, even if he were Chief Bard?

While he dithered over what to do, Cerys came to him herself, requesting extra lessons in arcane languages known only to bards. Thus, to his utter bewilderment he found himself ushering her daily into his study in the Hall of Lore. The situation was awkward, as he could not imagine anything more vilely lecherous than taking advantage of the post of mentor to press attentions on a captive audience. Steering away from the merest hint of impropriety, he had been determinedly, resolutely normal, even though the act cost him immense strain. To cloak his confusion, he assigned her ever more daunting tasks, as if to forestall leisurely silences that might tempt him to reveal his secret. Cerys had risen effortlessly to the challenge of his demands, stoking his passion to such a painful extreme he resolved to end the sessions in order to preserve his sanity. Before he could do so, however, Cerys appeared in his study one morning, touchingly grateful for his help but claiming she could not possibly impose further on his time. Struck dumb not by relief but by massive disappointment, he stood there gaping. Smiling, Cerys stepped forward, cupped his face in her hands, and kissed him full on the lips. With a glad cry he flung himself into her waiting arms and the rest, as they say, was history.

Later, Cerys admitted that she'd thought up the lessons as a way of being near him, since for a long while she'd nursed her own secret passion. Taliesin must have been less of a good actor than he thought, because she'd soon sensed his struggle between passion and appropriate behavior, scarcely daring to believe that the attraction wasn't one-sided. Wisely she had ended the lessons and with them the relationship of teacher and student that proved such an obstacle. The minute this change was effected, she'd characteristically staked everything on making the first move. That was so like her, he mused, brushing a strand of errant hair from her forehead as she slept. While far from a reckless soul, if there were nothing else for it she'd risk all with one throw of the dice.

As his fingers touched her skin Cerys stirred, opened gray-green eyes, and smiled at her husband.

"I did not mean to wake you," he said with compunction. "Go back to sleep, love."

"I knew you were there all along," murmured Cerys. "No need for guilt, Taliesin." She turned her gaze on the infant, tracing with a finger his spiky whorls of black hair. "Amazing, isn't he?" she asked happily.

"Astonishing," agreed Taliesin, "as are you, my brave one." He gently kissed her forehead.

Cerys ruefully shook her head. "I suppose I should feel embarrassed about being seen in all kinds of ungainly and obscene postures today. Not to mention I'm a bit put out at myself for screaming my head off. Before it all started I'd had some fool idea I could just grit my teeth. Believe me, it doesn't work that way."

"Believe me," said Taliesin fervently, "after what I witnessed today, I consider you perfectly justified in howling to your heart's content. Actually, I think you showed remarkable restraint."

"Was it that dreadful?" asked Cerys, amused. "I'm afraid I was too busy howling, as you put it, to check much on you, but it's my impression you were green around the gills."

"I shouldn't wonder," murmured Taliesin.

Together they regarded the baby.

"Does he look like either of us?" queried Cerys. Peering closer, she added quickly, "Don't answer that. At the moment he bears a striking resemblance to a radish, and we don't usually look like that, do we?"

Taliesin hooted with glee, releasing a day's worth of pent-up tension. Hearing the racket his father was making, the baby shifted restlessly, screwed up his face, and reddened till he looked more than ever like the vegetable to which his mother had compared him. On the verge of erupting into a squall—his parents visibly braced themselves—he thought better of it, squirmed, and subsided back to sleep. Cerys and Taliesin released the breath that they had not been aware they were holding.

"That was close," whispered Cerys. "Still," she added, "it won't be long before he roars mightily—and often."

"All the more reason for you to sleep, love," said Taliesin, smoothing her hair. "Rest while you can."

"You too," replied Cerys, stifling a yawn. "Come to think of it"—she lifted her head and regarded her husband shrewdly—"you still look a bit green. Take a nap, Taliesin."

"How can I sleep when I am so happy to be awake?" wondered Taliesin. He looked again at the baby. "What shall we call him?"

"You mean Radish won't suit?" Cerys feigned disappointment.

"I was hoping for something more dignified," admitted Taliesin.

"Adaon," Cerys said firmly. When Taliesin looked at her, she explained. "It's a name I have always loved. Will it do?"

"Adaon," repeated Taliesin, testing the sound. He smiled. "I like it."

"Adaon Son of Taliesin," Cerys tried it out. "It has a nice ring, doesn't it?"

"Beats Radish," agreed Taliesin.