Taran gratefully retreated to the gardens the very day after the Council ended. He was relieved to see that they had not suffered too much for the previous few weeks of neglect. The nine apple tree grafts in the orchard had taken hold and were faring well—spindly, to be sure, but fully in leaf. In the vegetable plots, some rogue weeds had invaded the otherwise tidy ranks, but not enough to fatally crowd out the crops. Eagerly, Taran dove into the work of setting everything to rights, plucking and yanking vigorously at the intruders and dumping them unceremoniously into piles before hauling them off to compost.
The work felt cleansing. The more caked with dirt his hands became, the more layers of pent-up anxiety flaked away from his heart. Each bead of sweat seemed to evaporate away an equal measure of tension until, drop by drop, he approached a center of calm. In the garden, there were no squabbling cantrev kings, no court intrigues, no impossibly difficult decisions, no one expecting him to answer questions he didn't even fully comprehend. There was only the damp, soft earth between his fingers and beneath his feet; the faintly astringent scent of torn weeds; the rhythm of stooping, and pulling, and walking back and forth along the furrows. There were uncertainties in gardening, of course—the vagaries of rain, and sun, and frost, and pests—but those were familiar uncertainties. Taran knew what risks to expect and how to counterbalance them. There was clarity of purpose in the work, too: spring and summer toil would lead to autumn harvest; effort sown would be reaped as tangible nourishment and seeds to begin the cycle anew. Work in the garden felt solid, real. It tied his swirling thoughts down to earth, where he could grasp and examine them more easily.
After several hours, Taran rose from the patch of carrots he was weeding and stretched toward the sun. A lone figure on the far side of the garden caught his eye—a tall shadow in dark-dyed raiment. With some surprise, he realized it was Rhodri. He brushed his hands together to shake off the soil and went to greet the King of Rheged while the other gardeners surreptitiously looked on, curious.
"King Rhodri, well-met," he said. "Did you wish to speak to me, or do you have a secret interest in carrots and radishes you were looking to indulge?"
The dour king barely cracked a smile at the jest. His gaze was more puzzled than displeased, however, as he looked his new liege lord up and down. "Sire," he began, with the slightest nod of his head. "I was told I might find you here, although I hardly believed it to be the truth. Tell me: what brings the High King of Prydain to toil in a garden like a humble cottager?"
"I cannot quite believe it myself, to be honest," Taran admitted. "As a boy, I wanted nothing more than to be a great king in the company of heroes, accomplishing bold and noble deeds. Now that I am a king, I find myself yearning for the company of plants and the quiet, weary satisfaction of a day spent working with my hands." He wiped the sweat from his brow, leaving a light smear of dirt in its place.
Rhodri was plainly disarmed; the perpetual crease between his brows softened a little, as did his poker-straight posture. The unassuming young man standing before him in threadbare, mud-spattered worker's garb was unlike any king he could have imagined, much less encountered. Even Gwydion, although courteous and never one to put on airs, had been more aloof.
"I was raised on a farm, you see," Taran explained. "So, I suppose this garden makes me feel more at home in Caer Dathyl—more at peace."
"Ah. Yes. I think I can understand that," Rhodri replied, looking less puzzled but still rather surprised. "There is certainly pride to be taken in a hard day's work," he continued. "But surely that is not your only motivation—this garden seems far too large and carefully tended to be a mere pastime."
"No, I have no spare time to pass; there is indeed a greater purpose in this work," Taran acknowledged. "You see, when Arawn was defeated, a twist of fate brought back into our hands some parchments containing the great knowledge he'd stolen long ago. Among them were writings about forgotten means of cultivating the earth: ways to improve harvests and restore exhausted soil. I was hoping to test those methods myself first, to compare them side-by-side with those I learned from Coll Son of Collfrewr and see which serve best. Eventually, I hope to spread the knowledge throughout Prydain and help the land bear as well as it once did. Every farmer—indeed, every person—deserves a sound livelihood. As it is now, too many spend their lives in hard toil for little to no gain."
"That… is a noble endeavor," Rhodri remarked. "Wise, too. Hunger goads men to rob their neighbors and vent their anger about fate upon those whom they would otherwise count as friends. I have seen it in my own land, which struggles despite the best efforts to make it yield. Keeping the land fertile may very well help keep the peace."
"Indeed, that is my hope. And in the meantime," Taran added with a wry hint of a smile, "we will have as many onions and turnips as one could ever want."
"Ha!" The abrupt sound Rhodri barked out was as close to a laugh as he seemed able to achieve. Yet, Taran noticed a marked shift in his countenance. The older king no longer looked upon him with the disdainful skepticism he'd evinced before; a spark of respect had ignited in his eyes. He stepped forward and extended his sword-calloused hand. Taran clasped it firmly in his own dusty palm, dazedly returning the unexpected handshake.
"In truth, I came here intending only to bid you farewell before I depart," Rhodri stated. "Yet, like your garden, I believe this meeting has served a greater purpose." He paused a moment, reflective and seeming to wrestle with a great decision, then cleared his throat before speaking again. "You are an unusual High King, Taran of Caer Dallben. But you seem to be a good man, who has the true needs of his people at heart…" Suddenly, Rhodri dropped to one knee and bowed his head low. "…and such a man I will gladly follow. Whether it be for combat or cultivating fields, I am at your command, for the good of Prydain." His voice as he swore the oath was certain as daybreak and steady as bedrock.
Taran's earlier surprise tumbled into outright shock. He stared down at the warrior-king's silver-streaked head and shifted awkwardly on his feet. It was still so odd being the one to whom people bowed, instead of the one doing the bowing; and for the person bent in devotion to be the stiff-necked King of Rheged? A fleeting glance around the garden confirmed that the workers nearby were likewise stunned by the gesture, though they could not have overheard the conversation itself. "Oh… Ah… You have my deepest thanks," Taran managed at last. "Please, rise."
"Furthermore," Rhodri continued as he stood, "I would like to stay for a while longer at Caer Dathyl, if you will permit it. The Council may have ended, but I suspect your need for experienced counsel has not. The knowledge I have gained during my own years on a throne could help ease your transition to kingship."
"But what of your own realm?" Taran asked. "Can you afford to be away so long?"
"My son, Owain, is fully capable of governing Rheged in my stead for a time—worthwhile training for him, really. I would return home briefly to notify him of my plans and help prepare for an extended absence. I would then return here around harvest time."
"Your offer is appealing… Pardon my hesitation, but it is rather unexpected," Taran said, stalling a bit while he considered the proposition. The change in Rhodri's attitude was rather abrupt, which gave him pause. Yet, for all that, he seemed genuine. It would certainly be an asset to have the guidance of such an experienced ruler who, for all of his outward cantankerousness, appeared to have the best interests of his people and Prydain at heart.
"I am inclined to accept," Taran replied at last. "I would like Queen Eilonwy to weigh in on the decision as well, but I suspect she will agree. Your assistance would be a boon as we continue our first year on the throne. And," he continued with a smile, "should we ever need to call upon you beyond that, I only hope it is for weeding and not warfare."
"Agreed," Rhodri declared, with the first true grin Taran had ever seen grace his rugged countenance. It was a sight as heartening as morning sun on the crags of Mount Eagle.
Only a few hours later, as Taran was rinsing off his hands by the well, he spotted Iscawin across the courtyard, heading his way. A twinge of foreboding shuddered through him. After the second—rather fraught—meeting with Iscawin, discussing the charges against him, Taran had hoped to simply avoid him until he left Caer Dathyl. It seemed fortune had other plans in store.
"Excuse me, Your Highness—are you at liberty to speak for a while, or do you have immediate business to attend to?"
"There is always business to attend to, so now is as good or poor a time as any," Taran replied, a sharp hint as much as a jest. "What is it you wish to discuss, King Iscawin?"
The King of Arvon glanced around at the numerous laborers bustling throughout the courtyard. "A somewhat less public venue would be preferable, I think, if you do not object," he suggested.
Taran wrestled to conceal a frown; that certainly did not bode well. "This way, then," he said, leaving the well and gesturing for Iscawin to follow. Quickly, he led him through the courtyard and past the Great Hall to a more secluded corner of the gardens where he'd been working earlier. "So, what is it you wish to discuss?" he asked again. "By your desire for privacy, I assume it is something unpleasant, complicated, or both."
"Unfortunately, yes," Iscawin answered somberly. "There is no delicate way to broach this matter, sire, so I will speak plainly: treachery already lurks in the shadows; over the past several days, I have overheard murmurs of sedition rumbling among the cantrev lords." He paused, allowing time for the unsettling news to sink in.
Taran's outward reaction was admirably controlled considering the nature of the announcement: a deepening worry line between his brows, increased tension in his frame, one unconsciously clenched and unclenched hand. It barely hinted at the icy dread seeping into his bones. Treason. One of his deepest nagging fears, confirmed. "What exactly was said?" he asked lowly, willing his voice to remain steady even as his heart stuttered.
"Grumblings about your inexperience; offhand comments about your weak position; the dregs of old bitterness toward the Sons of Don, now redirected at you who was their ally… rumors about rumors and conversations about conversations—vague, and usually uttered when tongues were loosened by drink. Very likely, it is idle talk that will come to nothing more—the usual muttering that accompanies a crown changing hands. Nevertheless, it is wise to be wary, and so I am bringing you word of it."
"Hmn," Taran grunted, then remained silent for a while, attempting to right his upended thoughts. It was wholly believable that plots against him were taking root despite his best efforts to win support—or at least cautious acceptance—during the Council. However, it also stood to reason that Iscawin was merely lying so as to deflect attention from himself.
Iscawin appeared to read his mind. "It is clear that you do not trust me, sire—and that is not without cause. Yet, how can trust arise without a chance to build it? Please, allow me an opportunity to demonstrate my loyalty."
Taran studied him closely, curious but wary. "What do you propose?" he asked.
A trace of satisfaction ghosted across Iscawin's face. "I propose that which you need most in such perilous times: strength," he replied without hesitation. "I offer you no less than this: I shall return to my realm, raise a force of warriors, and bring them here to serve you—enough to double the ranks of your standing garrison. I myself will cover the cost of their wages and board, as always, so that they bolster your defense without depleting your coffers. Moreover, they shall remain here for the full year during which you test my fitness to rule the Western Domains."
If Rhodri's offer had stunned Taran, Iscawin's nearly made his jaw drop. Another lengthy pause ensued while he recovered from his shock and weighed the proposition's merits. "That is a very generous offer… improbably generous, to be quite frank," he finally replied. "In a time of war, it would not be unusual for you to pledge so many warriors to my command. But in a time of peace? Why would you weaken your own position thus?"
"It is a time of tenuous peace, Your Highness, as evidenced by the grumbling I mentioned earlier—all the more reason for me to do what I can to preserve it. As for my own defense, I will retain sufficient warriors to withstand a siege against my stronghold; the exchange will merely prevent me from waging an offensive against another. If treachery and fomentation are what you fear from me," he continued, somewhat wryly, "this pact should dispel that fear. Consider it a gesture of goodwill as much as an act of fealty."
Again, Taran waited to respond, watching to see whether the tension would make Iscawin falter. The King of Arvon as stood as tall and self-possessed as ever. Even when the silence stretched long, he gave no sign of nervous energy or wavering confidence.
"It is a tempting offer," Taran said slowly, deliberately, "but one that merits a great deal of consideration. I will make no decision today. You plan to remain at Caer Dathyl for a few days yet, no?"
"Yes, through the end of the week," Iscawin confirmed.
"You shall have my answer before you leave. Thank you, Son of Nav."
"It is my pleasure to be of service," he replied. "Should you accept my offer, I will see to it that my men arrive within a month, under the direction of one of my war leaders. I myself shall return in late autumn to see that all is well."
Taran nodded and stiffly shook the enigmatic king's hand, then watched his retreat through the gardens. He held back a few moments afterward, attempting to collect his thoughts. Whatever solace the gardens had gifted him that day had been scattered like seed in the wind. Drawing in a few stabilizing breaths, he surveyed the freshly-tended rows of plants: orderly, straightforward, clear of purpose in the bright light of day. The waning sun fell across them now, an interplay of warm light against long, dark shadows. Some textures of leaf, stem, and soil stood out boldly even as others faded into obscurity. It was a fitting reflection of his own state, Taran thought—some questions and answers becoming clearer while other deepened and darkened. With a weary sigh, he left to go find Eilonwy; yet another complicated conversation lay ahead.
"Hmmm," Eilonwy murmured, her expression tightening as she crossed her arms and leaned against the bedpost, pondering all of the information Taran had just laid out before her. "That is… I don't know quite what to make of all that. Did you give them answers yet?"
"No, I have not," Taran assured her, dropping into his chair and beginning to unlace his boots. "For a decision so weighty, I wished to hear your opinion and have a night to sleep on it."
"I would hope so—on both counts," she replied. "There is much to consider."
"So… what would your first inclination be?" Taran asked. "Accept one offer? Both? Neither?"
She did not answer right away, merely continued to stand there, thinking, her lips pressed into a tight line while she gazed into the middle distance. "Rhodri seems honest enough," she remarked after a while. "I'll admit, I'm still quite salty about how rude he was to you at first, but the fact that he was so blatant about it makes me think he's being equally candid now. As for Iscawin… I trust him about as much as a poisonous spider crawling across my arm; even before Telyn said a word against him, something about that man made my skin prickle and set me looking over my shoulder. Nevertheless," she continued, "it would put him at a disadvantage to have fewer warriors close at hand, and would help us in equal measure. Our garrison is woefully small for any sort of proper defense, particularly with the castle walls in shambles. Yet, I find it hard to believe that he would so readily weaken himself simply to win our good graces."
Another long silence haunted the air between them, nearly palpable for all its invisibility.
"What if it is a ploy to get his warriors inside Caer Dathyl and attack from within?" Eilonwy continued. "We might be inviting the fox right into the hen house."
"That crossed my mind as well," Taran acknowledged grimly. He thought on it for a moment, pushing through his dismay at the need to even consider such a dread possibility, seeking a solution. "I suppose we could house his warriors beyond the castle, in a separate encampment," he suggested at last. "That would provide some measure of safety—not much, but some."
"Would Iscawin be staying on with his men?"
"Not if we object—and it did not sound as though he intended to. He mentioned coming to check on them in late autumn."
"I don't know which is better: having him where he has direct influence on his men but we can keep close watch on him, or holding him at a distance where he might stir up trouble we cannot see." The young queen's frown turned to an outright scowl. "Oh, bother all of this intrigue," she exclaimed, pushing away from the bedpost and stalking over to stoke the hearth fire. "Every time I look at one thing directly, five more shadows pop up in the corner of my eye. It's trickier than giving shape to a pool of quicksilver."
"I know," Taran concurred. "I have been twisting my brain in knots trying to determine the right course of action—or the better of two imperfect ones, at any rate. I lean toward accepting his offer in addition to Rhodri's, though. If there are already whispers of an uprising, I would feel more secure having additional warriors at the ready. But I, too, fear Iscawin has sinister motives."
"Yes, I suppose we should accept," Eilonwy grumbled. "We can always dismiss them later if we have reason to change our minds. I do not want Iscawin staying here over the summer, however; King Rhodri the Grump will try my patience enough, even if he does prove helpful."
That prompted a slight chuckle from Taran, popping a hole through the mounting tension.
"What? He is a grumble-guts…" Eilonwy asserted.
"I know, I know; I don't disagree," Taran replied, grinning. "It's merely odd to hear that trait used as a formal title." Eilonwy countered that with a mildly offended huff and another vigorous jab at the fire, but the accompanying smirk belied her outward annoyance. "All right. Are we decided, then?" Taran continued. "We accept both offers?"
"Yes," Eilonwy sighed as she turned back to face him, the hand holding the poker dropping listlessly to her side. "Not enthusiastically by any means, but yes."
Close to midnight, a knock—low but decisive—thumped upon Fflewddur's door. Half asleep already, he struggled up from his pallet, rubbing the bleariness from his eyes. The knock sounded again. Hastily, he threw on his leggings and shirt, lit a rush light from the low-burning fire, and went to answer. There was no need to call out; it was sure to be Telyn.
His stomach fluttered. Between their work with the bards, the informal lessons on plant lore, and Telyn's intermittent but persistent habit of sleeping beside his hearth, they'd been spending more and more time together—and it was increasingly testing the limits of both his willpower and better judgment. The yearning with no resolution; the tension with no release; the admiring glances that he only dared steal when he knew she wasn't looking, lest she discover the full depth of his feelings for her… How much more of that could he endure without going mad from distraction? Already, his tongue was sore from biting back words he might regret—words he feared would break their easy companionship rather than strengthen their bond. He loved her, but suspected she did not—could not—love him in the same manner; and if not, to face the embarrassment of having his own heart exposed…
He ought to gain some distance from her, really—ought to spend less time in the presence of temptation. Staying away would be the wise thing to do, the honorable thing to do. It would ache less…
Or, it would simply ache all the more.
He drew in a fortifying breath and swung open the heavy door. Sure enough, there stood Telyn, looking up at him with those arresting eyes, as blithe and alluring as ever. Instantly, at least half of his resolve melted. "Telyn! I had a feeling it might be you," he greeted her warmly, smiling to cover his inward agitation.
She wasted no time on niceties. "I cannot sleep. Again," she stated, pursing her lips.
Fflewddur chuckled quietly and opened the door wide with a grandiose sweep of his arm. "Do come in, then. I was having difficulty falling asleep myself." An outright lie. "I would appreciate the company." A partial truth. He was suddenly uncommonly glad that his old harp wasn't on hand to give him away.
Telyn broke into a grin, strode past him, and immediately flopped down upon her couch. She indulged in a luxurious stretch, breathing deeply then exhaling a relaxed sigh. "I don't mean to be a pest," she said. "I tried to sleep in my own chamber—really tried, for quite a few nights in a row. All I gained were restless dreams and exhausted days. One would think I'd be more at ease tonight, now that the Council is over and Iscawin will be departing soon; but, no, apparently that message failed to reach my nerves."
Fflewddur shut the door carefully to avoid making it creak, stirred up the fire to a stronger flame, then pulled a small osier stool closer to the hearth. He sat facing Telyn, silent for quite a while, warring with himself over what to say—or whether to say anything at all. Nervously, he ran a hand through his sleep-rumpled hair.
Telyn soon noticed his disquiet. "What?" she asked. He tried to dismiss the question with a shake of his head and a half-smile. She, however, was in no mood for evasiveness. "You're ruminating about something, aren't you? Don't pretend you're not. Out with it," she urged.
Still, Fflewddur hesitated, reluctant to stir up trouble one way or another. Telyn half rose from the couch, leaning upon one forearm to better stare him down. That demanding look he had come to know so well glinted once again in her eyes, as inarguable as the edge of a knife. He focused on her forehead instead, out of the direct line of attack.
"Well…" he began, "it's just that… Oh, you know how tongues like to wag in royal courts. Apparently, it has not—ahem—it has not escaped notice how much time we spend in each other's company. That is to say, there are now quite a few rumors floating around. And I was thinking… it might be best if you, ah… well…" He forced the last few words out in a rapid tumble, "…if you stopped coming by at night like this."
Silence plummeted between them. Fflewddur swallowed hard, then met Telyn's eyes full-on. She blinked several times, her face impassive. Then, she smirked.
"Hmmm," she hummed. "Yes, I can imagine what they are saying about us… and about me in particular," she added drily. One eyebrow arched like a drawn bow. "And that bothers you? You care what some busybodies say?"
"Well, I wouldn't want salacious gossip to drag your reputation through the mud—or mine, for that matter," Fflewddur countered. "A Fflam is chivalrous, after all."
"Indeed. To a fault at times," Telyn muttered under her breath. "Listen," she said more loudly, "I cannot claim that suppositions and slander do not bother me at all, but I refuse to let them prevent me from living as I choose. I have no patience for that anymore—if I ever truly did. That's one of the few good things to come of my years as a mountain cat: I realized how utterly ridiculous some human mores are; they are a waste of energy and a waste of time. I've lost too many years already, and I will not squander another moment trying to avoid making someone blush or whisper."
"Ah. I see. That… that had not occurred to me," Fflewddur replied feebly, smoothing his palms over his knees and mourning the loss of his only line of argument.
Telyn gave him a quizzical look. "I've never known you to have qualms about bucking convention before—or to complain about my company. Why now?"
That sent Fflewddur's gaze roaming again. How could he gainsay her? Truth be told, his qualms had little to do with social mores and gossip—although, to his credit, those had at least crossed his mind. No, he'd merely hoped she would accept that rationale, allowing him to extricate himself from the emotional quandary he most certainly did not want to explain.
He met her gaze again and regretted it instantly. She was eyeing him with that unnerving, stalking-cat stare of hers, and he couldn't escape the feeling that she was scrying each aspect of his posture for everything he had left unsaid. Her eyes narrowed a little. Fflewddur shifted uneasily on his perch, feeling suddenly off-balance both inside and out.
"Is it really court gossips you are trying to shield against? Slander and rumors?" Telyn asked slowly, her voice turning plush as velvet. She let the question hang in the air like a spiderweb for several breaths. "Or, is it your own heart—your own desires—that you are trying to keep at bay?"
She had him. The huntress had closed in on her prey, pinning him down with cords of truth. Fflewddur's unease was swiftly gaining an edge of panic. She'd guessed the contents of his mind, his heart. She knew, and now there would be no turning from it, regardless of the consequences.
Telyn pushed harder. "Do you wish the rumors were true?" she murmured, temptation in her voice and mischief in her eye. "Do you long to spend your nights held fast in my arms instead of lying across the room from me, alone in a cold bed?"
Fflewddur sucked in a sharp breath. Great Belin—how could he possibly answer that truthfully and maintain any shred of dignity? His already rapidly beating heart began to race; he only hoped Telyn couldn't hear it thumping across the space between them. He urged himself to remain calm… to think of some clever reply… to salvage whatever was left of the integrity he should care about preserving…
"Because if that is the truth of it..." Telyn went on, a sultry smile creeping across her lips, "…you really ought to have said something sooner."
For a moment, Fflewddur thought his heart had entirely stopped. Was she toying with him? And if she wasn't… He felt his blood surge and his high-minded resolve falter. There was an extremely long, incredibly uncomfortable silence while he scrambled desperately for a response—any response, really, although he'd prefer a smooth, silver-tongued one…
"Would you want anything to do with me if I had?" he parried at last. "If I had pursued you in the manner of most men?" Drat and blast, twice over, he thought. That was neither clever nor smooth in the least…
And yet, it appeared to have struck some buried truth. Telyn's expression shifted almost immediately from seductive to stunned, then reflective, then… discomfited. She shifted up to sit on the edge of the couch, bracing her hands against its edge. "No. Likely not," she acknowledged quietly after what felt like an age.
"So, what, then? You were testing me?" Fflewddur asked. It seemed his tongue was speaking of its own volition now, paying no heed to his more cautious mind.
Telyn's brows furrowed. "I… Perhaps?" She sounded as surprised by the notion as he, as though her own raw intent had never touched her conscious mind.
"And while we're at it, why did you wait so long to say something?," he continued, pressing his advantage while he had it. "I've never known you to hold back when you want something."
Another weighty silence ensued, pressing against two breastbones, two hearts, two wordless throats. To Fflewddur's astonishment, Telyn looked truly caught off-guard—and when she did reply at last, her tone was much softer, almost vulnerable. "I may be forthright," she said slowly, "but I am not foolhardy. I was…" she paused to pull in a contemplative breath before venturing further. "I think I was afraid of falling from one peak while climbing toward a higher one—afraid to risk true friendship in a bid for love." Her lips curved in a rueful smile. "I suppose I am not as bold as I would like to be when my own heart is at stake."
The revelation hit Fflewddur with the force of a crashing wave, unmooring him from the last anchor of doubt. So that was the truth of it. How had he not known? How had he mistaken the slight distance Telyn maintained for disinterest? All that while, both of them had been holding back for the same reason—so much needless worrying, so much lost time. He exhaled a shuddering sigh, realizing only then that he had been holding his breath.
Telyn rose from the couch, her movements as lithe and mesmerizing as ever. Quickly, she crossed the few paces between them, drawing perilously close. She was just a hands-breadth away, now: near enough for him to feel the heat radiating from her skin, to see the rise and fall of her chest as she breathed, to smell the blend of woodsmoke and lavender in her hair.
"But now I have said something…" she purred, leaning over him closer still, grasping his chin in the slender fingers of one hand and tilting it up to meet her. A crooked smile played across her lips once more, equally impish and sweet as honey. "…and I wouldn't think a Flam needs to be asked twice."
It was both invitation and challenge—and Fflewddur had no intentions of passing up either.
In an instant, she was in his arms—lips pressed to lips, torso to torso, skin to skin—an impossibility suddenly made manifest. And the more tightly he held her, the more time itself seemed to slip away into a meaningless blur. He explored her body like he explored the countryside, learning each bend, and rise, and hollow; committing each line and curve to awestruck memory. He buried himself, lost himself, in the depths of her—disappearing into breath, and sensation, and a wordless realm that held no syllables save those of her name. Telyn. Telyn. Again. And again. And yet again—chasing after one more gasp, one more shudder of ecstasy, one more smoldering look of unabashed love and lust from her eyes. Except more was not enough. He had never felt so at the mercy of his body and heart—and not one fiber of him cared. In that firelit space between brash day and enveloping night, she was his, and he was hers, and all else was as inconsequential as dust.
The sun was well above the horizon by the time Fflewddur awoke. Its golden rays fell in a thin, bright beam through the narrow casement and streaked brazenly across the floor. He yawned and stretched languidly beneath the blankets, enjoying the nebulous peace between wakefulness and sleep. He couldn't recall the last time he'd felt so wholly content—just warm, and still, and spent, with no urge to be anywhere other than where he was. Finally, though, he forced open his eyes…
… and realized he was entirely alone.
His contentment vanished like a falling star. Had Telyn ever been there in the first place? Had he only dreamed the night before? He couldn't decide which was worse: for her to have come to him and then left without a word, or for her visit to have been naught but a cruel trick of his desperate imagination. He had dreamed of her once before, after all—years ago, when some hand of magic had pulled aside the veil of reality, revealing Llyan's true form to his slumbering mind. But this… this had felt so much more real, so much more vivid, and tangible, and unshakably true.
He lay still for a long while, staring up at the ceiling beams, listless. Should he even bother getting out of bed? Perhaps he could simply remain there all day, sleeping away his disappointment… Would anyone even notice his absence?
Suddenly, the chamber door creaked open and Telyn slipped in, carrying a small bundle. Fflewddur scrambled to sit up, his heart soaring back to the heavens at the sight of her.
"Good morning! I brought you some breakfast," she called out brightly, walking over to set the bundle on the small table in the corner. "You were sleeping so soundly that I couldn't bear to wake you. But you'll need something to eat, so I went and fetched it. The bread is particularly good this morning."
"Oh… I… I'm much obliged, thank you," he replied, still rather dazed. He shuffled through the rumpled bedcovers, searching for his clothing while he searched for his lost coherence.
"Looking for these?" Telyn scooped his undershirt and leggings up from the floor and flashed another of her mischievous smirks, then tossed the garments his way.
Fflewddur snatched them out of the air, then went still for a moment, gazing at her in thought. "Are you even real…" he murmured wistfully, "…or merely some dream conjured up by a lonely heart?"
Telyn's smirk widened into a brilliant, genuine grin. "Oh, that is a good line," she enthused. "You ought to work that into a ballad somehow. But what a question! I'm as real as the ground you walk upon. That is, unless the dream itself can believe it is real… No matter," she went on. "Real or imagined, I must be on my way—and so should you, if you don't want to raise the ire of some rather important bards."
"You are not coming with me today?" he asked, his voice slightly muffled by his shirt as he pulled it over his head. "That will be the second time this week."
"No, documenting herb lore and medical treatments will have to wait. I have other business to attend to that can't be delayed." She strode over and bent to give him a lingering kiss. He reached out for her waist, but was a split-second too slow; she pulled back just quickly and far enough to evade him, leaving his fingers to graze her coarse woolen dress. "Patience, my dear bard, patience," she hummed in his ear. "Tonight. Then I'll prove to you how real I am."
With a teasing smile but not another word, she spun around and swept from the chamber as quickly as she had come. Fflewddur stared after her, bewildered and unsatisfied, willing the door to swing open again. However early she came to him, it would seem too late; however long she stayed, her departure would come far too soon.
He still had no idea what to make of her. She was such a contradiction: irreverent one moment and serious the next; tender and fierce by turns; a staunch companion with a maddening independent streak; a woman whose tongue lay quiet as a coiled snake until she chose to strike with an incisive comment. He knew only one thing with certainty: she had a snare wrapped around his heart, and it tightened daily.
.
A/N: Whew! That's a chapter for you... I feel like I just finished a marathon, wrapping it up after what seems like a zillion drafts. I hope it satisfies. :)
If you haven't already read it, that dream Fflewddur recalls is actually a one-shot fic you can read. Go check out "When We Shed Our Skins" if you're curious. (Yeah, I've had Telyn's character and a Fflewddur/Telyn pairing in mind for a while...)
Ongoing thanks to everyone who has continued to read and comment. It's so energizing to hear from you, and know that this story is entertaining someone besides myself. Oh, and a special hello to whomever is the reader in Finland—my maternal ancestors hail from there, and it's a nation and culture I'd like to learn more about. Be well everyone!
