Thus passed the summer, in both pleasure and toil—an endless race of hours as night chased the heels of day. Seemingly in the blink of an eye, the festival of Gwyl Awst was upon them and the harvest had begun to arrive in every corner of Prydain. The sun and rains had been favorable that year, gifting the land with far greater bounty than anyone had expected. It was a welcome stroke of luck after so many years of hardship and want, and well worth celebrating.

The festival had continued all day, and showed no signs of ending when night's cloak began to close in. Music and song continued to roll through the air. Laughter, chatter, and shouts from friend to friend continued to ring out, boisterous and joyful. The dancers kept twirling, the ale kept flowing, and the fruits of the harvest continued to pass from hand to hand. Scattered all throughout the valley around Caer Dathyl, bonfires came alight, glowing in the deepening twilight like beacons welcoming wayward ships home.

Eilonwy and Taran, accompanied by a few guards, made their way slowly from blaze to blaze, greeting their subjects and thanking them for their tireless labor throughout the spring and summer. "It is good to see people's fortunes turn around," Taran remarked as they crossed the dark stretch between bonfires, feeling their way carefully over the uneven terrain by the light of the guards' lanterns. "If we could have harvests like this several years in a row, it would do much to ease tensions between neighbors, and perhaps even between cantrevs."

"Oh, you bite your tongue," Eilonwy cautioned teasingly. "We don't need any fickle weather spirits overhearing you and mucking things up simply to cause mischief."

Taran chuckled lightly. "Since when did you become superstitious?" he asked.

"I haven't," she protested. "There's no need to take chances, though, when it's easy enough to say nothing at all. Why poke at a bear when you can walk quietly on by?"

"True enough," Taran agreed, smiling to himself at the notion of Eilonwy extolling the virtues of silence. "But one thing can be said," he continued, "if future harvests are poor, nevermore will it be for want of knowledge or skill. The newfound farming methods are proving even more successful than I had hoped. After just this growing season, the garden soil is richer and the vegetables that came of it are half again as large as those grown in the usual ways. Once we share that wisdom with all farmers, their crops, too, should come in easier and richer. Who knows—in a year or two, perhaps we will even have time to begin restoring the Red Fallows. That seems far more possible now than it did before."

"Oh, I wish Coll were here to see that," Eilonwy remarked wistfully. "That bald pate of his would be positively flushed with pride to see you still working the soil, and doing so well at it besides."

"Yes, and he would also be ribbing me over how I used to complain about seeding wheat and barley, and weeding the turnip patch," Taran added wryly. "It was so difficult for me then to comprehend how he could enjoy farm work; it seemed so tedious, so dull, so ordinary. Yet, more and more, I am coming to understand the peace he found in it."

Eilonwy sighed, and they both walked on a little further without speaking, mulling over the bittersweet taste of loss mingled with gain.

Suddenly, a tumbling of bawdy murmurs and subsequent laughter interrupted their ruminations as a pair of young lovers tripping giddily by, arm in arm. In their distraction, the couple nearly stumbled into one of the royal guardsmen, and likely would have gone sprawling had he not spotted them from the corner of his eye and drawn up short. After an embarrassed bow, a slightly off-balance curtsy, suppressed giggles, and a stammered apology, the pair dashed onward again into the gathering darkness.

"It is that season, isn't it?" Eilonwy commented with a chuckle, reaching out and threading her fingers through Taran's as they continued on their way. "Gwyl Awst: harvest, and betrothals, and hand-fasting all around… among other things."

"Hmm." Taran's hum of reply bent into a smile as he squeezed her palm in his. Yet, he found even that connection wasn't enough to satisfy. He freed his hand once more and wrapped it around her waist instead, pulling her as close as he dared without hindering her stride. It was a wonder to him still, this ability to simply reach out and touch her, to make tangible the bond he had so long felt between them.

Eilonwy giggled again, leaning her head briefly upon his shoulder. "You know… crops aren't the only thing coming to fruition around here…" she continued, her tone a hum of saucy suggestion, followed up by a dramatic pause.

Some impending announcement was clearly at hand—a reservoir of suppressed excitement just waiting to burst forth in a torrent of words. But what about? What could be "coming to fruition" that would inspire such ebullient impatience? A moment later, his mind leapt ahead to one world-tilting possibility. He twisted slightly to glance at Eilonwy, his heart suddenly pulsing in his throat. Hope and trepidation fluttered contentiously within his stomach.

"Are you with child already?" he blurted out ungracefully, one distant corner of his mind registering how odd that sentence felt issuing from his mouth.

"Good Llyr, no!" she exclaimed with a laugh, puncturing his anticipatory bubble in an instant. "And thankfully not, since we have more than enough to contend with as it is right now. Can you imagine…" she added, shaking her head. "But what do you mean by 'already', anyway?" she asked, more tartly. "As if the timing of that were entirely up to me and you'd have no reason to see it coming. Really." As she huffed and strode onward, Taran felt himself blush, grateful that the lanterns cast too faint a glow to expose his conflicted jumble of embarrassment, disappointment, and relief.

"No," Eilonwy continued, "this matter has only a little to do with us—although it is in a similar vein, and those two dizzy sweethearts who passed by reminded me: rumor has it, there's a rather interesting romance blossoming right under our noses. Or, perhaps I should say rumors appear to be confirming the romance I already suspected was in bloom."

It took a moment for Taran's jolted mind to shift paths, and none of those it meandered down seemed to end in plausible romantic pairings.

"Think: who is unattached, prone to flights of emotional fancy, and in need of a 'harp'?" Eilonwy hinted coyly. "And who would conveniently align with those traits?"

Taran nearly stumbled over his own feet, struck with incredulous surprise. "Fflewddur? And Telyn?" he exclaimed.

"Mmm-hmn," she confirmed. He could hear her sprightly, satisfied smile even if he couldn't see it clearly in the dim light. "I overheard some of the washerwomen gossiping about it. One of them seemed to have heard it from her cousin, who caught word of it from her brother, who is friends with one of the night watchmen. It appears he spotted Telyn slipping off to Fflewddur's bedchamber at night—in her nightshift no less—and not leaving again until morning. On multiple occasions."

Aghast disbelief swept in to replace Taran's surprise. "That's ridiculous—" he scoffed, "and insulting besides. Fflewddur would never behave thus; he is far too chivalrous."

"I don't think it was his idea. As I just said, the guard saw Telyn was paying visits to him. She isn't exactly shy, you know—or afraid to make demands. Recall how pushy she used to be, as Llyan, when she wanted a bit of harp music—and how little success he had denying her requests."

"What you're hinting at is a far cry from harp music," Taran responded drily. "No, surely it is not what it appears," he asserted with a dismissive shake of his head. "Even if that watchman spoke the truth, I cannot believe the visits are anything but innocent companionship. She lived and traveled with Fflewddur for years, after all. She is close to him. It would be difficult to forgo that."

Eilonwy's wry look was blatant enough for him to see it even in the dim light. "Have you seen the way she brushes up against him when they pass in a corridor? The way he gazes at her from across a room? How they stroll along the battlements together just about every fair-weather evening? He looks at her the way you look at me. You can't possibly have missed it. No, there is something substantial going on between them—more than mere friendship, or a passing fancy, or yearning from afar."

"Has Telyn actually mentioned any of this to you?" Taran asked. "You've seemed to be building a close friendship with her."

"No, she's said nothing yet. It's not the sort of topic that comes up while sparring at the training ground, you know, and we've not had much time for private conversation otherwise. I suppose you could speak to Fflewddur if you doubt what I say."

"Mmph," Taran grunted, vaguely unsettled and entirely at a loss for words. In truth, he had seen hints of something brewing between his friends, though he'd not dared to intrude on their privacy by asking Fflewddur about it—not that there'd been much time to converse with him alone, either. Now, one part of him leapt in celebration to think of their happiness, but another shrank from the very act of contemplating a tryst between them.

"Speaking of her time as Llyan…" Eilonwy pressed ahead shamelessly, "she must have gained a fairly intimate understanding of him over the course of that. I imagine she saw—"

"Eilonwy, stop. Please," Taran begged, cringing. "The matter is enough to take in without going into detail."

She huffed, but Taran heard more amusement than umbrage in it. "Fine. You needn't get your breeches in a bind about it," she retorted. "And if you think this conversation is too 'detailed', as you put it, you should hear the sort of talk that passed between some of the young ladies at Dinas Rhydnant. It would probably have made your honorable ears shrivel up and fall off with embarrassment."

It was Taran's turn to huff—a long sigh of disapproval hissing from his nose.

"I should think you would be happy for them," she continued, clearly unwilling to end the discussion.

"I am. I simply don't want to think too closely about it."

"Hmm," she hummed in return. "I think you're just envious. They're making enjoyable use of their evenings while we spend ours poring over legal documents that are as dry as dust."

"Eilonwy!"

"What? It's true, and you know it." He detected a glint of frustration flickering on the edge of her smirk.

"And the guards walking just a few paces away from us don't need to hear it—any of it," he admonished, momentarily ignoring her implied complaint despite the sting it had delivered.

She glanced over each shoulder at the warriors flanking them. "Oh, they haven't heard anything. We've been speaking quietly, and the noise of the celebration drowns everything out anyway."

"Nevertheless…"

"All right. I shall stop."

"Thank you." They continued on for several more paces in silence, before Taran broke it with another sigh—this time, of evident dissatisfaction. "We don't spend every night working," he protested quietly.

Eilonwy giggled. "No, we do not. More nights that I would like, though, given the choice."

"Hmn."

"I take it you agree?"

"What do you think?" Taran asked, a sideways smile finally breaking through his uneasy countenance.

Again, she laughed, a warm, tumbling, chuckle that sent a vicarious tremor through Taran's own chest, deep into his core. "Well, tonight is no night for work…" she purred, twining her arm around his waist as he had done earlier; her side brushing against his felt meltingly warm in the cool night. "We ought to have some time to ourselves later, too; royal prerogative, you know."

Now Taran laughed, earthy and low. "I think we would do well to exercise that privilege," he teased in return. "And sooner rather than later. But first, a visit to our friends is in order." He pointed up ahead, where it was just possible to discern the faces of their closest companions gathered around one of the countless bonfires that danced throughout the valley.

The darkness thinned as they made their way over to the blazing fire. By the sound of things, Fflewddur was in the midst of recounting their adventures on the Isle of Mona for the entertainment of Hevydd and Llassar, who had not witnessed them firsthand. Noticing how close Telyn sat to the bard, listening raptly with a faint smile upon her lips, and Fflewddur's own subtle cant toward her, Eilonwy nudged Taran, then shot him a knowing glance and a sly half-smile. Wordlessly but with a wave of greeting, they drew close to the fire and found seats upon two of the stumps scattered about for that purpose. Their guardsmen remained a few respectful paces behind, standing watch at the threshold of darkness that ringed the firelit group.

"…the once-proud towers of Caer Colur were tumbling into ruin!" the bard was exclaiming. "Crushing stone! Splintering beams! The gates groaned as the sea rushed in—a wall of water, tall as an oak and mightier than twenty battering rams—flooding the courtyards and dashing the walls to rubble! Magg—that sniveling, villainous spider—escaped my grasp by a hair and reached the only seaworthy vessel before us. So, there we stood, caught between the pounding surf and a turbulent sky. Thunder cracked and lightning set the ruined gates aflame just as—"

"What lightning? It was perfectly dry that night, only a bit windy," Telyn cut in. "I wasn't at Caer Colur itself, but I was right on the shoreline and the weather there was no different."

Hevydd couldn't hold back a rumbling laugh. "It seems Lady Telyn here is living up to her name, Fflewddur. She chides you for adjusting the facts nearly as well as the breaking strings of your old harp!"

"Hmn. So you've noticed that, too," Fflewddur muttered ruefully. "Taran said the same." He cast a sheepish glance toward Telyn. "I've tried to break myself of the habit—truly—but it's so easy to get carried away in the midst of a good story, you know. I only meant to heighten the dramatic effect, nothing more. Besides, there might have been some enchanted lightning cracking about that you simply didn't see from afar, Telyn…"

"It wouldn't be you if you didn't add some color to the facts," Eilonwy interjected with a grin. "Please don't ever stop entirely—it would seem as odd as a robin without its bright red breast."

"Telyn," Llassar chimed in, "if you don't mind my asking, how is it that you came to be named after a musical instrument, anyway? Rather unusual…"

Telyn chuckled lightly. "Yes, it is. Well, as I heard it—and that doesn't make it true, mind you—I was a rather colicky babe at first, enough to give my poor mother and father fits, and harp music was one of the few sounds that lulled me to sleep. In desperation, they actually paid good silver for some battered old harp in order to gain a bit of peace. So, whatever name they first gave me, it didn't stick. 'Telyn' I have been for as long as I can recall—that is, until I gained a new body and a new name into the bargain, all unasked for."

"Wait—is that why you kept me harping until my fingers nearly fell off, back on Mona? A lifelong attraction to harp music? And here I thought it was my playing in particular you fancied," Fflewddur teased, feigning offense.

A hearty round of laughter rose from the companions. Telyn grinned, her teeth gleaming in the firelight. "Oh, it was your playing, too!" she insisted. "I'd never heard such a fine tone, and the songs themselves were lovely."

"Lovely enough to hold him hostage? Then to track him clear across the Isle of Mona when he escaped you?" Taran put in.

"Well, what chance did I have of hearing such music again if I allowed him to leave?" Telyn contended, her eyes sparkling with humor. Peals of laughter leapt around the fire circle again.

"You had us terrified!" Taran said. "You nearly took my head off of my shoulders when I tried to snatch back our swords. Rhun was trying to scramble up the chimney to get away, and Gurgi nearly jumped out of his own fur!"

"With great quakings and shakings!" Gurgi elaborated. "Ohh, what terrible tremblings Gurgi felt, all of the way from his poor tender head to his frightened feet!"

"And then you gave us another fright when you caught up to us at the river," Taran continued. "We were lucky our makeshift raft held together long enough for us to flee."

"Ah, but I made up for it in the end, did I not? You all might have drowned in the surf near Caer Colur had I not tracked you down," Telyn pointed out.

"And for that, we are forever grateful," Taran said, all teasing gone from his voice. "You were a true friend even before we knew it." A murmur of agreement rose from all of the companions.

"Wait—what do you mean she rescued you lot?" Hevydd rumbled. "How did you break free of the crumbling fortress? Finish your tale, Fflewddur—it's poor form to abandon a blade just before the final quench."

"Well, the flow of the story is rather disrupted now..." the bard noted, looking playfully askance at Telyn for inciting the interruption. "Even so… Ahem. Where did I leave off? Oh, yes… The raging sea came crashing in upon us! Desperately, we fought our way through the dark, rising waters…"

He plunged back into the story, bringing it to a stunning and satisfying conclusion that was no less dramatic for having been interrupted. Afterward, the group sat for a while longer, conversing aimlessly and trading more stories as the stars spun slowly in the obsidian sky. Eventually, feeling parched and hungry, Gurgi, Hevydd, and Llassar left to procure another round of food and drink. For a moment, Taran looked as though he planned to remain where he sat—prompting a sharp, albeit subtle, nudge in the ribs from Eilonwy. Having caught his attention, she flicked her head slightly in Fflewddur and Telyn's direction, shot him a cheeky smirk, then grasped his hand and rose to depart; best to give their friends some time alone—and still better to steal some time alone for themselves. Taran had neither reason nor desire to protest, and eagerly heeded her summons. After a swift round of farewells, they motioned to their guards and slipped off into the night.

Fflewddur and Telyn remained by the fire, sitting in comfortable silence for some time while it flickered and crackled, watching the all-consuming affair between wood and flame.

Suddenly, Telyn's warm voice cut through the crisp, midnight air. "It was not only the beauty of your songs that drew me in, you know…" she admitted quietly.

"Huh? Come again?" asked Fflewddur, re-emerging from the deep pool of his own thoughts.

"That was not the only reason I kept you harping, I mean—back in Glew's hut. Your music… It brought me back to myself a little—reminded me of who I'd been… of who I still was beneath the unfamiliar skin. Hearing your songs, I felt more human again. I did not want that to end."

Fflewddur turned toward her, more than a little curious. The tone of her candor was different than usual—gentler, less matter-of-fact. She was still gazing into the fire, a faint smile resting upon her lips. He felt that now-familiar flutter stir within him yet again.

"Then, once I saw how willingly you risked your life to help your friends escape… It was so steadfast and brave." Telyn's smile crept sideways. "Well. Then I really knew I couldn't bear to let you go," she added, with the barest glimmer of a jest. "Not without me, at least."

At last, she looked over and caught his eye. Her gaze was as intense as ever, but far softer and warmer, alight with what Fflewddur could only imagine was love. Far too quickly, though, she turned back toward the flames, leaving him holding his breath and starving for another glance. A swell of reckless courage rose in his chest, no doubt bolstered by the overall thrum of excitement in the air and the fair amount of celebratory ale he'd consumed that night. Now, an inner voice whispered, pressing up against his tongue and urging him to speak. It's Gwyl Awst, after all… Now now now now NOW…

"Telyn… I have been meaning to ask…" he began hesitantly, still nervous despite having turned the conversation over in his head countless times already.

"Hmm?" she hummed dreamily, already entranced by the dancing flames.

"Yes, well… I've been doing a great deal of thinking lately…" he continued, still digging for the right words. Great Belin, why were the most important things to say often the most difficult to force out?

"You were thinking what?" she prompted.

"Our time together has been so… well, 'wonderful' doesn't describe the half of it," he continued. "And I was wondering if you would do me the honor of…"

Her head snapped around in surprise, finally tracking where his question aimed.

"…that is to say, if you would like to…"

"Wait—no, don't…" she stammered quickly.

"…be wed." The words splashed forth like spilled wine before he could heed her warning, indelible and undeniable. Instantly, he regretted it; Telyn had bitten her lip and looked away again, suddenly pensive. An eternity seemed to pass in her silence, and Fflewddur felt sure his pounding heart would crack his ribs before she spoke again. He watched her draw in a deep breath, then exhale slowly; watched her lips part to release words that seemed unwilling to step forth. He braced himself to meet them when they came.

"I love you…" she said at last, quietly but assuredly. "And gladly will I stay with you for the rest of my days… but not as your wife." She paused and shook her head, brows drawn together and lips pressed tight. "No, I have too much freedom to lose in that."

Great pain and still greater confusion lanced through Fflewddur's chest. His face grew hot and he swallowed hard against the sudden lump in his throat. "Freedom? How so?" he asked, fighting desperately to keep his voice steady, light, untroubled. "Great Belin, it would be unfair indeed if I, of all people, tried to rob you of freedom."

"No, no, not you, but… others," she replied. "When I think of the expectations that would fall upon my shoulders the instant I became a proper wife, and a queen besides…" She shook her head again, more emphatically. "No. I do not want that." She glanced over at him, wincing slightly when she saw his all-too-plain hurt and bewilderment. "As it stands now, no one knows quite what to expect of me," she explained. "A healer, descended from a nearly vanished people; a woman without title, yet accustomed to life at court; a widow but never a mother; a person who spent years as a mountain cat, for goodness' sake… I do not fit tidily into any station—and since no one knows what to expect of me, they're more apt to simply take me as I am, with no disappointment." She looked to Fflewddur again, plaintively. "Surely you can understand why I am loath to give that up."

"But you were married before," he protested.

"I was young and foolishly smitten; and Rhys was a farmer, not a king," she countered. "Now that I have tasted real freedom—and paid a high price for it—I cannot relinquish it so easily."

"But… But think of all you would stand to gain," Fflewddur argued weakly.

"What, the obligatory shows of respect that come with a title? You yourself know that is hardly worth the burden of a crown." She went quiet once more, worrying her lower lip as she searched for words that could adequately convey her thoughts. "Are you not content being an unofficial bard?" she asked after a while.

"Yes… aside from being without a harp at the moment," he replied, wondering where her line of reasoning could possibly lead.

"Are you not able to live, more or less, as though you were a true bard?" Telyn continued.

"In most circumstances, yes, that's true…"

"Well, my position is something like that—I already have the life I want as your unofficial wife, so to speak, but without the restraints or burden of expectation."

Fflewddur was crestfallen, and embarrassed besides. "Yes… I suppose I take your meaning," he said, trying unsuccessfully to banish disappointment from his voice. Inwardly, he cursed himself for even daring to raise the question of betrothal. So much for fortune favoring the brave and all such nonsense, he thought ruefully.

Seeing his chagrin, Telyn's face twisted in sympathy. "Oh, please don't misunderstand," she implored. "Don't be disheartened. I'm only objecting to being wed—not to you."

He nodded in acknowledgement but said no more. The two sat in silence while the fire burned down to ash and embers, neither daring to look at the other, tense as drawn bowstrings. The sounds of revelry and music swirling through the night air seemed suddenly hollow and distant, an untouchable world away from their own unsettled hearts.

At long last, Telyn cut through the thick silence that hung between them. "Listen," she began, "just… give me some time to grow accustomed to the idea—to brace myself for the changes it would bring."

"Brace yourself? You make it sound as though I'd asked you to give up wearing shoes, or trade sunny days for endless rain!" Fflewddur exclaimed. "If you are trying to placate me, I must say that's hardly the way to go about it."

Telyn's eyes flashed at the retort. "I am only being honest," she said tartly. "That is my answer—take it or leave it. If a typical sweet and flowery love story was your aim, you chose the wrong woman."

"Clearly," Fflewddur grumbled, rather more brusquely than he intended. He bit his tongue, thinking, then took up one of the long sticks at hand and began stirring up the glowing coals, watching them flare anew. After a while, his expression eased a bit. Then, it turned resolute; he looked squarely back up at Telyn. "I will forego the flowers, then," he said. "I accept your condition—a Fflam never shuns a challenge, after all. My offer still stands, but I will speak no more of it until you do." Oh, how he fervently hoped that sounded bold and self-assured. In truth, he felt as vulnerable and disoriented as an overturned hedgehog.

With an agitated cough, he rose to gather more firewood from the nearby pile. He needed a moment alone to settle his rattled head. Telyn's answer was neither the one he had hoped for nor exactly the one he had feared. He wasn't sure whether to laugh or to scowl, to be happy or heartbroken, hopeful or dejected. Perhaps all of those were fitting?

He pondered the matter as he stooped to pick up the split logs, trying to find some grounding in the rough bite of bark against skin. Could he truly blame Telyn for balking at the burden of a crown? Not when he'd prefer to cast his own crown aside. Not when she'd heard him grumble time and again about how much he chafed under it. Not when he'd walked away from Eleri, his onetime love, because he'd known her Rover spirit would wither under the constraints of queenship. No—while his heart might not like Telyn's answer, his mind understood it all too well.

And she had said that she loved him—not fondness, not fancy, but love. He could cling to that, at least, while he navigated the bewildering rapids of uncertainty. The irony of that image was not lost on him: once again, as on the Isle of Mona, he felt adrift on a raft that was falling to pieces beneath him. Only, this time, it was he who chased Telyn, struggling to reach her on a still-too-distant shore.


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A/N: Darn it, Telyn, why must be so difficult? I suppose it's to be expected, though—cats tend not to like any sort of leash, regardless of who is holding it. XD

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Before anyone jumps to comment that her notion of an 'unofficial wife' is anachronistic, allow me to present a mini-lesson on marriage practices in medieval Wales. ;) Based on the background-reading I've done, their concept of what constituted a legal union was substantially broader than in modern Western culture, with many variations being recognized and conferring associated rights.

First, some terminology, which in and of itself will help illustrate the complexity and ambiguity involved. According to Danna Messer, early medieval Wales "did not have corresponding notions of 'wife' and 'husband'; the relationship was identified and recognized based on the consensual sexual union between both partners." The term gwraig briod (proper 'wife') seems to have indicated a status closest to our modern definition of a wife, with the highest standing. The terms cywyres, cywres, and caradas appear to refer to concubines and women in other such less-official but still legally recognized relationships. Other terms used included gwraig wriog (woman having a man), gwraig (a very loose term meaning 'wife', 'female', or 'sexually-experienced female' depending on contextual connotations), and gwr priod (proper 'husband').

"Hold on a minute… concubines?" you say. Yes, concubines. Apparently, concubinage (per Messer: "the cohabitation of a couple living as husband and wife, but not formally married" or "the relationship between a woman and a man in which the man is typically of higher status and who may already have an official wife") was both practiced and socially acceptable in Wales as late as the twelfth century. Concubines had status subordinate to an official wife but superior to a mistress, and their sons did have inheritance rights. One historical source (Gerald of Wales) also mentioned a practice of lords marrying a woman only "after living with her for some time, thus making sure that she will make a suitable wife, in disposition, moral qualities, and the ability to bear children." That practice stands in contradiction to the documented importance of pre-marital chastity for medieval Welsh women, but the dissonance does not appear to have been a prohibitive deterrent. From the standpoint of a woman and her kin, it may have been seen as a gamble that could pay off if the union was subsequently formalized.

Complicating matters even further, it appears medieval Welsh law and culture also took a more flexible view of how couples could establish such unions. The 13th-century Iorwerth Redaction legal document lists "nine rightful couplings" (nau kynywedi teithiauc), presumably in order of decreasing status, honorableness, and potential for economic/social advancement. Those legally recognized unions were as follows:

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Unions by gift of kin:

Priodas — A 'proper' or 'appropriate' union, the most honorable and legally binding. Women in such a union had the right to buy or sell property.

Agwedi/agweddi — I could not find a precise explanation of how this category differed from priodas. However, the noun agweddi referred to a share of movable property that the woman brought to the marriage (the amount depended on her status), which she was then entitled to keep if she divorced her husband before seven years had passed. After seven years, she was entitled to leave with half of the communal movable property, not just the agweddi. It's possible this category was either a 'proper' union of less than seven years' duration, or a union in which the agweddi was the only property the woman's family contributed (wealthier women might have brought more).

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Unions not by gift of kin, but with the consent of both the woman and her kin:

caradas — the woman does not leave her natal home, but is openly visited by the man

deu lysuab — marital unions between step-children or families (scholars do not know the exact parameters of this category)

llathlut goleu — openly acknowledged elopement, with the couple living together somewhere other than the woman's natal home

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Unions with consent of the woman, but not her kin:

llathlut twyll—secret elopement

beichogi twyll gwreic lwyn a pherth—a secret relationship, in which the woman continues to live in her natal home (The phrase translates approximately to 'the secret pregnancy of a woman of bush and brake'... i.e. the couple are sneaking off to the hedgerows, etc. until a pregnancy outs them? Hmmm. Per Welsh law, it looks like Queen Regat might not actually have had the legal authority to force Angharad to marry an enchanter in Companion Wanderer's "Daughter of the Sea", since she was already in an established union with Geraint. Totally unfair treatment. *pout*)

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Unions that lack the consent of either the woman or her kin:

There is reason to believe that having legal categories for these non-consensual unions was a means of giving the wronged woman some legal status and rights, including that of obtaining property upon divorce, and child-support if the man abandoned her while she was pregnant.

kynnywedi ar liw acar oleu — abduction by force

twyll morwyn — 'deception of a virgin' (i.e. deceit or rape)

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Bringing all of that back around to Telyn: She's essentially saying that she already considers herself Fflewddur's cywyres/cywres/caradas, and wishes to remain so rather than becoming his gwraig briod. (Like how she assumes her status without asking him first? Pure Telyn, that. *smirk*) It's admittedly not the most logical of requests since she would rise in status and legal authority with a transition, but avoiding the obligations of queenship is a worthwhile trade-off in her mind. A few readers have expressed concerns that such a relationship would put she and Fflewddur (and Taran and Eilonwy, by association) at risk of reputational and socio-political fallout. In my opinion, that wouldn't be a significant problem given the social acceptance of such unions in early medieval Wales, Prydain's real-world analogue. Yes, there would probably have been plenty of gossip and a fair amount of side-eye about it, but it wouldn't have been as scandalous as modern readers might assume. I don't think their reputations would take a serious hit, or that their relationship status could be used against them all that much.

All right, here endeth the lesson. Three cheers for cultural history research!

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Sources:

Johnson, Lizabeth (2014). Sex and the Single Welshwoman: Prostitution and Concubinage in Late Medieval Wales. Welsh History Review/Cylchgrawn Hanes Cymru, 27/2.

Messer, Danna (2014). Uxorial Lifecycle and Female Agency in Wales [Doctoral dissertation, School of History, Welsh History and Archaeology at Bangor University].

Unknown author (1822). The Laws of Hywel: The Common Law. The Cambro-Briton, 3/27, pp. 259-264.

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Ooops—I almost forgot: Gwyl Awst is the Welsh equivalent of the Irish festival Lughnasadh, celebrating the beginning of the harvest season (~August 1st). I couldn't find all that much information on it, but it does appear to have been a time for betrothals in addition to general celebration.