Fflewddur stewed for days about what he had witnessed. The image of Telyn with the unknown man was seared into his memory like a brand on the inside of his eyelids. Yet, even so, he found he could not bring himself to confront her. As fiercely as keeping silent gnawed away at his guts, the prospect of making the final cut to sever their bond seemed even more excruciating. Forestalling it would accomplish nothing, he knew—would neither undo nor even assuage the damage done—but it was less hard-edged, less final, more an illness than an outright death.

Instead, he did his best to avoid her: acting as though he hadn't seen her when they passed at a distance; turning up late to meals and ducking out early; pretending he was already sound asleep when she came knocking upon his door at night. He buried himself in his work at the Hall of Lore, trying in vain to ignore the anger and pain that writhed like two warring dragons within him. When he could not escape speaking to her, he kept the conversations uncommonly brusque.

It did not take long for Telyn to notice the change in him, or to realize that his ire was directed specifically at her. She tried several times to casually cross paths with him, but he always had one excuse or another to brush her aside and quickly be on his way. Finally, she snagged him one night in the corridor as he was passing her bedchamber on the way to his own.

"So," she said, stepping directly into his path and shifting from side to side as he tried to skirt past her, "it is not even winter yet, and you've turned as cold as an icicle—and just as slippery to catch hold of. What has gotten into you?"

Fflewddur frowned and attempted yet again, unsuccessfully, to sidle past her. "I'd rather not discuss it," he muttered, avoiding her gaze.

"Well, you're clearly angry with me about something, although I have no idea what it could be…"

"Really? No idea?" he threw back bitterly.

Telyn recoiled, as though the acrid retort had physically stung her. "No—I have no idea whatsoever," she said slowly, her posture tensing. "So, you could at least have the courtesy to tell me."

Fflewddur huffed and cast a glance around the corridor. "Not here," he argued. "There's been enough talk floating about without giving anyone reason to add to it."

"In my chambers, then. We're right here," she countered, unwilling to be so easily put off.

Fflewddur balked, unsure whether he had the will for a confrontation, torn as he was between sharp-toothed anger and unquenched love. Finally, though, he gave a curt nod and followed her inside, pulling the door shut behind him with a hard thump.

"All right…" Telyn began, as he strode past her to the center of the room, "now tell me: what could I possibly have done that would make you turn on me so suddenly?"

In the strained pause that ensued, she searched his expression, awaiting an answer while he sought the words to give her one. Before he could find them, though, a trace of pained doubt flickered across her countenance and she spoke again. "Have you simply grown tired of me? Is that it?" she asked quietly, rigidly, holding fast to her composure. Half of Fflewddur ached to hear the question; the other half seethed that she could feel aggrieved after what she'd done.

"I dare say it's the other way around, isn't it? You've grown tired of me," he blurted out, his own voice tight.

"What? That's nonsense," she protested. "What would make you think that?"

Another flare of resentment carried him over the edge of hesitation. "Oh, you know why," he spat. "And you have some gall to feign ignorance. I saw you with that other man, Telyn—five days ago, at that cottage down-valley. I was out walking that afternoon and I saw you."

Instantly, the color drained from Telyn's face. She shook her head slowly, hands raised in a plea. "Listen—that was not what you assume…" she began.

"I don't see how it could be anything else," Fflewddur retorted. "Great Belin, a Fflam is trusting, but it's hard to ignore the sight of you with your hands on some stranger who's stripped to the waist!"

Telyn cringed, but her mien quickly shifted to indignance. "I can't believe you followed me," she sneered.

"What else should I have done?" he shot back. "Let you continue sneaking off without explanation every few days? I had a right to know what was going on."

"A right? Sneaking?" She jabbed an angry finger in his direction. "You're the one who trailed me like a spying gwythaint, instead of simply asking me where I've been going. And then you saw half of something and let your imagination run wild, concocting a mad story in your head—"

"Ask you?" he cut in. "So you could feed me some lie? How many lies have you already told, Telyn? How many things have you kept from me?"

Her eyes went wide and her lips parted, looking as stunned and hurt as if he'd struck her. Never before had she heard such contempt in his voice, much less directed at her. Almost immediately, though, her gaze narrowed. "I am not the one here who lies," she hissed.

"Oh, no—you're far too honorable. You merely withhold the truth when it suits you…" he threw back acerbically, "…about your identity, about your past marriage, about Iscawin… and now this… You couldn't even have the decency to tell me you were through with me? I had to see it? Or did you hope to keep hunting in two beds at once?"

Telyn sucked in a sharp breath and her pale cheeks flushed scarlet. "Do you want the truth of it? Do you?" she spat.

"Well, I think I saw more than enough already," he snapped back. "But yes, I want to hear the truth."

With a flash of anger in her eyes but without another word, she brushed past him and went to her pallet, retrieving a large bundle concealed behind it. She carried it over to the small table near the casement, laid it down carefully, then pulled back the folds of cloth that shrouded it. "There," she said curtly. "That is why I was 'sneaking off' without telling you where I went."

A harp. Of all things, there lay a harp—a beautiful, newly made, taut-stringed instrument, its warm-toned wood burnished to a muted shine. The graceful sweep of its column and neck bespoke the work of a master craftsman. Carvings twined all across it, difficult to interpret in the dim light but clearly no less finely wrought than the surface they embellished. Fflewddur felt his rage implode, gutting him from within—a void almost instantly filled by an icy flood of regret and confusion.

"That man you saw me with is Goronwy, the master luthier Aneirin mentioned," Telyn explained, staring him down, her voice now as hard and dispassionate as slate. "You recall—the one whose arms, and hands, and back were grievously injured in battle. I was treating his wounds so that he could regain his livelihood. There were bones to be re-set; scar tissue to be broken up; muscles and sinew that had gone tight with pain and disuse. Healing all of that took time—many visits, over several months, as he slowly returned to his work. You saw the last of those visits, checking to make sure all was still well. And as payment for my time and care, I had asked him to fashion that harp, as a gift for you."

Fflewddur had no words left—not even a raw sound to utter in reply. A panicked, searing, horrified shame had stolen them all, had overwhelmed him, as though he'd just watched his own misguided arrow pierce Telyn's beating heart. All he could do was stare, dumbfounded, at the irreversible damage done.

She shook her head in anguished disbelief. Resentment clenched like choking claws around her chest and throat, squeezing her next words into a barely audible rasp. "How could you think so little of me?" she whispered. "How could you think I would forsake you, for anyone?" Tears welled up in her eyes like two frigid pools, but she blinked them back, refusing to let them fall. "It's so easy for you to forget, isn't it, when I have a different form, a different name… But I am still myself, as I have always been. And when have I ever been disloyal to you? When?" Her voice cracked and her lip trembled, but the words that followed gained strength as they spilled forth. "Did I not track you clear across the Isle of Mona and pull your sorry bones from the sea when Caer Colur tumbled into ruin? Did I not try to defend you from Morda, the very enchanter who robbed me of my human body? Have I not carried you north, and south, and east, and west—all throughout Prydain—for the sake of you, and the sake of your friends? Have I not risked my life beside you among freezing mountains, and dark caverns, and blood-soaked battlefields? When did I ever, ever betray you? When?"

She halted at last, eyes blazing through the sheen of unshed tears. Fflewddur could do nothing but stare back, crushed under the weight of his mistake and Telyn's raging anguish. The silence between them felt as oppressive as a hand clapped over a mouth, smothering them with the force of memory and every word left unspoken.

Slowly, with the passage of several ragged breaths, Telyn's expression eased from fiery indignation to deep sorrow and bitter disappointment. Her lips pressed into a hard, unforgiving line as she gave a slight, somber shake of her head. "A man who has so little faith in me does not deserve my loyalty… or my love." Though her voice was barely louder than a murmur now, the words fell as harsh and heavy as iron on stone—a judgement delivered, an execution foretold.

"Telyn, please…" Fflewddur said, recovering the power of speech at last, taking a step toward her and reflexively extending his hands.

She backed away, still holding his gaze. Her jaw was set, her hands clenched around the fabric of her skirts, her chest drawn inward as though to shield her heart from further injury. Then, her eyes shut tight against him in a final banishment. "Begone," she commanded, her tone as icy as the peak of Mount Dragon. When she heard no footsteps, she said it again, more forcefully. "Be. Gone."

Fflewddur hesitated for half a moment longer, unwilling to retreat though he knew his cause was lost. The gates to her sight remained barred against him. Those eyes, which had once seemed capable of reaching out and grasping his very soul, now refused to even acknowledge his presence. Heart wringing itself, he turned on his heel and quit the room, abandoning the harp where it lay. The firm thud of Telyn shutting the door behind him rang out with the force and finality of a thunderclap in his ears.

He stormed back to his own chamber, hot with a tangle of anger, grief, and shame. Could she really fault him for believing what he had? Did she not see that his actions stemmed from his love for her? From his fear of losing her? He paced, and muttered under his breath, and cursed himself for being a fool, and cursed Iscawin for inciting his doubt, and cursed Telyn for the secrecy that had fueled it, and smashed his fist against the door, then paced some more, until he collapsed onto his pallet at last, utterly spent. Eventually, somehow, he dropped into a fitful sleep, plagued by dreams of death and endless searching.


When Fflewddur awoke the next morning, mind clouded, still in his clothes from the day before, he felt as though he'd been running all night instead of sleeping. The bedcovers were so twisted about his long limbs that it took several groggy moments to disentangle himself. It took but a moment longer—one blissfully ignorant moment—before memories of the previous night flooded back like a cold and salty tide over his heart, stinging its fresh wounds. Odd how sleep—even restless half-sleep—wipes the mind clean, he thought. If only it washed away mistakes as easily… He breathed a rough sigh, ran his hands over his still-weary head, and arose to confront the day.

He had to go speak to Telyn. He'd been a grievous fool and would be an even greater one if he didn't at least attempt to make amends. A Fflam should know when to swallow his pride and admit his wrongdoing, after all… She'd been in no mood to listen to him the night before—and he'd been in no state to speak coherently, much less beg forgiveness—but perhaps sleep had dulled her rage enough to give him a chance now. He might not be able to erase the wound, but perhaps he could stanch the flow of blood…

So, with tentative hope, he hurried down the corridor toward her bedchamber. Along the way, emotion toyed with his perception, making the distance feel both infinitely long and much, much too short. When he did reach Telyn's door, he paused for half a beat, staring down the indifferent solidity of the oaken planks. He drew in one deep breath to bolster his nerves, then knocked. Then waited.

No answer came.

He knocked again, more insistently. "Telyn… Telyn, listen…" he pleaded through the door. "Let me speak with you… please… Blast it—I made a right mess of things last night, and I want to apologize…"

Still, no reply. Desperation rising, he tested the handle and found it unbolted. Cautiously, he pushed the door open and peered into the room. Right away, he saw why there was no need for a lock.

Telyn was gone.

For a moment, he could only stare blankly. Even his breath and heartbeat seemed suspended, strung up in the sudden emptiness she had left behind. Then, slowly, he stepped across the threshold. The chamber was stripped of all her belongings, devoid of life, but otherwise unchanged. The bed stood untouched. The banked fire still smoldered. Amber light spilled in through the casement, heralding a new day. A raven cried out somewhere beyond the walls, raw-throated and taunting. Somewhere down the hall, a door creaked open and shut. The scent of dried meadowsweet, crushed underfoot, rose up from the floor to meet him—the ghost of a summer long gone. All the world was the same.

Except, nothing was the same.

The ill-fated harp still lay atop the table, nestled in its unfurled shroud and awash in the morning light. Even from across the room, its smooth curves gleamed. Its very presence seemed to mock him; the stark, ironic contrast between the instrument's beauty and the ugly discord it had spawned felt like the betrayal of an ice storm in spring, freezing all buds before they had a chance to bloom. He moved to the instrument, reached out and took it into his hands. Gently, he held it; ran his fingers lightly over the taut strings; traced the graceful arc of its frame, feeling the smoothness of the carved and polished wood beneath his fingertips. He'd had no chance the night before to observe it closely. Now, in the soft light, he studied the carvings running up and down and around the frame, carefully worked by a skillful hand.

What he saw pierced his heart as sharply as any blade. The images were no abstract motifs, nor the common ornamentation of leaves and flowers, but scenes from his own adventures—and through them all, he saw the figure of a great mountain cat loping along by his side.

His entire being convulsed in a ragged sob. It was too much to bear—far, far, too much. Craving softness, craving shelter, he laid the harp on the table and crawled into the empty bed—curled up on his side and pulled the thick blanket over his head, smothering himself in artificial darkness. The sunlight beyond was too garish, too cheerful, too filled with promise. Perhaps, if he slept again, if he surrendered himself to the temporary oblivion of sleep, he would wake to find it had all been a nightmare… Perhaps a knock would sound upon on the door, and perhaps it would be Telyn come to wake him with a gentle touch or a jesting prod… Or perhaps, if her absence was real, his fractured, throbbing heart would simply cease beating and he would never wake again…

Sleep refused him. The blanket held a faint trace of Telyn's scent: spicy wood smoke and sharp lavender. There was nothing left for him now but to weep.


Taran found him a few hours later.

"There you are," he said as he stepped through the doorway. "We didn't see you or Telyn at breakfast, and when you failed to arrive at the Hall of Lore, Aneirin asked me to—" He stopped short when he saw the bard's shockingly despondent mien. Fflewddur was still in the bed, now sitting slumped with his back pressed against the wall, knees drawn up to his chest, motionless as a corpse and staring almost as vacantly into space. His eyes barely flitted toward Taran as he entered the chamber. "Fflewddur, what—?" Taran exclaimed. He glanced around and took in the barrenness of the chamber, the now-cold hearth, the harp lying upon the table. Instantly, a chill shuddered up his spine. "Where is Telyn?"

It was long before Fflewddur answered, without even another glance in Taran's direction. "Gone," he said at last, his tone as flat as an un-tuned instrument. "Just… gone."

"I don't understand…" Taran replied, bewildered.

Fflewddur ran his hands over his face and through his ragged hair. Stiffly, he rose from the bed, briefly catching Taran's gaze before casting his eyes away again, unwilling to let his friend to witness the full measure of his pain. "We… We had a terrible misunderstanding last night…" he began, walking slowly over to the casement and leaning upon its ledge, gazing out to the bright day beyond. "A full-on argument, really. It was… It was horrible. I was too hot-headed to talk to her then, and she was in no mood to listen, and when I came to see her this morning to beg forgiveness…" His words trailed off into despondent silence.

Taran glanced again at the harp, sensing that there was far, far more to the story than that simple explanation, but also that Fflewddur could not bear to tell it. He had never seen his friend so numbed by grief. Even when pursued by Cauldron Born, or trapped in Glew's cavern on Mona, or struggling through the frozen passes around Mount Dragon, or during any of their countless travails, Fflewddur had always maintained some shred of optimism and vigor. At the very least, he had mustered up some gallows-humor to keep despair at bay. Now, he seemed but a hollow shell, drained of all vitality and everything that made him Fflewddur. "Do you have any idea where she might have gone?" Taran asked instead. "She cannot have gotten far, even if she left early on in the night."

The bard shook his bowed head wearily, then pushed away from the casement and turned back toward Taran. "I've no idea. Knowing Telyn and the strength of her temper, she could have gone anywhere, really." His face contorted suddenly with bitter self-loathing. "She'll have gone as far away from me as possible, that's for certain."

Taran strode over and took hold of his friend's slumped shoulders. "We will find her," he said gently but assuredly. "We have lost and found companions before, and we will do so again. We can ask the watchmen if they saw her leave. We can send out a search party; Llassar is an excellent tracker and I'm certain he will help…"

Fflewddur looked searchingly at him for a moment. Taran couldn't read his expression clearly, but it seemed as though the bard sought something he could no longer find within himself. Strength of will? Fortitude? Hope? It shook Taran to the core; he had never known his friend to be lacking any of those.

"No…" Fflewddur said at last, shaking his head. "No, you have more than enough to attend to here, without embarking on some wild goose chase on my account. I won't have it. I'm afraid this is a mess I must clean up myself—if it can be cleaned up at all, that is. No, I will go alone."

Taran knew he was right—he himself could ill afford to leave Caer Dathyl now for anything but the direst need, and could not pledge crucial warriors to an indefinitely long chase. Yet, it grieved him to be of so little help to his old friend—the very friend who had followed him so dauntlessly on his own quest, years earlier, to learn his parentage. It hardly seemed fair to leave Fflewddur so utterly alone when he had already suffered such a grievous loss. "Well, let us speak with the watchmen, at least," he said. "They may have seen in which direction Telyn headed and thus narrow your search. Take whatever you need for your journey from our storehouses, too. If I cannot be with you myself, at least my weapons and supplies can stand you in good stead."

Fflewddur nodded grimly. "You have my thanks. I will be setting out this morning."


The early morning sun, which had seemed so promising, soon vanished behind a thick layer of gloomy clouds. A chill wind rose, and rain began to pelt the ground as Taran, Eilonwy, and Gurgi gathered in the courtyard to see Fflewddur off. Taran shook his hand firmly, with a reassuring nod that said more than any words could. Gurgi solemnly handed him an extra bundle of food for the journey, which he had packed himself and tied up with a tight but clumsy bow.

Eilonwy flung her arms around the lanky bard and squeezed with all her might. "Oh, Fflewddur… I'm so sorry to see you leave like this. It was beastly of Telyn to leave without giving you a chance to set things right. I don't care what happened—that's as wrong-headed as burning a favorite cloak because a few threads are frayed. You will find her soon, though, and work things out, and return that much happier. I'm sure of it." She pulled back and forced a smile, but it failed to conceal the worry in her eyes.

"Never fear," Gurgi chimed in. "Wise and noble queen is right. You will find mountain cat maiden once again, and then woeful sadness will turn to joyful gladness."

"I certainly hope you are right," Fflewddur replied. "A Fflam is optimistic, but I must admit the odds seem stacked against me."

"Then best of luck to you," Taran added, as the bard swung up onto his horse. "Travel safely my friend, and do not let your spirits fall too low. We will be with you in heart."

"Thank you," Fflewddur answered quietly. "I suspect I will need every last drop of luck I can get—and a bucketful of forgiveness besides. Time will tell whether either comes my way."

With that, he turned and rode through the gates of Caer Dathyl, into the relentless rain and the unknowable future. Gurgi watched after him somberly, looking as bedraggled in spirit as his sopping wet fur. Taran wrapped his arm around Eilonwy's waist and she leaned her head against his shoulder in turn, tears mingling with the streams of water running across her cheeks.

"He will find her," she murmured. "Telyn will return with him. I know it. They love each other, and that doesn't simply end overnight, and… and love has to win out in the end, doesn't it? It has to…"

Taran pulled her even closer, tighter, more securely to his side. He'd thought that true, once… but he was sure of it no longer.


.


A/N: Sooo... Did I twist that knife hard enough? I know, I'm being horribly cruel to these two. But it wouldn't be a fictional love story without some serious heartbreak. I ache for them both, and also want to smack them upside their heads for being hot-headed and impulsive. Feel free to rant in the comments section if you feel the same.