"What do you think drove them apart?" Eilonwy asked, half-heartedly pushing the food around on her plate.

Taran shrugged, his face drawn. "I know not. I feared to ask."

They had decided to take their supper in their chambers that evening. After the sudden and discordant departure of Fflewddur and Telyn that morning, neither of them felt like being on public display, nor had much appetite. Although both of their companions yet lived, their rift and subsequent absence felt akin to a death.

"He had a harp with him and said nary a word about it. I don't even need to point out how odd that is," Eilonwy continued. "Do you suppose it was a gift from her? I don't see how that would start a quarrel, let alone one severe enough to make her leave. But if he'd found a way to obtain a harp on his own, we surely would have heard about it long ago."

Taran shrugged again and shook his head.

"They seemed so well-suited for each other, so happy," Eilonwy went on, frowning. "I thought for certain there was a betrothal in the wind… I can't understand what might have changed so drastically, and seemingly overnight, like solid rock suddenly cracking open underfoot."

Taran sensed another question behind her words that she dared not speak aloud: and if it could befall so happy a pair, what is to prevent the same from happening to us? He was wondering the same himself—particularly since the ground on which they stood had not felt very solid during the past year. The strain of governance was chipping away at them both. He cleared his throat; the tension in him made it feel as though every bite he swallowed were still lodged there. "It is unsettling, to be sure—like so many things of late," he said at last. "Trouble seems to be rising up on all sides…"

Eilonwy's brows drew together even more tightly. Yes, she thought, it had seemed that way—and with each new problem that arose, Taran's spirits appeared to sink lower: the brooding, the nightmares, the perpetual tightness in his shoulders… his struggle was clear. He had made an effort to be less distant from her after that day they'd read the Book of Three, but he seemed no more content than before. She felt like she was watching a well running dry, drained by the endless demands upon it. But how could it be refilled?

"When was the last time you did anything simply because it made you feel calm or happy?" she asked suddenly.

Taran's delay in answering said more than enough.

"I think you need something like that," she continued, "and fairly desperately by now, from what I can tell. You fill every waking moment with things that must be done, or should be done, or simply could be done, and at the end of the day there is not a moment left for the things you want to do."

That statement caught Taran's full attention. He looked up from his barely touched meal and met her gaze. "That… Rhodri said something to that effect a while ago," he noted.

"He did?" Eilonwy asked, incredulous.

"Yes, he did: that I must deliberately spare some time for myself and for you, or kingship will consume all of it; that the crown will eclipse everything I love, if I allow it."

"Oh, that's rich, coming from him," Eilonwy scoffed. "I don't believe that curmudgeon has spent a moment on any pleasure or love in his entire life. The advice is sound, mind you, but I hardly see how he has the right to say it."

"He seemed to know of what he spoke," Taran remarked slowly. "While at his stronghold, you mentioned that Lady Ffion had quit his side. From what he told me, I believe he bears deep guilt and regret over it… that he became so wedded to his duties, there was no place left for her, and so she left."

Eilonwy's look of scorn for the King of Rheged turned first to surprise, and then to somewhat contrite sympathy. "Oh. I see," she said after a long pause. "Perhaps… Perhaps I misjudged him, then." Small wonder her suggestion to Taran had struck a nerve, she thought. If that was among the fears raging through his head…

She watched him for several moments in silence. His own eyes were downcast again. His fingers worried the fire-blackened shard of pottery strung on a thong around his neck. It was a nervous habit she'd noticed: rubbing his thumb over and over the surface; squeezing it so tightly at times that it bit into his palm and left a mark. She felt an idea fluttering just beyond her reach, elusive as a butterfly—the notion of something that might ease his troubled mind. Her gaze shifted away from him for a moment and fell upon the wine bowl he had crafted during his wanderings. It rested in the center of the small table at which they sat, smooth, and lustrous, and comforting, somehow, in its earthy solidity…

"You ought to spend some time in the pottery," she blurted out.

Taran looked up sharply. "What? Why? What has that to do with anything?"

"Well, you always seem… wistful, I suppose, when you look upon that wine bowl you made. And you have lost more companions than Annlaw Clay-Shaper, yet a relic of his life is the only one you wear on your person. And of all of the trades at which you toiled, pottery was the only one you truly seemed to regret leaving behind. All of that together makes me think it might do you some good to return to the craft."

Taran shook his head regretfully. "No, alas, it would be in vain. I had no talent for it…"

"I said nothing about talent, did I?" Eilonwy countered. "You're the High King now—it's not as though you must earn your keep by making pots. You're free to do it simply for the pleasure of it. Besides, I imagine you would improve significantly if you kept at it, as with nearly anything else. It's not as though a potter's hands drop magically out of the sky, perfectly adept at their craft. Surely Annlaw did not lead you to believe that."

"No, he did not. But the time it takes… I cannot put aside so many important—"

Eilonwy cut him off with a sharply arched brow. "And what were we just discussing not a moment ago? Hmm?" She paused while he sank back in his chair, looking mildly embarrassed. "Talent and time aside: does the shaping of clay soothe your spirit?"

Taran thought back to the countless hours he had spent as Annlaw's apprentice, digging clay from the riverbank, kneading it into a workable state, sitting behind the whirring wheel, loading and stoking the long-burning kiln. He recalled, too, the brief, bittersweet moments of the final time he had worked at Annlaw's wheel, just before the devastating attack on Commot Merin stole the old potter's life. Even then, haunted by the looming specter of war, time had passed differently with clay in his hands. His troubles had seemed muted, distant. He had felt there was space in which to catch his breath…

"Yes, it does. Or, it did, anyway," he answered at last. "Like nothing else, really—save for you."

Eilonwy's cheeks flushed slightly at that. "Then you ought to spend more time with both," she stated firmly. "I am right here, and the pottery is not much farther away. They finished rebuilding the kilns but a week ago, in fact, so you can help to break them in." Still, Taran looked unconvinced. "If other kings and courtiers can fritter away their time on hunting and such, I don't see why you cannot spare a few hours once in a while on a pastime that brings you some relief," she argued. "What have you to lose in trying?"

"I will give it some thought," he allowed.

"And well you should," she said with a toss of her hair. "If you continue moping around here as you have been, I fear you will set loose a thunderstorm indoors."

Taran flashed a slight, wry smile and took a long sip of his wine—best to let the last word be hers.


In an unstoppable stream, time flowed on. Late autumn ceded more and more ground to winter, night devoured more and more of the day, the solstice arrived, and still Taran's mood had not improved.

"You're scowling like a soggy cat again," Eilonwy chided him that afternoon. "Have you visited the pottery yet?"

"No, not yet," Taran replied with a hangdog look. "But I fully intend to," he added upon seeing her pursed lips and reproving glance.

"Nine times, now, I have reminded you since I first suggested it—and nine times you have assured me you would soon," she retorted, hands planted on hips.

"You have kept count?" he asked with a short laugh. Eilonwy raised an eyebrow in response. "I know, I know…" he went on, running a hand sheepishly through his hair. "And I meant it every time, truly! The right day for it simply has not come…"

"Not one day in three weeks?" she countered. Then, abruptly, not waiting for an excuse, she reached out and grasped his hand, and strode determinedly off with him in tow. Taran dragged his heels a bit at first, but quickly relented, figuring there was no reason to spur mild vexation into outright anger.

As he suspected would happen, they soon arrived at the doorstep of the low-slung, whitewashed pottery. "Now," Eilonwy stated, releasing his hand and crossing her arms, "you are going inside and I will be standing outside this door to ensure that you don't come out again until you've spent a fair bit of time with that clay."

Taran opened his mouth to protest, but she cut him off again. "No, I mean it—you must give it a chance, at least. If it fails to help your mood, I'll say no more about it. But I need you to try."

"Do you really mean to stand here on guard for hours while I work?" he asked wryly. "You'll freeze out here in this cold."

"Hmph! I would hope that will not be necessary—that I can trust you to stay of your own free will—but I shall stay if I must," she replied. "And never fear, I won't stand here watching if that will make you all jumpy—that would be contrary to my aim, after all. But I do want to ensure that you give it a fair attempt."

"All right, all right," Taran acquiesced. "I promise to do as you ask, so long as you promise not spy over my shoulder."

"Agreed," she responded with a decisive nod. "Now," she added, moving behind him and pushing him by the shoulders across the threshold, "get in there, and do not come out until you have a pot to show me—however misshapen that pot may be."

Taran could not help but grin at her persistence. He spun around quickly to give her a peck on the cheek, then strode into the workshop.

He was met with a roomful of dumbfounded stares and the mineral scent of fresh and drying clay. "Ah… I have come to check that all is well here…" he announced to the potters at work, "to see that your new accommodations and kilns are suitable… and to formally meet each of you… and, ah… well… to try my hand at one of your wheels, if it would not be too much trouble."

The chief potter, Ioan Son of Iorweth, a sturdy older man with a broad face and a bald pate as smooth as a bowl, looked up from his wheel and laughed heartily. "A warm welcome to you, Your Majesty!" he called out in a voice as earthy as the clay beneath his firm hands. "There is no need to ask for what you have the right to command, but I thank you nonetheless for your uncommon courtesy."

He rose from his wheel, dipped his hands in a wash bucket and dried them on his apron, then strode over to greet Taran. "Indeed, all is well here," he said. "The clay from the river banks is supple and strong, our wheels spin freely, and the kilns run as hot and steady as one could ever wish. But what is this about you wishing to spend some time at the wheel? Queen Eilonwy mentioned as much a few weeks ago," he added with a warm glint in his eye, "but I had just about given up hope of it coming to pass."

"She spoke of it to you already, did she?" Taran asked with a sideways smile.

"Aye, that she did," Ioan said with another chuckle. "Said you once were a student of the great Annlaw Clay-Shaper himself, and were yearning to feel the clay beneath your fingers again. Come—you may sit at my own wheel and stay for as long as you like. No shortage of other tasks have I to fill my day."

He led Taran over to his corner of the workshop, unceremoniously scooped his half-finished vessel off of the wheel and back into the kneading trough, then wiped the wheel clean for Taran to begin anew.

"Try your hand, King Wanderer, and may the clay bend smoothly to your command." With a wide smile, he then left Taran to his work.

From one of the large clay-filled troughs, Taran tore off a hunk the size of both fists. He shaped it into a squat, rounded lump, then slapped it down in the center of the wheel with a wet thwack. He donned one of the aprons hanging from pegs on the wall, sat himself behind the wheel, and began kicking it up to speed. Only when he had fallen into an even rhythm did he drip a handful of water over the clay and begin.

First, he must center the ungainly, lopsided lump into an even disc. He bent over the wheel, bracing his arms in a sturdy triangle against his torso, then brought his hands to the clay. Downward he pushed with the edge of his right hand, and inward from the side, cupping his left palm around the whirling clay. It was a struggle at first, and one he remembered well. The clay fought against him, wobbling and off-kilter, pushing back defiantly against the heel of his hand as he urged it toward the center of the wheel. The steady pace of his kicking faltered for a moment, causing the wheel to slow. Then, a rising surge of frustration and doubt swelled in his chest. Had he lost his touch? Was his skill even less than he recalled? Was he squandering precious time on a fruitless pursuit? Would the same discontent that dogged him elsewhere follow him here, too?

He pulled his hands away from the clay for a moment and allowed the wheel come to a halt. He closed his eyes and drew a few deep breaths, pulling in the mingled scents of water and clay dust, filling his lungs so full that there was no room left for irritation to dwell. He listened to the whirring of the other potters' wheels, swift and sure and alive with the energy of creation. Then, he began again.

Once more, he kicked the wheel up to speed. Once more, he trailed water over the rebellious clay, watching as it sheeted out across the spinning wheel. Once more, he bent over it, willing himself to remain steady, firm, calm, patient… Carefully, he returned his palms to the clay, applying even pressure to its bulk: downward, spreading it out into a flatter disc; then inward, causing it to rise up again in a tighter column. Over and over, he repeated the movements—slight shifts inward, outward, inward, outward, inward, outward, inward again, until…

There it was—the sudden moment when all felt right: the rhythm of his kicks, natural; the clay spinning smoothly beneath his hands, grounded, centered, and in balance; the concomitant sense of relief and balance within himself. He stopped momentarily for another breath, and gave the thirsty clay another splash of water. Then, he set to work giving it shape.

Hugging one side of the clay again with his palm, he pushed the fingers of his other hand down into the very center of the turning cylinder. Slowly, he pulled back toward himself, hollowing out a space within and compressing the bottom with his fingertips. Next, he began coaxing the sides upward, working with the clay instead of trying to impose a strict form upon it. He guided it with gentle but unwavering pressure, and allowed it to guide him in turn. The material responded eagerly to his touch, but also hinted at where it wanted to flow. When he heeded its desires, a natural conversation seemed to arise: the clay spoke to him through his fingertips, and he found voice in its transformation. He strove to maintain a delicate balance: squeezing a bit more water over the clay whenever it began to feel sticky, but not adding so much that it pooled in the bottom; maintaining an even thickness as he pulled up the vessel's sides; moving quickly but fluidly, so as not to knock anything off-center. Slowly, slowly, a vessel began to take shape beneath his hands, rising upward, outward, then back inward in graceful curves.

As he worked, his thoughts turned back to Commot Merin: to the clear water and clay-filled banks of Fernbrake Stream, winding through the verdant fields; to the crisp scent of fir and hemlock in the cool air; to the joy he had felt in that place and time, believing briefly that he had found his place in the world. The memories blended with the present moment, uplifting his heart and delivering it into a state of focused calm.

Suddenly, one errant press of his fingers warped the delicate wall of clay, sending the nearly-complete vessel into an irreparable contortion. For a moment, Taran's heart sank. Another failure—more proof that he lacked the gift for what he strove to do. No potter was he, and never would be, even in the precious spare time he could steal. But, then he recalled how the very same thing had happened during his first attempt at Annlaw's wheel—and remembered, too, the master craftsman's reassurance that a spoiled vessel was but raw material for another form; that the heart renews itself, gaining rather than losing skill with each effort spent. A sense of resolve came over him. No, he would not give up so easily; he would not be defeated by a humble lump of clay. With a rueful laugh at the disfigured vessel, he squeezed it back into a ball and began the entire process again.

It came more easily the second time around, his fingers more deft and the clay more yielding. The sense of contentment and focus he had found earlier returned and remained with him. The rest of the world seemed to fall away as the clay flowed once more beneath his hands, cool, and slippery, and wordlessly whispering its next incarnation to him through the language of touch. At last, he achieved a form that pleased him: it could be a flagon, perhaps, if he added a handle; or a vase to hold flowers when spring returned. Delicately, he finished off the rim, smoothing it with a strip of soft, soaked leather. Then, he sat back to assess his work. It was far from masterful—a bit uneven, a bit off-center, a bit too thick-walled for his liking—but it would make a respectable offering nonetheless to the fickle and fiery spirits of the kiln. Perhaps it would even survive the trial.


Unbeknownst to Taran, Eilonwy had been watching him work for quite some time, standing silently just inside the doorway. She'd remained outside at first, as agreed, but her curiosity had soon gotten the better of her, and she'd crept in not long after Taran had sat down at the wheel. Fortunately, the working potters heeded her urgent gestures to disregard etiquette and ignore her presence. At first, she'd hung back quietly simply because she did not want to break his concentration—or let him know that she'd broken her promise. Before long, though, she was holding back simply because she was entranced.

It was a revelation, watching him. She did not understand what he was doing, precisely, but she could see what he was feeling and thinking, and the transformation the clay wrought over him even as he shaped it in kind. As usual, every emotion was writ as plainly as text across his features. She saw his initial trepidation as he settled his hands over the clay. She read determination in his unconsciously bitten lip as he fought to compress it in the center of the rapidly spinning wheel. She recognized the frustration that made him stop, and the perseverance that spurred him to begin again. Her own heart rose with his as the unremarkable gray lump began to assume a recognizable form, and a smile touched her lips even as it touched his. His eyes were fixed on the clay. His hands moving tenderly, steadily, intuitively. The curve of his back echoed the curve of the emerging vessel—supple, yet filled with an internal strength and immense potential. All of that while the wheel spun, and spun, and spun, like the seconds in an hour and the days in a year.

When she saw the nascent vessel go awry, and Taran's expression twist likewise in disappointment and shame, only a hand clapped to her mouth stopped her own cry of dismay. For a moment, she feared he would abandon the effort—that he would cast aside the good he found in the process for want of perfection in the product. But he did not. He recovered his will and began afresh, as he had so many times before in so many other aspects of his life. A warm feeling blossomed full within her as she looked on with pride, with admiration, and with love.

Finally, she saw him pull back. The wheel spun gradually to a halt. A humble yet lovely vessel sat before him, long of neck and sleek of side, glistening yet with a sheen of water. More lovely still, to her, was the look of contentment on Taran's face. It was a rare sight of late, and all the more precious for it.

"Beautiful!" she called out softly from the doorway. "And you claimed there was no skill in your hands… Your handiwork says otherwise."

Taran's head snapped up at the sound of her voice. "And you claimed you would not spy on me while I worked. Your presence says otherwise," he countered with a smirk.

"Can you blame me for my curiosity? I've never watched a potter at work before, let alone you. I couldn't turn away from that any more than I could put my fingers in my ears while a good story is being told." She strode across the room toward him and stooped in for a closer look at the new vessel.

"It is flawed," Taran lamented, before she could utter a word. "See how it leans to one side a little? And those grooves, there—I failed to keep an even pressure on the sides as I pulled them upward."

"Pfff. It's fine," Eilonwy assured him. "It needn't be perfect to be useful—or even beautiful. I think those grooves make a rather pretty spiraling pattern. It's to be a flagon, right? If it's already leaning in one direction, simply make that the side from which you pour things out and place the handle on the opposite; the shape will flow in the direction of the wine within."

"Perhaps…" Taran allowed, examining it skeptically.

"Well I like it, so don't you dare squash it back into a lump," she protested. "That took quite a lot of effort to make, and I should hate to see it wasted."

"No, I will leave it to dry and let the kiln decide whether it is fit to survive. Many crack in the firing, you know—hidden flaws emerge in the intense heat."

"Hmm. Pots are much like people, then," Eilonwy surmised. "If this one takes after its creator, I am confident it will survive the flames."

Taran smiled, blushing faintly beneath the smear of clay upon his cheek. "Even if the fire does claim it," he went on, "it will not have been a waste. The working of it did calm my mind, just as you suggested it might, and the practice can only add to my skill, such as it is. In time, I might yet shape some pots worthy of our table."

"You see? It pays to take my advice. You might do more of it in the future, and with fewer objections beforehand," she added teasingly.

"Indeed," Taran agreed with a light laugh.

Deftly, he reached down and pushed a dip into the vessel's rim, creating a spout. "I will add a handle later," he said as he cut the flagon from the wheel and set it aside on a table. "But now, would you like to try your hand at the wheel?" A good-natured gleam flashed in his eyes.

"What? Oh! I… Yes, of course," Eilonwy replied. "I'm certain I will make as much a mess of it as I did with my first efforts at embroidery, but I shall make a valiant attempt nonetheless."

Taran untied his apron and placed it over her own head, tying it securely behind her back. "Here. Sit toward the front of the stool and I will sit behind you. I will keep the wheel turning so you can focus solely on the clay."

She took her place as suggested, while Taran scooped up a slightly smaller lump of clay from the trough nearby. As with the first, he shaped it into a rough sphere, then placed it into her hands. The weight of it surprised her, dense and damp, cool and slightly sticky. It was an odd texture, but not entirely unpleasant.

"Now, slap that down hard as close to the center of the wheel as you can," Taran instructed. "You want it to stick well, lest it shift when you first begin to work."

The clay hit the wheel with a loud, satisfying smack. It felt rather good, she thought, to throw something and have none look askance at it.

"Good," said Taran. He settled in behind her, bracing her in the sturdy triangle of his legs and torso, and stretching his arms alongside hers. "Now, place your hands so… and keep your elbows tight to your sides for support. It will surprise you how easily a tiny ball of clay can push you around—it takes a firm hand to push it back."

She followed his instructions, positioning her hands as he had shown upon the clay: top and side, just as she had seen him do earlier. He kicked the wheel up to a feverish speed.

"Oh, I nearly forgot—" He dipped a cupped hand into the water bucket and tipped it over the clay. It streamed across Eilonwy's fingers, the sensation sending a slight shiver up her spine. "The clay must stay wet," he advised. "Not too wet, mind you, but enough that if moves smoothly beneath your fingers."

She watched the clay spin for a moment, lopsided enough on the wheel that it seemed to pulse from side to side like a living thing. Then, Taran laid his palms over hers. Gently but with purpose, he guided her hands, showing her how to urge the clay into a place of balance. It was every bit as difficult as he had warned, pushing outward against the heel of her hand in protest while she strove to force it back toward the center. Eventually, though, it found its home.

"All right, now you will need to handle the clay with a softer hand, as you open the center and pull up the sides." He showed her how to hollow out the vessel's core, pressing her fingers down into the soft clay with his own. "And now, you will place your fingers thus…" he said, moving to the sides, "… and pinch lightly like so… and then hold them in that position as you pull steadily upward—not too fast, and not too slowly. Persuade the clay, do not command it."

Beneath the light pressure of her hands, the clay rose up as if by magic—earth seeming to shape itself in response to thoughts so subtle she herself was not aware of them. It was peaceful. It was soothing. It was a challenge but not a battle—more like a dance between material and hands, moving together to the drumbeat of Taran's kicks upon the whirring wheel. His chest was warm against her back. The wet clay was soft against her hands. Looking down into the twirling spiral in the bottom of the growing vessel, she found a single, central point of stillness—a bastion of serenity in the ever-shifting world around them.

The bowl that took shape was not graceful in the least. She found she did not really care.


.


A/N: Fun with extended metaphor... thanks for humoring me. Thanks as well to Companion Wanderer for suggesting a Taran-working-with-clay scene, and to my own beloved pottery teacher, J.P.