Well before the snow had melted fully from the hilltops, Fflewddur set out once again, to the fond but wary farewells of his retainers. Although his waning hope had flagged even further over the dark days of midwinter, the lingering visions of Telyn that haunted his daylit thoughts and midnight dreams tugged at him as powerfully as an iron chain. So, he rode forth, bearing southeastward this time through the Llawgadarn Mountains and toward the Free Commots; if Telyn had sought a distant haven, he could think of no better place than there.
Even in the midst of his loneliness, the beauty of the countryside struck him as he traveled. The first traces of spring were beginning to unfurl across the land: eager birdsongs whistling through the predawn hours; veils of misty green where tender leaves burst their buds; rushing brooks flush with snowmelt; even a few precocious daffodils popping up on the warmer, southerly slopes. After such a harsh winter, he'd been inclined to feel as though nothing could have survived except stripped wood and barren stone. Yet, there were signs of life all around him, as in every spring before—faint and fragile, perhaps, but gaining strength each day. He clung to the poetry of that, craving an auspicious omen for his uncertain quest.
Nevertheless, for whatever measure of reassurance the scenery granted him, it increased the keenness of his yearning twofold. Each plant he recognized recalled the woman who had taught him its name. Each reflection of a bright sun on dark waters evoked the duality of her eyes. Each brilliant sunset splashed across the heavens made him wish she were there, sharing the sight of it with him, at the close of day. In those moments, his half-dormant grief would stir and clutch him once again, making his entire body ache in concert with his heart. He missed so many facets of her. He missed her clever insight, her frankness, her playful irreverence. He missed her unrestrained joy at hearing his new songs, and the sound of her own rough-but-rich voice twining around his. He missed the potent depth of her gaze, equally alluring and unnerving. He missed watching her glide through space, entirely unaware of her own lithe beauty. He missed the warmth of her beside him at night—soft and vulnerable in a way she wasn't when awake—and the quiet murmurs that escaped her lips when she dreamed. He even missed the way she called him to task for adding color to the facts, allowing him to spin away on a flight of fancy for the sheer excitement of it, but binding him to the truth in the end. He missed her, plain and simple: all that she was, and all that she was not, and all that she might have been in time. If she had stayed. If his folly had not driven her away.
Nevertheless, he knew that wallowing in his misery would not bring him one step closer to finding her; and although he could survive alone—could restore the trappings of his life as it was before they'd met—he could not resign himself to that. All would taste like stale bread and tepid water after the vibrant feast life had been with Telyn. So, he did the best he could to push his yearning aside before it sapped all strength from him, and continued onward mile after lonely mile.
Alas, not long after he descended from the Llawgadarns, the promising weather took a foul turn as the death throes of winter thrashed against the land. Sleety rains burst forth from leaden clouds. The winds bit into his skin as sharply as regret gnawed at his heart. Muddy trails sent Generys slipping treacherously, slowing their pace to a maddening slog. By the time he reached Commot Isav, his spirit felt as bedraggled as his sodden cloak. He did find a brief respite in the tiny commot thanks to the warmhearted courtesy of Llassar's mother, but neither she nor any of her neighbors had seen any trace of a wandering healer—and more was the pity, said they, given how many had taken ill of late. After an hour or two of harp music played in thanks and a restless night's sleep, Fflewddur was on his way once more.
He had no more luck in Commot Merin the following evening. The cottagers there hadn't caught so much as a whisper of any strange wanderers passing through, much less a woman traveling alone. To make matters worse, Fflewddur felt a vague malaise beginning to creep over him, setting him aching from head to toe and bones to skin. He forced himself to eat well from what his hosts offered and retire early that evening, hoping it was merely hunger and exhaustion that plagued him.
Yet, morning saw him in no better state. He was still as weary as if he hadn't slept a wink, and his throat felt as though someone had scraped it with a comb. By sunset, an unrelenting chill overtook him, making him shiver and quake no matter how close he sat to his camp fire. When he reached Commot Gwenith the following day, a hacking cough had invaded his lungs, and a fever was searing him from the inside out. He scarcely spoke to anyone there, for fear of spreading whatever illness gripped him; a few words with a handful of passersby confirmed Telyn's absence, and spurred him onward again.
He pressed ahead doggedly. Yet, with each passing mile, he felt himself weakening; it took all of his will to cling to the saddle and keep his seat. He needed rest. He needed food. He needed shelter. But where? Would anyone even dare to take him in now, for fear of illness?
Finally, at the outskirts of the Commot Cenarth, he spied a warm glow of light from the windows of a small cottage, beckoning through the growing darkness. An exhausted cry of desperate hope crawled from his throat, and he forced himself onward. With his very last scrap of strength, he reached the cottage, tied Generys to a fencepost, and knocked feebly upon the door, wincing as even that light touch sent a frisson of pain through him.
A tall, dark-haired, oak tree of a man came to answer. The initial look of surprise in his hazel eyes quickly turned to concern when he noticed Fflewddur's gaunt condition.
"Who is it?" a woman's voice called out from somewhere beyond Fflewddur's wavering line of vision.
"A visitor, it seems," the man replied over his shoulder, then looked back to Fflewddur, questioning.
"Fflewddur Fflam—a bard in need of shelter," Fflewddur croaked out. "Would it trouble you if I stay the night in your byre?" he asked, gesturing toward the modest outbuilding on the far side of the garden plot.
By then, the woman had joined her husband, peering around his broad shoulders, which nearly filled the narrow door frame. "You are in no state to sleep in a byre!" she exclaimed when she caught sight of Fflewddur. "By the looks of you, you're half-starved, three-quarters frozen, and dangerously ill! Come in, come in; get out of the cold and damp! Rhein will see to your horse for you."
The man stepped aside and Fflewddur stumbled across the threshold, gripping the doorsill for a moment to keep his balance as the world spun. Then, before he could even ask his hosts' full names, the warmth of the cottage enveloped his weary body like a soft blanket, and he collapsed to the floor like a stone.
In his dreams, he ran endlessly. Once again, he was in the mountains, tearing as swiftly as he could along rock-strewn, twisting paths. He had seen Telyn. He had seen her, fleetingly, up ahead—one flicker of her hair in the sunlight, one flash of cloak, one slipper-shod foot—disappearing around a jutting peak of stone, forever one step beyond his sight. He called out to her again and again, but found he could not even hear the sound of his own voice. All was eerily, impossibly silent. The air was utterly still and stifling. The sun shone brightly but granted no warmth. He was burning on the inside and shivering on the outside, and even his skin seemed to throb with pain. But he kept running. And running. And running. If he paused for even one moment he would surely lose her. Perhaps he would catch up to her around the next bend… or the next… or the next… or the next…
The cool pressure of a damp cloth on his forehead yanked him from the dream and back into his mortal body, but not fully into consciousness. He lay on a narrow pallet—that much he could tell. A faintly herbal scent suffused the air. A figure bent over him, shadowy in the dim light of a hearth fire and hazy through the mental fog of his raging fever. Tawny of hair, slender of form, her lips murmured something to him that his disoriented mind could not quite comprehend…
Desperately, he grasped for her hand and attempted likewise to speak, but found his voice reduced to a rasp. "Stay… Please, stay…" he eked out. With a gentle firmness, she reached out to clasp his hands and calm him, but he saw not the faintest glimmer of recognition in her gaze. Yet, it had to be her—it looked so very much like her… "Telyn… Telyn, please…" he begged again in a hoarse whisper that barely crossed the threshold of speech.
The woman froze. Her features tensed and, for a split second, she gripped Fflewddur's hands more tightly. She searched his pleading eyes, but could find no answer there—only delirium and deep sorrow. "Ssshhhh… ssshhh… It's all right. You're all right," she reassured him, shaking herself back to the task at hand: keeping the unfortunate stranger lying before her alive. "Here, let's get some more medicine in you while you're half-awake, at least."
Withdrawing her hands from his, she rose and went to retrieve another mugful of the herbal decoction she'd been coaxing into him each time he woke. She helped him lift his head, steadied the mug in his trembling hands as he brought it to his lips, and made sure he swallowed every last drop of its bitter contents. It coursed down his raw throat like a stream of fire, but he cared little; every last bit of him already hurt—his heart most of all—so what did a bit more pain matter? That done, she eased him back against the pillow and readjusted the blankets around him. Soon, a heavy drowsiness began to pull at him again, drawing him inward and down—this time into the merciful depths of unconsciousness, a dark and dreamless escape that he needed as sorely as any medicine.
A night and a day passed in that shifting, liminal state between reality, restless sleep, and waking nightmares. But then, finally, Fflewddur began to rally: the blaze beneath his skin abated, he slept more peacefully, and his periods of wakefulness became longer and more lucid. He at last had a chance to speak with his hosts, rough though his voice still was, and learn more about them. It seemed some luck was with him after all, for he'd stumbled across the home of Gwenydd, the healer of Commot Cenarth. Her husband, Rhein, was a carpenter by trade, although far from a master, by his own admission. Fflewddur thanked them profusely for their tireless care and vowed to repay them, but they brushed it off as nothing.
"Give us a few tunes on your harp and that will be payment enough," Rhein said warmly. "Coin and goods we can come by any day, but few bards ever venture so far east. It would be a rare treat to hear you play."
"Certainly," Gwenydd agreed. "But tell us first: what brings you to the Free Commots at all, and so early in spring at that?"
"It's a rather long story, I'm afraid, with more twists and turns than a Fair Folk mine," Fflewddur demurred. "I usually wouldn't shy away from a lengthy tale, but I'm afraid I haven't the voice for it just now." Or the heart for it, he thought.
Gwenydd left it at that, and kept the conversation to a more one-sided chatter for the remainder of the day. She and Rhein mostly attended to their own business, though, leaving Fflewddur to rest. He was grateful for the comfortable quiet, although it did carry a bittersweet tinge. Looking around, he noted that the cottage was exactly the sort of place he would wish to come home to after long ramblings: warm and snug, simple and sheltering, private and peaceful; a far cry from the drafty dreariness of his own castle. It was the sort of place Telyn would like, too, he thought. He could so easily imagine her in Gwynedd's place, trimming and hanging up herbs to dry, tending the garden beyond, sitting beside that stout hearth on cold evenings while he composed and practiced new melodies and old… Were he not a king. Had life played out differently.
Pensive, he took up his new harp, and let the clear voice of its strings express what words could not.
Walking home in the blessedly warm afternoon sun, Telyn felt a sense of elation she'd hardly experienced in months. She ought to be exhausted, really, after several days and nights of near constant vigil over her neighbor's ill family. Perhaps it was the relief of seeing all of them survive that bolstered her energy—or perhaps the more selfish relief of having escaped the vicious fever herself, by some miracle. Either way, she felt as bright as noon—a jittery, mind-buzzing sort of brightness, to be sure, but far better than the vacillating rounds of seething resentment and deep melancholy that had plagued her since leaving Caer Dathyl. Her energy couldn't last long, though, and she only hoped it would hold out long enough to see her home. Step after step, she drank in the heartening signs of spring's return, and daydreamed about the steaming bucket-bath she planned to take, and the comfortable bed she'd climb into soon thereafter.
At last, the cottage came in sight, spurring her brisk walk to an eager jog. Across the cow pasture, past the small byre, through the vegetable garden… and finally, she was at the door.
"Oh, what a relief!" Gwenydd exclaimed she swung it open and strode in. "I had begun to worry that you'd fallen ill trying to treat Deri's family."
"No, I am well—weary, but well," Telyn replied. She stripped off her cloak and hung it upon a peg near the door. "Their youngest took a turn for the worse and I couldn't leave until I knew he would survive. So many are catching fever this year…"
"Yes, it seems illness rides the wind these days," Gwenydd agreed. She nodded toward the pallet where Fflewddur lay asleep, huddled beneath the blankets. "We had a traveler come a couple of nights ago. Close to death, he was—collapsed in a heap before he made it three paces over the threshold."
Surprised, Telyn turned to follow her sister's gesture. In her joy at being home, she had not even noticed the man lying on her pallet in the corner.
"He's a fair sight better now—the raging fever seems to have passed," Gwenydd added. "But he still drifts within his dreams as often than not. It will be a few days yet before he is strong enough to continue on his way. You'll have to forgive me for giving him your bed in the meantime, but I wasn't about to have an ill guest sleep on the floor."
Quietly, so as not to wake him, Telyn went to take a closer look at the stranger. At first, she could see only a ragged mop of yellow hair poking out from under the blankets, for he lay facing the wall. But then he shifted in his sleep, turning toward her… She sucked in a sharp breath and went white as chalk. No—no, it was impossible… And yet, there he was—or a spectral shadow of him, anyway.
"What's the matter?" Gwenydd asked. "You look as though you've seen a ghost."
The splinter of a laugh burst from Telyn's chest, quickly strangled by the tightening of her throat. She swallowed hard before answering. "He nearly is a ghost, isn't he?" she murmured.
"Telyn!" scolded her sister. "What a terrible thing to say!"
"No, no—I didn't mean it thus," Telyn replied, shaking her head. "I'm sorry… I was… surprised, is all. I recognize him from Caer Dathyl. He… He is a good friend of the High King and Queen."
"Him?" Gwenydd asked, casting a skeptical glance at her unfortunate guest. "I'd never have guessed by the state of his clothing…" She looked back at her sister, scrutinizing her closely. "He seemed to know you, too, though, come to think of it… Mistook me for you, in fact, in his daze."
Telyn fought to maintain a mask of indifference. "As I said, we have met," she said with a shrug. "And we do share a resemblance, you and I."
Judging by Gwenydd's expression, she'd guessed that there was more to the story. Nevertheless, to Telyn's immense relief, she did not to pry. "He claimed to be a bard," she said instead, drily.
"He is—unofficially, anyway," Telyn confirmed.
"Well, he officially still needs care," Gwenydd retorted. "Keep watch over him for a while, will you? I must go gather more early spring herbs, and Rhein is busy in the workshop today."
"Yes… Yes, of course," Telyn agreed vacantly, the question having scarcely brushed against her consciousness.
Still eying her sister askance, Gwenydd grabbed a gathering basket and headed to the door, swinging it closed behind her with a muted thud.
Telyn breathed deeply in, then out, her gaze never wavering from the figure on the bed. With some reluctance, she quietly pulled a stool over next to the pallet and sank dazedly onto it. For a long while, then, she did nothing but watch Fflewddur, following the blankets' rise and fall with each shallow breath he took, and studying his face in the shifting firelight. He looked every inch like a man who had trekked for months with little food and even less rest—heartbreakingly thin, and worse than could be blamed on a few days of illness. His cheekbones jutted sharply beneath his pallid skin. His cheeks were wind-burned. His hair was longer and even wilder than usual, framing his weathered face in a ragged halo. Layers of blankets obscured his body, but it could hardly be in a better state. Telyn's gut twisted and her heart ached to see him so wasted away.
"You foolish bard… What have you done?" she whispered. Then, echoing in her mind, a far sharper question: what have I done?
Cautiously, she reached out to sweep his tangled hair from his forehead, then brushed her fingers, feather-light, along his cheekbone. Fflewddur stirred. She jerked her hand away, holding her breath, but he did not wake. She exhaled a nearly inaudible sigh of relief, and continued her vigil. She watched. She waited. She kept the fire stoked in the hearth. She fussed quietly about the cottage, attending to whatever small tasks would keep her hands and mind occupied—anything to keep herself from thinking about her role in Fflewddur's sorry state, or what she might say to him when he awoke. Fervently, she hoped Gwenydd and Rhein would return before he did. She could duck outside then, and buy herself a little more time to collect her wits…
No such luck was hers. As she went to pour some water into the pot over the fire and begin cooking supper, she inadvertently knocked over the poker leaning against the hearth, and it struck the iron cookpot with a resounding clang as it fell. She cursed under her breath and turned to see if the noise had woken Fflewddur. It had. He stirred, then groggily struggled to sit up. Panic gripped Telyn, but she felt frozen in place. Fflewddur scanned the room for the source of the noise and his eyes fell upon her.
For a moment, he merely sat there, blinking in surprise and disbelief. Then, he shook his head once as if to clear out any last residue of sleep, and looked again. He fully expected the vision disappear like every time before. Yet, there she was still, clutching the emptied water pail tightly to her stomach. A faint flutter of hope stirred in his chest.
"Are you truly here?" he murmured. "I've had so many strange dreams… Are you naught but another one?"
There was a stiff pause before Telyn replied. She forced a wry smile. "You've asked me that before," she noted quietly. "And my answer is the same as before: I am as real as the ground you walk upon."
Fflewddur gave a half-hearted smirk in return. "And will your proof be the same as before?"
In an instant, Telyn's smile disappeared and her eyes darted away. Fflewddur bit his lip. The ensuing silence as felt thick as swamp mud and as heavy as stone.
"It was only a jest," Fflewddur said quietly, abashed. "Forget I said it."
Telyn gave a small shrug but it released none of the tension in her shoulders. "It's all right; I walked right into it," she said.
"But… how are you here?" he asked. Even after months of searching, it seemed an impossible stroke of good fortune. He'd collapsed into unconsciousness fearing he would die without ever seeing her again, only to awake and find her mere paces away.
"Gwenydd is my sister," Telyn explained. She still held tightly onto the water pail, something solid to cling to. She dared another direct glance back at Fflewddur, but immediately regretted it. There was hope in his eyes—cautious hope, but hope nonetheless, and the sight of it made the fist around her heart clench tighter.
"I had no idea…" Fflewddur continued. "You mentioned a sister, but not that she lived in the Free Commots."
"I didn't know, myself," Telyn replied. "She and I had talked long ago about making our way here someday, and it's where I was headed when I fled Arvon. As it turns out, Gwenydd left Arvon a year or so after I did." She shifted her weight nervously. "When I left Caer Dathyl, I had nowhere to go… I thought I might as well pick up where my original journey left off. I crossed paths with her by happenstance when I arrived here."
"Hunh. Odd luck all around, then…" Fflewddur remarked. He was still digging for the nerve to ask the most important question weighing on him: Now that destiny has thrown us together again, will you continue onward with me? How she had ended up in the Commot Cenarth, how he had ended up there… neither really mattered, now. Only what happened next mattered—yet, maddeningly, he found himself unable to ask what that might be. With a sudden rueful twinge, he realized he was stalling. Every moment he refrained from asking was one more moment with the possibility of having Telyn in his life. Once he posed the question, there was no such guarantee.
"So…" Fflewddur continued hesitantly, "did you explain to he and Gwenydd where you were all these years?"
A shrug and a head tilt indicated that she had—partially.
"And when you saw me here," Fflewddur continued, more hesitantly, "did you say anything about—"
That time, Telyn swiftly cut him off. "No. They know we have met before, but no more than that."
A flicker of pain crossed the bard's face, but he masked it quickly. His jaw clenched and his shoulders stiffened. Tension gathered around his eyes, in which the light of hope had dimmed. "And you would prefer it remain that way," he said flatly.
"I would," Telyn answered, her voice low but firm. "For now, at least. It's… simpler—a simpler version of the truth."
Fflewddur quickly looked away. "I see."
For a while after that, silence spoke for them, punctuated only by the crackle of the fire. Fflewddur toyed with the woolen blanket, absentmindedly rubbing it between his fingers. Telyn picked at a loose splinter on the wooden pail she still clutched.
"Well, has your appetite returned?" she then asked abruptly. "From the looks of you, I'd wager you could out-eat even King Smoit by now."
"I suppose," Fflewddur replied without enthusiasm.
"Right then—food it is." Telyn finally returned the water pail to its place, then swept over to the shelves by the hearth. "I haven't even begun the stew for supper yet, but there is still bread and cheese from breakfast, and some walnuts, and I think we still have a bit of dried fruit stored up…" She hurried to gather up a makeshift meal, then handed it over to him in a small wooden bowl. He ate with as much will as he could muster, but the fare held little savor. It blunted his physical hunger, to be sure, but did nothing to satisfy the deeper hunger pangs gnawing away at his heart. Each unspoken word he swallowed alongside the food felt painfully lodged in his throat.
A handful of days passed uneventfully while Fflewddur regained his strength. Gwenydd, Rhein, and Telyn went about their usual tasks, with the bard giving what help he could manage. Telyn avoided him when she could, spoke but little when avoidance was impossible, and steered well clear of any conversation about what had happened in the past or might happen in the future. She was not cold, exactly—rather, courteous in the way she might treat any friendly acquaintance. Fflewddur would never have guessed that bland kindness could feel so cruel. It stung. It ached. It made him feel like a trespasser in her world. Oh, he understood her reasons—or guessed them, anyway—but that did nothing to dull the pain. So, he passed the time as best he could, and tried to focus on crafting a new song or two. That, at least, allowed him to vent his writhing emotions somewhere. He noticed that Telyn left the cottage each time he played.
Then one evening, once his voice no longer sounded like gravel scraped over a wooden board, Fflewddur offered to make good on his promise to sing and play for his hosts. Gwenydd and Rhein eagerly put aside their work for the day and pulled up a bench to sit upon while they listened. The bard took an osier stool for his own seat and set about tuning his harp. Telyn, meanwhile, busied herself in the background, tidying up things that could easily have waited until morning, keeping her gaze off of Fflewddur and the ill-fated harp.
As he began to play, though, she felt the melodies wrap around her like a familiar cloak she had expected to never wear again. Fflewddur's voice was warm and the harp's tone rang golden and clear. Both moved her as strongly as ever, sending energy thrumming through her limbs and images dancing in her mind's eye. She had heard nearly all of the songs before, but that only made them more poignant—she could nearly feel them in her own throat, longing to be given voice. Near the hearth, she scoured harder at the earthen bowl she was cleaning.
After several songs, Fflewddur paused. His gaze flicked over to Telyn, and he felt a bold, reckless fire flare within his chest. He readjusted the harp against his shoulder, drew in a long breath, let it out equally slowly, then touched his fingers lightly to the strings. The music that poured forth was laced with yearning and heartache before he even uttered a syllable. Then, his voice rose to meet it…
...
Oh, listen to this song I sing and heed the truth it shows,
Though love be sweet, it turns to grief when doubt within it grows.
That thorny vine will 'round you twine and pull you to your knees.
You'll curse your fate and rue the day you let it plant a seed.
...
My heart was captured by a lady fair, and fierce, and true,
the boldest and most loving maid that any ever knew.
She threw her snare around me tight and, smiling, drew me in,
and happily I swore I would be hers until the end.
...
But to my love I clung too tight, for fear that she would stray,
and cruelly called her faithless, though she never would betray.
A handful of words as hard as stone drove her from me in pain,
and now I fear one thousand words could not win her back again.
...
Now I stumble over mountains vast, with icy crags so steep,
and I ford my way through rivers wide, with currents swift and deep.
I wander lost on howling moors, and through tangled, haunted woods.
All this I do in foolish hope, my love once more to hold.
...
For the mountains are no crueler than the edge of my regret,
and the rivers are no colder than the bitter tears I shed,
and set against my span of grief, the moors aren't half as wide.
I would brave one thousand more of each if it brought me to her side.
...
Yet even then, I fear my love would coldly turn away—
forgiveness begs a higher price than I can hope to pay.
This aching heart within my breast may be all that I deserve—
a tattered, torn, and broken thing, still beating for my love.
...
The last notes hung in the air, mingling with the dust motes in the evening light. Then, a gasping sob tore through them, accompanied by the sharp crack of dropped earthenware shattering on hearthstone. Swiftly as a door slam, Telyn fled the cottage, out into the chill, damp evening. Rhein glanced first to the bard, then his wife, seeking any scrap of explanation. A look of stunned realization had dawned on Gwenydd, and she sat staring at Fflewddur, motionless.
"Ah—excuse me," he muttered, hastily setting aside his harp and rushing out the door after Telyn. She was already a good twenty paces ahead of him, striding across the field, and he had to jog to catch up with her. "Telyn!" he cried. "Telyn, wait—"
She halted abruptly and whirled around to face him, distress etched across her tear-streaked face. "That was a dirty move, and you know it!" she accused icily, her voice tight with still more tears held back. "Singing that with Gwenydd and Rhein right there, and nowhere for me to hide my face…"
"I didn't mean to—"
"What did you mean to do?" she cut in. "What could possibly have gone through your head that would make you think—"
Fflewddur cut her off in turn. "Blast it, Telyn, I needed to say it! I needed you to hear it. And I dare say you've hardly spoken a word to me these past few days, so how could that happen otherwise?"
The angry fire blazing through Telyn's veins abated slightly. Her shoulders fell and she shut her eyes tight for a painfully long moment. A suppressed sob convulsed her chest. "And that was wrong of me," she said at last, her voice hushed. "But… I did not know what to say… Nor how to say it… Nor certain that I could bear what you might say in return." She looked at him once more, biting her lip. "But you have my ear now," she murmured.
Now Fflewddur hesitated. His heart began to race and he felt flushed despite the cool air. What did he want to say? He had run through a hundred versions of the conversation in his mind, and not one satisfied him. There was simply too much to be said—too much for fallible words to convey. He wished he could simply crack open his mind and let Telyn enter it directly, to understand exactly how much he loved her, and missed her, and regretted his folly, and craved forgiveness. There in that moment, he believed he would willingly sacrifice a hand for a chance to rewrite the past—for what good was the ability to play his harp if the sound of it brought naught but sorrow?
"Telyn… I'm sorry. I… I am sorry." The words tumbled from his lips at last, seemingly of their own volition. It wasn't any one of the hundred ways he'd thought to begin, but there it was, stripped to the core of his purpose. If she turned him away without listening to another word, she would have heard what he most needed to say.
Then, he waited.
Telyn did not reply at first, and her frozen expression gave no hint of the battle she waged within. Part of her desperately wanted to continue being angry: to lash out; to spit forth all of the venomous thoughts that had run through her mind during the past several months; to make him feel every last razor-sharp bit of the anguish and heartbreak she had experienced when he'd accused her of betrayal. But the combination of distress and faint, lingering hope in Fflewddur's countenance disarmed her. He had suffered already—immensely. Her flight had rent his spirit, just as the weight of his distrust and accusation had crushed hers. The ensuing search had ground him nearly to dust. She had no desire to carve the wound deeper.
The few acrid words still poised on her tongue disintegrated, leaving behind only the saline taste of sorrow. "I know," she acknowledged. "I know you are sorry." She folded her arms across her waist guardedly, but continued to look Fflewddur in the eyes. "But… I know not what to do with that. I don't know…" She trailed off, with a shake of her head.
Another long silence stepped between them.
"Return with me," Fflewddur ventured at last, quietly. "Please… Life isn't the same without you. I am not quite the same without you. I feel as though I've forgotten half the words to a song I once knew by heart."
Telyn felt her eyes begin to sting again. She blinked several times, then closed them altogether to hold back the tears fighting for release. "You accused me of betrayal," she said after a moment. "Do you have any idea how that burned? Do you know how much that hurt, to have walked faithfully by your side for years and then find that it counted for nothing? That you still did not trust me? I gave you my heart, and my body, and my days, and my nights, and still you did not trust me, did not know me—" her voice caught as she choked back a sob.
Fflewddur's own face crumpled. "I was a fool, Telyn. I was jealous, and afraid, and I let that blind me. I would undo it all if I could. Great Belin, I wish that I could—you must know it."
"You cannot undo a wound," she replied tersely, though the words held far more grief than anger.
"No…" Fflewddur replied slowly, "but it can heal, with time and care."
"Perhaps. But not without a scar."
"A hard reminder, yes… but of a battle endured," he ventured.
Still, Telyn hesitated, her eyes shut tight. She felt as though she were standing at the edge of a shaky bridge spanning a vast chasm that had cracked wide between them. Dare she cross? It seemed so tenuous, so fraught with calamity if she took one wayward step. She missed Fflewddur fiercely—her gallant, impetuous, good-hearted, unofficial bard. She missed what they had once had, and what she had hoped they might have in years to come. But could they ever regain that? If they did, would it only fall apart again, like a knot tied with weak cord? She could not endure that again…
"Please, come home," Fflewddur pleaded once more.
Home. Telyn felt another hard, internal tug. She lived in Commot Cenarth now, but it still felt borrowed…
She could not even finish the thought before Fflewddur pressed onward, haltingly. "Even… Even if you cannot love me again," he said, "give me a chance to make amends—to earn some measure of forgiveness. Grant me that, if nothing else." His throat clenched with emotion, cutting off further speech. If she would only look at him… Her shuttered eyes seemed an impenetrable wall, barring all entry into her heart. His spirit sank, hope dissipating like warmth in winter air. "Will you condemn me forever for one mistake?" he murmured, barely audible. "Please… Llyan…"
Her eyes flew open. The look in Fflewddur's own eyes and the words from his tongue tore at her heart. No, she could not condemn him—not when she, herself, had acted a fool, running off in a fit of temper without even attempting to reconcile. They were both to blame. His pain, her pain… It had gone on far too long already, and if it was now up to her to end it…
"I will return with you," she breathed. "I cannot… I cannot promise that anything will be just as it was. But I will return."
A ray of warmth cut through the frigid despair that had enveloped Fflewddur for months. He sighed with relief. "That is all I ask—to walk by your side, even if you will not take my hand," he replied.
Telyn's face was still drawn and pensive. "But will you truly be content with that alone?" she asked. "I have my doubts…"
"If I am not, then that is my burden to bear, by my choice," Fflewddur replied. "I would far rather suffer on account of your presence than your absence."
Telyn pressed her lips together tightly and nodded. Slowly, she walked toward him over the muddy spring soil. "Come, then," she said, venturing a tentative smile and extending her hand. "Let's go back inside. You owe Rhein and Gwenydd a few more songs, I think—after I make some rather uncomfortable explanations. If you still have the will to sing, that is."
"A Fflam is undaunted," Fflewddur asserted with a crooked smile of his own as he took her offered palm in his. "And after all of the trouble that dratted harp has caused, I dare say it had better be put to good use."
Telyn's smile deepened. She clasped his hand firmly and together they walked back to the cottage. Just before they reached the threshold, though, she paused. "For what it is worth," she said quietly, "I, too, am immensely sorry. I should never have left without speaking to you, whatever had happened and however angry I was."
Fflewddur squeezed her hand in acceptance, then pushed open the cottage door.
.
A/N: Hopefully, this chapter provides a temporary escapefrom the election fiasco for all of my readers in the USA. I know I certainly need one. o_O
I have no skills of musical composition but needed a melody to write to, so Fflewddur's song fits the melody of Spancil Hill. Have a listen to any of the many wonderful renditions online, and you'll have a sense of what I had in mind.
Cheers, good health, peace, (and patience) to all!
