"Evil looks won't make a briar bloom," Coll murmured sidelong to Taran as he passed him on his way to the cottage.

Taran's eyes darted briefly from the dark-robed figure of Achren to the old farmer, then back again. His scowl only deepened. Even from a distance, it was clear: although defeated, stripped of her power, and standing in a muddy spring farmyard as she waited to speak alone with Dallben, the former enchantress remained unbowed and unhumbled, as haughty as a queen and as icy as the north wind. It was intolerable. And she was here to stay. Taran turned away in disgust and stalked after Coll.

Once inside the cottage, he found the farmer rummaging through a chest, gathering bed linens for Caer Dallben's new resident.

Taran let fly his pent-up rage. "She doesn't belong here!" he blustered stormily. "Not after all that she's done."

"Aye, is that so?" Coll returned good-naturedly, without the slightest pause in his search. "And where does she belong, then, would you say?"

"At the bottom of the sea."

Coll rose at last, his cheeks ruddy from stooping over, and his stout arms overflowing with a tumble of linen and wool. A glint of humor flickered in his eyes. "Now, that's not a very warm bed, is it?" he asked. "I believe we can do a fair bit better for her here."

"She wanted to die!" Taran protested. "I saw her strike at Prince Gwydion when he tried to save her from drowning! Then she tried again to kill herself on the shore! He should have let her! I don't understand why he didn't; she would have slain every last one of us, save for Eilonwy, without a second thought. Then to bring her here afterward, while Eilonwy had to remain behind… It's… It's an insult."

Coll's expression sobered, and he sighed quietly. "It's a poor exchange for our princess, true enough. I won't claim that I'm pleased with it, myself. Still, I've never known Gwydion to do anything without good reason, however inscrutable those reasons might be to the rest of us—and I could say the same thrice over of Dallben. If the pair of them think it's best for Lady Achren to stay here, then so be it. I'll do for her what I would for any member of the household. And who can say? Even nettles lose their sting if you handle them properly."

Taran huffed and rolled his eyes.

"Time will tell," Coll went on. "We shall have to be patient. For the moment, why don't you go start the cookfire for me. Bread and cheese is no supper to welcome a prince and a former queen—or a travel-weary assistant pig-keeper, for that matter," he added with a wink. "I'd best be on my way, myself, for I've a pallet to make up."

As the farmer began to turn away, a sudden, panic-studded thought punched hard into Taran's gut. His eyes flew to the rafters above. "Not in the loft!" he blurted out, almost in a growl. "That's Eilonwy's."

Coll looked back over his shoulder; a knowing smile softened the thin line of his mouth. "You ought to know me better by now, my boy," he said gently. "I'd already suggested to Dallben that Achren stay in the granary—plenty snug and dry in there, and it should give everyone concerned a bit more room to breathe, as it were."

Taran's tense shoulders eased, but the crease between his brows did not fade. He watched Coll amble out the door, then stood for a moment or two alone, wrapped in the dim, stuffy air of the cottage. His chest rose and fell in a heavy sigh. Cookfire. He had a task to do. Never mind that he felt as though no fire should be able to burn in that hearth without Eilonwy's hand to set it alight. Nevertheless, he willed himself to attend to his duty. Water from the well. Wood from the woodpile. Flint to stone. Spark to tinder. Tinder to kindling, kindling to branches, branches leafing out into full-bodied flame. He swung the cauldron into place on its sturdy hook. When he emptied the contents of his pail into it, the water hissed and sizzled in protest. Water and flame. Flame and water. After knowing Eilonwy, that combination would never again seem mundane.

As the water began its reluctant way to a boil, Taran headed to the scullery to fetch the crockery they would need later. How many bowls and cups, spoons and knives? One each for Dallben, Coll, Gurgi, and himself, plus Gwydion, and… He frowned again, not wanting to even think the enchantress' name. Six. Six sets. One more than he wished. As he gathered them up from the shelf, he eventually came to Eilonwy's favorite cup. There was nothing terribly special about it, really—just plain earthenware like all the rest, and with a chipped rim, no less—but the curve of it fit her hands well, she'd said, and she'd always made sure it was set at her place on the table. Taran smiled a little as he pictured her holding it: her blue eyes glinting over its rim at him as she took a sip, her soft hands cupped around its smooth sides.

Then, unbidden, his mind jumped to the image of Achren's hands, instead: those bone-slender fingers, sharp-nailed, and as pale as parchment; hands that had slapped Eilonwy mercilessly on the very day he'd met her, and who knew how many times before. He recoiled at the thought of those hands ever touching Eilonwy's cup, even to wash it—let alone to raise it to lie-tainted lips. He couldn't allow that to happen. He must hide it, immediately, where it would be safe until Eilonwy returned to claim it. But where would be best? As he ducked through the door of the scullery, cup in hand, and re-entered the main cottage, his gaze fell upon the ladder to the loft. Yes—that would be the perfect place; he'd tuck it away up there, where none but himself would have reason to go.

The ladder creaked softly, almost in greeting, as he climbed; the weathered wood pressed against his palm with reassuring solidity. A golden shaft of sunlight, streaming through the gap between the loft window's shutters, welcomed him into the low-ceilinged space above. For half an instant, he allowed himself to imagine it was the light from Eilonwy's bauble, and that he'd soon face a grinning scolding for his trespass into her realm.

But he knew better. As he scrambled up from the final rung and stood alone in the loft, he took honest stock of its emptiness. Eilonwy's pallet was still there—and still covered in its wool blanket, as though she might return to it that very night. So, too, her clothes chest stood ready in the corner. Yet, all of her other belongings were gone; the shelves mounted between the roof beams sat empty. A thin film of dust already clung to every surface. Had the journey to Mona really taken so long? Granted, he thought with a smirk, that dust might have gathered even before the princess' departure, ignored as she found better ways to spend her last days at Caer Dallben… But no, there were no footprints through it to mark her passing. Biting his lip, Taran began to move throughout the space, wiping the lonely shelves, chest, and windowsill clean with his shirt sleeve.

The emptiness around him seemed to have a volume of its own. Its mass pressed against his body from all sides, weighing so heavy on his rib cage that he became aware of every breath. Its hollow quietness flooded his ears. This was Eilonwy's space—every inch from floorboard to beam—and her absence filled it as entirely, as palpably, as her presence. Memories of her still slept here, after all: tucked into the folds of the bedclothes; curled up on the shelves; draped on the vacant peg where her cloak ought to hang.

Taran's eyes began to sting. Why had he come up here? He could have stowed the cup among his own belongings and kept it just as safe. Eilonwy was miles, and mountains, and a stretch of sea away; he needed no reminder pricking a thorn into his heart.

Or, perhaps, that was just it: he didn't want to forget, even for a moment. If he could not be with Eilonwy in person, then he needed to be with the memory of her, at least. Even if it hurt.

Wistfully, he sank to the edge of her bed, his hands still cradling the earthenware cup. How many times had he sat on that pallet while Eilonwy—legs drawn up to her chest, or crossed with a pillow in her lap—sat just at the other end, chatting away, sometimes excitedly and sometimes in quiet confidence? He'd like to call those shared moments conversations but, in truth, he'd mostly just listened. He'd sensed that she had things she needed to say—whether she'd admit that she needed to or not—and feared that any sound from himself might shatter the spell that freed her up to say them. Besides, whenever he did attempt to speak to her, his foot inevitably seemed to find its way into his mouth. Better to let himself drift along in her tumbling current and see where it led. It almost always flowed somewhere interesting—however much the journey might leave his head spinning.

He cast his eyes to her customary place at the head of the pallet. There, a glint of amber caught his eye. His heart thumped hard. Setting aside the cup, he shifted to take a closer look. Yes—a few strands of Eilonwy's hair were still caught on the pillow, shining like threads of pure gold in the thin beam of sunlight. With great care, Taran plucked them up, one by one, and twined them around the tip of his finger, pulling them taught against his skin. His throat tightened in kind. If only he could wear those strands as a ring, unbroken until the very hour she returned…

But would she return? She'd promised on the shores of Mona that they would meet again… promised not to forget him while awaiting that day… But memories could fade, and promises along with them. She had nothing of his to remember him by, nothing to hold in her hands, nothing as vivid and real as the hunting horn she'd given him on that beach, or these strands of hair she'd inadvertently left behind. She had only his promise. Oh, she'd claimed that his word would suffice—but could it possibly echo loudly enough for her to hear it above the bustle of a royal court? Who else might try to bend her ear—or catch her eye? Worry closed in on his mind like gray clouds over the sun. The emptiness wrapped around his chest squeezed tighter.

He needed to breathe. Swallowing hard, he got up and fumbled with the latch on the window shutters. They gave way in a burst of sunlight and a rush of spring air. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply, letting it wash over him in a cool caress. It bore the scent of damp, rich, earth; of renewal and growth. It was a season of change, for Caer Dallben and all the land—and for himself. No amount of wishing would speed it up or slow it down; he must resign himself to that, and face each new day as it unfurled.

Easier said than done. Breathing a heavy sigh, he rose from the bed, took up the earthenware cup once more, and went to stow it in the empty clothes chest. Yet, as he lifted the heavy lid, he found that the chest was not so empty after all. Lying inside, bright against the aged wood, was a single piece of ivory parchment, dense with lines of slightly erratic script. He nearly gasped in surprise. Instantly curious, he set the cup down carefully in its new home and took up the parchment.

It was a letter from Eilonwy… to him. His pulse quickened with every word he read.

.

Taran,

Oh, good! You found this letter, as I hoped you would! Although, that does mean you were poking through my things—but that likely means you miss me, so I will forgive you for it this once. I suppose I ought to have tucked it among your own clothes, but then Coll might have come across it first, since he does take his turn at the laundry. Don't tell Dallben about this, either, as he'll know I stole the parchment from his desk, and he's sure to get testy because they're hard to come by. Or do tell him, but then you can be sure you'll be sorry when I return—and what good is a homecoming if everyone ends up angry?

Hmm. I suppose I don't really have all that much to say, except that you can be certain I am missing you, too, by the time you read this, and cannot wait to be home again. However tiresome weeding turnip beds and scouring pots is at Caer Dallben, court life is sure to be that much more tedious, and I won't have your company to distract me. I shall have to spend some time dreaming up adventures for us to go on once I return, instead. Perhaps we could ride to visit Fflewddur's realm? I'm curious to see whether it's as dull and dreary as he claims. Even if it's not, he's sure to be eager for some excitement. Although, if the weather is fine enough for us to travel, he's bound to be out wandering himself and we shall likely have a difficult time finding him. But that could turn into an adventure of its own, couldn't it? I shall have to think on it. I imagine I will have plenty of time to think on such things while spinning thread, or embroidering cushions, or sitting through state dinners, or whatever other such things a Lady Must Know How to Do. Ugh.

I only hope that I learn a few useful or interesting things while I'm on Mona. If I could find out more about my mother and father then that, at least, would be something. Achren never did tell me much—and I don't trust what she did tell me one bit. Dallben didn't seem to know the truth, either, which is equally hard to believe, but I suppose even he can't know everything, can he? I wonder if there is anyone still alive on Mona who knew them… I haven't have the faintest memory of the island, for all that I'm supposed to have kinfolk there, so I don't imagine we ever visited. And if not, then there must have been some reason why not, and I would imagine that reason is bad blood over something or other—and then anyone who does remember them might not want to remember them, and… Well, trying to get the story out might be as slippery as shucking clams. But I shall try. I suppose it doesn't really matter much who my mother and father were, does it, since it won't do me a scrap of good at Caer Dallben. But I'd still like to know, simply for the sake of knowing. It feels like I have the end of a story without its beginning, and that's nearly as unsatisfying as a beginning without an end.

Oh, bother. I've wandered off from my purpose, haven't I? What I meant to say, really, is that I hope you won't forget me while I'm away, or do some ridiculous thing like thinking I will forget you. You tend to worry that way, and it's as silly as fearing your own nose will get up and walk away. I certainly will not forget you, and certainly will be counting the days until I can return. However much of a lady they try to make of me—and I still fail to see why that wouldn't simply happen naturally, wherever where I was, just like lambs turn into ewes—I will forever belong at Caer Dallben, and forever be (as I think, perhaps, I always have been),

~Your Eilonwy~

(Oh, and if you said something foolish just before we parted ways on Mona, and I wasn't speaking to you at the time, then please take this letter as the fond farewell that I intended to give you. Because I am fond of you—very much so. Even when you do things that vex me.)

~E~

.

As Taran finished reading, a drop of saltwater fell to the parchment with a sharp tap, landing just beside her signature. Then another. Hastily, he tried to rub them away with his thumb, but the moisture had already buckled the vellum, leaving tiny but tangible marks. Smiling ruefully and shaking his head a little, he wiped his eyes dry before any more tears could fall. The letter was as sweet, and sharp, and rambling as a wild rose—Eilonwy, every word. It made his heart ache. And gave him hope. And stoked his impatience for her return into a fiery blaze hotter than any he'd ever known.

But wait he must. Reluctantly, almost painfully, he parted with the letter, setting it back into its place within the chest. He had tasks yet to attend to, and a real fire to feed. The letter would be there for him when he needed it—a need he suspected would come often.


As Taran had dreaded, supper that evening was an awkward affair. Although Gurgi dove into his meal as excitedly as ever, and the conversation between Coll, Gwydion, and Dallben hewed to lighthearted matters, Achren's presence spoiled it all like grit in the stew. She sat there, as far from the others as she could manage at their common table, with her hood drawn up to shadow her face. She picked half-heartedly at the meal, swallowing only a few morsels of bread and a few spoonsful of potage before pushing the remainder aside. She said not one word.

Even so, Taran could scarcely seem to focus on anything else, as though a soul-rattling energy still radiated outward from the fallen enchantress. How could he possibly grow inured to it? How would he stand working side by side with her on the farm in the months to come? Dallben had made it plain that Achren would be expected to undertake some duties of her own, but Taran almost wished she wouldn't. Let her keep to herself, sequestered away in whatever solitary pursuits she liked, so long as he could see her and speak to her as little as possible. He'd gladly take on extra work for the sake of it. Yet, then he thought of Eilonwy—how she'd endured Achren day and night for years, raised by her, with no escape save the dark tunnels beneath Spiral Castle. Immediately, he felt ashamed. Was he weaker than the princess, to complain about so much less? No. He'd suffer the former enchantress as best he could, and bite his tongue when needed. But that would not stop him from praying that she'd decide to leave Caer Dallben of her own accord.

Suddenly, he felt an elbow nudge from Coll. "You look like you need to stretch your legs a bit, my boy. How about you clear the dishes for us, hmm? Just leave Gurgi's—he'll be wanting another round of stew, no doubt."

Taran shot him a wan but grateful smile. Any excuse to flee the room was welcome, even if it meant scouring dishes and pots. And scour he did—far harder than required—as if that would simultaneously scrape away the crust of resentment building up within his chest. His ire had even begun to rise against Gwydion for saddling them with Achren in the first place. It was an unfair thought, he knew, but he couldn't seem to shake it off. He simply didn't understand. Yes, the prince was merciful by nature, and Taran deeply admired him for it. But he should pay the price of that mercy himself, not foist it off onto others. If Gwydion wanted Achren to have safety and shelter, then he should be the one to keep watch over her. Why not offer her a place at Caer Dathyl? Arawn wouldn't dare—or bother, more likely—to hunt her down there. She wasn't fit for a life on a farm, anyway. Had those hands ever done a single day of real work in all of her centuries-long life? Keep her in the fine clothes and tapestried halls that she was accustomed to, and let her imagine she was still royalty. Let her bitterness fall on hard flagstones instead of tender plants and guileless animals who needed thoughtful, kind-hearted care…

With a sharp crack, the bowl Taran was washing slipped from his wet hands and smacked against the side of the wash basin. It split cleanly in two. Taran bowed his head in dismay. He must cool his temper; it would only make an uncomfortable situation worse. But how? How?

He continued to ponder that—and so much else—as he crawled into bed that night. Hour upon hour, he tossed and turned beneath his heavy wool blanket, buffeted by relentless waves of thought. Coll's snores, rattling from the other side of the small bedchamber, did not help matters at all. Nor did the silvery-blue moonlight slipping around the edges of the shutters, reminding him of Eilonwy's crescent necklace. His yearning for her bit into him anew with sharp teeth. How could he work if he could not sleep? How could he sleep with so many thoughts waging battles in his mind? How could he stop that war without letting go of his worries and anger? How, how, how, and when would it all give him some peace?

With a grunt of frustration, Taran threw off the blanket and pushed himself up from his bed. He shivered a little as the chill night air hit his thinly clothed skin. The trail of moonlight streaking across the floor drew his eyes to the window. Restless, his body followed.

The shutters parted before his hands with a soft creak. Wearily, he gazed out at the landscape beyond. It looked so… serene. Such a stark contrast to his own agitation. The young shoots of barley stood proudly in the recently tilled field. The orchard beyond swayed lightly to the rhythm of the midnight breezes. Thin clouds swept slowly overhead, veiling and unveiling the moon like a lady who wished to be coy.

It called him outward—away from his disheveled bed, beyond the cottage threshold, across the yard and deep into that silver sea of barley. His bare feet trod softly between the rows, pressing a trail of footprints into the cool earth. He walked and kept walking. He pulled in breath after breath of the whispering air. He tried to immerse himself in the calmness without, hoping it would ease the disquiet within.

It didn't. He could walk to the farthest edge of the farthest field and it would still not be far enough to soothe the anxious spirit that had awakened in him. For as extensive as Caer Dallben was, it simply felt too small, now—cramped, even. He'd noticed it first upon returning from his earliest adventure, and the feeling had only intensified with each passing year. The crops and animals grew through the seasons, but the farm itself did not seem to grow along with them—certainly not enough to fit him. With Eilonwy there, he'd had some distraction from the discomfiting feeling, but now…

He halted and bit his lip. Eilonwy. Achren. Around and around, the pair of women spun through his thoughts. There years ahead would stretch long, as he ached for the one and struggled to tolerate the other… How many years, exactly? And what would come to pass at the end of them? Eilonwy would return—after reading her letter, he was confident enough to pin his wavering faith hard to that thought and not let himself stray from it. But what would he do when she did come home? He scarcely dared to name his true desire within his own mind, let alone speak it aloud to anyone. Yet it was there, urgent, demanding an outlet—and an answer, if he could ever summon the courage to ask the question.

But should he? Eilonwy hoped to learn more about her family while on Mona. He hoped she would; she longed for it so. Yet, he feared it, too. She'd never held her rank over him before—but she'd also not been reminded of that rank daily, living among ladies and lords, and being waited upon by servants. Nor had she heard, in detail, the tales of her royal heritage. How much would it all change her? And how much would he change in the same span of time? Could he change, if he remained at Caer Dallben, doing the same work he'd always done, turning over the same soil, never exploring new ground? If he did not change, would she love him more or less for it?

If she was a story without a beginning, then no less so was he. It had always troubled him, that void that ignorance carved out deep inside of himself. For so long, he'd wondered about his parentage—dreaming up stories of who his mother and father might have been; hoping against the odds that they were still alive in the world somewhere; imagining what he might say if he ever crossed their path. The loving acceptance that Coll and Dallben had given him helped cover over the void, most of the time—but it was always still present, below the surface, undermining his sense of a firm place in the world. Would Eilonwy want anything to do with a man who did not know his own self? A man who had never even bothered to seek out that knowledge?

A current of wind rippled the fields all around him. Taran inhaled and exhaled in concert, eyes closed and palms spread wide at his sides, feeling it slip between his fingers. With sudden clarity, he knew. There was nothing else for it—he'd be as restless as that wind until he began the search. And so, he would begin—first with Dallben and then farther afield if need be, as soon as he'd helped Coll finish the spring planting. He simply could not stay where he was, as he was, any longer. Like the wind, he would move and keep moving until he learned the story of himself, and found wherever he was meant to land.

He only hoped that Eilonwy would be there in the end to embrace him.