Told you I'd be back soon. Nyeheheh.
That being said, please forgive me if this update seems kinda depressed or boring – I just watched England lose to Portugal and my heart is therefore broken.
FanFictionFantom: glad you're back for more! Hmm. Let me see. With all my considerable expertise, taking into account all the collected evidence and using all my well-tempered judgment…I'd say you had just a little thing for Mr. Pryderi, dear reader. Lol! Don't' worry, Pryderi will definitely be back…erm, later. I'm not sure how much later, y'see, because I'm just writing this thing as I go along – I have absolutely no plan for where it's going. But I hope you'll keep reading!
CompanionWanderer: Thank you for all the compliments! I wasn't sure about sneaking in the Taran embroidery thing at first, but I'm really glad you caught it! I must admit, I LOVE writing action scenes. Sometimes I think it would be really fun to try my hand at writing a screenplay of some sort, but I've never gotten around to it. Thank you so much for the pronoun thing – it was very awkward, wasn't it? I've gone back and put up an edited version of chapter 6 – thanks again!
Sakura-chan79: You are such an awesome reader. Thank you! Lol, don't worry, Gwydion is in no danger of being turned into anything…not just yet.
DISCLAIMER: Not mine. Double darn.
Black Shadow, Golden Sun
Chapter 7: Fate
Gwydion was woken by a weak beam of light breaking through a hole in the cottage's crumbling roof. Blinking to clear his eyes, the prince raised himself up on one arm, grimacing at the dull pain from his still-smarting wound, and found the cottage deserted. There was no sign of the loom he had seen in his strange dream the night before, or of Orddu, Orwen, and Orgoch. Despite his adventures the previous day, the silence of the marshes made Gwydion feel very calm and safe. Yawning, he swung his still-booted legs off the cot and stood, stretching his neck and legs from his night on the cramped cot.
His eyes snapped open suddenly as he remembered – Melyngar! He walked quickly out the cottage door, finding himself confronted by a grey dawn. The marshes seemed as if they had been transformed into a sea of fog – low-lying mist covered the ground but did not obscure the grey-blue sky, swirling about the boggy paths in thick white tendrils.
Far in the distance, Gwydion saw with a shock that to the north lay a small range of mountains, their peaks jagged and dark. Somewhere within that range, Gwydion realized, lay the fortress of Annuvin where Arawn was waiting impatiently for his capture. Shifting his gaze to the east, Gwydion saw nothing save the expanse of fog covering the marshes – only by squinting could he make out the haze of the Forest of Idris on the horizon. He was, he thought, completely cut off from any escape route – for only death and torture lay to the north and the Huntsmen surely awaited him in the forest. To the south and west of him, he knew, lay only the ocean surrounding Prydain. For the moment, it seemed he was trapped.
Shaking the gloomy thought from his mind, Gwydion made his way over to the door of the ramshackle barn in the early morning light. Inside, he was surprised to find not the disarray and age which he expected, but an earthen floor covered with a deep layer of fresh hay – and in the hay stood Melyngar, lazily munching on a few strands of the sweet grass which she had picked up from near her feet. The mare looked around as Gwydion entered and then walked happily over to him, picking her hooves high above the hay. Melyngar nuzzled Gwydion's face with her own and whinnied softly; Gwydion laughed quietly at the affectionate gesture and knelt down to inspect the leg which she had wounded the day before.
To his relief, Gwydion found that the skin around Melyngar's ankle was dry and cool, with almost no sign of swelling whatsoever. Her bridle and saddle were nowhere to be seen – had they been, Gwydion would almost have been tempted to ride her around the hillock a few times to build up her strength again. The prince sat down in the hay next to Melyngar with a sigh, wondering how in Prydain he was going to get out of the bog. Melyngar seemed to sense his distress and leaned her head against him gently; he reached up his hand and stoked her nose absently, staring out across the expanse of the marshes through the barn's open door.
He was suddenly startled out of his thoughts by the sight of Orddu's frazzled head poking around the door of the barn. "Good morning, my little goose!" She said cheerfully as she came fully into the barn, followed by the other two enchantresses; Orwen was beaming, while Orgoch was still swathed in her cloak, only the tip of her shriveled nose sticking out of the black hood.
Gwydion stood and pulled himself up to his full height before bowing deeply to the three enchantresses. "I must thank you for your kind treatment of Melyngar – she seems quite recovered from her injury."
"Think nothing of if, my sweet," Orwen giggled, her beady eyes shining kindly.
"I realize now that I did not introduce myself to you yesterday," Gwydion said gravely. "My name is – "
"Gwydion, Son of Math, Prince of Don," Orgoch grumbled loudly. "We know."
Gwydion did not show any sign of surprise, for he had guessed that the enchantresses had already figured out who he was – the greeting he had offered them was a mere formality. Green eyes clear, he then asked, "Please, could one of you three ladies tell me if there is anything important which awaits me here?"
"Whatever do you mean, my chicken?" Orddu asked. Despite the tone of curiosity in her voice, Gwydion thought he could see a faint craftiness in her gaze, and so pressed on –
"I was fleeing the Huntsmen of Annuvin when I arrived here, that much you must know. But what I believe you do not know was that I was sent here, in a way. Dallben of Caer Dallben sent me here – he told me I could find shelter here, and yet I am puzzled as to why he sent me into the middle of these marshes instead of to a safer place or to Caer Dathyl." Gwydion stared at Orddu and Orwen, who suddenly seemed very interested in playing with their hair ornaments or their beads. Orgoch was as silent as ever.
"Is there something Dallben sent me here to learn – or something to find?" Gwydion asked, his voice full of respect, yet insisting. "Please, I must know. I saw that you took different forms during the night – "
"Oh dear," Orwen said unhappily.
"And I know that you three are quite possibly more powerful than Dallben or any other enchanters in Prydain. Do you have anything to tell me, anything that might help?"
"Yes, we have something to tell," Orgoch grunted. "But we had hoped we would not have to."
"Oh," Orddu said, her heavy lip suddenly trembling. "I do hate to have to tell bad things! Must we really?"
The group stood in silence before the barn door. It had grown colder, and a cool wind blew through the barn in great gusts. Melyngar shivered slightly and turned from Gwydion's side to pick more hay up from the barn floor. Her movement seemed to stir the enchantresses – Orddu let out a great sigh and turned from the door, motioning for Gwydion to follow her. "Come, little tadpole – we might as well get this over with."
Full of foreboding, but yet not afraid, Gwydion closed the barn door to keep some warmth in the barn for Melyngar, then followed the three women back into the ramshackle cottage, where he found Orwen slowly stirring the fire under the huge cauldron in the center of the floor. As Gwydion entered, the enchantress stood from her work and sat in a chair across the room. The prince saw that all three of the women were seated around the room, seated facing him as though in some strange tribunal.
"Yes, we are very powerful, little gosling," Orddu said abruptly. "We could tell you things that would curl your ears, and then you might wish you were a toad after all. It's not so bad, being a toad, you know…!" she trailed off as she saw that no smile graced Gwydion's face. He waited patiently until Orgoch suddenly spoke up.
"Before we reveal to you this prophesy, you must answer a few questions for us, my dear," Orgoch said, her voice sounding somewhat less gravelly than normal. "First…" – Gwydion could swear that her voice was grower lighter with each word – "do you love this land of Prydain, the land of your birth?"
"I do," Gwydion answered instantly. Unbidden, thoughts of Caer Dathyl flew into his mind – Caer Dathyl in the summer, with its stones warmed by the sun's rays, Caer Dathyl in winter, when snows covered the plains around the city in a blanket of purest white.
"Second," the voice of Orwen said, sounding light and musical, "would you therefore die for this land of Prydain, for each and every man and woman residing within it?"
Shocked, Gwydion found himself staring not at an old crone, but an exquisite young woman with curling locks of golden hair cascading down by her pale cheeks. Her hands, folded in her lap, were white and graceful, the long fingers the same that had woven the tapestry the night before. Had it not been for the string of white beads around her neck reflecting the light from her luminous blue eyes, Gwydion would never have recognized Orwen.
"I would," the prince said loudly, pronouncing the words through his surprise. Almost from his earliest years, Gwydion had been prepared by his heritage and by his training to defend each being in Prydain against Annuvin. He had always been ready to give his life for the defense of Prydain.
"Remember these answers when the prophesy is revealed, little tadpole," the voice of Orddu said from the side of the room, musical and beautiful to hear. "For they will help you to bear the burden."
Turning, Gwydion saw Orddu, and yet not Orddu. The young woman sitting there exuded grace and passion, her hair both longer and curlier than Orwen's, and fiery red. Freckles dotted her cheerful upturned nose, and her chocolate brown eyes radiated wisdom and kindness. The firelight from underneath the cauldron glinted off the ornaments in her hair, which seemed to have lost their dullness and shone like pure silver.
"There is a fate laid upon you, Prince of Don," Orddu continued, her tone laced with sadness. "A fate that affects not only you but your entire House." She paused. "This knowledge of one's future can be a terrible and shocking truth to bear. Do you feel ready to accept it, my dear little starling?"
Gwydion hesitated only an instant before he said, "I do."
"Very well," murmured Orddu and Orwen as one, closing their eyes in small sighs. Orgoch, as rude as ever despite her obvious transformation, grunted in condescension. Gwydion thought he could just make out a swinging lock of jet-black hair resting at the side of Orgoch's shadowed face until it was hidden from his view as she drew further back into her cloak.
"There are two ways that your life could end, Prince of Don," the sullen enchantress said softly. "We cannot be sure of what will happen, for even we cannot determine the fates of things so far in the future. The path of your existence will take many turns, and you shall face many dangers and many troubled times. But through it all, you shall persevere until the end."
"Certain pathways you could take will only end in failure and death," Orwen said quietly.
Gwydion flinched inwardly, his thoughts instantly carrying him to the imagination of a future where he could see Arawn laughing at him mockingly, where he could see the despair of Prydain under the rule of death.
"Or," Orddu murmured through her auburn locks, "You shall triumph, with your friends by your side and all the loyal men of Prydain yours to command."
Orgoch continued on before Gwydion could even open his mouth. "But," she said raspily, age and sternness creeping back into her voice, "If that should come to pass, you and all of your House are fated to leave Prydain forever."
Such was the shock that Gwydion felt at hearing those words that he almost reeled backwards out the cottage door. He caught himself on the edges of the door with his hands, stopping with a start. Green eyes wide, he stared at each of the suddenly old and grey-haired enchantresses in turn, wondering if he had misheard or if there had been some terrible mistake. But almost immediately, he knew that what they had said was true. He could not doubt them, not in the face of their power, their solemnity, and the warning they had given him before the terrible truth had been uttered. Gwydion's mind instantly became a whirlwind of thought and fears – leaving Prydain? Leaving the land of his birth, the land that he loved, at the moment of his greatest triumph – if it even came to pass? The full burden of his fate – failure and death or the bittersweet victory surpassed by the sorrow of parting – came over him like a wave, and he closed his eyes in anguish.
"We are sorry, my poor duckling," came Orddu's voice through his sorrow. "We would not have told you if we thought we could avoid it. But you must remember," she added, her tone slightly whimsical, "there is a destiny laid on everything; on the smallest toads and farmers as well as the loneliest princes, and a destiny laid even on us."
A few moments of silence later, Gwydion steeled himself and opened his eyes, blinked, and took his hands away from the doorway. Standing up straight, he then bowed deeply to each of the three enchantresses in turn, his hand resting on the sword which was still strapped to his hip – a weapon which now seemed very heavy.
"Thank you," he said quietly. "If it should please you, I shall depart this place in the morning, or as soon as Melyngar is able."
"Do as you will," Orwen said gently, once again the blonde-haired beauty.
"Good luck, my chicken," the red-haired Orddu said, her eyes glistening slightly.
Orgoch said nothing as Gwydion turned and strode out into the marsh. The three enchantresses watched from the window as the prince wandered slowly amongst the wet paths, never straying far, yet stopping often and staring out towards the horizon in all directions, towards the ocean, towards the forest in the east, and towards the dark mountains in the north, where his gaze lingered a long time.
That night, Gwydion slept in the barn next to Melyngar, soothed slightly by the deep sound of the mare's breathing. Through a hole in the dilapidated building's roof, he hoped to see the stars as he saw them every night above Caer Dathyl, but he could see nothing but grey clouds. He slipped into an uneasy sleep, haunted by dreams of his beloved home burning, or worse, slipping below the horizon.
Achren was furious.
She was wet. She was hungry, because none of Cauldron-born or the human guards she had picked up on the way from Annuvin were back with any food for her yet. She was dirty, for her long blue dress had been splattered with mud during the ride through the Forest of Idris and she was wet from the driving rain hitting the sides of her tent.
She sat on a fur which was yet not thick enough to protect her muscles from the hard roots underneath the material of the tent's floor, clutching a small woven bag to her which contained all the treasures she had been allowed to bring away from Annuvin with her. Her hands trembled, not only with fatigue and fear but rage, rage which stemmed from the swirling thoughts in her head, all of which were tinged with darkness. Plots of revenge and plans for her new rise to power, plans to subjugate all Prydain to her rule. She would…
She shook her head suddenly, missing the weight of her jeweled earrings. She was behaving like a madwoman – well, she thought ironically, perhaps she was. But it would not do her any good. All the tricks which she had taught Arawn himself – she almost hissed as she thought of his name – would come to be of use to her. She would have to build allies around her, use all her charm and beauty as a woman to find men that would help her, men that she could use to help her regain her throne.
She would rise again, she decided mentally and forcefully. She would. With a cruel smile creeping onto her face, Achren opened the bag she had been holding and withdrew a small mirror so she could gaze on her haggard but still striking features. But as soon as she looked at it, she gasped and dropped it to the tent's floor, where its corner within its golden frame shattered.
Her black hair, normally only streaked with grey, had turned pure silver, shimmering even in the dark tent. Achren stared at her reflection in the broken mirror, threw herself on the fur, and sobbed.
Hope you guys like this one! Basically just a lot of setting up, but hey! Did you catch the line from The Black Cauldron which I used? Please forgive me if I got the descriptions of the enchantresses' beautiful forms wrong – I'm afraid I don't have my copy of The High King with me at the moment. The next chapter is when everything gets very very interesting.
... oh, ew. I just killed a mosquito and now there's blood all over the keyboard. Oh, GROSS…