Lloyd Alexander 1. Taran

**Taran**

"That wasn't so hard, now was it?"

Fflewddur's jocular slap on the back was vigorous enough to make Taran wince, but nothing could have erased the foolish, daft smile he felt himself wearing. He coughed instead, and the lanky bard turned his attention to Eilonwy, admonishing, with a wink, "You'd better take him off and make him believe what just happened. By the look of him, he's waiting to wake up any moment."

Eilonwy laughed her silver-bell laugh with no hint of embarrassment, gripped his hand tighter and pulled him away from the cottage, away from the others, as though it were nothing, as though the fact that heaven and earth had just moved had not ruffled her composure in the slightest. "Come on. Walk with me. If we're going away forever we must say farewell to everything at least."

He followed without question, in something akin to a trance, and thought dreamily that she could pull him right over a cliff's edge at that moment without resistance – not that she would, of course. But as they entered the orchard and the perfume of apple blossom enveloped him, the truth of her words dug in, burrowing stubbornly past the cloud-layer of rosy euphoria to his mind.

Indeed. Farewell to everything.

If Dallben spoke truly – and he always did – then these would be his last steps on the soil of his home, his last moments breathing and seeing and knowing the essence of the place that had formed him since infancy. The sudden dismay of it stopped him in his tracks, and his eyes wandered over the familiar surroundings.

Every memory, and the warm, primitive sense of _belonging_ that sprang from wells even deeper than memory - all were rooted here.

There were the fields…those gentle slopes of earth where he had spent so many endless hours in toil. Even now he could feel the earth caking his fingers, smell the sharp green growing life, taste the warm sweet burst of a just-picked strawberry all the sweeter and richer for the heat of the sun on his neck and the ache in his hoe-wielding arms. He thought of the content satisfaction in Coll's face – incomprehensible to him as a child - as he stood at the garden edge in the evening after a day's work, mopping the shining dome of his head with his ragged kerchief and smiling at the proud, even rows of turnip leaves.

The cottage and outbuildings drew his eye. Every cool, moss-furred stone in the fences and walls knew the shape of his hands. The grass, browned by winter and cropped short by goats he knew, sight unseen, by their individual bleats, was webbed in paths worn bare by his steps. The old oak trees had sheltered him in their sun-dappled shadows and whispered their secrets over him in the breeze. He had listened, on lazy afternoons, to the thick drone of bees bumbling drunkenly from flower to flower; in the golden light of dusk, to swallows twittering love songs in the eaves; listened at night to the cricketsong lullaby drifting into his chamber window from the darkness.

He knew the autumn-smell of leaves burning in Coll's rubbish heap and the sour-sweet pungency of apple mash turning to hard cider; he had soaked in the flame-hued glory of oak, birch, and ash as they shook off their summer green. He thought of winter nights when their bare branches reached up grasping at the frosty stars, the blue-dimpled snow lay a glittering quilt on the earth and the hearth glowed red and warm within. Was it true…_could_ it be true, that the very next morning, he would be torn away from these moorings forever?

Eilonwy, brought up short by his halt, had turned to look at him, her own smile melting away when she saw his face. "Taran. What is it?"

He took in the sight of her; vibrant and glowing, framed by the pink-and-white frill of the blooming trees. She had been present in almost all of his memories; barefoot and dirt-grimed in the next turnip row in kilted skirts and a floppy straw hat, providing running commentary on every detail sacred or mundane; stacking cut wood beneath the autumn oaks, her brilliant crown of hair lost against their blazing foliage; sitting across from him at the hearth, gilt-edged by firelight, her fine-boned yet sturdy hands busy with wool hank and spindle, her laughter at Coll's jokes ringing silver against the crackle of burning logs. It was such memories that he had held in his heart, had informed his vision and hope for their future, and now this, too, was not to be – at least not in the same form.

There were no words for what he felt, but they tried to come anyway, stumbling up clumsy over his reluctant lips. "I…it's…" He gestured at their surroundings with his free hand, held up like an empty cup. "When I dreamed of this – of us, together - I always imagined being _here_. I am sure the Summer Country is everything it is said to be." But he shook his head doubtfully. "Except home. It can't be that."

Noticing, with a dreamy sense of spiraling fate, that they had stopped under the very tree she had fallen from into his arms, he smiled wistfully. "My most precious memories are here. I…I do not like having to say farewell to it, especially so soon after coming back. Just when everything finally…" he broke off, his heart too full.

"Finally was going to be perfect," she sighed in his stead, and leaned back against the grey-weathered trunk of the old tree, mournfully pensive. Three rose-flushed apple petals fluttered from a twig above and perched like errant butterflies in her hair, and he wondered achingly how the universe could hold so much beauty without consuming itself.

Eilonwy reached out for his other hand and they stood, face-to-face. "I don't think I want to leave either. At least…I don't know. It feels like dying, almost – a journey to who-knows-where with no hope of returning. And it _may_ be wonderful; everyone _says_ so, but it isn't what you _know_." Her steady blue gaze meandered over the landscape before coming back to rest on his face, and her smile returned, sweet and slow and sad. "This is my home, too, you know. And here I thought, after so long, at _last _I'd be coming home to stay. And now…" she shrugged, helplessly. "Now I want to be unreasonable and stubborn and have a row about the whole business, but what good is it? You can't swat wasps. I mean, you can, but you'll just get stung for your trouble. It's not even the wasps' _fault_."

It was so like her that he chuckled in spite of himself, and she brightened at the sound. "I can manage it, though, no matter where we are, as long as I have _you_…particularly now that you've gotten the formalities underway." She winked and he blushed, momentarily forgetting his sadness, and she laughed and squeezed his hands. "What _did_ take you so long, for goodness' sake?"

"Would you have preferred I ask sometime while we were all on the march?" Taran asked, mildly exasperated, though more at the circumstance than at her. "In a war company, surrounded by grime and filth and roughnecks? You could have asked _me_ if you were in such a hurry."

"The thought occurred to me." She narrowed her eyes. "But I didn't want to shame you into it."

He winced at this before suggesting, "Perhaps during a battle, then. Memorable setting, very romantic no doubt, but rather a short engagement if one of us had gotten a sword through the gut thanks to the distraction."

Chuffing indignantly, she pretended to push him away, but her hands twisted into the folds of his tunic and as a result, pulled him closer. "Oh, you find me distracting, do you? I'll give you distraction, you – it's been _days_ since we left Annuvin. You've had time."

"And there've been _people everywhere_," he protested, the internal struggle to remain coherent in such close proximity causing him to be, perhaps, more defensive than the situation warranted. She smirked at him as if she knew it. "Or haven't you noticed that we've not had a moment to ourselves for months?"

"I noticed," she replied, in a voice like sawdust.

"It wasn't for my lack of trying," he insisted, hoping her suddenly serious expression meant she believed him. "All I wanted was to speak with you alone. In the end, I didn't even manage _that _much," he admitted ruefully, and reached hesitantly toward her face to twine a long golden strand of hair around one finger. "Forgive me. There was so much more I wanted to tell you."

In one quick fluid movement that caught him totally unaware she dipped forward, molding against him like melting wax and sliding her arms around his waist. "You _could_ tell me now." They were cat-purred words, soft as velvet, but they stung like fiery arrows upon his lips and there was only one sensible, one _possible_ response to such an onslaught.

Instant, unconditional surrender.

It struck him, when he released her long moments later, that there was something oddly familiar in her countenance; the blazing eyes and crimson cheeks and breathless parting of lips that had always meant she was angry – spectacularly, magnificently angry. It had never occurred to him that they could herald a different passion entirely, but a glimmer of understanding of why he'd always found her particularly captivating when she was miffed at him flared into brilliant clarity.

The sheer delight of discovery made him laugh. "Did you bring me out here just for that?"

She shrugged a little sheepishly. "No. Well, not altogether. I really did mean it, about saying farewell." She must have felt his slight disappointment in the deflating slope of his shoulders, for she added, cheeks dimpling impishly, "But that was a memorable addition to this location. Perhaps every one of our favorite spots deserves its own. It might ease the parting considerably."

He stepped back into the orchard row, silently thanking the fates for her and her steadfast, bottomless joy. "It seems we have more memories to make, then."

* * *

><p>an: It seemed to me particularly fitting to time this tribute roughly around what would have been Alexander's 90th birthday, and I probably should have waited until the 30th to begin, but I couldn't make myself be that patient. I will be spacing out the uploading of chapters, however.

As usual, this really started out as a result of my adoration of romantic T/E scenes, but as I don't like publishing pointless fluffery, I wanted to tell a broader story, and it took me a long time to figure out what that was. The lively character discussions at the Bardic Forum have been very instrumental in coming up with the chapters that will follow and I want to reiterate how much I love the discussions and appreciate all the readers and writers who have contributed to our little fan community.

Also. There is a, shall we say, slightly more T-rated version of this particular chapter. I edited out a chunk of erotic tension and suggestive banter for those readers who are uncomfortable with sensuality, but I mention it here so that if you'd /like/ to read the "director's cut" version, you can PM me and I will send it to you. I assure the sensitive that it is still nowhere near an M, something I have no desire to write.


	2. Dallben

**Dallben**

He was old, far too old, ages beyond the natural span of men, so old that he had ceased even to wonder _why_ he still lived but only accepted it; wearily, wistfully, as the bittersweet compensation of a few fateful drops of raw magic soaked straight into his bloodstream from his own foolish, smarting fingers. He could still taste it, sometimes, astringent and exciting and sharp, flavoring the air, the scents around him, the plain, good, wholesome fruits of the earth that had sustained him, without real satisfaction, for almost four hundred years. He had never truly enjoyed food since the potion. Magic changes everything, for good or ill.

He sat at his worn table and gazed out the window with eyes that barely saw the view, which had, after all, not changed substantially in decades. It seemed to him sometimes, more often of late, that the world outside grew dimmer and dimmer. Either his eyes were failing – probable enough after all this time – or his inner vision had been drawing him, in his weariness, more and more into the alongside dreamworld that had so often seemed clearer and sharper to him than the physical realm. Both, perhaps. He wondered what would happen to him if he stayed here, in this land, where magic was now fading into a slow death, melting away, the seed of future legend and myth. Would the power that had sustained him so long draw itself out of him, leaving his empty shell crumbling to the dust it should have been three centuries ago? Or would it engulf him, swallow what remained of his humanity, until his very essence dissolved into oblivion along with it?

Neither scenario bothered him particularly; he felt too old to care what happened to him and oblivion actually sounded rather pleasant and quiet when you came down to it. Pondering on it was moot, at any rate – he was bound, choice or no, for the Summer Country, and the promise it whispered, of peace and rest. Let others look forward to renewed youth and vitality. He would be satisfied with uninterrupted years of silence, of the laying down of burdens.

There was one burden he could not lay down in good conscience, however; one thing he cared about very much, and he picked restlessly at the splintered table with a bony forefinger, absently scratching pentagrams and runes into the soft wood in his agitation. The thing should be decided by now. Time was growing dangerously short; the scales of fate teetered on the brink of one decision, and there was _nothing_ he could do to push them in one direction or the other. And the fate of his homeland, this fair country, torn and bleeding and in need – so much grave need – lay in the balance.

What if he had been wrong?

Dallben coughed once, harshly, the way he might have in response to a particularly foolish question posited by another, before he remembered there was no one else in the room and his own mind had asked the unthinkable. He could not have been wrong. Every cog had fallen into place but one. Every line of the prophecy had been fulfilled…almost. The golden ships would not sail until the sun rose high on the morrow. There was time. There was time.

Time for that foolish…but no, he wasn't that foolish boy anymore. Taran was a man grown, proven many times over and surpassing all his expectations – which, admittedly, had not always been high at various vivid points in the lad's rash youth, days when Dallben had had far more manifest reasons for doubt than he now did. No one now could deny Taran had all the qualities of a leader and a king – perhaps even a great one. Only his own decision remained, and he must make it blindly and in ignorance of its consequences. It seemed an impossible thing…or would have, if one believed in impossibilities. Dallben knew them to be nonexistent. If one could make absolute statements about non-absolutes. Nonexistent impossibility, now there was a contradiction in terms…or two sides of the same shifting reality…or…

His own snore startled him and he shook himself awake. This was not the time for meditation. He supposed, dimly, that he ought to pack any possessions he wished to take with him to the Summer Country, and let his eyes wander over his cluttered shelves without much enthusiasm, seeing nothing that was irreplaceable and much that was impractical or outright unnecessary where he was headed. Perhaps some nostalgic memento, then, some bit of his home – but then, he had never been one to form an emotional attachment to material things. He was about to give it up, when his eye fell on the windowsill, where lay, like a dewdrop, an innocuous white pebble, worn round and smooth, obviously pried from a streambed.

_"Wook! Dawben! It'th a _**dwagon egg**_." _

_The boy shoves a grimy fist under his nose, rosy face intense, eager, dramatic, his sea-mist eyes round and big inside their ring of black lashes. "I _**found**_ it. Aw by _**mythewf**_." _

_"Ah. A dragon's egg, you say?" He takes the proffered pebble in his gnarled thumb and forefinger; holds it up appraisingly. "Why, that is the egg of the Emerald-Scaled Tree-Blazer. A small breed, but fierce. A single one has been known to destroy entire forests."_

_Black brows furrow and the small pointed chin sinks; the eyes glare at him accusatorily from behind a ferning of dark fringe. "_**Dawben**_. It'th actuawy a _**wock**_."_

_He smothers a laugh in his own beard. "A rock. Are you sure? It makes a very convincing dragon egg. I feel certain it is a Tree-Blazer." The boy is leaning against his knee now, unconsciously, all trusting familiarity, his head bent studiously over the pebble. _

_"A Twee-Bwather?" Warm breath whispers fluttering on the old man's paper-skinned hand. "I wiww put it thomewhere warm untiw it hatcheth. Then I will twain it, and wide it, and be the onwy dwagon-tamer in Pwydain!" The eyes rise again, twinkling comprehension; shared mischief from behind the black lashes. And he realizes that the child, for the first time, possesses the capacity to understand the world behind words, this game of real and not-real and how both can be true at once. _

_A pang of pride and somehow, regret, pierces through his heart like an arrow, and for a brief instant he remembers running and shouting in youthful vigor, asking endless questions and sleeping deeply and dreaming wonderingly in a world unencumbered by the crushing load of Too Much Knowledge. There are doors, once opened, that can never be closed, and although wonders lie beyond, you must lay down something precious to cross the threshold. _

_"I shall keep it for you," he offers. "But it takes many years, you know, for a dragon's egg to hatch. You must be patient."_

_The grimy fingers linger over his wrinkled hand. "Don't woose it, Dawben."_

He had promised, in that rare moment of playfulness, and so now he picked up the pebble, rolled it in his palm, and pocketed it in his robe.

It had been a strange thing, raising a child. The Book of Three, which waxed eloquent on how Life pulsed and burst forth, expanding its vessels like sails in the wind before wearing them out, was mute on the subjects of mountainous piles of soiled clothing, middle-of-the-night attacks of croup, or ear-splitting, interminable tantrums over insignificant minutiae. But then, neither had it mentioned the warmth of small arms clasped around one's neck, the homely beauty of a child's gap-toothed smile, or the warm flush of pride at a first step, a first word, a first glimmer of new understanding.

He did not deceive himself that he loved Taran as a father loved a son. He was too distant, too removed; more of the eccentric great-uncle or the crusty old tutor so popular in stories, one whose devotion ran strong and true, but buried deep, like a subterranean river. Perhaps it was because he could never forget the greater purpose he suspected – he could not let himself love the boy more than he loved the Kingdom; could not ask Taran to lay himself upon that golden altar when the time came had he done so.

Coll had been the father – affectionate, conversant, patient. Dallben had sometimes envied the camaraderie between the two of them, wished he had the capacity to join in their banter, their unspoken codes and secret languages, though he'd never been tempted toward the wrestling and tussling and general tomfoolery that had often accompanied their interactions. He was what he was; his mind, when it could be wrested into the present, physical world at all, wafted along on a different plane than those of his makeshift family; he had found it impossible to focus on their fireside discussions of hay and harvest and hoof-rot.

Taran's boyhood thirst for adventure tales was hardly more palatable; the boy's craving for battle heroics grieved him, and he'd been glad when, upon the company's return from the affair of the Black Crochan, there had been no more requests for any stories involving bloodletting. In fact, if Dallben could put a finger on any point that marked a permanent bend in his young sapling's growth, in the twist that began a new pattern in the tapestry, it was the thread of the son of Taliesin, a precious talisman lost, and something infinitely more valuable, yet hardly won, left in its place.

Then there was the girl, of course. Her threads were inextricably tangled up in Taran's since the moment she had first appeared in the weave, a thing he had forseen, vaguely, and made marginal preparations for. Certainly her addition to the household had added complications, but he could not regret it. She had entered that masculine domain like a drop of sunshine – even for all that lunar sorcery hanging so thick around her that sometimes he could barely see her through it – casting her rays into every drab corner. And he had not been wholly unsympathetic to the affection between them, creaky old bachelor that he was, his knowledge of the intricate dance of opposites concocted from the explanations of the Book of Three and his observation of everything in the natural world – only to its prematurity. It had pained him to send her away. He loved her as he loved Taran – fondly, distantly, compassionately, wishing only the best for her – for both of them – and grieving that no matter which way the scales fell, there would be heartbreak. He had an impression that the two of them had gone off together upon leaving the cottage. Well, let them enjoy whatever unfettered joy remained to them. It could not, for much longer. Not much longer.

Unless he had been wrong. And he could not wish he had been wrong.

Even if he wanted to.


	3. Gurgi

**Gurgi**

damp, and spring, and green things waking up; his nose was to the ground and a goat went this way, many goats with bells and bleatings. the goats were funny; they jumped when you jumped at them, bouncing and pouncing and sometimes when they were milked someone might spray a stream right into your mouth; they might, if you were careful to be around at the right times.

but it wasn't goats right now, it was something else…nose to ground and he followed it…pig, only now lots of them, little piggies, pink and squirmish, and the big white pig was only a pig, without the magic-smell with its burnings and sharpness. the air around her didn't ring with the buzzy high thin magic noise and she smelled happy, happy with her little piggies and their mother-milk of sweetness and goodness and it reminded him, it reminded…but it didn't, because milk had gone away too soon, he couldn't remember, only that then there was no one and sadness for a very long time. He would not think about those sadnesses; they were old and stale and many seasons ago, back when it was all smells and hunger and very few words or thinkings.

besides, there was not sadness now, only joy, the joy-smell was all around, and everyone was happy, or at least mostly happy, to be leaving on the golden ships tomorrow; everyone except, perhaps, the Old One, who only smelled tired, and just a whiff worried. and there would be wisdom, promises of great wisdom, and…and munchings enough to satisfy anyone, probably. no one had said so, but he hoped it. they called it Summer Country, and Summer meant warmth and sun with shinings, gardens full of luscious munchings and hives full of buzzings and sweetness, swimmings and splashings in clear frothsome water, and beds of fresh flower-smelling grasses at night. it would be a Good Place.

nose to ground again and…there! there it was, the Master-smell, warmth and safety and happiness. he wriggled all over with rushings of joy and he followed it, he followed…but wait, there also was the Princess-smell, the wise princess, all mixed-up with the Master's. the tall bard, the one who used to carry the jangly harp, had said to leave them alone for a while. he was not understanding why, but he was obedient always…but it was hard; their together-smell was new and different and exciting and made him want to romp and bound with leapings after them, or after _someone_, but everyone had gone off and it was lonely; he was lonely. Master would come back, though, he always came back; so perhaps he would wait for him here. turn, turn, turn and the old brown grass made lovely whirlings, soft nests, to lie down in and wait.

soft and quietsome sky above; clickings and scratchings of worms and bugs stirring below. Spring was coming; and then it would be Summer, but no…they were going to Summer, weren't they? going to somewhere that would come anyway when it wanted….it was strange, and he was forgetting why, but it didn't matter. Master would be there, and crunchings…and wisdom. wisdom was more valuable than crunchings. the Great Prince seemed to think so, and Master too, and they were always right. wisdom was better than crunchings. maybe. maybe it was. but his belly was full of growlings and air, and wisdom was something that always came later, tomorrow, perhaps.

smells of cooking. nose to air and…meat in pots, onions and leeks and turnips, and campfire-smoke, far off. the Master-smell was here, but…but Master would come back and he promised not to follow. he didn't promise not to wander after toothsome smells.

nose to air and follow, follow through trees and past the stream, with sniffings and whiffings of earth and freshness, down into the old fields, the good fields where Master and the Farmer worked – the old Farmer with his kind voice and gentle hands who had been left under the stones after the fighting. here at home the stables and buildings were full of the Farmer-smell but it was stale and old and there was Nothing where the Farmer should be, and the Nothing crumpled into whimpers in his throat and salty stingings in his eyes.

tents, and campfires, and children that smelled like the air from the hills where Master had spent so much time, children who laughed to see him, ran to him and their shouts were joyous shiverings on his ears; their hands were lovely scratchings at his neck. they talked all at once, too many words for his following, but they smelled of welcome and _play with us_ and…oh, rapture!...their hands were full of scraps from the cook-pot, lovely munchings even though there was a Mother who frowned and said _now he'll never leave. _

_no, no, he is leaving. leaving tomorrow for the Good Place with Master and all the magic people. they've told him so, but tomorrow is a long way and he is hungry _**now**_…you ones without hair do not eat the bones, the scrumptious bones that are so good for crunching, so someone may as well, _and the Mother stopped frowning and laughed and there were bones, and the children romped like rolling cubs, but behind the children the Mother sat with her head in her hands and she smelled like sadness and like someone who was missing…

but the bones were good, and his belly was happy and drowned the sadness out of his ears. one of the children sat nearish and was plucking twigs out of his fur, her fingers were ticklish and twitchy but it was nice, nice to have the itchy twigs out, with their pokings and proddings.

perhaps he had come to the Good Place already…but no, there had been no golden ships yet, no great sailings over the dark big water. no, he was not there yet, but he hoped there would be children there, many of them, smelling like growings and laughings. Master had been a child, in the long ago when he'd first found him; sometimes he still played like this and that was the most joy of all, but it wasn't often anymore, not so much. Master had smelled like sadness and worry and weariness for a long time, and even now when he smelled so strong of love and hopefulness and happiness, the sadness and weariness were all mixed in, jumbled and tumbled, and confused his nose.

full belly and nice tiredness from so much playing, soft grass and warm sun on his back, and children lying nearby, with whisperings and gigglings, finding pictures in the clouds. this was goodness. surely the Good Place would have much of this, and all the sadness and weariness would melt away and there would be nothing but joy-smells. he hoped so. he hoped it.

it was what they all said.

* * *

><p><strong>an**_ Gurgi's voice drives autocorrect crazy. _

_This was perhaps the most difficult chapter to write; how does one get into the head of something that is only half-human? In the end I may have erred on the side of Gurgi's animal nature and not given him enough credit for deeper thought and motivation, but I imagine his two natures are often in conflict that way. _

_I found myself slipping into more and more melancholy as the chapters went on...inevitable, perhaps, and I apologize to those who have come to expect lighter fare from me. You just can't approach the end of the series without a pretty yin/yang attitude, accepting the bittersweetness of the conclusion and all it entails. Even Gurgi feels it, simple creature though he is._


	4. Fflewddur

**Fflewddur**

He ought to send a message, really.

"I shan't be returning. The kingdom is in your capable hands. Do as you will." He wasn't sure if his Chief Steward would take it as an apology or a congratulatory note. He wasn't sure he knew which it was, himself.

It was rather as though an iron cuff had been taken off, and he didn't quite know what to do with the ensuing weightlessness. Being freed from a responsibility he had never worried much over in the first place ought to be a relief, and instead he felt vaguely guilty. It wasn't fair, really, that he should be rewarded for his lack of commitment by being released from it for no other reason than an accident of family ties. But then, it had been such an accident that had put him in line for a kingship anyway. _He'd_ not asked for it, not even expected it; his older brother had been first in line, and would have been the better man for the job. Always taken life very seriously, had Glyn, and then gone and gotten himself killed in the same minor skirmish that had killed their father Godo, something that was supposed to be an easy mission yet just like that, you lose a brother and a father and gain a kingdom all in a day. It was a poor trade, he thought, and he'd always had the uneasy impression that his subjects thought so too.

Oh, they liked him. A Fflam was amiable, and very few people did not like him, except those who objected to music and a good tale well-told. They just had so little patience with him, and it was as clear to him as to them that most matters over which he held jurisdiction simply were better off in the hands of his Chief Steward, who had a mind suited for such things. Taxes and tariffs and disputes, the treaties with various neighboring kingdoms – all of this distressed him, most of all because he couldn't seem to make himself understand how they worked, really. He cared very much about his people, but it was hard to care about the odd businesses that, going on in the background with ink and parchment and gold exchanges, seemed to affect them so gravely. He tried; he spent hours mulling over some new proposed law from an advisor, devotedly training all his attention on the work at hand, and….well, no, the truth was at such times he usually found his thoughts leagues away, frolicsomely piecing together snippets of rhyme, or erecting the framework of a new narrative song.

And now the ruling was to end, and he would be a true bard, his life devoted to rhymes and songs and ancient wisdom. Perhaps, without the weight of all that kingdom, he'd find the lessons whose gravity he'd previously choked over easier to his taste. Yes, indeed – no doubt, once he could free his inspiration from all those entangled confusing webs of rule, she'd soar free, carrying him with her, gladly soaking up all the bardic lore with the ease of a sponge sopping up seawater. The thought was so ebullient that he laughed out loud, and spurred his long legs to an easy lope. Llyan, always game for a romp, caught up with him in a bound and head-butted him so hard he sprawled, laughing, on the turf.

He'd been strolling along the creek bank, purposefully avoiding the general direction of the orchard path that Taran and Eilonwy had taken, because…well, because a Fflam had eyes in his head, didn't he? Let those two have some time together before being once again crowded on a ship for who-knew-how-long. It was good to see them together, inevitable but too long in coming; he shook his head, baffled, at the lad's delay in speaking to her. Taran might have grown a great deal in wisdom, but he still had much to learn where a young woman was concerned. Of course, that kind of learning only came through experience, and doubtless Eilonwy would prove a capable teacher. Their happiness was palpable, and didn't pain him exactly, but it made him wistful, turned his mind toward earlier days when he'd also known the raptures of…

Oh, what good was it. He'd never been in love, not really, not the One Great True Love so many songs were sung about, or that he himself believed was the ideal to strive toward. There had been girls who danced a few merry rounds with him during his roaming, but he didn't fool himself that their or his flirtations were anything but passing amusement, except…except for…

Eleri.

Eleri of the Rovers, with her bouncing black curls and snapping black eyes and lovely feet and ankles that…well. He had always had a weak spot for a well-turned ankle, particularly when it was hung with bells and ribbons, Rover-fashion, kicking and whirling in their wild jigs. She had never been annoyed at his exaggerations as others had often been; no, she had spurred him on, interrupting his most outrageous concoctions with enthusiastic additions of her own until his harp had drowned them both out in an indignant cacophony of broken strings, and the laughter that ensued was worth every moment spent painstakingly mending them.

He had stayed long in the Rovers' camp, far longer than he ever had elsewhere, and he'd toyed with the thought of asking her to leave with him when the time came. If anyone would be likely to tolerate his wandering foot, it would be one who had never known what it was to spend longer than a month in any place. She would have roamed the country with him willingly; he had gone so far as allowing himself to imagine her beside him, strolling together through forest glades and over mountain paths, feasting and reveling in remote villages and torch-lit banquet halls, foraging in the wilderness when the pickings were lean, huddling cozily over a campfire, stargazing and trading limericks and playing duets – she could play circles 'round him on that trilling, finger-flying flute-like whistle her people preferred over harps. And of course, occasionally returning back to his tiny kingdom where they would rule together in blissful Harmony and Wisdom…

And there the harp would strain and whine plaintively, in the way it sometimes did when he hadn't even actually spoken, and he wanted to shake the wretched thing for being able to _read his mind._ Because the truth was Eleri would have _hated_ being a queen; after the untamed freedom of her life and the careless disregard of authority that marked her kin, she would have been even more uncomfortable with the trappings of rule than he was himself. She would wilt on a throne, crumble away like old dry leaves drained of their autumnal glory. He could not ask it of her, could not have borne it himself to see her so encumbered. He wasn't even sure she would have agreed to it had he asked.

And so he had left her when he turned his back on the camp, but not without telling her the truth, because he had to, because her face when he bid her farewell would not let him go without some explanation. A Fflam was honorable, after all. He had not missed her sharp, expectant glance at his harp when he said the words _I must return to my kingdom, _nor the surprised flicker of confusion in her eyes when nothing happened. Many things had passed over her face at once then, a tangle of emotions that had quickly smoothed themselves into the wistful, good-humored resignation to reality that seemed, to him, to be a defining characteristic of her people. Her farewell had been brief, but memorable, and it hung in the air between him and every other pretty young lass he'd come across, ever since.

He had crossed paths with the camp numerous times after that, and each time she had welcomed him with the rest, warmly and without bitterness. She introduced him to her husband and a merry troupe of black-curled, red-cheeked children, who danced in the firelight-circles while he joined his harp strings to the Rovers' music and felt her eyes on him, dark and unreadable, from somewhere in the shadows beyond. She had always seemed happy and he was sincerely glad of it.

But he wished, a little, that he could see her one last time.

Llyan had pushed him into a sitting position, her shaggy golden head nuzzling insistently into his back between gentle, inquisitive prods of her nose into the folds of his clothes. He suspected the absence of his harp puzzled her; anytime he sat down for longer than a few moments she was accustomed to settling her graceful bulk behind him, curling her tail about his knees and being serenaded. Indeed some of his best music had been inspired by the low, pulsing rhythm that surged through her throat at such moments, vibrating through his limbs and setting his fingertips a-tingle. But nowadays when they curled up together, she would fix him with a long, steady, inscrutable stare, emit one loud, rasping, clearly dissatisfied yowl, and lay her head down with a sigh. The purr came, but it was halfhearted, an afterthought.

"It's no good, old girl," he told her firmly, when the poke of her velvet paw became a bit too intrusive. "It's gone, and there's no help for it. If you'll sit down…down! – there's a good girl; I can sing for you at least."

He began to burble out snatches of the work he was in the midst of composing about recent events, while the big cat rolled onto her back, luxuriating in the spring sunshine. But it was a chancy thing, singing an incomplete song; when he paused to mull over a possible rhyme for "valor" Llyan's purring halted abruptly, and a golden slit glittered between her eyelids. He noted the deceptively neutral posture of her paws, flipped lazily over her chest, contradicted by the impatient twitch of her tail.

"Not in the mood for improvisation? Well, get on, then." He flipped a handful of twigs into the air. They disappeared in a flurry of lightning-swift strikes whose passing actually blew his hair back, followed by stillness and an alert, level glare. "You'll be on a ship tomorrow with no room to play. Go have a run. Catch something." He threw his arm up in the direction of the woods, and Llyan was gone in a swish of dry grass.

She'd be happy in the Summer Country, he thought peacefully, watching her leap over the turf. It must be so sweetly simple, being an animal, content with a full belly, a warm place to sleep, and a companion or two. Perhaps he'd write a song about _that _someday. With all eternity before him, there'd be no subject he couldn't get to eventually.

Eternity. Fflewddur flipped onto his belly and rested his long chin in his hand, studying the dead grass, plucking it thoughtfully. What did one _do_ in eternity? Would it get…tiresome? Like any man, he did not love the thought of death, and yet the idea of an endless succession of tomorrows was too alien to be entirely comfortable. It was the destiny of man to be born, to live, to age, to die, hopefully to leave whatever he could of benefit to the next generation and then to get out of their way. Immortality seemed to upset the natural order of things. He had a sudden, disturbing vision of the Summer Country being a place swarming with people so close together they bumped elbows, old and young. Surely not. Yet…if everyone lived forever, how was there room left for more?

Perhaps there were no children there, no new births to fill the crowded space, which could explain the rather nonchalant attitude of Gwydion to his lack of an heir, a thing which had always puzzled Fflewddur - though heaven knew he hadn't particularly troubled himself about his own royal responsibility in that regard. He'd long ago forsaken the idea of fatherhood for himself, but a pang as of loss chilled him. No children anywhere? It was a terrible thought. He thought again of Taran and Eilonwy, and hoped very much he was wrong. He'd been nurturing a dream of being "Uncle Fflewddur" for several years now.

Surely he was wrong. Perhaps the Summer Country grew to accommodate all those who lived there…with all the other miraculous tales attributed to it, he wouldn't be surprised. In any case there was no use regretting what couldn't be helped, and there was so much to rejoice in. Taliesin himself had assured him of a new harp and a fresh start. And though his wandering life had gained him many friendly acquaintances, the few dearest to him, the few he would have called beloved friends, would be with him now, always. He took a deep breath, savoring the smells of warm air, of sunshine, of earth awakening; tuned his ear to the birdsong and brook-water tinkling all around. A Fflam was optimistic, and the day was lovely. And perhaps eternity, after all, was nothing more than an endless Today.

That was something he could live with forever.

* * *

><p><em>an: Finally delving into the subject of much forum speculation: Fflewddur's romantic history. I wound up compromising between the "girl in every camp" theory and the idea that he'd be too much of a romantic idealist to be satisfied with anything but the Greatest Love of All Time. Ultimately I decided he's an artist married to his own muse - and like a lot of artists, deeply introverted. Probably Llyan is as much company as he can handle half the time._

_He's such a delightful character in canon, comedic and light-hearted but painted rather deceptively simply by Lloyd. A poet and dreamer would naturally think deeper thoughts than the books tend to credit him with, so it should not have surprised me that his musings took on a philosophical bent. Of all my chapters thus far this is the one in which the character took over and dictated the direction. As emotionally conflicting as the series' end is, and as potentially depressing, Fflewddur the optimist would not let me end this on a low note._


	5. Eilonwy

**Eilonwy**

The sleeping vegetable fields stretched in gentle slopes to the edge of the forest, a view broken now by dozens of makeshift tents. In the westering blue light, the campfires of the Commot refugees were flaring like a handful of golden stars scattered over the fields. Eilonwy, surveying it from the edge of the trees, shook her head with a sigh. "Poor Coll would be heartbroken. They're trampling all over the bean and cabbage patches."

Taran, stepping up next to her from the shadows, surveyed the damage with a conflicted expression. "It seems odd to be upset over it, doesn't it? When we're leaving and it won't matter to us. Yet I feel that his memory is being dishonored, somehow."

"Of course it is," she returned a bit tartly. "It's worse than if someone had desecrated his barrow. He'd mind that less. But," she added, softening in spite of herself, "he'd also have said people are more important than cabbages. It's not as though it's an army camping there…just families, mostly, and they had to go _some_where. I suppose someone will mend it all eventually. They're not going to leave a place like this sitting fallow."

She found herself frowning at the thought of others living in the place she had come to think of as _her_ cottage, working these fields, and scolded herself silently for it. Of course _some_one would live there, and manage the farm – a great boon to a family displaced by the war. Better that Caer Dallben should be tended and verdant, better filled with the love of another family and laughter of someone else's children than sitting empty like a shrine to a barren memory. _That_ would be desecration indeed.

She glanced at Taran's face and saw a frown similar to her own furrowing his brow; the straight, firm line of his mouth and chin were set determinedly, and she knew, somehow, that he was thinking the same thing. _Of course he was_; warm pride spread lazily through her like the flush of a long draught of wine. He caught her eye and quirked an eyebrow. "What is that look for?"

"Because I could see what you were thinking," she said, trying and failing not to sound a little smug. "And you're absolutely right. If it doesn't belong to us, it should belong to _someone_."

He shrugged and smiled ruefully. "I must have been a selfish fool most of my life for that to impress you so much, now. There's nothing honorable about acknowledging the obvious. It should have been ours, but…what is the use of a farm that isn't worked? It would be no better than the Red Fallows."

She shuddered involuntarily and nestled closer to him, suddenly cold. "Ugh, don't. It could never be like them. I had such horrible nightmares the whole time we were there, even while I was awake." She brushed her hands across her own arms, as though trying to clear off cobwebs, and was glad when he covered them with his own to still them, the warmth driving out the memory of the moldering pale dust of the fields. Even after the company had left the Fallows behind, their dead soil had seemed to cling to clothes and hair and skin longer than it should, carrying with it a sense of sadness and waste. Several of the men had complained that it felt haunted, but it was more than that; the very _essence_ of the place had oppressed her; weightless and hollow it had still somehow dragged at her limbs, while bodiless voices muttered at the edges of her consciousness.

Taran was watching her face with a look of regretful concern. "Don't look like that. I'm sorry I brought it up." He ran a hand through his dark hair in agitation. "Leave it to me to spoil the moment."

She forced a laugh and pulled his arm tightly around her. "It wasn't you. I _still_ have nightmares, about…all of it. And will for years, I expect. Did you ever notice how lovely memories fade over time, while terrible ones hound you like a hunter on your trail? I wonder why that is. I'd dearly love to forget some things." Before the words were out of her mouth she regretted them; like an assault, a sudden vision of Dorath's ugly, broken-toothed grin in the darkness shoved itself before her mind's eye. She swayed on her feet, choking back a wave of nausea.

Taran held her up, his alarm pulsing in the clutch of his hands. Dimly, as though from far away, she heard him say her name, ask her what was the matter. But she shook her head, buried her face in his shoulder, breathed deeply the familiar, comforting smell of him until the horror subsided.

Talk about spoiling the moment. "It's nothing," she mumbled, muffled in the thick wool of his jacket. "That is…I'll tell you sometime. Not now." He should know; but she shied away from the thought of conveying it to him; later, always later…perhaps one day she could revisit the event without feeling ill, or…or as though she were sullied, somehow, by no more than a few offensive prods of rough hands. Nothing had happened, really, and no doubt she was being oversensitive about the whole thing, but…well, bless Medwyn and his wolves. Perhaps it was ironic, given her revulsion at the memory of Dorath's face, that she could think about the sight of his throat being torn out and feel nothing but numb satisfaction. But then, it was only one bloody recollection among many.

Taran stroked her hair and was silent; his characteristic quietness often piqued her but just now she wanted nothing more than the strength of his wordless embrace; it was a solid, anchoring presence and she clung to him gratefully, thankful for his silence. He broke it, finally, many heartbeats later.

"I have nightmares, too," he confessed. "I see men's faces in battle again – sometimes they're attacking and I'm tied up and can't defend myself. Or I see the cauldron-born coming for me, and the rock on Mount Dragon, and I reach for Dyrnwyn and it's not there." She felt him tense, and tightened her arms around him. "Sometimes I just see the faces of the men I killed. And those are the worst."

The pain in his voice drove all other thoughts from her mind; she raised her head to look at him, cupped his troubled face in her hands. "You only did what you had to do. It was a war."

"I know." His gaze met hers reluctantly. "It's odd. When I was young I thought of battle heroics all the time, but never about the fact that people actually _died. _It's different in your imagination; they're all faceless, or…or just so simply evil that it doesn't matter."

"Or in some cases," she added dryly, "already dead anyway."

A bitter laugh escaped him, as though from a carefully guarded gate, and he pressed his fingers to his brow and shut his eyes. "It was so much simpler when it was just cauldron-born. But when Pryderi's army…" he shook his head. "I always wondered how many of them only followed because they _had_ to. How many wives and sons and daughters are alone now, down in the southern cantrevs, because one man decided we were the enemy." He opened his eyes, gold-green in the dying light, and seemed to look past her at something she couldn't see. "Slaying your enemy is only the beginning, it seems. Harder still is washing his blood off your hands."

_Or from the ground_, she thought, mindful of the Fallows. The anguish in his eyes hurt her; and hurt, as usual, took refuge beneath anger, bubbling up from deep within like a hot spring and setting her simmering. What had it all been for, anyway – now that they were all going away? To well-earned peace and safety, perhaps, yet not to enjoy the peace they'd bought _here_ for so high a price?

"You're frowning now," Taran observed, with a wry half-smile. "Didn't we come out here to make _good _memories? Or did I dream that as well?"

"Oohh," she huffed and stood up straight, preoccupied with her own frustration; stepped away from him and gestured, with a wide sweep of her hand, down toward the fields. "I just…what good was it all? What did we fight for, in the end? Nothing but the right to walk away from what we won? Look at them."

The fires were bright now as the sun sank toward the horizon; brave little stars, she thought, to battle the darkness. "It's not fair, is it? Not right, somehow, that we should be so happy and fortunate, going off where we'll have no more cares or troubles, while so many who fought as hard, and lost more, maybe, must stay and try to patch themselves back together. And without a proper leader, too. I wonder what is to become of them."

Taran stepped close to her again, but now his silence was irksome; she wanted him to share her rising ire, and went on heatedly. "The Commots could go on very well, I suppose; they always have, but what about the rest? The cantrevs will tear each other apart. And what's to prevent someone else coming up and replacing Arawn? You don't need to have powers of enchantment to do plenty of damage."

Her anger surprised her; she felt a perverse desire – not without a guilty pang of loyalty, but a desire no less - to shake Dallben and Gwydion for being so willing to hand over their responsibilities and sally off to the Summer Country without a look backward. Perhaps it wasn't really their fault, but…but it should be _someone's. _

"At least they will be free from the shadow of Annuvin. They have a chance now," Taran offered. "That counts for something." But his voice held a hint of doubt, of disquiet, as though even he were not sure of his own words. He took her clenched fist and gently pried her fingers open, interlacing them with his own and drawing it in, until his heartbeat thumped against the back of her hand. "You can't change what's happening by being angry about it, you know. Save your energy-'"

"-for honest work," she said, swallowing a sob and leaning back against him. It had been a favorite proverb of Coll's. "If there's any honest work to be done in the Summer Country."

"What is that supposed to mean?" he queried, a note of amusement creeping back into his voice.

She snorted. "All that lovely talk about it being a place of rest and laying down of burdens. They make it sound like we'll just lie around all day, listening to harps playing and…and eating strawberries and cream and honey." Her conscience pricked her quietly. It was not an altogether true nor fair accusation, but she couldn't let go of her irritation so easily.

Not even with his other arm snaking around her waist from behind. Though it was distracting. Almost as distracting as his breath tickling her neck.

"I certainly hope," he muttered against her ear, "that there's more to it than that."

Disarmed, she giggled and elbowed him in the stomach, while some separate, casually observant part of her mind wondered how it was possible to be grieving and angry one moment and flushed sweetly warm and expectant the next. Terribly odd, like going straight from day to night with no sunset in between. And actually, a bit annoying. If he thought he could get her to forget about being angry – with him or anything else – just by being irresistibly flirtatious…well. She'd have words with him about that later.

"Of course, Dallben did say Hen could come with us," she said, turning her head to grin at him. "And I'm sure even in the Summer Country pigs have to be fed. So you'll always have something useful to-" But he cut her short in a manner that was becoming rather dangerously, dizzyingly effective. Probably it _should_ annoy her. But at least he was no longer thinking about death and war – hopefully – and she had no intention of spoiling the moment again…not now, when all her happiness was like a bubble, beautiful and shining and perfect.

And fragile.

She would not be the one to shatter it.

* * *

><p><em>an: Just want to add here that her thoughts about being "oversensitive" to the memory of a near-rape experience are her own (incorrect) thoughts in an attempt to come to terms with it, not an injection of author opinion, lest anyone think I would trivialize that. In fact I almost put a trigger warning on this chapter. _

_Taran's line about it being harder to wash your enemy's blood off your hands came from my husband. I promised I'd credit his brilliance. :)_

_Those familiar with my Matter of Hours fic might recognize her rant about the leaderless state of Prydain; I had not originally intended to revisit it but this was where the story took me. I personally liked the extra twist of drama inherent in the idea that she could actually blame herself for unwittingly starting the ball rolling on Taran's decision, but I also found it satisfying to imagine that in the end, although she stays behind primarily to be with him, she also shares his sense of justice and duty to the country. _


End file.
