VIII – What Was and Never Should Have Been #2

Celtión continued to retreat, lost in the remembrance of the hour when he had confessed his love to her by the light of a makeshift campfire, whilst they awaited Freya’s arrival. How protected she had felt, walking hand in hand with him.

A branch became entangled ’twixt her feet, and at that moment Gwion, with the reflexes of an elite warrior, caught her by the waist and drew her close to his body.

He gazed upon her for a moment, whilst the sun, filtering through the leaves, illuminated her freckles.

The impulse was too strong; his heart cried out for it, and he abandoned himself.

He kissed her, kissed her tenderly and, at the same time, with the intensity of thunder.

He kissed her with the force of waves crashing against the cliffs.

His lips upon hers, so warm and so tender.

They had imagined this moment and felt it was all they had ever dreamed of.

They desired naught more than for time to stand still and for it never to end.

Gwion squeezed his eyelids shut so that naught might disturb him from feeling the touch.

She, yielded in his arms, wrapped her arms about him, clinging tightly, as if her life depended upon it.

Celtión found the courage to draw back, and then they beheld each other, eyes sparkling with love, as if every galaxy in the universe could fit into the brilliance of that look.

She spread the skirt of her dress and, with her fingers intertwined with his, invited him to sit down.

The soft, green grass welcomed the lovers.

She stretched forth her legs where he rested his head and, with her fingertips, began to comb his hair.

The sensation was so pleasant that he let himself be carried away.

'I could abide thus for the remainder of my life,' thought Gwion.

He tilted his head to one side and espied a delicate flower with small white petals and a yellow centre.

He plucked it to give to her. He knew they were her favourites—common, wild flowers.

She laughed mischievously and tied it into the plait that fell over her shoulder, then began to hum a gentle tune.

'Even her voice is perfect,' sighed the warrior.

'This is all that is right in this cursed land of myths, blood and death. You are all that is right; we are. Windar supports us; she will accompany me to speak with my father. She told me she knows how to convince him. Do not fear death.'

'It is not death I fear, but life. I dare not live without you.'

Celtión sighed and the sweet scent of his breath lingered in the air.

'But what shall we do if he refuses? He will hang me for treason, or worse still, he will bring down the Blood Eagle upon me and compel thee to witness it.'

'If he says no, then we shall escape. Windar hath shown me a map leading north, unto a small village in Ubberia; she hath certain friends of her father’s there.'

A whinny broke the silence. Gwion imitated a bird’s whistle to see if it was Maed, but received no reply. As swiftly as they might, whilst he drew his sword and stood before the princess, they concealed themselves behind an ancient lime tree.

'Arwel!' cried Gwion, surprised to recognise him.

'Celtión,' called the commander over his shoulder, 'come forth; I can see the skirt. Narg seeketh her. Should he learn thou art here, thou shalt inherit the throne ere the morrow, princess.'

'Remind me later to upbraid Maed for slumbering,' he whispered in Celtión’s ear.

'We shall accompany her to the crossroads where your brother does doubtless await to convey her unto the castle. We shall lag behind; I have somewhat to show you.'

They made their way toward the horses, as leisurely as they might, to prolong the moment and devise a plan in case Narg demanded the warrior’s head at supper.

'I shall make use of the fact that my father has sent for me. Knowing him, if he refuses, he shall send me to my bedchamber. Wait in the stables, and if you see a light, saddle the horses and flee. We shall meet at the old Oak of Brimmon.'

The eldest of the Gerinsons wore a wistful smile on the journey to the crossroads. Arwel gave instructions that Maed did not question. Not only because he was the commander of the troop, as his father, Ralf Kolins, had been; his bearing commanded respect.

Once the two figures had disappeared over the horizon at full gallop, Gwion looked at his comrade with a questioning expression.

'I lied to you, but I had to speak to you alone and far from the castle.

It is no secret to us that you and Celtión are in love; even the blindest or the most obtuse can see it and breathe the air that floats between you when you are together.

I am surprised Narg does not even suspect it.

Perhaps because of the affection he feels for you and for your incorrigible brother. '

Arwel dismounted and invited him to follow, so they might walk with the reins in their hands.

'In two weeks she shall be in another man’s arms and, let me tell you, in another two, she shall have forgotten you already.'

Gwion glared at him from the corner of his eye, seething with rage.

'The only memory that shall remain of you shall be the blood that shall blend in with the red tiles of the courtyard where Alfredo died, if you have the honour of being executed there.'

Arwel kept up the pace even as Gwion began to slow.

'I will tell you what shall come to pass. That brainless Maed shall not weep at your grave. No, far from it, he shall desire to avenge you; he shall stir up such a revolt that many shall march at his side, for honour’s sake, because he shall raise a banner more powerful than that of the raven, the perfect emblem of justice and love.

There shall be deaths, and Old Minister shall suffer the consequences for all time. '

'I will take responsibility for my actions, and Maed for his.'

'One uprising shall suffice for Narg to dissolve the council.

He will mistrust all. He hath ever been a man of wise counsel, yet tell me, how oft have we persuaded him not to send us into battle merely because anger had mastered him?

Consider, we are the chosen ones; the burden of innumerable lives resteth upon our shoulders. '

Gwion fell silent; Arwel’s words were most convincing—wise and precise, with his majestic bearing, his chin held high and his spine straight. A single, timid tear welled up, and he hid it. It was true; he had already analysed the situation: he must bid farewell to the love of his life.

Upon arrival, Celtión requested that Maed locate Windar.

Without wasting a second, he ascended the grand staircase, traversed the great hall, and proceeded along a corridor adorned with torches and black tapestries hanging from the walls, bearing a raven with a raised wing and open beak, embroidered in gold.

The throne room lay at the far end, with its imposing wooden doors, where a pair of guards on either side broke ranks to make way for her.

Narg, seated with Windar at his right hand, frowned when he beheld his daughter enter, her dress covered in dust.

'You will never change,' he said, rolling his eyes. 'The first thing you do is run through the fields like a wild thing.'

'Father,' she said, gathering the folds of her skirt and making a curtsey as she drew near. 'There is something thou must know.'

'In due course, you shall love what we have in store for you,' said Narg, but he frowned again when he espied Celtión shaking her head as he drew near.

'First I am your king, then your father, and as both, I tell you there is nothing more crucial than for me to lose myself in the look on your beautiful face when you behold this. '

Windar strode unto one of the pillars dividing the hall in twain, took up a parcel, and delivered it unto Celtión.

'It arrived but a short while ago. Behold, this is the gown for thy wedding tomorrow; we shall fix the date at the feast. Pray, unseal it—it is the very same thy mother wore, yet, with Grandmother’s aid, I had it altered to fit thee and added a few touches.'

Celtión stood paralysed, the bundle in her hands. Her muscles and stomach went rigid. She desired to vanish. Her eyes, fixed upon naught, filled with tears, and soon tears streaked down her cheeks, still dusty from the journey.

'You have not even opened it and you are already moved.'

'No, Father, it is not that,' she murmured. The lump in her throat prevented her from speaking any louder. 'Thou must listen to me, I cannot do it.'

'Canst thou not, or wilt thou not?'

'I cannot. I will not. I love thee, but thou canst not force me.'

Her blurred vision smudged the angry figure of her father.

'I can force you; I am your king. You shall see, you shall not find a better man than Cloet.'

In her mind, Gwion’s shy smile took shape. The feeling of being in his strong arms, the scent of his hair, loosened the knot in her throat and a vital force shook her.

'I will not do it!' she cried, lifting her mud-streaked face. 'Even shouldst thou drag me to the foot of the temple, I shall refuse. I will conceal a dagger, slay Cloet before all, and then rend out my own heart—for the one within my breast doth not belong to me; it hath already a master.'

Windar hastened her pace toward the side door of the enclosure.

'I cannot endure such want of respect,' she said, and Celtión beheld her depart whilst she bit her lower lip.

'Who hath been bold enough to court thee in secret?'

'If I tell thee, dost thou promise to allow our love to flourish freely?'

'I am Narg Hugnork,' he said, striking his chest as he rose from the throne, 'King of Old Minister, heir of the raven, with the blood of Alfredo, and you expect me to break my word. Capricious girl, you shall do as I command.'

'Then I shall take his name to the grave, for it will be the only place where thou canst put this pretty dress upon me.'