VIII – What Was and Never Should Have Been #4

He unfastened the buckle of his belt from which the scabbard holding his sword hung, yanked it free and, without looking him in the face, handed it over. Owin took it, but stood there with his mouth agape, his prominent cheekbones emphasised.

Thus, armed only with his honour, he would go to face whatever his king had in store for him.

If an agonising death awaited him, he regretted not having said farewell to his younger brother.

'Who will look after Maed’s nonsense and follies?

' he thought, and, heading towards the castle, he raised his head towards the stars to implore Frigg, his wisest goddess, to look after his brother.

Steeds thundered past him at full speed. The clattering sound of hooves upon the rocks rattled his brain until, suddenly, someone seized him by the shoulder.

'He has escaped. I have already deployed the troops and I can guess what triggered it.'

Gwion observed that Arwel, albeit they were but to seek Celtión, was armed.

'Narg deems him an Ubberian,' he explained. 'He told Cheas and me a few minutes ago, though I do not know who put the notion into his head.'

'So, if he does not know the truth, why did he send for me so urgently?'

'Gwion, if you escape now, Narg will not tarry to perceive it was you. I will not stay you; in truth, I shall hold the troops until you have gained some space, but if I must pursue you, I shall.'

'I have naught to offer you; she deserves to be happy,' he said, holding his palms upwards with his fingers spread. 'All I have are these hands, which were trained by our king himself. I cannot betray him, though you should let her escape, because...'

'She does not belong here,' Arwel finished. 'Aye, I think so too.'

A trumpet began to sound from the north tower. The tidings spread by word of mouth to the base of the wall where Gregor stood; without wasting any time, he ran past them.

'Men from Ubberia have crossed the border,' warned Gregor as he made for the armoury.

'To arms!' commanded Arwel, raising his arm.

'Celtión,' thought Gwion; alone upon the outskirts of the castle, she was easy prey for the soldiers of Ubberia.

'By the sharp-edged sharpness of Tyr’s sword, if thou knowest where she is, speak! Her life and the kingdom depend thereon.' Arwel shook him by the shoulders and, despite being half a head shorter than him, managed to move him like a leaf floating in the autumn air.

'The tree, the old Oak of Brimmon.'

Arwel stayed a horseman, took his steed, and rode forthwith.

Gwion stood firm midst the press hurrying to and fro; they bore torches, shields, spears, and vessels of water.

Peasants, warriors, children, and women, all trained, knew what to do; each had a place, a perfectly fitting piece of the puzzle for the welfare of Old Minister.

But he, mesmerised in his thoughts, found it impossible to shake the guilt from his gut.

Celtión was in danger, in the hands of the Ubberians and her own father, and only Odín knew what punishment he would mete out when she was found.

Despite the starry firmament, a heavy, cold spring drizzle fell across the entire territory of Old Minister, bringing him back to his senses, and, without a thought for aught else, he made straight for the throne room where, according to Owin, Narg was waiting for him.

As he crossed the threshold, his king’s boots echoed throughout the hall with heavy footsteps.

'Gwion, this eve shall go down in history. Ubberians, damned Ubberians, yet I may not stir from this place, not until Celtión be found. Tell me, hath he uttered aught to thee?'

Gwion did not reply, nor did he take his eyes off one of the tiles on the immaculate floor.

'Help Marzota gather Celtión’s belongings. As soon as that wretched little girl returns, we shall hold a different parley with those scoundrels from the north; they deem they can take my most precious jewel, yet it shall not be theirs nor anyone else’s.'

The tidings of Celtión’s fate smote him right in the breast and caused him to take a pace forward, on the verge of swooning. Narg, puzzled and on edge, gave a signal ordering him to go and carry out the task entrusted to him.

Gwion was bearing the last trunk down from the princess’s bedchamber when the doors to the main hall swung open.

Arwel was supporting Celtión’s arm; she was striving to break free despite having both hands bound to his waist with a thick hemp rope.

He firmly forced her within, preventing her from halting.

Both of them, soaked through, left puddles with every step.

Celtión’s hair covered her face, but Gwion could see her eyes behind that cascade of water—of tears.

The pain and hatred in her gaze; he knew he had betrayed her.

That was the last time Gwion and Celtión beheld each other.

As soon as the first ray of sunlight appeared in the east, the carriage, accompanied by a large convoy of men from Old Minister, set forth for Lepontia, and Owin placed in Gwion’s hands the last letter Celtión had written to him: 'Ours is a bond of blood and tears that none can erase.

Love doth not end—it is taken to the grave. '