Angharad of Llyr is heir to a matriarchy: a line of enchantress-queens that has ruled her island for centuries. Her destiny from birth: to rule as sole authority and ensure that her powerful bloodline endures for another generation. Devoted to her p...
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She appeared, silently, at his left, as though she'd materialized right out of the water.
Geraint emitted a yelp of surprise; he was sitting on the hull of his overturned boat, dangling his bare feet in the glassy sheets of seawater that occasionally lapped up that far, engaged in disentangling a snarl of old fishnet to see what could be salvaged. Now he tumbled from his perch in almost clumsy haste to stand before her, bowing his head, wondering how it could be that she was even more beautiful than he had remembered. Even dressed as she was now, in short tunic, leggings and high-laced boots like a man, with her hair bound back from her face in heavy braids, she left him without breath.
"Well-met again, Geraint of Gellau," she said. The sober note in her voice made him look up; her face was serious, expression veiled. The mischievous sparkle with which she had greeted him previously was gone.
"Well-met, indeed, milady," he answered, wondering what could have happened. "I did not think to see you again this soon. It is an unexpected pleasure." Her mouth twitched, but her eyes glinted gratitude, as though she knew his comment was a mere pleasantry but was pleased nonetheless.
"How are you faring?" she asked, and noticed the net. "Fishing decent?"
"Not with this." He laughed and held it up, displaying its gaping holes. "I'm only salvaging what I can from it. Rope and twine are always useful. But yes, I'm getting on just fine. I went into the village again yesterday, and traded for certain necessities. My roof is leak-free now, look."
She followed his point to look up at the old hut, crowned with a fresh roof of brown thatch, harvested from the hilltops. "Well done. That was quick work."
"I never know when it's going to rain again," he said ruefully, "so that is strong motivation. What brings you back so quickly?"
"Our need for certain things only found at the shore is...urgent, at present," she answered. "I've come to gather more. And to—" she paused, frowning, and looked away from him, toward the blue horizon, her gaze troubled. "To gather more," she repeated, firmly, as though convincing herself.
"May I be of assistance?"
She looked as though she were about to say no, hesitated, and regarded him thoughtfully. "Perhaps. Not everything requires my specific skills." There it was, a trace of the wry smile he had not stopped thinking about for two days. "You can collect driftwood for me, if you like."
She should have every twig. There was, in fact, a sizable branch at his very feet, and he stooped, picked it up, held it up for her appraisal, and was rewarded when the trace of a smile grew into a real one. "More," she said, amused. "Pile it up there, away from the water. As much as you can find."
He hastened to perform the task, trying not to be too obvious about keeping an eye on her meanwhile. She left him piling the wood, made her way across the sand to the jutting cliff of black rock that bordered the cove and pointed like a decaying finger out to sea, and busied herself there - with what, he could not tell. Presently after a particularly long and productive haul, he looked up to see that she was halfway up the rock - over twice a man's height from the ground - clinging precariously to its craggy surface as she reached with one hand toward a clump of grass growing in one of its many hollows.
