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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A profound stillness woke her while it was still dark. After the rush of wind and rain that had deadened her ears for hours to anything else, now there was only the muffled sound of surf, a crumbling murmur - soothing and familiar, though louder than she was accustomed to hearing upon waking. She blinked in the darkness, her mind in a fog, confused; this was not her room; she knew by the smell, by the feel, it was different; it was wrong; where was — oh.
Oh.
Angharad sat up with a gasp, in a flash of memory, sharply aware of the heavy arm that slid from around her waist and thumped softly behind her. The owner of the arm mumbled something unintelligible that trailed off, and she crept away, shivering, groping across the floor. There was a pile of wool and linen roughly where she remembered it should be, though she could make no sense of it in the darkness; something round and smooth at last bumped her forearm through the cloth and she clutched it gratefully. The Pelydryn flickered into warmth, its light muted and dim by her own will, but there was enough of it to gather up the heap of fabric, shake it out, and navigate which bits of her went where. She wrestled her garments on and tied what laces she could reach with trembling fingers; once decently attired she took a deep breath and turned to examine where she'd been.
Oh, Rhiannon. Somehow seeing it made it all real; the rumpled pallet and the blanket-shrouded shape that was Geraint, still asleep, his body curled around the empty space from which she had crawled, one bare arm flung out over it as if to shield it from prying eyes. Her heart raced, breath caught; she wanted nothing more than to creep right back into that warm circle, curl herself into it and rest there until...oh, forever, as long as she was wishing for the impossible. No...no, she must get home; doubtless she had been missed by this time; perhaps now that the storm was over she would even be searched for. She would have been quite happy never to be found, but her mother knew her too well; if anyone were sent out they would know to look for her at the cove, and if Geraint was found there before she could stop them...
In mounting panic Angharad cast about for her shoes; found them and stared in dismay; there was nothing left of them. Her wild rush through the storm last night had left them in ribbons; how would she get...wait. Her self-made shoes. Where did he keep them?
She struggled to her feet and raised the light over her head to illuminate the hut. There - in the corner, on the other side of the pallet. Creeping around the sleeping Geraint, she snatched them up, making little noise, but it was enough; he stirred, turned, opened eyes clouded with drowsy confusion, and focused on her.
She paused, holding her breath, watched comprehension dawn on his face, and whispered, "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to wake you."
He took her in slowly: clothed, shoes in hand. "You would have left without telling me?" He sat up, pushed his tumbled curls out of troubled eyes.
"I would have left you word of some kind."
"Then you're not...not sorry..."
She could not bear his uncertainty. She cupped his face in her hands, kissed him again for an answer, long and longingly. His arms went around her, hungry, inviting; she pushed him away, finally, with a sigh that was almost a whimper. "I've got to get back. I'll have been missed since the storm. If anyone starts looking for me this is the first place they'll come."
