Cymru

AWEN

It was cold; one of those nights where the only cloud cover was the occasional smoke-like wisp of frozen moisture that drifted serenely across the face of the moon, and did nothing to heat the land. The air was utterly still in Awen’s ears even as they flew at full speed, Brân’s wings beating powerfully yet almost noiselessly. It was like flying through a vacuum.

Below them, the sea glittered silver and black, a featureless landscape contrasting ironically with the undulating shoreline receding behind them. It always amazed Awen how much smaller everything became once she was airborne; Snowdonia reared imposingly up behind her right shoulder, whilst the Marble Harbour glimmered far to her left in Milford Haven. In front of them, lonely sentinels among the void, stood the Sixteen Cities of the Archipelago: massive square towers housing entire cities inside their many levels, their torch-lit windows and Landing Towers providing hives of light in the darkness. Awen marked the angle of the nearest Landing Tower and checked Brân’s speed. He snorted irritably, tossing his head at the rein contact petulantly, but he obeyed; on either side of Awen the enormous black wings stretched out into a glide, turning them effortlessly towards the torches.

A pair of stable hands scurried out of the gaping archway at the end of the carpeted runway as they approached, their robes marking them both as advanced apprentices. They were dress robes too; Awen considered the formality. The Sovereign must be trying to impress her. Somehow, that thought unsettled her; Riders had the privilege of rank, but they generally didn’t merit such high attention to detail as dress robes. Somehow, Awen got the feeling that the honour was intended for Lord Flyn by proxy.

Brân swept up to the platform, unfolding his legs and landing at a trot rather than hovering to a halt. She’d have to work on that with him; he was still incredibly inexperienced. As he trotted up the carpet towards the stable hands he left his wings up on either side of him too, head held high. Very inexperienced, Awen amended. One of the apprentices, a young lad of about fifteen or so, looked suddenly nervous. The other noticed her companion’s hesitation and stepped forward, steadfastly ignoring Brân’s attempts to intimidate. Awen was impressed.

“Welcome to Tregwylan, Rider,” the girl said. She looked about twenty. “My name is Carys; I’ll be your stable hand for the duration of the visit, if it pleases you.”

“It does,” Awen smiled at her. “I have to warn you though, he’s young and he’s an idiot. I’d dismount now but he tends to leap off Landing Towers if there’s no rider on his back.”

Carys grinned, showing a few missing teeth.

“I usually train with the yearlings, Rider. I’ve seen worse.”

Awen felt slightly relieved. Brân could be quite the embarrassment when he wanted to be; knowing Carys dealt with worse daily was profoundly comforting. She nudged him on through the archway and into the tower.

It was a wide tower, and the stables were arranged in a gentle downwards spiral until the Guest Stalls and yearling pens two stories below, which were in a large, flat room. Once securely inside Awen allowed Carys to unbuckle the flying harness so she could dismount – on any other meraden Awen would have done it herself, but on Brân trying to remove the thick gloves to do so while holding the reins was an exercise in human endurance. Even with her in control he still managed to shake his head enough that his mane nearly caught in one of the buckles, which sent Carys into endless apologies and Awen into endless reassurances that Brân was an idiot. By the time she’d dismounted and the rest of the harness had been stripped off, Brân was looking distinctly smug.

“Too intelligent, he is,” Carys said, slapping Brân’s neck affectionately as she lead him into his stall. “He knows how and when to push his boundaries. Is he still a stallion?”

“Yes,” Awen sighed. “Lord Flyn wants to breed from him, more’s the pity. I wish he wasn’t.”

“Er… if it pleases you, Rider,” the boy said hesitantly. Awen had almost forgotten he was there. “Can I show you to your quarters before you meet with the Sovereign?”

“That would be marvellous,” Awen told him. “Be good, Brân.”

As she followed the boy out of the stables, Brân whinnied after her, a long, lingering call.


***********

This initial post was meant to be much longer, but, you know... I got hungry and cooked tea instead. More will follow soon, so try not to worry about the apparent complete lack of plot.