Cymru - Chapter 48

No plot ahoy.


AWEN

There was something soothing about tuning harps, Awen found, something vaguely exciting. It was like the instrument was promising you something; if you looked after it, it was going to look after you. Once you were done, it would purr for you. Until then, good luck not wanting to sacrifice your own eardrums to any passing god to make the horrendous sound go away.

It was all part of how alive they were, of course. The harp was the body, the music was the soul. Tuning them, oiling them, dusting them, it was all like feeding them properly so the music would fly. They played to themselves when you didn't, Awen felt. It wasn't audible, but it was like the opposite of sound. Not silence; silence was no sound. A harp left to itself played minus sound, the memory of music, heard only by itself but felt by everyone else. And it was impossible not to want to join in when you could feel it, Awen found. Suddenly, she'd have this urge to fit the soundboard to her shoulder and her fingers to the strings, and then it all just progressed from there. The music poured out, and the harp sang.

Particularly triple harps. Awen could play a lot of different instruments by now, but the triple harp was such a visual mess of strings it basically blinded you, demanding that you learned to feel it instead. It didn't want to be plucked; it wanted to be played. It was difficult to say no.

She'd never meant to actually like playing. She'd turned to music to strip the medium of every additional skill she could, to make herself useful, but she'd been sucked in. The music had become… something else for her. When she sat at the harp, she wasn't quite the same anymore. It was like taking off the cloak that was Awen, that was her life, and just hanging it up for a while. Everything could wait. The responsibility could wait, the danger, the frustration, the pain. The harp let her be something else, if only for a while. It was addictive.

She plucked a final string and the sound rang out, clear and sweet. Awen smiled and sat, letting her mind unfocus and her fingers move. The music cascaded around her, caressing her as gently as the night-time breeze from the open window.

"You're beautiful when you play," Gwilym said softly behind her.

"Thank you," Awen murmured. The fire to the side warmed her, contenting her. "When did you arrive?"

"Just now." He sat carefully on the chair behind her, his thighs pressed against hers, and slid one arm around her waist, the other drawing her hair back over her shoulder. The music mellowed and grew, the liquid flow of triple harp notes strengthening. "Favourite instrument?"

"Definitely," Awen smiled. "It's like a river, hear that?"

"Yeah."

He was quiet for a moment, listening to the stream of the music.

"How does it do it?" he asked wonderingly after a moment, apparently thinking about it for the first time. "Crwths can't do that. What makes it do that when other instruments can't?"

"The strings," Awen said. "The outer two rows are tuned together, and the style of play is to play identical notes either together or just after each other. It means you get two tunes at once. Constant music, see? For the greedy of hearing."

"Are your eyes closed?"

"Yes."

"That's beyond impressive," Gwilym told her, one hand firmly taking hold of her beads, his chin resting on her shoulder. The music changed slightly again, her fingers dancing up the treble. "Do you know you're playing your emotions?"

"Yes," Awen laughed. "Sorry. I can't help it."

"Don't be," Gwilym said earnestly. "Really. It's beautiful."

The music swirled and danced happily, filling the room, and they lapsed into silence, listening to it. It was strange how safe she felt, sandwiched between Gwilym and the harp, feeling the vibrations of one and the warmth of the other. After a while he snorted softly, his breath tickling her neck.

"You were transposing into minor before," Gwilym murmured, his smile audible. "Now you're doing it the other way around. That's the Doleful King of the Ghosts you're playing."

"I like a challenge," Awen said. "And now I have brought joy to a deeply unhappy ruler of the dead. That, my friend, is the product of a winning personality."

"You're right," Gwilym nodded. "Now he is positively doleless. I might even push the boat all the way out and use the word 'elated', you know."

"I like the word 'elated'," Awen mused. "It sounds golden, like summer."

"You sound crazy, like my uncle," Gwilym said mildly. "But that's okay. Bards are supposed to be."

He paused, and then slipped both hands up to her face, covering her eyes. Awen smirked, the music unchanging.

"I meant it," she grinned as Gwilym laughed. "Looking at triple harps is more confusing. You just have to learn your way around them -"

She broke off as his lips closed on the nape of her neck, the sensation heightened by her lack of sight and making her shiver, her head automatically bowing forwards to give him better access. He kissed her gently, her heart hammering, and then chuckled quietly, the sound deep in his throat.

"Sorry," he said, standing up behind her. "Couldn't resist. But I'm going to blindfold you, there's something I want to do."

"I'm not having sex with you," Awen said quickly, her hands freezing on the strings.

"Oh good gods it's just like being seventeen again," Gwilym said. "Sioned ferch Hafren, behind the fishing sheds on the harbour. I swear that was the only sentence she ever said to me, and I heard it so many times."

"Shut up," Awen laughed, holding the soundboard. "I'm just -"

"No, it's fine," he said morosely. One hand slid around to cover both of her eyes, the other vanishing briefly before the soft slide of cloth replaced both. "I know the drill. It's not me, it's you. One day I'll meet the right person. You're just not ready to settle down yet, or stomach touching me in any way."

Oh, damn, it had never been more tempting to sleep with him, though. There was something powerfully erotic about him blindfolding her, which Awen could in no way explain given that she generally had problems trying to give control to other people. But suddenly her heart was racing at the touch of the cloth, her fingers gripping the harp rigidly as Gwilym gently tightened the blindfold while merrily jabbering on, apparently oblivious to his effect.

"And then there was the 'No, Gwilym, the thought of you seeing me naked is giving me a rash' answer," he was saying cheerfully, tying a knot at the back of her skull that somehow didn't catch any hairs. "And the 'I'm only not reporting you to a Rider because you're the Sovereign's son'. Oh, and 'Fuck off Gwilym or I'll dropkick you downstairs', but in all fairness that one was just my sister on a bad day when I happened to walk past, she was quite indiscriminate."

"Some days I seriously consider punching you, Sovereign," Awen said, reaching back and catching his hands. He squeezed them back. "In the stomach, so it wouldn't show. What are you going to do?"

"Ah!" Gwilym said happily, his tone that of an excited scientist about to test a pet theory. "Well, let me ask you something first -"

"Oh, I see," Awen said, as realisation dawned. "You're using your 'I've been thinking hard about you, Rider, and I've just realised an exciting new way in which you're emotionally deficient' voice."

"Yes!" Gwilym said, taking hold of her shoulders and pulling up lightly. Awen stood, suddenly uncertain with the vulnerability. "You see, I've been thinking hard about you, Rider, and I've just realised an exciting new way in which you're emotionally deficient. We're going to the sofa. This way."

"This is weird," she said, unnerved as he guided her to the sofa beside the fire, clutching his tunic for support. He sat her down and suddenly was next to her, both arms around her, his presense solid and reassuring.

"I know," Gwilym said softly. "You're doing well, though. Thank you for trusting me."

"I don't trust you," Awen declared, although she didn't let go. "You're an enormous liability. Are you about to sell me to a Phoenician?"

"Absolutely!" Gwilym beamed. He turned her on the sofa so she was leaning her back against the arm, legs crossed, her feet still touching him. "Now. It's not so much an emotional deficiency as a sort of social one, actually. What's your favourite food?"

So many of his questions threw her. Awen blinked.

"What?" she said blankly.

"What's your favourite food?" Gwilym repeated. He sounded like he was grinning. "Mine's lemons, but we can't get them here. They grow in northern parts of Phoenicia. What's yours?"

"What are lemons?" Awen asked, vaguely bewildered, and his hands were suddenly on her wrists, running up and down her arms.

"No," he said, voice gentle again. "Don't do that. You're changing the subject. Third time: what's your favourite food?"

"I don't know," Awen said, slightly nervous for no reason she could fathom. The feeling of his hands on her bare skin was soothing, a reassuring comfort. "I don't really have one."

"Okay," Gwilym said. "Next question: can you remember the last time you ate something that you really, really enjoyed? Savour-every-mouthful kind of enjoyed?"

"No," Awen said, non-plussed. "Why?"

"All in good time!" Gwilym said grandly. "Next: how often do you eat? Generally?"

"I don't know," Awen said, and then belatedly realised the effect that statement might have on someone with a normal metabolism and a three-meals-a-day regime. "The Gwales Ritual means we don't need to eat as often," she explained hastily. "We only really get hungry if we've been injured."

"Do you eat when you're hungry?"

It was difficult to tell without being able to see his face, but his voice didn't seem disapproving, so she seemed to have gotten away with that one.

"Yes," Awen said. "And when I remember. I don't know how often."

"That's what I thought," Gwilym said, satisfied. His hands left her arms, her skin still tingling with the tactile after-image. Gently, he raised one of her hands, kissing the knuckles in a move that made her heart dance again. "Okay! Open your mouth. I swear this isn't a deviant sexual practice I'm foisting upon you."

"Are you sure?" Awen asked suspiciously. She wished she could see his face. "I've heard that one before. What are you going to do?"

"You," Gwilym said happily, "are going to exercise your bardic way with words. I want you to describe a flavour."

He leaned forward, one hand cupping the side of her face delicately, his thumb stroking her chin.

"Open," he said softly. Something brushed her lips and Awen automatically obeyed.

It was bread, and then, quite suddenly, it wasn't. The taste went from 'bland' to 'intense' faster than she could blink, the flesh velvet-smooth and flavoured like the scent of the evening air, the crust a firm, chewy shell that was sweet and floral, glazed with honey. She inhaled sharply through her nose as her tongue rolled over and admitted defeat under the onslaught, barely able to process it all. It was sensational. Literally. And that was as far as words would carry her. Bardic training hadn't prepared her for such arcanely delicious bread. Who the hell had made it, a faerie?

"Thing is, you see," Gwilym said conversationally over her rapture, and his grin was definitely audible, "food is more of a habit to Riders than a necessity, so you forget to taste it. And you have such a busy life it's all about when you can remember and spare two minutes. You've forgotten how to actually enjoy it."

"I see," Awen managed, swallowing. "You don't actually want me to describe that, do you?"

"Well guessed!" Gwilym laughed, kissing her forehead and sitting back. "No. I just wanted you to pay attention. And now I'm going to make a list. How did you like the bread?"

"I loved the bread," Awen said weakly. "The bread can come again. Is there more?"

"No," Gwilym said thoughtfully. "I only brought a morsal of everything. You get to try lots of things. Here, this one's next…"

The texture, Awen felt, was reminiscent of sand too close to the sea, so wet it formed an almost liquid compound that you couldn't dig. It was a sort of paste, cool on her tongue and delicate, so delicate in flavour; meaty but sweet at the same time, with a very faintly acrid tang. And mint, just a hint of it, refreshing and complimentary -

"Pâte!" Gwilym announced. "How did it do? Did you like it? More or less than the bread?"

"More," Awen said distractedly. "Much more. Is there more of it?"

"I'm afraid it counted under the broad category of 'everything'," Gwilym said. There was the sound of tearing paper, and then his fingertips were brushing her mouth again. "Next!"

Next was a bite of sausage, mouth-wateringly complex and yet heartily simple all at once, which actually made her moan and went over the pâte; after that was a cube of cheese, rich and tangy and creamy and rating just below the sausage; after that was yoghurt with honey drizzled into it, a dazzling meeting of acridly sour and cloyingly sweet. The raw onion she nearly spat out, but cooked into soup she loved; the butter she found a pointless waste of good bread; the carrot sticks were beautifully crunchy, sweet in a savoury way, and when dipped into some incredible soft-cheese-and-leeks concoction she was sorely disappointed to finish them. The raisins she refused to finish; the celery she threw at the fire; the peas she happily ate straight from the pod. Gwilym made a note of all of them, his voice almost dementedly cheerful over the tearing paper.

"Okay!" he said at last, to Awen's enormous disappointment. "That's all of it. How was it for you, darling?"

"Immensely enjoyable, honey," Awen grinned, stretching and leaning back against the arm of the sofa. "How did I do? Do I like weird things?"

"Yes," Gwilym declared. "You ate three spoons and a coaster, you freak. No; according to my re-assemble-able list on scraps of paper, it's mostly meat and dairy products for you. And you seem to have a bit of a sweet tooth."

"And there's definitely no more?" Awen asked, without any real hope. Gwilym's weight shifted, his arms closing around her waist and she was pulled gently but firmly down flat onto her back on the sofa cushions, grinning. His fingers began work on the knot for the blindfold. "No more spoons or coasters? I can't nibble on the corner of a tray?"

"Sorry," Gwilym said contentedly. "It all counted under the umbrella heading of 'everything', you see. It was quite a broad, but in this case accurate, description. Close your eyes."

They were anyway, but Awen obediently kept them that way as he slid the cloth from her face, catching her breath as he very delicately placed a kiss to each eyelid.

"You know this is pointless," she murmured quietly, her hands finding his waist and clinging on. "I have days left at best -"

"Oh, stop it," Gwilym said fondly, his hands lining her eyes. "If that turns out to be the case, I'm making every one count. Stop trying to convince me otherwise."

"I'm not," Awen sighed. "I just want to make sure you realise it."

"I do." He kissed the tip of her nose. "Open your eyes."

She did. The lighting at this time of night was far from bright, but it was still a good thing Gwilym was shielding her vision from the firelight as she readjusted from the dark again. Awen blinked, and looked up at him.

"You have beautiful eyes," Gwilym said happily. "And that's a point - if you've never seen your own face, do you know what colour your eyes are?"

"Grey," Awen smiled. "We all told each other when we were children."

There was a slight pause.

"They're green," Gwilym said, clearly suppressing a laugh. "Dark green. They're only grey when it's cloudy or night."

"Oh." She laughed, squeezing his waist. "Green then. Well, we were about four, in all fairness. I always wanted green eyes, actually."

"I remember that," Caradog's voice proclaimed as its occupant entered the room. Awen grinned. "We told Owain his were brown, but they were blue. I wonder how he felt when he saw them?"

"Repulsed, I should think," Gwilym said, earning a guffaw from Caradog. "Although probably not by his eyes as much as his nose."

"Looked like he'd been hit in the face with a spade," Caradog agreed merrily. "Come to think of it, he might have been. Anyway; can I have a minute, Leader?"

"I'll go," Gwilym said, sitting up, but Awen was faster. She knocked his supporting elbow out from under him and pulled him down, rolling on top of him as Caradog snorted and threw himself onto the floor, his back against the sofa beside them.

"What do you mean, you'll go?" she asked blankly. "Do you want him to go, Caradog?"

"No, don't be daft," Caradog said dismissively, and then abruptly sighed. "I keep dreaming."

"Congratulations," Awen said mildly, settling on Gwilym's chest and gripping Caradog's shoulder. He held her hand tightly, leaning one scratchy, unshaven cheek against it. "That's what adults do at night."

"Yeah, and why is that?" Caradog asked gloomily. "What's the point of dreaming, anyway? If it's good you wake up disappointed, if it's bad you wake up screaming."

"Well, it's because sleeping is boring," Gwilym said sagaciously. "That's how it works. Everyone goes to bed and keeps their eyes tightly closed until they pass out from boredom and hallucinate wildly to entertain themselves."

"Ha!" Caradog grinned merrily. "If your time in bed is that boring, Sovereign, it's a good job you have a girlfriend now!"

"Oh, look, this conversation is fun," Awen said. "What are you dreaming about that's distressing you so, Caradog?"

He sighed again, threading her fingers through his.

"Owain," he said at last, quietly; although 'quietly' for Caradog meant 'normal volume'. "I keep dreaming about him. All the time. It's weirding me out."

"Ah," Awen said softly. "What do you see him doing?"

"It changes." Caradog tipped his head back and looked up at the ceiling, his eyes clouded. "The first night was… sort of… well, I was angry, like. I killed him."

"Well, we've all been there," Gwilym said knowingly and somewhat surprisingly, Awen felt. "Next night?"

"Was bloody weird," Caradog declared. "You know the nightmare where they're hunting you? And you're just running, but you can't go fast enough, and they're in the shadows?"

"No," Gwilym said.

"Yes," Awen said. Gwilym's hand stroked her ribs, once.

"Like that, but lots of Owains," Caradog said angrily. "That one annoyed me. I could wrap him around one hand, for gods' sakes."

"And frequently have," Awen smiled. "Well, there's no mystery so far. You were angry with the betrayal on the first night, reacting to the relationship on the second. He was your Deputy. A commander. There's a strong element of security involved, which he took away."

"Cock," Caradog muttered. "Yeah, alright, I can take those. But every night since - a bloody week - I keep dreaming about him as though it hasn't happened. Like, one night we were all just having a party, nothing else. One, we were fighting, and he died, and I actually woke up bloody crying, Leader. Crying!"

"Oh," Awen said. She exchanged a look with Gwilym, understanding dawning. "That's not -"

"He tried to kill you!" Caradog snarled, suddenly venomous. One enormous hand gripped her wrist, the fingers of the other running across the scar on her palm. "He tried to kill you! I swear to you, I haven't forgiven him, Leader, but then I have all these dreams, and I don't -"

"It's okay," Awen said gently, leaning down and hugging his shoulders. Gwilym stroked her back; it was a strange gesture, like he was backing her up, giving her strength while she gave it to Caradog, and stranger still, it was exactly what she wanted. "Seriously, it's okay. That's what I see, too."

"You what?" Caradog grabbed her forearms, holding her tightly. "You do?"

"I know!" Awen said, grinning. "Insane, isn't it? But it makes sense, when you think about it."

She glanced back at Gwilym. He was giving her the strangest look, a soft smile that was almost… proud, somehow, his pale eyes tenderly expressive.

"We miss the person we thought he was," Awen said, watching Gwilym as the impact of the same words he'd told her on the mountain-top finally hit home. "The Owain we knew. He's dead now, and we're grieving him. See?"

Caradog was silent, watching his own knees, lost in thought. Awen let him. She'd long found that the trick to Caradog was just to point his head in the right direction and then ask for a summary at the end to make sure he'd reached the right point; he was a man who enjoyed making up his own mind. She watched Gwilym's curious smile instead, and realised that he had hold of her beads in his free hand. He was rubbing a thumb against them contentedly, absent-mindedly, the colours glimmering through. Awen looked away. The blindfold had been bad enough. That really wasn't helping.

"Son of a bitch," Caradog muttered at last, squeezing her wrists. "Gods damn it! Oh, leave it to Owain to make sure we'll all pine for him after he fucks us over. Are we allowed to see him yet?"

"Yes," Awen said. "But -"

"Awesome!"

Caradog swung forward to jump to his feet, but from that position Awen had just enough leverage still to haul back on his shoulders and pull him back down, tipping his head back to meet her eyes upside down.

"But," she repeated sternly, "you are only allowed to see and talk to him, understand? That's all. And you can only talk to him if he's awake."

"Yes, Leader," Caradog said solemnly, and Awen grinned and let go.

"Good boy," she said, settling back on Gwilym's chest, who wrapped both arms around her securely. "Run along, now. And stop guilt tripping yourself; it's Owain's fault, not yours."

"Yes, Leader." Caradog paused for a moment, bending down from his massive height and gripping her shoulder tightly, unspeaking; and then he stood and stretched casually. "I'm going to go and shout at him if I can. You going to bed? You haven't slept in days."

"Yes I have," Awen lied seamlessly, making herself sound amused. "Just not at normal times."

"Cool," Caradog said, ambling away to the door and Owain. "Later."

"You're a very good liar, aren't you?" Gwilym marvelled once the door closed behind Caradog's massive back. "That's really very impressive."

"The fact that you can tell creeps me out more than anything else in the world," Awen told him mildly. "Really. It's shaking my faith in my own existence. I'm no longer convinced I'm real."

Gwilym laughed, the sound reverberating through his chest. Awen smiled, spreading her fingers over his heart.

"It's just logic," Gwilym said, one hand playing with her beads again idly. "You're unpurified, you must be having nightmares every time you blink. And, sometimes, when you let your shields go down, I can see you properly."

"Say what?"

"You look exhausted," Gwilym said. His free hand slipped to her lower bank, rubbing firmly at the muscles to either side of her spine, and Awen melted. "And not just physically. It's this weariness that goes bone-deep, the kind stressed people who don't get a holiday for years end up with. And the funny thing is, it makes you look both younger and older at the same time."

"That's paradoxical," Awen murmured, almost purring. Gwilym chuckled.

"Yes," he said affectionally. "But true. You are older than you look anyway, by nearly a decade. But you've also the same thing most child soldiers get. They stop aging at the point they first kill. And I can see it in you sometimes. When I confuse you, usually. Suddenly, there's a six-year-old looking out through your eyes."

"How old do I look?" Awen asked interestedly, and Gwilym burst out laughing.

"Or," he said, amused, "you could just ask me how old you are, you complete Rider."

Good gods, so she could. He'd read her file. That was crazy.

"I hadn't even thought," she said wonderingly, turning to look at him. "How old -?"

"Happy birthday," Gwilym smiled. Awen's jaw dropped. "You're thirty-four today. And you look about twenty-five."

"It's my birthday today?" she repeated, astonished. It wasn't that she hadn't realised, objectively, that she must have one. It was just that birthdays happened to other people. "Seriously?"

"Yes," Gwilym said, stroking her hair back from her face. "Well, sun's gone down, so technically it's now tomorrow and your birthday was yesterday; but I subscribe to the it's-not-a-new-day-until-you-wake-up school of social dating, so whatever. And as a gift I gave you the sense of taste, because Riders are difficult to buy for."

And abruptly that was too much.

It was overwhelming. Awen stared at him, almost horrified by the amount of thought he'd wasted on her. It was just too much; the letter sat between them, only the thickness of a tunic hiding it, and in Awen's mind it had never meant more. He'd found out her birthday, and spent fifteen minutes feeding her things to make her enjoy a small part of her life again, and all the while -

"Oh, don't you dare," Gwilym broke in, watching her expression, and his arms abruptly tightened around her, pinning her to him. "Listen, and listen very carefully, Awen. Because of the way your mind works, because of the way your life is, some things will mean more to you than me, yes? And the other way around, too. Yes?"

"Yes," Awen said, numbly. Gwilym nodded, his eyes stern, urgent.

"To me," he said firmly, "in my social world, it's nothing, understand? It's just a birthday, and not a particularly good present. I know it means more to you. I know that. But not to me. You don't get to start using this as a further tool with which to flagellate yourself. Understand?"

Good point. That was a good point. If he opened the letter tomorrow and left her in disgust he'd be able to look on this gratefully as a cheap present given on technically the day after her birthday. Awen clung to the logic with a death-grip, and tried to ignore just how important the last half hour would always be to her for as long as she lived.

"I understand," she said quietly, and felt Gwilym relax slightly beneath her. She sighed, pressing her forehead against his chest and over the letter. "You realise the deadline is the end of the trial? Tomorrow? Today, technically."

"I know."

His hands went to her lower back again, and resumed the massage. Really, it was like enforced relaxation; she lost the ability to be in any way on edge when he did it, as though his fingers just sucked the tension out of her muscles. She melted into him again, her eyes sliding closed.

"I'll lose you tomorrow," she murmured.

"We'll see," he said neutrally. "I'm staying tonight."

She let herself drift in the guilty happiness of that for a while, riding the gentle rise and fall of his chest as he breathed. It was supremely confortable there. She was starting to wonder if he was ergonomically designed.

"If you've read my file," Awen said sleepily at last, "do you know why we were given 'Masarnen'?"

"No," Gwilym smiled. "Random designation, I should think. Do you like it?"

"Owain and I always wanted 'Ywen'," Awen said. "For hilarious purposes. And Adara did, but mostly when she was a slightly morbid teenager and thought yews were edgy."

"My brother wanted to change his name to Seamus Mac Sorcha for a while when we were kids," Gwilym grinned. "He went through a hardcore Erinnish phase. Actually, he was a bit of an idiot, my brother, got to be honest."

"I used to wonder if I've got brothers and sisters," Awen said. The tiredness was fast catching up with her, between the luxuriously comfortable position and the amazing things Gwilym was doing with his hands and her back. "Like, biological ones, you know? I've got real ones, obviously."

"Hmm." Gwilym sounded thoughtful. "Odds are you do, I suppose. Union babies are usually either orphans or an unwanted extra in a big family, aren't they?"

"Or children of other Riders," Awen mumbled. "Not allowed to keep them."

She didn't remember falling asleep, but several days of exhaustion were queuing up to cash in what she owed, and Gwilym had intentionally made it as easy as possible for her. The first she knew of it was slowly waking up as she became dimly aware of a sussurration of voices and several hands trying to gently move her. Wearily she moved her head, looking for Gwilym, too tired to open her eyes, and she felt him tenderly kiss her forehead.

"It's okay," he whispered. "Go back to sleep, Awen."

Her brain translated it as an order, so she didn't protest.

"I got to call him some terrible things, though, so it was okay."

That sounded like Caradog. Actually whispering. Caradog never whispered.

"Never a wasted trip," Gwilym agreed. "What do the druids think?"

"They're now hopeful he'll wake up," Caradog was saying. A blanket had been put over Awen, and someone was carefully tucking it under her, as though preparing to move her and it. "Some time tonight, they reckon, or early tomorrow. And Dylan was there, throwing bits of wet rolled up paper at him, so I helped."

"Very magnanimous," Gwilym whispered back, the grin somehow shining through. "He's definitely going to wake up, though? I was worried Awen might have broken his brain."

"I think a mountain did that," said a new voice, approaching. "Because he's a congenital stupid."

"Well, a whole flock of druids were there," Caradog whispered. Gently, very gently, Awen was moved sideways in Gwilym's arms as he sat up, the others apparently helping him to stand. "Or whatever we call a group of druids. A chant? A murmur?"

"A circle?"

"A beard? Only describes half, mind."

"A robe? Ooh, a washing line!"

"A washing line of druids?"

"Well, as soon as you say it skeptically nothing sounds good," Gwilym whispered, rising to his feet. "Fine. What about a whinge?"

"Isn't that heretical?"

"And I swear it's more appropriate for Sovereigns, anyway," Gwilym answered. "Or a conspiracy of Sovereigns. Or a gossip. Or a sex attack, which happens far more commonly than I was warned about unless you get to dinner early and move the place cards."

They were moving, away from the fire and into the corridor leading to the bedrooms. Awen gripped the collar of Gwilym's tunic contentedly with one hand, and he snorted softly.

"Go to sleep, Awen," he repeated, and she was too tired to answer.

"In here," Adara whispered. "And she's already in pyjamas, look, what a helpful. Do you want some? I think you're about the same size as Llŷr or Meurig, I could get some."

"No, that's fine." She was being settled onto the bed now, the mattress cold but still inviting. The quilt was pulled over her, forming a nest, and then the bed dipped beside her as Gwilym climbed in too. "I get a perverse thrill out of making Watkins sniff."

"Do you love her?"

"Of course I do."

"Good answer."

"Night, Sovereign," Adara whispered. "Get out, Caradog, you social experiment."

She smiled at that, and didn't stop as Gwilym pulled her into his arms, pressing her back against his chest and holding her tightly.

And then, for once, she slept.