Cymru - Epilogue

So I wrote this last year for obvious reasons, but it was only ever supposed to be for my own amusement. However, I have recently noticed that I am one post away from beating Jom in the post count so AH HA HA HA! Beaten! Yes!!!

 *******

"But sire -"

"No, Watkins."

"It's most unbecoming!"

"I don't care."

"Not to mention illegal!"

"Then she'll say no," Gwilym said, rolling his eyes and trying to ignore the nerves. He clutched the papers in his hand tighter. "So this is an unnecessary level of worry from you, I think, and now I'd really like it if you'd go and be a clerk somewhere else for a bit."

There was a pause, the sort which suggested that if Watkins had been anyone else they'd have muttered something under their breath, but in Watkins' case meant a glare of icy disapproval at nothing so much as the ether. It wasn't hard to work out what he'd have been muttering, though. Watkins and Awen Did Not Get Along.

"Watkins," Gwilym repeated patiently, not slowing his stride. "Do go away, there's a good chap."

"If you're so certain she'll say no anyway, my lord, then why even ask?" Watkins said instead of going away. His voice had taken on a vaguely wheedling tone as he tried for Reason. "What purpose does this serve? My concern is for your reputation, and by extension -"

"Yes, yes, Aberystwyth's," Gwilym said wearily, approaching the door. It didn't help, of course, that the man was in many ways right, and there was no likely good end to this. "You're a credit to your role, Watkins, and the people rejoice in your concern. Please go and be concerned about something else, now. This conversation is over."

He used his best Final Tone for the last sentence, and pointedly knocked on the door at the same time, and one tactic or the other worked. Watkins seemed to deflate slightly, and took on an edge of weary resignation.

"Very well, sire," he said tonelessly, and disappeared into thin air with the ease of long practice. Maybe he was a spy, Gwylim reflected. Many were the times Awen had done that in reverse in his bedroom of an evening, invariably when she wasn't actually supposed to be in Aberystwyth but was Spying. Maybe Watkins actually worked for Awen these days. It would certainly explain his increasing despair over the last six months; although, admittedly, so would Gwilym's insistence on the implementation of progressive social policies and his insistence on inventing new banking schemes over breakfast, so -

"Come in," Awen's voice called through the door, in a tone that suggested she was fighting down a 'But this had better be important because there is already a chimp in my office' addendum. Gwilym grinned, endured the spike of adrenaline that seemed to make his heart try to crawl into his throat, and pushed open the door.

Somehow, he always managed to forget the full extent of how beautiful she was between seeing her. Even now, when there wasn't much of her face to see; she was sitting at her desk motionlessly, her forehead leaning heavily on one hand, leaving only the edge of one cheekbone and a closed eye visible before the curtain of deep auburn hair claimed the rest, and she didn't look up. Nonetheless, in Gwilym's head he saw a ray of sunlight illuminating her and happy woodland creatures gambolling playfully about her -

"Oh cool, it's you," Dylan said irreverently, looking up from his seat before the desk. Awen didn't even twitch, apparently trusting Dylan's opinion of the trustworthiness of whoever had just entered her office. "Well, anyway, then Saxon Man was all 'Hey, no woman tells us what to do, in spite of evidence!' and then Breguswid was all 'No? Well, you're wrong!' and then got all queenly in his face and that. And then -"

"You had better be able to remember the actual wording of that conversation when you write this up," Awen told the desk-top evenly. Gwilym smirked and quietly took a seat next to Dylan, resting the papers on his knee. Dylan stared pointedly at them, and waved a hand.

"Yes, yes," he said impatiently, transfixed upon the papers. "Anyway, then Saxon Man was all schooled, and everyone was like 'Ooh, owned!' and then Saxon Man stormed off home to get his mates on her. I threw a pebble at him. Ha!"

"Fine," Awen said wearily. "I'll look forward to Breguswid's complaint. It's become a fantastic Saxco-Celtic bonding exercise. How likely is this man to start an uprising?"

"Not very," Dylan sniffed. "'Cos he tried to rape a woman on the way home, but unfortunately for him it turned out to be Aerona. He's dead now."

"He's dead now?" Awen looked up finally, staring at Dylan, one eyebrow raised. "She actually killed him, not just - ?"

"Well, no, she didn't," Dylan grinned. "But they're becoming creditably anti-rape. Probs because it's a crime against women, and their women are stronger now, so they took over. I lol'd."

"And Aerona?"

"Oh, she's fine," Dylan snorted proudly. "I think she was mostly just astonished he tried. She broke his nose in three places! One punch!"

"Good," Awen smiled darkly. "Fine. Well done. Well, I want that report written up tonight, and if you groan, Dylan, if you groan, if you roll your eyes or if make any sort of remark beyond a polite 'Yes, Councillor,' I will demand it within the hour and send you to clean out Eifion's interrogation cells. Alone. Understand?"

"Yes, Councillor," Dylan said politely. Awen nodded.

"Good boy," she said, matter-of-factly. "Consider yourself peremptorily and supercilliously dismissed."

"I do," Dylan said morosely, and left. Awen sighed, and looked at Gwilym.

It was the tiniest, tiniest moment, so small he would literally have missed it if he'd blinked at the wrong moment; but he saw her soften as she registered him, saw the bloom of warmth and affection in her eyes, before the friendly professionalism reclaimed her manner. She smiled.

"Well, there's keen you are," she said mildly. "I didn't think Aberystwyth was coming until the day after tomorrow. Unless whoever made the diary got it wildly wrong, in which case I shall fire them forthwith."

"Well, we weren't going to," Gwilym shrugged. "But, you know, Watkins needs a regular change of scenary to keep him calm, or he starts chewing the furniture and becomes a drain on the budget. My desk only has three legs now. I've had to prop up my in-tray."

"Really?" Awen grinned. "You didn't think to prop up the desk instead?"

"Genius!" Gwilym said brightly, and she laughed. Unobtrusively, her foot found his beneath the desk. Neither acknowledged it. "Well, I shall rearrange the room directly upon my return. I see you've finally learned to control Dylan, by the way?"

"Yes, well," Awen said darkly. "The trick with him is to actually follow through on your threats. Then he learns. And he has a unique hatred of cleaning out prisoner cells, so it only took around fourteen incidents before he got the message. I don't think Madog has ever been more gleeful."

"I'll bet." Gwilym grinned, and leaned forward to place the papers on the desk. "I got you something, by the way."

"Oh?" The automatic interest in the Shiny New Things sprang forth in Awen's eyes, and his desire to hold her intensified abruptly, as it always did. She plucked them from the desk. "What is it?"

"Music!" Gwilym beamed. "We had Important Greek Types come visiting, and they brought a bard, so I thought I'd rob him of his culture and knowledge while I had the chance. Any good to you?"

"Sovereign," Awen said quietly. Her smile shone as she looked over the notes, her fingers clearly itching for harp strings, and as she looked up at him he read her expression and jumped in first.

"It's only music," he shrugged casually. "And some of it's for funerals, anyway, so it's less romantic than you might think."

"Thank you," Awen said calmly, and Gwilym resisted the urge to jump across the desk and hug her. The number of 'I don't deserve you' moments hadn't dropped in six months, but she'd become far better at getting a grip on herself from his tacit rebukes when they happened. She regarded the music lovingly for a moment more, and then put it to one side, linking her fingers beneath her chin and looking at him seriously. "Well, then, Sovereign, how can I help you?"

There was a pause.

"Help me?" Gwilym asked blankly.

"What is it you want?" Awen said patiently. "Why have you come to see me? What service or good can I provide you with that you need or desire?"

"Awen!" Gwilym said, indignantly. "I love you and wanted to see you! And I frequently come and see you with no reason in mind!"

"Well, yes," Awen said reasonably. "But not this time. This music has been tightly clutched for a while, your knock was nervous and you keep tapping your fingers against the arm of the chair. There's something you've been wanting to ask me since you stepped into this office. I'm trained to be able to tell, you know. So what is it?"

"I love you," Gwilym sighed, dreamily. Awen sniffed.

"You love my training," she declared. "You unnatural freak. Well?"

"It's the Greek influence," Gwilym said, and suddenly the nerves sprang into full force, making him twist his hands, his mouth dry. She wouldn't be happy, Watkins was right. She wouldn't be happy, and couldn't agree anyway, and the Council would be bloody furious, but bugger, she was watching him steadily with those eyes and now he'd have to say, but -

And oh, screw it. Out with it, Gwilym.

"I want to get married," he announced, heart hammering, and sat back for her inevitable reaction.

"You want to get what?" Awen asked blankly, one eyebrow raised. "Is this some sinister foreign practice?"

Which, come to think of it, had been an inevitable first reaction. But the second was definitely coming. Trouble was, having worked up the courage to just throw himself off the social cliff only to find himself on a ledge a foot below the edge, he was now going to have to summon the same courage again. This was really Awen's department.

"Yes!" Gwilym grinned almost manically, stalling unashamedly. His heartbeat was causing mild bruising to his rib cage, he was sure of it. "It involves three babies and a pint of lamb's blood. No; it's what they do - well, actually in most other cultures - to cement a relationship. Er... forever. It usually affects legal status too -"

"Forever?"

There we go. Awen stared at him, eyes wide. Well, she hadn't stabbed him yet, that was a good sign. Gwilym plowed on.

"Yes!" he said brightly, almost shaking with the force of his heartbeat. "And then it makes children born legitimate, although that wouldn't apply to us, and it gives the equivalent of consort status, although obviously that wouldn't either. But I want to marry you, and I want you to be my wife, and I want to be your husband."

"All these new words," Awen said, fascinated. "Can we go back to the forever part?"

"I love you," Gwilym said, firmly, and leaned forward to the desk himself. Encouragingly, she didn't lean away. He caught one braid in his fist and held it between them, the silver bead glinting in the lamp-light. "I love you, Awen, and we both know your feelings. And I love you more every time I even think about you, much less actually see you. And I want this to be permanent."

She stared at the bead for a moment, the wheels turning behind her eyes.

"You're the one who will want to leave," she said after a moment, looking back up again. She sounded vaguely glazed. "You'd be trapping yourself. You do know that?"

"That's your opinion," Gwilym said, rolling his eyes. Somehow, the comforting familiarity of the lines was helping to calm him down again. "You know I disagree."

"But..." Awen stared at him, and then blinked. "Okay. Let's be logical. It couldn't possibly be allowed."

"Yes it could," Gwilym said, folding his arms. "Because, you see, I've thought it all through, and really it wouldn't change anything, because it's a foreign custom that we'd adapt to fit. It just means they can't take you away from me. Which they wouldn't have done anyway."

"Well, then, what's the point?" Awen asked, bewildered. "If it doesn't change anything -"

"Because it means something," Gwilym interrupted, and it seemed they were both slightly taken aback by his sudden intensity. "Because I love you. Because it's a full ceremony in which I get to declare, publically, how much you mean to me and how much I want to spend the rest of my life with you, and since those aren't necessarily the words we'd have to say it's the only public forum that you could do the same in, Awen. It makes things official without actually making them official, you see? And I want it to be official just how much I love you."

He sat back slowly, and twiddled his thumbs. Awen watched him, her beautiful face unreadable.

"If you want to, anyway," he shrugged casually, and she snorted. "It takes two, like."

"You're a dangerous man, Sovereign," she said, shaking her head and pulling a clean sheet of paper from a draw. "I do believe you could charm rain into falling upwards and mountains into lying down. You have no idea how much of my spare time is devoted to hoping you aren't an evil genius. You know you'll have to convince the Full Council?"

"I'll have to convince Rhydian and Gwenllian," Gwilym corrected. Suddenly his heart was racing again, hope spiking inside him. He leaned forward. "They can convince the others. Is that a yes? Will you marry me?"

"We'll see," Awen said, a dry half-smile pulling at her mouth for a moment. "So, details? What happens in a... ?"

"Wedding," Gwilym provided excitedly. "Well! You dress up all posh, and get your mates to, and they have special roles -"

"Such as?"

She was writing it down, Gwilym realised, the thrill of joy jolting him from head to toe. Good gods. He hadn't thought he'd get nearly this far. His fingers had gone numb.

"Well, you're the bride," he enthused. "And you get attendants, usually people who can help you get dressed and do make-up and not forget things, and one of them is your bestest mate in charge of the others. And then I'm the groom, and I get a best mate to boss the guests about -"

"Guests?" Awen asked warily, and Gwilym beamed.

"I did say public!" he said happily. "Although you have as many as you like. Anyway, my best mate also has to provide the rings, or the rope to go around the fire pit or whatever. You can have as many roles as you want, though. Normally your parents play a role, but that'll be tricky for both of us. And then there's a priest of your chosen religion and they join you together in the eyes of your chosen deity, and then there's some sort of circular symbol like rings or walking around a pit of fire holding a rope or some such, to symbolise your lives together and that, and then they pronounce you married and people laugh and are joyous and cry with happiness. And then you all go and have a party to celebrate, during which you throw flowers at people, and if they catch them they'll get married next because of, um, mystic forces, I think. Not sure. Oh, and lots of cultures bake, like, special wedding bread. And loads try to ward against evil spirits. You have to obey luck-based superstitions, although you're a Rider, so you already do anyway."

She really did. He'd never seen anyone hate magpies quite as venomously as Awen.

"Okay," Awen said thoughtfully. She continued scribbling for a few moments - in short-hand, Gwilym noted, so he had no idea what it said or whether she'd just repeated the sentence 'You are an idiot' or not - and then paused, looking it over. Gwilym twiddled his thumbs.

"Right," she said decisively, and pulled out a notebook, making new lists. "Well, then. We'll need to design an appropriately religious ceremony of some kind, and that's probably best done with some druids to avoid heresy - is Rhiannon okay for a deity? I'm dedicated to her, so I think I'd need permission from her anyway. Also the Great Shrine could make for a lovely venue. As long as that's allowed. Or would you want Aberystwyth?"

He nearly - nearly - got up and danced. It was a close thing.

"Rhiannon would be perfect," Gwilym said quietly around the sudden lump in his throat, his grin threatening to swallow his face whole. There was a pricking sensation in his eyes, too, but he was not going to cry... "As would the Great Shrine, because the first wedding on Cymric soil should definitely take place in the eighth wonder of the world, and... I love you so much. Are you sure? You want to -?"

"Sovereign," Awen said flatly, not even looking up. "Of my greatest, dearest desires in life, making you happy counts in the top three, maybe even the top two, rivalled only by my love for my country, and if this peculiar foreign custom is what you want, then it is what you shall have. To the tiniest detail. Including, and I say this with the gravest of seriousness, if I have to set baskets of burning onions amongst the guests to ensure sufficient weeping."

In spite of the emotion, he burst out laughing.

"Oh, what have I unleashed upon the world?" Gwilym giggled. "A Rider planning an event. With military precision. I don't think this was ever meant to happen. This is going to be the best wedding ever."

"That's the aim," Awen said unconcernedly. "Now, will hair beads be acceptable? They're sort of circular. Although the fire sounds fun."

"Hair beads will be perfect," Gwilym said, his mind starting to move. "We could have both! It's our wedding. Although the druids may not be happy with us setting fire to the Great Shrine."

"The pool in there is circular," Awen said thoughtfully. "And water is spiritually significant to us anyway as well as fire, so that might work... we'll run it by them. What do we wear? Any special garments required?"

"Usually, your best clothes," Gwilym shrugged. "Although most cultures want the bride in red for some reason.  Or some other colour."

"Can't I wear a uniform?" Awen shifted uneasily. "There are really formal ones. High collars and everything."

"If you want," Gwilym said gently, and leaned forward to catch her beads again. "I want you to be happy with all of this too, you know. It's your wedding day as much as it is mine."

"But you want a wedding," Awen sighed. "I feel it should be a special occasion, shouldn't it? A unique event. Everything should be different from normal. I think that includes dressing up, doesn't it?"

"Only if you want to," Gwilym repeated. "Really, Awen, turn up in a sack and a tea cosy if you like. As long as you're there I'll be happy."

"I own some fine tea cosies," she grinned, and then tore off the top page of the notebook, setting it to one side. "And you should see my fine collection of vintage Wars-time butter sacks. Oh, I'll clearly leave that to the others. What do I know about dressing myself? And on the subject of that, can I have the whole Wing to attend my whims?"

"Of course you can," Gwilym snorted. "They're perfect choices, one and all, and they already come with people who are in charge of them. And it doesn't have to be one," he added as she opened her mouth. "You can stick with Adara and Llŷr. It'll all add to the military precision, anyway."

"Yes it will," Awen said smugly, scribbling again. "Fine. Who are you having? How many do you get, anyway?"

"As many as I want, really," Gwilym mused. "A bestest mate, and then people to boss the guests about. Probably Lorcan for my bestest mate, and then I think I've run out of people I know, because Watkins isn't allowed or I'll scream. And Mental Uncle Dara would cause chaos."

"You can have some of mine if you like," Awen said thoughtfully. "At least one will need the job of keeping His Gracious Majesty away from the sharp pointy things, anyway. Caradog could do that. Or you could ask Madog, maybe, although in that case you'd probably also need Dylan."

"That's a good idea," Gwilym marvelled. "He's far more likely to behave when watched by Riders. I might stand Alaw near him, too, she's scary."

Awen snorted, since she was afraid of nothing. Gwilym didn't. He was afraid of Alaw.

"Right," she said, double-checking her shorthand. "You said... ah. Parents?"

"We could dispense with that." Gwilym shrugged. "They usually represent, like, giving the kids to make a new family sort-of-thing, which wouldn't really be appropriate for us anyway, because culturally we don't have concepts of familial ownership in this country -"

"You'll find I'm very much owned by mine," Awen murmured, amused, as though the fact that she was basically a slave was a hilarious oversight on his part. "But the very suggestion would get this vetoed by every Rider in the country, since it would be treason. And I don't have parents anyway. Rhydian probably comes closest, and I don't see him agreeing."

"No," Gwilym said, and shuddered. "It would have to be Mental Uncle Dara and Aunt Clíodhna for me anyway. Let's pretend this part was never suggested."

Awen smirked, because she was afraid of nothing. Gwilym didn't. He was afraid of Clíodhna.

"Fine," she said, starting a new list with business-like efficiency. "The party? Does this mean a feast of some kind? Special decorations? Cake? Music?"

"There should be music throughout all of this," Gwilym said decisively. "And all of -"

The door swung open without so much as a knock, and extremely unusually and suspiciously, without Awen jumping at all. Her expression merely switched to 'drier than deserts'. Gwilym turned.

"Right," Rhydian said irritably, slamming the door shut and marching to the chair Dylan had vacated. "This will be fun. Who'd like to start?"

There was a pause, as everyone looked at Gwilym, except for Gwilym, who looked confused.

"Sorry," he said after a moment. "Do you already know - ?"

"He's a spy, Sovereign," Awen said mildly, still writing. "Of course he knows. He probably knows your arguments too."

"Yes!" Rhydian snapped. "Yes, I do! Do you realise how difficult you make my life every time you do this, Sovereign?"

"Er..."

"He means Lady Marged," Awen supplied serenely. Rhydian threw his hands into the air.

"Of course I do!" he said, despairingly. "Which is mostly your fault, Awen, so stop acting innocent and start apologising! Now!"

"Sorry, Councillor."

"No you're not!"

"I'm really lost," Gwilym told anyone listening. "I wonder what Marged has to do with this."

"She keeps using us as a precedent," Awen said and looked up at last. "For their relationship. Every time you escalate us she tries the same thing. But in this case she can't, Councillor, because she doesn't know politically sensitive information that we want to keep her quiet about. There's no permanence to you two anyway."

"And how do you propose I explain that to her?" Rhydian asked, his eyes narrowed. "Given that she can't even know that there's something to know? Why do you both persist in complicating an already extremely complicated situation?"

"Well," Gwilym offered, but was cut off.

"And you," Rhydian remarked narrowly, turning to him, "are pushing your bloody luck, Sovereign. What's the next plan? Ask for children and I will punch you myself."

"Why is everyone so obsessed with me breeding?" Gwilym asked wearily. "I just want to marry her, Councillor."

"We'll invite you if you like," Awen said cheerfully, making a new list. Rhydian threw her a Look.

"You'd damn well better," he said darkly. "And I'd better be in a front row seat. Is Gwenllian coming?"

Gwilym blinked. Had it just been approved?

"Of course she is," Awen said, sounding vaguely offended. "What do you take me for? And she'll be sitting next to you. We'll have to invite the whole Full Council anyway. They'll say no, otherwise, although I realise Eifion will regardless."

"He's not coming," Gwilym said abruptly, and got two raised eyebrows, one from each Rider. "I mean it. That man is coming nowhere near my wedding."

"Sovereign," Awen said gently. "If we're inviting -"

"I don't care."

"Do you realise what - ?"

"I don't care," Gwilym ground out, and Rhydian fell silent, watching him with faint amazement. "I literally do not care what extenuating circumstances or anything else you suggest to me. On the day we get married, I am not having as a guest the man who tortured my wife for all of her formative years, and then seized every opportunity to do so for the rest of her life as well. And enjoyed it."

Awen sighed, and made a note. Rhydian rubbed his eyes.

"That won't be fun to explain," he muttered. "I'll get Gwen to do it. She's immune to him, because she doesn't care about his opinion. Give me three weeks, both of you?"

"For what?" Gwilym asked blankly, and Rhydian fixed him with the most authoritarian look Gwilym had received since being eight. His hind-brain begged to obey.

"Before you tell anyone," Rhydian ordered. "Or start actually arranging anything, or getting excited, or anything else. That's how long I'll need to get it approved, at the very earliest. Do not cross me on this."

"That will give us ample time to pick tablecloths and a menu," Awen said brightly. "And decide who has to sit next to Dylan. I think Maelon, since he'd be angry anyway."

"Can't we tell the Wing?" Gwilym asked, disappointed. "I really wanted them to know. I think Llio could be good for brainstorming. I don't want to brainstorm with Watkins."

"You can pick three of them," Rhydian said sternly. "And when I say three, I mean whichever three will keep it to themselves, so if you tell that large fellow I will smack you both upside the head and become your most vocal opponent, understand?"

"Yes, Councillor," Awen said obediently. "I shall tell Adara, Llŷr and Llio."

"Excellent choices!" Gwilym said, perking up again. It was all going like a dream. He'd been so sure Awen would deny him outright, and he'd expected a far longer and more extended conversation with Rhydian before being given a firm 'no' anyway. Really, he was going to have to find out which god it was that loved him so much and include them in the wedding. "And we need to pick a colour scheme. And I wonder if we can get lemons?"

"I'll ask Hannibal," Awen said absently. "I think the first harvests have been gathered in Celtiberia, so there's a chance. I like venison."

She really did, too. That had been an excellent discovery. Gwilym grinned.

"Venison main course," he agreed. "I like green. Can there be green?"

"Of course," Awen said, starting a new page. "Llio will murder you if you only give her one colour to play with, mind. Can - ?"

She paused, probably to wrap her head around the idea that she might have some say in her own wedding day.

"I like kingfishers," Awen offered cautiously. "Green, blue and orange?"

"Perfect!" He just caught himself before he clapped his hands like a six-year-old, although the look on Rhydian's face said quite plainly that he nonetheless hadn't gotten away with it. "I mean... yes. In a demure way. Where do we have the party, anyway?"

"Logically, in the Grand Hall," Rhydian said pensively. "Although it's more of an auditorium. You're going to need to invite a lot of people, though. I'm not sure they'd all fit in the Dining Hall."

"The Grand Hall could probably be converted temporarily," Awen mused. "We'll ask carpenters. In three weeks' time," she added, rolling her eyes as Rhydian pointedly crossed his arms. "In three weeks' time, and certainly not before, or you'll tell us we can't do it. Does Gwenllian know yet, by the way?"

"No," Rhydian sighed, and stood. "But I'll tell her now, since I'll need her help, you pair of bastards. I've also silenced your clerk by the way, Sovereign."

Gwilym brightened. "Permanently?"

"No," Rhydian said. "Stop wishing death upon the man, it's un-Sovereignly. Councillor."

He Saluted to Awen and was gone. Gwilym threw his inhibitions away, and clapped his hands excitedly to Awen's wry smirk.

"I don't care!" he said happily. "I'm getting married! And I'm not inviting Watkins anyway!"

"Thank you," Awen told him, her voice odd, and he looked at her. She was watching him steadily, her eyes dark. "For Eifion. Even though that will now be fantastically awkward in every Council meeting for the rest of - well, his life, anyway, since I'm a good eighty years younger. I -"

"I love you," Gwilym said gently, and took her hand this time. She held his tightly. "And this is just about the only way I can stand between you both, but I intend to do so. He's coming nowhere near this."

"Thank you," Awen repeated, and then smiled her easy smile. "Anyway. Entertainment? So far we only have 'Lots of music' written down. Do you want your dancing ninjas?"

"Definitely!" Gwilym declared, releasing her hand and playing with her beads instead. "They do an excellent floor show, as long as no one gets too close. Ooh, can we have games?"

"I'll tell Aerona," Awen said.