I jokingly said I'd like to see this. Iceduck demanded its creation. So, in true LJ style (sorry, Blogger):
Title: How I Hope These Plot Threads Will Resolve Themselves
Author: Quoth the Raven
Pairings/Characters: The Doctor (Eleventh), Amy/Rory, Maybe!Baby
Word Count: 291
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Crack, PWP, character death, upsetting Maybe!Baby
There is a big, swirling vortex in the TARDIS, all blue and lightning-zappy and that. This has happened because of Plot. AMY and THE DOCTOR are both safely tethered to a back wall, but RORY is being sucked towards it, horizonal in the air, clinging to a hand rail. His tether was not attached, because of Plot.
RORY
I'm... slipping...
AMY
Rory! No!
DOCTOR
Hold on, Rory! The vortex will safely close in about ten seconds!
RORY
Why... in ten...?
DOCTOR
Oh, because of Plot, I don't know!
AMY
Hold on, Rory!
DOCTOR
Rory, hold on!
AMY
Keep holding on!
DOCTOR
Don't let go!
AMY
Keep holding on, Rory!
DOCTOR
Rory, keep not letting go!
RORY
Can't... bye, lolz...
AMY + DOCTOR
Noooooooooooooooo!!!!!!!!!!!
He lets go and falls into the vortex, wearing the facial expression of a mildly stunned puppy. The vortex closes, and the DOCTOR and AMY fall back to the floor.
AMY
Noooo!!! He's dead! He can't be dead!!
DOCTOR
He's dead! This is terrible!
AMY
No! He can't be dead too!
DOCTOR
He can't die yet! His responsibilities!
AMY
But Doctor, you're going to die too! We seen it! When you're 200 years older!
DOCTOR
What? But you're pregnant or maybe not! All I do in my spare time is scan you and I can't tell still!
AMY
You can't both die!
DOCTOR
You can't do pregnancy alone or not!
They cry and hug.
DOCTOR
I don't want to die!
AMY
I don't want to be pregnant maybe!
DOCTOR
Let's never keep stuff from each other again!
AMY
Okay!
They cry. Cut to credits, then continue to next episode where they go on a jolly trip to a living panda planet rather than dealing with their problems.
Fin.
Friday, 27 May 2011
Cymru - Chapter 57maybe
MADOG
"So if you had to sleep with a woman, any woman, who would it be?"
"I want you dead," Madog declared evenly. The peach brandy was definitely not strong enough right now. Dylan swung on the bar stool irreverently, like a bored six-year-old.
"Well, yes," he said, rolling his eyes. "What a pointlessly obvious statement, boy. But, if you had to, right -"
"Dylan!" Madog said, exasperated. "Under what possible conditions would I have to sleep with a woman?"
"Yeah, because I have all the answers, Madog," Dylan said sarcastically, scanning the throng of still-far-too-overexcited patrons around them before switching his attention to the ceiling. "I don't know, petal, maybe if some Foreign Man turns up with Lord Iestyn and is all, 'Hey, losers, I need your best warrior to sleep with my wife or else I'll burn you all to death with my magic spell,' right, and we're like, 'Well, step up, Madog.' And you have to take one for the team."
"Then I'd be sleeping with his wife," Madog sighed wearily. "In this fantastically improbable and pointlessly bizarre scenario, and no choice is required. Go away, Dylan."
"Aaah, error," Dylan nodded. "Okay, if he's all 'Hey, losers, I demand Madog sleeps with any woman of his choice.' Ha! Then who?"
"I'd go for Llio," Emyr said morosely to Madog's right. His chin was resting on his arms on the bar top, the latest in a long line of drinks cradled slightly unsteadily in one hand. Madog exchanged a glance with Dylan. "She can draw, did you know?"
"Yes, that would be useful in bed," Dylan quipped, and dodged Madog's swipe.
"Emyr," Madog said, carefully removing the drink from his hand. Dylan promptly stole it and downed it. "Somehow, I'm sensing you're upset about Llio."
"And her eyes are amazing," Emyr said in agonised reminiscence. "And her laugh. And she fights like a demon..."
"Ah, but does she look like one?" Dylan grinned smugly, and yelped as he wasn't quite fast enough to move this time.
"Emyr," Madog tried again. "Why are you here and not with her?"
"Because," Emyr sighed gloomily, waving a hand. "Because, I like her more than she likes me. And now, everything that's happened with Awen, and Owain, and her promotion, and she's all busy now..."
"How do you know you like her more than -?"
"I just know," Emyr said, the image of huddled dejection. "And she's so pretty."
"Dude," Dylan said impatiently. "Man up and talk to her. The important point is: would it be Llio, Madog?"
"No," Madog said pointedly. "It would not. Go away, Dylan."
"Aerona?"
"Obviously not!" Madog said, frustratedly. "Why are you this annoying?"
"Beautiful, though, isn't she?" Dylan smirked, and Madog took a moment beneath the irritation to marvel at just how soppy Dylan could be. "Fine, fine: Adara?"
"No."
"Beneath the bird and the insults she's perfectly lovely, you know," Dylan grinned. Madog gave him a narrow look.
"You sounded just like Aerona then," he accused, and scored as Dylan blinked, hastily repeating the sentence in his head. "And no, because Caeron likes her. Our inter-Wing dynamic is becoming increasingly complicated."
"Yeah, he needs to man up, too," Dylan said, throwing the oblivious Emyr a pointed look. "Okay, Lady Marged?"
Emyr gave a strangled laugh as Madog's forehead hit the bartop.
"Right," Madog said. "Why are you here, Dylan? Why are you bothering me? It's Aerona's job to be bothered by you now. Go away."
"Can't," Dylan grinned. "She's spending some quality time with her Wingleader, and suggested I do the same, so here I am and you're actually happy about it but not saying because that's how our relationship works."
"You'll find it's not," Madog retorted. "I really do just hate you."
"I love you guys," Emyr said, apparently on the verge of tears.
"Where were we?" Dylan said brightly. "Ah! Menna."
"Definitely no one from our Wing, ever," Madog said firmly. "I want to be able to look my own Riders in the eye afterwards."
"After this definitely happens!" Dylan crowed triumphantly. "Excellent! You're finally taking this seriously, Madog! Okay - Lady Ienifer?"
"No," Madog said, and managed to stop the shudder.
"Councillor Gwenllian?"
"Would get me drunk first," Madog said, and paused. "And therefore has the highest chance," he acknowledged.
"I'll just put her down as a 'maybe'," Dylan said alarmingly. "Awen?"
"You aren't keeping a list?" Madog asked, mildly horrified. "You're not -?"
"Mental only, young man," Dylan grinned, knocking back another drink. "Fear not! Awen?"
"No."
"Oh, come on!" Dylan exclaimed. "Why not? She'd be perfect! Best Rider in the world canon, she's beautiful, she's clever and, and, best bit, you can both angst at each other about leading and that! Wins!"
"Dylan, you're a moron," Madog sighed. "No. We're just friends."
Were they, though? Still? It was going to be trickier now; they'd somehow ended up being friends before off the back of being equals, something neither of them were used to. Now they weren't anymore, since she was Councillor Awen. It was the mathematics of titles.
"Your words say 'moron'," Dylan intoned. "But your heart says 'my favourite'. Hey, okay: Lady Gwenda?"
"Gods no," Madog said disgustedly. "She's vile."
"She has such nice hair," Emyr sighed, and both Madog and Dylan turned to stare at him in horrified fascination.
There was a pause.
"Really?" Madog said after a moment. "You think so?"
"It's so soft," Emyr said miserably, his fingers tracing a pattern on the bar top with apparently subconscious tenderness. Dylan choked on his drink. "It feels like -"
"Llio," Madog broke in firmly, the penny dropping. "You're talking about Llio, and that's okay."
"I won't sleep for a week," Dylan muttered darkly. "It's not okay."
"I keep thinking about her," Emyr sighed, and Madog rolled his eyes and clapped him on the shoulder.
"Seriously, Emyr," he said. "Talk to the girl. Tell her how you feel."
"What's the point?" Emyr said gloomily. "She's not that bothered. I am. Then she'd only feel guilty."
"That is a Wing that does not handle its guilt issues well," Dylan nodded sagaciously, and somewhat unfairly, Madog felt. "Except you don't know she's not that bothered, you massive retard."
"Dylan," Madog said reproachfully. "Don't insult your lovelorn comrade, you degenerate."
"Alright," Dylan sniffed. "Well anyway, Tanwen? She's tall and muscled and so if you ignore that her breasts are bigger than her head she's exactly your -"
"Dylan," Madog interrupted flatly. "I am not playing this game. You are a social reject who shouldn't even be my problem anymore given that you now have a girlfriend. Go away before I order you into a dungeon."
"Oh, but who would you cry to then?" Dylan said cheerfully, spreading his arms wide. "You need and love me, boy! Ha ha!"
"I loathe and despise you!" Madog exclaimed frustratedly. "Shut up! Why must you grate on every nerve I have? Why?"
"Because it's a talent I practise, chicken," Dylan chirped. "Hey look! It's Awen!"
Madog turned quickly on the stool. Low Councillor Awen was moving swiftly through the bar, pulling Llio behind her and attracting the badly-concealed attention of everyone in the room in an expanding radius. Madog grinned. She had, of course, gone for a uniform that looked uncannily like an Alpha Wingleader one, just in green and more ornamental, which looked excellent in his opinion. And, brilliantly, she'd managed to keep the embroidered collar instead of switching to a torque, although as she neared them he realised that wasn't quite true; a thin band of gold ran around her neck on the seam between collar and jerkin, unobtrusively declaring her status to all.
And she'd lost the Casnewydd liveries, of course, Madog noted. Well, it wasn't unexpected. What was unexpected, though, was the way she marched up to the drunken and miserable Emyr instead of him, pulled him upright and off his stool in one quick movement and a startled yelp, and thrust an extremely awkward-looking Llio into his arms.
"Talk," Awen commanded exasperatedly, the words "or I'm going to kill you both, gods dammit!" floating clearly in the air. Madog burst out laughing, and she turned to him. "Has he been this bad too?"
"I can officially tell you that he loves her hair, her drawing, her eyes, her laugh, her fighting style and her general appearance," Madog said, signalling the barman to just bring the bottle. Emyr and Llio retreated to a corner, looking embarrassed. "And that he just knows he likes her more than she likes him. Peach brandy, Councillor?"
"Call me that again and you'll lose an eye, Madog," Awen said squarely, and threw all of Madog's worries away in one glorious statement. "Yes, though. As much as they have. I demand to end tonight on the far side of sobriety."
"Ha!" Dylan grinned. "You see? You're a natural Councillor, my friend. So, we're playing a game -"
"Aerona's made her mark, I see," Awen remarked, and Madog didn't bother to suppress his snigger as Dylan blinked and mentally checked himself again for the second time that night. "Speaking of whom, where is she?"
"With Geraint," Madog told her darkly as the bottle arrived. "Hence we've got to deal with that delight."
"Commiserations," Awen said dryly, and snorted at Dylan's noise of outrage.
"Oh, hey, thanks," Dylan said, disgustedly. "I can't believe I was hoping they'd let you live, you loser. At least my accent isn't -"
"Dylan!"
"Sorry, Awen," Dylan said obediently, sing-song. "Your accent is in no way disgusting, in spite of what we're all hearing. Anyway, the game is, we're trying to find a woman Madog would actually sleep with, because he's gay."
"I'm so sorry," Madog said wearily. "I've tried to stop him so many times. He's just out of control."
"Hmm." Awen looked up at the ceiling thoughtfully, swirling her drink in her left hand. "It's going to have to be a fairly masculine woman, I'd have thought. What do you like in men?"
"Why are you humouring him?" Madog asked, alarmed. Dylan grinned.
"Phoenicians," he said silkily. "Size matters to Madog."
"Well, that may be problematic," Awen declared. "Tanwen? She's pretty big. Although so is her chest, so..."
"I genuinely can't believe you," Madog said, shaking his head.
"I thought maybe Tanwen," Dylan said happily. "He didn't answer when I asked. Where do peaches come from?"
"Northern Phoenicia," Awen said, her eyes on her drink, and Madog suddenly became aware of the crowd's fascinated attention at the same time as Dylan, if the way his gaze whipped onto them was anything to go by. The background chatter of milling people had almost entirely dropped away, only a low murmur left, and everyone seemed to be blankly staring at each other in a way that suggested they were actually paying detailed attention to what they could see out of the corner of their eye. Awen really had developed a cult following, it seemed. It was unsurprising, but Madog sympathised massively. He'd have been hiding in his quarters by now. "And the Far East, I think. So? Tanwen?"
"Is probably the best we'll be able to think of," Madog sighed, finishing his drink and picking up the bottle. "Drink up and come on."
"Excellent!" Dylan said brightly. "Are we going to find her now that you've decided?"
"You'll have to be prepared to arm-wrestle her, you know," Awen grinned. "And possibly you'll be sparring first. Tanwen likes to test her men."
"I will hit you both if I must," Madog told them, and pointed at Dylan. "Particularly you, you wastral. We're going somewhere where half the room isn't staring at Awen."
He raised his voice rather pointedly for the last bit, causing everyone to hastily snap back to conversations about the weather and Awen to almost choke on her drink with laughter. Dylan jumped happily up and signalled for two more bottles.
"You're a diplomatic incident, Madog," he cackled. "Never change. But I think we should get someone else to meet Foreign Man now. You'd totally spit in his face."
"Madog," Awen chided, accepting a bottle from the barman and standing. "You mustn't spit in Foreign Man's face."
"I hate you both," Madog sighed.
************
The early night sky was beautiful outside, a blue-black above them that blended to a dusky orange on the horizon where the sun had already set and marked a new day. The cooling air was still around them, unusual given their altitude, and it carried the hints of woodsmoke and dew and hay from the landing bay behind them. Somewhere they could hear a hornpipe being played in a tavern, the music drifting up to them and mingling with the rustling of the merod in their stalls. Bats flew past.
And they sat on the edge of a runway, dangling their legs several hundred feet above the mountain top below, and got drunk. It was quite the most irresponsible thing Madog had done in a while.
"...so now he's stopping King Dara from tearing down the cell door and just beating Flyn to death himself," Awen was saying idly. "Which he tells me is basically just standard family bonding for them."
"So you're properly with him now?" Madog asked, watching the stars sail into focus. "Like, properly genuinely?"
"Properly genuinely," Awen laughed. It was a far freer sound than Madog had ever heard her make before. "Yeah. Did this today..."
She held up a braid, and Madog squinted in the dim light. Sitting clear above the beads he already knew was a new one, a softly glimmering silver with a darker sigil of some kind engraved into the surface. He smiled.
"What does it say?" he asked, fascinated. On his other side Dylan sat up and leaned over for a better look.
"It's Ogham," Awen said. "Because he's half Erinnish, so it was appropriate. That's Muin. It means 'wile' or 'ruse'."
"Yeah, and 'love'," Dylan snorted, dropping back down. Madog raised an eyebrow, and then reminded himself to stop being surprised. "Nicely avoided there, petal."
"And it means 'love'," Awen sighed, agreeing. "It just makes no sense, though. Do you know, he told me today that he loves me and my Wing is part of that. Eight extra people! Who does that?"
"People who are in love, traditionally," Dylan said irreverently, linking his fingers behind his head. "Keep up, would you?"
"Your Wing is part of that?" Madog repeated, fascinated, ignoring Dylan. "Seriously? He said that?"
"He seriously said that!" Awen agreed, apparently amazed still. "I mean, that's not normal, is it? That's a whole extra level of understanding that no one should have, surely? Especially after I hid his family's murder from him. On him."
"Wingleaders," Dylan muttered disgustedly. They both ignored him.
"He's a pretty lad, too," Madog said thoughtfully. The alcohol had made his fingers comfortably numb. "You've done freakishly well there. You must have made a really strong impression."
"Yeah, well," Awen grinned. "I'm not the one who entranced a Phoenician sailor into semi-permanently moving into my bed."
"I did not entrance him," Madog said curtly. "I assure you, I whinged at him and then made him do all the work. I have no clue why he keeps hanging around."
"Because you're an Alpha Wingleader, you lucky bastard," Awen sighed morosely, and Madog looked at her. "And he has a Rider fetish. It's a match made by the gods."
"You miss it already?" he asked quietly. Awen's smile was wryly self-mocking.
"Even more than I thought I would," she said, staring down at the staggering view of Cymru below them, rolling away into the dusk. "And I knew I would. Do you remember...?"
She paused for a moment, and Madog suspected he remembered.
"Remember Saxonia?" Awen said quietly. Madog thought of the woods, of holding her in his arms while they talked, and nodded. "Remember what I said?"
It's a privilege. And I'd never, ever trade it. But... it's a hard life.
"I remember," Madog said softly, ignoring Dylan's suddenly razor-sharp curiosity lurking by his elbow.
"It's harder giving it up than it ever was to live it," Awen said neutrally. "It doesn't feel like a promotion. It feels like a punishment."
She sighed as Madog put an arm around her shoulders and pulled her against his side, wrapping her arms around his ribs.
"I think it partly is, too," she added gloomily. "Which doesn't help."
"It's really not," Madog said gently. Above them the moon had just sidled into view, lighting them in silver almost as brightly as the sun. The new bead in Awen's hair shone. "I was there while they were debating it, you know. They were ecstatic when you were purified. Gwenllian already wanted you promoted anyway; once they knew you were going to survive the vote was unanimous. Even Eifion agreed."
"Well, if Eifion agreed it was definitely a punishment," Awen said dryly. "That man is psychotic. I'm allowed to say that now, it's a privilege of rank."
"She's side-stepping, she's side-stepping, quick, don't let her," Dylan chimed in. "Aaahh! Secret Intelligencer powers, that is."
"You know I'm your boss, now?" Awen said sweetly.
"Baps," Dylan muttered. "Life hates me."
"No, Dylan," Madog said patiently. "People hate you, remember? Awen: I'm serious. It's not a punishment. They want you as a Councillor because they desperately want your brainpower in the job. They need you now. They need your perspective."
"And you have skills," Dylan added. "Skills to pay the bills. What's this about Saxonia?"
"You will never know," Madog said flatly. Awen laughed. "Wingleader stuff. Go away, Dylan."
"I can't," Dylan said, the eye-roll somehow audible in his voice. "I told you, loser, I have to spend time with you today, Aerona says so."
"Which, of course, is nothing to do with your insecurities about Madog finding out about your long-standing secret double life," Awen murmured. "Secret Intelligencer powers, that is."
"Deceitful troll," Dylan told her, as Madog sighed. "You are made of fail and I hate you."
"Dylan," Madog began wearily, but he got no further.
"Well?" Dylan said fretfully. "I don't know! You're all 'Oh, Dylan, I don't care that you've been this whole other person for thirty five years, even though we're a command team on the border and trust is paramount and I'm a loser' except I know it bothers you massively when people don't tell you things, you massive control freak, and -"
"Dylan," Madog tried again.
"And you asked and I lied," Dylan went on, gesturing wildly with his hands. "Lied! To you! And I didn't want - but, you know, I did, and you were right, you can't really trust me now except you need to but you can't, and anyway, you were all upset because you thought you should know stuff in Tregwylan -"
Madog reached out and caught Dylan's hand as Awen carefully disengaged herself from his arm, giving them space while leaving one hand on Madog's back in silent support. Dylan's fingers clenched tightly around Madog's, the stress evident.
"Stop it," Madog murmured, quietly.
"You're not okay with it," Dylan moaned. "I know you aren't, Madog, of course you aren't you square no one would be. You just want me to feel better."
"No I don't," Madog snorted. "I like you miserable. I just want you to understand. I'm not angry with you. No, you're right, I'm not okay with it. But with it, Dylan. Not you."
"It's the same thing," Dylan said, starting to sit up, and Madog hastily planted his free hand in the centre of Dylan's chest and pushed him back down, holding him there.
"It is not," Madog said sternly. It was a shame he was drunk, really; he probably wasn't conveying himself at all well right now. "I told you before, you retard; you're worrying about me thinking you're some other person now that I never knew. But you're not. You've never hidden this from me. You've always told me about your mysteriously obtained information, I've never questioned it. All I know now is the mechanism."
"Madog," Dylan said, in his favourite you're-much-stupider-than-me-and-I'm-explaining-something-obvious voice. "I've been lying to you for thrity-five years, boy. About something integral. I'm not the same -"
"You aren't Owain, Dylan," Awen said quietly.
There was a pause, and it all clicked into place. Mentally, Madog kicked himself. That was the thing about Owain, wasn't it? They'd all been so caught up in it, in the effect it was having on Awen, none of them had stopped to think about how the various Deputy Wingleaders of the country would be affected. If he turned, could I turn? Will anyone think I'm the same? Will my Wingleader doubt me?
"I know," Dylan said with characteristic abrasion, but Madog stopped him.
"No," he said shortly. "Shut up, Dylan, she's right. Finding out about you guys wasn't a betrayal. I've never, not even for the briefest of moments, looked at you and wondered if you're actually working for Saxons like Owain, and I never will. Ever."
Dylan was silent, his heart beating swiftly beneath Madog's palm, and Madog sighed.
"I know who you are," he said more softly. "Stop torturing yourself. And to my knowledge, you haven't killed a kid and pretended to be a bear."
"Three times," Dylan said automatically, and then threw an arm over his eyes. "Urgh. Soz. Reflex."
"That ruined a touching moment, you know," Awen remarked as Madog rolled his eyes. "You have no sense of timing."
"You need a better accent."
"You need three days of hard labour," Awen sniffed. "Which, if I so chose, I could now sentence you to. And it would be in Casnewydd and surrounded by no other accent, because I enjoy a slightly ironic edge to punishments."
"Hey!" Dylan squawked indignantly. "That's going mad with power! Tell her, Madog!"
"It's going sensible with authority," Madog retorted. "And I shall beg her to act upon it if she doesn't."
"I'll pencil it in," Awen said contentedly, and they watched the stars for a moment, a gentle breeze whispering past them. The moon rose from a cloud bank, etching Cymru beneath their feet. On the horizon the distant lights of Bangor glimmered, a smear of warmth in the dark.
"What'll happen to Owain, now?" Madog asked the comfortable silence. Dylan's heartbeat beneath his palm had slowed slightly, but he didn't move his hand. "Will he be put on trial?"
"No." Awen took another swig from the bottle. "Rhydian wanted it, actually, but Gwenllian said it was an internal Rider matter. And as such, it sets a better example if he's just... dealt with."
"I heard six months," Dylan said carefully, in the voice Madog knew meant he was trying not to upset anyone and wasn't sure if he was going to or not. Awen snorted.
"You heard correctly," she confirmed. Madog blinked.
"Right," he said. "Well, what you've done there is, you've forgotten to say one of your sentences out loud, both of you. Six months?"
"The goal is to keep him alive for that long," Awen said neutrally. "Eifion intends to use him as a demonstrative aid in future classes. And, you know, he takes good care of his equipment, so it may well be that six months becomes a conservative figure."
A lifetime of careful conditioning to be terrified of Eifion made that the most horrific punishment Madog could imagine. Mentally, he scrabbled to remember how much he hated Owain.
"And your take on this is?" he prompted gently. Awen looked up at the sky.
"Nothing," she sighed. "Yet. I think... it's going to get hard, living here and knowing he's - alive. In the same building. I don't know how I'm going to take that as it goes on. Sometimes I'm fine with it, see."
She kicked her feet idly back and forth, and Madog put his free arm around her shoulders again. Awen leaned in.
"And other times," she said gloomily, "if I'm not careful, I... get him mixed up in my head. My Owain and the real Owain. In the last few days there have been a surprising number of times when I've found myself turning to speak to him, or thinking of a joke to tell him later or whatever. Like nothing happened."
"You miss him?" Madog asked quietly. "Or - well..."
"Who I thought he was," Awen said wryly. "Yes. I do. Like mad. Which isn't too much of a problem, because I know who he really was. But, you know. Sometimes I get them mixed up in my head, and then just for a moment... the man I hate more than anyone else in the world is torturing my brother."
"Ouch," Madog muttered, empathetically. She shrugged.
"We'll see," she said calmly. "I'll just make sure I'm out in the field a lot if it's a problem. And it does depend on Eifion's self-control, anyway - even with druidic help there are only so many times you can have the skin peeled off your limbs before gangrene or blood poisoning strike. And he does like teaching skinning."
"Our boy will not have an undislocated joint by the end," Dylan grinned, and rolled his eyes at the look Madog gave him. "Sorry, Awen -"
"Much though I loathe you and your sentiments," Adara's voice chimed in mildly from behind them, "you're technically allowed that one, actually, since you were directly affected by him being a prick."
"Wins!" Dylan crowed merrily, throwing his arms up in triumph as Awen turned, smiling. "Although not on the loathing. Is she allowed to loathe me? Madog, tell her she can't loathe me."
"Why not?" Madog asked sternly. "I agree with her."
"Hey," Awen said amiably, as Dylan gasped in outraged horror. Adara sniffed, and stepped into the moonlight of the runway, shaking her head as she walked towards them.
"Hey yourself, you crazy person," she said, her mild voice swirled with disapproval. "And just what do you think you're doing, hmm? Note my hard stare."
"Always," Awen said sardonically. "Sorry. When I found Emyr he was obviously with Madog, and unfortunately Dylan -"
"Hey!"
"- and then I wanted a drink -"
"Yes I get that!" Adara said, waving an exasperated hand. "And Madog is a stalwart fellow of many fine qualities, although commiserations on Dylan -"
"Hey!"
"No, let her talk," Madog murmured to Awen's snigger.
" - but, Leader, but, why are you sitting drunk on the end of a runway?"
"Whoa!" Abruptly Dylan surged upwards against Madog's hand, and he let him shove himself into a sitting position, one hand pointing accusatively at Adara. "Whoa there, pickle! Did you just call her 'Leader'?"
"Oh," Madog said. "You know, I really thought that was going to be in defence of us sitting drunk on a runway."
"Same," Awen said suspiciously. They were ignored.
"Yes, I did," Adara said serenely. "She is my Wingleader, you wastrel."
"And you're her Deputy now!" Dylan said, apparently outraged again. "You don't get to call her 'Leader' now! She's Awen to you forever more!"
"That's not in the rules," Awen said, puzzled.
"What does that matter?" Dylan asked irritably, and then managed to dismiss both Awen and Madog with a single infuriating wave of his hand before focusing fully on Adara. "You, petal, are now her Deputy. Haven't you been briefed on what that means?"
"Well," Adara said thoughtfully. "When Gwenllian swore us in she told us to think of Owain, and do the opposite, but not entirely, bechod, let's go to the pub. I felt it was inefficient preparation, I must admit."
"Urgh." Dylan smacked his own forehead disgustedly. "There are too many Wingleaders in the Council. Right. Listen. You aren't her subordinate anymore, right?"
"Yes she -" Madog began blankly, and Dylan actually punched him in the arm.
"Shut up, you tool," he told him. Madog stared at his arm, astonished. "Only, and I mean only, in a command sense, Adara. Got it? She can give you orders, but that's it. We're talking socially now."
"My life is about to become yours, isn't it?" Awen said morosely, and Madog sighed, and held up his bottle.
"Here's to it," he agreed gloomily. They clinked and drank.
"The point is," Dylan went on, ignoring them, "it's now your job - your duty - to tell her when she's being a loser. You see? If she starts - I don't know - overworking, or brooding alone too much, or punching herself in the face three times a day, whatever - it's up to you to drag her home. You know when you're worried about her?"
"Frequently," Adara said pointedly. Awen winced.
"You can say it now!" Dylan said brightly. "And you have to. Tell her she's being retarded, it's your job. Socially she's your equal now. You can't go calling her Leader and being respectful."
"I don't think being respectful is mutually exclusive to this scenario, you know," Adara said consideringly. Dylan snorted.
"Oh, what are you, the manners police?" he said witheringly. "Fine. Don't call her 'Leader'. You're one too, now, in any case."
"Oh, gods, don't remind me," Adara muttered disgustedly. "Yes, I know. Alright. What do I do if she is overworking, though? She does top secret things. I don't know if she has to do them or not."
"Then you tell me, and I'll find out!" Dylan said, apparently filled with immense cheer at the prospect. Awen gave him a sidelong glance that Madog couldn't decipher, and he found himself wondering with no small amount of fascination which of them would win that battle. "And it'll all work out, one big happy ending. You're also her new confidante! Congrats. You're allowed to make her tell you when something is bothering her. Even if you can't know details. It's brilliant."
"Yes," Adara said thoughtfully. "I see its merits. What if I don't want to tell you because of you being a massive saddo, though? Then what?"
"Then you will have failed in your new job," Dylan said sternly. "Fail, Adara! Fail! You must tell your Aunty Dylan everything."
"I must not," Adara said dismissively.
"You must!"
"Must not."
"Must!"
"I think you'll find I mustn't."
"Madog, tell her!"
"What would I know?" Madog asked glumly. "I don't know anything. Although I'd ask Rhydian for confirmation about anything Dylan says."
"No!"
"Then I believe I shall," Adara sniffed. "Right now, and then this farcical claim shall be dismissed."
"He's busy tonight," Awen murmured. Dylan looked up, brightly.
"Ooh, really?" he asked, in the tone of a serial gossip. "Doing what? I want to know what he's doing!"
"You know better than that," Awen told him evenly. "Do not use powers of investigation on boss, Dylan. That's rule one."
"Do you like it?" Madog asked abruptly. The stars twinkled above him and he watched them, his vision beginning to wheel gently as the peach brandy worked its magic. "Being... you guys? Do you like it?"
There was a pause as they all adjusted to openly talking about such an off-limits topic, and then Dylan lay back down again, his head by Madog's knee.
"Yeah," he said seriously. "I really do. It's awesome. It's fun and exciting and cool and gives excellent job satisfaction."
Madog nodded. There was another pause.
"Awen?" he pushed gently. Adara came and sat behind them, one hand resting on Awen's hip.
"Gwilym asked me this," she said after a moment, and then sighed, her voice dropping to a mutter. "This is weird."
"Agreed," Dylan said languidly.
"What did you tell him?" Adara asked quietly, and Madog watched as she threaded the fingers of both hands into Awen's hair, combing it carefully. Awen's eyes slid closed.
"That I did," she said tonelessly. "I loved it, actually. Never-ending stress and report writing aside. You know how you never feel as alive as you do when you're in battle?"
"Ooh, yes," Adara said happily. "There's nothing like being ankle deep in intestines to make your weekend."
"Try breaking into a Sovereign's bedroom," Awen said, a smile pulling at the corner of her mouth. "When you know that if you get caught, there is no possible excuse you can give. Try being relegated to a table at dinner at the opposite end of the dining hall to keep you from hearing a conspiracy, only to read it straight off their lips anyway. Try following someone through a City without them knowing. Try infiltrating somewhere in disguise, and then, then try getting away if they catch you without them ever guessing who you are. It's a unique experience, you know. Running away."
"Yeah," Dylan said in happy reminiscence.
"I'm going to miss being ankle deep in intestines," Adara reflected sadly.
Madog stared at them all.
"That's insane," he said finally. "I'm - I'm so jealous. I well want to do all that. How did Dylan end up getting chosen?"
"You already know the answer to that," Awen smirked, her good humour back as though it had never gone. "I imagine his first word was 'why?'"
"His second was 'really?'," Adara nodded sagely, and Madog laughed, ignoring Dylan's pointed look. "Closely followed by 'loser', but because he had an early run-in with a mirror."
"It was not!" Dylan protested hotly. "It was because I -"
"Met me?" Madog said, with mock-weariness, and won a third point that night as Dylan paused. "Get a new line, Dylan. Seriously. You're a disgrace."
"You're right," Dylan said wonderingly. "I blame it on my recent journey into Saxonia. It's stifled my biting wit."
"Half right," Madog said, and Awen burst out laughing, which really gave him his fourth point. Dylan folded his arms.
"Well," he said, with exaggerated offense. "I was going to suggest, Madog, that if you're so jealous, maybe I could start including you on some of my fun missions, but clearly you don't deserve -"
"Include him more on your fun missions, Dylan," Awen ordered indulgently, and Madog won the night.
"So if you had to sleep with a woman, any woman, who would it be?"
"I want you dead," Madog declared evenly. The peach brandy was definitely not strong enough right now. Dylan swung on the bar stool irreverently, like a bored six-year-old.
"Well, yes," he said, rolling his eyes. "What a pointlessly obvious statement, boy. But, if you had to, right -"
"Dylan!" Madog said, exasperated. "Under what possible conditions would I have to sleep with a woman?"
"Yeah, because I have all the answers, Madog," Dylan said sarcastically, scanning the throng of still-far-too-overexcited patrons around them before switching his attention to the ceiling. "I don't know, petal, maybe if some Foreign Man turns up with Lord Iestyn and is all, 'Hey, losers, I need your best warrior to sleep with my wife or else I'll burn you all to death with my magic spell,' right, and we're like, 'Well, step up, Madog.' And you have to take one for the team."
"Then I'd be sleeping with his wife," Madog sighed wearily. "In this fantastically improbable and pointlessly bizarre scenario, and no choice is required. Go away, Dylan."
"Aaah, error," Dylan nodded. "Okay, if he's all 'Hey, losers, I demand Madog sleeps with any woman of his choice.' Ha! Then who?"
"I'd go for Llio," Emyr said morosely to Madog's right. His chin was resting on his arms on the bar top, the latest in a long line of drinks cradled slightly unsteadily in one hand. Madog exchanged a glance with Dylan. "She can draw, did you know?"
"Yes, that would be useful in bed," Dylan quipped, and dodged Madog's swipe.
"Emyr," Madog said, carefully removing the drink from his hand. Dylan promptly stole it and downed it. "Somehow, I'm sensing you're upset about Llio."
"And her eyes are amazing," Emyr said in agonised reminiscence. "And her laugh. And she fights like a demon..."
"Ah, but does she look like one?" Dylan grinned smugly, and yelped as he wasn't quite fast enough to move this time.
"Emyr," Madog tried again. "Why are you here and not with her?"
"Because," Emyr sighed gloomily, waving a hand. "Because, I like her more than she likes me. And now, everything that's happened with Awen, and Owain, and her promotion, and she's all busy now..."
"How do you know you like her more than -?"
"I just know," Emyr said, the image of huddled dejection. "And she's so pretty."
"Dude," Dylan said impatiently. "Man up and talk to her. The important point is: would it be Llio, Madog?"
"No," Madog said pointedly. "It would not. Go away, Dylan."
"Aerona?"
"Obviously not!" Madog said, frustratedly. "Why are you this annoying?"
"Beautiful, though, isn't she?" Dylan smirked, and Madog took a moment beneath the irritation to marvel at just how soppy Dylan could be. "Fine, fine: Adara?"
"No."
"Beneath the bird and the insults she's perfectly lovely, you know," Dylan grinned. Madog gave him a narrow look.
"You sounded just like Aerona then," he accused, and scored as Dylan blinked, hastily repeating the sentence in his head. "And no, because Caeron likes her. Our inter-Wing dynamic is becoming increasingly complicated."
"Yeah, he needs to man up, too," Dylan said, throwing the oblivious Emyr a pointed look. "Okay, Lady Marged?"
Emyr gave a strangled laugh as Madog's forehead hit the bartop.
"Right," Madog said. "Why are you here, Dylan? Why are you bothering me? It's Aerona's job to be bothered by you now. Go away."
"Can't," Dylan grinned. "She's spending some quality time with her Wingleader, and suggested I do the same, so here I am and you're actually happy about it but not saying because that's how our relationship works."
"You'll find it's not," Madog retorted. "I really do just hate you."
"I love you guys," Emyr said, apparently on the verge of tears.
"Where were we?" Dylan said brightly. "Ah! Menna."
"Definitely no one from our Wing, ever," Madog said firmly. "I want to be able to look my own Riders in the eye afterwards."
"After this definitely happens!" Dylan crowed triumphantly. "Excellent! You're finally taking this seriously, Madog! Okay - Lady Ienifer?"
"No," Madog said, and managed to stop the shudder.
"Councillor Gwenllian?"
"Would get me drunk first," Madog said, and paused. "And therefore has the highest chance," he acknowledged.
"I'll just put her down as a 'maybe'," Dylan said alarmingly. "Awen?"
"You aren't keeping a list?" Madog asked, mildly horrified. "You're not -?"
"Mental only, young man," Dylan grinned, knocking back another drink. "Fear not! Awen?"
"No."
"Oh, come on!" Dylan exclaimed. "Why not? She'd be perfect! Best Rider in the world canon, she's beautiful, she's clever and, and, best bit, you can both angst at each other about leading and that! Wins!"
"Dylan, you're a moron," Madog sighed. "No. We're just friends."
Were they, though? Still? It was going to be trickier now; they'd somehow ended up being friends before off the back of being equals, something neither of them were used to. Now they weren't anymore, since she was Councillor Awen. It was the mathematics of titles.
"Your words say 'moron'," Dylan intoned. "But your heart says 'my favourite'. Hey, okay: Lady Gwenda?"
"Gods no," Madog said disgustedly. "She's vile."
"She has such nice hair," Emyr sighed, and both Madog and Dylan turned to stare at him in horrified fascination.
There was a pause.
"Really?" Madog said after a moment. "You think so?"
"It's so soft," Emyr said miserably, his fingers tracing a pattern on the bar top with apparently subconscious tenderness. Dylan choked on his drink. "It feels like -"
"Llio," Madog broke in firmly, the penny dropping. "You're talking about Llio, and that's okay."
"I won't sleep for a week," Dylan muttered darkly. "It's not okay."
"I keep thinking about her," Emyr sighed, and Madog rolled his eyes and clapped him on the shoulder.
"Seriously, Emyr," he said. "Talk to the girl. Tell her how you feel."
"What's the point?" Emyr said gloomily. "She's not that bothered. I am. Then she'd only feel guilty."
"That is a Wing that does not handle its guilt issues well," Dylan nodded sagaciously, and somewhat unfairly, Madog felt. "Except you don't know she's not that bothered, you massive retard."
"Dylan," Madog said reproachfully. "Don't insult your lovelorn comrade, you degenerate."
"Alright," Dylan sniffed. "Well anyway, Tanwen? She's tall and muscled and so if you ignore that her breasts are bigger than her head she's exactly your -"
"Dylan," Madog interrupted flatly. "I am not playing this game. You are a social reject who shouldn't even be my problem anymore given that you now have a girlfriend. Go away before I order you into a dungeon."
"Oh, but who would you cry to then?" Dylan said cheerfully, spreading his arms wide. "You need and love me, boy! Ha ha!"
"I loathe and despise you!" Madog exclaimed frustratedly. "Shut up! Why must you grate on every nerve I have? Why?"
"Because it's a talent I practise, chicken," Dylan chirped. "Hey look! It's Awen!"
Madog turned quickly on the stool. Low Councillor Awen was moving swiftly through the bar, pulling Llio behind her and attracting the badly-concealed attention of everyone in the room in an expanding radius. Madog grinned. She had, of course, gone for a uniform that looked uncannily like an Alpha Wingleader one, just in green and more ornamental, which looked excellent in his opinion. And, brilliantly, she'd managed to keep the embroidered collar instead of switching to a torque, although as she neared them he realised that wasn't quite true; a thin band of gold ran around her neck on the seam between collar and jerkin, unobtrusively declaring her status to all.
And she'd lost the Casnewydd liveries, of course, Madog noted. Well, it wasn't unexpected. What was unexpected, though, was the way she marched up to the drunken and miserable Emyr instead of him, pulled him upright and off his stool in one quick movement and a startled yelp, and thrust an extremely awkward-looking Llio into his arms.
"Talk," Awen commanded exasperatedly, the words "or I'm going to kill you both, gods dammit!" floating clearly in the air. Madog burst out laughing, and she turned to him. "Has he been this bad too?"
"I can officially tell you that he loves her hair, her drawing, her eyes, her laugh, her fighting style and her general appearance," Madog said, signalling the barman to just bring the bottle. Emyr and Llio retreated to a corner, looking embarrassed. "And that he just knows he likes her more than she likes him. Peach brandy, Councillor?"
"Call me that again and you'll lose an eye, Madog," Awen said squarely, and threw all of Madog's worries away in one glorious statement. "Yes, though. As much as they have. I demand to end tonight on the far side of sobriety."
"Ha!" Dylan grinned. "You see? You're a natural Councillor, my friend. So, we're playing a game -"
"Aerona's made her mark, I see," Awen remarked, and Madog didn't bother to suppress his snigger as Dylan blinked and mentally checked himself again for the second time that night. "Speaking of whom, where is she?"
"With Geraint," Madog told her darkly as the bottle arrived. "Hence we've got to deal with that delight."
"Commiserations," Awen said dryly, and snorted at Dylan's noise of outrage.
"Oh, hey, thanks," Dylan said, disgustedly. "I can't believe I was hoping they'd let you live, you loser. At least my accent isn't -"
"Dylan!"
"Sorry, Awen," Dylan said obediently, sing-song. "Your accent is in no way disgusting, in spite of what we're all hearing. Anyway, the game is, we're trying to find a woman Madog would actually sleep with, because he's gay."
"I'm so sorry," Madog said wearily. "I've tried to stop him so many times. He's just out of control."
"Hmm." Awen looked up at the ceiling thoughtfully, swirling her drink in her left hand. "It's going to have to be a fairly masculine woman, I'd have thought. What do you like in men?"
"Why are you humouring him?" Madog asked, alarmed. Dylan grinned.
"Phoenicians," he said silkily. "Size matters to Madog."
"Well, that may be problematic," Awen declared. "Tanwen? She's pretty big. Although so is her chest, so..."
"I genuinely can't believe you," Madog said, shaking his head.
"I thought maybe Tanwen," Dylan said happily. "He didn't answer when I asked. Where do peaches come from?"
"Northern Phoenicia," Awen said, her eyes on her drink, and Madog suddenly became aware of the crowd's fascinated attention at the same time as Dylan, if the way his gaze whipped onto them was anything to go by. The background chatter of milling people had almost entirely dropped away, only a low murmur left, and everyone seemed to be blankly staring at each other in a way that suggested they were actually paying detailed attention to what they could see out of the corner of their eye. Awen really had developed a cult following, it seemed. It was unsurprising, but Madog sympathised massively. He'd have been hiding in his quarters by now. "And the Far East, I think. So? Tanwen?"
"Is probably the best we'll be able to think of," Madog sighed, finishing his drink and picking up the bottle. "Drink up and come on."
"Excellent!" Dylan said brightly. "Are we going to find her now that you've decided?"
"You'll have to be prepared to arm-wrestle her, you know," Awen grinned. "And possibly you'll be sparring first. Tanwen likes to test her men."
"I will hit you both if I must," Madog told them, and pointed at Dylan. "Particularly you, you wastral. We're going somewhere where half the room isn't staring at Awen."
He raised his voice rather pointedly for the last bit, causing everyone to hastily snap back to conversations about the weather and Awen to almost choke on her drink with laughter. Dylan jumped happily up and signalled for two more bottles.
"You're a diplomatic incident, Madog," he cackled. "Never change. But I think we should get someone else to meet Foreign Man now. You'd totally spit in his face."
"Madog," Awen chided, accepting a bottle from the barman and standing. "You mustn't spit in Foreign Man's face."
"I hate you both," Madog sighed.
************
The early night sky was beautiful outside, a blue-black above them that blended to a dusky orange on the horizon where the sun had already set and marked a new day. The cooling air was still around them, unusual given their altitude, and it carried the hints of woodsmoke and dew and hay from the landing bay behind them. Somewhere they could hear a hornpipe being played in a tavern, the music drifting up to them and mingling with the rustling of the merod in their stalls. Bats flew past.
And they sat on the edge of a runway, dangling their legs several hundred feet above the mountain top below, and got drunk. It was quite the most irresponsible thing Madog had done in a while.
"...so now he's stopping King Dara from tearing down the cell door and just beating Flyn to death himself," Awen was saying idly. "Which he tells me is basically just standard family bonding for them."
"So you're properly with him now?" Madog asked, watching the stars sail into focus. "Like, properly genuinely?"
"Properly genuinely," Awen laughed. It was a far freer sound than Madog had ever heard her make before. "Yeah. Did this today..."
She held up a braid, and Madog squinted in the dim light. Sitting clear above the beads he already knew was a new one, a softly glimmering silver with a darker sigil of some kind engraved into the surface. He smiled.
"What does it say?" he asked, fascinated. On his other side Dylan sat up and leaned over for a better look.
"It's Ogham," Awen said. "Because he's half Erinnish, so it was appropriate. That's Muin. It means 'wile' or 'ruse'."
"Yeah, and 'love'," Dylan snorted, dropping back down. Madog raised an eyebrow, and then reminded himself to stop being surprised. "Nicely avoided there, petal."
"And it means 'love'," Awen sighed, agreeing. "It just makes no sense, though. Do you know, he told me today that he loves me and my Wing is part of that. Eight extra people! Who does that?"
"People who are in love, traditionally," Dylan said irreverently, linking his fingers behind his head. "Keep up, would you?"
"Your Wing is part of that?" Madog repeated, fascinated, ignoring Dylan. "Seriously? He said that?"
"He seriously said that!" Awen agreed, apparently amazed still. "I mean, that's not normal, is it? That's a whole extra level of understanding that no one should have, surely? Especially after I hid his family's murder from him. On him."
"Wingleaders," Dylan muttered disgustedly. They both ignored him.
"He's a pretty lad, too," Madog said thoughtfully. The alcohol had made his fingers comfortably numb. "You've done freakishly well there. You must have made a really strong impression."
"Yeah, well," Awen grinned. "I'm not the one who entranced a Phoenician sailor into semi-permanently moving into my bed."
"I did not entrance him," Madog said curtly. "I assure you, I whinged at him and then made him do all the work. I have no clue why he keeps hanging around."
"Because you're an Alpha Wingleader, you lucky bastard," Awen sighed morosely, and Madog looked at her. "And he has a Rider fetish. It's a match made by the gods."
"You miss it already?" he asked quietly. Awen's smile was wryly self-mocking.
"Even more than I thought I would," she said, staring down at the staggering view of Cymru below them, rolling away into the dusk. "And I knew I would. Do you remember...?"
She paused for a moment, and Madog suspected he remembered.
"Remember Saxonia?" Awen said quietly. Madog thought of the woods, of holding her in his arms while they talked, and nodded. "Remember what I said?"
It's a privilege. And I'd never, ever trade it. But... it's a hard life.
"I remember," Madog said softly, ignoring Dylan's suddenly razor-sharp curiosity lurking by his elbow.
"It's harder giving it up than it ever was to live it," Awen said neutrally. "It doesn't feel like a promotion. It feels like a punishment."
She sighed as Madog put an arm around her shoulders and pulled her against his side, wrapping her arms around his ribs.
"I think it partly is, too," she added gloomily. "Which doesn't help."
"It's really not," Madog said gently. Above them the moon had just sidled into view, lighting them in silver almost as brightly as the sun. The new bead in Awen's hair shone. "I was there while they were debating it, you know. They were ecstatic when you were purified. Gwenllian already wanted you promoted anyway; once they knew you were going to survive the vote was unanimous. Even Eifion agreed."
"Well, if Eifion agreed it was definitely a punishment," Awen said dryly. "That man is psychotic. I'm allowed to say that now, it's a privilege of rank."
"She's side-stepping, she's side-stepping, quick, don't let her," Dylan chimed in. "Aaahh! Secret Intelligencer powers, that is."
"You know I'm your boss, now?" Awen said sweetly.
"Baps," Dylan muttered. "Life hates me."
"No, Dylan," Madog said patiently. "People hate you, remember? Awen: I'm serious. It's not a punishment. They want you as a Councillor because they desperately want your brainpower in the job. They need you now. They need your perspective."
"And you have skills," Dylan added. "Skills to pay the bills. What's this about Saxonia?"
"You will never know," Madog said flatly. Awen laughed. "Wingleader stuff. Go away, Dylan."
"I can't," Dylan said, the eye-roll somehow audible in his voice. "I told you, loser, I have to spend time with you today, Aerona says so."
"Which, of course, is nothing to do with your insecurities about Madog finding out about your long-standing secret double life," Awen murmured. "Secret Intelligencer powers, that is."
"Deceitful troll," Dylan told her, as Madog sighed. "You are made of fail and I hate you."
"Dylan," Madog began wearily, but he got no further.
"Well?" Dylan said fretfully. "I don't know! You're all 'Oh, Dylan, I don't care that you've been this whole other person for thirty five years, even though we're a command team on the border and trust is paramount and I'm a loser' except I know it bothers you massively when people don't tell you things, you massive control freak, and -"
"Dylan," Madog tried again.
"And you asked and I lied," Dylan went on, gesturing wildly with his hands. "Lied! To you! And I didn't want - but, you know, I did, and you were right, you can't really trust me now except you need to but you can't, and anyway, you were all upset because you thought you should know stuff in Tregwylan -"
Madog reached out and caught Dylan's hand as Awen carefully disengaged herself from his arm, giving them space while leaving one hand on Madog's back in silent support. Dylan's fingers clenched tightly around Madog's, the stress evident.
"Stop it," Madog murmured, quietly.
"You're not okay with it," Dylan moaned. "I know you aren't, Madog, of course you aren't you square no one would be. You just want me to feel better."
"No I don't," Madog snorted. "I like you miserable. I just want you to understand. I'm not angry with you. No, you're right, I'm not okay with it. But with it, Dylan. Not you."
"It's the same thing," Dylan said, starting to sit up, and Madog hastily planted his free hand in the centre of Dylan's chest and pushed him back down, holding him there.
"It is not," Madog said sternly. It was a shame he was drunk, really; he probably wasn't conveying himself at all well right now. "I told you before, you retard; you're worrying about me thinking you're some other person now that I never knew. But you're not. You've never hidden this from me. You've always told me about your mysteriously obtained information, I've never questioned it. All I know now is the mechanism."
"Madog," Dylan said, in his favourite you're-much-stupider-than-me-and-I'm-explaining-something-obvious voice. "I've been lying to you for thrity-five years, boy. About something integral. I'm not the same -"
"You aren't Owain, Dylan," Awen said quietly.
There was a pause, and it all clicked into place. Mentally, Madog kicked himself. That was the thing about Owain, wasn't it? They'd all been so caught up in it, in the effect it was having on Awen, none of them had stopped to think about how the various Deputy Wingleaders of the country would be affected. If he turned, could I turn? Will anyone think I'm the same? Will my Wingleader doubt me?
"I know," Dylan said with characteristic abrasion, but Madog stopped him.
"No," he said shortly. "Shut up, Dylan, she's right. Finding out about you guys wasn't a betrayal. I've never, not even for the briefest of moments, looked at you and wondered if you're actually working for Saxons like Owain, and I never will. Ever."
Dylan was silent, his heart beating swiftly beneath Madog's palm, and Madog sighed.
"I know who you are," he said more softly. "Stop torturing yourself. And to my knowledge, you haven't killed a kid and pretended to be a bear."
"Three times," Dylan said automatically, and then threw an arm over his eyes. "Urgh. Soz. Reflex."
"That ruined a touching moment, you know," Awen remarked as Madog rolled his eyes. "You have no sense of timing."
"You need a better accent."
"You need three days of hard labour," Awen sniffed. "Which, if I so chose, I could now sentence you to. And it would be in Casnewydd and surrounded by no other accent, because I enjoy a slightly ironic edge to punishments."
"Hey!" Dylan squawked indignantly. "That's going mad with power! Tell her, Madog!"
"It's going sensible with authority," Madog retorted. "And I shall beg her to act upon it if she doesn't."
"I'll pencil it in," Awen said contentedly, and they watched the stars for a moment, a gentle breeze whispering past them. The moon rose from a cloud bank, etching Cymru beneath their feet. On the horizon the distant lights of Bangor glimmered, a smear of warmth in the dark.
"What'll happen to Owain, now?" Madog asked the comfortable silence. Dylan's heartbeat beneath his palm had slowed slightly, but he didn't move his hand. "Will he be put on trial?"
"No." Awen took another swig from the bottle. "Rhydian wanted it, actually, but Gwenllian said it was an internal Rider matter. And as such, it sets a better example if he's just... dealt with."
"I heard six months," Dylan said carefully, in the voice Madog knew meant he was trying not to upset anyone and wasn't sure if he was going to or not. Awen snorted.
"You heard correctly," she confirmed. Madog blinked.
"Right," he said. "Well, what you've done there is, you've forgotten to say one of your sentences out loud, both of you. Six months?"
"The goal is to keep him alive for that long," Awen said neutrally. "Eifion intends to use him as a demonstrative aid in future classes. And, you know, he takes good care of his equipment, so it may well be that six months becomes a conservative figure."
A lifetime of careful conditioning to be terrified of Eifion made that the most horrific punishment Madog could imagine. Mentally, he scrabbled to remember how much he hated Owain.
"And your take on this is?" he prompted gently. Awen looked up at the sky.
"Nothing," she sighed. "Yet. I think... it's going to get hard, living here and knowing he's - alive. In the same building. I don't know how I'm going to take that as it goes on. Sometimes I'm fine with it, see."
She kicked her feet idly back and forth, and Madog put his free arm around her shoulders again. Awen leaned in.
"And other times," she said gloomily, "if I'm not careful, I... get him mixed up in my head. My Owain and the real Owain. In the last few days there have been a surprising number of times when I've found myself turning to speak to him, or thinking of a joke to tell him later or whatever. Like nothing happened."
"You miss him?" Madog asked quietly. "Or - well..."
"Who I thought he was," Awen said wryly. "Yes. I do. Like mad. Which isn't too much of a problem, because I know who he really was. But, you know. Sometimes I get them mixed up in my head, and then just for a moment... the man I hate more than anyone else in the world is torturing my brother."
"Ouch," Madog muttered, empathetically. She shrugged.
"We'll see," she said calmly. "I'll just make sure I'm out in the field a lot if it's a problem. And it does depend on Eifion's self-control, anyway - even with druidic help there are only so many times you can have the skin peeled off your limbs before gangrene or blood poisoning strike. And he does like teaching skinning."
"Our boy will not have an undislocated joint by the end," Dylan grinned, and rolled his eyes at the look Madog gave him. "Sorry, Awen -"
"Much though I loathe you and your sentiments," Adara's voice chimed in mildly from behind them, "you're technically allowed that one, actually, since you were directly affected by him being a prick."
"Wins!" Dylan crowed merrily, throwing his arms up in triumph as Awen turned, smiling. "Although not on the loathing. Is she allowed to loathe me? Madog, tell her she can't loathe me."
"Why not?" Madog asked sternly. "I agree with her."
"Hey," Awen said amiably, as Dylan gasped in outraged horror. Adara sniffed, and stepped into the moonlight of the runway, shaking her head as she walked towards them.
"Hey yourself, you crazy person," she said, her mild voice swirled with disapproval. "And just what do you think you're doing, hmm? Note my hard stare."
"Always," Awen said sardonically. "Sorry. When I found Emyr he was obviously with Madog, and unfortunately Dylan -"
"Hey!"
"- and then I wanted a drink -"
"Yes I get that!" Adara said, waving an exasperated hand. "And Madog is a stalwart fellow of many fine qualities, although commiserations on Dylan -"
"Hey!"
"No, let her talk," Madog murmured to Awen's snigger.
" - but, Leader, but, why are you sitting drunk on the end of a runway?"
"Whoa!" Abruptly Dylan surged upwards against Madog's hand, and he let him shove himself into a sitting position, one hand pointing accusatively at Adara. "Whoa there, pickle! Did you just call her 'Leader'?"
"Oh," Madog said. "You know, I really thought that was going to be in defence of us sitting drunk on a runway."
"Same," Awen said suspiciously. They were ignored.
"Yes, I did," Adara said serenely. "She is my Wingleader, you wastrel."
"And you're her Deputy now!" Dylan said, apparently outraged again. "You don't get to call her 'Leader' now! She's Awen to you forever more!"
"That's not in the rules," Awen said, puzzled.
"What does that matter?" Dylan asked irritably, and then managed to dismiss both Awen and Madog with a single infuriating wave of his hand before focusing fully on Adara. "You, petal, are now her Deputy. Haven't you been briefed on what that means?"
"Well," Adara said thoughtfully. "When Gwenllian swore us in she told us to think of Owain, and do the opposite, but not entirely, bechod, let's go to the pub. I felt it was inefficient preparation, I must admit."
"Urgh." Dylan smacked his own forehead disgustedly. "There are too many Wingleaders in the Council. Right. Listen. You aren't her subordinate anymore, right?"
"Yes she -" Madog began blankly, and Dylan actually punched him in the arm.
"Shut up, you tool," he told him. Madog stared at his arm, astonished. "Only, and I mean only, in a command sense, Adara. Got it? She can give you orders, but that's it. We're talking socially now."
"My life is about to become yours, isn't it?" Awen said morosely, and Madog sighed, and held up his bottle.
"Here's to it," he agreed gloomily. They clinked and drank.
"The point is," Dylan went on, ignoring them, "it's now your job - your duty - to tell her when she's being a loser. You see? If she starts - I don't know - overworking, or brooding alone too much, or punching herself in the face three times a day, whatever - it's up to you to drag her home. You know when you're worried about her?"
"Frequently," Adara said pointedly. Awen winced.
"You can say it now!" Dylan said brightly. "And you have to. Tell her she's being retarded, it's your job. Socially she's your equal now. You can't go calling her Leader and being respectful."
"I don't think being respectful is mutually exclusive to this scenario, you know," Adara said consideringly. Dylan snorted.
"Oh, what are you, the manners police?" he said witheringly. "Fine. Don't call her 'Leader'. You're one too, now, in any case."
"Oh, gods, don't remind me," Adara muttered disgustedly. "Yes, I know. Alright. What do I do if she is overworking, though? She does top secret things. I don't know if she has to do them or not."
"Then you tell me, and I'll find out!" Dylan said, apparently filled with immense cheer at the prospect. Awen gave him a sidelong glance that Madog couldn't decipher, and he found himself wondering with no small amount of fascination which of them would win that battle. "And it'll all work out, one big happy ending. You're also her new confidante! Congrats. You're allowed to make her tell you when something is bothering her. Even if you can't know details. It's brilliant."
"Yes," Adara said thoughtfully. "I see its merits. What if I don't want to tell you because of you being a massive saddo, though? Then what?"
"Then you will have failed in your new job," Dylan said sternly. "Fail, Adara! Fail! You must tell your Aunty Dylan everything."
"I must not," Adara said dismissively.
"You must!"
"Must not."
"Must!"
"I think you'll find I mustn't."
"Madog, tell her!"
"What would I know?" Madog asked glumly. "I don't know anything. Although I'd ask Rhydian for confirmation about anything Dylan says."
"No!"
"Then I believe I shall," Adara sniffed. "Right now, and then this farcical claim shall be dismissed."
"He's busy tonight," Awen murmured. Dylan looked up, brightly.
"Ooh, really?" he asked, in the tone of a serial gossip. "Doing what? I want to know what he's doing!"
"You know better than that," Awen told him evenly. "Do not use powers of investigation on boss, Dylan. That's rule one."
"Do you like it?" Madog asked abruptly. The stars twinkled above him and he watched them, his vision beginning to wheel gently as the peach brandy worked its magic. "Being... you guys? Do you like it?"
There was a pause as they all adjusted to openly talking about such an off-limits topic, and then Dylan lay back down again, his head by Madog's knee.
"Yeah," he said seriously. "I really do. It's awesome. It's fun and exciting and cool and gives excellent job satisfaction."
Madog nodded. There was another pause.
"Awen?" he pushed gently. Adara came and sat behind them, one hand resting on Awen's hip.
"Gwilym asked me this," she said after a moment, and then sighed, her voice dropping to a mutter. "This is weird."
"Agreed," Dylan said languidly.
"What did you tell him?" Adara asked quietly, and Madog watched as she threaded the fingers of both hands into Awen's hair, combing it carefully. Awen's eyes slid closed.
"That I did," she said tonelessly. "I loved it, actually. Never-ending stress and report writing aside. You know how you never feel as alive as you do when you're in battle?"
"Ooh, yes," Adara said happily. "There's nothing like being ankle deep in intestines to make your weekend."
"Try breaking into a Sovereign's bedroom," Awen said, a smile pulling at the corner of her mouth. "When you know that if you get caught, there is no possible excuse you can give. Try being relegated to a table at dinner at the opposite end of the dining hall to keep you from hearing a conspiracy, only to read it straight off their lips anyway. Try following someone through a City without them knowing. Try infiltrating somewhere in disguise, and then, then try getting away if they catch you without them ever guessing who you are. It's a unique experience, you know. Running away."
"Yeah," Dylan said in happy reminiscence.
"I'm going to miss being ankle deep in intestines," Adara reflected sadly.
Madog stared at them all.
"That's insane," he said finally. "I'm - I'm so jealous. I well want to do all that. How did Dylan end up getting chosen?"
"You already know the answer to that," Awen smirked, her good humour back as though it had never gone. "I imagine his first word was 'why?'"
"His second was 'really?'," Adara nodded sagely, and Madog laughed, ignoring Dylan's pointed look. "Closely followed by 'loser', but because he had an early run-in with a mirror."
"It was not!" Dylan protested hotly. "It was because I -"
"Met me?" Madog said, with mock-weariness, and won a third point that night as Dylan paused. "Get a new line, Dylan. Seriously. You're a disgrace."
"You're right," Dylan said wonderingly. "I blame it on my recent journey into Saxonia. It's stifled my biting wit."
"Half right," Madog said, and Awen burst out laughing, which really gave him his fourth point. Dylan folded his arms.
"Well," he said, with exaggerated offense. "I was going to suggest, Madog, that if you're so jealous, maybe I could start including you on some of my fun missions, but clearly you don't deserve -"
"Include him more on your fun missions, Dylan," Awen ordered indulgently, and Madog won the night.
Monday, 9 May 2011
Cymru - Chapter I've lost count. 56?
I could of course check, but I shan't. Screw it. My style is immature at best, anyway. And, anyway - I've found an extra almost-fully written chapter hidden in a long-lost file, so I'll tweak it and see if I can make it fit. Otherwise, this may be the End.
AWEN
The staring people were already bothering her. It was something new, was the problem; Awen was trained to mentally and physically withstand several types of torture, but she had no frame of reference for this one. Not that public recognition was unusual for her as such. Being an Alpha Wingleader usually gave at least a minor celebrity status, especially on the border, but it was the uniform people recognised her by. These people knew her face. The freaks.
She ignored them all for now, in the least imperial way she could manage. It seemed best, although it was perhaps an approach that was going to need revising later. Fortunately, there were far fewer crowds by the time she reached Rhydian’s office, possibly because his still-smouldering wrath had chased them away. With some trepidation, Awen ignored a clerk trying to eyeball her without turning his head and knocked at the door.
There was a pause before the ‘Come in’, and Awen swore under her breath. If there was ever a day, she reflected, when she didn’t want to have to dodge a pike or something before getting to enter Rhydian’s office properly, it was certainly today. Well; there had been others, come to think of it, but, you know. Today really wasn’t good. She opened the door, stepped inside and ducked.
No weaponry sailed above her head. The door bounced cheerfully off the wall, uninhibited by a lurking body in its passage, and her left side was conspicuous in its safety from attacking limbs. Awen blinked, and straightened. It was a good thing, obviously, since she really hadn’t been in the mood, but… well. If she was ducking anyway, it just seemed like a waste now. She closed the door, and paused.
Rhydian was sitting at his desk, one foot resting up on an open drawer as he stared out of the window, his expression distant. A bottle of whiskey dangled from one hand, although he didn’t have any hallmarks of being drunk, yet, or at least, none that Awen could see. The desk was covered in paperwork, several files in particular lying carelessly on top of loose sheets, for which she very carefully ignored the hyperactive ‘read it!’ instinct that immediately kicked in. He didn’t look at her, or acknowledge her in any way.
“Councillor?” she asked uncertainly after a moment. Rhydian didn’t move.
“Sit,” he told her. Awen sat. The chair was comfortable anyway, and her shoulders were aching.
They waited in silence for a few moments more, and then Rhydian sighed wearily, and looked down at the bottle in his hand.
“You,” he said conversationally, “have caused a lot of problems.”
“I know,” Awen said quietly. “I’m sorry.”
His smile was lightning-fast, there and gone again, and deeply sardonic.
“So am I,” he said. “We really let you down, didn’t we?”
“No,” Awen said blankly, and wondered what the hell was going on. Rhydian seemed… depressed. She was relatively certain this had never happened before.
“Yes we did,” he said dismissively, and leaned down to the drawer his foot was resting on, from which he pulled two tankards. He balanced them over the papers and carefully poured in the whiskey. “From birth, I think. Here. Drink.”
“Thank you,” Awen said mildly. “Shut me up if this is out of line, Councillor, but… are you okay?”
“Shut up.”
“Noted.”
“Ha.” Rhydian rubbed an eye with the heel of his hand. “No, I can’t say that to you anymore. See the file in front of you?”
“Yes.” Cautiously, Awen picked it up. It was, as ever, plain and unmarked, apart from the ‘Classified’ stamp. “Do you want me to read it?”
“Yes,” he said, leaning back and closing his eyes. And that seemed to be it. Awen looked at him for a few seconds, and then opened the file.
Five minutes later, she closed it, put it back on the desk and downed the whiskey in three gulps.
“Anyway,” Rhydian said neutrally, refilling her glass for her. “Welcome to your new job.”
“I’m your boss?” Awen said hollowly. She leaned her face into her hands, her elbows on the desk.
“Tacitly,” Rhydian said, a tinge of humour back in his voice, “yes. Not officially. In public you’ll be following orders as you always have.”
“This is insane,” Awen told the desk. Rhydian snorted.
“It’s apparently insane we haven’t done it before,” he countered dryly. “Relax, though. You’re the department head, that’s all. You can pick your own team. You don’t even need to do any of the actual work yourself if you don’t want to. Just collate everyone else’s findings.”
There was a pause, Awen’s mind still spinning. Rhydian snorted again.
“Although I doubt that’ll happen,” he said. “You’re quite hands-on.”
“You want me to investigate you?” Awen said, looking up at him disbelievingly. He flashed her a grin, pouring himself another whiskey.
“Yes,” he said calmly. “Thoroughly. And everyone else, but thank you for questioning the idea of me being a target specifically.”
She stared at him for a moment more, and then downed the second whiskey. Rhydian poured her another patiently.
“Look,” he said, after a moment’s shocked silence. “It’s very simple. About four hours ago you sacrificed life and limb to demonstrate your status as your country’s moral compass. You also highlighted the need for such a compass. We’ve all become stuck.”
He knocked back his own drink, and stared back out of the window again.
“We’re lost,” he said quietly. “And, importantly, we didn’t realise it. Which means in order for you to set us straight again, no one can be above you.”
“Correct me if I’m wrong,” Awen said, her mind now racing, “but this means I’m above me.”
“No,” Rhydian said distantly, waving a hand. “I’m on top of that. Don’t think about it.”
Ah. Fair enough. And good. Awen relaxed slightly, and happily trusted whatever system he’d put in place. Which left her with… well. It wasn’t too hard, actually, as long as she thought of it as being an Alpha Wingleader but with a far bigger City and a much bigger Wing.
“Okay,” she said quietly, and drew in a deep breath to steady herself. The kaleidoscopic shards of surreal reality that her life had become whirled together into a new pattern in her head, and surprisingly, made a new kind of sense. “Alright,” she said, slightly louder, and looked up at Rhydian. “Well, then; are you okay?”
He laughed at that, and drank straight from the bottle.
“Functional,” he said. “But no, I suppose I’m not. I watched you save us from ourselves today. In front of the world. And I was so angry with you I was willing to let Eifion execute you in his own time and his own special way.”
“Well, I expected that,” Awen said, watching him. This, this was the most surreal experience of the past week. She’d never tried to read Rhydian before in her life. It almost felt like trying to give a god a smack upside the head. “And I sort of agreed.”
“Then you’d have been wrong as well,” he said bluntly. “It turned out, we were about to make a mistake that would end everything we’ve built since the Wars. All that progress, gone.” He tipped the bottle to her, ironically. “And none of us had noticed.”
“I know all that,” Awen said calmly, watching his body language, listening to the words. “What else is wrong, though?”
“This is going to take some getting used to,” Rhydian muttered, and leaned back, closing his eyes. “It’s… complicated. Gods.”
He rubbed at his eye again, a strangely vulnerable gesture that Awen had never recognised before.
“Once upon a time,” he said conversationally, “I was in love with Lady Marged. Did you know that?”
Marged had never taken an official consort, in spite of having three children. The out-dated Caerleuad liveries adorned Rhydian’s shoulders still, and Awen thought about his easy-going rapport with her, and the nickname ‘Lady’ that he still used, and chose her answer carefully.
“Once?” she asked.
The silence was thick, broken by the caw of a raven outside the window. Rhydian watched the bottle in his hands, his eyes dark.
“She and Lord Gwilym came to see me today,” he said quietly after a moment. “About you, in fact. They wanted to know if he still got to keep you. Although he wanted it known that wasn’t his choice of words.”
Awen snorted, but said nothing. Rhydian sighed.
"He doesn't, by the way," he told her casually. "You're keeping him, understand? He's a Sovereign who knows about Intelligencers. Should he ever decide to make nefarious use of that information the security protocol is you making it personal."
"Ah."
"And I mean you make it personal. Understand?"
"Duly noted," Awen nodded. "As is your attempt to wander off topic."
Rhydian sighed again. He even looked vaguely glum.
“I think,” he said, after a moment, “Marged's about to embark upon a spirited campaign to have a similar arrangement. To you and Lord Gwilym. Which was very difficult to give up the first time. And she’s an extremely persuasive woman when she wants to be.”
“I see.” Awen gazed at the ceiling thoughtfully. “Well, in theory there’s no problem. It doesn’t have to be you who tells her to back off, for one thing. I could do it.”
“That would certainly be appreciated,” Rhydian said, swigging at the whiskey again, and Awen nodded.
“I won’t, though,” she said. “Go and sleep with her.”
He paused for a moment, and then very carefully and deliberately set the whiskey bottle down on the desk, turned to face her and leaned forward on his elbows, his fingers linked beneath his chin.
“Are you still crazy?” he asked seriously.
“Your worry can’t be a lack of interest,” Awen returned easily, holding his gaze. “Nor one of reputation, for you or for her, because you don’t trouble yourself about hiding your friendship with her. You never call her ‘Sovereign’, you invite her into your Wing quarters, you escort her to dinner, and you’re still wearing the livery that swears you to her. And, if need be, if you want to avoid it being public knowledge, you could make any involvement with her become top secret with sublime ease, given the resources you both have access to.”
Rhydian stared at her, fascinated. She sat back, watching him still.
“So there are only a few reasonable concerns left,” she continued. “All of which involve only you, as far as I can tell. Tell me if I get any wrong, but – the lack of safety net? She’s still a Sovereign, whatever else she may be. It’s a security issue.”
There was a pause again, and then Rhydian glanced away, out of the window.
“There’s that,” he said neutrally. “You must know we only really allow it with you because the situation is monitored.”
“Of course I do,” Awen said. “And you must remember that you’ve just given me the power to do the same to you.”
“Oh, stop it.” He stood abruptly and moved to the window, his arms folded and eyes dark. “We broke apart for a reason, Awen. Sovereigns and Riders don’t work. Do you know what we do to them after a while?”
“Apparently in your case nothing that bad,” Awen side-stepped. “Since she’s the one chasing you.”
“We wear them down,” Rhydian said, as though he hadn’t heard her. “They do stressful jobs. And then they come home and face even more stress because before they can even have a decent conversation with us, they have to spend half an hour explaining our basic emotional responses to us like we’re children. So then we spend all our time stressing that we’re not good enough, and then they have to talk us out of that hole. He’ll leave you eventually, you know,” he added, glancing at her. “It’ll hurt.”
“I know,” Awen said seriously. “And I’ve told him I won’t beg him to stay or anything when he does. He’s free to do so when he wants.”
“But what kind of relationship is that, though?” Rhydian said wearily, his eyes back on the landscape below. “Where one partner has to take all the strain of both?”
“I never said relationship,” Awen said mildly. “Just sleep with her.”
“Right,” Rhydian said, wiping a hand across his face. “I’d want more, though. Except I wouldn’t.”
He turned and glared at her.
“Do you see what you’ve done now?” he said pointedly, and Awen grinned. “Look at me. I’m in the grip of emotional angst. I’ve successfully avoided this for years. Gwenllian would laugh at me if she could see me now.”
“Gwenllian laughs at you anyway,” Awen said dismissively, waving a hand. “Councillor? I’m entirely new to this Sovereign/Rider relationship thing, so I can’t really even try to give you any answers, but… how well could she read you?”
“Ha. Too well.” Rhydian looked down, shaking his head, his smile dry. “Far too well,” he said after a moment. “That was part of the problem. I could never hide anything from her.”
“You tried to?”
“Frequently.” He rolled his eyes. “I rather felt she deserved a break from both of our issues.”
“So you spent your time together fighting her rather than letting her in,” Awen said thoughtfully, and didn’t look at his expression. “You know, hypothetically… one might posit that if you were to get back with her, you just… let go. Trust her, rather than trying to be in control all the time. Let her take care of you, and you can focus on taking care of her.”
She shrugged, and stood.
“But whatever,” she said. “I’m only telling you to sleep with her. Is that everything for now, Councillor?”
“Consider yourself extremely lucky that my easy-going nature has not inclined me towards having you whipped,” Rhydian said pointedly. “Get out and bother someone else. You’re almost as bad as Marged.”
“First time I’ve been accused of that,” Awen grinned, and downed the last of her whiskey. “But I am the monster you created, I remind you. Blame no one but yourself.”
“What have I unleashed?” he asked the ceiling, shaking his head as she stood and stretched, wincing. “I shall put Eifion on stand-by. For me rather than you.”
“I know you think that’s funny,” Awen said darkly, rubbing a shoulder, “but you’ve never been on the receiving end of him, you know. It’s less humorous for the rest of us.”
“Very true,” Rhydian said dryly, and then paused, thoughtfully. “Actually – no. No I haven’t. Nor have most Councillors.”
The dread spiked in her heart suddenly, making her battle-senses rush to the fore and her head whip around to him.
“Don’t even think about it,” Awen said, sharper than she’d intended. Rhydian watched her, himself on alert from her tone. “Seriously. Don’t.”
“We’re out of touch,” Rhydian said neutrally, his eyes not leaving her. He folded his arms and leaned back against the windowsill. “As you pointed out yourself. We come from a different world from today’s Riders, almost. Certainly a different training system. Possibly we don’t think quite the same.”
“Eifion can’t help you with that,” Awen said bluntly. “You know what pain is.”
“Not the way you do,” Rhydian said with taboo honesty, but Awen took a step forward.
“Do you love your Wing?” she asked harshly. He raised an eyebrow.
“Of course I –“
“Then you never invite Eifion in,” Awen said starkly. The tension was making her shoulders throb anew, her fingers restless with adrenaline. “Ever. When he wants to hurt you, it’s not just you he hurts.”
“Hmm.” Rhydian regarded her for a moment, and then sighed wearily. “No,” he said quietly. “That’s certainly true. Tell me something – have you ever resented it?”
She looked away, willing herself to calm down and give her shoulders a break, and thought.
“Being tortured by him?”
“Yes.” Rhydian sat back down in the chair and took another swig of the whiskey. “Being tortured by him. Being put through that, adult and child. Have you ever resented the fact that it was happening to you?”
In terms of her world feeling as though it was suddenly listing wildly to the side again, the floor was practically vertical. It was as though the gods had dropped down to tell her they were suffering from existential doubt. Rhydian… was having doubts. About the Union’s training system. What the hell was going on?
“No,” she said after a few moments. “For the man himself, ‘hate’ is too mild a word to adequately explain my feelings on the subject. But for his role in my life… no. It was necessary. I always understood that. And nothing can be just good all the time.”
He glanced at her, a small, amused smile playing about his lips.
“Is that your official view on being a Rider?” Rhydian asked. “Good all the time apart from Eifion?”
“Yes,” Awen said simply. He nodded, and looked away.
“Good,” he said quietly. “Get out, would you?”
“Sleep with Marged.”
“No. Nor can you order me to, or it’s rape.”
“Well, it’s a standing sanction, Councillor,” Awen said, striding to the door. “Remember: I’m your fault.”
“I already regret it!” he shouted after her, but she grinned without answering and ignored the small gaggle of Riders who stared at her as she closed the door. He probably wouldn’t obey, that was the trouble, but right now if only there was a chance he’d agree Awen would have been perfectly willing to just bundle Rhydian into a bedroom with Gwilym and then come back in a few hours, because Rhydian desperately needed a perfectly-weighted pep-talk that would stop him hating himself so much and make the world seem nice again. Apparently, Marged could do it. If only Rhydian would do as he was told. Which was unlikely.
But…
Awen turned to the group of Riders, and returned their joint awed Salute absent-mindedly.
“Afternoon,” she said mildly. “Do any of you have a pen and paper, by any chance?”
“Councillor,” one of them said eagerly, digging in his belt pouch, and it took Awen a second to realise he meant her. “Here, and – is a pencil okay? I’m out of ink –“
“Pencil is fine,” Awen grinned. “Just ‘Rider’ is fine for now, by the way. I imagine I’ll be comfortable with ‘Councillor’ next year some time.”
“We’ll tell everyone,” he swore, slightly disturbingly over-earnest as Awen took the proffered writing tools. “If you want? Then fewer people will try, anyway.”
“That’d be great, cheers.” She flattened the paper to the wall and wrote the sentence ‘You are not permitted to contradict her instructions in any way, nor make her leave’ in shorthand, and then passed the pencil back. The Rider beamed. “Thank you. Have a good day.”
Finding Lady Marged was actually fairly simple in the end, too. Just about every Sovereign in the country had convened in the various common rooms, which Awen reasoned poor Maelon had probably been herded to by now, and so it was a simple task to find him and therefore Marged. She was sitting happily in an armchair by the fire opposite him, knitting busily while the soon-to-be-delinquent Lady Delyth sat at her feet and held the wool. Iestyn, Erys and Girly Lord Ieuan were there too, and idly Awen wondered just what was the situation between Erys and Iestyn. She’d have to find out now. Her job had really grown.
“And then it turned black and fell off!” Marged said cheerfully and alarmingly as Awen entered, to the assorted laughs and gasps of horror from her audience. Well, Maelon seemed to be laughing; that was something, anyway. “Such fun! Although a bit worrying for the poor – Councillor! Congratulations! And you look ravishing!”
“Well, thank you very much, Sovereign,” Awen said mildly, bowing as they all turned to look at her with interest. “Whisper it, but you’ve always been my favourite.”
“Really?” Erys laughed, looking approvingly over the new uniform. “I shall have to increase the gifts of knitwear I make to visiting Riders. Although I’m sure Iestyn is particularly gutted. He told me privately that he’s been practising an especially charming smile specifically to endear more Riders to him.”
“It’s true,” Iestyn nodded with affected wisdom. “Really, I just want to be liked.”
“Politics is possibly not the career for you, then,” Awen said dryly, which earned her a chuckle. She glanced at Maelon, and nodded. “And welcome to the Union, Sovereign. I’m sorry it took so long to get you here.”
“What’s a few years?” he grinned sardonically. “Delyth – this is Councillor Awen. She’s the one who caught Father.”
Delyth looked up from her spot at Marged’s feet, her eyes wide.
“Can we stop running now he’s gone?” she asked hopefully, and Awen found herself automatically crouching easily to talk to the girl.
“Yes, you can,” she smiled. “And you get to live in Casnewydd, which is much better than people would have you believe. If you find a bakery near the Corn Exchange with a crooked sign outside, go in and try their honey bread. It’s of divine origin, I swear.”
“I like honey bread.”
“You’ll love theirs.” She looked up at Maelon, which seemed a more sensible position to be viewing a Sovereign of Casnewydd from, whether she was actually sworn to him or not. “I should add in the interests of fairness, though, that it was Lord Gwilym who actually got Flyn convicted.”
“I told you!” Marged exclaimed gleefully. “Riders, too modest one and all. No, dear; you really must take credit for this one. He couldn’t have brought about the conviction without you!”
Oh. She was ‘dear’ to Marged now. That was actually quite lovely.
“So you won’t be my Alpha Wingleader now?” Maelon asked. “I was quite disappointed to hear it.”
“You were not,” Awen snorted. “I told you your face was unhelpful and had to sit five chairs away in a bid to not hit you.”
“Well, most people do,” Maelon grinned. “Although usually in case I hit them.”
“Happily not a problem for my replacement,” Awen told him, and stood. “Whose name is Ioan, and I genuinely could not be happier leaving the post to anyone else. You’ll like him. Anyway; Lady Marged. Could I have a few minutes of your time?”
“Ooh, of course! Here.” Marged thrust her knitting into Delyth’s bemused hands and stood. “Keep that for me, would you, dear? Back soon.”
They retired to the first secure room Awen could find, which proved to be a clerks’ office with a single hastily-evicted occupant. She locked the door behind his awed back, and turned to Marged, who was predictably examining a potted plant in the corner.
“I always love these,” Marged said happily. “They do upset druids though, poor dears. Anyway! How can I help the hero of the hour?”
“You can’t,” Awen said, handing her the note. Marged took it quizzically. “But I think you can help Councillor Rhydian, can’t you?”
It was nice, getting to see the Real Marged in that moment. She looked up at Awen, her gaze assessing in the way she so carefully hid normally, and pocketed the note without so much as looking at it any further.
“Yes,” she said matter-of-factly. “I can. I’m right, then? He’s that bad at the moment.”
“It’s been a tough day for everyone,” Awen said carefully. “But personally I’ve benefitted from having an objective non-Rider viewpoint recently, and I think he would too.”
Marged’s smile was sad for a moment, and she nodded.
“I agree,” she said. “I can definitely help, Councillor –“
“Feel free to choose any other name you like for me, by the way,” Awen said with a wince. It really wasn’t a title she was taking well. Marged laughed, the sound as jolly as ever.
“Good!” she said gaily. “Ooh, can I call you Awen? That would be lovely!”
“Go ahead,” Awen smiled wryly.
“Good.” And Marged stepped forward and actually hugged her. It was so unexpected Awen found herself unable to respond for a moment, and then discovered that she couldn’t physically anyway without starting a fight because Marged had her in an extremely tight embrace against her ample bosom.
“Huh,” she said, more or less to herself. It was a comfortable hug. “I see what he meant now by ‘persuasive’. And, come to think of it, ‘extremely hard to give up’.”
Marged laughed, the vibrations of the sound easily transmitted through the outlying areas of her body, and squeezed once before letting go.
“Oh, you!” she said merrily. “Honestly, dear, you look like you needed it. You’re a lot like Rhydian, you know. You both hide yourselves in the same way, and once you know the trick it’s not too hard to spot.”
“Really?” Awen said mildly. “I’ll have to let him know. Expect a new set of mannerisms within the week.”
“I’ll warn Gwilym,” Marged giggled. “Although he understood you fast enough, didn’t he? The advantage of an enquiring mind.”
She looked fond for a moment.
“I always thought it was a shame that he wouldn’t be Sovereign, actually,” she said with wistful reminiscence. “When they were kids. I think Sorcha agreed, too. It was clear enough to see that he’d be the best of the three of them – Bethan, bless her, had such a temper! And Iago just… wasn’t suited to it. Too many fanciful notions. Reinvented himself as something new every week. And then there was Gwilym. Quiet little Gwilym, who wanted to know everything, and meet everyone. No surprise when he went travelling!”
“He still would be if he could,” Awen said, and sighed. “I think it upsets him. He gets this look in his eye sometimes, when he’s talking about where he’s been or to someone from another country, or even when he’s just looking out of a window. He wasn’t ready to come back to Cymru when he did. I think if he was given the chance he’d be in Gaul by tomorrow and moving steadily east.”
“I think,” Marged said gently, her head tipped to one side, “that if he was given the chance the only travelling he’d ever do for the rest of his life would be to just stay by your side, bach. The luckiest people are the ones who have something in their lives that they’d give everything else up for in an instant, if they had to. For Gwilym, that’s not travelling anymore.”
She wasn't emotionally capable of handling that, and certainly not in the sole presense of Lady Marged; so Awen carefully avoided it by doing the conversational equivalent of sticking her fingers in her ears and running away.
"Obviously feel free to not answer, Sovereign," she said neutrally. "But when you were with Councillor Rhydian, am I right in assuming it wasn't you who ended it all?"
"That's right." Marged regarded her for a moment. "Do you suggest I remind him of that?"
"I bow entirely to your expertise in this area," Awen said smoothly. "I would like you to go and help him, if you can. How you do so is for you to decide."
"I see," Marged smiled softly. "Right-o. And I give him that note first, I presume?"
"If you would."
"You and your notes," Marged winked at her, and wandered past her to the door as Awen winced. "Excellent! A challenge. And do make sure you spend some time with Gwilym some time today, won't you, dear."
"Yes, Sovereign," Awen said mildly, and sighed as she left. If only she could, that was the reality. She couldn't even see her Wing yet. The world's longest To Do List stretched out in front of her, grinning at her, and mocking her lack of drinking time. It was, Awen reflected, just another typical day at the office, really, but now with a bloody torque.
Bloody torque.
*******
The sun had set by the time she managed to wearily stagger back to her quarters, a numb, faintly buzzing area all that remained of where her brain used to be and a nagging ache through both shoulders and biceps. Apparently, her withered emotional centres, already neglected and under-fed, had decided to close down for the day. Possibly it was just as well, Awen reflected as she reached the door and opened it as quietly as she could. Any actual emotional response was likely right now to make her burst into tears and cry, or maybe, for variety, panic and flee the country. Before panicking at the world outside and fleeing back in, of course-
"My turn!" Adara's voice said brightly, and Awen blinked and took in the scene before her.
The room contained the full Wing, plus Gwilym. And they seemed to be playing a barbarically simple game that involved punching Caradog to - to see if he’d twitch? Evidence suggested, however, that he may have decided that a fun edge could be added to the game if he suddenly and violently lashed out with a punch of his own at random points; firstly, as Adara's well-formed punch connected with Caradog's stomach she leapt nimbly back, and secondly, Llŷr was looking vaguely glazed in a chair to the side, Gwilym sitting next to him and peering at him concernedly.
Awen stared, unnoticed. Caradog laughed heartily.
“No such luck!” he boomed merrily. “Although I wouldn’t have retaliated. You’re Deputy now.”
“You massive untruthful,” Adara said, rolling her eyes. “You decked Owain all the time. And look at Llŷr! He’s Deputy now too, and you’ve vegetabled him.”
“M’not vegetabled,” Llŷr muttered, but he didn’t open his eyes or move from the chair Gwilym had apparently carefully steered him to. Caradog laughed again.
“You’re right!” he said cheerfully. “I could’ve sworn that was the rule. Sure you don’t want a go, Sovereign?”
“Do you know,” Gwilym said thoughtfully, “I’m positive. I would break a wrist even trying. I think you should meet my uncle afterwards, though.”
“He definitely shouldn’t,” Awen said automatically. She'd have said more, too, the responses still on autopilot from a day's worth of Meetings; but the second she spoke all heads whipped toward her, and everyone was on their feet and beaming, and in the wave of acceptance Awen finally felt herself starting to relax.
“Awen!” Llio squealed happily, and the group hug engulfed her. Even Llŷr managed to stagger over to join in. Awen smiled.
“You’re a collective embarrassment,” she told them all fondly, and almost felt the happy internal sighs around her. “And why is Llŷr concussed? Caradog?”
“Hey!”
“Ah, you can tell?” Adara said uneasily. “Well, you see, we played this game –“
“And Caradog concussed Llŷr?”
“Hey!”
“Yeah, pretty much,” Adara nodded. “We tried to stop him, but he was too strong for us.”
“I didn’t,” Gwilym told her. “I already know he’s too strong for me, see.”
Their eyes met in the press of bodies and faces somehow, and Awen felt her heart melt at his affectionate expression.
“Good,” she said. “He has no respect for authority and wouldn’t have held back. Although seriously, Caradog, what is it with you and Deputies? You see one, you have to attack.”
“Ah, that’s the rule,” Caradog nodded. Adara smartly disengaged herself from the huddle and stepped out of arm’s reach. “I knew there was something. Are you okay now?”
“Exhausted,” Awen sighed, and the huddle reluctantly broke apart. “I do believe I might try to sleep for the next three days. I thank every god I know and a few I don’t for my foresight in writing up my report before the trial.”
“In Egypt their gods are people with animal heads,” Gwilym volunteered chirpily as they all retreated back to the sofas. Awen dropped full-length onto one, one arm thrown across her eyes, and didn’t even twitch as other Riders lifted parts of her to sit under her and lay her across their laps instead. Gwilym sat on the floor with Cei, near her head. “And they worship cats.”
“Really?” Awen asked mildly, grinning. “That’s probably fairly sensible, actually. I’ve met cats.”
“I’ve met Marged’s cat,” Gwilym told her. “I don’t think it needs worshipping as much as sealing away in a mountain by a hero with a magic sword.”
“I was sealed away in a mountain with a magic sword, once,” Adara declared with characteristic bemusing sagacity. “In a dream, like.”
“Is Egypt the beach?” Awen asked sleepily. Gods she was comfortable - someone's fingers were stroking gently through her hair, and her head was resting in Caradog's arms...
“Partly,” Gwilym said, his smile audible. “It has trees too, though. Quite a lot around their river. Nubia is mostly beach. They call it a desert.”
“I shall put it on my list of places I never wish to go,” Awen murmured, and then sighed and dropped her arm. It was no good. She looked at him. “We need to talk.”
“Oh,” Gwilym said morosely. “Well, I knew that sentence was coming eventually. Don’t tell me, it’s not me it’s you –“
“I do wish you’d shut up sometimes,” Awen told him companionably. “I might make good on that threat to punch you in the face, even.”
“Noted.” He crossed his legs like a good boy, his fingers loosely holding his ankles, and looked at her attentively, suddenly serious. “Are you about to try and talk me out of us again?”
“No,” Awen said carefully, studying his face. “I’m going to talk it all through with you, though.”
“Just so you know,” Adara told her, leaning forward from her armchair, “I vetted him earlier. He passed.”
“Oh, that’s what you were doing,” Gwilym nodded wonderingly as Awen threw her an amused glance. “Although why on earth was my favourite colour relevant, then?”
“Because only a deranged lunatic would like blue,” Adara told him matter-of-factly. “According to Awen, anyway, who has her own slice of crazy. But you said green! And it’s what she now wears. How neat.”
“Adara,” Awen sighed wearily. “Stop harassing the nice Sovereign.”
“But it’s fun!” she said brightly.
“It’s interrupting my important and much-needed conversation.”
“Yes!”
“Right.” Awen sat up, and somehow managed to slide into a space between Caradog and Llŷr. “Sovereign, ignore the rabble and listen.”
“But they’re not –“
“If I was ordered to kill you tomorrow, I would.”
It was a hell of a statement to drop into a room, and probably quite the most complicating opening gambit of a relationship talk in history to date. Eluned sighed sadly and sat back, and suddenly everyone else was looking intensely glum, apparently gloomily awaiting Gwilym's inevitable reaction in which he threw things about before storming from the room. And yet -
He smiled.
"I know," he said, the psychopath. "I've already been over this with Rhydian once today, you know. That would be true whether we were together or not, it's not your fault, if it happens I'll be more fortunate than most because at least my killer would feel bad about it afterwards, and I promise I shall try not to incur the Council's wrath that badly that they give you that order in the first place. Okay?"
There was a pause. Everyone stared at him.
"Okay," Awen repeated after a moment. There was a vicious logic in that. How had he done that? Gods, she hoped he wasn't secretly an evil genius.
"Good," Gwilym grinned. "Next?"
"Um." Goodness. Where had her composure gone? She'd let her guard down, look. She hadn't done that in years. "I'm, even now an unstable killer? I'm not convinced you fully understand how much danger you're in just by being around me. And - sorry, guys - being around them."
"This is your fault, Caradog," Adara said morosely. "It's because you vegetabled Llŷr."
"'M not vegetabled..."
"Alright." Gwilym looked at her, thoughtfully. "I basically think of you all as a wolf pack. Friendly, sociable and compassionate but furry and unpredictable killing machines, too. You're untameable because you're wild animals, so it's an ever-present danger. It's just... a matter of learning the right behaviours and body language, I think. So that I never appear as a threat."
Pretty good analogy, actually. Awen shifted uneasily.
"You can't guarentee it will never happen, though," she began, and was cut off by Gwilym's extremely final shake of the head.
"I understand the risks, Awen," he said firmly. "That's all you need to know. It's my choice to take those risks anyway."
"Ooh, he's good," Adara said approvingly, as Awen's head spun. "You really are cut out for politics you know, even if you do hate it."
"My life is a twisted mess," he told her. "I also hate goat's cheese, but it does fabulous things for my hair."
"Children?" Awen asked, her mind racing. "No, wait - we've done that one, you said you'd adopt..."
"And I meant it!" Gwilym said brightly. "I'm going to adopt a Viking one, it can teach me Norse."
"I could teach you Norse," Awen said absently. "Um... I'm an emotional cripple? Really, that's going to get old fast."
"An endearing quirk, and totally worth it," Gwilym said. "Here's one for you - my family is mental."
"I walked in on you playing a punching game with mine," Awen said dismissively. "And anyway, yours hold no terrors for me. Okay, here's a big one for you - I don't own myself. I can't give you... me. That's useless in a relationship."
"Not true," Gwilym stated, his pale eyes suddenly intense. "Listen. You're an unstable killer who would have no qualms about torturing children if you had to; but, I get your innocence. You give me the most important part of yourself, Awen. I get your inner child. The woman behind the training. I get to have the bit that's just you."
Cei actually sighed, soppy at the romance. Llio sniffed. Awen breathed out, slowly.
"I don't - " she paused, trying to order her thoughts. Gwilym smiled softly, and caught one set of beads. "If that's the bit that matters," Awen tried again, "I don't know how to give it."
"You don't need to," Gwilym grinned. "I know how to get it from you. Next?"
"That's sinister," Awen accused him mildly, and he laughed. "Okay. I repeat my disclaimer that when you eventually tire of me I won't beg you to stay in a fantastically awkward show of tears and bitter regrets."
"What, that's it?" He raised an eyebrow, apparently surprised. "That's all? No more arguments against this?"
"I maintain it goes against my better judgement," Awen said, and closed her fingers over his hand where it held her beads. "But. I desperately don't want to make you unhappy, which I'll do if all I'm ever saying to you is 'Hey, so, divorce? 'Cos I'm really rubbish.' So..."
She shrugged. Cei seemed to be rapturously hugging himself and holding his breath.
"If this is going to work I need to focus on you," Awen said quietly, watching Gwilym. "Someone reminded me of it today. If I'm just worrying about me, then there's no point to even starting this, because a relationship where one of you is the only focus of both of you is completely useless. So I'm trusting you, Sovereign, to tell me when I do something wrong, understand? Because otherwise... I'm ignoring me. I'll be paying attention to you."
"I love you," Gwilym said softly, and he kissed the back of her hand. His free hand, she noted with automatic interest, had gone to his pocket, and was pulling something out -
Cei leapt to his feet, the movement making everyone's attention whip around to him, and Awen had one hand on Gwilym's shoulder before she'd had chance to think, tensing up -
"Oh my gods!" Cei all but yelled, gleefully, totally oblivious to his effect in his excitement. "Are those - have you got beads? Did you get beads?"
"Yes," Gwilym said calmly, the happiness in his voice audible, and something small and hard was pressed into Awen's palm. She looked down, astonished. "It took some thinking about, you know, since Rider/Sovereign symbolism has never existed before. But I think they work."
It was, indeed, a bead; but not of glass or wood, the materials she'd expect of Rider hair beads. He'd had it crafted out of silver, bright and gleaming, the surface delicately scored with the swirling pattern of a simple battle tattoo, and engraved deeper over the top was the angular shape of an Ogham rune -
"Muin?" Awen breathed. Gwilym grinned.
"Muin," he agreed. "A Cymric-Erinnish letter. Symbolising, as I'm sure you're aware, a cunning or wily ruse, and... love. Gets you coming and going."
"Dear gods that's perfect," Adara said softly above her shoulder, and Awen was vaguely aware that the whole Wing were in a ring around them and craning to see, Cei and Llio nearly vibrating with suppressed joy. She blinked her vision clear, and looked up at Gwilym's elated smile.
"Thank you," she said quietly. "I... what about you?"
"I decided Aerona was right," he told her, and placed a second bead onto her open palm beside the first. "A bead is symbolic of you being a Rider, so I should have one too. And I wanted us to have the same thing in that sense. It's just slightly different..."
It was silver again, although the swirling, delicate pattern over its surface was subtly altered from a battle tattoo to something very similar to the offical liveries of Aberystwyth. But the engraving wasn't an Ogham rune this time; instead, three delicate lines spread out away from each other, crowned and surrounded by circles and forming -
"The druidic symbol for 'awen'," Gwilym said contentedly. "The 'inspiration of truth'. And often used to symbolise poetic inspiration by bards as well, I believe. You're very well named, you know."
She looked down, smiling, forcing herself not to cry, and waited until the knot in her throat untightened.
"Well done," she managed eventually, and made herself meet his eye. He was openly gazing at her lovingly, his smile tender, and his fingers found hers.
"Cheers!" he said cheerfully, and Awen laughed. "They seemed appropriate. Now: I haven't got a clue how to put them on -"
"The box!" Adara almost yelled, and suddenly the entire Wing leapt to their feet, Meurig actually hurdling a sofa to fetch the box containing the Combs of Seven Hours of Boredom and pots of beeswax, and almost throwing it to Eluned, the Hair Expert. "Quick! Rearrange the furniture, we need a table here!"
"Goodness, they're efficient, aren't they?" Gwilym marvelled idly as the activity whirlwinded around him. "Are they afraid I'll change my mind?"
"Quite possibly," Awen said thoughtfully. "Or that I will. Or Adara's just trying to settle into the new role and so is practising here. I don't get you still, you know. That may prove to be a problem."
"Yes you do," Gwilym said contentedly. "Because you understand how people work, and there's only one thing you need for me to make sense."
"Which is?" Awen asked, comfortably wry. He stroked her jaw.
"Given what you are," he smiled, "you will probably never understand why I love you. But you don't need to. You just need to accept the fact that I do. That's all. Everything makes sense from there."
He was, of course, right. As usual. Awen snorted, and went about adorning his hair with the bead that carried her name.
AWEN
The staring people were already bothering her. It was something new, was the problem; Awen was trained to mentally and physically withstand several types of torture, but she had no frame of reference for this one. Not that public recognition was unusual for her as such. Being an Alpha Wingleader usually gave at least a minor celebrity status, especially on the border, but it was the uniform people recognised her by. These people knew her face. The freaks.
She ignored them all for now, in the least imperial way she could manage. It seemed best, although it was perhaps an approach that was going to need revising later. Fortunately, there were far fewer crowds by the time she reached Rhydian’s office, possibly because his still-smouldering wrath had chased them away. With some trepidation, Awen ignored a clerk trying to eyeball her without turning his head and knocked at the door.
There was a pause before the ‘Come in’, and Awen swore under her breath. If there was ever a day, she reflected, when she didn’t want to have to dodge a pike or something before getting to enter Rhydian’s office properly, it was certainly today. Well; there had been others, come to think of it, but, you know. Today really wasn’t good. She opened the door, stepped inside and ducked.
No weaponry sailed above her head. The door bounced cheerfully off the wall, uninhibited by a lurking body in its passage, and her left side was conspicuous in its safety from attacking limbs. Awen blinked, and straightened. It was a good thing, obviously, since she really hadn’t been in the mood, but… well. If she was ducking anyway, it just seemed like a waste now. She closed the door, and paused.
Rhydian was sitting at his desk, one foot resting up on an open drawer as he stared out of the window, his expression distant. A bottle of whiskey dangled from one hand, although he didn’t have any hallmarks of being drunk, yet, or at least, none that Awen could see. The desk was covered in paperwork, several files in particular lying carelessly on top of loose sheets, for which she very carefully ignored the hyperactive ‘read it!’ instinct that immediately kicked in. He didn’t look at her, or acknowledge her in any way.
“Councillor?” she asked uncertainly after a moment. Rhydian didn’t move.
“Sit,” he told her. Awen sat. The chair was comfortable anyway, and her shoulders were aching.
They waited in silence for a few moments more, and then Rhydian sighed wearily, and looked down at the bottle in his hand.
“You,” he said conversationally, “have caused a lot of problems.”
“I know,” Awen said quietly. “I’m sorry.”
His smile was lightning-fast, there and gone again, and deeply sardonic.
“So am I,” he said. “We really let you down, didn’t we?”
“No,” Awen said blankly, and wondered what the hell was going on. Rhydian seemed… depressed. She was relatively certain this had never happened before.
“Yes we did,” he said dismissively, and leaned down to the drawer his foot was resting on, from which he pulled two tankards. He balanced them over the papers and carefully poured in the whiskey. “From birth, I think. Here. Drink.”
“Thank you,” Awen said mildly. “Shut me up if this is out of line, Councillor, but… are you okay?”
“Shut up.”
“Noted.”
“Ha.” Rhydian rubbed an eye with the heel of his hand. “No, I can’t say that to you anymore. See the file in front of you?”
“Yes.” Cautiously, Awen picked it up. It was, as ever, plain and unmarked, apart from the ‘Classified’ stamp. “Do you want me to read it?”
“Yes,” he said, leaning back and closing his eyes. And that seemed to be it. Awen looked at him for a few seconds, and then opened the file.
Five minutes later, she closed it, put it back on the desk and downed the whiskey in three gulps.
“Anyway,” Rhydian said neutrally, refilling her glass for her. “Welcome to your new job.”
“I’m your boss?” Awen said hollowly. She leaned her face into her hands, her elbows on the desk.
“Tacitly,” Rhydian said, a tinge of humour back in his voice, “yes. Not officially. In public you’ll be following orders as you always have.”
“This is insane,” Awen told the desk. Rhydian snorted.
“It’s apparently insane we haven’t done it before,” he countered dryly. “Relax, though. You’re the department head, that’s all. You can pick your own team. You don’t even need to do any of the actual work yourself if you don’t want to. Just collate everyone else’s findings.”
There was a pause, Awen’s mind still spinning. Rhydian snorted again.
“Although I doubt that’ll happen,” he said. “You’re quite hands-on.”
“You want me to investigate you?” Awen said, looking up at him disbelievingly. He flashed her a grin, pouring himself another whiskey.
“Yes,” he said calmly. “Thoroughly. And everyone else, but thank you for questioning the idea of me being a target specifically.”
She stared at him for a moment more, and then downed the second whiskey. Rhydian poured her another patiently.
“Look,” he said, after a moment’s shocked silence. “It’s very simple. About four hours ago you sacrificed life and limb to demonstrate your status as your country’s moral compass. You also highlighted the need for such a compass. We’ve all become stuck.”
He knocked back his own drink, and stared back out of the window again.
“We’re lost,” he said quietly. “And, importantly, we didn’t realise it. Which means in order for you to set us straight again, no one can be above you.”
“Correct me if I’m wrong,” Awen said, her mind now racing, “but this means I’m above me.”
“No,” Rhydian said distantly, waving a hand. “I’m on top of that. Don’t think about it.”
Ah. Fair enough. And good. Awen relaxed slightly, and happily trusted whatever system he’d put in place. Which left her with… well. It wasn’t too hard, actually, as long as she thought of it as being an Alpha Wingleader but with a far bigger City and a much bigger Wing.
“Okay,” she said quietly, and drew in a deep breath to steady herself. The kaleidoscopic shards of surreal reality that her life had become whirled together into a new pattern in her head, and surprisingly, made a new kind of sense. “Alright,” she said, slightly louder, and looked up at Rhydian. “Well, then; are you okay?”
He laughed at that, and drank straight from the bottle.
“Functional,” he said. “But no, I suppose I’m not. I watched you save us from ourselves today. In front of the world. And I was so angry with you I was willing to let Eifion execute you in his own time and his own special way.”
“Well, I expected that,” Awen said, watching him. This, this was the most surreal experience of the past week. She’d never tried to read Rhydian before in her life. It almost felt like trying to give a god a smack upside the head. “And I sort of agreed.”
“Then you’d have been wrong as well,” he said bluntly. “It turned out, we were about to make a mistake that would end everything we’ve built since the Wars. All that progress, gone.” He tipped the bottle to her, ironically. “And none of us had noticed.”
“I know all that,” Awen said calmly, watching his body language, listening to the words. “What else is wrong, though?”
“This is going to take some getting used to,” Rhydian muttered, and leaned back, closing his eyes. “It’s… complicated. Gods.”
He rubbed at his eye again, a strangely vulnerable gesture that Awen had never recognised before.
“Once upon a time,” he said conversationally, “I was in love with Lady Marged. Did you know that?”
Marged had never taken an official consort, in spite of having three children. The out-dated Caerleuad liveries adorned Rhydian’s shoulders still, and Awen thought about his easy-going rapport with her, and the nickname ‘Lady’ that he still used, and chose her answer carefully.
“Once?” she asked.
The silence was thick, broken by the caw of a raven outside the window. Rhydian watched the bottle in his hands, his eyes dark.
“She and Lord Gwilym came to see me today,” he said quietly after a moment. “About you, in fact. They wanted to know if he still got to keep you. Although he wanted it known that wasn’t his choice of words.”
Awen snorted, but said nothing. Rhydian sighed.
"He doesn't, by the way," he told her casually. "You're keeping him, understand? He's a Sovereign who knows about Intelligencers. Should he ever decide to make nefarious use of that information the security protocol is you making it personal."
"Ah."
"And I mean you make it personal. Understand?"
"Duly noted," Awen nodded. "As is your attempt to wander off topic."
Rhydian sighed again. He even looked vaguely glum.
“I think,” he said, after a moment, “Marged's about to embark upon a spirited campaign to have a similar arrangement. To you and Lord Gwilym. Which was very difficult to give up the first time. And she’s an extremely persuasive woman when she wants to be.”
“I see.” Awen gazed at the ceiling thoughtfully. “Well, in theory there’s no problem. It doesn’t have to be you who tells her to back off, for one thing. I could do it.”
“That would certainly be appreciated,” Rhydian said, swigging at the whiskey again, and Awen nodded.
“I won’t, though,” she said. “Go and sleep with her.”
He paused for a moment, and then very carefully and deliberately set the whiskey bottle down on the desk, turned to face her and leaned forward on his elbows, his fingers linked beneath his chin.
“Are you still crazy?” he asked seriously.
“Your worry can’t be a lack of interest,” Awen returned easily, holding his gaze. “Nor one of reputation, for you or for her, because you don’t trouble yourself about hiding your friendship with her. You never call her ‘Sovereign’, you invite her into your Wing quarters, you escort her to dinner, and you’re still wearing the livery that swears you to her. And, if need be, if you want to avoid it being public knowledge, you could make any involvement with her become top secret with sublime ease, given the resources you both have access to.”
Rhydian stared at her, fascinated. She sat back, watching him still.
“So there are only a few reasonable concerns left,” she continued. “All of which involve only you, as far as I can tell. Tell me if I get any wrong, but – the lack of safety net? She’s still a Sovereign, whatever else she may be. It’s a security issue.”
There was a pause again, and then Rhydian glanced away, out of the window.
“There’s that,” he said neutrally. “You must know we only really allow it with you because the situation is monitored.”
“Of course I do,” Awen said. “And you must remember that you’ve just given me the power to do the same to you.”
“Oh, stop it.” He stood abruptly and moved to the window, his arms folded and eyes dark. “We broke apart for a reason, Awen. Sovereigns and Riders don’t work. Do you know what we do to them after a while?”
“Apparently in your case nothing that bad,” Awen side-stepped. “Since she’s the one chasing you.”
“We wear them down,” Rhydian said, as though he hadn’t heard her. “They do stressful jobs. And then they come home and face even more stress because before they can even have a decent conversation with us, they have to spend half an hour explaining our basic emotional responses to us like we’re children. So then we spend all our time stressing that we’re not good enough, and then they have to talk us out of that hole. He’ll leave you eventually, you know,” he added, glancing at her. “It’ll hurt.”
“I know,” Awen said seriously. “And I’ve told him I won’t beg him to stay or anything when he does. He’s free to do so when he wants.”
“But what kind of relationship is that, though?” Rhydian said wearily, his eyes back on the landscape below. “Where one partner has to take all the strain of both?”
“I never said relationship,” Awen said mildly. “Just sleep with her.”
“Right,” Rhydian said, wiping a hand across his face. “I’d want more, though. Except I wouldn’t.”
He turned and glared at her.
“Do you see what you’ve done now?” he said pointedly, and Awen grinned. “Look at me. I’m in the grip of emotional angst. I’ve successfully avoided this for years. Gwenllian would laugh at me if she could see me now.”
“Gwenllian laughs at you anyway,” Awen said dismissively, waving a hand. “Councillor? I’m entirely new to this Sovereign/Rider relationship thing, so I can’t really even try to give you any answers, but… how well could she read you?”
“Ha. Too well.” Rhydian looked down, shaking his head, his smile dry. “Far too well,” he said after a moment. “That was part of the problem. I could never hide anything from her.”
“You tried to?”
“Frequently.” He rolled his eyes. “I rather felt she deserved a break from both of our issues.”
“So you spent your time together fighting her rather than letting her in,” Awen said thoughtfully, and didn’t look at his expression. “You know, hypothetically… one might posit that if you were to get back with her, you just… let go. Trust her, rather than trying to be in control all the time. Let her take care of you, and you can focus on taking care of her.”
She shrugged, and stood.
“But whatever,” she said. “I’m only telling you to sleep with her. Is that everything for now, Councillor?”
“Consider yourself extremely lucky that my easy-going nature has not inclined me towards having you whipped,” Rhydian said pointedly. “Get out and bother someone else. You’re almost as bad as Marged.”
“First time I’ve been accused of that,” Awen grinned, and downed the last of her whiskey. “But I am the monster you created, I remind you. Blame no one but yourself.”
“What have I unleashed?” he asked the ceiling, shaking his head as she stood and stretched, wincing. “I shall put Eifion on stand-by. For me rather than you.”
“I know you think that’s funny,” Awen said darkly, rubbing a shoulder, “but you’ve never been on the receiving end of him, you know. It’s less humorous for the rest of us.”
“Very true,” Rhydian said dryly, and then paused, thoughtfully. “Actually – no. No I haven’t. Nor have most Councillors.”
The dread spiked in her heart suddenly, making her battle-senses rush to the fore and her head whip around to him.
“Don’t even think about it,” Awen said, sharper than she’d intended. Rhydian watched her, himself on alert from her tone. “Seriously. Don’t.”
“We’re out of touch,” Rhydian said neutrally, his eyes not leaving her. He folded his arms and leaned back against the windowsill. “As you pointed out yourself. We come from a different world from today’s Riders, almost. Certainly a different training system. Possibly we don’t think quite the same.”
“Eifion can’t help you with that,” Awen said bluntly. “You know what pain is.”
“Not the way you do,” Rhydian said with taboo honesty, but Awen took a step forward.
“Do you love your Wing?” she asked harshly. He raised an eyebrow.
“Of course I –“
“Then you never invite Eifion in,” Awen said starkly. The tension was making her shoulders throb anew, her fingers restless with adrenaline. “Ever. When he wants to hurt you, it’s not just you he hurts.”
“Hmm.” Rhydian regarded her for a moment, and then sighed wearily. “No,” he said quietly. “That’s certainly true. Tell me something – have you ever resented it?”
She looked away, willing herself to calm down and give her shoulders a break, and thought.
“Being tortured by him?”
“Yes.” Rhydian sat back down in the chair and took another swig of the whiskey. “Being tortured by him. Being put through that, adult and child. Have you ever resented the fact that it was happening to you?”
In terms of her world feeling as though it was suddenly listing wildly to the side again, the floor was practically vertical. It was as though the gods had dropped down to tell her they were suffering from existential doubt. Rhydian… was having doubts. About the Union’s training system. What the hell was going on?
“No,” she said after a few moments. “For the man himself, ‘hate’ is too mild a word to adequately explain my feelings on the subject. But for his role in my life… no. It was necessary. I always understood that. And nothing can be just good all the time.”
He glanced at her, a small, amused smile playing about his lips.
“Is that your official view on being a Rider?” Rhydian asked. “Good all the time apart from Eifion?”
“Yes,” Awen said simply. He nodded, and looked away.
“Good,” he said quietly. “Get out, would you?”
“Sleep with Marged.”
“No. Nor can you order me to, or it’s rape.”
“Well, it’s a standing sanction, Councillor,” Awen said, striding to the door. “Remember: I’m your fault.”
“I already regret it!” he shouted after her, but she grinned without answering and ignored the small gaggle of Riders who stared at her as she closed the door. He probably wouldn’t obey, that was the trouble, but right now if only there was a chance he’d agree Awen would have been perfectly willing to just bundle Rhydian into a bedroom with Gwilym and then come back in a few hours, because Rhydian desperately needed a perfectly-weighted pep-talk that would stop him hating himself so much and make the world seem nice again. Apparently, Marged could do it. If only Rhydian would do as he was told. Which was unlikely.
But…
Awen turned to the group of Riders, and returned their joint awed Salute absent-mindedly.
“Afternoon,” she said mildly. “Do any of you have a pen and paper, by any chance?”
“Councillor,” one of them said eagerly, digging in his belt pouch, and it took Awen a second to realise he meant her. “Here, and – is a pencil okay? I’m out of ink –“
“Pencil is fine,” Awen grinned. “Just ‘Rider’ is fine for now, by the way. I imagine I’ll be comfortable with ‘Councillor’ next year some time.”
“We’ll tell everyone,” he swore, slightly disturbingly over-earnest as Awen took the proffered writing tools. “If you want? Then fewer people will try, anyway.”
“That’d be great, cheers.” She flattened the paper to the wall and wrote the sentence ‘You are not permitted to contradict her instructions in any way, nor make her leave’ in shorthand, and then passed the pencil back. The Rider beamed. “Thank you. Have a good day.”
Finding Lady Marged was actually fairly simple in the end, too. Just about every Sovereign in the country had convened in the various common rooms, which Awen reasoned poor Maelon had probably been herded to by now, and so it was a simple task to find him and therefore Marged. She was sitting happily in an armchair by the fire opposite him, knitting busily while the soon-to-be-delinquent Lady Delyth sat at her feet and held the wool. Iestyn, Erys and Girly Lord Ieuan were there too, and idly Awen wondered just what was the situation between Erys and Iestyn. She’d have to find out now. Her job had really grown.
“And then it turned black and fell off!” Marged said cheerfully and alarmingly as Awen entered, to the assorted laughs and gasps of horror from her audience. Well, Maelon seemed to be laughing; that was something, anyway. “Such fun! Although a bit worrying for the poor – Councillor! Congratulations! And you look ravishing!”
“Well, thank you very much, Sovereign,” Awen said mildly, bowing as they all turned to look at her with interest. “Whisper it, but you’ve always been my favourite.”
“Really?” Erys laughed, looking approvingly over the new uniform. “I shall have to increase the gifts of knitwear I make to visiting Riders. Although I’m sure Iestyn is particularly gutted. He told me privately that he’s been practising an especially charming smile specifically to endear more Riders to him.”
“It’s true,” Iestyn nodded with affected wisdom. “Really, I just want to be liked.”
“Politics is possibly not the career for you, then,” Awen said dryly, which earned her a chuckle. She glanced at Maelon, and nodded. “And welcome to the Union, Sovereign. I’m sorry it took so long to get you here.”
“What’s a few years?” he grinned sardonically. “Delyth – this is Councillor Awen. She’s the one who caught Father.”
Delyth looked up from her spot at Marged’s feet, her eyes wide.
“Can we stop running now he’s gone?” she asked hopefully, and Awen found herself automatically crouching easily to talk to the girl.
“Yes, you can,” she smiled. “And you get to live in Casnewydd, which is much better than people would have you believe. If you find a bakery near the Corn Exchange with a crooked sign outside, go in and try their honey bread. It’s of divine origin, I swear.”
“I like honey bread.”
“You’ll love theirs.” She looked up at Maelon, which seemed a more sensible position to be viewing a Sovereign of Casnewydd from, whether she was actually sworn to him or not. “I should add in the interests of fairness, though, that it was Lord Gwilym who actually got Flyn convicted.”
“I told you!” Marged exclaimed gleefully. “Riders, too modest one and all. No, dear; you really must take credit for this one. He couldn’t have brought about the conviction without you!”
Oh. She was ‘dear’ to Marged now. That was actually quite lovely.
“So you won’t be my Alpha Wingleader now?” Maelon asked. “I was quite disappointed to hear it.”
“You were not,” Awen snorted. “I told you your face was unhelpful and had to sit five chairs away in a bid to not hit you.”
“Well, most people do,” Maelon grinned. “Although usually in case I hit them.”
“Happily not a problem for my replacement,” Awen told him, and stood. “Whose name is Ioan, and I genuinely could not be happier leaving the post to anyone else. You’ll like him. Anyway; Lady Marged. Could I have a few minutes of your time?”
“Ooh, of course! Here.” Marged thrust her knitting into Delyth’s bemused hands and stood. “Keep that for me, would you, dear? Back soon.”
They retired to the first secure room Awen could find, which proved to be a clerks’ office with a single hastily-evicted occupant. She locked the door behind his awed back, and turned to Marged, who was predictably examining a potted plant in the corner.
“I always love these,” Marged said happily. “They do upset druids though, poor dears. Anyway! How can I help the hero of the hour?”
“You can’t,” Awen said, handing her the note. Marged took it quizzically. “But I think you can help Councillor Rhydian, can’t you?”
It was nice, getting to see the Real Marged in that moment. She looked up at Awen, her gaze assessing in the way she so carefully hid normally, and pocketed the note without so much as looking at it any further.
“Yes,” she said matter-of-factly. “I can. I’m right, then? He’s that bad at the moment.”
“It’s been a tough day for everyone,” Awen said carefully. “But personally I’ve benefitted from having an objective non-Rider viewpoint recently, and I think he would too.”
Marged’s smile was sad for a moment, and she nodded.
“I agree,” she said. “I can definitely help, Councillor –“
“Feel free to choose any other name you like for me, by the way,” Awen said with a wince. It really wasn’t a title she was taking well. Marged laughed, the sound as jolly as ever.
“Good!” she said gaily. “Ooh, can I call you Awen? That would be lovely!”
“Go ahead,” Awen smiled wryly.
“Good.” And Marged stepped forward and actually hugged her. It was so unexpected Awen found herself unable to respond for a moment, and then discovered that she couldn’t physically anyway without starting a fight because Marged had her in an extremely tight embrace against her ample bosom.
“Huh,” she said, more or less to herself. It was a comfortable hug. “I see what he meant now by ‘persuasive’. And, come to think of it, ‘extremely hard to give up’.”
Marged laughed, the vibrations of the sound easily transmitted through the outlying areas of her body, and squeezed once before letting go.
“Oh, you!” she said merrily. “Honestly, dear, you look like you needed it. You’re a lot like Rhydian, you know. You both hide yourselves in the same way, and once you know the trick it’s not too hard to spot.”
“Really?” Awen said mildly. “I’ll have to let him know. Expect a new set of mannerisms within the week.”
“I’ll warn Gwilym,” Marged giggled. “Although he understood you fast enough, didn’t he? The advantage of an enquiring mind.”
She looked fond for a moment.
“I always thought it was a shame that he wouldn’t be Sovereign, actually,” she said with wistful reminiscence. “When they were kids. I think Sorcha agreed, too. It was clear enough to see that he’d be the best of the three of them – Bethan, bless her, had such a temper! And Iago just… wasn’t suited to it. Too many fanciful notions. Reinvented himself as something new every week. And then there was Gwilym. Quiet little Gwilym, who wanted to know everything, and meet everyone. No surprise when he went travelling!”
“He still would be if he could,” Awen said, and sighed. “I think it upsets him. He gets this look in his eye sometimes, when he’s talking about where he’s been or to someone from another country, or even when he’s just looking out of a window. He wasn’t ready to come back to Cymru when he did. I think if he was given the chance he’d be in Gaul by tomorrow and moving steadily east.”
“I think,” Marged said gently, her head tipped to one side, “that if he was given the chance the only travelling he’d ever do for the rest of his life would be to just stay by your side, bach. The luckiest people are the ones who have something in their lives that they’d give everything else up for in an instant, if they had to. For Gwilym, that’s not travelling anymore.”
She wasn't emotionally capable of handling that, and certainly not in the sole presense of Lady Marged; so Awen carefully avoided it by doing the conversational equivalent of sticking her fingers in her ears and running away.
"Obviously feel free to not answer, Sovereign," she said neutrally. "But when you were with Councillor Rhydian, am I right in assuming it wasn't you who ended it all?"
"That's right." Marged regarded her for a moment. "Do you suggest I remind him of that?"
"I bow entirely to your expertise in this area," Awen said smoothly. "I would like you to go and help him, if you can. How you do so is for you to decide."
"I see," Marged smiled softly. "Right-o. And I give him that note first, I presume?"
"If you would."
"You and your notes," Marged winked at her, and wandered past her to the door as Awen winced. "Excellent! A challenge. And do make sure you spend some time with Gwilym some time today, won't you, dear."
"Yes, Sovereign," Awen said mildly, and sighed as she left. If only she could, that was the reality. She couldn't even see her Wing yet. The world's longest To Do List stretched out in front of her, grinning at her, and mocking her lack of drinking time. It was, Awen reflected, just another typical day at the office, really, but now with a bloody torque.
Bloody torque.
*******
The sun had set by the time she managed to wearily stagger back to her quarters, a numb, faintly buzzing area all that remained of where her brain used to be and a nagging ache through both shoulders and biceps. Apparently, her withered emotional centres, already neglected and under-fed, had decided to close down for the day. Possibly it was just as well, Awen reflected as she reached the door and opened it as quietly as she could. Any actual emotional response was likely right now to make her burst into tears and cry, or maybe, for variety, panic and flee the country. Before panicking at the world outside and fleeing back in, of course-
"My turn!" Adara's voice said brightly, and Awen blinked and took in the scene before her.
The room contained the full Wing, plus Gwilym. And they seemed to be playing a barbarically simple game that involved punching Caradog to - to see if he’d twitch? Evidence suggested, however, that he may have decided that a fun edge could be added to the game if he suddenly and violently lashed out with a punch of his own at random points; firstly, as Adara's well-formed punch connected with Caradog's stomach she leapt nimbly back, and secondly, Llŷr was looking vaguely glazed in a chair to the side, Gwilym sitting next to him and peering at him concernedly.
Awen stared, unnoticed. Caradog laughed heartily.
“No such luck!” he boomed merrily. “Although I wouldn’t have retaliated. You’re Deputy now.”
“You massive untruthful,” Adara said, rolling her eyes. “You decked Owain all the time. And look at Llŷr! He’s Deputy now too, and you’ve vegetabled him.”
“M’not vegetabled,” Llŷr muttered, but he didn’t open his eyes or move from the chair Gwilym had apparently carefully steered him to. Caradog laughed again.
“You’re right!” he said cheerfully. “I could’ve sworn that was the rule. Sure you don’t want a go, Sovereign?”
“Do you know,” Gwilym said thoughtfully, “I’m positive. I would break a wrist even trying. I think you should meet my uncle afterwards, though.”
“He definitely shouldn’t,” Awen said automatically. She'd have said more, too, the responses still on autopilot from a day's worth of Meetings; but the second she spoke all heads whipped toward her, and everyone was on their feet and beaming, and in the wave of acceptance Awen finally felt herself starting to relax.
“Awen!” Llio squealed happily, and the group hug engulfed her. Even Llŷr managed to stagger over to join in. Awen smiled.
“You’re a collective embarrassment,” she told them all fondly, and almost felt the happy internal sighs around her. “And why is Llŷr concussed? Caradog?”
“Hey!”
“Ah, you can tell?” Adara said uneasily. “Well, you see, we played this game –“
“And Caradog concussed Llŷr?”
“Hey!”
“Yeah, pretty much,” Adara nodded. “We tried to stop him, but he was too strong for us.”
“I didn’t,” Gwilym told her. “I already know he’s too strong for me, see.”
Their eyes met in the press of bodies and faces somehow, and Awen felt her heart melt at his affectionate expression.
“Good,” she said. “He has no respect for authority and wouldn’t have held back. Although seriously, Caradog, what is it with you and Deputies? You see one, you have to attack.”
“Ah, that’s the rule,” Caradog nodded. Adara smartly disengaged herself from the huddle and stepped out of arm’s reach. “I knew there was something. Are you okay now?”
“Exhausted,” Awen sighed, and the huddle reluctantly broke apart. “I do believe I might try to sleep for the next three days. I thank every god I know and a few I don’t for my foresight in writing up my report before the trial.”
“In Egypt their gods are people with animal heads,” Gwilym volunteered chirpily as they all retreated back to the sofas. Awen dropped full-length onto one, one arm thrown across her eyes, and didn’t even twitch as other Riders lifted parts of her to sit under her and lay her across their laps instead. Gwilym sat on the floor with Cei, near her head. “And they worship cats.”
“Really?” Awen asked mildly, grinning. “That’s probably fairly sensible, actually. I’ve met cats.”
“I’ve met Marged’s cat,” Gwilym told her. “I don’t think it needs worshipping as much as sealing away in a mountain by a hero with a magic sword.”
“I was sealed away in a mountain with a magic sword, once,” Adara declared with characteristic bemusing sagacity. “In a dream, like.”
“Is Egypt the beach?” Awen asked sleepily. Gods she was comfortable - someone's fingers were stroking gently through her hair, and her head was resting in Caradog's arms...
“Partly,” Gwilym said, his smile audible. “It has trees too, though. Quite a lot around their river. Nubia is mostly beach. They call it a desert.”
“I shall put it on my list of places I never wish to go,” Awen murmured, and then sighed and dropped her arm. It was no good. She looked at him. “We need to talk.”
“Oh,” Gwilym said morosely. “Well, I knew that sentence was coming eventually. Don’t tell me, it’s not me it’s you –“
“I do wish you’d shut up sometimes,” Awen told him companionably. “I might make good on that threat to punch you in the face, even.”
“Noted.” He crossed his legs like a good boy, his fingers loosely holding his ankles, and looked at her attentively, suddenly serious. “Are you about to try and talk me out of us again?”
“No,” Awen said carefully, studying his face. “I’m going to talk it all through with you, though.”
“Just so you know,” Adara told her, leaning forward from her armchair, “I vetted him earlier. He passed.”
“Oh, that’s what you were doing,” Gwilym nodded wonderingly as Awen threw her an amused glance. “Although why on earth was my favourite colour relevant, then?”
“Because only a deranged lunatic would like blue,” Adara told him matter-of-factly. “According to Awen, anyway, who has her own slice of crazy. But you said green! And it’s what she now wears. How neat.”
“Adara,” Awen sighed wearily. “Stop harassing the nice Sovereign.”
“But it’s fun!” she said brightly.
“It’s interrupting my important and much-needed conversation.”
“Yes!”
“Right.” Awen sat up, and somehow managed to slide into a space between Caradog and Llŷr. “Sovereign, ignore the rabble and listen.”
“But they’re not –“
“If I was ordered to kill you tomorrow, I would.”
It was a hell of a statement to drop into a room, and probably quite the most complicating opening gambit of a relationship talk in history to date. Eluned sighed sadly and sat back, and suddenly everyone else was looking intensely glum, apparently gloomily awaiting Gwilym's inevitable reaction in which he threw things about before storming from the room. And yet -
He smiled.
"I know," he said, the psychopath. "I've already been over this with Rhydian once today, you know. That would be true whether we were together or not, it's not your fault, if it happens I'll be more fortunate than most because at least my killer would feel bad about it afterwards, and I promise I shall try not to incur the Council's wrath that badly that they give you that order in the first place. Okay?"
There was a pause. Everyone stared at him.
"Okay," Awen repeated after a moment. There was a vicious logic in that. How had he done that? Gods, she hoped he wasn't secretly an evil genius.
"Good," Gwilym grinned. "Next?"
"Um." Goodness. Where had her composure gone? She'd let her guard down, look. She hadn't done that in years. "I'm, even now an unstable killer? I'm not convinced you fully understand how much danger you're in just by being around me. And - sorry, guys - being around them."
"This is your fault, Caradog," Adara said morosely. "It's because you vegetabled Llŷr."
"'M not vegetabled..."
"Alright." Gwilym looked at her, thoughtfully. "I basically think of you all as a wolf pack. Friendly, sociable and compassionate but furry and unpredictable killing machines, too. You're untameable because you're wild animals, so it's an ever-present danger. It's just... a matter of learning the right behaviours and body language, I think. So that I never appear as a threat."
Pretty good analogy, actually. Awen shifted uneasily.
"You can't guarentee it will never happen, though," she began, and was cut off by Gwilym's extremely final shake of the head.
"I understand the risks, Awen," he said firmly. "That's all you need to know. It's my choice to take those risks anyway."
"Ooh, he's good," Adara said approvingly, as Awen's head spun. "You really are cut out for politics you know, even if you do hate it."
"My life is a twisted mess," he told her. "I also hate goat's cheese, but it does fabulous things for my hair."
"Children?" Awen asked, her mind racing. "No, wait - we've done that one, you said you'd adopt..."
"And I meant it!" Gwilym said brightly. "I'm going to adopt a Viking one, it can teach me Norse."
"I could teach you Norse," Awen said absently. "Um... I'm an emotional cripple? Really, that's going to get old fast."
"An endearing quirk, and totally worth it," Gwilym said. "Here's one for you - my family is mental."
"I walked in on you playing a punching game with mine," Awen said dismissively. "And anyway, yours hold no terrors for me. Okay, here's a big one for you - I don't own myself. I can't give you... me. That's useless in a relationship."
"Not true," Gwilym stated, his pale eyes suddenly intense. "Listen. You're an unstable killer who would have no qualms about torturing children if you had to; but, I get your innocence. You give me the most important part of yourself, Awen. I get your inner child. The woman behind the training. I get to have the bit that's just you."
Cei actually sighed, soppy at the romance. Llio sniffed. Awen breathed out, slowly.
"I don't - " she paused, trying to order her thoughts. Gwilym smiled softly, and caught one set of beads. "If that's the bit that matters," Awen tried again, "I don't know how to give it."
"You don't need to," Gwilym grinned. "I know how to get it from you. Next?"
"That's sinister," Awen accused him mildly, and he laughed. "Okay. I repeat my disclaimer that when you eventually tire of me I won't beg you to stay in a fantastically awkward show of tears and bitter regrets."
"What, that's it?" He raised an eyebrow, apparently surprised. "That's all? No more arguments against this?"
"I maintain it goes against my better judgement," Awen said, and closed her fingers over his hand where it held her beads. "But. I desperately don't want to make you unhappy, which I'll do if all I'm ever saying to you is 'Hey, so, divorce? 'Cos I'm really rubbish.' So..."
She shrugged. Cei seemed to be rapturously hugging himself and holding his breath.
"If this is going to work I need to focus on you," Awen said quietly, watching Gwilym. "Someone reminded me of it today. If I'm just worrying about me, then there's no point to even starting this, because a relationship where one of you is the only focus of both of you is completely useless. So I'm trusting you, Sovereign, to tell me when I do something wrong, understand? Because otherwise... I'm ignoring me. I'll be paying attention to you."
"I love you," Gwilym said softly, and he kissed the back of her hand. His free hand, she noted with automatic interest, had gone to his pocket, and was pulling something out -
Cei leapt to his feet, the movement making everyone's attention whip around to him, and Awen had one hand on Gwilym's shoulder before she'd had chance to think, tensing up -
"Oh my gods!" Cei all but yelled, gleefully, totally oblivious to his effect in his excitement. "Are those - have you got beads? Did you get beads?"
"Yes," Gwilym said calmly, the happiness in his voice audible, and something small and hard was pressed into Awen's palm. She looked down, astonished. "It took some thinking about, you know, since Rider/Sovereign symbolism has never existed before. But I think they work."
It was, indeed, a bead; but not of glass or wood, the materials she'd expect of Rider hair beads. He'd had it crafted out of silver, bright and gleaming, the surface delicately scored with the swirling pattern of a simple battle tattoo, and engraved deeper over the top was the angular shape of an Ogham rune -
"Muin?" Awen breathed. Gwilym grinned.
"Muin," he agreed. "A Cymric-Erinnish letter. Symbolising, as I'm sure you're aware, a cunning or wily ruse, and... love. Gets you coming and going."
"Dear gods that's perfect," Adara said softly above her shoulder, and Awen was vaguely aware that the whole Wing were in a ring around them and craning to see, Cei and Llio nearly vibrating with suppressed joy. She blinked her vision clear, and looked up at Gwilym's elated smile.
"Thank you," she said quietly. "I... what about you?"
"I decided Aerona was right," he told her, and placed a second bead onto her open palm beside the first. "A bead is symbolic of you being a Rider, so I should have one too. And I wanted us to have the same thing in that sense. It's just slightly different..."
It was silver again, although the swirling, delicate pattern over its surface was subtly altered from a battle tattoo to something very similar to the offical liveries of Aberystwyth. But the engraving wasn't an Ogham rune this time; instead, three delicate lines spread out away from each other, crowned and surrounded by circles and forming -
"The druidic symbol for 'awen'," Gwilym said contentedly. "The 'inspiration of truth'. And often used to symbolise poetic inspiration by bards as well, I believe. You're very well named, you know."
She looked down, smiling, forcing herself not to cry, and waited until the knot in her throat untightened.
"Well done," she managed eventually, and made herself meet his eye. He was openly gazing at her lovingly, his smile tender, and his fingers found hers.
"Cheers!" he said cheerfully, and Awen laughed. "They seemed appropriate. Now: I haven't got a clue how to put them on -"
"The box!" Adara almost yelled, and suddenly the entire Wing leapt to their feet, Meurig actually hurdling a sofa to fetch the box containing the Combs of Seven Hours of Boredom and pots of beeswax, and almost throwing it to Eluned, the Hair Expert. "Quick! Rearrange the furniture, we need a table here!"
"Goodness, they're efficient, aren't they?" Gwilym marvelled idly as the activity whirlwinded around him. "Are they afraid I'll change my mind?"
"Quite possibly," Awen said thoughtfully. "Or that I will. Or Adara's just trying to settle into the new role and so is practising here. I don't get you still, you know. That may prove to be a problem."
"Yes you do," Gwilym said contentedly. "Because you understand how people work, and there's only one thing you need for me to make sense."
"Which is?" Awen asked, comfortably wry. He stroked her jaw.
"Given what you are," he smiled, "you will probably never understand why I love you. But you don't need to. You just need to accept the fact that I do. That's all. Everything makes sense from there."
He was, of course, right. As usual. Awen snorted, and went about adorning his hair with the bead that carried her name.
Friday, 8 April 2011
Cymru - Chapter 55
Final two, and then I might do some epilogues at some point maybe, who knows? These are just to Wrap Things Up. Otherwise, I'm busy working on hammering out a better and more accurate model of the world for the next draft. Anyway: the end nears. Stop cheering.
GWILYM
It being the Archiwiliad, of course, there were still more fun and games to be had for people who really loved messy politics. The needlessly enormous doors of the Grand Hall had barely closed behind a still-stunned Awen’s back, steered by Gwenllian who was probably going to get her incredibly drunk, when Rhydian stood up again and waved for silence. Although even Rhydian didn’t quite have the authority to keep the multitudes quiet anymore, Gwilym noted; the noise around them only slowly rolled away after a minute or two of Silent Teacher Staring, and even then he suspected it was because everyone was basically hoping for more exciting pronouncements. Which, as it turned out, they got.
“Well, that was exciting!” Marged said happily to Gwilym’s left as the general hubbub began to die. “And there’s nice for her, not dying. Ooh, Gwilym! Do you still get to keep her?”
“She’s not a cat, Marged,” Gwilym said mildly, but with far less rancour than he’d have directed at anyone else, because Marged was just crazy and phrased things oddly anyway. “And I – hmm.”
Good question. Did he get to keep her now? She was no longer dying and no longer not a Councillor. That made things Slightly Trickier.
“I’ve no idea,” Gwilym said slowly. “I hope so.”
“Let’s ask Rhydian later!” Marged said brightly, ignoring the fact that the subject of their discussion was currently sweeping their section of the Hall with a pointed look. “Don’t worry, I’m sure he’ll say yes. Here, hold the wool would you, dear? It’s a devil to untangle.”
Obediently, Gwilym took the wool and tried not to worry, although within seconds his fingers were woven together, with the result that when silence finally came to Rhydian both Gwilym and Marged were still trying to pull yarn off his hands.
“Now then,” Rhydian said easily, clasping his hands. “Before we continue, as we have you all here, we might as well open the second hearing of the day.”
“Third, really,” Marged said absently, pulling at the wool ball. “Are we counting Flyn?”
“Lady Gwenda,” Rhydian announced coolly, ignoring her, and heads turned. “Would you come forward, please?”
There was a pause. Gwilym tried not to grin, and failed.
“Councillor,” Gwenda said after a moment. The faintest trace of unease laced the uncertainty in her voice, but she rose and moved graciously to the front of the Hall where a Rider hastily provided her with a chair. Which was more than Awen had got, Gwilym noted with mildly indignant outrage. And she’d been tortured.
“Thank you, Sovereign,” Rhydian said briefly, sitting down and looking at his notes. The air in the Hall changed to one of expectant quiet. “Now, let’s keep this brief. These are copies of some Tregwylan weapons designs, this is a sword with a Tregwylan manufacture stamp taken off a dead Saxon by Alpha Wing Deputy Dylan Helygen, this is a copy of Tregwylan’s Phoenician Trade Agreement with a loophole in its wording that allows the sale of Cymric weapons to Saxons, these are the shipping manifests from Tregwylan for the last Half complete with Phoenician route and serial numbers and this – “ he waved a hand, and Gwilym noted who had just stepped forward and been given another chair – “is Hannibal, who has a copy of the official master book of Phoenician trading in the west, which can prove what those numbers mean.”
He dropped the papers and steepled his fingers, looking down at Gwenda over the top of them with a gaze like a lance. Impressively she didn’t flinch, which Gwilym would have. Gwilym probably would have fallen off his chair and cried, in fact. There was a muted background muttering from up in the balconies, and the atmosphere was abruptly more hostile than it had been moments before.
“Although I can summarise their meaning now,” Rhydian went on. “That you have been selling weapons to Saxons via a third party. Correct, Hannibal?”
“This is correct,” Hannibal said sorrowfully in his deep voice, and bowed. “And I apologise on behalf of my countrymen for it. They knew better.”
“Unnecessary, but greatly appreciated,” Rhydian told him, his voice softening slightly before returning to full flinty firmness to speak to Gwenda. “Now, Sovereign. Naturally, you have the right to speak in your own defence. I feel it only fair to warn you, however, that I am not in a particularly forgiving mood, and lying to me today of all days is not recommended. So? Are you in fact innocent of all charges?”
Everyone's jaw dropped. There was an extremely loaded pause. Marged even stopped knitting. It was unlikely that a Rider had ever been so candid with a Sovereign in an official hearing before; apparently, Awen’s words had really had a galvanising effect on the Council’s behaviour. Gwenda watched the dais, frozen in place.
“No,” she said at last, and looked up and actually met Rhydian’s eye, to Gwilym’s mild astonishment. “No, I’m not innocent of it. I only wish to add to the official record that I acted in the best interests of my City, to bring prosperity to my people. Trade is too important a resource to us to waste.”
“A lovely sentiment that your people will, I’m sure, treasure should Saxons ever sail to your doorstep with the weapons you created and sold them,” Rhydian said curtly. “Thank you for your honesty, Sovereign. My official finding is that you acted in the interests of your City over your country, and knowingly endangered Wrecsam, Trallwng and Casnewydd and ultimately Cymru beyond while you did so. This counts under the broad umbrella of Treason –“ Gwilym caught his breath, and heard half of the rest of the Hall do the same – “but, given your motivations and the severity of the offence, I’m prepared to be lenient. You can hereby consider yourself cautioned, and will be under observation for a period of no less than five years.”
Five years. It was a long time to be watched around the clock, Gwilym reflected; or, rather, to know you were being watched around the clock, and without any real regard for privacy. The general crowd noise returned, more than a mutter but not as strong as a roar, as Gwenda nodded her acknowledgement, her face carefully blank. And that seemed to be that. The Council rose, people got up and started to leave, and Marged turned an unusually gleeful face towards Gwilym.
“So exciting!” she said happily. “Did you know about that, Gwilym?”
“No,” Gwilym said, fascinated. “Although I knew she was unsavoury.”
“Ah, Gwilym. How diplomatic you are,” Erys laughed to his right. “Well, Iestyn’s having a good Archwiliad, anyway. That’s two problem Sovereigns and a new labourer scheme gone in Wrecsam’s favour.”
“Yes!” Marged said brightly, before once again trampling all over social niceties. “Now he just needs a good night’s no-sleep, Erys, he’ll be as good as new. Ooh, speaking of which, Gwilym, this way!”
“What?” Gwilym asked, vaguely alarmed as she grabbed his wrist and yanked him out of his seat. Erys was looking at her desktop, clearly trying not to laugh. “Are we going to sleep with Iestyn? Where are we going?”
“If it is me, I’m behind you,” Iestyn’s voice said mildly behind them, but Gwilym didn’t even have time for a witty comeback before Marged had yanked him into the crowd of milling people, all elbows and wool and excitement. And there was that to Marged – countries could have paid a fortune for her as a siege weapon. When she bore down upon a crowd, they were borne down upon and remained that way for a while afterwards. You knew where she’d been from the swathe of empty space and fallen passers-by.
All of which meant, though, that they actually caught up with Rhydian in the corridor beyond the Grand Hall as he was marching purposefully away to be busy and important. Marged elbowed her way after him cheerfully, and left Gwilym to apologise to the three bards and a cook she toppled into a side room.
“Rhydian!” she trilled. “We found you! Could we have a word? It won’t take long.”
He turned, along with half the corridor, and Gwilym paused mentally. Awen, he realised, had inherited an awful lot of mannerisms and expressions from Rhydian; unsurprising given that he would have been the main father figure to her in her formative years, and had taught her how to move and hide herself, and indeed they’d both had the same jobs. But it meant that suddenly Gwilym was reading him better than he had before, and using Awen as a measuring stick Rhydian had the look of someone who was suddenly wandering perilously close to The Edge, but was hiding it extremely well under a layer a mile thick of enforced calm.
“Maybe we should do this later,” Gwilym tried, but neither listened. Marged ignored him totally, and Rhydian smiled smoothly.
“Now is fine,” he said. “I’ve got a few minutes. Mared’s office is just over here, we can borrow that if you wish?”
“Smashing!” Marged declared and barged her way over to it. She still had a vice grip on Gwilym’s wrist, so he was yanked unceremonially after her. Rhydian followed, a very small smile on his lips.
The office was tiny, because it was filled with piles and piles of books that left enough space for about three people to stand abreast, or Marged and one other person. Rhydian led them in and sighed at the mess before perching on the edge of the cluttered desk and turning to face them.
“She never did keep anything tidy,” he commented, eyeing a stack of books teetering beside him. “And yet I can guarantee you she’ll have read every one. Twice. Anyway. What can I do for you, Sovereigns?”
Or what can I do for you, Marged? Gwilym thought, translating in his head. They were clearly only getting an audience with this incredibly stressed and strung out man because one of them was his ex. And he addressed it to her rather than them both; he barely looked at Gwilym, in fact.
“Oh, Rhydian,” Marged smiled fondly. “Your office, as I recall, was constantly full of files and dirty plates! You’re hardly one to talk.”
“Yes, well.” Rhydian rubbed a hand across his chin wearily, looking out of the window to his right. “Times change.”
“Not by that much,” Marged quipped cryptically, but ploughed on before either of them could fully process it. “Anyway! Awen. Gwilym was wondering if he still gets to keep her?”
Rhydian snorted.
“For the record,” Gwilym broke in quickly, “The phrase ‘keep her’ was not coined by me. Nor do I approve.”
“Clearly,” Rhydian said, and gave him a look of tired amusement. “Fear not, Sovereign, I know Lady Marged’s speech patterns well enough to spot them. And yes, you get to stay with Awen. Until it wears you out, I should stress. It’s not a contract you’re tied into.”
“I know,” Gwilym said, vaguely reproachfully, although the happy bubble of relief welled up inside him anyway. Marged giggled. “I wish you’d both stop trying to talk me out of this, you know. It’s woefully depressing.”
“Oh, they can’t help it, dear,” Marged said merrily. “Riders are all the same. Excellent! Well then, since you’re definitely with her, there are things you’ll need to know and do - tricky, Riders are, need special handling. Firstly, when you sleep – try to go to sleep before her. The body twitches when it’s dropping off, see, and nothing wakes a Rider faster than feeling you twitch, bless them. Makes them think you’re under attack, poor things.”
“If there’s nothing else, Sovereigns,” Rhydian said abruptly, standing; but then a curious thing happened. Firstly, Marged didn’t move, keeping her bulk in place as an effective roadblock. Secondly, when Gwilym tried to move, he suddenly lost all feeling in his hand as Marged tightened her grip on his wrist.
“The nightmares are the big thing to deal with,” she went on with gay abandon, as though she wasn't trying to amputate his hand. She didn't even slightly look at Rhydian. “And they’ll never really stop, even though she’s going to be inactive now. If you can catch her before she wakes that’s best – just whispering to her can work quite well. Otherwise you’ll want to develop a way of touching her that she’ll always understand is you specifically, that’s a good one! Druids can help.”
“Lady,” Rhydian said quietly, but for all that Marged looked at him he may as well have been dead, her conversation reflected entirely at Gwilym now.
“Oh, she won’t tell you what they’re about, by the way,” she trilled. “Bless them! But if she starts taking your pulse or checking your breathing after she’s woken up just let her. Let’s see, what else?”
“I have to be going,” Rhydian said, an edge of iron lurking under his neutral tone. Gwilym squirmed slightly.
“We could talk about this in the common room?” he suggested, and then finally clocked Marged’s expression. Beneath the cheerful exterior, a steel door had closed behind her smile, and abruptly Gwilym understood, and subsided.
“Never touch her or get too close while she’s dressing or undressing,” she continued merrily. “Bit of an odd one, but it does stress them out so, poor things. Probably because they’re so task-focused; very compartmentalised in their thinking. But, all other times, make sure you do touch her! Tactility is very important to Riders.”
“I’ve noticed that one,” Gwilym said weakly, and risked a glance sideways. Rhydian had his arms crossed over his chest, fingers gripping his elbows tightly enough to turn white, and was staring out of the window inscrutably. Gwilym looked back again.
“Yes, it’s a Wing thing,” Marged said, and giggled at the rhyme. “Oh, speaking of which – make sure you get on with them! Especially if they offer to groom you, definitely say yes. Let’s see… Well, communication is a bit of a battle, she won’t be naturally inclined to share things. Especially if she’s got it into her head that it’s something that can’t be helped and would only upset you. You’ll need to be quite firm on that. Although, don’t discount the possibility of allies! Talk to her Wing, especially her Deputy. They can tell you about things that are upsetting her.”
In the corner of Gwilym’s eye, he saw Rhydian’s head turning sharply towards them. He didn’t look.
“Don’t let her find out, though!” Marged was laughing. “She’ll order them not to otherwise. Now; the biggest problem area you’ll have is what she thinks she’s doing to you –“
“No it’s not,” Rhydian broke in evenly. “If I ordered her to, Sovereign, she’d kill you.”
There was a heavy pause. Birds sang outside the window, and a murmur of many people talking echoed in from the closed door.
“I know,” Gwilym said quietly after a second. “But she’d kill anyone if you ordered her to. That’s just part of being a Rider.”
“Oh, really?” Rhydian said, one eyebrow raised. There was a slight tinge of disbelieving sarcasm to his tone now. “So that’s fine? You’re happy with the knowledge that your partner would willingly assassinate you if someone else told her to? Regardless of your feelings for each other, regardless of the time you spend together?”
“If we weren’t together she’d still kill me if you told her to,” Gwilym said carefully. “As I say – she’d kill anyone if you told her to. Anyone at all. And as I say – that’s just part of being a Rider. But it doesn’t mean she’s therefore undeserving of ever having a relationship with someone.”
“I rather think it does,” Rhydian muttered, looking back out the window, and Gwilym looked at him squarely.
“I think, Councillor,” he said as neutrally as he could, “that you’ve fallen into the same trap Awen does. The whole point of a relationship is that there are two of you, and with equal say. If one person knows what the risks are, and is fully versed in them, but makes the informed decision to stay anyway, then that’s their choice. It’s no less valid than the opinion of the other.”
He looked away from the emotionless mask Rhydian’s face had become and met Marged’s eye, who was beaming at him.
“You’re both too used to being in the role of protector,” Gwilym said mildly. “I think you both forget that there are some ways in which people don’t need protecting. In which we shouldn’t be protected. Emotional decisions like relationships definitely count in that category.”
“Well said!” Marged said cheerily, which had the fortunate effect of not leaving a big ringing embarrassing silence. “And all demonstrates my point, see? The stress of what she thinks she’s doing to you is what you need to look out for, and it’ll be fairly obvious because she’ll be all worrying and withdrawn and not herself anymore.”
She paused, and looked considering for a moment.
“I don’t know how to stop that, though,” she said, faintly puzzled. “I never worked that one out myself. But, you’re a clever lad, I’m sure you’ll have better luck! Although I think a big part of it is what they can and can’t say to you, poor dears. Can’t tell you they love you, see? That eats away at them. Make it clear that you know already and she doesn’t need to say, if you can.”
“I already do that one,” Gwilym offered, and Marged’s smile shone.
“Good!” she enthused. “Good lad. Let’s see, what -? Ah, be on the ball at telling her when you’ve made a mistake. She’ll think everything you do and say must be right, and honestly, Gwilym, honestly it’s a nightmare trying to argue with someone who is convinced you’re better than them. Oh, mind your kettle fellow with her – he’ll be very sniffy with her, and she won’t fight back. Advisors and Riders just don’t mix well.”
“Can’t I just fire him?” Gwilym sighed petulantly. “I hate the man.”
“No, you can’t,” Rhydian muttered. He looked exhausted by now, suddenly showing that strange older-and-younger appearance that Awen sometimes got.
“By the way,” Marged added solemnly. “She will definitely think this promotion is entirely a punishment, be aware of that. Oh! I knew I was forgetting something big. She’s accustomed to orders, both giving them and following them. Her entire world is a hierarchy of some kind. You’ll need to remember that.”
“Okay –“
“She will never ask for comfort and affection,” Marged said sadly. “Nor will she try to take it from you, most likely. There will be days when she won't even be able to bring herself to touch you. Tragic, but there we are. She won’t want to bother you.”
Marged paused, and looked at Rhydian finally. His gaze was lost out of the window, and he didn’t notice.
“And remember,” she said clearly. “The time she tries to hide her pain from you is the time she needs you more than ever before.”
Gwilym watched them both for a moment, and then gently disengaged his throbbing hand from Marged’s grip. She let him, not taking her eyes off Rhydian.
The silence yawned.
“Thank you,” Gwilym said lightly into the massively emotionally charged atmosphere, and stepped toward the door with what he hoped was élan and not transparently a frantic attempt to flee the room. “I… will leave now.”
He did so, and as the door closed behind him he reflected that, on the whole, he was extremely glad Marged was on his side in life.
***********
He ended up going to find the Wing, although only Adara and Llŷr were available having just returned from being awarded joint full Deputy status, so the three of them went to the kitchens to try to actually eat something and talk about how jittery they all were.
“Well, I for one am extremely jittery,” Gwilym declared as they settled onto benches in the eating area. “How are you two?”
“Dazed and confused,” Llŷr said, looking just that. He kept touching the new collar nervously. “And I really wish Awen was here to tell me to pull myself together. It’s amazing how it works when she says it.”
“I can try,” Adara sniffed. “Stop freaking out or I’ll thump you, you saddo. Any better?”
“Sort of,” Llŷr sighed. “Although I also wish she was just generally here, which your threatening insults cannot cure. Although I imagine you’ll still try.”
“I’m a good friend,” Adara nodded solemnly. “And stop touching that collar. You look like an amateur.”
“I am an amateur,” Llŷr said morosely. “What do I know about being a Deputy? My only role model was not a template to be copied.”
“Well, don’t think of it as being a Deputy,” Gwilym shrugged. “Think of it as being a leader, and copy Awen. She’s pretty good.”
Adara laughed.
“Pretty good,” she chuckled, and Llŷr grinned. “Yeah, there’s that. Although don’t entirely copy her, because if I have to undergo another day like this I shall scream.”
“No fear,” Llŷr snorted. “I’m sorry, by the way, Sovereign. About your family.”
Gwilym paused for a moment; but still, there was nothing. Sooner or later the whole thing was going to hit him and restart the grieving process all over again, he knew, but right now every time he tried to look for an emotional response there was just a big numb patch in his brain where the relevant parts had apparently taken the executive decision to go on holiday without leaving so much as a skeleton crew for cover. A pair of hands took his across the table, and he realised that both Adara and Llŷr had taken one each, watching him with concern. He smiled wryly.
“Thank you,” he said quietly. “It’s okay. I’ve mourned them already. And I suspected it wasn’t an accident for a while.”
“If it helps, Owain is in an unyielding amount of pain now,” Adara offered with her customary off-beat chirpiness. “I made sure myself.”
“Thank you,” Gwilym said mildly. “That’s very sweet of you.”
“Oh, it was my pleasure.”
“How much have you left for the rest of us?” Llŷr asked, shredding a chunk of bread with his fingers. “I mean, are we talking hours, days…?”
“Years,” Adara grinned evilly. “I did absolutely nothing life-threatening. Just excruciatingly painful. I sort of think Awen should get to kill him eventually by cutting his throat.”
“Hmm.” Llŷr looked up, considering. “Elegantly symmetrical, but far too quick, surely?”
“From whose perspective?” Gwilym found himself asking in morbidly horrified fascination. “I mean, from his –“
“Oh, no,” Adara said, waving a hand dismissively. “He’s a Rider, Sovereign. Or not, but he had the training. He can take a lot of pain.”
“Who’s this?” Aerona’s voice asked brightly, and quite suddenly she was nimbly dropping into the seat beside Gwilym and pouring out tea. From a teapot. Where had she even got it from? “Flyn or Owain?”
“Oh look, it’s everyone’s favourite pixie,” Adara said mildly, passing her the milk automatically. “Owain. Oh, which is a point – he brained you, do you want revenge?”
“I got it at the time,” Aerona giggled, accepting the milk. “I kicked him in the testicles. I’d quite like to take one of his fingernails, though, if I could?”
“Of course you can,” Llŷr said magnanimously. “You should also kick him again.”
“Can I kick him?” Gwilym was astonished to find himself asking. “Like, in the shin’s fine.”
“You can kick him in both shins, Sovereign,” Adara said warmly. “Indeed we encourage it. Wait; if you’re here, Aerona, Dylan’s not coming is he?”
“No,” Aerona giggled. “I told him he needed to spend some quality time with Madog. He told me to tell you you’re an obstinate wench, though.”
“Tell him I’ll check my schedule after and see if I can spare any time for his opinion,” Adara said disdainfully. “Although it’s deeply unlikely.”
“Some days,” Llŷr said conversationally, “I reflect upon your good fortune to be a Rider, Adara. I just don’t see how you’d make any friends at all if you didn’t have a Wing.”
“Some days,” Adara counteracted over Aerona’s giggle, “I reflect upon your foolhardy nature, Llŷr. If I don’t beat you up for that, I can so easily convince Caradog to.”
“You can as well,” Llŷr sighed. “Anyone can.”
“My sister used to beat me up,” Gwilym volunteered. “When we were kids. When we were playing at being Riders, actually, so it’s nice to see that it was at least vocationally accurate.”
“Really?” Adara looked up, eyes bright with a sudden interest that was mirrored in Llŷr and Aerona. “You pretended you were Riders?”
“It was our favourite game for a while,” Gwilym grinned. “Actually, as I recall one of the Tutors would sometimes help us make fake Saxons out of straw bags and let us play with the wooden practice swords.”
“Oh, how lovely!” Aerona said happily, handing out tea. “Were you an Alpha Wing? I would have been.”
“More often than not,” Gwilym shrugged. “Let’s see… Bethan was Wingleader, obviously, and Iago got to be Deputy. Privileges of age, that. Well; and anger. Her specialism was with ranged weapons, I think. His was the rather fanciful idea that he was a druid at the same time.”
Predictably, the three Riders he was recounting this to fell about laughing. Gwilym grinned.
“Yes, he was a bit of an idiot, my brother, got to be honest,” he said reminiscently. “And I think mine was woodscraft.”
“Good for you!” said Aerona the Woodscraft Tutor brightly.
“It’s funny,” Llŷr said, smiling thoughtfully, “but we used to pretend we were normal people.”
“Really?” Gwilym laughed. “Did you all have jobs?”
“Totally,” Adara nodded solemnly. “I was a hunter, and Llio was my butcher. I think… was Cei a tailor?”
“That rings a bell,” Llŷr said comfortably, leaning on the table. Apparently the conversation was helping him relax no end. “Although I think Caradog decided he was a travelling wrestler or something. Oh, Meurig and Eluned were druids, remember? They used to mix mud and rainwater and whatever else they could find in a bucket.”
“Tanwen was a trader,” Adara nodded, “because then she’d ‘buy’ the contents of the bucket off them. Awen was a bard. Were you a farmer?”
“Yes,” Llŷr said, snapping his fingers. “Yes, I was. We used the stable cats as sheep.”
“That’s right,” Adara grinned; and then they both paused, as they mentally realised who was left.
“And Owain,” Llŷr said carefully, “was Mayor.”
Mayor.
“Oh good gods,” Gwilym stated. “Was there no way in which he was decent?”
“Well, you saw his face,” Adara said disgustedly, and Aerona’s giggle neatly broke the tension. “So, anyway, does anyone know who that man over there who looks distressingly like Dark-Haired Lord Flyn is?”
They all looked across, and Gwilym grinned. Gwenllian had apparently moved on from guiding Awen from room to room in order to claim the right to show a bewildered-looking Maelon around the Union, a girl of about ten sitting on his hip with her arms wrapped around his neck as she stared about her, wide-eyed. And his heart went out to Maelon. Gwilym recognised that totally overwhelmed look. He remembered wearing it.
“That,” he smiled, “is the newly-minted Lord Maelon, Sovereign of Casnewydd. Awen tracked him down.”
“Well, that’s because she has super powers,” Adara declared, sizing up Maelon across the room as Gwenllian led him in, gesturing enthusiastically. “Is he going to be upset that you’ve sentenced his father to a hideous death?”
“From the brief time I met him, I imagine he’ll buy me a drink,” Gwilym mused. “Mind you, he’s got a temper, and it’s quick to come and go. Really, really hates Flyn, though.”
“He looks so lost,” Aerona said sadly. “Can we go and say hello? I think someone should say hello.”
“I think Gwenllian is saying hello enough for the whole Union,” Llŷr murmured, but Gwilym extricated himself from the bench and stood.
“Which is why I shall save him,” he declared. “You need a run-up for Gwenllian. Be right back.”
“He saves everyone these days,” Adara said sagaciously behind him, and Gwilym snorted. It was possible, of course, that Maelon was actually going to knock him out if he’d been told the full, grisly extent of his father’s imminent demise, since the man was mercurial at best and Flyn was, after all was said and done, his father. Gwilym hoped not. Everything was wrapping up so neatly otherwise.
“I think that end might be the pastry end,” Gwenllian was saying as he approached. “Now, listen; they have the grain and flour bins down there, and currently there’s an Erinnish king visiting who likes to push people in, so mind yourself. Anyway – ooh, Gwilym! We were just talking about you. Sort of.”
“I have never pushed anyone into a grain bin!” Gwilym protested indignantly. “That’s Mental Uncle Dara! And if you’d asked I’d have warned you not to invite him.”
“Ha! ‘Sort of’ as in we were actually talking about you earlier,” Gwenllian said as Maelon gently lowered the girl to the ground. “I was telling Lord Maelon and Lady Delyth here about –“
Maelon stepped forward and hugged him, his arms tight and body tense, and Gwilym smiled.
“Thank you,” Maelon said quietly.
“- your sentencing of Flyn!” Gwenllian was saying cheerily. “And they were very impressed.”
“You know all of the details, yes?” Gwilym asked warily. “You do know how extreme it is?”
“Oh, I know,” Maelon grinned savagely. He stepped back and took Delyth’s hand again. “It made it all the better. My mother would like to thank you later, too, if you’d allow it.”
“Happily!” Gwilym said merrily. “Although all thanks should really go to Awen. Have you been told about that?”
“Of course he’s been told, bach,” Gwenllian said, rolling her eyes. “At least three times by at least three different people, not including my official explanation. We’re all going to spend the next Half talking about nothing else.”
“It’s a shame she won’t be my Alpha Wingleader,” Maelon said wistfully. “I would have really liked that.”
“They said we don’t have to run anymore,” Delyth said quietly, watching Gwilym solemnly with her huge child eyes, and everyone looked down at her. “They said we can stop now.”
Well that was heartbreaking, Gwilym reflected. What had happened to this family?
“That’s right,” he said out loud, and smiled, sitting on the floor so he was level with her. “You’re going to settle down now, in Casnewydd. Have you ever been there?”
She shook her head, mutely, and Gwilym nodded thoughtfully.
“Come to think of it,” he told her, “nor have I. But, do you see the three Riders sitting at that table over there?”
He pointed to Adara, Llŷr and Aerona. Aerona waved cheerfully, and impulsively, Delyth waved back, still unsmiling.
“Two of them come from Casnewydd,” Gwilym told her companionably. “Although it’s not their fault, and we mustn’t hold it against them. Even when you hear their accents.”
She giggled finally, and Maelon squeezed her hand, smirking.
“I’m from Casnewydd, you know,” he said in dry reproach, and Gwilym shrugged, unrepentant.
“And we try not to hold it against you,” he nodded somberly, and Delyth giggled again. Gwilym looked back at her, and smiled. “Would you like to meet the Riders, though? They grew up in Casnewydd, so they can tell you all the fun places.”
“Okay,” she said shyly.
She partially hid behind Maelon as they crossed the kitchen, though, and possibly would have stayed if it hadn’t been for Aerona. Who, of course, worked with children. And had Enthusiasm, which was like enthusiasm but more so. Somehow, she knew how to project exactly the right amounts of energy and kindliness to seem fun and nurturing at the same time.
And then, finally, halfway through Adara’s spirited explanation of how to make the cooks in Casnewydd's kitchens give you free cakes and these tiny pastry things with lamb and mint in them that taste like great big deliciouses, apparently, Awen arrived.
The sight of her actually made him catch his breath. Llio had outdone herself with the make-up earlier, leaving Awen’s elfin bone structure looking genuinely Otherworldly and ethereal, and now she was clad in the new dark green of the Low Council, the knot works and embellishments embroidered on in gold thread. The body of the uniform, predictably enough, was as close to the sleeveless, high-collared, close-fitted leather of the Alpha Wingleader standard as she’d been allowed to get away with, the colour the only change; dark greens in subtly different shades had been draped across her slender body, the cut somehow making it look almost like light through a thick forest roof while imperceptibly emphasising the curve of her waist. The boots now reached her thigh, however, laced with the gold embroidery, and the collar was more intricate than he’d ever seen. Which was, Gwilym realised, because Councillors didn’t wear embroidered collars. They wore torques. But Awen –
-was wearing one, actually. It was slim and unadorned, a single band of gold that lined the seam between collar and jerkin, with a clasp that twisted shut at the front. Gwilym smiled, and wondered how much of a battle it had been just to get her to agree to that much. One day she’d be promoted again, and on that day they were going to need to knock her out if they wanted to get a proper torque around her neck. And then they’d need to weld it in place before she woke up.
He stood and walked towards her without really thinking about it. As he neared Awen looked up and saw him, and her smile could have lit up the room.
“Feeling better, now?” Gwilym grinned, striding towards her, and Awen snorted.
“No,” she said dryly. “I feel like I’m in costume –“
He pulled her close and kissed her. He couldn’t help it. It had been a busy few hours, and anyway, Awen looked astonishing. He felt her laugh against his mouth, but predictably, she didn’t pull away.
“- in one of Aerona’s games,” she finished, when Gwilym finally let her, contentedly standing in his arms. She nodded pleasantly to someone over his shoulder. “Councillor.”
“Good, isn’t it?” Gwenllian said cheerfully in Gwilym’s ear. “There’s a coat coming, too, but it takes time for the wardrobe people to make these things. That one’s only a prototype.”
“It’s amazing,” Gwilym smiled, brushing a strand of loose hair back from Awen’s face. It was all loose still, in fact, apart from the two front braids; clearly, Eluned had yet to catch her. “What’s the coat like?”
“Long,” Awen shrugged, and looked vaguely mutinous. “A compromise. They wanted me to wear robes.”
“Really?” He finally looked away from Awen, and stared at Gwenllian. “Robes? You thought that would work?”
“No,” Gwenllian grinned. “I wanted to see her argue. Although I needn’t have bothered, in the end, because she argued so well over the torque anyway. But look, Awen! New Sovereign! Although not yours now, bach. Come back here and meet him once you’re done, he likes you.”
She wandered away again. Awen’s watchful gaze settled on the group by the tables, but her arms settled contentedly around Gwilym’s neck. It was an astonishingly open display of affection from her, he noted happily.
“I assume you’ve spoken to him again, now?” she said conversationally. “Started explaining the important staples of Sovereignty, such as mutant birds and dancing ninjas?”
“Of course not,” Gwilym said, rolling his eyes. “We only got as far as nubile food tasters. It’s a complicated business, you know, there are nuances.”
“I’m sure,” Awen said, and narrowed her eyes. “Adara is telling that small girl the best ways to smuggle rosehips into the main laundry rooms in Casnewydd. Why is this?”
“Um.” Gwilym weighed up his options, and decided that, on the whole, honesty was probably the best policy for him. “Well, that’s Lady Delyth, who is very overwhelmed and I don’t think really understands the concept that she’s safe now, so –“
“So you thought Adara was a good idea?” Awen asked, one eyebrow raised. “The child will be a delinquent within the Half. And it’s nearly over.”
“Children these days,” Gwilym said gravely, shaking his head, and got smacked in the arm for it. “Are you not free now, by the way? Gwenllian said you were to come back –“
“No, actually,” Awen grinned. “I came to fetch you and deliver you unto the clutches of the Morgannwg family, who would like to meet you. To say thank you, don’t worry. You should only need one bodyguard.”
“You’re using your ‘I’m only half-joking’ tone of voice,” Gwilym said nervously. “Why would I -?”
“Oh, well, the son’s alright,” Awen shrugged, and the mischievous edge of that playful streak she had was visible. “It’s just the women, that’s all. They could defend the whole border if the Union ever wanted to go on holiday.”
Reluctantly, Gwilym released his happily tangled grip on Awen’s waist.
“Will you be there?” he asked, as she took his arm and began steering him to the door. “I mean, can I go safe in the knowledge that I can employ my normal self-defence mechanism of jumping behind you if they turn, or is this an ordeal I must face alone in order to prove my worth as a hero?”
“Ha!” They entered the corridors and fell into step easily, Awen automatically slipping back into her informal formality with him. Kitchens were ‘backstage’ in her view, it seemed. “I will be there only for as long as it takes to push you into the room and slam the door. And I will be hiding behind you for even that brief encounter, because they like you.”
“What, but not you?” Gwilym asked, amused. “Why don’t they like you?”
“Well, I tortured their son, for one thing,” Awen muttered. “Slight faux pas, that, when trying to make friends. And my previous Deputy helped to rape the sister, and killed the grandmother. And gave killing the mother a damned good go. Oh, which is a good point – brace yourself. It’s not a pretty sight.”
“Ah.” Gwilym sighed. “Well, I shall console myself with the thought of you giving Flyn the same injuries.”
“You’d be wrong to do so,” Awen told him, leading him down a new corridor. They were heading for the medical centre, if Gwilym was any judge, which he wasn’t. “For two reasons; firstly, you specified that Flyn was to have the same treatment as Nerys. The grandmother.”
“Which was different?”
“Which was worse.” Her smile was a bitter, mocking thing. “She held out for eleven hours, just shy of. There’s a silver lining to that now, at least.”
He’d probably pushed his luck to the limit today of publically throwing his arms around Awen and kissing her and such, Gwilym reflected, so he settled for reaching out and gripping one set of her beads briefly. It was one of those magic Rider gestures that always seemed to work, and possibly it did now; she glanced at him, a smile tugging at her lips, before resuming her casual explanation.
“And secondly,” she continued, “it won’t be me doing it, sadly.”
“Really?” Gwilym looked at her, surprised. “Why not?”
“Because,” Awen said carefully, “I’m not the Alpha Wingleader anymore. It’s out of my jurisdiction, as it were.”
“Oh.” He hadn’t thought of that. “I hadn’t thought of that. So who is doing it?”
“The Casnewydd Beta Wingleader,” Awen said, and grinned. “Until he gets here, anyway. Then he’ll be Alpha Wingleader, which will be a hell of a shock for him, poor lad, but there we are. His name is Ioan,” she added. “And he’s good, you’ll like him. Very thorough.”
“Excellent,” Gwilym declared. They reached the medical centre’s arched doors and the Guard Riders stepped aside, staring reverentially at Awen, who seemed not to notice. “How is he with angry people? I ask with particular reference to angry Sovereigns.”
“Masterful,” Awen said, waving a hand. She moved to the door of a private room. “He even carries a small supply of stress balls and soothing bags of crushed lavender. Right. Brace yourself.”
She knocked, and waited. After a few seconds, the door opened –
-and it was the child who’d tried to kill him, Gwilym realised abruptly. The memory flashed into his mind’s eye, unbidden; the music faltering over the throng of voices, the cloak whirling, the scream of Awen’s chair against the floor, an arrow suddenly in her hand and in front of his chest, quivering, and at the other end of the hall a boy’s face frozen in terror –
Gwilym blinked, and realised that they were both staring in horror at each other.
“Gareth!” Awen said jovially across the embarrassingly tense silence. “Can we come in? Iona wanted to meet Lord Gwilym.”
If anything Gareth actually managed to go paler as he focused on Awen, but he moved aside and pulled the door open. And, admirably, Gwilym felt, given the circumstances, managed to speak.
“Rider,” he told the floor. “Sovereign.”
And gods the Casnewydd accent was weird, Gwilym thought as they stepped into the room. It was the same accent on all of them, and yet depending on who was talking it transformed from a quirky slant to a blunt vowel-mutating drawl. It was tricky to tell from just two words, but Gareth seemed for fall into the latter category, bless him. Awen was definitely in the former.
“Ah, Sovereign!” a sharp voice said, warmly. Gwilym looked up.
Iona was propped up in the bed, and looked, as Marged always liked to say, like she’d been ‘in the wars’, also Gwilym was given to believing that if that was indeed the case it had probably been ‘the Wars’. She seemed to be more bandages than woman, although given that the areas of woman he could see seemed to be either bruised or generally withered from pain and abuse, Gwilym supposed it was a good thing. Both arms were heavily bandaged, in fact, presumably because of their terrible injuries. He’d managed to carefully avoid really absorbing any details so far. He had a sinking feeling that was about to change.
Iona herself, though, in spite of the fact that she was half mummified, had an eye full of blood and was possibly still liable to die, seemed fairly cheerful, and after only a single glance at her piercing gaze Gwilym thought he could already see Awen’s point. The woman looked to have the sort of inner strength that, in civilisation’s darkest hour, could be used not so much to man the barricades as to stand in for them.
“They said you were handsome,” she grinned. Her teeth were broken. “But, I always did like an Erinnish man. Got the accent?”
“Sorry,” Gwilym said. “Not in Cymric, anyway, I can’t even fake it without sounding Roman or something.”
“And that’s the introductions done,” Awen said dryly. “Good! I need to go, and be shouted at a bit more by Councillor Rhydian.”
“He isn’t done yet?” Gwilym asked, aggrieved, and she laughed.
“Not by half,” she said. “He might even hit me again, if he’s in a particularly bad mood. Anyway –“
“They said he’s going to be tortured,” a voice said, and Gwilym turned to get his first look at Alis Morgannwg.
She was sitting by the window on the wide windowsill seat, her knees drawn up to her chest and her arms wrapped around herself. Her clothes were clean, but shapeless and over-large, trousers and a jumper that swamped her. She didn’t look away from the window, and her hair hung down and hid the side of her face that they might have seen anyway, but it wasn’t hard to guess the state she’d be in. About an inch of skin showed at her wrists, and Gwilym winced at the finger-shaped bruises slowly fading there.
“Flyn?” Awen asked. Her tone was her normal, light, talking-to-official-people-with-the-shields-up tone, no additional gentleness or pity. Gwilym marvelled at it. “Yes, he is. In the same way your grandmother was.”
Alis’ snort of laughter was hard, and grim, and immensely satisfied.
“Good,” she said, nodding jerkily. “Yes. Good. I want to watch.”
“That can be arranged.” Awen crossed over to the window and stood the other side of it from Alis, leaning easily against the wall. “If you want, there’s a chance you’d be allowed to do some of it.”
“Yeah?” Alis moved her head slightly as she glanced at Awen, before the window drew her back. “Yeah. That would be good. What?”
“Well, castrating him for one thing,” Awen said casually, rubbing a probably-still-aching shoulder. Alis laughed harshly, and Gwilym noticed Iona’s satisfied chuckle. “There’s a long line of people requesting the honour, but you’d certainly get to queue jump on that one. Otherwise… let’s think. Oh, you could burn him a few times. That doesn’t require any special skills.”
“What does?”
“Dislocating elbows,” Awen sighed. “That’s tricky.”
“I noticed that,” Iona remarked cynically from the bed. Gwilym winced. Please, he thought; please let no one else start listing horrific injuries.
“Can’t we burn him all over?” Gareth asked suddenly, and proving in Gwilym's head that the boy was a macabre sadist who needed a good whipping, although as someone who'd nearly died by Gareth's hand he probably wasn't objective. “Burn him alive?”
“No.” Awen gave a wry smile, and glanced at Gwilym. “Lord Gwilym was the one who passed the sentence, and he was very specific that Flyn should suffer ‘every nuance’ that your grandmother did. Which also means he'll be shipped back to Casnewydd for it, so that we can employ the same cell in the ordeal.”
“Ha.” Iona grinned up at the ceiling. “Good man! It’s perfect. I wanted to thank you for that, Sovereign. I think it’s the best result I could have asked for.”
“You’re very welcome,” Gwilym nodded. “Although I’m thinking I missed a trick now. I should have also ordered a string of attractive people to surround him as he’s being castrated whose role it is to simply point and laugh.”
“Can I do that?” Iona laughed, and then winced. Probably a broken rib or two, Gwilym reflected glumly. “Mind, laughing isn’t easy for me right now. Worth it, though.”
“I’ll have it arranged,” Awen said, her tone dry. She straightened, and looked at Alis. “And I have to go. But; Alis. I can now officially extend to you the Union’s thanks for helping to bring about Flyn’s conviction. We couldn’t have done it without that file you got.”
And finally, Alis turned and looked at her, and Gwilym stared. As suspected, she was bruised; a black eye had faded to shades of greenish-yellow, the lid still slightly swollen, a dark purple mark still prominent down her cheek and across her clearly broken nose. There was a stitched cut healing across her forehead. And all of that was only his second thought, because before he had chance to notice it he saw her eyes.
They burned.
“Thank you,” she said unsteadily, watching Awen. Awen bowed to her.
“Thank you,” she returned, her voice still so easy. How was she doing it? Gwilym thought, dazed. He wanted to tiptoe around Alis, as though she was made of glass. He was definitely going to offend her, he just knew it.
“Before you go, Rider,” Iona said suddenly, “I owe you an apology.”
Awen stiffened slightly.
“No you don’t,” she said neutrally, and moved towards the door, and Gwilym moved automatically. He sprang against the door and flung his arms across it, halting her mid-stride with one eyebrow raised in exasperated amusement.
“No,” he told her as she opened her mouth to speak. “You’re doing it again, you emotional cripple. Listen to the nice lady.”
“You have been spending far too much time with Lady Marged,” Awen told him, shaking her head, and sighed, turning back to a chuckling Iona. “I’m serious. You really don’t.”
“Do you even know what I’m apologising for?” Iona asked, amused.
“Do you remember that I tortured your son?” Awen returned wearily. “Seriously. You owe me nothing.”
“You didn’t hurt me, though,” Gareth offered. “And you got me out.”
“Oh, which reminds me,” Awen said, glancing back at Gwilym. “You have in your employ two extremely sadistic and retarded prison guards who don’t provide their prisoners with basic medical attention.”
“Good grief, have I?” Gwilym asked, mildly. “I shall fire them forthwith, as soon as someone tells me who they are.”
“You came to get us out,” Iona said, quietly, and Awen went still, defeated. “You came in to get us out, Mam and me, having saved Gareth and ready to get Alis, and do you remember what I said to you?”
“Yes,” Awen said, and Gwilym wondered in fascination what it was. “And you were in a staggering amount of pain, and had just discovered that your mother was dead, and had been betrayed by a Rider. Really. I don’t hold it against you.”
“You should,” Iona said shortly. “None of that is an excuse.”
“Yes it is,” Awen sighed. “I’ve had far worse shouted at me, and by far worse people. You were understandably angry, and I’m thick-skinned, don’t worry. But I appreciate the thought.”
“Hmm.” Iona regarded her for a moment, and then sniffed and leaned back against her pillows, closing her eyes. “Best I’ll get, I suppose. Alright. Go, then.”
“Thanks,” Awen muttered dryly, and she bowed to Gwilym as he realised he was still plastered melodramatically across the door and removed himself. “Sovereign.”
Once she’d gone, it was Alis who asked.
“What did you say?” she said, her voice distant. She was watching the countryside out of the window again, but her shoulders were less hunched, her back slightly straighter.
“Nothing I’m proud of,” Iona said shortly. “Gareth, get the Sovereign a chair, boy. Don’t just stand.”
“Sorry,” Gareth mumbled, and pulled a chair over to the bedside. He was just so… meek, Gwilym thought glumly. He was finding himself irritated by it. His mother no longer had any fingernails and couldn’t use her right arm and his sister had been beaten, raped and kept in isolation for days, and both of them seemed to have twice the spine. Even his dead grandmother seemed to be stronger than him. Whereas all Gareth had done was, lest anyone forget, try to commit murder. Gwilym was having to fight the urge to tell him to man up or get out.
“Thank you,” he said instead, and then settled for ignoring him while settling on the chair. “So, do you have any plans, yet? For after this?”
“No,” Iona sighed, and smiled. “Too many factors at the minute. They might have to amputate my right arm, still, we don’t want to rush Alis, we don’t know how much is left for us back home…”
“You should move,” Gwilym nodded sagaciously. “Have a fresh start. Have you considered Aberystwyth? It has a beach and no Saxons. Does Casnewydd have a beach?”
“No,” Iona laughed. “Just dangerous mud-flats. Does Aberystywth have a giant roof over its market square?”
“No,” Gwilym said sulkily, and then brightened up. “But, can I interest you in an impressive new healthcare scheme paid for by the City?”
He could, as it turned out. The path of the conversation was predictable from there.
********
Eventually, the weirdness of the day found him dodging an angry Mental Uncle Dara demanding the chance to punch Flyn and retreating to the Wing Quarters where he ended up standing outside on the balcony with an astonishingly pretty Adara, watching the evening sun sinking towards the horizon. The rest of the Wing had finally returned, and touchingly, Gwilym now seemed to be fully integrated; Meurig had offered him a game of gwyddbwyll, and Llio had tried to do his make-up. He was vaguely wondering if he could get some sort of honorary uniform.
“And then they whip you just to be sure,” Adara was saying amicably, finishing a horrifying and distressing story about their collected childhood that Gwilym had mercifully managed to miss most of the details from. “Although I’m relatively certain that’s only been policy since Eifion got promoted way back whenever. Ooh, there’s a happy thought – he can’t hurt Awen anymore! Directly.”
“Can’t he?” Gwilym asked, surprised. “Councillors have immunity?”
“Well, of a sort,” Adara shrugged. “Their punishments needed to be voted on, and the others aren’t psychotic crazies who’d happily feed their mother her own feet, you see. Unofficially. Damn. I shouldn’t have said that.”
“Startlingly, I don’t intend to tell,” Gwilym grinned. “And I heartily agree. I saw his face with Awen earlier.”
Fingers touched his arm, and Gwilym glanced across. Adara was looking at him intently, her impeccably made-up eyes burning.
“Thank you,” she said, her voice low and intense. Gwilym smiled, threw caution to the wind and wrapped his arm around her shoulders. Riders were tactile creatures, he reflected fondly, as evidenced by Adara’s response being to lean into him; although it was probably good that he hadn’t tried it before now, when she would probably have removed his arm.
“You’re very welcome,” he said gently. “Although really, I still owe her. I’ve only saved her once compared to her twice saving me. There’s a discrepancy.”
“It’s her job, you deviant,” Adara said, rolling her eyes. “Honestly, it’s like you’ve never been to this country.”
“I mostly grew up in Erinn under a madman,” Gwilym said proudly. “This makes me exotic and attractive to people, and has long been a boon to my sex life.”
“Really?”
“No,” Gwilym mused. “I always hoped it would, but actually I think it just made me a tourist everywhere. Prospective partners just offered me guidebooks.”
Adara laughed, somewhat cruelly, Gwilym felt, given that Riders famously had fantastic sex lives in which they never had to worry about getting someone to actually agree and stop shouting ‘Help!’ after the first smile. Although that part probably did happen to them, come to think of it, but only on the battlefield, and that really wasn’t the same at all.
“You’re bloody weird for a Sovereign, you know,” she said merrily, and winced. “Unofficially. Argh. I keep saying things to you.”
“When I first met you you glared at me solidly for half an hour,” Gwilym told her darkly. “And your bird. It did not settle my post-assassination nerves, I can tell you. Saying things is a vast improvement from my angle.”
“Goodness, did I really?” Adara said mildly. She stepped away from him, leaned an arm out over the parapet and whistled. There was a pause, and then a bird with a wingspan as long as a door swept upwards and onto her arm as though she’d just summoned one of Rhiannon’s messengers from Annwfn. Gwilym stared at its mad eyes. “Sorry about that. Bad day at work, you know how it is. This is Gwenhwyfar.”
And before he could scream or run away she transferred the red kite to his shoulder, and Gwilym froze while trying not to bow under the damn thing’s weight. She carried it on her wrist? No arm-wrestling Adara, he vowed mentally. Ever.
“She’s amazing,” Adara was saying affectionately, running the back of a finger obliviously down the bird’s breast. “Hand reared; she’s about three now, I think. She was the first I trained myself.”
“Well done,” Gwilym swallowed, staring at the talons, entranced. They were the length of most people’s fingers, he was sure of it. “Er… my brother told me once that if you look them in the eye they’ll peck your eyes out…”
“Did he?” Adara said, her tone expressing in no uncertain terms what she thought of Iago’s intelligence in the matter of birds. “So if he’d sat on a bear’s shoulder would he have tried poking it in the eye?”
“Probably,” Gwilym sighed. “He was a bit of an idiot, got to be honest. She won’t, though?”
“No,” Adara snorted. “She just… stares like a predator, that’s all. Some people find that a bit unsettling when they first see it.”
Gwilym looked at Gwenhwyfar, who glared imperially back.
“Yes,” he said distantly, after a moment. “I see it. If I were smaller and furrier she’d have eaten me by now, but she won’t because of the luck of size.”
“Exactly,” Adara grinned, stroking her again. “She’s a wild animal. Although she’s a big softie really.”
“You’re totally going to be a crazy cat lady when you’re older,” Gwilym told her, and Adara laughed. “By the way: congratulations. Really. The collar suits you.”
“Oh shut up,” she said, rolling her eyes. “It’s a nightmare. I had to submit to an hour of beauty therapy for the purposes of Morale. Caradog and Eluned still have hold of Llŷr. I now understand Awen’s pain.”
“In fairness you look amazing,” Gwilym offered, but predictably this was brushed aside. Someone who’d never know what they looked like would also never care one way or the other.
“An hour,” she repeated darkly. “It’s the one torture Eifion’s never found. Anyway: what’s your favourite colour?”
“Green,” Gwilym said. “Why?”
“How do you feel about religion?”
“Er, I’m old-fashioned and liberal,” Gwilym said. “Why?”
“What do you think are the three most important things in a relationship?”
“Um.” He thought for a second. “Honesty, fair communication and support. Why?”
“How old were you when you went travelling?”
“Seventeen,” Gwilym shrugged. “Thereabouts. Why?”
“Why?”
“What?”
“Why did you go?”
“Oh.” He thought about that, too. “Because I wanted to learn. About people. About me, about… everything. I wanted answers. I ask a lot of questions, you see. Primarily: why?”
“How do you feel about Cymru?”
Gwilym paused, and glanced at Gwenhwyfar’s disinterested hauteur.
“If I give the wrong answer will you sic her on me?” he asked suspiciously, and Adara grinned, although like a shark and so not comfortingly.
“Definitely!” she said brightly. “How do you feel about Cymru?”
“I love it,” he said honestly. “I loved travelling, but I think I was only a month away before it started calling me back. And for all our problems, we compare extremely favourably to just about every other nation I went to. We embrace change.” He shrugged. “That’s the most valuable attribute a nation can have, I think. It’s why I want to get a university here, because as soon as we do…”
They watched the mountains, rolling and rising away from them, gilded by the late sun.
“The things we will do,” Gwilym said quietly, smiling. “The things we will achieve, Adara. There’ll be no stopping us.”
Her smile played softly across her face for a moment, and she nodded slightly to herself. Gwilym relaxed. She didn’t seem to be about to throw him over the balcony, anyway, so he guessed he’d gotten away with it.
“Why?” he asked, and Adara stirred out of her happy country-loving reverie.
“Why did you do the clinic?” she asked.
“Oh you sound just like my father,” Gwilym muttered. “Because the poor have to labour just to live, and so need their limbs intact more than the rich. Because they were suffering and dying otherwise and I could do something about it. Why?”
“Why do you like helping?”
“Because we should,” Gwilym said blankly, so shocked he forgot to ask why. Adara grinned.
“Old-fashioned and religious,” she said, apparently to herself, or maybe her bird. “I remember. Is it just that, though? Duty?”
“Definitely not,” Gwilym snorted. “Because it’s not duty at all, it’s right. But I like doing it anyway. I like it when people are happy. I believe people deserve to be happy. Why?”
“How old are you?”
“Twenty-six and three quarters. Why?”
“Do you want children one day?”
He groaned and rubbed a hand over an eye.
“No one is going to stop asking me this,” Gwilym said glumly. “Gods. Right now, no. Maybe one day. I don’t particularly care if they’re mine genetically, though. Why?”
“Do you like being a Sovereign?”
“No. Why?”
“Really?” Adara looked at him, apparently vaguely alarmed at the news that someone should be experiencing job dissatisfaction. Gwilym shrugged.
“No,” he said wryly. “My Extremely Vague Long-Term Plan is that I manage to hammer out a working model of democracy, set it up in Aberystwyth and then leave to become a lecturer in my university. Or I might become a clerk and follow Awen about for the rest of my life. Or join your Wing as a mascot and masseur.”
In the strongest sign of acceptance he’d had from her so far Adara’s face actually brightened slightly at the last sentence, which gave Gwilym a lovely warm glow as though she was a teacher who’d just told him he was a Very Clever Young Man.
“Why?” he concluded. Adara regarded him thoughtfully.
“You’re anti-torture,” she stated mildly. Gwilym looked at her.
“Yes,” he said slowly. “Why?”
“Does it bother you that Awen is a torturer?”
“Ah.” He ran his free hand through his hair, the other currently being weighed down by a bird. “Well, it’d be a lie to say I was fine with it.”
“But?”
“But,” he sighed. “I know her. I have a very good idea of the kinds of methods she’d use. You told me yourself, before, that she very rarely has to actually hurt someone. And it’s not her fault.”
“Hmm.” Adara watched him for a moment and then nodded, satisfied. “Good good. I’m a great big hungry, I wonder if there’s food yet…?”
And that seemed to be that. She wandered back into the lolfa, leaving Gwilym vaguely confused and with a one-and-a-half metre bird on his shoulder. He stared after her for a second and then snorted, and turned back to the vista below.
“Riders,” he told Gwenhwyfar, “are totally insane, aren’t they?”
She gave a low, whistling call, and Gwilym took it as agreement.
GWILYM
It being the Archiwiliad, of course, there were still more fun and games to be had for people who really loved messy politics. The needlessly enormous doors of the Grand Hall had barely closed behind a still-stunned Awen’s back, steered by Gwenllian who was probably going to get her incredibly drunk, when Rhydian stood up again and waved for silence. Although even Rhydian didn’t quite have the authority to keep the multitudes quiet anymore, Gwilym noted; the noise around them only slowly rolled away after a minute or two of Silent Teacher Staring, and even then he suspected it was because everyone was basically hoping for more exciting pronouncements. Which, as it turned out, they got.
“Well, that was exciting!” Marged said happily to Gwilym’s left as the general hubbub began to die. “And there’s nice for her, not dying. Ooh, Gwilym! Do you still get to keep her?”
“She’s not a cat, Marged,” Gwilym said mildly, but with far less rancour than he’d have directed at anyone else, because Marged was just crazy and phrased things oddly anyway. “And I – hmm.”
Good question. Did he get to keep her now? She was no longer dying and no longer not a Councillor. That made things Slightly Trickier.
“I’ve no idea,” Gwilym said slowly. “I hope so.”
“Let’s ask Rhydian later!” Marged said brightly, ignoring the fact that the subject of their discussion was currently sweeping their section of the Hall with a pointed look. “Don’t worry, I’m sure he’ll say yes. Here, hold the wool would you, dear? It’s a devil to untangle.”
Obediently, Gwilym took the wool and tried not to worry, although within seconds his fingers were woven together, with the result that when silence finally came to Rhydian both Gwilym and Marged were still trying to pull yarn off his hands.
“Now then,” Rhydian said easily, clasping his hands. “Before we continue, as we have you all here, we might as well open the second hearing of the day.”
“Third, really,” Marged said absently, pulling at the wool ball. “Are we counting Flyn?”
“Lady Gwenda,” Rhydian announced coolly, ignoring her, and heads turned. “Would you come forward, please?”
There was a pause. Gwilym tried not to grin, and failed.
“Councillor,” Gwenda said after a moment. The faintest trace of unease laced the uncertainty in her voice, but she rose and moved graciously to the front of the Hall where a Rider hastily provided her with a chair. Which was more than Awen had got, Gwilym noted with mildly indignant outrage. And she’d been tortured.
“Thank you, Sovereign,” Rhydian said briefly, sitting down and looking at his notes. The air in the Hall changed to one of expectant quiet. “Now, let’s keep this brief. These are copies of some Tregwylan weapons designs, this is a sword with a Tregwylan manufacture stamp taken off a dead Saxon by Alpha Wing Deputy Dylan Helygen, this is a copy of Tregwylan’s Phoenician Trade Agreement with a loophole in its wording that allows the sale of Cymric weapons to Saxons, these are the shipping manifests from Tregwylan for the last Half complete with Phoenician route and serial numbers and this – “ he waved a hand, and Gwilym noted who had just stepped forward and been given another chair – “is Hannibal, who has a copy of the official master book of Phoenician trading in the west, which can prove what those numbers mean.”
He dropped the papers and steepled his fingers, looking down at Gwenda over the top of them with a gaze like a lance. Impressively she didn’t flinch, which Gwilym would have. Gwilym probably would have fallen off his chair and cried, in fact. There was a muted background muttering from up in the balconies, and the atmosphere was abruptly more hostile than it had been moments before.
“Although I can summarise their meaning now,” Rhydian went on. “That you have been selling weapons to Saxons via a third party. Correct, Hannibal?”
“This is correct,” Hannibal said sorrowfully in his deep voice, and bowed. “And I apologise on behalf of my countrymen for it. They knew better.”
“Unnecessary, but greatly appreciated,” Rhydian told him, his voice softening slightly before returning to full flinty firmness to speak to Gwenda. “Now, Sovereign. Naturally, you have the right to speak in your own defence. I feel it only fair to warn you, however, that I am not in a particularly forgiving mood, and lying to me today of all days is not recommended. So? Are you in fact innocent of all charges?”
Everyone's jaw dropped. There was an extremely loaded pause. Marged even stopped knitting. It was unlikely that a Rider had ever been so candid with a Sovereign in an official hearing before; apparently, Awen’s words had really had a galvanising effect on the Council’s behaviour. Gwenda watched the dais, frozen in place.
“No,” she said at last, and looked up and actually met Rhydian’s eye, to Gwilym’s mild astonishment. “No, I’m not innocent of it. I only wish to add to the official record that I acted in the best interests of my City, to bring prosperity to my people. Trade is too important a resource to us to waste.”
“A lovely sentiment that your people will, I’m sure, treasure should Saxons ever sail to your doorstep with the weapons you created and sold them,” Rhydian said curtly. “Thank you for your honesty, Sovereign. My official finding is that you acted in the interests of your City over your country, and knowingly endangered Wrecsam, Trallwng and Casnewydd and ultimately Cymru beyond while you did so. This counts under the broad umbrella of Treason –“ Gwilym caught his breath, and heard half of the rest of the Hall do the same – “but, given your motivations and the severity of the offence, I’m prepared to be lenient. You can hereby consider yourself cautioned, and will be under observation for a period of no less than five years.”
Five years. It was a long time to be watched around the clock, Gwilym reflected; or, rather, to know you were being watched around the clock, and without any real regard for privacy. The general crowd noise returned, more than a mutter but not as strong as a roar, as Gwenda nodded her acknowledgement, her face carefully blank. And that seemed to be that. The Council rose, people got up and started to leave, and Marged turned an unusually gleeful face towards Gwilym.
“So exciting!” she said happily. “Did you know about that, Gwilym?”
“No,” Gwilym said, fascinated. “Although I knew she was unsavoury.”
“Ah, Gwilym. How diplomatic you are,” Erys laughed to his right. “Well, Iestyn’s having a good Archwiliad, anyway. That’s two problem Sovereigns and a new labourer scheme gone in Wrecsam’s favour.”
“Yes!” Marged said brightly, before once again trampling all over social niceties. “Now he just needs a good night’s no-sleep, Erys, he’ll be as good as new. Ooh, speaking of which, Gwilym, this way!”
“What?” Gwilym asked, vaguely alarmed as she grabbed his wrist and yanked him out of his seat. Erys was looking at her desktop, clearly trying not to laugh. “Are we going to sleep with Iestyn? Where are we going?”
“If it is me, I’m behind you,” Iestyn’s voice said mildly behind them, but Gwilym didn’t even have time for a witty comeback before Marged had yanked him into the crowd of milling people, all elbows and wool and excitement. And there was that to Marged – countries could have paid a fortune for her as a siege weapon. When she bore down upon a crowd, they were borne down upon and remained that way for a while afterwards. You knew where she’d been from the swathe of empty space and fallen passers-by.
All of which meant, though, that they actually caught up with Rhydian in the corridor beyond the Grand Hall as he was marching purposefully away to be busy and important. Marged elbowed her way after him cheerfully, and left Gwilym to apologise to the three bards and a cook she toppled into a side room.
“Rhydian!” she trilled. “We found you! Could we have a word? It won’t take long.”
He turned, along with half the corridor, and Gwilym paused mentally. Awen, he realised, had inherited an awful lot of mannerisms and expressions from Rhydian; unsurprising given that he would have been the main father figure to her in her formative years, and had taught her how to move and hide herself, and indeed they’d both had the same jobs. But it meant that suddenly Gwilym was reading him better than he had before, and using Awen as a measuring stick Rhydian had the look of someone who was suddenly wandering perilously close to The Edge, but was hiding it extremely well under a layer a mile thick of enforced calm.
“Maybe we should do this later,” Gwilym tried, but neither listened. Marged ignored him totally, and Rhydian smiled smoothly.
“Now is fine,” he said. “I’ve got a few minutes. Mared’s office is just over here, we can borrow that if you wish?”
“Smashing!” Marged declared and barged her way over to it. She still had a vice grip on Gwilym’s wrist, so he was yanked unceremonially after her. Rhydian followed, a very small smile on his lips.
The office was tiny, because it was filled with piles and piles of books that left enough space for about three people to stand abreast, or Marged and one other person. Rhydian led them in and sighed at the mess before perching on the edge of the cluttered desk and turning to face them.
“She never did keep anything tidy,” he commented, eyeing a stack of books teetering beside him. “And yet I can guarantee you she’ll have read every one. Twice. Anyway. What can I do for you, Sovereigns?”
Or what can I do for you, Marged? Gwilym thought, translating in his head. They were clearly only getting an audience with this incredibly stressed and strung out man because one of them was his ex. And he addressed it to her rather than them both; he barely looked at Gwilym, in fact.
“Oh, Rhydian,” Marged smiled fondly. “Your office, as I recall, was constantly full of files and dirty plates! You’re hardly one to talk.”
“Yes, well.” Rhydian rubbed a hand across his chin wearily, looking out of the window to his right. “Times change.”
“Not by that much,” Marged quipped cryptically, but ploughed on before either of them could fully process it. “Anyway! Awen. Gwilym was wondering if he still gets to keep her?”
Rhydian snorted.
“For the record,” Gwilym broke in quickly, “The phrase ‘keep her’ was not coined by me. Nor do I approve.”
“Clearly,” Rhydian said, and gave him a look of tired amusement. “Fear not, Sovereign, I know Lady Marged’s speech patterns well enough to spot them. And yes, you get to stay with Awen. Until it wears you out, I should stress. It’s not a contract you’re tied into.”
“I know,” Gwilym said, vaguely reproachfully, although the happy bubble of relief welled up inside him anyway. Marged giggled. “I wish you’d both stop trying to talk me out of this, you know. It’s woefully depressing.”
“Oh, they can’t help it, dear,” Marged said merrily. “Riders are all the same. Excellent! Well then, since you’re definitely with her, there are things you’ll need to know and do - tricky, Riders are, need special handling. Firstly, when you sleep – try to go to sleep before her. The body twitches when it’s dropping off, see, and nothing wakes a Rider faster than feeling you twitch, bless them. Makes them think you’re under attack, poor things.”
“If there’s nothing else, Sovereigns,” Rhydian said abruptly, standing; but then a curious thing happened. Firstly, Marged didn’t move, keeping her bulk in place as an effective roadblock. Secondly, when Gwilym tried to move, he suddenly lost all feeling in his hand as Marged tightened her grip on his wrist.
“The nightmares are the big thing to deal with,” she went on with gay abandon, as though she wasn't trying to amputate his hand. She didn't even slightly look at Rhydian. “And they’ll never really stop, even though she’s going to be inactive now. If you can catch her before she wakes that’s best – just whispering to her can work quite well. Otherwise you’ll want to develop a way of touching her that she’ll always understand is you specifically, that’s a good one! Druids can help.”
“Lady,” Rhydian said quietly, but for all that Marged looked at him he may as well have been dead, her conversation reflected entirely at Gwilym now.
“Oh, she won’t tell you what they’re about, by the way,” she trilled. “Bless them! But if she starts taking your pulse or checking your breathing after she’s woken up just let her. Let’s see, what else?”
“I have to be going,” Rhydian said, an edge of iron lurking under his neutral tone. Gwilym squirmed slightly.
“We could talk about this in the common room?” he suggested, and then finally clocked Marged’s expression. Beneath the cheerful exterior, a steel door had closed behind her smile, and abruptly Gwilym understood, and subsided.
“Never touch her or get too close while she’s dressing or undressing,” she continued merrily. “Bit of an odd one, but it does stress them out so, poor things. Probably because they’re so task-focused; very compartmentalised in their thinking. But, all other times, make sure you do touch her! Tactility is very important to Riders.”
“I’ve noticed that one,” Gwilym said weakly, and risked a glance sideways. Rhydian had his arms crossed over his chest, fingers gripping his elbows tightly enough to turn white, and was staring out of the window inscrutably. Gwilym looked back again.
“Yes, it’s a Wing thing,” Marged said, and giggled at the rhyme. “Oh, speaking of which – make sure you get on with them! Especially if they offer to groom you, definitely say yes. Let’s see… Well, communication is a bit of a battle, she won’t be naturally inclined to share things. Especially if she’s got it into her head that it’s something that can’t be helped and would only upset you. You’ll need to be quite firm on that. Although, don’t discount the possibility of allies! Talk to her Wing, especially her Deputy. They can tell you about things that are upsetting her.”
In the corner of Gwilym’s eye, he saw Rhydian’s head turning sharply towards them. He didn’t look.
“Don’t let her find out, though!” Marged was laughing. “She’ll order them not to otherwise. Now; the biggest problem area you’ll have is what she thinks she’s doing to you –“
“No it’s not,” Rhydian broke in evenly. “If I ordered her to, Sovereign, she’d kill you.”
There was a heavy pause. Birds sang outside the window, and a murmur of many people talking echoed in from the closed door.
“I know,” Gwilym said quietly after a second. “But she’d kill anyone if you ordered her to. That’s just part of being a Rider.”
“Oh, really?” Rhydian said, one eyebrow raised. There was a slight tinge of disbelieving sarcasm to his tone now. “So that’s fine? You’re happy with the knowledge that your partner would willingly assassinate you if someone else told her to? Regardless of your feelings for each other, regardless of the time you spend together?”
“If we weren’t together she’d still kill me if you told her to,” Gwilym said carefully. “As I say – she’d kill anyone if you told her to. Anyone at all. And as I say – that’s just part of being a Rider. But it doesn’t mean she’s therefore undeserving of ever having a relationship with someone.”
“I rather think it does,” Rhydian muttered, looking back out the window, and Gwilym looked at him squarely.
“I think, Councillor,” he said as neutrally as he could, “that you’ve fallen into the same trap Awen does. The whole point of a relationship is that there are two of you, and with equal say. If one person knows what the risks are, and is fully versed in them, but makes the informed decision to stay anyway, then that’s their choice. It’s no less valid than the opinion of the other.”
He looked away from the emotionless mask Rhydian’s face had become and met Marged’s eye, who was beaming at him.
“You’re both too used to being in the role of protector,” Gwilym said mildly. “I think you both forget that there are some ways in which people don’t need protecting. In which we shouldn’t be protected. Emotional decisions like relationships definitely count in that category.”
“Well said!” Marged said cheerily, which had the fortunate effect of not leaving a big ringing embarrassing silence. “And all demonstrates my point, see? The stress of what she thinks she’s doing to you is what you need to look out for, and it’ll be fairly obvious because she’ll be all worrying and withdrawn and not herself anymore.”
She paused, and looked considering for a moment.
“I don’t know how to stop that, though,” she said, faintly puzzled. “I never worked that one out myself. But, you’re a clever lad, I’m sure you’ll have better luck! Although I think a big part of it is what they can and can’t say to you, poor dears. Can’t tell you they love you, see? That eats away at them. Make it clear that you know already and she doesn’t need to say, if you can.”
“I already do that one,” Gwilym offered, and Marged’s smile shone.
“Good!” she enthused. “Good lad. Let’s see, what -? Ah, be on the ball at telling her when you’ve made a mistake. She’ll think everything you do and say must be right, and honestly, Gwilym, honestly it’s a nightmare trying to argue with someone who is convinced you’re better than them. Oh, mind your kettle fellow with her – he’ll be very sniffy with her, and she won’t fight back. Advisors and Riders just don’t mix well.”
“Can’t I just fire him?” Gwilym sighed petulantly. “I hate the man.”
“No, you can’t,” Rhydian muttered. He looked exhausted by now, suddenly showing that strange older-and-younger appearance that Awen sometimes got.
“By the way,” Marged added solemnly. “She will definitely think this promotion is entirely a punishment, be aware of that. Oh! I knew I was forgetting something big. She’s accustomed to orders, both giving them and following them. Her entire world is a hierarchy of some kind. You’ll need to remember that.”
“Okay –“
“She will never ask for comfort and affection,” Marged said sadly. “Nor will she try to take it from you, most likely. There will be days when she won't even be able to bring herself to touch you. Tragic, but there we are. She won’t want to bother you.”
Marged paused, and looked at Rhydian finally. His gaze was lost out of the window, and he didn’t notice.
“And remember,” she said clearly. “The time she tries to hide her pain from you is the time she needs you more than ever before.”
Gwilym watched them both for a moment, and then gently disengaged his throbbing hand from Marged’s grip. She let him, not taking her eyes off Rhydian.
The silence yawned.
“Thank you,” Gwilym said lightly into the massively emotionally charged atmosphere, and stepped toward the door with what he hoped was élan and not transparently a frantic attempt to flee the room. “I… will leave now.”
He did so, and as the door closed behind him he reflected that, on the whole, he was extremely glad Marged was on his side in life.
***********
He ended up going to find the Wing, although only Adara and Llŷr were available having just returned from being awarded joint full Deputy status, so the three of them went to the kitchens to try to actually eat something and talk about how jittery they all were.
“Well, I for one am extremely jittery,” Gwilym declared as they settled onto benches in the eating area. “How are you two?”
“Dazed and confused,” Llŷr said, looking just that. He kept touching the new collar nervously. “And I really wish Awen was here to tell me to pull myself together. It’s amazing how it works when she says it.”
“I can try,” Adara sniffed. “Stop freaking out or I’ll thump you, you saddo. Any better?”
“Sort of,” Llŷr sighed. “Although I also wish she was just generally here, which your threatening insults cannot cure. Although I imagine you’ll still try.”
“I’m a good friend,” Adara nodded solemnly. “And stop touching that collar. You look like an amateur.”
“I am an amateur,” Llŷr said morosely. “What do I know about being a Deputy? My only role model was not a template to be copied.”
“Well, don’t think of it as being a Deputy,” Gwilym shrugged. “Think of it as being a leader, and copy Awen. She’s pretty good.”
Adara laughed.
“Pretty good,” she chuckled, and Llŷr grinned. “Yeah, there’s that. Although don’t entirely copy her, because if I have to undergo another day like this I shall scream.”
“No fear,” Llŷr snorted. “I’m sorry, by the way, Sovereign. About your family.”
Gwilym paused for a moment; but still, there was nothing. Sooner or later the whole thing was going to hit him and restart the grieving process all over again, he knew, but right now every time he tried to look for an emotional response there was just a big numb patch in his brain where the relevant parts had apparently taken the executive decision to go on holiday without leaving so much as a skeleton crew for cover. A pair of hands took his across the table, and he realised that both Adara and Llŷr had taken one each, watching him with concern. He smiled wryly.
“Thank you,” he said quietly. “It’s okay. I’ve mourned them already. And I suspected it wasn’t an accident for a while.”
“If it helps, Owain is in an unyielding amount of pain now,” Adara offered with her customary off-beat chirpiness. “I made sure myself.”
“Thank you,” Gwilym said mildly. “That’s very sweet of you.”
“Oh, it was my pleasure.”
“How much have you left for the rest of us?” Llŷr asked, shredding a chunk of bread with his fingers. “I mean, are we talking hours, days…?”
“Years,” Adara grinned evilly. “I did absolutely nothing life-threatening. Just excruciatingly painful. I sort of think Awen should get to kill him eventually by cutting his throat.”
“Hmm.” Llŷr looked up, considering. “Elegantly symmetrical, but far too quick, surely?”
“From whose perspective?” Gwilym found himself asking in morbidly horrified fascination. “I mean, from his –“
“Oh, no,” Adara said, waving a hand dismissively. “He’s a Rider, Sovereign. Or not, but he had the training. He can take a lot of pain.”
“Who’s this?” Aerona’s voice asked brightly, and quite suddenly she was nimbly dropping into the seat beside Gwilym and pouring out tea. From a teapot. Where had she even got it from? “Flyn or Owain?”
“Oh look, it’s everyone’s favourite pixie,” Adara said mildly, passing her the milk automatically. “Owain. Oh, which is a point – he brained you, do you want revenge?”
“I got it at the time,” Aerona giggled, accepting the milk. “I kicked him in the testicles. I’d quite like to take one of his fingernails, though, if I could?”
“Of course you can,” Llŷr said magnanimously. “You should also kick him again.”
“Can I kick him?” Gwilym was astonished to find himself asking. “Like, in the shin’s fine.”
“You can kick him in both shins, Sovereign,” Adara said warmly. “Indeed we encourage it. Wait; if you’re here, Aerona, Dylan’s not coming is he?”
“No,” Aerona giggled. “I told him he needed to spend some quality time with Madog. He told me to tell you you’re an obstinate wench, though.”
“Tell him I’ll check my schedule after and see if I can spare any time for his opinion,” Adara said disdainfully. “Although it’s deeply unlikely.”
“Some days,” Llŷr said conversationally, “I reflect upon your good fortune to be a Rider, Adara. I just don’t see how you’d make any friends at all if you didn’t have a Wing.”
“Some days,” Adara counteracted over Aerona’s giggle, “I reflect upon your foolhardy nature, Llŷr. If I don’t beat you up for that, I can so easily convince Caradog to.”
“You can as well,” Llŷr sighed. “Anyone can.”
“My sister used to beat me up,” Gwilym volunteered. “When we were kids. When we were playing at being Riders, actually, so it’s nice to see that it was at least vocationally accurate.”
“Really?” Adara looked up, eyes bright with a sudden interest that was mirrored in Llŷr and Aerona. “You pretended you were Riders?”
“It was our favourite game for a while,” Gwilym grinned. “Actually, as I recall one of the Tutors would sometimes help us make fake Saxons out of straw bags and let us play with the wooden practice swords.”
“Oh, how lovely!” Aerona said happily, handing out tea. “Were you an Alpha Wing? I would have been.”
“More often than not,” Gwilym shrugged. “Let’s see… Bethan was Wingleader, obviously, and Iago got to be Deputy. Privileges of age, that. Well; and anger. Her specialism was with ranged weapons, I think. His was the rather fanciful idea that he was a druid at the same time.”
Predictably, the three Riders he was recounting this to fell about laughing. Gwilym grinned.
“Yes, he was a bit of an idiot, my brother, got to be honest,” he said reminiscently. “And I think mine was woodscraft.”
“Good for you!” said Aerona the Woodscraft Tutor brightly.
“It’s funny,” Llŷr said, smiling thoughtfully, “but we used to pretend we were normal people.”
“Really?” Gwilym laughed. “Did you all have jobs?”
“Totally,” Adara nodded solemnly. “I was a hunter, and Llio was my butcher. I think… was Cei a tailor?”
“That rings a bell,” Llŷr said comfortably, leaning on the table. Apparently the conversation was helping him relax no end. “Although I think Caradog decided he was a travelling wrestler or something. Oh, Meurig and Eluned were druids, remember? They used to mix mud and rainwater and whatever else they could find in a bucket.”
“Tanwen was a trader,” Adara nodded, “because then she’d ‘buy’ the contents of the bucket off them. Awen was a bard. Were you a farmer?”
“Yes,” Llŷr said, snapping his fingers. “Yes, I was. We used the stable cats as sheep.”
“That’s right,” Adara grinned; and then they both paused, as they mentally realised who was left.
“And Owain,” Llŷr said carefully, “was Mayor.”
Mayor.
“Oh good gods,” Gwilym stated. “Was there no way in which he was decent?”
“Well, you saw his face,” Adara said disgustedly, and Aerona’s giggle neatly broke the tension. “So, anyway, does anyone know who that man over there who looks distressingly like Dark-Haired Lord Flyn is?”
They all looked across, and Gwilym grinned. Gwenllian had apparently moved on from guiding Awen from room to room in order to claim the right to show a bewildered-looking Maelon around the Union, a girl of about ten sitting on his hip with her arms wrapped around his neck as she stared about her, wide-eyed. And his heart went out to Maelon. Gwilym recognised that totally overwhelmed look. He remembered wearing it.
“That,” he smiled, “is the newly-minted Lord Maelon, Sovereign of Casnewydd. Awen tracked him down.”
“Well, that’s because she has super powers,” Adara declared, sizing up Maelon across the room as Gwenllian led him in, gesturing enthusiastically. “Is he going to be upset that you’ve sentenced his father to a hideous death?”
“From the brief time I met him, I imagine he’ll buy me a drink,” Gwilym mused. “Mind you, he’s got a temper, and it’s quick to come and go. Really, really hates Flyn, though.”
“He looks so lost,” Aerona said sadly. “Can we go and say hello? I think someone should say hello.”
“I think Gwenllian is saying hello enough for the whole Union,” Llŷr murmured, but Gwilym extricated himself from the bench and stood.
“Which is why I shall save him,” he declared. “You need a run-up for Gwenllian. Be right back.”
“He saves everyone these days,” Adara said sagaciously behind him, and Gwilym snorted. It was possible, of course, that Maelon was actually going to knock him out if he’d been told the full, grisly extent of his father’s imminent demise, since the man was mercurial at best and Flyn was, after all was said and done, his father. Gwilym hoped not. Everything was wrapping up so neatly otherwise.
“I think that end might be the pastry end,” Gwenllian was saying as he approached. “Now, listen; they have the grain and flour bins down there, and currently there’s an Erinnish king visiting who likes to push people in, so mind yourself. Anyway – ooh, Gwilym! We were just talking about you. Sort of.”
“I have never pushed anyone into a grain bin!” Gwilym protested indignantly. “That’s Mental Uncle Dara! And if you’d asked I’d have warned you not to invite him.”
“Ha! ‘Sort of’ as in we were actually talking about you earlier,” Gwenllian said as Maelon gently lowered the girl to the ground. “I was telling Lord Maelon and Lady Delyth here about –“
Maelon stepped forward and hugged him, his arms tight and body tense, and Gwilym smiled.
“Thank you,” Maelon said quietly.
“- your sentencing of Flyn!” Gwenllian was saying cheerily. “And they were very impressed.”
“You know all of the details, yes?” Gwilym asked warily. “You do know how extreme it is?”
“Oh, I know,” Maelon grinned savagely. He stepped back and took Delyth’s hand again. “It made it all the better. My mother would like to thank you later, too, if you’d allow it.”
“Happily!” Gwilym said merrily. “Although all thanks should really go to Awen. Have you been told about that?”
“Of course he’s been told, bach,” Gwenllian said, rolling her eyes. “At least three times by at least three different people, not including my official explanation. We’re all going to spend the next Half talking about nothing else.”
“It’s a shame she won’t be my Alpha Wingleader,” Maelon said wistfully. “I would have really liked that.”
“They said we don’t have to run anymore,” Delyth said quietly, watching Gwilym solemnly with her huge child eyes, and everyone looked down at her. “They said we can stop now.”
Well that was heartbreaking, Gwilym reflected. What had happened to this family?
“That’s right,” he said out loud, and smiled, sitting on the floor so he was level with her. “You’re going to settle down now, in Casnewydd. Have you ever been there?”
She shook her head, mutely, and Gwilym nodded thoughtfully.
“Come to think of it,” he told her, “nor have I. But, do you see the three Riders sitting at that table over there?”
He pointed to Adara, Llŷr and Aerona. Aerona waved cheerfully, and impulsively, Delyth waved back, still unsmiling.
“Two of them come from Casnewydd,” Gwilym told her companionably. “Although it’s not their fault, and we mustn’t hold it against them. Even when you hear their accents.”
She giggled finally, and Maelon squeezed her hand, smirking.
“I’m from Casnewydd, you know,” he said in dry reproach, and Gwilym shrugged, unrepentant.
“And we try not to hold it against you,” he nodded somberly, and Delyth giggled again. Gwilym looked back at her, and smiled. “Would you like to meet the Riders, though? They grew up in Casnewydd, so they can tell you all the fun places.”
“Okay,” she said shyly.
She partially hid behind Maelon as they crossed the kitchen, though, and possibly would have stayed if it hadn’t been for Aerona. Who, of course, worked with children. And had Enthusiasm, which was like enthusiasm but more so. Somehow, she knew how to project exactly the right amounts of energy and kindliness to seem fun and nurturing at the same time.
And then, finally, halfway through Adara’s spirited explanation of how to make the cooks in Casnewydd's kitchens give you free cakes and these tiny pastry things with lamb and mint in them that taste like great big deliciouses, apparently, Awen arrived.
The sight of her actually made him catch his breath. Llio had outdone herself with the make-up earlier, leaving Awen’s elfin bone structure looking genuinely Otherworldly and ethereal, and now she was clad in the new dark green of the Low Council, the knot works and embellishments embroidered on in gold thread. The body of the uniform, predictably enough, was as close to the sleeveless, high-collared, close-fitted leather of the Alpha Wingleader standard as she’d been allowed to get away with, the colour the only change; dark greens in subtly different shades had been draped across her slender body, the cut somehow making it look almost like light through a thick forest roof while imperceptibly emphasising the curve of her waist. The boots now reached her thigh, however, laced with the gold embroidery, and the collar was more intricate than he’d ever seen. Which was, Gwilym realised, because Councillors didn’t wear embroidered collars. They wore torques. But Awen –
-was wearing one, actually. It was slim and unadorned, a single band of gold that lined the seam between collar and jerkin, with a clasp that twisted shut at the front. Gwilym smiled, and wondered how much of a battle it had been just to get her to agree to that much. One day she’d be promoted again, and on that day they were going to need to knock her out if they wanted to get a proper torque around her neck. And then they’d need to weld it in place before she woke up.
He stood and walked towards her without really thinking about it. As he neared Awen looked up and saw him, and her smile could have lit up the room.
“Feeling better, now?” Gwilym grinned, striding towards her, and Awen snorted.
“No,” she said dryly. “I feel like I’m in costume –“
He pulled her close and kissed her. He couldn’t help it. It had been a busy few hours, and anyway, Awen looked astonishing. He felt her laugh against his mouth, but predictably, she didn’t pull away.
“- in one of Aerona’s games,” she finished, when Gwilym finally let her, contentedly standing in his arms. She nodded pleasantly to someone over his shoulder. “Councillor.”
“Good, isn’t it?” Gwenllian said cheerfully in Gwilym’s ear. “There’s a coat coming, too, but it takes time for the wardrobe people to make these things. That one’s only a prototype.”
“It’s amazing,” Gwilym smiled, brushing a strand of loose hair back from Awen’s face. It was all loose still, in fact, apart from the two front braids; clearly, Eluned had yet to catch her. “What’s the coat like?”
“Long,” Awen shrugged, and looked vaguely mutinous. “A compromise. They wanted me to wear robes.”
“Really?” He finally looked away from Awen, and stared at Gwenllian. “Robes? You thought that would work?”
“No,” Gwenllian grinned. “I wanted to see her argue. Although I needn’t have bothered, in the end, because she argued so well over the torque anyway. But look, Awen! New Sovereign! Although not yours now, bach. Come back here and meet him once you’re done, he likes you.”
She wandered away again. Awen’s watchful gaze settled on the group by the tables, but her arms settled contentedly around Gwilym’s neck. It was an astonishingly open display of affection from her, he noted happily.
“I assume you’ve spoken to him again, now?” she said conversationally. “Started explaining the important staples of Sovereignty, such as mutant birds and dancing ninjas?”
“Of course not,” Gwilym said, rolling his eyes. “We only got as far as nubile food tasters. It’s a complicated business, you know, there are nuances.”
“I’m sure,” Awen said, and narrowed her eyes. “Adara is telling that small girl the best ways to smuggle rosehips into the main laundry rooms in Casnewydd. Why is this?”
“Um.” Gwilym weighed up his options, and decided that, on the whole, honesty was probably the best policy for him. “Well, that’s Lady Delyth, who is very overwhelmed and I don’t think really understands the concept that she’s safe now, so –“
“So you thought Adara was a good idea?” Awen asked, one eyebrow raised. “The child will be a delinquent within the Half. And it’s nearly over.”
“Children these days,” Gwilym said gravely, shaking his head, and got smacked in the arm for it. “Are you not free now, by the way? Gwenllian said you were to come back –“
“No, actually,” Awen grinned. “I came to fetch you and deliver you unto the clutches of the Morgannwg family, who would like to meet you. To say thank you, don’t worry. You should only need one bodyguard.”
“You’re using your ‘I’m only half-joking’ tone of voice,” Gwilym said nervously. “Why would I -?”
“Oh, well, the son’s alright,” Awen shrugged, and the mischievous edge of that playful streak she had was visible. “It’s just the women, that’s all. They could defend the whole border if the Union ever wanted to go on holiday.”
Reluctantly, Gwilym released his happily tangled grip on Awen’s waist.
“Will you be there?” he asked, as she took his arm and began steering him to the door. “I mean, can I go safe in the knowledge that I can employ my normal self-defence mechanism of jumping behind you if they turn, or is this an ordeal I must face alone in order to prove my worth as a hero?”
“Ha!” They entered the corridors and fell into step easily, Awen automatically slipping back into her informal formality with him. Kitchens were ‘backstage’ in her view, it seemed. “I will be there only for as long as it takes to push you into the room and slam the door. And I will be hiding behind you for even that brief encounter, because they like you.”
“What, but not you?” Gwilym asked, amused. “Why don’t they like you?”
“Well, I tortured their son, for one thing,” Awen muttered. “Slight faux pas, that, when trying to make friends. And my previous Deputy helped to rape the sister, and killed the grandmother. And gave killing the mother a damned good go. Oh, which is a good point – brace yourself. It’s not a pretty sight.”
“Ah.” Gwilym sighed. “Well, I shall console myself with the thought of you giving Flyn the same injuries.”
“You’d be wrong to do so,” Awen told him, leading him down a new corridor. They were heading for the medical centre, if Gwilym was any judge, which he wasn’t. “For two reasons; firstly, you specified that Flyn was to have the same treatment as Nerys. The grandmother.”
“Which was different?”
“Which was worse.” Her smile was a bitter, mocking thing. “She held out for eleven hours, just shy of. There’s a silver lining to that now, at least.”
He’d probably pushed his luck to the limit today of publically throwing his arms around Awen and kissing her and such, Gwilym reflected, so he settled for reaching out and gripping one set of her beads briefly. It was one of those magic Rider gestures that always seemed to work, and possibly it did now; she glanced at him, a smile tugging at her lips, before resuming her casual explanation.
“And secondly,” she continued, “it won’t be me doing it, sadly.”
“Really?” Gwilym looked at her, surprised. “Why not?”
“Because,” Awen said carefully, “I’m not the Alpha Wingleader anymore. It’s out of my jurisdiction, as it were.”
“Oh.” He hadn’t thought of that. “I hadn’t thought of that. So who is doing it?”
“The Casnewydd Beta Wingleader,” Awen said, and grinned. “Until he gets here, anyway. Then he’ll be Alpha Wingleader, which will be a hell of a shock for him, poor lad, but there we are. His name is Ioan,” she added. “And he’s good, you’ll like him. Very thorough.”
“Excellent,” Gwilym declared. They reached the medical centre’s arched doors and the Guard Riders stepped aside, staring reverentially at Awen, who seemed not to notice. “How is he with angry people? I ask with particular reference to angry Sovereigns.”
“Masterful,” Awen said, waving a hand. She moved to the door of a private room. “He even carries a small supply of stress balls and soothing bags of crushed lavender. Right. Brace yourself.”
She knocked, and waited. After a few seconds, the door opened –
-and it was the child who’d tried to kill him, Gwilym realised abruptly. The memory flashed into his mind’s eye, unbidden; the music faltering over the throng of voices, the cloak whirling, the scream of Awen’s chair against the floor, an arrow suddenly in her hand and in front of his chest, quivering, and at the other end of the hall a boy’s face frozen in terror –
Gwilym blinked, and realised that they were both staring in horror at each other.
“Gareth!” Awen said jovially across the embarrassingly tense silence. “Can we come in? Iona wanted to meet Lord Gwilym.”
If anything Gareth actually managed to go paler as he focused on Awen, but he moved aside and pulled the door open. And, admirably, Gwilym felt, given the circumstances, managed to speak.
“Rider,” he told the floor. “Sovereign.”
And gods the Casnewydd accent was weird, Gwilym thought as they stepped into the room. It was the same accent on all of them, and yet depending on who was talking it transformed from a quirky slant to a blunt vowel-mutating drawl. It was tricky to tell from just two words, but Gareth seemed for fall into the latter category, bless him. Awen was definitely in the former.
“Ah, Sovereign!” a sharp voice said, warmly. Gwilym looked up.
Iona was propped up in the bed, and looked, as Marged always liked to say, like she’d been ‘in the wars’, also Gwilym was given to believing that if that was indeed the case it had probably been ‘the Wars’. She seemed to be more bandages than woman, although given that the areas of woman he could see seemed to be either bruised or generally withered from pain and abuse, Gwilym supposed it was a good thing. Both arms were heavily bandaged, in fact, presumably because of their terrible injuries. He’d managed to carefully avoid really absorbing any details so far. He had a sinking feeling that was about to change.
Iona herself, though, in spite of the fact that she was half mummified, had an eye full of blood and was possibly still liable to die, seemed fairly cheerful, and after only a single glance at her piercing gaze Gwilym thought he could already see Awen’s point. The woman looked to have the sort of inner strength that, in civilisation’s darkest hour, could be used not so much to man the barricades as to stand in for them.
“They said you were handsome,” she grinned. Her teeth were broken. “But, I always did like an Erinnish man. Got the accent?”
“Sorry,” Gwilym said. “Not in Cymric, anyway, I can’t even fake it without sounding Roman or something.”
“And that’s the introductions done,” Awen said dryly. “Good! I need to go, and be shouted at a bit more by Councillor Rhydian.”
“He isn’t done yet?” Gwilym asked, aggrieved, and she laughed.
“Not by half,” she said. “He might even hit me again, if he’s in a particularly bad mood. Anyway –“
“They said he’s going to be tortured,” a voice said, and Gwilym turned to get his first look at Alis Morgannwg.
She was sitting by the window on the wide windowsill seat, her knees drawn up to her chest and her arms wrapped around herself. Her clothes were clean, but shapeless and over-large, trousers and a jumper that swamped her. She didn’t look away from the window, and her hair hung down and hid the side of her face that they might have seen anyway, but it wasn’t hard to guess the state she’d be in. About an inch of skin showed at her wrists, and Gwilym winced at the finger-shaped bruises slowly fading there.
“Flyn?” Awen asked. Her tone was her normal, light, talking-to-official-people-with-the-shields-up tone, no additional gentleness or pity. Gwilym marvelled at it. “Yes, he is. In the same way your grandmother was.”
Alis’ snort of laughter was hard, and grim, and immensely satisfied.
“Good,” she said, nodding jerkily. “Yes. Good. I want to watch.”
“That can be arranged.” Awen crossed over to the window and stood the other side of it from Alis, leaning easily against the wall. “If you want, there’s a chance you’d be allowed to do some of it.”
“Yeah?” Alis moved her head slightly as she glanced at Awen, before the window drew her back. “Yeah. That would be good. What?”
“Well, castrating him for one thing,” Awen said casually, rubbing a probably-still-aching shoulder. Alis laughed harshly, and Gwilym noticed Iona’s satisfied chuckle. “There’s a long line of people requesting the honour, but you’d certainly get to queue jump on that one. Otherwise… let’s think. Oh, you could burn him a few times. That doesn’t require any special skills.”
“What does?”
“Dislocating elbows,” Awen sighed. “That’s tricky.”
“I noticed that,” Iona remarked cynically from the bed. Gwilym winced. Please, he thought; please let no one else start listing horrific injuries.
“Can’t we burn him all over?” Gareth asked suddenly, and proving in Gwilym's head that the boy was a macabre sadist who needed a good whipping, although as someone who'd nearly died by Gareth's hand he probably wasn't objective. “Burn him alive?”
“No.” Awen gave a wry smile, and glanced at Gwilym. “Lord Gwilym was the one who passed the sentence, and he was very specific that Flyn should suffer ‘every nuance’ that your grandmother did. Which also means he'll be shipped back to Casnewydd for it, so that we can employ the same cell in the ordeal.”
“Ha.” Iona grinned up at the ceiling. “Good man! It’s perfect. I wanted to thank you for that, Sovereign. I think it’s the best result I could have asked for.”
“You’re very welcome,” Gwilym nodded. “Although I’m thinking I missed a trick now. I should have also ordered a string of attractive people to surround him as he’s being castrated whose role it is to simply point and laugh.”
“Can I do that?” Iona laughed, and then winced. Probably a broken rib or two, Gwilym reflected glumly. “Mind, laughing isn’t easy for me right now. Worth it, though.”
“I’ll have it arranged,” Awen said, her tone dry. She straightened, and looked at Alis. “And I have to go. But; Alis. I can now officially extend to you the Union’s thanks for helping to bring about Flyn’s conviction. We couldn’t have done it without that file you got.”
And finally, Alis turned and looked at her, and Gwilym stared. As suspected, she was bruised; a black eye had faded to shades of greenish-yellow, the lid still slightly swollen, a dark purple mark still prominent down her cheek and across her clearly broken nose. There was a stitched cut healing across her forehead. And all of that was only his second thought, because before he had chance to notice it he saw her eyes.
They burned.
“Thank you,” she said unsteadily, watching Awen. Awen bowed to her.
“Thank you,” she returned, her voice still so easy. How was she doing it? Gwilym thought, dazed. He wanted to tiptoe around Alis, as though she was made of glass. He was definitely going to offend her, he just knew it.
“Before you go, Rider,” Iona said suddenly, “I owe you an apology.”
Awen stiffened slightly.
“No you don’t,” she said neutrally, and moved towards the door, and Gwilym moved automatically. He sprang against the door and flung his arms across it, halting her mid-stride with one eyebrow raised in exasperated amusement.
“No,” he told her as she opened her mouth to speak. “You’re doing it again, you emotional cripple. Listen to the nice lady.”
“You have been spending far too much time with Lady Marged,” Awen told him, shaking her head, and sighed, turning back to a chuckling Iona. “I’m serious. You really don’t.”
“Do you even know what I’m apologising for?” Iona asked, amused.
“Do you remember that I tortured your son?” Awen returned wearily. “Seriously. You owe me nothing.”
“You didn’t hurt me, though,” Gareth offered. “And you got me out.”
“Oh, which reminds me,” Awen said, glancing back at Gwilym. “You have in your employ two extremely sadistic and retarded prison guards who don’t provide their prisoners with basic medical attention.”
“Good grief, have I?” Gwilym asked, mildly. “I shall fire them forthwith, as soon as someone tells me who they are.”
“You came to get us out,” Iona said, quietly, and Awen went still, defeated. “You came in to get us out, Mam and me, having saved Gareth and ready to get Alis, and do you remember what I said to you?”
“Yes,” Awen said, and Gwilym wondered in fascination what it was. “And you were in a staggering amount of pain, and had just discovered that your mother was dead, and had been betrayed by a Rider. Really. I don’t hold it against you.”
“You should,” Iona said shortly. “None of that is an excuse.”
“Yes it is,” Awen sighed. “I’ve had far worse shouted at me, and by far worse people. You were understandably angry, and I’m thick-skinned, don’t worry. But I appreciate the thought.”
“Hmm.” Iona regarded her for a moment, and then sniffed and leaned back against her pillows, closing her eyes. “Best I’ll get, I suppose. Alright. Go, then.”
“Thanks,” Awen muttered dryly, and she bowed to Gwilym as he realised he was still plastered melodramatically across the door and removed himself. “Sovereign.”
Once she’d gone, it was Alis who asked.
“What did you say?” she said, her voice distant. She was watching the countryside out of the window again, but her shoulders were less hunched, her back slightly straighter.
“Nothing I’m proud of,” Iona said shortly. “Gareth, get the Sovereign a chair, boy. Don’t just stand.”
“Sorry,” Gareth mumbled, and pulled a chair over to the bedside. He was just so… meek, Gwilym thought glumly. He was finding himself irritated by it. His mother no longer had any fingernails and couldn’t use her right arm and his sister had been beaten, raped and kept in isolation for days, and both of them seemed to have twice the spine. Even his dead grandmother seemed to be stronger than him. Whereas all Gareth had done was, lest anyone forget, try to commit murder. Gwilym was having to fight the urge to tell him to man up or get out.
“Thank you,” he said instead, and then settled for ignoring him while settling on the chair. “So, do you have any plans, yet? For after this?”
“No,” Iona sighed, and smiled. “Too many factors at the minute. They might have to amputate my right arm, still, we don’t want to rush Alis, we don’t know how much is left for us back home…”
“You should move,” Gwilym nodded sagaciously. “Have a fresh start. Have you considered Aberystwyth? It has a beach and no Saxons. Does Casnewydd have a beach?”
“No,” Iona laughed. “Just dangerous mud-flats. Does Aberystywth have a giant roof over its market square?”
“No,” Gwilym said sulkily, and then brightened up. “But, can I interest you in an impressive new healthcare scheme paid for by the City?”
He could, as it turned out. The path of the conversation was predictable from there.
********
Eventually, the weirdness of the day found him dodging an angry Mental Uncle Dara demanding the chance to punch Flyn and retreating to the Wing Quarters where he ended up standing outside on the balcony with an astonishingly pretty Adara, watching the evening sun sinking towards the horizon. The rest of the Wing had finally returned, and touchingly, Gwilym now seemed to be fully integrated; Meurig had offered him a game of gwyddbwyll, and Llio had tried to do his make-up. He was vaguely wondering if he could get some sort of honorary uniform.
“And then they whip you just to be sure,” Adara was saying amicably, finishing a horrifying and distressing story about their collected childhood that Gwilym had mercifully managed to miss most of the details from. “Although I’m relatively certain that’s only been policy since Eifion got promoted way back whenever. Ooh, there’s a happy thought – he can’t hurt Awen anymore! Directly.”
“Can’t he?” Gwilym asked, surprised. “Councillors have immunity?”
“Well, of a sort,” Adara shrugged. “Their punishments needed to be voted on, and the others aren’t psychotic crazies who’d happily feed their mother her own feet, you see. Unofficially. Damn. I shouldn’t have said that.”
“Startlingly, I don’t intend to tell,” Gwilym grinned. “And I heartily agree. I saw his face with Awen earlier.”
Fingers touched his arm, and Gwilym glanced across. Adara was looking at him intently, her impeccably made-up eyes burning.
“Thank you,” she said, her voice low and intense. Gwilym smiled, threw caution to the wind and wrapped his arm around her shoulders. Riders were tactile creatures, he reflected fondly, as evidenced by Adara’s response being to lean into him; although it was probably good that he hadn’t tried it before now, when she would probably have removed his arm.
“You’re very welcome,” he said gently. “Although really, I still owe her. I’ve only saved her once compared to her twice saving me. There’s a discrepancy.”
“It’s her job, you deviant,” Adara said, rolling her eyes. “Honestly, it’s like you’ve never been to this country.”
“I mostly grew up in Erinn under a madman,” Gwilym said proudly. “This makes me exotic and attractive to people, and has long been a boon to my sex life.”
“Really?”
“No,” Gwilym mused. “I always hoped it would, but actually I think it just made me a tourist everywhere. Prospective partners just offered me guidebooks.”
Adara laughed, somewhat cruelly, Gwilym felt, given that Riders famously had fantastic sex lives in which they never had to worry about getting someone to actually agree and stop shouting ‘Help!’ after the first smile. Although that part probably did happen to them, come to think of it, but only on the battlefield, and that really wasn’t the same at all.
“You’re bloody weird for a Sovereign, you know,” she said merrily, and winced. “Unofficially. Argh. I keep saying things to you.”
“When I first met you you glared at me solidly for half an hour,” Gwilym told her darkly. “And your bird. It did not settle my post-assassination nerves, I can tell you. Saying things is a vast improvement from my angle.”
“Goodness, did I really?” Adara said mildly. She stepped away from him, leaned an arm out over the parapet and whistled. There was a pause, and then a bird with a wingspan as long as a door swept upwards and onto her arm as though she’d just summoned one of Rhiannon’s messengers from Annwfn. Gwilym stared at its mad eyes. “Sorry about that. Bad day at work, you know how it is. This is Gwenhwyfar.”
And before he could scream or run away she transferred the red kite to his shoulder, and Gwilym froze while trying not to bow under the damn thing’s weight. She carried it on her wrist? No arm-wrestling Adara, he vowed mentally. Ever.
“She’s amazing,” Adara was saying affectionately, running the back of a finger obliviously down the bird’s breast. “Hand reared; she’s about three now, I think. She was the first I trained myself.”
“Well done,” Gwilym swallowed, staring at the talons, entranced. They were the length of most people’s fingers, he was sure of it. “Er… my brother told me once that if you look them in the eye they’ll peck your eyes out…”
“Did he?” Adara said, her tone expressing in no uncertain terms what she thought of Iago’s intelligence in the matter of birds. “So if he’d sat on a bear’s shoulder would he have tried poking it in the eye?”
“Probably,” Gwilym sighed. “He was a bit of an idiot, got to be honest. She won’t, though?”
“No,” Adara snorted. “She just… stares like a predator, that’s all. Some people find that a bit unsettling when they first see it.”
Gwilym looked at Gwenhwyfar, who glared imperially back.
“Yes,” he said distantly, after a moment. “I see it. If I were smaller and furrier she’d have eaten me by now, but she won’t because of the luck of size.”
“Exactly,” Adara grinned, stroking her again. “She’s a wild animal. Although she’s a big softie really.”
“You’re totally going to be a crazy cat lady when you’re older,” Gwilym told her, and Adara laughed. “By the way: congratulations. Really. The collar suits you.”
“Oh shut up,” she said, rolling her eyes. “It’s a nightmare. I had to submit to an hour of beauty therapy for the purposes of Morale. Caradog and Eluned still have hold of Llŷr. I now understand Awen’s pain.”
“In fairness you look amazing,” Gwilym offered, but predictably this was brushed aside. Someone who’d never know what they looked like would also never care one way or the other.
“An hour,” she repeated darkly. “It’s the one torture Eifion’s never found. Anyway: what’s your favourite colour?”
“Green,” Gwilym said. “Why?”
“How do you feel about religion?”
“Er, I’m old-fashioned and liberal,” Gwilym said. “Why?”
“What do you think are the three most important things in a relationship?”
“Um.” He thought for a second. “Honesty, fair communication and support. Why?”
“How old were you when you went travelling?”
“Seventeen,” Gwilym shrugged. “Thereabouts. Why?”
“Why?”
“What?”
“Why did you go?”
“Oh.” He thought about that, too. “Because I wanted to learn. About people. About me, about… everything. I wanted answers. I ask a lot of questions, you see. Primarily: why?”
“How do you feel about Cymru?”
Gwilym paused, and glanced at Gwenhwyfar’s disinterested hauteur.
“If I give the wrong answer will you sic her on me?” he asked suspiciously, and Adara grinned, although like a shark and so not comfortingly.
“Definitely!” she said brightly. “How do you feel about Cymru?”
“I love it,” he said honestly. “I loved travelling, but I think I was only a month away before it started calling me back. And for all our problems, we compare extremely favourably to just about every other nation I went to. We embrace change.” He shrugged. “That’s the most valuable attribute a nation can have, I think. It’s why I want to get a university here, because as soon as we do…”
They watched the mountains, rolling and rising away from them, gilded by the late sun.
“The things we will do,” Gwilym said quietly, smiling. “The things we will achieve, Adara. There’ll be no stopping us.”
Her smile played softly across her face for a moment, and she nodded slightly to herself. Gwilym relaxed. She didn’t seem to be about to throw him over the balcony, anyway, so he guessed he’d gotten away with it.
“Why?” he asked, and Adara stirred out of her happy country-loving reverie.
“Why did you do the clinic?” she asked.
“Oh you sound just like my father,” Gwilym muttered. “Because the poor have to labour just to live, and so need their limbs intact more than the rich. Because they were suffering and dying otherwise and I could do something about it. Why?”
“Why do you like helping?”
“Because we should,” Gwilym said blankly, so shocked he forgot to ask why. Adara grinned.
“Old-fashioned and religious,” she said, apparently to herself, or maybe her bird. “I remember. Is it just that, though? Duty?”
“Definitely not,” Gwilym snorted. “Because it’s not duty at all, it’s right. But I like doing it anyway. I like it when people are happy. I believe people deserve to be happy. Why?”
“How old are you?”
“Twenty-six and three quarters. Why?”
“Do you want children one day?”
He groaned and rubbed a hand over an eye.
“No one is going to stop asking me this,” Gwilym said glumly. “Gods. Right now, no. Maybe one day. I don’t particularly care if they’re mine genetically, though. Why?”
“Do you like being a Sovereign?”
“No. Why?”
“Really?” Adara looked at him, apparently vaguely alarmed at the news that someone should be experiencing job dissatisfaction. Gwilym shrugged.
“No,” he said wryly. “My Extremely Vague Long-Term Plan is that I manage to hammer out a working model of democracy, set it up in Aberystwyth and then leave to become a lecturer in my university. Or I might become a clerk and follow Awen about for the rest of my life. Or join your Wing as a mascot and masseur.”
In the strongest sign of acceptance he’d had from her so far Adara’s face actually brightened slightly at the last sentence, which gave Gwilym a lovely warm glow as though she was a teacher who’d just told him he was a Very Clever Young Man.
“Why?” he concluded. Adara regarded him thoughtfully.
“You’re anti-torture,” she stated mildly. Gwilym looked at her.
“Yes,” he said slowly. “Why?”
“Does it bother you that Awen is a torturer?”
“Ah.” He ran his free hand through his hair, the other currently being weighed down by a bird. “Well, it’d be a lie to say I was fine with it.”
“But?”
“But,” he sighed. “I know her. I have a very good idea of the kinds of methods she’d use. You told me yourself, before, that she very rarely has to actually hurt someone. And it’s not her fault.”
“Hmm.” Adara watched him for a moment and then nodded, satisfied. “Good good. I’m a great big hungry, I wonder if there’s food yet…?”
And that seemed to be that. She wandered back into the lolfa, leaving Gwilym vaguely confused and with a one-and-a-half metre bird on his shoulder. He stared after her for a second and then snorted, and turned back to the vista below.
“Riders,” he told Gwenhwyfar, “are totally insane, aren’t they?”
She gave a low, whistling call, and Gwilym took it as agreement.
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