Categories > Original > Historical > That of a First and Only Love
Prologue
There was something comforting about the heavy scent of hemlock in the glade, to that Dow could attend firmly. He looked around with heavy eyes, listening to the quiet murmur of the Priest, his hands folded behind his back.
Llewellyn's body was stiff. His eyes stared at the sky through the break in the trees. Dow wanted nothing more than to rush over, to sob, to cover those breathlessly blue eyes and demand that everyone else leave them to peace.
His fists clenched. He cast a swift glance to the Priest, wishing he would hurry his words and prayers and murmurs.
Llewellyn's wife and sons stood across from him on the circle. The youngest boy, who looked so very much like his father, would come of age soon. Rhia had not asked him to come to the festives, and to that, Dow was not surprised; she had always hated and begrudged her husband's attachments, even after he had sworn his dedication to her.
But Rhia was a daughter of Rhiannon, and Sin. Her pride and jealousy were expected of by her Mothers.
Dow wondered if her sons still bore that same hatred toward him.
The Priest finished speaking. He rang a clear bell, and stepped toward the pyre, jangling a bag of coins. Attendants wove bundles of smudge through the air above and around Llewellyn's body, chanting softly the prayers of the Dagda. Coins were placed over Llewellyn's unseeing eyes, and the Priest called Rhia and her sons into the circle.
No one acknowledged Dow's presence, until all the other family and friends were spent with their grief and had left. The Priest looked over at him, cocking a silver brow, waving at the body absently.
Dow's knees shook. He knelt beside the pyre, his head barely clearing the wood, and he grasped Llewellyn's hand, squeezing it desperately, silently pleading with the Old Ones that this wasn't happening, that this wasn't real-just a dream, just a possibility of what could happen when they woke.
But they did not wake. He rose with tears in his eyes, and kissed his fingers, pressing them to Llewellyn's brow, his navel, and his feet, as he passed.
He watched from the edge of the grove as the Priest lit the pyre, stilled himself from the revelry he could hear to watch the building flames.
He wondered just what would happen if he threw himself upon those flames. Slowly, he entered the clearing, and approached the brilliant blaze, watching the thick plumes and inhaling the acrid smoke deep into his lungs. His fingers brushed a flashing blossom of fire, and he pulled them back with a cringe.
Across the flames, he could see Llewellyn's eldest son. He would be married at Bealtaine, married off to the daughter of the man whom had killed his father.
It was a sad sight, to see that noble-looking man standing there, worrying a nail on his teeth, standing all a-kilter, silent tears running over his cheeks. It was a sad sight, to know such a handsome youth would be spent on the daughter of a murderer.
Dow did not attend Llewellyn's Passing Over. He wandered through the village listlessly, entered his house, and collapsed on his bed with a groan of self-detestment, curling around himself and staring helplessly at a spot on the floor, as though it would spring to life as a Naiad and tell him all he wished to know on the matters of the Old Ones and why they had stolen his love away to Tir na-nOg.
There was no such hope.
He wondered if he could have changed it. If he had prayed a little harder to Arca Dubh before the battle, if he had brought him upon his and Llewellyn's weapons and shields, could he have saved Llewellyn from the other tribe? Or would he only have replaced himself for his companion in the next world?
There was no comfort in thinking such things. Dow climbed from his bed, and stood at the tiny window that looked over the square, watching the bale fire and the way it turned his hands to copper and gold and claret.
The anger in him made him sick. He turned away, swallowing his tears vehemently, trying not to remember that it had been he, not Rhia, whom Llewellyn had spent the night with before his death.
He brushed a finger over his besom, and sighed absently, shoving a lock of hair behind his ear as he grabbed his chalice-the chalice Llewellyn had given him when he'd said he was handfasting to Rhia, as a promise of charishment from afar-spinning the graceful stem between his fingers.
He wondered, idly, how much he could get for it if he sold it to the damnable Romans for their pretty gold coins. It didn't really matter.
The bed called to him, strewn and desolate though it was, and he curled willingly in it, trying to forget all the madness that had led to this day.
There was something comforting about the heavy scent of hemlock in the glade, to that Dow could attend firmly. He looked around with heavy eyes, listening to the quiet murmur of the Priest, his hands folded behind his back.
Llewellyn's body was stiff. His eyes stared at the sky through the break in the trees. Dow wanted nothing more than to rush over, to sob, to cover those breathlessly blue eyes and demand that everyone else leave them to peace.
His fists clenched. He cast a swift glance to the Priest, wishing he would hurry his words and prayers and murmurs.
Llewellyn's wife and sons stood across from him on the circle. The youngest boy, who looked so very much like his father, would come of age soon. Rhia had not asked him to come to the festives, and to that, Dow was not surprised; she had always hated and begrudged her husband's attachments, even after he had sworn his dedication to her.
But Rhia was a daughter of Rhiannon, and Sin. Her pride and jealousy were expected of by her Mothers.
Dow wondered if her sons still bore that same hatred toward him.
The Priest finished speaking. He rang a clear bell, and stepped toward the pyre, jangling a bag of coins. Attendants wove bundles of smudge through the air above and around Llewellyn's body, chanting softly the prayers of the Dagda. Coins were placed over Llewellyn's unseeing eyes, and the Priest called Rhia and her sons into the circle.
No one acknowledged Dow's presence, until all the other family and friends were spent with their grief and had left. The Priest looked over at him, cocking a silver brow, waving at the body absently.
Dow's knees shook. He knelt beside the pyre, his head barely clearing the wood, and he grasped Llewellyn's hand, squeezing it desperately, silently pleading with the Old Ones that this wasn't happening, that this wasn't real-just a dream, just a possibility of what could happen when they woke.
But they did not wake. He rose with tears in his eyes, and kissed his fingers, pressing them to Llewellyn's brow, his navel, and his feet, as he passed.
He watched from the edge of the grove as the Priest lit the pyre, stilled himself from the revelry he could hear to watch the building flames.
He wondered just what would happen if he threw himself upon those flames. Slowly, he entered the clearing, and approached the brilliant blaze, watching the thick plumes and inhaling the acrid smoke deep into his lungs. His fingers brushed a flashing blossom of fire, and he pulled them back with a cringe.
Across the flames, he could see Llewellyn's eldest son. He would be married at Bealtaine, married off to the daughter of the man whom had killed his father.
It was a sad sight, to see that noble-looking man standing there, worrying a nail on his teeth, standing all a-kilter, silent tears running over his cheeks. It was a sad sight, to know such a handsome youth would be spent on the daughter of a murderer.
Dow did not attend Llewellyn's Passing Over. He wandered through the village listlessly, entered his house, and collapsed on his bed with a groan of self-detestment, curling around himself and staring helplessly at a spot on the floor, as though it would spring to life as a Naiad and tell him all he wished to know on the matters of the Old Ones and why they had stolen his love away to Tir na-nOg.
There was no such hope.
He wondered if he could have changed it. If he had prayed a little harder to Arca Dubh before the battle, if he had brought him upon his and Llewellyn's weapons and shields, could he have saved Llewellyn from the other tribe? Or would he only have replaced himself for his companion in the next world?
There was no comfort in thinking such things. Dow climbed from his bed, and stood at the tiny window that looked over the square, watching the bale fire and the way it turned his hands to copper and gold and claret.
The anger in him made him sick. He turned away, swallowing his tears vehemently, trying not to remember that it had been he, not Rhia, whom Llewellyn had spent the night with before his death.
He brushed a finger over his besom, and sighed absently, shoving a lock of hair behind his ear as he grabbed his chalice-the chalice Llewellyn had given him when he'd said he was handfasting to Rhia, as a promise of charishment from afar-spinning the graceful stem between his fingers.
He wondered, idly, how much he could get for it if he sold it to the damnable Romans for their pretty gold coins. It didn't really matter.
The bed called to him, strewn and desolate though it was, and he curled willingly in it, trying to forget all the madness that had led to this day.
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