FicWad

Chapter Five


It was the eve of his twenty-first birthday when the day of Llewellyn's handfasting was announced to the village, with much praise and glamor around the entire event. Dow had moved from Draga and Edain's home, too conflicted to stay any longer; they had not impeded.

He did not attend the feast of Llewellyn's handfasting, but sat in his new, small home, looking about, wondering what foul things would come home to roost if he were to bewitch and overpower the woman who was to take Llewellyn from him.

He turned his head at the soft sound at his door opening. Llewellyn lifted a finger to his lips, though there was no need; the shutters were tightly closed, and there was no one else about to notice their meeting.

Dow smiled sadly, turning around to look up at Llewellyn from the floor. Llewellyn smiled back sadly; his face was covered in dark paints in intricate knots, half concealing the blemishes of his work as a warrior.

Lifting a hand slowly and raising to his knees, Dow began to smear away the paints, murmuring nonsense as Llewellyn knelt before him, draping his arms casually over his shoulders and ducking his eyes.

"I'm sorry."

"Do you love her?" Llewellyn shrugged a little. Dow lifted his chin, and gave him a demanding stare, until the ginger sighed softly.

"I haven't known her long enough to know if I do or not."

"Will you love her, then?" His blue eyes glimmered with unshed tears, but Dow's dark gaze did not relent. Llewellyn kissed him, cradling his face in his hands and rubbing his thumbs along the curve of his chin gently.

He pulled away, and softly vowed that his love lay with Dow, stealing a fleeting kiss. Paint had smeared on Dow's nose and cheek and chin in dark smudges which Llewellyn swept away with his sleeve.

Dow shook his head a little, standing and striding away from Llewellyn; he stood, and followed him, grabbing his arm and pushing him against a lintel.

"Why do you worry so? I have bent to my father's wills, and taken a wife. He will not ask of me anything else."

"He will ask you a son," Dow pointed out. Llewellyn shrugged.

"Than I will bed with Rhia once, and that is all. And for all other things, I shall come to you." He caressed Dow's cheek gently, kissing him again. "I do not love this woman, Dow."

"And my father did not love my mother," Dow murmured bitterly, turning his head away. He looked back to Llewellyn slowly, a bare shift of the eyes toward the older man, who stood, seeming shy and out of place. "He told me to never make his mistake. And I will not."

He grabbed Llewellyn's hands, kneeling before him and staring up at him powerfully. "Do not take this woman, 'wellyn."

"What will we do?"

"We'll leave. Now. Tonight."

Llewellyn stared down at Dow, lifting a brow slowly. Dow rose slowly, draping his arms slowly about Llewellyn's shoulders, nuzzling his neck gently. He sighed, and deflated against the older man's firm chest.

"Dow . . . where would we go? They would find us, you know. If not now than later."

"I know," Dow whispered, his fingers clenching into Llewellyn's shirt. He looked up at him, nearly desperate. His eyes glimmered with tears, one straying down his cheek; Llewellyn lifted his hand, brushing it away and smiling, caressing his cheek gently.

The door opened, and a young woman stepped in, looking around with a wrinkled nose. She was older than them both, though not by much, with hair paler and more golden than Llewellyn's own, though her eyes were the same brilliant kingfisher.

Eyes which focused on them sharply, taking in the way Dow was wrapped around Llewellyn; the way Llewellyn's hand rested on the younger man's cheek lovingly; they sprung apart, Llewellyn stepping toward the woman with an appeasing gesture.

"Rhia-."

"Who's this?" she demanded, pointing a lean, sharp finger toward Dow, as though mortally scorned by the sight she'd walked in on. Dow sighed, and crossed his arms over his chest.

Before he could speak, Llewellyn uttered quietly, "No one. Come away with me Rhia." Dow sneered a little when Llewellyn cast him apologetic look his way, leading the woman out of his home.

A small clay bowl broke against the wall from his pitch. He cursed, and flopped against the wall, sliding down and curling his knees up, ducking behind them; his arms rose, hiding his face from the darkness that pervaded the roomThe counsel of the village was small but poignant. Fionn was on it, as well as Edain and Uryen, and Dow stood before it with a bit more confidence in his voice than in his heart. He spoke of men in red and white, coming across the land on horses larger than any they had seen, speaking a language that not one of them could understand.

There had been rumors of such men for years, but none as far east and north as they sat. The counsel was quiet in the deliberation. After a time, they bid Dow to chose a group of other warriors to go and see that there was no harm to come from the strange men.

As he deliberated over his choice, he thought of degrading Llewellyn's good warrior standing in favor of taking along a less detracting member of the village-Alden's younger brother sprung fitfully to mind. But Dow could not bring himself to it; he had seen Llewellyn in battle against Woads, and had known his deadly accurate axe and bow beside him.

It was set, he supposed. With him would go Seamus and Drostan, both fine and worthy warriors in their own rights; Roland, Alden's younger brother; Kai, a fitfully young boy who had taken to Gwendol; and Llewellyn.

Fionn objected the last, and Edain the first. Uryen looked at Dow with a fitful eye, wondering what had come over the boy that had so long looked at him with such a silent admiration.

After a time, the counsel agreed to the assignment, and called the others as Dow retired to his house. He sat below the window, staring at the chalice yet again, watching the candle light flicker over the soft pewter tones and sharply relieved engraving. He listened to the door opening without any real knowledge of the happening, keeping his eyes on that simply intricate etching.

"Why, little elf. Look at you! It's as if you've fallen to the faeries. What's wrong?"

Irving's deep voice made him look up. He tried to smile, but it became a faltering grimace on his lips. The older man cooed softly, and sat before him, pulling him into a comforting embrace and stroking his hair.

Dow sobbed for a while, but managed, after a time, to quietly ask, "What would you have done, if Uryen had taken a wife?"

"I would have struck his fool head against his own table, and reminded him why he fell in love with me in the first place," Irving jested, pulling away and offering the tiniest of smiles. He brushed away Dow's tears, stroking his cheeks gently. "This is about Llewellyn and Rhia. Why do you worry so much? He is faithful to your heart."

"It doesn't seem so."

With a light chuckle, Irving slapped Dow's cheek gently. "No, I suppose it wouldn't. Come, speak to me of these things. Let an old man see what he can find in your worries."

"You are not so old, friend," Dow reminded, settling into a more comfortable position on the ground; if he were to speak with Irving, it would be a long tale. Irving chuckled a little, and pulled at the silver lacing his dark hair.

"Not so old," he repeated softly, and shook his head. He curled his knees to his chest, and wrapped his arms about them. "Come along then. Tell me all that is the matter with the world. There are not so many nights left before you go off, elf."

Dow began slowly, unsure of what to say, and from a night nearly two years prior, when, under the light of a full Samhain moon, Llewellyn had professed his deep love. It traveled smoothly from there, through battle and begrieved moments of inexplicable anger and jealousy; he spoke of seeing Llewellyn so openly flippant of their relations; but also of Llewellyn telling his father that he had no wish for anyone other.

The narrative ended with the proclamation of Llewellyn's nearly brash dismissal before Rhia, and Dow was distantly aware that he was crying again. Irving caressed his cheek gently, cooing a soft dove-cry of words that were not quite their own.

"Perhaps he could do with some swift thump to the head. The butt of a sword would be good for that." Dow gave Irving a sharp, watery look, and somehow summoned a soggy laugh, shaking his head. Irving shook his head a little, and softly said, "We are all unsure of our love at times. Think you I was so accepting, to walk upon Uryen and Gwyn in an act I had found my own for so many years?"

Dow blinked at Irving; he'd never asked how that had come about, of course, finding it none of his business. To know that shy, reclusive Gwyn had come upon a man of engagement and honor was a surprising one. That Uryen had allowed it was appalling.

The knowledge that Irving had not done in both their skulls was, for a moment, a reassurance. He leaned against Irving, who hummed softly, stroking Dow's dark hair.

"Do not worry of such things as a women, little elf. Llewellyn knows you well, and knows your heart."

"My father knew Sion's." Irving sighed, and shook his head.

"You put too much faith in the stories of Draga and Sion; that is why you are so worried then. You see yourself in them. I will tell you this, as I have heard it from Uryen, who knew it from his older brother-he died before I was along. Sion was a jealous man, one who demanded Draga's obedience. If I say, Draga did well to beget your Seamus and loose himself of Sion."

"Draga loved Sion," Dow objected, and Irving nodded in agreement, consenting the point to him.

"That he did. But Sion's was to such a degree as obsession. Excess is the falling of men, Dow, and never forget that." He softened his eyes a little, and kissed Dow gently upon the lips, a brotherly, chaste lock. Their foreheads bumped, and he smiled. "Women cannot know men as we know each other. They do not think the same. Wolves and horses, little elf, and nothing more."

"I am not a wolf," Dow grumbled. Irving slapped his cheek, and stood, stretching.

"You may yet be." And with that, he winked, and departed from Dow's presence, leaving the young man to ponder just what exactly the older man had meant."They are a strange pewter folk. What do you think of them, Drostan?"

"I think they should get the hell off my land and leave my family in peace." There were sparse, nervous chuckles from the other men.

Llewellyn ran his whet stone over the blade of his axe, quiet and somber, humming soft, slow reels under his breath. Roland spoke softly of Gwendol with Seamus, speaking of wishing to take her when they returned. Drostan and Kai bantered of the strangers.

Dow sat outside the ring of light, at the flap of his and Llewellyn's tent. It faced out, toward the valley where the strangers roosted, and was chilled with the fire a safe distance away. He wrapped his cloak protectively around himself, scratching just under the pelt that protected his shins and ankles from the cold, and regretted such an urgent call.

From the look of the skies, and from Kai's castings, there would be snow very soon. Dow dreaded both the stay above the valley, and the long trek back to the village when they had learned all they could.

Roland sat beside Dow in silence, and stared up at the stars. He was, perhaps, barely seventeen, with golden hair the same as Alden, and large eyes that glimmered a dark iron when the sun was in them; now they were pure quicksilver as he looked over at Dow with a quiet smile on his slim face.

"You are woed, brother," he spoke, softly, grabbing Dow's hand and squeezing gently. "Whatever is the matter with your heart?"

"Nothing to trouble such a brownie as yourself," Dow murmured, offering a smile of his own and ruffling Roland's hair affectionately. He was a sweet child, for all things, even if he was a bit slow. Dow was glad he had brought him along; he brought a good, light air to the camp.

"Kai will be casting again soon. Will you watch? The circle will seem odd without you." Dow shrugged a little, and sighed softly.

"I don't think I shall. The castings put me ill at ease with Epona's powers some days. I'll stay from the circle until all is done." His eyes, unknowingly, had drifted back to their little group, and settled on Llewellyn. Roland blinked at him, and then at Llewellyn, and then he cooed softly, an almost mocking sound, mixed with laughter.

"Avoiding your lady-love?"

"Shut your mouth, Brother Roland, or I will shut it for you." Roland raised his hands in the face of the angry growl, and shook his head with a laugh. He stood, and wandered away, blocking Llewellyn from Dow's sights for a moment.

When he was back in Dow's sights, he was looking up and over. Dow turned his face away, feeling his face color and heat.

Llewellyn left the circle, and slid into the tent without speaking to Dow. He sat there in the dark; they listened to the almost muffled voices of their fellows.

His nose pushed aside his cloak hood and collar, and warm, thin lips sought the cool flesh of his neck. He shrugged the older man off, and looked over his shoulder at him angrily.

"Don't you have a woman to think of now?"

"Dow," he murmured, his voice half begging. His arms wrapped slowly and gently around Dow's waist, pulling him back into the tent with a tumble, chuckling very softly.

He kissed him, gentle and loving, and pulled away to wriggle atop Dow and stare at him powerfully. Dow looked away, and refused to be swayed by insistent fingers on his chin and feathering kisses to his person. Llewellyn sighed close to his ear, worrying the lobe between his teeth.

He grumbled, "What have I done to deserve your hatred, my little stag?"

"I do not hate you," Dow growled, finally looking up at Llewellyn. He grabbed his face, and held him still, frowning up at him almost angrily. "That's exactly the problem. I don't hate you. I can't. Give me a reason, 'wellyn. Give me a reason that I should push you aside as Sion did Draga. Give me a reason to say no to you."

"What if I don't want you to?" Dow shook his head, sitting up and pushing Llewellyn away from him, scowling.

"That isn't the point!" he snarled, shoving Llewellyn again, though it didn't budge him much. "That isn't the point, 'wellyn! You are with a woman, and she will be with child soon. You will be a father, and what am I? Tristan to your Isolde, to face the wrath of Mark? I would rather not face those odds."

"What odds would you face?" Llewellyn asked, leaning in and stealing a kiss. "Would you be Naoise to Deirdre?"

"Naoise dies. I would not."

"What of Arthur and Guinevere?"

"More that I were Lancelot, swayed by Guinevere and her woeful beauty." He kissed his lover then, pushing him back against their bedding, tossing his hair out of his eyes. "Would you have me be these lovers losing half?"

"And what of Garient and Enid?" Llewellyn asked, surging forward and kissing Dow hungrily. He pulled away slowly, lingering his lips along those of his lover. "Their love grew, and triumphed."

"They had no one to block them," Dow grumbled, his hands fisted to Llewellyn's shoulders. His lower half ground against Llewellyn's, drawing forth the tiniest of sounds from the ginger's parted lips. "There is no love without hardship."

"Than be Tristan to my Isolde," Llewellyn whispered plaintively, petting Dow's cheeks gently. There were tears glimmering in both their eyes, of anger or frustration, or perhaps of something neither of them could have named.

They kissed, and Llewellyn repeated, "Be my Tristan, my beautiful stag. Love me despite my Mark, who is not so big a hardship to overcome."

"The wrath is a different thing. The wrath of a woman scorned is a frightful thing." He had seen it in his sisters' eyes. Llewellyn kissed him once more, tugging at Dow's clothing, persuading him out of them.

He presently uttered, "Then this will be our secret, and our own Mark shall know none of this. An affair we shall have, Dow-called-Tristan, and I shall be your Isolde. How many have you loved before me?"

"None," Dow murmured, raising above Llewellyn's prone body on their bedding, holding himself ready.

"And how many will you have after?"

"I should die if I should lose you, Llewellyn-my-Isolde. I shall love none after you are gone and done of me."

And they fell together, forgetting for a time Rhia, their own Mark.