Daughter of the Sea

XXXI: Darkness

Fruitful womb? Manifestly so, she thought, with a touch of her old irony, though really, there was nothing so surprising about it, in her line, and no reason to think the words should apply especially to her. Even Arianrhod had said it was most likely a reference to the goddess or the sea - or both. Still...the timing was...

But it made no sense. Bring Llyr home? They were home. This island was their home, and it was in danger. If there was something she was meant to do about it, Rhiannon would have to do better than cryptic verses from the ramblings of a power-drunk and long-banished ancestor.

Only the blood of Llyr could atone.

Could it even, anymore...now that the very bones of Llyr had been bound to the blood of Achren?

Angharad shivered at the thought, at the memory of her calculating glance and the cool certainty in her words, as they whispered hauntingly into her mind. A Daughter of Llyr will sit on the throne as High Queen. She sucked her breath in, horrified. The next generation, perhaps...or even the next.

Gods. Angharad sank back into her pillows again, pressed heavily down under a wave of bleak terror. Any future prophesied by Achren was bad enough - it had been a threat, but vague and ephemeral, a guess about that which did not exist. But now...

Now it was real, a menace that stared her in the face, reached with clutching hands for the new spark kindling within her. Driven by this prophecy, Achren would covet her child, saddle the next heir with own twisted ambitions, attempt to maneuver her like a piece in a game...and, if successful, set her on a puppet throne, and bring an entire nation to ruin through her. And how could it be stopped, now that Achren had them by the throat?

Sick fear pushed up her chest in a wave of nausea, and Angharad gasped, and clutched at her unadorned pendant with shaking hands. She rose from her bed and paced the floor, unseeing. I will not allow it. I won't. The cold metal bit into her fingertips as she pressed the crescent moon against her mouth. She'd have to kill me first. I'll take my child away...leave the island altogether.

Geraint's voice whispered into her memory, fervent and low. Come away with me, he had said, that night she had stepped out into madness at last, dragging him with her - only a few weeks ago; how had it been such a short time? I can make us disappear, I know how... She buried a bitter sob of irony in her fist. If only she had done so, then. What good had it done, staying here out of obligation to her place and position? Not one of them was better off for it.

She should have left with him when he had asked. Now he was gone, gone to the gwyllion with little hope of returning, and she would have to leave alone, to protect their child from Achren.

And what of Llyr, of her people? If she left, Eilwen would inherit the throne - an idea that almost made her laugh at its desperate absurdity. Not that Eilwen couldn't rise to the challenge - only she'd never forgive her for it. And the island would still be in danger from Arawn, and the Dagrau Rhiannon would still be lost and vulnerable, and Achren would still be here, spinning her webs. Unless...perhaps Achren would pursue her, and leave the island. That would render the people safe, at least.

But it would put her child in danger again. Achren would never stop pursuing her.

Her heart pounded like a hollow drum, somehow faraway. She felt as though she were drowning. Belin, Llyr and Rhiannon. I have no good choices. Only terrible ones.

For a black moment she paused by her window, and thought of the dizzying, fatal drop to the flagstones below.

It would be simple. Only conquer the fear, and in a final few seconds she could put herself and her child beyond reach of harm, to themselves or anyone else, forever. Free of Achren's plots. Free from choosing between bad, worse, and unthinkable. A quick end.