Daughter of the Sea

XXXII: Returned

How long could he stay here, only to be with her in stolen moments, both of them living a lie, possibly a dangerous one - cuckolding an enchanter was undoubtedly risky despite Angharad's protection, and it was an abhorrent idea in any case, an insult against his every notion of honesty and honor. The last few weeks with her had been madness, an ecstatic delirium, but it was all fire and fury; it was no foundation to build a life upon. She had said it herself, that night of the storm: there was no future here for the two of them.

Yet what future was bearable without her?

He grit his teeth to keep from groaning aloud, as the memory of her farewell to him pressed itself into his mind; her charge to him; his fervent vow to return to her, the tears she had wept and the arms that had held him fast. If staying was unthinkable, leaving her was more unthinkable still. And so he would be held here, bound by a spell stronger than magic, where he might see her from a distance but never touch her, meet her in public as a stranger and a subject while his heart consumed itself for want of her, watch her bear another's children while his own remaining years stretched out, alone and barren and unfulfilled.

If the island could be saved, that is. Suppose it were not - suppose his journey and his quest came to nothing, that the information he carried was useless, and that the Daughters' best efforts failed to defend their land against Arawn. If Llyr itself were lost, the island, its people, and its House - crumbled into the sea, wouldn't that set her free from all obligation, if only she survived it —

He stopped himself in horror that he could entertain, even for an instant, the thought of such loss for his own gain, and wrested his mind from the dark spaces it had begun to slide into. He quickened his pace, trotting through the rain, as though perhaps he could outdistance his own baser instincts, leave behind all memory of such capability, afraid to examine its implications in full. But the shame of it drove him forward, and when the thatched roofs of Abernant came into view he abandoned his original intention to stop there, skirting them with a sharp stab of lingering guilt, and marched on toward the cove.

The familiar cliffs rose into view and he sighed with relief, suddenly crushingly weary. For all that he was used to travel and exposure, and enjoyed a starry roof over a couch of green-smelling turf, there was nothing quite like a real bed and shelter - especially in such weather. The downpour that had begun that morning had slowed to a cold and relentless drizzle, and he thought longingly of the cosiness of his tiny hut, his supply of food...and the anticipation of company.

There it was; his own cottage, he was home. Geraint paused, at the mouth of the downward path into the cove, to examine the phrase in some surprise. He had never had his own dwelling, not since he had set his foot out of his father's house and not looked back; he had wandered a vagabond ever since, and the excitement and adventure of it had pleased him, but never had it given him such an odd little thrill of pride and comfort as did the sight of the thatched roof in the cleft below. Yes, despite his misgivings and doubts, he had come to call it home, in his heart if not in words, and the knowledge twisted at his heart. His home? Yes, for all intents...but not hers.

Imagine if she were waiting there for him, beside a warm hearth, to welcome him as he had seen his mother welcome his father home after a journey, to spend an evening in the joy of reunion, in laughter and love and the light of her smile...

But no smoke rose from his chimney, and the windows were shuttered. He trudged down the path heavily. Heart thudding, he pushed his door open, and the wan light of the wet afternoon pushed feebly into the chill darkness of the interior.

Setting his pack on the floor, he crossed to the hearth and busied himself with flint and tinder, shivering while he tended the sparks until a respectable flame licked its way through kindling, caught and blazed with a promising crackle. Only once the dried turf burned reliably did he rise and strip off his wet clothes, wring them out and hang them on nails protruding from the rafters. He danced before the small flames to dry himself, and crossed to the shelf in the corner where he kept his meager stash of spare garments.