Daughter of the Sea

XXXIV: Legendary

Geraint was afraid, for a moment, that he had made a mistake.

Angharad flushed crimson and then went deathly white; she gripped the arms of her throne so hard that her knuckles made blue shadows against her pale skin. She made one sharp sound, a cry of surprise, quickly cut short and strangled away, and then shut her mouth tightly, in a trembling line, a sluice gate against a bursting flood. Her eyes blazed at him, emerald fire, drowning in unshed tears. She looked as though she might faint, a thing it had never even occurred to him she might be capable of. For several eternal seconds, within the whispering, expectant silence of the Hall, he captured her gaze, willing her, with all his might, to be strong enough to bear the shock. If eyes were arms, he could not have held her any more tightly.

He knew it was a terrible way to spring his return upon her. He, at least, had been able to prepare himself, an advantage that she had not.

He had watched, from his place in the back of the Hall, flanked by the two guards hurriedly assigned to him after his impassioned encounter with the skeptical Chief Steward; he had gazed about, sizing up the space and the crowd, mentally going over his plan and trying not to feel overwhelmed by the grandeur of his surroundings.

He'd been in castles before, after all; some grander, some not. Caer Color was undeniably impressive; it was no Caer Dathyl as far as its size or intimidating defenses, but there was something more beautiful about it, something foreign and more delicate in its ornamentation. Distractedly, he took in the arched masonry, the tapestries, the colorfully-tiled floor, the heavy and ornately-carved furnishings, and wondered, with a pang, what he had ever been thinking. This was Angharad's home. How could he have ever dreamed, even in his wildest, most impulsive moments, that she could leave all this for him?

And then the royal family had entered, and he had seen nothing else but her.

Even from his distance of the end of the Hall, even among the color and splendor of her attendant family and its legendary beauty, she shone like a sun among stars, gowned in the colors of a sunset sky, turquoise to coral to crimson, in a fabric that shimmered like light on water. Gems flashed at her girdle and breast, adorned her bare arms, crowned her proud head. Her hair was dressed in elaborate coils, twisted and pinned to tumble its bright waves down her back. She moved with formal grace, and something caught and clawed at his throat as an unbidden image of her rose to his mind: half-dressed, laughing, hair streaming wild, running and splashing through surf in coltish and wild abandon. She was a different creature altogether now, almost alien to him. All around him, murmurs of admiration and devotion rose from the assembly, and he held his breath to prevent the cry that wanted to burst from his lips - whether it were at joy in the sight of her, or despair at the distance now between them, he did not know.

He had watched, in impotent fury, the presentations of Gildas and Grimgower, and in amazement and mounting glee as Angharad had matched them both. She was all goddess now; he recognized her: glorious and ruthless, utterly untouchable; was she always thus, here in this room, on that throne? The first man was pitiable before her. The second was dangerous - even Geraint could see that, with no need of magical enhancements, and he wanted to rush forward and challenge them both, like a fool, as though his desire to sink his fist into each of their faces would be any match for whatever spells they might cast. It would do no good, he reminded himself angrily, to pretend to himself that he was here to compete against them. The truth would be clear to everyone soon enough, and he could only hope to pass off his information before his deception was uncovered.