A sheltered wedge of land, protected from the winds by jutting black cliffs, sloped open toward the southern horizon in a triangle of bright green. Its lowest broad end was fragmented into salt-eroded boulders, the boulders into stones, into pebbles, into sand. Foam-flecked sheets of glassy water slid peacefully back and forth over the lowest sandy slope, the sea pretending, here, to be a completely different force than the thundering fury pounding endlessly at the stony feet of the cliffs.
At the highest point of green, close to where the stone walls met and joined, a tiny grey building sat at lonely and forlorn, like a forgotten jackstone left behind by a child giant. A stream ran nearby, broken and ancient crockery littering its banks. In the cleared space around it, tattered shreds of old netting, heaped in small piles or drifting over rocks, proclaimed it a former fisherman's hut. Decrepit, tumbledown, overgrown with moss and lichens, the stone walls looked in the process of sighing as they settled back into the landscape, eager to melt away until the last evidence of human habitation disappeared.
Just before the doorway of the hut, a young man was arranging a brace of fresh fish over the smoke of a small fire. Presently he paused, stretched, and surveyed the seaward edge of his sanctuary.
He'd been there a fortnight now. It hadn't been his plan, but...plans change. When a short pleasure-trip of a boat ride off the mainland turns into a blowing off-course by a sudden gale, a man has to change plans quickly and decisively, after all, and might as well stay equally open to whatever happens afterward. Geraint had always been one to take events as they came.
It had been a relief when his battered craft had reached this shore, when he'd been able to crawl exhausted onto the beach, throw down his oars with aching arms and thank Llyr himself for not dashing him against the cliffs. He could barely believe his good fortune when he saw the old hut standing there, waiting, as though just for him. Its roof had long since crumbled in, and he'd spent two nights stargazing before a drenching rain reminded him that comfort demanded a certain amount of practicality...starting with new thatch.
He'd set out on the next day, to search for supplies and try to determine where he was. There turned out to be a village within an hour's walk, whose inhabitants exhibited wonderment at the arrival of a tall and fair-haired stranger. They supplied both food and information, which he paid for in his customary manner, entertaining the entire population for an evening around the village fire, watching the children's eyes pop and the adults' sparkle as he told stories and performed his illusions. When he was done, the clamor over which household would offer him hospitality almost came to blows, so he laid the conflict to rest by declaring that he was quite happy in his own space, and had returned to his sheltered cove and fishing hut by moonlight, plied with gifts of food, blankets and tools, after promising to visit again. He was awkwardly aware that a handful of girls had followed him almost halfway back; they hadn't bothered to be discrete. At one point several of them loudly admonished an already-married member of the party to make her shameless way back home. Eventually the last stragglers had turned back, with disappointed remarks in his direction that made him blush. He was unused to such forwardness from females, but then, he'd never been to this island before.
He knew of it, of course; a wanderer heard many tales, true and false, mostly somewhere between. He had vague thoughts of repairing his boat and then paddling around the coast until he came to the main port. Then perhaps making a proper visit to the civilized parts of the island before returning back to Mona. All in good time, however. The isle of Llyr figured prominently in much local mystery and legend, and he was eager both to add to his repertoire of stories, and to satisfy his own curiosity. Meanwhile, his position was comfortable, with the sea and the village providing sufficient resources. He was in no hurry. Perhaps he'd stay the summer.
He ambled to the shoreline, swinging long limbs with lazy grace. The sun was hot, the tide low - the exposed rocks revealed a tempting glimpse of clinging mussels, ripe for the harvest. No time like the present.
Stripping to his skin and shouldering a net sack, he waded waist-deep into the sea, picking carefully around the slippery rocks. Scraping the black shells from their anchors with a knife, watching the flesh writhe as they gaped and then snapped shut under the assault, was satisfying...more so, somehow, than being plied with food by hospitable islanders, as much as he'd enjoyed it. He'd eat well tonight, by his own hand. After an hour or so, net full, he turned, sliding through the deep water like a wet seal, back toward the land.
And froze, mid-stagger, his feet stuck in a sandbar.
There was a woman standing at the water's edge. Watching him.
It took him a moment to comprehend it. There should be nothing so terribly strange about anyone standing there, though over the last few days he had grown to take his solitude for granted - but this particular someone...was...
Remarkable.
She was tall and slim, her white garments cut and draped in a manner strange to him, baring pale arms in a fashion that would be considered scandalous on the mainland. Her long hair was unbound, and streamed in rivulets of fiery gold to her waist. Her posture was straight as a young birch, her chin high, her gaze direct and unflinching.
So much could he see from this distance, enough to make him stand still, confused, burdened with a sense of unreality. The girl was staring at him, but she was too far away for him to read her expression; it might have been surprise, or anger, or impassive observation. Thrilling, spine-tingling stories of sea-spirits and faerie queens raced through his head all in an instant and the world seemed to waver before his eyes. An errant breaker chose that moment to hit him from behind, and he toppled over with a splash.
When he rose up, spluttering, the wave had carried him further in, to water that would have been knee-deep had he cared to stand – which he did not, suddenly recalling that he was as bare as a newborn. Sitting up awkwardly, he looked up again. The girl was still there, close enough to see that her expression, whatever it had been before, was now one of amusement. She was still too far away for him to speak over the noise of the surf, and she made no attempt to communicate; she only watched him, apparently content to wait and see what he would do next.
Geraint felt a helpless twinge of vexation. Even a goddess could allow a man his dignity. Young ladies, in his experience, should blush and giggle and at least pretend to be shocked when confronted with such a scene – under which circumstance he might parade proudly forth and enjoy making a sensation. But this creature just stood there calmly observing, as though he were some new and mildly interesting type of fish washing up on the beach.
His clothing lay in a pile upon a boulder a few feet from the water's edge. He stared at it desperately, and the girl followed his gaze and grinned a grin that instantly dissolved his notions of divine or eldritch creatures. A fae creature might smile with such mischief, but not with such a knowing quirk of eyebrow and sardonic twist of mouth, betraying an understanding of his predicament that could only have come from a place of human empathy. He couldn't decide whether this comforted or embarrassed him further.
After a moment's pause during which he was sure she was going to make him drag himself from the water before her eyes, and was working up the courage and pride to do so, she finally moved, stepping over to the boulder, where she pulled off her boots and gathered up her skirt to tuck it into her belt, displaying a pair of legs bare to the thigh with no apparent embarrassment. She took up his garments, shook out the sand, and splashed into the water herself, wading toward him.
Geraint had a moment's panic over the fact that the clarity of the shallow water afforded him almost as little modesty as standing up would have, and only pride prevented him from scuttling backwards – pride, and the distracting observation, as another breaker smacked into him, that the waves actually parted as they reached the girl, their white-webbed crests dividing on either side of a valley through which she moved, joining again seamless beyond her. Within that valley her bare ankles swept along, as though fording a quiet stream instead of the capricious currents of the sea.
He began, the hair on his neck prickling, to reassess her humanity.
But by then she was approaching within speaking-distance, and there was no avoiding the communication, no matter what she was; not if courtesy and prudence were to be maintained. He gingerly arranged his net full of mussels over his lap. When she stopped an arm's length away from him, he forced himself, with all the self-respect he could muster, to look her in the face.
The breath caught in his throat, wavered and fled away.
She was young, barely past the edge of adulthood despite a distinct aura of authority, and vividly, fiercely beautiful. Her eyes were the color of sunlight shining through seawater; their turquoise shards bored into him and drove away the words of thanks that had been forming on his tongue. The angles of her face, fine almost to the point of severity, were balanced by a high, rounded forehead and a soft, full mouth. Once again, opposing ideas of divinity and mortality wrestled for dominance in the back of his mind – or would have, had he been able to think with any clarity. Kneeling at her feet, he might as well have been a supplicant at the altar of some goddess, gazing up at her with such spellbound awe that he noticed nothing else.
After an eternity, or perhaps just a moment, her mouth once again pulled into a grin that was decidedly human. "You did want these, did you not?" she asked, and he realized she'd been holding out his garments toward him the entire time. "I took the trouble of making the trip, but if you've changed your mind, I can always—,"
"Oh!" He gathered them from her, blushing furiously, and laughed despite his embarrassment. She turned around and moved toward the shore with a slow, deliberate gait that said she was fully aware of the concession she gave him, but he was grateful for it, and yanked his tunic over his head as he rose, quickly, so as not to miss a moment of watching the sunlight catch fire upon that cascading red-gold river of hair.
She kept her back toward him even when they reached the beach, waiting while he hopped on one foot and then the other to pull up his leggings. In between hops he gasped out his gratitude, previous vexation forgotten. "I thank you...milady. And...I beg forgiveness...for such an unseemly manner...of meeting."
At last decently attired, he straightened up just in time, for she turned around upon the last word, her finely-arched brows quirked up like wings, mouth twitching. "Unseemly? On the contrary, this was one of the more...entertaining meetings, in my experience. But if it makes you feel better -" She made a careless gesture with one of her slim hands. "Very well. I forgive you." As she moved he noticed, for the first time, the fine silver chain about her throat, from which dangled a silver crescent moon, its horns embracing a brilliant, many-faceted gem.
Nothing else was necessary to confirm his suspicions. Her manner, her voice, and that symbol denoted her position as clearly as if she'd been wearing a golden circlet on her brow.
He bowed low, as courtesy dictated. "Thank you...Princess."
She favored him with an unsurprised nod. "Angharad of Llyr. You have the advantage of me, stranger. You are not, I think, of this island."
"You know your subjects well," he said, straightening up. "I am Geraint, son of Durhaim of Gellau."
"Gellau?" She looked thoughtful. "One of the cantrevs of Prydain. A few days southwest of Caer Dathyl, at the foot of the Giant's Throne." He saw a flash of something that looked almost hungry in her face, an eager, desperate curiosity, before a veil seemed to drop, and the composed goddess returned. "It is a long way from Llyr. How came you here, and..." she gestured around at the secluded valley and laughed, "...here? You are leagues from the harbor. We heard no rumor of guests."
Geraint pointed at a large pile of rocks further up the beach. "Behind that, my lady, you might find a boat rather the worse for wear. I was amusing myself with a borrowed craft a fortnight ago, just off the mainland, and..."
"Yes," Angharad interjected. "That storm. It was magnificent." Her face flushed; she seemed to look past him at something and a fey, green flame flickered in her eyes. It raised gooseflesh on his arms, though whether he found it strangely attractive or a little disturbing, he could not have said.
He hesitated. "That...might not be the word I would have chosen."
She looked at him, softened, and smiled a little apologetically. "Likely not. But it brought you here, when it could have done worse. How have you fared?"
"I have fared much worse in the past," Geraint admitted, "and I cannot complain, since the sea saw fit to wash me up in a spot with such fine accommodations."
Angharad followed his gaze to the tumbledown fisherman's cottage. "That's been there for...I don't even know how long. Bit damp, is it?" She turned as she spoke, and began strolling toward it. Geraint followed, bemused, wondering what, exactly, proper protocol dictated.
"It was," he said, "but I have not been idle. Erhm..." he cleared his throat. "It seems hardly a fitting place to entertain a Daughter of Llyr, but if milady would care to see it..." He checked himself. "Unless it would besmirch your honor."
Angharad pulled up short and looked at him in surprise. "Why should it do that?"
Geraint coughed. "Um. Will it not be...considered un...untoward for you to be alone for long in a man's company?"
Her green gaze became a rather frosty glare. "I have heard of such...considerations...on the mainland," she answered. There was a faint note of contempt in her voice. "The Daughters of Llyr are free to be in the company of anyone they choose without having their honor questioned. Is that disagreeable to you, Geraint of Gellau?"
He gulped, and bowed a little again. "Even if it were, my lady – which it is not – I could make no objection here. So, then..." he shook the net of mussels in the air hopefully. "Perhaps you would care to share my harvest?"
She laughed again, looking as though it surprised her to do so, and threw her head back, eyes dancing. "You are on my island, which makes those my mussels, and furthermore you are staying on my favorite stretch of beach, so suppose we say that I extend you my hospitality." She motioned, rather grandly, for him to precede her, and he shouldered the net with a grin, and trotted past her up the slope.
Thankful that he'd spent at least a little time clearing out the small garden in front of the hut of its detritus, Geraint paused at its edge to bow low, as befitted a host welcoming a royal guest. "Yours it may be, lady," he declared, with a wink, "but still, I welcome you to my current home...such as it is." He ushered her to the nearest boulder and she sat, with a gravity he suspected was only partially in jest, curling her legs up onto its base and hooking one bare foot around the opposite calf with the sensuous grace of a cat. He swallowed hard, and turned away quickly, busying himself with his duties.
Angharad watched him, silent, while he stoked his banked fire and cleaned the mussels, and presently asked, "How did you know me?"
Geraint glanced at her, wondering how frank he dared to be. "I travel much, milady. I have crossed the length and breadth of Prydain, or very near; I collect the stories and legends of every tribe and cantrev, and many are the stories of Llyr. Of its peril, its mystery, its beauty...and of its rulers, one flaming-haired princess in particular."
She raised one eyebrow, not offended; but not, apparently, particularly impressed. "Hmph. What of her? Peril, mystery, or beauty?"
Geraint blinked. "All three, to be sure. I know story, my lady," he went on, "and it has a pattern. You must know that every princess is beautiful, just as every seventh son is honest, brave, and lucky. So always, I hold local legend with a loose and generous hand. But I think..." he paused, and kept his eyes fixed on his knife as he bearded the mussels. "I think that never have I had less cause for skepticism."
She was silent at this, so long that he glanced up to find her still watching him, her face inscrutable. "Are you a bard, then?" she asked after a moment. "You are full young to have earned that rank."
"No," Geraint said, a little ruefully, "I am no bard. I have no wish to undertake all that position requires, nor do I desire the honor it confers. I am a wanderer and a teller of tales."
"I've never heard of such a thing," Angharad remarked, a little dryly, and he shrugged.
"It's enough for me." A spark of mischief made him flip a mussel in the air. "You see, a man without title may go where he pleases, do what he wishes, if he has the skill to fend for himself." He caught the shell in his other hand, where, suddenly, several others had appeared. In a few deft motions of his hands they had surrounded the single shell and bounced it back and forth. "To be of rank, to have a title, is to be subjected to others' expectations, tossed to and fro by the rules and whims of men."
From the corner of his eye he saw Angharad stiffen and lean forward, almost felt the intensity of her gaze burn hot upon his hands, and he nearly lost focus, his practiced movements faltering for the merest heartbeat. He was used to holding the rapt attention of his audience, of course, but his audience had never been...well, had never been her. Recovering, he tossed the single shell back into his right hand and twirled it, diverting her attention while he flicked the other handful from sight.
"Surely he must wish sometimes to make them all just...disappear?" His left hand spread, empty, before him, and he waited, more anxiously than his wont, for her reaction.
He was accustomed to delight, to childlike exclamations of wonderment, and astonished laughter, but she somehow did not seem likely to respond in those ways. He wasn't sure what he expected. What he did not expect was for her face to flush and eyes to blaze; did not expect her to leap up from the boulder and stare him down like a flaming-haired fury. But this she did.
"How did you do that?" Angharad demanded breathlessly, in a tone that disallowed his usual playful claims of magic. This fierce, almost angry intensity was not, he knew instinctively, something with which to banter.
"It's...only sleight-of-hand, milady," he murmured, stepping back and motioning toward the ground where he'd scattered the shells. "I meant no-"
"No, not that," she interrupted irritably, not even deigning to look. "You are no magician; I know that...how did..." she broke off, made a strangled sound of frustration, and flung her hand out toward the fire as though casting something away. Instantly the golden flames leaped up with a roar; crackling blue and green at their edges and throwing such heat that he stumbled backward with a cry.
The blaze died as suddenly as it had sprung up, and for a moment the girl stared at it, her breath audible. When she turned back to him the fury was gone and so was the goddess; her face was vulnerable, open, hungry.
His hands clenched in the folds of his tunic.
"If I have offended you, lady," he murmured, measuring his breath, "I beg your forgiveness. What you saw...it is my habit. When you tell tales for your bread," he added, with a wan, self-deprecating smile, "then everything becomes a story."
She stared at him searchingly, as though trying to read truth in his face, and her voice was almost defiant when she spoke. "But you told me mine, Geraint of Gellau. Mine," she sighed, and her shoulders sloped forward almost imperceptibly, "as no one has ever dared tell me, as I have never dared tell it even to myself." A flicker of humor crossed her face again. "I don't know if I can forgive you for that. But I'll try."
She sat, and stared moodily into the fire.