Slightly Worn But Dignified

Part 3 of yep you guessed it 4 found in "The Red Book of Rhiannon"

(Go to All The Red Book of Rhiannon stories.)

If you’re new to The Môrdreigiau Chronicles, welcome! You might find the Glossary helpful for some of these words. Colons indicate the sea dragon’s thought communications.

Read Part 1 and then Part 2 first …

Branwen stood in the doorway of her round hut, looking up at the sky. The wind blew stiff from the north, but the sky scudded with white puff balls of cloud. A man’s arms wrapped around her waist, his body pressed against her back.

“There will be no storm today,” he murmured, bending to nuzzle her neck. One hand slid down, the other up to cup her breast. “Come back to bed.”

She turned, dismissing the sky and sea, and followed her man into the hut.

No man he, but a god who had loved her hungrily, wildly at first, and then with such tenderness she forgot all else existed except the gloriousness of him.

Her predecessor and mentor had made it sound like being married to a god would be a distant union. Taranis loved her so thoroughly, so possessively, that she subsisted on baskets of food left for her by the villagers below.

The villagers. She tensed at the thought of them, remembering how they had driven her to the cliff’s edge and thrown her off after her friend had cursed her with a babbling tynged.

Taranis groaned. He claimed her mouth with a demanding, deep kiss, bringing her back to the present until she moved against him once more.

They came to completion and lay in a tangle of limbs upon the wide bed.

She remembered little of what happened after her fall, only the ice cold of the sea. Taranis told her he had spent years hunting for her once he realised she’d been lost to him. He’d punished her former friend with death by lightning, but not before she had similarly cursed him.

Branwen felt it should bother her that she couldn’t remember what happened after she was pushed.

Taranis had said, “It is a miracle you survived. Perhaps what happened during that time is too horrible to remember.”

She privately thought that having everyone turn against her and attempting to murder her was pretty awful and she remembered that. Was what happened afterwards even worse?

Branwen couldn’t tell you how many weeks or months she spent in marital bliss with Taranis, but at last the weather god had to resume his duties.

She missed him in her bed and struggled to find her way in a mundane life without him.

Not wanting to face the villagers who lived down the hill, she began with a thorough review and tidy of her hut. A hut she had never lived in until Taranis found her and brought her back home.

She wondered why she didn’t recall her rescue. Surely that would have been good news?

She opened a cupboard and took out a set of linens. If the sky was red tonight, she’d wash those on the bed tomorrow although she was loath to rid herself of her god’s scent.

The whisper of a voice wafted up from the linen sheet as she shook it out. “I miss you.”

Branwen’s heart melted at the god’s sentiment and she wondered when she would see him again.

Branwen smoothed out the damp linens on the makeshift line strung from the eaves of her hut to a pole. She tugged the corners straight, her fingers brushing over the hand-rolled hem.

“Mi cariad,” came the husky whisper.

Taranis had never called her that before. How odd that he left it as a message instead of murmuring it in her ear in person.

She couldn’t wait for him any longer. The longing felt so fierce.

She walked to the cliff’s edge, standing on the large flat stone looking out over the immensity of sea and sky.

She sang the Star’s song, calling out for her god Taranis, calling to the one she longed for.

Before her song had ended Taranis flew down into her outspread arms. He flew them back across the flat rock and into her hut, the wooden door slamming shut behind them.

After a day and a night, Taranis left her feeling well-loved, yet a bittersweet ache lingered beneath her ribs. Was it because he had left her again so soon?

The next message came while she sorted through her cold storage of carrots and dried herbs. “You are not alone.”

A strange thought from Taranis who had left her to fend for herself, although admittedly the villagers seemed more afraid of her than she was of them. It did make sense to at least attempt to reconnect with them. She was their Star after all.

She’d also grown tired of the dried fish and flat oatcakes left in baskets at her door. She found she craved fresh fish and something chewy and sweet.

She took a reading of the sky, and finding all well, Branwen descended the narrow winding path down to the village Sterah, tucked in a bay secluded by the surrounding windswept hills.

The villagers bowed politely as she passed them but scurried off before she could engage them in conversation. She selected some fresh fish. The oatcake and small pot of honey didn’t satisfy her strange craving for sweet and chewy. Branwen rather thought it should have.

Her appearance in the village seemed to have ended her isolation. A few days later, one of the younger fishwives made the journey up the hill.

Branwen emerged from her round hut, wiping her hands on her apron. She didn’t recognize the young woman, who would have been but a girl when Branwen had first been forced out.

Tried to kill you, an inner voice reminded.

“What do you want?” Branwen asked, sharper than she intended.

“Mam said I should come up and tell you. There’s a stranger in the village.”

A stranger meant someone not from their island, nor the neighbouring ones.

“What has that to do with me?” Branwen retorted.

“He’s asking for you. By name,” the woman added.

Who would know her name? Even her parents left her as a nameless babe on the rocky beach.

Casting one last look at the clouds and sky and finding nothing amiss, a curious Branwen took off her apron. From the apron’s split hem fell a whispered song: “This feels new and tender and not quite real.”

She darted a glance at the young woman who gave no sign of hearing anything.

This new whisper wasn’t like Taranis at all. The god had no shortage of confidence and this message sounded so vulnerable. Were these messages an insight into her god’s heart?

Musing, Branwen followed the fishwife down the steep hill and into the village.

The fishwife led her to the tavern. All the men were out on their fishing boats, leaving the place quite deserted. The pride of place by the fire remained empty.

“He’s over there.” The fishwife pointed into the shadows.

Branwen heard a shuffle and a scrape. A hunched figure emerged from the gloom, swinging his legs forward on two crutches.

The man wore little more than rags, his long silver-grey hair tied back in one long braid. “I planned to come to you,” he croaked. He cleared his throat. “But the hill is so steep and the air is so heavy.”

“He’s an odd one,” opined the fishwife. “But he looks just like you. A relative?”

They had the same long hair in common, albeit in varying shades of grey and black, the same skin the colour of honey, and dark eyes.

He shuffled closer into the firelight. His eyes held pain and an unbearable kindness. “Are you well, Branwen?”

She nodded. “Who are you?”

He sucked in his breath through his teeth. “That explains why you stared without welcome. If you’re happy then it matters not who I am.”

His pinched features as he tried to hide his disappointment made Branwen want to hug him. She held back. “I’m sorry,” she said, “I have forgotten everything that is not here on this island.”

The man shifted on his crutches. “Have you ever wondered why that is so?”

“Taranis says it’s because I don’t want to remember all the bad things that happened to me.”

“Taranis would.” The man opened his mouth to say more, then closed it.

Her eyes narrowed. “You know Taranis?”

“Not important.” He peered at her. “Are you happy? You haven’t answered my question.”

She noticed his eyebrows were still dark with only a few flecks of silver. It annoyed her that she had registered that. Indeed, she had difficulty not staring at him, as if he meant something, which was impossible, save that he knew her name and Taranis’.

“If I answer it, you will depart and leave me with more questions than answers.” She bit her lower lip. “I need to complete my duties as Star before sunset. I will return then and we shall talk.”

He ducked his head. “I’m afraid I will hurt you more if I answer your questions.”

They stared at each other, neither willing to concede. At last, Branwen huffed a sigh. She turned to the young fishwife. “Keep him here until I return—and find him something better to wear than that.”

“He was naked on the beach, O Star. He got what we could spare.”

Branwen harrumphed. “We are not that poor a village. I shall be back.”

She hurried up the hill, calves and thighs complaining before she reached the halfway point.

Panting, she stopped to take a breath, turning to ease her calf muscles while pretending to take in the view.

She glimpsed a pale blue curve in the grass nearby. She picked up the broken eggshell. The whisper came again, soft and husky: “Remember what you are.”

She knew who she was: Branwen, the village’s Star, and soon she would have to start thinking about finding an apprentice. She didn’t relish surrendering her handsome god to a younger woman.

The other cracked half of the eggshell still lay on the grass: “Remember what you are!” it sang. “Remember.”

Remember? She was the Star, the changeling found on the beach. She was a woman past her prime bound to a god who sated her every desire.

Except for something chewy and soft…

And his eyes, while loving and impassioned, were never kind and understanding …

Unlike the stranger’s eyes—

Memory rushed back: the deep descent into the ocean, clawing for the surface, still sinking, her skin a shimmering green, her lungs bursting for air.

She touched her neck. Had she once breathed underwater?

Branwen’s collapsed into a puddle, staring at her hands, one deformed, one whole. She remembered claws and scales. She remembered a tail. She remembered it all. She covered her face, sobs heaving.

She remembered returning to this island, her home, soon after her first metamorphosis, emerging from the water. Stones, rocks and spears were thrown at her. Twice they had tried to kill her. Not once. Twice.

“I remember,” she whispered to the air.

Thunder rumbled in the distance. The air grew thick and she tasted incipient rain.

:Ardwyad,: she thought to him. :I remember.:

He didn’t answer.

Branwen looked up the hill. With the storm coming, she needed to be on the cliff, shining as a warning to those at sea. Those who had tried to kill her twice already and would try again if she fell out of favour with the god Taranis.

Down the hill waited Ardwyad, the draig môr who had saved her from a lonely life babbling about vegetation. Who loved her. How, how did she forget how much she loved him?

She gritted her teeth. “Taranis.” He had to have done more than exquisitely bed her.

:Wait for me,: she thought to Ardwyad. :Please wait for me.:

Hitching her skirts, she started running.

Ad break! Enjoying this series? Then you’ll probably like Obsidian and Flame, another underwater tale of sea dragons…

Branwen staggered back down the hill, her legs threatening to collapse with every step.

Gasping, she leant against the doorway. When she caught her breath, she asked, “Where is he?”

“Gone.”

Branwen sucked in more air, clutching at her heart. “Where?”

The tavern keeper shrugged.

She pushed off from the doorway and headed for the pier.

The path curved past the last building, opening out onto the tiny secluded bay. It was low tide, and the bay was almost drained of water, the rocky edge giving way to dark grey sand and large clumps of seaweed.

A stone pier jutted out into the bay, sand on one side and shallow water on the other. She made out Ardwyad’s stooped figure more than halfway toward the pier’s end. He faced inland.

Between her and Ardwyad stood a small group of fishwives, several of them bearing stout sticks.

Heart in her mouth, Branwen almost slid down the slope to the pier. She stumbled, regained her footing and approached. “Women of Sterah, return to your homes. I command it as your Star.”

In truth, they were duty-bound to see her fed, clothed and housed. She had a seat among the elders if she wished it, but no more power than that. And she had been too busy with her god of weather.

Half the women turned, the other half squaring off to keep both Branwen and Ardwyad in view.

“This is none of your concern, Star,” sneered one. “You’re supposed to be doing your duty, warning our menfolk and appeasing the god!”

“They can hear the storm coming as well as you or I.” She took a breath. “I’m here to save my man.”

The fishwives scoffed and laughed. “What do you want with him? He’s a cripple.”

An older fishwife hefted her stout stick. “He plans to leave via sea and there’s no boat waitin’ for him. He’s just like you, isn’t he. A monster.”

“Let us leave in peace, ladies.” Ardwyad spoke in a low, calm voice. “We won’t harm you.”

“You can’t be takin’ our Star,” growled the older fishwife.

Overhead, the sky darkened, the clouds roiling black and green. In the outer bay, Branwen saw the fishing boats making their return, their small sails straining.

“You didn’t want me,” she said. “You’ve tried to kill me twice. It’s a wonder you haven’t poisoned my food.”

“That was a mistake,” the older fishwife said, resting her stout stick on her shoulder. “We thought the god would abandon us. We suffered terribly until He brought you back. You need to stay.”

“I don’t answer to you.”

“No,” a voice boomed from above. “you answer to me.”

Lightning flashed. The air split with a deafening crack. The force knocked them all to the ground.

When Branwen could see again, the place where Ardwyad had stood was a gaping, smoking ruin.

“No!” she screamed to the sky. “Taranis, what have you done?” She bolted past the still-stunned humans and dove for the water. Perhaps Ardwyad had fallen off the pier.

Mid-dive, an arm wrapped around her waist, hoisting her aloft. The ruined pier, the village, the bay all grew smaller beneath her.

She screamed Ardwyad’s name, begged for help to Llallogan, to any draig môr, that someone would find and rescue Ardwyad. He had to have survived. He just had to.

Her captor flew higher. Ice formed on her eyelashes. The air grew thin until she couldn’t catch her breath.

Branwen woke to the half dark of her hut. Taranis chafed her limbs, perched on the edge of the bed. She sucked in a lungful of cold air and coughed.

“I am so sorry,” Taranis murmured. “I didn’t realize you couldn’t survive such heights.”

“Let me go,” she croaked. Tears formed in the corner of her eyes. How could have Ardwyad escaped that lightning strike? None of them saw it coming and he couldn’t move fast, being on crutches.

“You are mine, little star. The first one I have ever loved.”

Branwen’s eyes widened. “The first?” She dismissed it with a head shake. “That does not matter. I love another. I will not—“

He kissed her open mouth, hard and insistent. She slapped at his shoulders, pushing at him.

All at once her mind went blank. Taranis broke off the kiss, sitting back.

She blinked. An incredulous smile formed on her lips. “When did you return?” she breathed and reached for him. He fell into her arms and she wrapped her limbs around him. She sought out his mouth, meeting his passion with her own.

I hope there will be a part 4, don’t you?

This is a response to prompt 13 of the 30 Days of Fantasy writing, led by

Luna Asli Kolcu

and yes, I am quite behind.

(Go to All The Red Book of Rhiannon stories.)