Cricket Creek Bog "Mae'r tywysog yn hedfan."

He could have walked a thousand miles, or merely taken a thousand steps. Time seems to pass without meaning on his journey from Mynydd, his mind everywhere but the road in front of him. There is grief, but he pushes it back, as a prince--as a king--ought to, focusing instead on the anger that curls around his heart like persistent weeds.

Jealousy does something to the psyche, twists it, until the soul it consumes is no longer recognizable as the being it once was. Jealousy had swallowed up his nephew, changing him from the sweet-natured boy of the past to a power-hungry monster, destroying everything in his path. Who knew what witch sank her teeth into his nape, guiding his every step toward destruction. But Mynydd was gone; they were all gone. And Llewellyn, the golden prince, is lucky to have had escaped with his head intact.

Now the son of a deposed monarch finds himself in an unfamiliar land, a bog that fills his senses with utter distaste. The chirping of crickets is ever-present, a grating symphony to the ears. It sucks down upon his feet, splattering his sunny toes with mud and loam. This is not the open, rolling plains, the quiet glades, of Mynydd. He is surrounded by mountains, tall and unforgiving, their dark shapes looming over a cloudy summer sky. To Llewellyn, it is utter hell, and he wonders if he ought not to turn back, to face Ioan alone.

It would be a suicide mission, no doubt. Ioan had turned the lords and ladies against the line of Gwynedd; no one would follow him, now. But to be a fugitive in this strange land, where no one knows his name, or cares for what he is? It is a fate worse than death, and the prince's feet halt, sinking slightly in the damp earth, his ears swiveling with indecision.

What ought he to do?