For @Nyx!
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The hinterlands were not kind to him. Nursing his wounds from various altercations, Llewellyn travels onwards, not looking back even once. He is tired of that cursed land, its swamps and its rivers. For now, he tastes the bitter tang of the sea in the air, and knows that he is home. Not home--but the closest thing there is, now.
At the edge of Mynydd was sandy beaches, limestone cliffs, and beyond, the boundless sea. Now, his eyes fall upon the sea once more, and he resists an open show of emotion, relief at finding it again. He is not sure whether this is the same ocean that cradles his kingdom in its bosom--but it looks the same, and for all he knows, Mynydd is just a short gull's flight away. The prospect both scares and comforts him. He steps up to the edge of the shore, looking over the green-blue waves, the sound of seabirds like music to his ears, and to his aching heart as well.
There was an old poem, a song, passed down from generation to generation. It bloomed from the mouths of bards when the wolves had first settled in Mynydd, and found themselves at the edge of the ocean, a place they had only heard about but never seen. They were as enchanted by it as Llewellyn is now, and the words of that poem breeze through his mind, each word dropping like gentle raindrops to soothe the sorrow he had carried in his thoughts for two full moons, now.
"Gan y môr
Canfuom ni
Lle i fyw;
Lle i garu.
Gan y môr
Byddwn yn aros
Am byth."
He mouths each line, making no sound save perhaps the barest of whimpers, unshed tears glimmering in his sapphire eyes. Then he lets his grief go, releasing it to the wind, and the warrior stands and watches the flight of the birds and the crashing of the waves. He is guilty and homesick and angry all at once, but most importantly: he is alive, and he is whole. And one day, his sons and his daughters will call Mynydd's shining sea home, just as his ancestors did.
At the edge of Mynydd was sandy beaches, limestone cliffs, and beyond, the boundless sea. Now, his eyes fall upon the sea once more, and he resists an open show of emotion, relief at finding it again. He is not sure whether this is the same ocean that cradles his kingdom in its bosom--but it looks the same, and for all he knows, Mynydd is just a short gull's flight away. The prospect both scares and comforts him. He steps up to the edge of the shore, looking over the green-blue waves, the sound of seabirds like music to his ears, and to his aching heart as well.
There was an old poem, a song, passed down from generation to generation. It bloomed from the mouths of bards when the wolves had first settled in Mynydd, and found themselves at the edge of the ocean, a place they had only heard about but never seen. They were as enchanted by it as Llewellyn is now, and the words of that poem breeze through his mind, each word dropping like gentle raindrops to soothe the sorrow he had carried in his thoughts for two full moons, now.
"Gan y môr
Canfuom ni
Lle i fyw;
Lle i garu.
Gan y môr
Byddwn yn aros
Am byth."
He mouths each line, making no sound save perhaps the barest of whimpers, unshed tears glimmering in his sapphire eyes. Then he lets his grief go, releasing it to the wind, and the warrior stands and watches the flight of the birds and the crashing of the waves. He is guilty and homesick and angry all at once, but most importantly: he is alive, and he is whole. And one day, his sons and his daughters will call Mynydd's shining sea home, just as his ancestors did.
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gan y môr - by Llewellyn - July 12, 2018, 11:40 PM