Chapter 19 - The Pit

By James Attwood

“So, king Lludd’s in the pit you see? Making decisions based only on what he believes and nothing else because down there, he can’t hear nobody.” Grigor smirked broadly with self-satisfaction as he wound his lesson to its riveting conclusion, but Orson’s perplexment saw his face hang with disappointment in turn.

            “I don’t get it.” Orson’s expression was vacant of the enlightenment the dwarf had hoped for.

            “It’s a metaphor Orson, it’s not an actual pit.” Lewis tried to help.

            “Oh, I understand that bit, but why a pit?” As ever the boy had become caught up in the semantics. “Not many people get stuck in holes. Why not the dark, or...quicksand!”

            “Because I’m a coranwr, my entire race lives in holes! Well, used to...” Grigor let out a dishevelled sigh, swatting at the air with his hand, “...ain’t the hole that matters kid, call it whatever you want. But self-important folk up there, they get caught in the pit all the damned time. And everybody else suffers for it.”

            They’d finally emerged from the squalid caverns below and walked the ravines between the looming mountains now, even in broad daylight they still ambled along beneath the shadows of giants. At least they could breathe easy, the rot of the Afanc’s lair and its predatory denizens was but a distant memory. A quick dip in a quiet reservoir saw the lot of them cleaned up, though Grigor had abstained, citing the grime as a second protective skin. Lewis had coaxed Orson in with some playful splashes, and for the first time in this world the boy had felt as if he could stop and play, if but for a moment. The lion hadn’t hesitated either, its mane now a resplendent shawl of matted white that went some way to hiding the scars of its past. Despite the standoffish dwarf the mood was positive, they couldn’t be far now.

*

“There has to be a way.” Maeve stood bolt upright and paced around the cauldron in frustration.

            “We’re in the same boat as Gwydion, Maeve, whatever he did broke all known connections we had with Annwn. Not that getting in was ever particularly easy in the first place.” Taliesin gestured honestly, refraining from sharing the anecdote behind that last note as he saw the girl’s patience waning. “Trust me, if Gwydion could have sneaked through the coblyn’s back doors again he wouldn’t have asked me for alternatives. He wouldn’t be out there trying all manner of ritual sacrifice with roebucks to bait out the hounds of the Otherworld.”

            “What about the oak tree Myrddin...our grandfather used?” Zoe put forth the suggestion, holding the ring around her finger on display.

            “Old magic that, and therefore fickle.” Ceridwen took the ire from her son for a moment. “Your grandfather’s runes bound only two trees together, and those two alone. Their seed might be travelled through, as you have learnt, but I fear there was never a branch of its ilk sown into the soils of Annwn.”

            Zoe slumped back in her bed, yet her husband had one more avenue to suggest. “Is there any merit behind this sacrifice idea?”

            “Sacrifice was the wrong term to use…” Taliesin tapped at the grey stripes of his goatee, “...happy accident perhaps?”

            “It’s how Pwyll first met Arawn, they both just happened to be hunting the same stag.” Maeve elaborated, unsure of what worth Gwydion saw in this strategy, “I don’t see how it’d work.”

            “Precisely. The man’s clutching at straws.” Taliesin adored his newfound relations intellect, cutting through the absurdities of his realm like a knife. She was no less enamoured by his homeland than he was, but she wasn’t blind to its imperfections either. “That little plan hinges on our dear king of the dead hunting in our realm, at a time like this. I doubt he’s even watching over us anymore, seems more to me that he has cut himself off entirely.”

            “But what if we took out Gwydion? Hypothetically?” Raymond could feel the room’s judgement, but he had to ask. “Would that grab his attention?”

            “There is no way to tell, Arawn is a mystery unto himself beyond the stories.” Ceridwen poured another cup of tea, its waters a muddy brown yet brimming with sensuous aromas. “Arawn is most important to Gwydion, but who’s to say Gwydion is important to Arawn.”

            “He did kill his wife…” Raymond raised an eyebrow.

            “And we’re not killing anyone Dad!” Maeve blurted out, going straight back to stroking Gelert who she’d startled.

            “I wasn’t saying we would, far as I’m concerned we’re still walking straight out of here soon as the others arrive.” Raymond saw that his denouncement of helping this realm soured his daughter’s mood even further, he tried to remember his promise. “But...say we had another option. Maybe we don’t have to kill him, just convince him to give up this wild goose chase. Offer himself up to the big man on the other side.”

            “Gwydion? Surrender!? You know this man better than I; it’ll never happen.” Taliesin stated what everyone knew, their hope for solving this fading with it. “To make that man give up his arms and admit defeat...you’d need some kind of miracle.”

            With the bard’s admission something tapped at the door, peck after peck, until finally Ceridwen shuffled over and creaked it ajar ever so slightly. It was all the space their unexpected guest needed to swoop in. A flurry of frantic feathers flapped past her before landing atop the dusty branches of an old antler that hung to ward some evil spirits or other. It was the Ousel of Cilgwri, flustered and panting from a long journey flown in a short time.

            “Pardon my intrusion Taliesin.” He bowed a stifled bow, catching a glimpse of the most perturbed witch he’d sauntered past. “Enchantress. But I’ve got a message for the girl, for Maeve.”

*

“So, you figure Gwydion’s in this pit too?” Lewis picked the conversation up from where it had dropped off seeing that Orson had fallen too shy to do so himself.

            “Well, isn’t it obvious?” Grigor slowed his pace to match the others. “He’s as blind as that damn Afanc.”

            “But he thinks he’s right?” Orson inquired, relieved he hadn’t stifled the dwarf’s interest in parting with his story.

            “That’s what the pit does Orson.” Lewis enthusiastically took the words from Grigor’s mouth, clearly in on the desired lesson.

            “Exactly.” Grigor’s wave of a pointed finger saw the boy encapsulated. “He figures he’s got a quest to fulfil, some purpose to achieve. And whatever that is, it’s at the bottom of that pit. It could be real or imaginary for all intents and purposes, as long as he believes in it, he’ll keep digging. The deeper he digs the bigger that hole gets, and less he can hear those above, those trying to tell him otherwise. Sometimes folk can reach the bottom, achieve whatever it is they set out to achieve, but other times it isn’t so easy. Man like Gwydion, he’s digging for the impossible, a miracle. He’ll never reach it, and in trying that pit will become so enormous the folk up top are going to start falling in. You see, the deeper you dig the less you can see, the blinder you get to everything else but your goal.”

            “So even heroes fall into this pit. Can’t he climb out?” Orson embraced the metaphor now.

            “Problem is he doesn’t want to. Heck anyone can fall in, but your average peasant trips in there and that hole ain’t ever going to get too deep. People like that can only dig so far.” Grigor shrugged, including himself in this harmless category. “But a man like Gwydion, he might just keep digging forever. Until the whole damn world falls into a pit of his own making.”

            “Unless someone stops him.” Lewis dolefully added.

            “Unless someone stops him.” Grigor echoed the remark, the finality of their thinking eluding the innocent Orson.

            “But you said sometimes they win, sometimes the pit sorts itself out right?” The boy wanted to hear that a suitably fairy tale ending was possible.

            “Oh sure, they wouldn't be heroes if they didn’t win from time to time.” The dwarf nodded agreeably until reminding Orson of what came of his people, “King Lludd won. He achieved what he set out to do, down at the depths of his pit, its walls lined with paranoia and self-preservation. Only problem was along the way, my entire race fell into that hole, and he climbed the bodies to escape it.” A disturbed silence fell over the boy, his dour look plucking at the dwarf’s guilt-ridden heartstrings. “But hey, it’s a part of life I suppose. Every soul has their faults, just some are further reaching than others.”

            “Unless someone stops them.” Lewis reiterated his point, perhaps Grigor was attempting to dissuade him and his son, but it was only reinforcing what he’d decided upon the moment he’d seen his grandfather’s body. Someone had to make this right.

            “Ah but what man is going to stop a hero on their quest eh?” Grigor punctuated his point with a tell-tale spit from his chapped lips. “Lludd did what he did for the people. Arthur did what he did for honour. Not many folks argue with that.”

            “Like the king Arthur? He fell into the pit as well?” Orson was astonished, he’d thought the legend was untarnished.

            “Ha-ha!” The question entertained the dwarf as he wheezed an unapologetic laugh, “Boy, Arthur dug one of the deepest pits of ‘em all in his hunt for Twrch Trwyth…”

*

“Twrch Trwyth? Are you mad little bird?” Taliesin couldn’t believe his ears, that the animals would be seeking the help of such a dangerous beast.

            “Hey, it wasn’t exactly this little bird’s idea, but we all agreed that Maeve and her family would need help with Gwydion.” He hopped down from his perch to address them directly.

            “I appreciate that but we’re leaving whilst we still can.” Raymond answered on behalf of the others.

            “That so?” The Ousel chirped, fluttering up onto Maeve’s knee, “You really think that trickster’s going to let you leave Maeve? Do you even want to?”

            She couldn’t muster an answer, just a conceited frown.

            “So you’ll need a legend like that boar to dig you out of this mess. Even a Child of Dôn will think twice about facing him.” Dashes of doubt chipped away at the Ousel’s declaration, yet he stood by their plan.

            “And how do you suppose you’ll convince him to aid us hmmm?” Ceridwen was the most dubious of them all, squat back on her upturned log sipping at her broth.

            “The Eagle of Gwern Abwy appeals to him as we speak, along with the Owl of Cwm Cawlwyd and the Stag of Redynfre. With the well wishes of the Salmon of Llyn Llyw no less.” He puffed up the little white band that ringed his chest with pride. “I was sent ahead, to give you all hope I suppose. And they’d rather I didn’t natter the boar’s ear off.”

            “Wise council indeed, them lot.” Ceridwen was impressed, she’d known the animals to offer guidance in the past, but now, much like herself, they sought to play their part. Then again she feared it would be in vain. Twrch Trwyth was a different breed of animal, forged through bitter war. “But if you believe he’ll lend his tusk to any man then you’re sorely misled.”

            Zoe couldn’t see her daughter but sensed her fidgeting, Maeve wanted to speak up and as ever needed encouragement. She softly cut through the severity of the discussion, putting the girl at ease once more as only she could. “Go on honey, tell them.”

            “I think we saw him, in the valleys south of here, and again when hunting the Salmon…” Maeve stuttered, though her heart tinged with sympathy for the beast as she remembered what she’d seen. “At first we were afraid, he was just this enormous shadow in the woods, but he left us alone. The second time, he wasn’t alone, he was followed by the ghosts of other pigs, seven actually. Smaller than him...I think they were his children.”

            “Grugyn Gwrych Ereint, Llwydawg Govynnyad, Twrch Llawin, Gwys, Banw, Bennwig and...and there was another. Eludes me now, perhaps the runt was too young to even bear a name.” Taliesin listed those he could recall, after all the poems involving the exploits of Arthur were always freshest in his mind, and this was sadly one of them.

            “All of them slain by Arthur and his men. All but the father of that herd were slaughtered in that hunt.” Ceridwen muttered the grim conclusion of that tale with disparity, as if she didn’t count herself amongst the likes of the men of whom she spoke.

            “Wait, what hunt?” Raymond asked, perhaps the only one truly in the dark here.

            “You ain’t ever heard of the most destructive chase that ever took place?” The Ousel was surprised, forgetting for a moment that he spoke to a family who had never set foot in this world but three days ago. The exasperated look on Maeve’s face told him that she at least knew, so he went on. “You see it all started-”

            “Ah, ah, I’ll take the reins from here good friend.” Taliesin butted in as he swivelled his lute around his waist, the tiny bird tutting as he hopped aside.

            “Never deny my boy a chance to regale us with a tale.” Ceridwen mocked, though the bard appreciated the whisper of pride in her tone.

            “Thank you mother.” He tipped an imaginary cap before strumming his fingers lackadaisically across the strings, “You see it all started-”

            “But do keep it brief will you.” The crone butted in, that pride replaced with a desire to see the tale told before night had fallen.

            “Of course.” It took every fibre in the bard’s being to agree, strumming the dreamy tune from the beginning as he cleared his throat, “You see it all started with a wedding-”

            “Culhwch and Olwen’s!” Maeve sprang the answer excitedly, she knew this yarn well.

            “Yes, Culhwch and Olwen.” Sensing the spotlight had quickly faded from his performance, Taliesin set his lute aside and spoke in earnest. “I could weave the narrative of that wedding all day, list out the conditions her giant chieftain of a father laid out for the poor Culhwch before he might have Olwen’s hand. But that would be frivolous, for as far as my great king Arthur’s involvement was concerned, things were rather simple. You see one of these tasks asked for a very specific comb and scissors to be procured, to cut Ysbaddaden’s hair you see, Olwen’s father that is. But these were soundly hidden in the matting of Twrch Trwyth’s hairy head, and thus the most formidable boar in the land was in the way of the simple ask.

            “Culhwch’s answer? Arthur. After all he was Culhwch’s cousin and would never turn down so noble a cause as love. Oh, trust me, the tales are true. Arthur, my king, he was the embodiment of honour, of the good in men. If only he were with us today, how all this might be different…” the bard spoke wistfully, melancholic to have his most admired friend be naught but a memory, and this a most sour note in that memory at that, “...but in that hunt, I’m sure he would agree, mistakes were made. Victory, as we believe it, was had. Yet time can shine a harsh light on even the most golden of days. Looking back, little could be considered won when it came with so much loss…”

*

“Problem was that old pig was as stubborn as they came, and Arthur was never exactly lacking for confidence, so he decided he’d just take ‘em. Next thing you knew him and his men, not just his knights, we’re talking armies here, were locked in this farcical battle with the boar. I’m not joking when I say it stretched across kingdoms, the realm, everywhere. From one bout to the next, chasing this wild beast across the land over some silly little trinkets. A razor and some shears, geez, just to get some girl’s father’s approval.” Grigor rattled on, sparing little time for the details, interested more in how the tale fit his much lauded ‘pit’.

            “But he was a monster wasn’t he? Twrch Trwyth?” Orson wanted to believe the good fight had been fought, though he suspected it hadn’t.

            “Sure, he was, some cursed prince or other.” The coranwr didn’t seem to care for the origins of this persecuted beast, or perhaps he considered them irrelevant now. “But that wasn’t why Arthur figured he’d hunt him to such extremes, that boar was minding his own damned business before some man was given a reason to bother him. He was just in the way. From Dyffryn Llychwr to Dyffryn Amanw, Ireland to Wales, they fought. I’m talking months of warfare here. Sure, Arthur had his victory, but not before villages were trampled, hundreds slaughtered and all seven of Twrch’s herd slain. Barely runts they were, but they all put up a hell of a fight.”

            “And Twrch Trwyth? Did he survive?” Lewis’s memories of the Mabinogi were still vague, but somehow he knew this particular yarn was important to the here and now, beyond just being a case in point for a begrudging dwarf.

            “Driven into the sea, never to be seen again.” Grigor sighed, though his ears had told him the beast had survived years ago. “I don’t think Arthur could’ve ever finished him off, not without getting himself killed in turn. With the mightiest boar lost to the ocean he figured it best be left there and returned so that Culhwch could marry his Olwen...such a waste. So much lost over a matter that didn’t even concern him. But that’s the pit for ya kid, sometimes even your heroes fall into it.”

            “I think I understand.” Orson glumly acknowledged. The stories weren’t as inspiring as he remembered when his grandmother told them.

            “Uh but hey, it’s just a story kid.” Grigor scratched at the back of his leathery neck awkwardly, aware a boy so young was perhaps the wrong audience for his venting.

            “Hey, who knows. If he survived we might see the mighty boar himself before we leave.” Lewis playfully nudged his son’s side, appealing to the innocent wonderment of his boy.

            “That would be so cool.” Orson cracked a giddy smile as the possibility struck him. What a sight that would be.

*

“Having survived all that pain, having hidden himself away from the world of men ever since, you would draw him back into the light of day.” Ceridwen admonished the idea, feeling it better that the beast was left alone to grieve. “The scorn of men, Twrch Trwyth, brought back to battle the man who would think he’s saving the world. I’ve no sympathy for Gwydion, but having the boar oppose him would dredge up the memory of his battles all over again, the hunt would resume as if it had ended yesterday. He’s best left forgotten, to live out his days with what little he has.”

            “I hate to admit it but mother’s right, even with the best intention I doubt bringing him before the realms eyes would end very well.” Taliesin weighed the options in his mind, he equated the beast’s predicament with the Elderkins themselves, innocent bystanders drawn into the fray. “Let us not forget that in his youth, he even protected Gwydion’s nephew when he was at his weakest. After Blodeuwedd’s betrayal almost saw Lleu killed, it was Twrch Trwyth that watched over him as he nursed his wound, it was Twrch Trwyth that led Gwydion to him. The beast saw fit even then to protect the ever-living Children of Dôn, long before he rose to be the king of boars. What’s to say he would turn against their kind now.”

            The Ousel stammered and stuttered as he tried to offer a counter point, some nugget that might change their minds, but nothing came. After a fleeting silence it was Zoe who found the words.

            “But he doesn’t have anything, does he?” She couldn’t fathom how a creature of legend like him would function, but she knew how she would feel. “The spirits that Maeve saw following him, they aren’t his children, not as they were. Just like your husband Ceridwen, out on his lake. They’re ghosts, trapped where they shouldn’t be. You can’t call that an existence, neither is what Twrch is living with now. No father should have to wander like that, haunted, monster or otherwise. And we all know why this world is like it is. Gwydion isn’t acting to stop this, to mend the wrongs he’s caused, he’s just trying to save his own skin. I think maybe, for once, the boar might be agreeable, if it helps get his children back to Annwn…I know I would be.”

            “See, that there is exactly what I’m hoping the old Eagle is saying right now.” The Ousel squawked with rousing approval, “Put it like that and he has to understand.”

            “It’s still a long shot.” Taliesin tried to temper expectations, wary of the real danger Gwydion posed without the fantasies of old boars charging to their aid.

            “So was a girl from another realm finding the Salmon of Llyn Llyw, but here we are.” The little bird plopped himself proudly beside Maeve, she herself finding it hard not smile.

            “Here we are indeed.” Ceridwen echoed, perhaps there was merit to this fool’s hope after all.

*

“Not far now, heck you should know where you’re headed.” Grigor curved his arm around the bend of the ravine ahead of him, “Just follow the base of the mountain and we’ll be in the crone’s woods in no-argh!” His directions fell off into a pained scream as he held his ears tight, but Lewis and Orson couldn’t hear a thing until the heavens seemingly opened seconds later.

            BOOM!

            A thunderous crash echoed through the ravine, still ringing the coranwr’s sensitive ears with pain. It was as if a distant mountain had toppled over, a shift so cataclysmic it could be heard far and wide.

            “Are you okay?” Lewis stooped to the dwarf who buckled in agony, though as the noise faded so did his pain.

            “I’ll be fine, just rattled me.” He shook his head vigorously, trying to dislodge whatever had pierced his senses.

            “What the hell was that?” Lewis gazed through the barren valley, not even the dashes of snow had shifted down here.

            “Damned world falling apart sounded like. Whatever it was, it’s around the other side of Gwyddfa Rhita, that much I could tell.” Grigor tried to stand upright but winced at the attempt. “Ah damn, you’re going to have to carry on without me. This is where I tap out.”

            “What’s wrong Grigor?” Orson slid from his lion’s back to the dwarf’s side, brow crooked with concern.

            The coranwr started clawing at the dirt, his shovel like hands digging a ditch his own size with surprising speed. “A ruckus like that’ll damn near kill my senses, would’ve done the job outright had I been closer.” He squinted back up at them from his hovel but could barely make out their faces. “I’m real sorry guys, I need silence, dirt, solitude. I ain’t no good to ya like this. Hopefully it was just some rockslide, just carry on without me.”

            “You’re going to be okay aren’t you?” The boy stared down at him, flustered as to how such a gruff specimen could become so vulnerable. “Please don’t go.”

            “I don’t want you to think I’m running scared…” He sank lower in the loosened earth with shame, appearing like a half covered stone himself.

            “It’s alright Grigor, we can find our way from here.” Lewis knelt and shook his hand. Perhaps fear was a part of it, but he couldn’t begrudge the dwarf his peace, not after all he’d done. “You take care of yourself, stay out of trouble.”

            “You too, take care of the kid, he’s a good egg.” He appeared destitute in his hole, but beneath the ground was where he thrived, where he could tune out the wallows of the above.

            “I’ll miss you Grigor.” Orson frowned; lips curled with sadness. Their time together may have been short, but he felt he’d made a friend in the most unlikely of places. He treasured that.

            “Hey, this ain’t goodbye...but you promise me you’ll get you and your family out of here kid. I’ll be listening.” He tapped the lobe of his ear before shovelling away once more, vanishing into a mound of his own making. How deep he’d travelled they didn’t know, but they hoped he’d find them again.

            Orson stood and watched for any movement in the freshly upturned dirt, but nothing happened. He couldn’t understand why he’d fled like that, so suddenly. The lion nuzzled up to his back, satisfied to be scratched behind his ears by Lewis instead.

            “Come on Orson, we should keep going.” He lifted him up onto the lion’s back and ushered the beast on, though his son was far from ready to leave.

            “Why did he go Dad? I thought he was our friend…” Abandoned as he were, his mannerisms reverted back to those of a far younger child, a child who’d experienced loss perhaps one too many a time this week.

            “He was, still is. Just this is his home Orson, where he lives, where he’s safe. We’re almost home too okay, we couldn’t expect him to leave with us.” He ruffled the sombre child’s hair, getting a murmur of a smile from him. “Besides you heard him, he’s expecting us to make it the rest of the way. You can bet your bottom the nosey bugger will be listening, so let’s not disappoint.”

            The lion trudged on with his rider all the happier to be endeavouring to the finish line. “I can’t wait to tell Mum and Cooper all about him!”

            “Oh, she’d love to hear this story…” Lewis hadn’t thought of what he’d tell his wife when he finally saw her again, where would he start? If anything, he looked forward most to hearing about her days with Cooper.

*

They walked on, ever in the shadow of Gwyddfa Rhita, ever watchful for what looming calamity had shaken the earth earlier. They couldn’t be far from the miner’s track Blodeuwedd had led them down during the night, Lewis was certain of it. The lake before them now was familiar, had Aria been with them she would have pointed it out as Llyn Llydaw, at least this realm’s version of it. But even without a name, Lewis could remember its supposed place in the mythos. A serene pool whose waters were long and thin, winding their way through this plateau in the mountain’s base, one could see why it was fabled to be the resting place of Arthur’s Excalibur. It was one of several possible lakes in fact, though the hanging mists which adorned the view now drenched the scene in a mystery befitting of such a legend. Regardless of its past, it presently meant that they were but a few miles from that old familiar path. Father, son, and their beast pressed on until they came upon the ghastly conclusion of some battle.

            Splayed across the rocks beneath the daunting cliff above was the hideous corpse of a giant and two enormous oxen, or what resembled the bloody remains of such, tangled in coils of heavy iron chains. Orson gasped but was put at ease by his father, they were most definitely dead, the towering man appeared to have been rotting for days. He stared up at the sheer rock face, the low hanging cloud so thick that its upper reaches were cloaked from sight, stretching up and beyond into the heavens. They must have fallen to their death, that noise was their bodies crashing against these rocks, Lewis thought, relieved to see the disaster was not an active threat, even if hadn’t been as innocent as a rockslide. What on earth happened here?

            Their ogling of the grim yet captivating aftermath was interrupted by a swell of water behind them. They dashed behind the boulders which formed the giant’s deathbed to spy at what other titan had been drawn by this one’s demise. The lion wriggled and writhed in Orson’s arms, wanting to run as far as it could from whatever it could smell. The lake’s quiet surface now frothed and foamed like some infernal brew as a hulking, familiar shape emerged from its depths, pulling itself ashore clumsily with two stilted arms. It was the Afanc, brought far by the promise of an easy meal, and a large one at that. The creature looked ill however, dragging itself across the grass as if its life depended on this feast, its wart ridden tongue hanging from those crooked jaws. Orson’s breath quickened but Lewis pressed a finger against his lips and quieted the boy.

            “Shh.” He whispered calmly. They’d evaded this beast before, he wouldn’t let it seize them now. “It must have heard it too, just let it have its fill and we can move on.”

            Orson nodded nervously. He couldn’t believe it had followed them all the way to the surface, but sure enough it wasn’t them the monster had travelled for. Those grim mandibles clamped across the dome of the giant’s skull and clenched with terrible force, tearing the rotten head from its shoulders with a disturbing crunch. Gluttonous as it were, it tried to swallow the enormity whole, the brim of its gullet swelling as it went down. But then, as if it had overreached itself, the Afanc began to wretch and cough, and spat the head on to the ground.

The head rolled to a stop before them, drenched in saliva. The dull black eyes of the giant stared blankly at the trio behind the rock, almost sending Orson into another panic. Yet the Afanc still writhed and flailed, back to the bank of Llyn Llydaw. It might have submerged itself had it not given into what ailed it first, roaring a ghastly death cry into the mists before slumping on its side. A mess of inky blood gurgled from its mouth as it lay there, seemingly dead for reasons the group could not understand.

            “What the hell?” Lewis stood first, edging around the rock, still afraid it was some malicious game the fiend was playing.

            “Is it dead?” Orson whispered from behind the cover, only his inquisitive eyes peaking over the verge.

            “Stay there.” Lewis waved his hand behind him; he’d find out for himself first.

            He eyed the Afanc’s bulging belly for some movement or pulse but saw none, until a blade pierced it from within. The obsidian tip ran down the length of its stomach as if it were butter, slicing it open like a tent beset by marauders. From within a vat of gore and guts spilt forth, and what followed was a sight Lewis had thought he was free of. Staggering out of the beast’s intestines came Efnysien, drenched red with the innards of the monster who’d consumed him. His skin was scorched and scarred, more so than ever before, and his clothes a tattered mess of scolded leather. But he still walked sword in hand, shoulders steaming as the cauldron within healed his wounds, an immortal man. It took Efnysien a moment to take in his surroundings, but once his eyes had readjusted he was as bemused to see the man who stood before him as Lewis was.

            “You’ve got to be kidding...” Lewis mouthed, barely able to believe he’d survived and appeared before them here, of all places.

            “You.” Efnysien sneered, eyes slit with a confused loathing.

            “You...you should be dead.” Lewis uttered the obvious, feeling a fool for having believed a trip down the Afanc’s throat would have been enough. He tried his best not to look back, not to give away his company.

            “Do you know how many men have told me that over the years?” Efnysien boasted with his arms held wide, though laboured breaths undercut his usual bravado. He muttered, almost to himself afterwards, “How many times I’ve told myself…”

            “It’s over Efnysien. Gwydion’s disappeared or dead, your little plan failed before it ever took off. We’re leaving, I suggest you do the same.” Lewis tensed, expecting the madman to lunge for him at any moment.

            Instead, he shook the blood from his sword and sheathed it before wiping the gore from his brow. “I find that very hard to believe, your lass may have landed her spell but he’s not one to let things lie.” He wrung his wild beard free of blood as he pondered matters, he had been in the dark quite literally. “I’ll make sure she has her comeuppance next time we meet.”

            “You won’t get the chance…” Lewis growled.

            “You mean to stop me?” Efnysien rhetorically asked, but upon seeing Lewis’s defiance seep into sorrow a wry smile crept across his lips. Speaking without opening them as always he realised, “No... you mean to say she’s no more. Pity. I’ll make do exacting my vengeance on that other sister of yours then, I still owe her for what she pulled on the mountain top.”

            “Just stop. Just…” Lewis shook his head in anguish, he couldn’t stand this man anymore.

            “Stop? Stop!?” The immortal barked, “That is the one thing I cannot do! Look around you, this world is dying quicker than I ever could. And those children of yours are the solution. Gwydion will be out there in the woods, waiting for me to return, and I do not intend on returning empty handed.”

            “They’re not here idiot, we were split up when Cantre’r Gwaelod was flooded.” Lewis held his sternest face, doing all he could not to yell for Orson to run right now. “It’s just me.”

            “All you Pwyll children do is lie.” He shook his head and paced right up to Lewis, staring up at him. “You said we, we’re leaving. So, pray tell, who’s behind those rocks.”

            Efnysien began to tread past him, but Lewis threw his arms around him from behind, gripping him tight. He yelled in desperation, “Orson run!”

            The lion came bounding out from behind the rubble, Orson clinging to its back. The boy fretted, “No Dad! I’ll stay and-”

            “Orson if you ever want to see your mother again, run!” Lewis cried, doing what he could to hold the murderer in his arms back. He could see his boy wouldn’t abandon him, so he looked to the lion instead and commanded the beast, “GO!”

            The lion understood this father’s plea, and just what the boy that sat atop him meant to him. Reluctantly it pelted past them as fast as its worn legs could take it.

            “No, no, no, no!” Orson cried, but there was little he could do but hang on for dear life as the lion took him down the mountain pass. He tried to thrash at the lion’s back, but it ignored his protests, his safety its only concern.

            “Argh!” Efnysien threw his head back into Lewis’s, bloodying the father’s nose as he fell to the pebbled shore. He stepped in the direction of their retreat, but they were already gone. Frustrated, he swore into the sky.

            Lewis sat up, wiping at his nose. “You’ll never catch up to him. You’ll never have him, not my boy.”

            “I won’t stop, I told you.” The dejected Efnysien still stared down the mountain, hoping to glimpse something he knew was long gone.

            Lewis stood to his feet, tired from all that had transpired, but defiant still. “And I told you, it’s over.”

            “Even beasts tire eventually.” The immortal began to follow their trail like a dog who couldn’t let go of what it had sniffed, ignoring Lewis entirely.

            Lewis couldn’t let him go, not after his son. He trudged up behind Efnysien and grabbed at his shoulder with his left hand, throwing a straight punch with his right as he turned. The immortal was expecting the father to struggle however, hoping in fact. Ready for the blow he ducked and threw his own right into Lewis’s stomach. And then another, and another, until Lewis finally got hold of the scruff of his mangled tunic and threw him aside. Efnysien barely touched the ground before he sprang back to his feet, the whites of his eyes glistening moons of zeal amidst the dark maroon of his skin. He gripped the hilt of his sword and grinned a murderous grin. He wouldn’t use it yet; he’d make this last.

            The two of them threw themselves at each other on the shore of Llyn Llydaw, cast in the shadow of the mountain above. Between two dead giants they fought, viciously trading blow after blow. The sky was clouded with doubt, hiding this bout from the sun, for no glory could be gleamed from this encounter. An immortal man who had lost everything to his own hubris, and another, all too human, desperate to protect what little he had left. With every clenched fist the cause became less and less noble, every bruise a mark left by simple hatred now.

            No matter what they fought for, the scales were always tipped. At first Lewis had hit hard, smart to the advantages this lean attacker had played last time. But now the minutes had taken their toll as he lumbered around, exhausted, pained and alone. No matter how much he tried to keep the man’s assault at arm’s length he began to falter, his tireless opponent becoming more and more of a blur in his eyes. Efnysien’s knuckles struck the top of Lewis’s head like a hammer, knocking his glasses to the floor. Lewis knew he fought the inevitable, but every hit he took reminded him of his father, of the man this monster had taken from him, from his children. He rose with a resounding uppercut, his bloodied hand sending Efnysien flying backwards. Exasperated, he tried to catch his breath in this brief window, but had it taken away from him as the immortal tackled him to the floor.

            Efnysien roared like a madman as he pummelled him, intent on killing the man with his bare hands. His eyes were possessed, flared with sadistic rage, as they had been the day he tossed his nephew to the flames. Nothing would stop him now. Lewis held up his arms against the unending assault, but they soon gave way, and it was then that Efnysien placed his hands around his head. He slammed it against the cold stones beneath, his mouth dripping with spit as he embraced his cruel nature. Lewis could barely keep his eyes open. When they were open, all he saw was the nightmare that sat atop him, but every blink became a dream of his wife, his sons. Is this what it’s like before you die, he pondered.

            Efnysien then pressed his thumb into Lewis’s shoulder with glee, digging it into the scar he’d left him with before. Lewis screamed in agony, life rushing back to his veins through means of suffering alone, his pain shocking his senses back to crystal clarity. “You feel that? Old wounds never truly heal, they just gnaw at your being, festering under the skin. You’ll never be rid of them, not until the day you die.”

            The immortal had never been short of time and had learned to drag out his sick pleasures for lengths many would think impossible. But he had indulged this moment for too long. Suddenly he was ripped from atop Lewis by a white, growling streak. The lion had returned and whisked him away by the shoulder, tearing at him on the ground before flinging him away like discarded meat. The guardian beast went to pounce once more but Efnysien rose before he could, drawing his sword wide, goading the animal with ferocity despite the mangle of his bite wounds.

            “Don’t!” Lewis warned the lion from trying to strike once more, seeing that obsidian blade stretched before it. It took heed, stopping in its tracks, no less focused on its prey. If you’re already back then you can’t have taken Orson far.

            “Remember this blade? I’ll cleave your cat in two before I finish you off.” Efnysien lunged wildly at the lion to keep it at bay like a cornered animal.

            Lewis didn’t say a word as he staggered to his feet and stood wide of the beast, arms held ready to grab at the immortal. They had him outnumbered, but a single nick of that blade could see either of them killed in a flash. That sword, Lewis came to a realisation, it could be the answer. They stood there in crippling silence, glaring at each other as each waited for another to make the first move. Nobody moved, yet they heard feet approaching on the cobbled pebbles.

            “Dad!” Orson’s appearance broke the standstill like a lightning strike.

            Lewis impulsively turned to see his son, a reaction Efnysien decided to seize upon. Lunging forwards, the tip of the blade would have pierced his chest had he not been pulled backwards. The lion bit deep into his other arm and refused to release him, pulling him further from Lewis who grabbed at the flailing sword.

            “Bloody beasts!” Efnysien riled as he swung his sword backwards, sending Lewis toppling as he avoided its reckless arc.

            The blade struck the lion however, clean across its side, sending the loyal beast toppling into the dirt with a cry, its white fur slicked red with its own blood. Efnysien paid no mind to the chunk missing from his forearm or the slumped beast, he wanted the boy. He soldiered towards Orson who’d slipped behind another knee-high rock, the child’s frantic breaths and their puffs of cold vapour clear for him to see.

            “You’re coming with me boy-” Efnysien glared over the crop of the boulder, but his threats were cut short as a hand clasped around his throat, and another around his sword hand.

Lewis lifted Efnysien into the air and slammed him back down atop the boulder. Staring down at his broken foe he wearily breathed, “It’s over.”

            Immune to pain as Efnysien was there was no scream, but the drop had cracked something within, his body keeled over the rock in an unnatural display. His limbs twitched and fidgeted, loose of any degree of control as the treasured blade fell from his hand with a clunk. Orson crawled back in shock before he saw what had become of the lion. He rushed to its side and tried to comfort it, but the razor thin wound bled and bled.

            “Dad! He’s hurt, we need to help him!” Orson called to his father, but his focus remained on the sword at his feet.

            “Just a second…” As he picked it up by its opal white hilt the obsidian blade ran alight with a blinding flame up to its very tip. He stood there, astounded by the weapon’s response.

            Slumped across the rock, Efnysien’s eyes lit up with the glow of the magical fire. He mouthed what he had always suspected, “Myrddin’s magic.”

            Lewis was overcome by what he held in his hands, mind racing with what it could mean, yet his son’s repeated pleas grounded him in the here and now. He left the crippled immortal to his stone and rushed to help the lion. Its breath was waning, its blood running dry from the incurable slash. Lewis had no idea whether what he was about to do would work, but he had to try. He held the flat of the flaming blade to the beast’s side.

            “What are you doing!?” Orson panicked, thinking his father had gone mad.

            “I’m-I’m not sure, but this is the same sword that cut me. Ceridwen said the wound wouldn’t heal normally, that magic could only be mended by magic or something...well, these flames have to be magical right?” He tripped over his words trying to explain himself to his son but could see that none of it would convince the boy.

            “I told him to come back and rescue you Dad.” Tears ran down his reddened cheeks, thinking he’d sent the lion to his death was unbearable. “Please...please don’t let him die.”

            “Trust me.” Lewis uttered as he pressed the scorching metal across the wound.

            The lion roared in agony as the flames seared its flesh, but Orson held his head tight. Within seconds the pain had passed however, and its growls turned to quieted purrs. As the sword lifted from its fur, it revealed a charred scar where the gash had once been, crude yet seemingly sealed. Another reminder of a fate the white lion had evaded in its duty. They were both overjoyed, but a hideous clicking of bones told them that Efnysien was still not done.

            The run of his spine contorted back into one piece as he slowly stood upright, cricking a vertebra back into place like a misshapen old man. “Very clever. Should’ve known the Sword of Rhydderch Hael would shine in your hands, a well born man, a man who’s lived under Myrddin’s wing.” His deductions seeped with disgust, the fiery sword now only confirming his prejudices.

            “I’m sure you thought you were being clever, guarding the only thing that could kill you by wielding it yourself.” Lewis stood between Efnysien and the others, ready to use this weapon should he have to.

            “One of Arthur’s thirteen treasures, stole it myself, sharpened it with another. The Whetstone of Tudwal Tudglud. You see they said if a brave man sharpened his blade with this whetstone it would surely kill any man from whom it drew blood.” Still Efnysien edged closer, eyes dead with the glare of a gravely committed man. “Plunged it deep into my own chest, but still I survived. Treasure my arse, but you’re right, I figured it worth keeping in my hands alone. Yet those flames...those are new…” His last words rang with curiosity, perhaps wielded by this man the blade could finally finish him.

            “I told you, it’s over.” Lewis knew full well what the immortal wanted, what he’d always wanted, more death.

            “Are these things truly ever finished with? Hm!?” Despite those sealed lips his voice brimmed with contempt now, hell bent on dragging his enemy down to his level. “I’ve seen it in your eyes, the lust for vengeance, to do right by the old man you so clearly grieve. I know the look all too well, for I’ve seen it in the eyes of so many men, in my own eyes! You wish to kill me a thousand times over, don’t you! You would’ve done, had you been able, back on that mountain top. Lord knows you tried. Do so now or I’ll put that boy before Gwydion myself!”

            Efnysien lunged towards them but found his right arm flopping to the floor, a clean cut through his bicep. Lewis had barely thought about the strike, but the blade had glanced through the air as if it had never felt the touch of flesh and bone at all.

            Efnysien laughed manically to himself, his cackling turning to sobs of delirious joy. “It hurts! The pain...it’s incredible.”

            “Enough!” Lewis shouted; blade held high ready to defend his own once more.

            “You and I, we’re no different. Men beset by evil, given a chance to make it right.” He rattled on, maddened with the prospect of an end once and for all. “Think of all I’ve taken from you man! Where’s your loyalty to your kin? I’ve had my chance, now seize yours!”

            Again, he ran for them, this time spiralling to the floor, his left leg severed at the knee. Whether he was crying with joy or pain was hard to discern as he writhed on the floor.

            “Even now the cauldron churns away within me, look…” he held up the stump of his arm, the charred end boiling over as it regenerated, “Slower, and far more painful, but it’s not enough.”

            Lewis saw his foe in the dirt, helpless. Much like his father must have been, defending his granddaughter from such a monster. “Maybe I’ll just keep hacking till there’s nothing left, and when you come back I’ll start all over again...”

            Efnysien hobbled before the flames of the sword and held his head high. He muttered his final warning with disturbing clarity even now, “You know I won’t stop.”

            The sword quivered in Lewis’s hands, its flames flickering with his own uncertainty. Even though Efnysien begged before him, he felt as though he were alone in the world, some place deep and dark. Faces of those he cherished came to mind, some he could hope to see again, some he knew were gone forever. This pitiful mess of a man had been the one responsible, yet Lewis still wavered. Finally, a little voice reached out to him, the only voice that might lift him from these depths.

            “Don’t do it Daddy!” Orson begged his father not to give in to the urge. “You’re not like him, you still have me...and mummy...and Cooper...and…” He sobbed as he hugged Lewis’s waist tight, “He doesn’t have anybody to pull him back up, but you do…please, please don’t do it.”

            As if he’d been awoken by his son’s words, both in body and in mind, he tossed the sword aside and embraced Orson. Perhaps Efnysien had taken Merfyn from him, but he wouldn’t take away the man he’d raised. It had taken the words of his own son to remind him of that much.

            “You’re right, of course you’re right. I’m so sorry Orson. So, so sorry.” Lewis felt as though he could hold onto Orson forever, “What would I do without you.”

            “I’m glad you didn’t fall in Dad…” He remembered the coranwr’s words, thanking him for his timely lesson.

            “You should have finished me when you had the chance coward!” Efnysien spat, falling over himself as he tried to crawl for the sword.

            “I’m not going to kill you Efnysien, there must be plenty more who deserve to judge you before I get a shout.” Seeing him now, as he were, Lewis felt relieved. Despite those severed limbs growing back before his very eyes, he’d bested him, and he hadn’t lost himself in the process. A certain use for the wretched immortal did come to mind in turn, “Others who I’m sure would be very interested to see you, a man who’s cheated death for so long. A certain king comes to mind...you still have aunt Aria’s rope son?”

            “Yeah, in my bag somewhere.” Orson unzipped his rucksack and began to root around.

            “Good.” Lewis smiled, a plan in mind, “He’s coming with us.”