Unable to sleep, Eilonwy lay on her pallet and stared at the little farmhouse's thatched ceiling, wondering if, in his chamber, Taran was doing the same. She considered rising and going to see, but found herself unaccountably shy.

It made no sense. They were to be wed, once the golden ships reached the Summer Country. Or perhaps they would marry on board a ship. They could do that, she supposed. It might be pleasant - the briny air, the screaming gulls. Yes, that would be rather lovely. Unless they all got seasick. She and Taran had sailed together twice, and that first time, he'd turned the most horrific shade of green. Of course, Rhun had been at the helm that time.

At any rate, Taran knew her heart, and she knew his. She ought to go to him.

And yet.

Eilonwy slipped a hand into her robes, found the little golden sphere that she carried always, and drew it forth. She held it a few inches from her eyes. Slowly, it began to glow. As she watched, the sphere brightened and voices came to her from far away. They were singing. She could not discern the words, but knew, somehow, that they were about farewells. Farewell to Caer Dallben, she thought. Farewell to the pastures, the orchards, the little stream. It occurred to her that she had heard the song before, long ago and in a distant land.

When the song ended, the bauble was bright as a candle flame, the sight of it blurred by the tears in Eilonwy's eyes. She blinked them back furiously. She mustn't cry, for there was no reason to bed sad. She loved Caer Dallben, but she and Taran were journeying in the morning to a far better place. They would never grow old in the Summer Country, never die. Once they reached those shores, there would be no more farewells. Ever.

And yet.

Eilonwy kicked aside the thin woolen blanket and climbed to her feet. Using the bauble to light her way, but shielding it to avoid waking the others, she left the farmhouse.

Once outside, she extinguished her bauble and slipped it back into her cloak, for the moonlight was more than adequate. It turned the melting snow to silver and outlined the forms of the sleeping Sons of Don and Commot warriors. It led her to the apple orchard. The branches were gray and bare, but when she pressed her palm to thick trunk, she felt the life within. She had, as Dallben said, only surrendered the use of her powers; the blood of enchantresses still ran in her veins. In time, she thought, there would be leaves and young birds, flowers, then fruit. Doubtless there were orchards just as fair in the Summer Country, but the realization that she would never see another spring at Caer Dallben made her feel wistful and - as if little fish were wriggling under her skin, flicking their cold fins. She shivered.

"Couldn't sleep either?" said the voice of Fflewddur. He moved into her line of vision, a tall, thin figure with matted yellow hair and a cloak thrown haphazardly across his shoulders. His left arm, Eilonwy could not help noting, was crooked, as though it ought to be holding something. "Busy day today," the bard went on, "busy day tomorrow. Can't say I don't have misgivings. And yet...perhaps a sea voyage..."

"Misgivings?" said Eilonwy lightly.

"Yes, well. There's my own kingdom, you know. A shame there isn't time to send a messenger. They'll wonder where I've gone. Not that they won't manage perfectly well without me," he added with a brief laugh. "Always have. And yet, I should have liked the chance to see it one last time. To thank my war leader and my chief steward. For running the place while I've been off..." He gestured vaguely.

"I should like to have seen your kingdom," Eilonwy said. "I'm sorry I never did."

"A shame," said Fflewddur. "For the splendor of my castle rivals that of-" He broke off, glanced about as though he expected something to happen, then sighed. "You're not missing much. It's a small castle, and the roof leaks in the winter. My chief steward's a good, reliable sort, but not what you'd call a gracious host. To be honest, I think he plays the grouch deliberately. That way, should I decide to return - permanently, that is - the people might appreciate..."

"I'm sorry I never saw it," Eilonwy repeated. "There's much of Prydain I never saw. I wasted so much time on Mona, studying to be a young lady. Meanwhile, Taran and Gurgi and you and Doli were traipsing all over, having all sorts of adventures."

"Traipsing, hopping. Ah, literally - once. Taran wanted to know who he was. You already knew."

"I did," said Eilonwy, but she knew that she sounded uncertain. She shook her head. "I am Eilonwy, daughter of Angharad, daughter of Regat, of the Royal House of Llyr. I was studying to be an enchantress, but gave that up to become a young lady. No, that's not quite right. I gave up my enchantments to stop Achren from conquering Prydain. I am..." For some reason, the ring she wore on her finger drew her attention. She studied it, frowning, fingering it with the thumb of her other hand. "I am the beloved of Taran, Assistant Pig-Keeper, and tomorrow we sail for the Summer Country with the Children of Don. That is who I am. But..."

"But?"

"I don't know." She looked up at the bare branches. They crossed her sky like a crude net into which the moon and stars might fall, or like a tapestry that was unraveling. She frowned, blinked slowly, and then the branches were just branches. "Fflewddur," she said, "was there ever a lady? In your life, I mean?"

The bard was silent for so long that Eilonwy flushed, embarrassed, for once, by her impertinence. She opened her mouth to tell him to forget about it, but just then he said, "Don't know that I'd call her a lady, but...yes. There was a woman, once. Long ago. Lass, why do you ask?"

"I don't know," she admitted.

Fflewddur jerked his cloak from his shoulders, spread it out at the base of an apple tree, and lowered himself slowly. He stretched his long legs, leaned his back against the tree. He crossed his arms over his chest and regarded Eilonwy with a thoughtful smile. "Gwenllian was her name. Is, as far as I know. It's been a long time since I've thought about her."

Eilonwy dropped down beside him. "What happened? I don't mean to pry. I just - I've known you all these years. I'm going to know you forever, and I never-"

"Nothing happened," Fflewddur said, his tone wistful. "As I said, she wasn't a lady. The prospect of our marriage didn't please my chief steward. He had ideas about kingly behavior, and marrying shepherdesses did not fall under that heading. Still, I might have, and he'd not have stood in our way - couldn't have, come to that. Being a king has its advantages every now and then. But it wouldn't have worked and we both knew it, Gwenllian and I. The road was calling, and she wanted no part of that. Oh, she liked my music well enough. Even played a bit herself. The pipes. But she had no mind to leave her sheep or her family. Not even for me. So, we parted company. While I was gone, she married."

"I'm sorry," Eilonwy said.

"Ah, don't be, lass. She'd have taken such good care of me, I'd never have gotten into a single scrape, never had a single adventure. I'd never have met you lot, that's certain."

"Was she pretty?"

"Pretty," scoffed the bard. "Beautiful. Why, the fairest Daughter of Don would envy-" He broke off, glanced sheepishly to his side, where the harp used to hang. "Yes, well, the truth of it is...she suited me. In truth," he added, unfolding his arms to pat Eilonwy's hand, "she wasn't half as pretty as you are. Great Belin, let's not talk about her or the past. Come morning, we voyage. You'll wed Taran and be happy all your days. That is, the days you're speaking to each other. I'll compose a song to play at your wedding - ah, once I've got my new harp."

"I'm looking forward to hearing it," Eilonwy assured him, smiling. She glanced back at the farmhouse and it seemed to her that someone stood at the window, face pale in the moonlight. She couldn't see whose it was, and she might have imagined it; she was tired and the orchard was some distance from the farmhouse.

"Always had a feeling about the two of you," Fflewddur was saying. "From the day I first met you. 'These two will be happy together,' I said to myself. 'I just hope they stop bickering long enough to figure it out.'"

Turning from the farmhouse, Eilonwy laughed. "Well," she said, "if certain Assistant Pig-Keepers hadn't been so- No, that's not entirely fair. Some of the blame is mine. But he can be so- And there were times when I just wanted to- I wonder if he's awake now. I wonder - I wonder if he heard that singing. Fflewddur, did you hear it? Just a short while ago, before I came out here?"

But he was shaking his head. "The only singing I heard was Llyan snoring. She does that, you know. Loudly, I'm afraid."

"I'm sorry you didn't hear it, because it was quite the loveliest... It was like...like waves slipping back toward the sea and taking...oh, I don't know. Taking bits of things with them. Shining things that you'll never see again. It was like the song we heard in King Eiddileg's realm, years ago, only twice as beautiful."

"I think you must have dreamed it," said Fflewddur.

"That's just the thing. I couldn't sleep."

"You might have dreamed you couldn't sleep," the bard suggested. "I've done that myself, often enough. Usually when I'm agitated, as I'm sure we all are, what with all we've done, and last night's tidings."

But Eilonwy shook her head adamantly. "I was awake and I heard the singing." She drew her legs up to her chest and hugged them, her chin dropping to her knees. "I wish I knew what it meant. I mean, I know what I thought it meant when I head it, but now I wonder if there isn't something more... I'd understand it if I were still an enchantress. But I'm not anymore, so I need more time, only I have no time."

She looked up at the trees again. She could still see the moon, though it was smaller and in another part of the sky. No light flickered in the east, but as Eilonwy huddled amid the roots of the ancient apple trees she thought she felt the earth moving beneath her, turning inexorably toward dawn.

Fflewddur patted her hand again. "It's all right," he said gently. "You'll have plenty of time once we reach the Summer Country."

But by then, Eilonwy thought, it will be much too late. She didn't understand.

"I'm not sorry to be leaving," Fflewddur told her after a long silence. "Oh, there are things I'll miss, but in my heart I've always wondered what lies beyond the horizon, over the sea. I suppose that's why I'd never have made much of a king. If there was a road, I wanted it beneath my feet. If there was a sweet breeze blowing, I wanted it in my face. Mind you, I've never been partial to boats, but, ah - a wandering bard takes what comes. So I've learned. Now," he added, rising stiffly to his feet, "I'd best get back before Llyan comes looking for me and wakes everyone. She's possessive - even without my harp."

"Oh, Fflewddur," Eilonwy said, smiling up at him. "It's you she loves, and not your harp. You know that."

"I do. And you'd best come back as well." He waggled a finger at her. "While Caer Dallben hardly compares with Mount Dragon, this isn't camping weather. A cold would be an inauspicious way to begin the rest of your life. A Fflam is hardy, but...I'm starting to feel the chill in my bones."

"You're right, of course," she replied with as much conviction as she could muster. "I'll come back - very shortly. I just want a little more time to..."

She let the sentence hang, unfinished, and after a moment Fflewddur turned and started back toward the farmhouse. She heard the squelch as his boots tread in cold mud.

He'd left his cloak. Rather than running after him, she wrapped it about herself. It was dirty from having lain on the ground, but she didn't care. She tilted her head back against the tree trunk and regarded the sky once more. "I am the Princess Eilonwy," she recited softly, "daughter of Angharad, daughter of Regat, of the Royal House of Llyr. I was to be an enchantress, but became a young lady instead. I am the beloved of Taran, Assistant Pig-Keeper, and in the morning..." She yawned vastly. "In the morning..." But she did not know what followed.

She sat there a little while longer, then decided to heed Fflewddur's advice. Taking his cloak with her, she rose and walked slowly back to the farmhouse and to bed.

3/30/09