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Spring of Storm and Shadow: Interlude #2
Even I Have My Doubts Owen the Brenin moves with a deliberate grace that should have been impossible in a man his age. Through the halls and down the stairs of his caer his bare feet carry him. His pace, though not a run, still makes it difficult for any but the quickest of the Griffon Guard to keep up with him. Fortunately they know this and while their quickest move with their Brenin, others meet him at his destination. They are acutely aware of his location at all times but here and now, the Brenin's mind is on one thing: his sister. When Cedric interrupted his sleep to announce the return of the four women, Owen stopped only long enough to grab a robe and to let his wife know where he was going. Now he nears the small waiting area where the guard has escorted them and his senses begin telling him that not everything is right. The Griffon Guard are tense and his nostrils are picking up the distinct aroma of dampness and grime and sweat. Owen feels old memories wash over him: the image of returning soldiers from the early defeats in the war; the muddy faces of adventurers returning from the ruins of Gorna; blood spattered and tear filled visages of his friends on his long walk. The emotions are unexpected but Owen is able to hide them all behind a mask of determination. Deliberately he slows his pace and takes a deep breath before making the final turn into the room. Before him stand the four women he had seen off to the Plane of Shadow. They are dirty, caked with mud, and in need of long hot baths. Their hair is tangled and unkempt and their clothes torn. Gone is the luster of elegant beauty that noble women possess. It is replaced with a grim determination that almost makes even the fair Ffionna look almost alien. Yet to Owen their look is all too familiar. These are not women who have sent others to their deaths and must live that burden. No these are women who have seen the death up close and personal. Of all the emotions now swirling within him, the Brenin latches onto pride: pride in what these women must have gone through to be here standing in front of him. Only three of the women turn to face him when he enters, however and immediately Owen senses something is terribly wrong. Sierra looks up from her chair and then stands. Ffionna is close by and is the only one who manages a formal, if brief, bow. Rhian stands next to Gwenllian. Her face is usually a mask of thinly disguised contempt. Now she is stone faced and unreadable. For her part, Gwenllian merely glances back over her shoulder at him from where she is staring out a window. "Welcome home, ladies." Owen begins, his voice calm and charming. "We had not a word from you for some time even though the adventurers who had accompanied you returned some time ago." It is a question, caged in concern but nevertheless one he is anxious to have answered. "My brother and I have much to discuss." Gwenllian says. Sierra nods and picks up her wide brimmed hat. "Yes, you do." Her eyes lock with the Brenin's for a brief moment and then her head turns to face Ffionna and Rhian. Both women nod but before she leaves, Rhian lays a tentative and almost gentle hand on Gwenllian's arm. The Archdruid replies with a brief caress of her fingers on Rhian's hand and a small nod. None of the women make eye contact with the Brenin as they leave. Behind them the door closes and brother and sister are left alone. When it is closed, Gwenllian turns around to face her brother. Owen sees she has been crying but the only hint of tears now are the tracks they left on her face. He also notices she is holding her sickle and is somewhat shocked to see that it is made of cold iron. "Sister, what need do you have of such a weapon?" As the words escape his lips he tastes the uncomfortable emotions behind them. Gwenllian looks him up and down. "The enemies of Cysgod Annwn are fey creatures. The irony is almost laughable, don't you think?" Gently she slips the sickle back into the loop on her belt and draws the string holding it there very tight. "Sierra carries several such weapons. She is well aware of their properties..." She lets the words, and their meaning, hang between them. Looking up at her beloved brother, Gwenllian breathes deeply, closes her eyes, and begins to speak. "The Greenman accepted your sacrifice, Owen, but he also recognized that I still owe him a gift. He spun a web of questions that I could find no way out of... questions I suppose I knew I would have to answer after what I did." Stopping briefly she looks straight into Owen's gray eyes. "Even good intentions have consequences, brother. Even that which seems right and just cannot be had without cost. You gave him your mortal half and I have given him my legacy and my life. The child whose spirit waited the day when I could show him the attentions he deserved is no more and I myself will soon rejoin the cycle." Owen is speechless, but only for a moment. He wants to go and embrace her but he senses she does not want to be embraced. "How long?" He asks simply. "Long enough. I have much to do in the time I have left. Time enough to finish our business in Cysgod Annwn. For that and perhaps little else." Now he does take a step forward, and gently caresses her shoulder. "I had hopes you would be free now to pursue your own path, now that the war is over." "My own path? I do not know if I've ever really had my own path." She steps forward but slides away from him and any chance that she might accept an embrace. "I think of all we've done, and all that has come to pass, and I truly do not know if it was worth it, or even if I ever really had a choice in the matter." When Owen speaks his words are tinged with sadness. "What poison is this you speak sister of mine? What we did, we did for the benefit of the Land. For the benefit of the ffolk who were being eaten by the Sakhut's thralls." "Yes. Yet did you ever stop to consider the cost? I had not, not until I went to Cysgod Annwn. I watched them burn their dead and for the first time I thought `My gods, for these brave souls there is no journey through faery. For them there is no quest of rebirth.' The ffolk do not begrudge us our station, but that does not mean we should not bother to count the cost. Our own actions have had repercussions we could never have dreamt, and for the first time, I doubt my own decisions." "I must go now. I must prepare the Old Faith for what is to come. Summer is too short a season, brother, and autumn shorter still. My winter is coming and you should know," she looks over at him and finally he can see in her eyes a glimmer of a sister's love, "that the next Archdruid will not be as inclined to submit to your wishes as I was. They will not love you, nor care about your good intentions when the next threat to the people comes along. Make your second chance worth something my brother, my Brenin, for it is more special that you can know, and has cost some of us much more than we could have known." 
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