It is deep into the night when Osythe wanders out from the meadhall of Aldburg. Pitch black, save for the light of the moon, and the faint glitter of stars behind the clouds. The air is cold, her body warmed by mead. She does not go to camp, but rather walks along the rocky crags of the hilltop. Just below, a river flows into a waterfall, splashing down into a dark pool. She looks up as she picks her way—slow, but nimble—along the outcrop. Another waterfall, just a small way up… Gingerly, she hoists herself over the rocks, until she finds a ruined arch, half-submerged in the river. She leaps across, armor clattering noisily.
The sound is dulled by the murmur of the river, black as orcish blood. White light dances along the surface, calling out for company. Osythe lays down her helm, her spears and shield, her seax, and dull breastplate, until she is all that remains.
“Once there was a man in Tâl Methedras” her mother said. Water buckets warming by the fire, the scent of lavender oil in the air. “He was sent by his aging mother to herd their flock by the banks of the lake.”
She steps into the ink-dark water, stands in the current. Feels the water rush past her ankles with twice the chill of the night air. She sets loose her long braid, lets the curls spring free from their prison.
“As the sun began to set,” her mother spoke, “he saw a maiden rise from the heart of the lake, to sit on the very surface of the water. A Gwragedd Annwn, with raven locks, and a white gown that glittered in the sunlight. Her beauty was like that of no mortal girl, and he knew that he must have her for his own.”
Osythe sinks into the river, unbothered by the tangling reeds of the riverbed. She dives under, and for a moment all is dark. Thoughts, silenced by the water’s rush.
The door opened, and closed. Her mother looked up from the warming pails. “Cadda,” she breathed, rushing to the open arms of her husband. “Are you injured?”
“No,” he chuckled, wrapping his arms tight about her waist. “Gladsúnu has returned us safe once more. And what of our little wolf?” Cadda asked, opening an arm in beckoning. “Have you been good while I was gone?” She rose from her seat and ran, only waist-high; buried herself in his embrace.
“I was telling stories,” Aelwen murmurs. “Let me draw you a bath, cariad. You look tired.”
When she comes up for air, the night is brighter in contrast. For a moment, she imagines a vision of herself. Raven locks, white gown spun from moonlight. Brows furrow at the mockery of it all. Cwn annwn, the figure taunts, herself in another life. You will never be one of them.
“I am already one of them,” she murmurs weakly. “Have I not sworn my oath? Spilt blood beneath their banner?” The words rise and fall into the quiet rush of the river. The chill of the night sets in, gooseflesh on river-soaked skin. She climbs out of the river and wraps herself in her cloak. Watches the water until sleep makes its claim, and dreams a dream of wolves and river maidens, of houses burning to the ground.
