Chapter 20

Rowan had been telling the truth when he said that everyone would sleep until noon the morning after the full moon. The stronghold was quiet, so quiet. Completely free of bustle. The feeling of sleeping until she woke of her own accord, and then of lying there, knowing that there was nowhere pressing that anyone expected her to be, left her feeling free and light. It was the first time that Rhiannon had had the luxury of watching Rowan sleep. She picked leaves from his hair for a moment or two then lay her head back down and just gazed at him. His profile. The angle of his cheekbones. His refined nose. She'd never seen him asleep before but, like all things, it didn't last and almost as if the weight of her gaze had told him it was day, he opened his eyes and smiled. “I love waking up with you,” he said stretching, then picking bits of twig and cedar needles out of her hair.

Breakfast was to be found waiting for them on the table in the sitting room. Rowan brought the tray to the bed and they lounged there, eating the hot rolls and butter, goat brie, dried figs and walnuts, then lingering over a pot of tea. Nothing was ever planned for the day following a full moon, if it could be avoided, and there was nothing to stop them from simply lying there all day. The feeling was incredible. Not to be taken for granted. They stayed were they were with no plans. Sometime in the afternoon the steward's wife called through the door, “I'm leaving a tray on the table. Come get it at your leisure.” There was bread, some kind of hummus-like spread, apples, and an avocado.

Rhiannon gasped, “Oh my goodness! An avocado! I thought I'd never have another.”

Rowan laughed, “They are delicious. I've only ever had them when I'm here. Lugh's people head pretty far south when they trade and usually, once a year, if we're lucky, they make it back with some ripe avocados.”

Rhiannon cut into it. It was ripe straight through, soft and buttery. They ate, lounged, and watched the stained glass change as the day passed. Late afternoon she sighed contentedly, “I want to lie here and never leave, but at the same time, I want to go for a walk, see the sky, breathe the outdoors.”

“Come on then. We can sneak out and turn ourselves invisible if anyone sees us. Immature in the extreme I know, but today is ours. I don't care how ridiculous we have to be to keep it that way,” Rowan grinned.

Rhiannon rose and walked up to the wardrobe. While she had been aware that it had been filling, over the last two days, with beautiful new clothes, she hadn't had the presence of mind to look them over much, and after sifting through the dresses that were far too fine to simply go for a walk in, she selected a plain, long, leaf green wool dress that crossed over and tied at the back and then wrapped herself in a heavy wool shawl woven with indigo, olive green and pink paisleys on a sage green background. It should have been hideous, but was instead actually quite pretty in a casual feminine sort of way. Rowan dressed quickly from a stash of clothing that was in a tallboy on the opposite wall and they left the room through the stained glass doors.

They walked along the beach under the blue sky watching the ocean. Rhiannon had to admit that, despite the fact that it meant the end of gardening season, she loved autumn. It was the deep breath before winter. Life's brilliant bang before retreating into a long cold sleep. She watched the waves as they walked in silence. Cold saltwater. The ocean tang. The smell of seaweed. She looked at Rowan for a moment. His eyes were focused on the forests of the opposite shore. Dense, green and yellow. “Brown eyes, or blue? What do you think? What colour will her eyes be?” His voice was wistful, far away and dreamy, as he thought of the future and its possibilities.

“Brown,” Rhiannon said positively. “Like yours. But,” she stopped for a moment losing focus on her speech, “She'll be small and fair skinned, like me, with long dark hair.”

The image in Rhiannon's mind was as strong as it could possibly be. It had a truth to it that was beyond mere fancy. A small girl who looked about nine, but Rhiannon knew was probably closer to thirteen. Her small curved feminine mouth was cherry red and her skin glowed against the backdrop of her wavy molasses hair. And her eyes? Dark and wild, just like her father's. “Look,” Rhiannon said, and held on to Rowan's hands willing him to see what she could see. “Close your eyes,” she whispered.

They stayed there seeing that image together, holding on to one another, as the salt breeze played with their hair and autumn crawled incrementally, fractionally, closer to winter. Was time crawling, or was it flowing through their hands with terrible speed? Rhiannon leaned into Rowan's chest and wrapped her arms around him and he put his arms around her, as if by holding on tightly enough they could slow the hands of time.

They walked further down the beach seeing no one, saying nothing, not needing to speak, when they heard the sound of swords crashing and the odd yell. It wasn't fighting. It was practice. They kept walking, maintaining their pace, not hurrying, until they could see the practice field. Cole and Nimue could be seen sitting on a bench, arms circled around the other's waist. Brian was standing, leaning on his sword in obvious exhaustion. Thaylum was standing upright, watching raptly, every move, every detail of the two combatants. By the look of things they had been at it a while. Nessa's shirt was plastered to her upper body with sweat, and she was getting slow, every movement laboured. Raphael on the other hand looked as fresh as if he had just woken from a perfect night's sleep. Rhiannon had seen Nessa spar with Rowan and Leif. She was nimble and extremely fast, and although she was quite slender and not of the body type to build bulky muscle, she could hold her own against Rowan for longer than one would have expected her to. Rhiannon had become aware at one point that the fact that Leif and Rowan were willing to fight her with naked blades, instead of the wooden practice swords that they reserved for Gareth, said quite a lot about their confidence in her abilities. She was probably a better fighter than most men. But now her breath was coming in great ragged gasps and she was just barely dancing out from under the giant angel's attacks. She parried, her slimmer lighter blade flashed as she got out of range, then she threw down her sword and shouted, “Enough!”

Thaylum picked up her sword and propped it against the bench next to her where she had collapsed, head between her knees, thick red braid hanging down. He obviously hadn't had a go at the angel yet and looked towards the giant creature with curiosity. Raphael pulled energy to himself, drawing from the surrounding trees much as a dryad would, then beckoned to Thaylum who drew his blade. He signalled to Raphael that he was ready, and it began. At first it didn't seem to Rhiannon that much was happening. They circled for a minute and Rowan whispered to her, “Thaylum is not easy to predict. He's very patient and often wins simply by exhausting his opponent then surprising them, although on the field he's more a combination of brute force and prudence. He doesn't waste energy.”

Thaylum was big and strong, a little shorter and a little broader than Leif. Rhiannon watched, looking for the things that Rowan had pointed out as Raphael attacked and Thaylum deflected. He wasn't fast, and he wasn't elegant, but his timing was immaculate and not a movement was wasted. “Do you mind if we move closer?” Rowan asked her. “Professional curiosity has gotten the better of me and I'd like to watch this.”

“I don't mind. I'd like to sit with Nimue for a while. Lets go up.” And they wandered up the gradual incline to where the others were.

Brian noticed them first and Rhiannon raised her hand and shook her head as soon as she realized that he was going to bow and greet her formally. He smiled and nodded instead and came to stand by them.

“He's already been through Cole and I, but that sister of yours gave him grief for a while, until he figured out her weak points.”

Rhiannon looked over at Thaylum and Raphael. The angel used his wings for balance yet kept them clear of the blades in what was obviously a well practised posture.

“Yeah, Nessa fights dirty. It makes up for her lack of mass,” Rowan commented dryly. Then turned his attention back to the match.

If swordplay could be steady and metric then this was, and Rhiannon could see Thaylum reserving himself, and measuring. She sat down on the bench between Nimue and Nessa and her younger sister's small hand twined itself in her own. Two small hands that had been apart for so long, and in that moment, watching the steady progress of practised fighting, they held on tightly. Rhiannon could see Raphael using, almost effortlessly, Thaylum's own strengths against him. Some men are brilliant because they are born that way, but others still, are brilliant because they strive to be. They may not be the fastest or the strongest. They may not have the quickest wit or the flashiest style but they have determination, and the sense to build on their weaknesses and find strengths in unusual places.

Thaylum, the youngest son of a farmer with four older sons, was one of the latter. According to Nessa, who was sitting straight now and whispering to Rhiannon, sparring with him was a bit like sparring with a stone wall. But against the Angel, his strength, his stamina, his patience, and his impenetrable defence would erode eventually. Thaylum had been steadily defending, no flashy attacks, only a perfectly timed series of blocks, when out of no where, he attacked. Again, nothing dazzling, but it was precise and behind it lay all of the strength that he had been so carefully and prudently conserving. It surprised Raphael, everyone there could see, and Raphael himself seemed pleased to have been surprised, but he reacted so quickly at the same time that all of Thaylum's careful planning had been in vain, and the next attack would be in vain as well, and the one after that, and eventually the steady onslaught of the storm would take down the wall. Another three minutes, another five, not as many as ten, and Thaylum was pushed to his limits. He was beaded in sweat just maintaining his defence and he had attempted another attack but Raphael had seen it coming this time and grinned. The Angel appeared to be slowing somewhat, but not enough to level the playing field, and finally after one final attempt to break through Raphael's equally impenetrable defences, Thaylum danced back and declared gasping, “I yield, I yield,” and placing his hands on his knees he bent and gasped for more air. Raphael was standing calmly, and Rowan was looking at him.

“Rowan is the only person I've ever seen fight like that,” Nessa whispered in Rhiannon's ear.

“Are they very evenly matched do you think?” Rhiannon asked in return.

“Closer than Rowan and Leif. They'd have to fight for me to know which was the superior swordsman though. Raphael's style is different.”

As much as she had felt tossed about and battered by the world she had turned her back on, this world, Rowan's world, had its harsh realities, and she could never lie and tell someone that the look Raphael and Rowan were exchanging didn't bother her, that the idea that they were practising to put themselves in this position in actuality, with real people who were intending to kill them—kill or be killed—didn't make her feel like she was screaming with gut clenching terror inside. But Rowan and Raphael were looking at each other and a silent conversation was taking place about an Angel who'd spent half his life loving a girl, and the half breed Fairy who'd stepped in and taken his place. It was a complex conversation of acceptance and loss, anger and guilt, helplessness and love. They both turned and looked at Rhiannon, and Raphael's look was open for all to see. Love, and a heavy self loathing for letting the opportunity for it slip away, and in Rowan's face, when she looked, there was an apology, because even today, somehow, that old sadness had gotten hold of them. Rowan and Raphael looked back at one another and without words agreed, “What's done is done, but we'll have it out this once, and then have done with it for good.”

Rowan approached Cole, “Would you lend me your sword?” he asked casually.

Cole rose quickly and passed Rowan his blade which was the same same basic, standard issue as Rowan's. Rhiannon glanced at the swords of the others and was astonished to see that nearly all were more ornate than the one Rowan normally carried. Rhiannon looked at him. His hair was loose, and in the Fay clothing he wore, he looked more Fairy than Human. His grip on the sword hilt was a very natural thing, unconscious. He didn't need to think about it now that it was in his hand. He knelt before her and Rhiannon reached out and stroked his cheeks and hair, and kissed him.

“I'm sorry. I can't help this. I want to see if I can best him. I know that it's childish,” Rowan said, locking his dark eyes on hers.

“It's alright. I understand.” And even if it did make her feel like crying, though she knew that with the measure of skill they both possessed, they would not hurt each other, she did understand. She understood that there was a tension between Rowan and Raphael that would be there until one of them proved that he was the better somehow. For Rowan, that he truly did deserve Rhiannon, or for Raphael, that at least he could best Rowan with a sword, even if he hadn't gotten the girl. She also understood that for Rowan it ran a little deeper, for even though he despised war, and Rhiannon knew that killing tore him apart inside, what he could do with a sword was a gift, and there was a passion to it.

“Here,” she said, taking out the little moonstone earring from one ear. “A long time ago in the other world, Knights competed in tournaments against one another for money, prizes and glory, and if a lady favoured a certain knight she would give him a token of her esteem to take with him into the arena to bring him luck.” She deftly pressed the post of the earring through the fabric of Rowan's collar and slid the backing on. “There.”

She pressed the collar back down and ran her hands over his chest. Her mouth quirked and she shook her head. Rowan kissed her forehead, stood and strode to the centre of the hard packed dirt square. All eyes were on the two men, and despite being only a small group, the tension amongst them was palpable. For the others Rhiannon knew that it was the question of whether Raphael would indeed be able to take on Rowan, who had remained until that day, undefeated. Would their not particularly big Captain be any match for the seemingly inexhaustible seven foot tall Angel? Rhiannon admitted to herself that she was curious about that, but the strange and uncomfortable thoughts and feelings came from the image of the two men facing each other, and the reality that image forced on her; she may have felt that she was worthless in that other world, and the knowledge of Rowan's love may have helped her realize that she wasn't, but two others, two other remarkable men had loved her, and failed to tell her, and had, in turn, hurt her with it. I don't need a man's love to tell me I'm of worth, she told herself angrily, but in some distant craggy and desolate part of her memory, a mocking voice jeered and echoed, “Thumbelina!” at her. And now two of the three men who loved her stood before her looking at one another, poised to attack, just for practise, just to hone their skills. But behind that in the undercurrent, it was Rhiannon they fought for. A useless fight for a fate that was already decided. It made her cringe. She could see the anger and the hurt in Raphael's eyes, not a desire to kill, but a wish to make Rowan disappear. She could watch the thought like she could read words on a page, and it was chased by Raphael's knowledge that losing Rowan would break Rhiannon's heart, and that was unbearable to him. So he would slake his crimson and gold anger now, in the only way he could. Wings raised, sword ready, the denim and leather clad angel focused his golden eyes, and his anger, on Rowan. And Rowan? Rowan, perversely enough, smiled. An elegant, wicked, smile touched with a mirth that goaded the younger man to attack.

It was a glorious attack of speed and daring, but the thing that Raphael couldn't possibly understand about Rowan was that having a sword in his hand was more than profession or duty, it wasn't fighting or the intent to kill. It was the glory of a challenge and his blood sang with it. He was alive with it and with a single-minded devotion that he usually reserved for dancing or loving, he threw himself into a counter attack that sent Raphael reeling in astonishment. The Angel staggered. It wasn't much of a stagger. More a slight falter by lower standards, and Raphael's reaction was so immediate that the only real consequence was that he knew now that he couldn't take his own superiority for granted. He turned to face Rowan again and the battle began in earnest.

Rhiannon watched and as she watched, the thing that she was unaware of was that the others were watching her as her eyes flitted back and forth, following the two men. What they saw was a terrible beautiful serenity, unconsciously built to hide what she did not know she could not hide. Love, fear, hurt, understanding. How could she be so serene and yet wear all of these emotions so openly? they wondered, and why did their hearts ache so badly for her? And their eyes flitted back and forth between the tiny Queen and the two men fighting before her. Her eyes never left the two men sparring, practising, although they, and the small crowd that had gathered now, all knew that it was more than that. The only sign that she felt any of the tension that had the others holding their breath, were the white knuckles of the hand that held her sister's. But she watched and, while she was vaguely aware of Nessa's sudden indrawn breaths on her one side, and Nimue on her other turning and pressing her face into Cole's shoulder, she never looked away, not once, as Rowan and Raphael fought. And it was dazzling, intense, brutal, as their swords connected again and again but neither quite gained the upper hand. Rowan's speed compensated for his lack of size, and it was obvious that Raphael hadn't expected Rowan to be as strong as he was. Rowan was significantly more experienced and knew how to compensate when fighting someone taller, but on the flip side of that, Raphael was faster than anyone that tall had any right to be, and he'd been fighting elves since he was fourteen. So Rowan attacked again and Raphael fended him off desperately, then found an opening, forcing Rowan to twist and dance back, but just as it looked as if Raphael would win, that his renewed attack would be fast enough, that he would catch Rowan before his guard was back up, like a flash Rowan would block and force Raphael stumbling back and Rowan would attack again. Back and forth like an extremely violent pendulum on a terrible clock they went, and Rhiannon's heart pounded until the sound was almost as bad as the crashing swords. Back and forth, gradually slower. How long had she sat there? Would they ever stop? But it was still daylight. Then Raphael attacked with so much impossible speed that he had the upper hand, Rowan twisted, leapt, it was a near thing and as impossibly fast as Raphael's attack had been Rhiannon saw it, a tiny opening. Rowan knew that it was there and he ducked, lunged, twisted and in a fraction of a second Raphael was on his knees, and Rowan's sword was at his throat.