Lo, come see us when you can. I promise with every part of mystubborn soul that I will still be here to annoy you before I bowout.
Personal letter from Idwal gan Hywel, to his sister, Lowri
THIRTY-THREE
The edge of the horizon burned iron grey as they made their way back towards the castle, the coming dawn dimly illuminating the striated rooftops and the sea beyond. Meilyr had promised Deryn he would return when able, and she would send word if her father’s condition worsened. But he was not Idwal. The sickness ran deep but had not yet fully claimed his life.
The sea mist was clearing, but the rain was sharper, more biting.
Meilyr could feel Haydn everywhere. He walked beside Osian without touching him, his senses blistered. He flexed his hands until they were numb with the chill.
He should never have let Haydn get the wrong idea. He should have – he should have… Damn it, Haydn.
‘Are you certain you do not wish to visit?’
Osian.Osian’s mouth. His lips, his hands—
‘No, thank you, Majesty.’ Gods, what had he done…? ‘This is safer.’
Their boots were muffled on the cobbles. There were even fewer people around now.
He should not have opened up to Haydn. Should have known exactly where that would lead, because Haydn was Haydn, even years later. His wants and needs were uncomplicated, whilst Meilyr was… Meilyr. Confused, hesitant – wanting until that became too real. Until his body and mind and heart stopped speaking the same language, leaving him tangled and bruised and… broken.
That had been the start and end of their relationship: Haydn wanting Meilyr, Meilyr wanting Haydn to be happy. No matter how uncomfortable that sometimes made him.
He had loved him. Still cared for him beyond words.
But part of Meilyr would always be a ship tossed to pieces by a storm long passed. He knew desire – had felt it frequently with Haydn, and in brief fumblings with others. But there would always come a point where he would find himself amidst the wreckage. Would no longer know where his own feelings separated from those of another. His mind would grow too loud, and desire would perish like poisoned crops in a field.
No matter how hard he tried, there was no coming back from that – and he had tried, for Haydn. Haydn, who had wanted him so intensely: want that had crawled through Meilyr like ivy with every touch of their skin. Their stolen kisses had led naturally to wandering hands – to Meilyr’s startled mind asking to slow down. Haydn had agreed, no matter how far they had gone; Meilyr had chastised himself, trying to curse himself unbroken.
That night of the rainstorm, only days after Idwal had passed. When Celyn had gone into town with bitter, heartbreak-driven words stinging his tongue, to drink and sleep around through the pain.
Meilyr had crumpled, ears ringing with Celyn’s blame. His own blame. Because he had not been enough to save Celyn’s father, his own foster-father. The man who had raised him from the shattered, half-drowned child who had been led to his door.
For some things, there is no cure.
And there had been Haydn, tapping on the glass. Drenched. Worried. What could Meilyr do but let him in – let him press wine and lips and more to his wounds, pressing him to the bed as the storm raged.
He had truly tried, after that. He hadtried.
Haydn’s hurt and confusion still painted the inside of his eyelids when he thought of him that morning Meilyr had ended it, some long months after that storm. When the dissonance had finally shattered him.
Celyn had chosen to honour his father’s final wish to move them into Eascild, to live with Idwal’s sister, Lowri. The perfect excuse to break things off, not that Haydn had seen it that way. There had been flowers in Haydn’s eyes when they had been together, but Meilyr had always known, deep in his heart, he would never wear the braids Haydn sometimes imagined him in.
Braids he wore now, for the world’s unfairness. Osian’s mercy. Their bargain.
His fingers were ice as Osian grasped his hand to help him up the wall beneath the watchtower. He pressed his nails into his palms as they sneaked wordlessly into the gardens, through the cloisters, into the tunnels. Up the Eagle Tower.
He shivered as they returned to Osian’s rooms. The prince discarded his dripping cloak and went into the parlour. Meilyr followed but could not look at him.
‘Might I… read for a time, Majesty? I will tend the fire before—’
‘I will do it,’ Osian said. Too distant to be gentle, too kind to be cold. ‘Rest however you need. That was… remarkable, what you did.’
Meilyr could not speak. It was a sorry, sour way to leave the day. The instant the door pulled to, he put his face in his hands. Slapped himself on his icy cheek, just enough to sting.
What a miserable mess.