Calan Mai

 The woman winces at the crunch of boots on gravel, each step an alarm she can feel in her bones. This has been the way of it for as long as she can remember. No matter how often she has wished it over the years, the Story is yet to change. Always the slow crunch of boots on stone, the sound as implacable as Fate Herself, then the shrill song of blades greeting sky as the two warriors take their places.

The sound of combat. Metal ringing death in the air.

Then finally, defeat. The dull but wet thud of a head hitting packed dirt, and an endless scream in her ears.

Her heart shattering anew.

This time she closes her eyes against the blade song. So many Turnings have now passed since this Story first played out, she’s lost count. She would have thought her heart hardened to it—that the sight of his head, his empty eyes staring up at the sky and body turning cold, would no longer affect her so. But if anything, it is the opposite. The violence of Calan Mai is like a knife to the apple of her heart that only grows sharper by the Turning. In truth, it’s a wonder she still lives.

A sudden wave of bitterness rises up as the two warriors touch blades. A gesture of respect they observe even now. Her eyes snapping open, she glares past them to the author of the Story-Spell binding them—the look of glee in his eyes, the barely contained delight. If she didn’t know any better, she’d think the “Once and Future King” found nourishment in the bloodshed and breaking. In his version of the Story—the one that still rules the ThisWorld and speaks through countless pages—he’s a force for good. A bringer of peace in the aftermath of Gwyn’s devilry. The wise king who restores justice after Gwyn snatches her away. Yet not even in that version does Arthur offer her a single word of comfort after her breaking. All she has ever seen from him in any version is a satisfied smile as Gwythyr leads her away.

Some Turnings, she leaves this place numb, a stranger to her own feelings.

Other Turnings, Gwythyr’s hand is as an iron shackle on her wrist.

Either way she bides her time behind the walls of his court, wilting until she finally passes away to find her way back to his waiting arms.

Once upon a time, she had feared those arms. But that was before they’d coaxed her to bloom and she’d learned the truth in the lies—had learned the shape of the poison her father and Gwythyr’s kin had planted in her mind. Soon their owner would fall bloodied to the ground, her heart dying with him once again.

At first she hadn’t believed them—those whispers at court. But Arthur had tricked them all; the contest has always been rigged. The Story-Spell he’d first spoken over them at the beginning then recorded by his bards had all but ensured it would always go this way.

Her eyes return to her beloved as he swings his blade, her feelings a stone in her throat and heart loud in her ears. 

Time itself seems to still. 

Then a low wind sets the leaves whispering around them, and a loud cawing splits the air. Three large ravens swoop down from the sky, each as black as Night’s cloak and no less beautiful for their lack of stars.

She watches the night-hued birds pass low over the warriors—a distraction. Blades still, their songs suddenly silent, and Gwythyr and Gwyn exchange equally uncertain looks.

“Be gone!” Arthur shouts, his cheeks as ruddy with rage as the blood he would see spilled. “This is not the way of it!”

But the ravens just laugh and continue to circle, the banner of Rheged made flesh. Mocking caws flow from their beaks.

Throwing up his arms, Arthur roughly shoves Gwythyr. “What are you waiting for?!” he snaps. “Do you not want her again?!”

“Efnysien’s poison,” she murmurs to herself, the words slipping the prison of her mouth almost without her notice. Her voice is cracked from disuse, the sound of her speech strange even to her. For so long she has been silent, tears her only language. And her words earn her an enraged glare from Arthur, but what are a couple more ravens to the murder above them?

Silence falls over warriors and ravens alike, the only sound now the beating of wings.

“Explain, Creiddylad. What do you mean?”

To her surprise, it is Gwythyr who speaks, a troubled expression on his face.

Creiddylad stills. She has been dragged to this place more times than she can count, yet not once has she been asked her opinion. 

Her voice shakes as she explains, “He too saw women as objects to trade—resources for his use. There was no true love there, not even for kin. And I see that same poison in you.” Her eyes slide from Gwythyr to her father—as always a silent bystander—then finally to her beloved. “All of you,” she adds sadly, shaking her head.

Her eyes flash to Arthur and the sadness curdles into something else. 

“But none are more poisoned than you, Arthur Pendragon.” The words are so sharp in her mouth, she all but spits them out. It's a wonder her lips and boots aren't red. “You are a hunger without end that makes meat of our agony and wine of my tears, and you've supped well these Turnings.” 

Gravel crunches underfoot again as the Once And Future King marches toward her, the beast she'd described finally in full view. But before he can fully close the distance between them, a large body steps into the way.

“No.” Gwythyr’s voice seems to reverberate around them, that one word a subtle tear in the fabric of the ThisWorld. Whatever shaping Arthur wrought for them with his Story-Spell begins to unravel.

“No? You no longer want her?”

Gwythyr shakes his head. “How did I not see it? Her tears have soaked the linen of my household every Turning, yet somehow…How did I not see it?”

There’s another scrape of boots on stone as Gwyn sets himself at Gwythyr’s side.

“I too did not see as I should,” Gwyn rumbles, his tone no less confused than that of Gwythyr’s. “Each Calan Mai, I have forced her to this place as though my body was not my own, yet not once did I question it.”

Making a window of the gap between the warriors’ bodies, Creiddylad peers out at Arthur. He seems at a loss for words, his mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water.

“Your Story-Spell is broken, Pendragon,” she tells him.

Her words land like blows.

“You,” he sputters.

Creiddylad shakes her head, her heart for once growing lighter by the breath. A myriad of tiny flowers bloom at her feet. “If only I were the author of this loss! To give you even a taste of the anguish you have fed me…” She blows out a breath, hope a storm in her chest. “It would be no less than you deserve.”

“Leave us, Arthur.” Gwyn’s tone is as final as death.

“And what will you do?” Arthur says, turning to address his cousin. “How easily you forget the turmoil he brought to your halls before I stepped in! You know what he is—what he holds within him!”

Gwythyr sighs. “And in the Turnings since then, you have made me a monster too.” He pauses and Creiddylad glimpses his profile as he glances at Gwyn. “Whatever happens next, we choose for ourselves. We all choose for ourselves. I would have no maiden wash my pillows with her tears.”

A cacophony of caws breaks out at his words, and the Once And Future King staggers backward, shaking his head, a horrified expression on his face. Suddenly, he seems smaller, the hues of his body and clothing fading by the breath.

The ThisWorld—ordinarily so quiet and content to observe from the edges—draws in, and Creiddylad speaks the words that will change them all. The first words of a new Story-Spell they will all tell together.

“Arthur Pendragon, you are no longer a part of our Story. You no longer stand on this ground. As you once spoke judgment over us, I now do so over you. The Story-Spell you wove is broken and no more!”

With that, the ThisWorld seems to fold in on itself until the king and her father are gone, leaving only their boot prints behind in the dirt.

Creiddylad’s heart quickens as the two warriors turn, their blades finally lowered and soon to return to their homes.

“What now?” Gwyn asks. He’s afraid to hear her response—her judgment. She can see it in his eyes. But warrior that he is, Creiddylad knows he would no more flee her truth than he would any blade. At his side, Gwythyr stiffens, no less afraid of the words to come.

Creiddylad shrugs. For so long, she has preferred Gwyn while hating Gwythyr, believing him cruel and unfeeling. Once, she'd bloomed in his arms too, but that was before the many Turnings of tears staining linens without notice. Given enough time, indifference makes ice out of even the warmest of feelings, and their Story together had frozen them all.  

“You spoke for me, Gwythyr,” she says softly. That alone had put warmth in her heart.

Shame washes over Gwythyr's features as heavy as lead.

“Forgive me,” he sobs. There’s a dull thud as he falls to his knees. “At the time, I did not see you weeping, but now your weeping is all that fills my memories.”

Gwyn’s eyes dip down to his own hands, a horrified expression on his face. “That I used these hands against you in any way…” 

A loud caw splits the air from above and the low wind drops. The ravens take flight, and the whispering trees fall silent, the ThisWorld settling with their departure.

Noticing the dampness on her cheeks, Creiddylad brushes the tears away with a knuckle, her heart aching for them all. Their Story together began with ill-deeds, but became immeasurably worse by the Turning and with each twist of Arthur's shaping. The apple of her heart is battered and bruised, its flesh almost entirely gone from all the cutting and coring. Oh, she still loves the Battle Bull and doubts that will ever change. Now that she has true choice, though, her feelings are complicated to say the least. 

“I think I need some time to think,” she says at last, her eyes drifting to a hawk riding the winds in the distance. She watches it for a moment or two before finishing. “So, I will take some time—you both should do the same—then I would like for us all to meet.”

“But where will you go?” Gwyn asks, concern loud in his voice. By breaking the Story-Spell as she had, she had turned her back on her father as well, leaving her with no hall to retreat to so to speak.

Creiddylad sucks in a breath then smiles, a world of possibilities opening up to her like a bud’s petals unfolding for the first time. The flowers at her feet spread. 

“Wherever I wish,” she replies, her eyes once more finding the hawk. For as long as she can remember, she has lived behind walls, a stranger to the roads. 

“Let us meet back here at Canol Haf!” she says, returning her attention to the warriors. “That should be enough time.”

Then Creiddylad turns and heads for the forest, her feet leaving a carpet of blooms in their wake. No longer a prize to be won, but a whole person again.