Arbeth

The belt Meical had brought proved to be both necessary and a godsend. Tying it as tight as possible to keep the enormous trousers from falling down, Isaac didn't need a mirror to know he looked ridiculous.
The white tunic was about an inch short of falling off his shoulders. An overtunic of dark green – the colour reserved for the house and person of Annwfn's Champion and First Warrior – whilst slightly narrower in width, was also slightly shorter in length, looking more like a vest than an overtunic. The trousers felt like too-short flares, and ironically, the boots were too small.
Pulling on his well-worn black Docs – and hitching the trousers up one last time – he glanced around once more at the anonymous sanctity of the guest chamber, then gingerly pulled aside the heavy hide door to rejoin civilisation with Rhiannon and her husband in the dining hall.

Even outside the hall, he could hear the low grumbles of a certain occupant inside, followed by the sweeter pleas of that same occupant's wife. Isaac almost lost his nerve; if it weren't for the young Alban boy Meical coming up behind him, he probably would have listened to his sense of self-preservation and gone right back to the guest-chamber and safety.
When Rhiannon hadn't returned, after quite some time, he'd managed to catch one of the young handmaids' attention and tell her to send the boy to him. He hadn't been able to think of anything else to do. Meical had chuckled rather amusedly upon learning of their guest's predicament.
"You've a reason to be a touch fearful of our master mi'lord! He's in a temper fit to rival a wolf with a thorn in its paw!"
Ike really hadn't needed to hear that.
Meical paused for a second to send a grin in their guest's direction – not exactly an encouraging sight – and walked straight into the dining hall.
"Mi'lord, Lady," using the standard obsequious bows of the servant as a cover, Meical gestured behind his back for Isaac to come in. Silence fell over the hall the second the hide-door was pushed aside. Feeling more like the main attraction at a side-show than a guest, he made his way (hurriedly) to the head of the table – the only seat left – and sat down.
"Sorry. You shouldn't have worried about waiting for me,"
Silence.
A decidedly disquieting air settled around the room, making itself comfortable to witness the scene everyone was anticipating. Certain he'd put his foot in it, Ike nervously toyed with the knife resting in front of him and waited for someone else to give him a hint. A discreet glance at Rhiannon didn't help; she stared down at her empty plate, a flush of embarrassment and . . . was that, shame? . . staining her cheeks a slight rose. It was the Alban boy that came to his rescue. Taking a plate of baked bread, just out of the ovens, from one of the servants, Meical casually leaned over their guest's shoulder to place it on the table.
"A guest must take the first helping at meals," no-one else at the table even noticed the boy's lips move, too intent upon not staring at this mysterious guest. Thus informed, Isaac hesitantly helped himself to a piece of what looked like chicken.
'But then doesn't everything taste like chicken anyway?'
The Champion of Annwfn obviously didn't give a damn about politeness or courtesy – what warrior did? – as he stared expectantly at his guest.
"Uh . . . I. . . ." he was floundering. What was he expected to do now?
"Would you care for wine or ale mi'lord?" Meical interrupted once again.
"Wine," the response was automatic; at least he was familiar with wine. Ale? Whatever it was, it sounded awful. As the boy poured the tawny liquid into a silver cup, he murmured,
"Spill some on the ground, for the Gods," and moved on to fill the rest of the cups on the table. Taking the goblet, Ike did as instructed, pouring a little into the rushes on the floor.
"For the Gods," he wasn't expecting a reply.
"Blessed be," the table's occupants muttered piously. Hands then dived for the food that had been tempting them for what they considered far too long.

The silence that settled over the table was interrupted by many glances that spoke more than any polite words could.
The Champion of Annwfn was having a hard time controlling his interest in what their guest would say and do. Several times already, he'd opened his mouth to ask the one question that had been on his mind all morning. But as he'd first noticed not long after they'd been married, his wife had an instinctive sixth sense as to when he was about to put them all in danger of violating the customs of propriety, which he really couldn't see the point in anyway. There was no call for politeness or courtesy on the battlefield, so why bother in the home? Rhiannon was well aware of his views, and usually laughed off his complaints with the same statement,
'None would know you've spent most of your life around courtiers cariad, you have no culture at all!'
Unfortunately, his wife was not laughing now. Her angry glares in his direction were enough to curb his curiosity. He escaped the joys of the leading the King's armies every so often to enjoy some relaxing time at Arbeth. The best way to do that was keep his wife happy, or he would find no peace in his home. What he was having trouble understanding was Rhiannon's sensitivity regarding this strange guest of theirs. As far as Pwyll was concerned, he was no different from all the others they'd housed at Arbeth, and soon he'd be on his way again. Why was Rhiannon so worried about what this stranger would think of them when he would be gone by nightfall?
Isaac felt the entire table's eyes on him for almost the entire duration of the meal. He felt constricted, if he made a single error, offended some obscure custom he'd never heard of, then no matter what this Law of Hospitality said, they'd probably kick him out into the night. Worst of all, he didn't want to come away looking like a complete idiot to Rhiannon; that seemed like a fate not much better than death, to look at this woman he already half-worshipped and see her pale eyes laughing at his expense. Awareness was making him clumsy; more than once he almost spilt his wine into his hostess's lap. He thought he could hear the servants, sitting further down at the table, whispering to each other. Every syllable of the conversations he kept telling himself he was imagining could be construed as either a deriding insult, or his name. Why was he even here? There had to be some kind of purpose to his being here, surely. It couldn't just be some kind of cosmic accident.
Could it?
Food-knife in hand, Rhiannon absently pushed the small, stripped bones around in her bowl, all the while discreetly watching her husband. Was it too much to ask that just once, he try to act like the civilised Lord he (supposedly) was, and not like some uneducated barbarian? She knew he hated having to put an 'unnecessary' hold on his forthright and sometimes brutally honest tongue, but for Ceridwen's sake was it too hard for him to even make an attempt? She knew she was being unfair. Pwyll was simply who he was, and there was no changing that, no matter how frustrating it became at times for her. And it was partly her fault. Why she cared so much what their guest thought was beyond her, it wasn't like they hadn't had guests at Arbeth before, and she hadn't really cared past seeing that they were well-fed and given a decent bed for the night. She hadn't minded when Pwyll had fired them with questions they were usually more than happy to answer. Why should her feelings change on account of this guest? Maybe because she already knew Isaac wasn't comfortable talking about what she knew her husband would ask him?
Or perhaps because you know that whatever Pwyll asks, it will embarrass both yourself and Arbeth?
'Taliesin! Where have you been these last few days past?'
Busy. No matter, I'm here now, and I need you to grant me a favour.
'And this favour would be?'
I have a message that I must deliver to your husband, might I be permitted to speak through you?
'Can't I simply pass it on to him?'
I know how it taxes your strength, but I'm afraid this is necessary. Pwyll won't heed me unless I speak to him myself.
'Alright Taliesin, but I do this only because I trust you. Please, deliver your message with haste, the longer you speak through me the longer it takes me to recover,'
I will be swift my Lady, fear not.

His wife looked distracted enough not to pay him any attention, so Pwyll took the opportunity to voice his thwarted questions.
"Lad, you have not told us your name," out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Rhiannon was still in deep thought, she'd not even heard him. All the better.
"My name is Isaac, sir," their guest looked nervous, he knew where this interrogation was leading.
"Well then Isaac, might I ask for what reason did you drop in on my wife and I last night?"
"I . . . um . . . I –"
"Lord Pwyll, greetings," the din of hushed conversation ceased around the table. Everyone stared openly at the mistress of Arbeth, speaking with a voice that was not her own. Her pale green eyes were vivid and glowing, her face perfectly blank. Pwyll looked just as controlled, until Ike noticed his hand, trembling as it grasped hold of his wine cup, the knuckles white.
"Greetings High Merlin. What madness drives you to possess my wife this time?" the servants sitting further down the table gaped in dumbfounded shock, that their master would dare to insult the High Merlin, the most powerful sage in all of Annwfn!
"My motives are no business of yours, warrior, and you'd best remember that. I bring you a message,"
"A message?! For Ceridwen's sake Merlin, you near kill my wife every time you dominate her body like this, and this time for no more than a message she could have passed on to me herself?!"
"Warrior, this message you would not heed unless I tell you directly. Every breath you waste arguing only drains your wife of strength even more,"
"Well out with it then,"
Isaac didn't have the faintest idea what was going on. What was wrong with Rhiannon? What was it Pwyll had said, that she was possessed? Then why on earth was everyone so calm about it?!
"A guest arrived at Arbeth yesterday eve, a young lad of around 18," all eyes turned to Ike, who was too busy staring at Rhiannon to care.
"Yes, he's here,"
"You are to train him as a warrior,"
"What?!" Isaac and Pwyll were as shocked as each other.
"No way! I'm no warrior, I could even manage two classes of Tae-kwon-do!"
"You can't be serious Taliesin! The boy has the build of a grasshopper!"
"You will train him Pwyll, to the best of your abilities. You will find him an apt pupil," the voice of the High Merlin brooked no argument, but Isaac ignored the tone.
" 'An apt pupil'?! I hate war! You can't expect me to become a warrior!"
"You must. And with Pwyll's assistance, you will,"
"But –!"
"No buts, there will be no debate on the issue. I will not tax this woman any longer than necessary. Remember my words Lord Pwyll, and heed them. Annwfn's fate may depend on it,"
Rhiannon slumped to the table, unconscious.

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