The Realisation

Last week Teirnyon and his wife decided to keep the little boy he had found…

So a couple of years went by, and little Gwri was playing and running as well as any child twice his age.  At his new mother’s request, Teirnyon set aside for him the colt he rescued on the same night Gwri was found.  The little boy jumped up and down with excitement at the idea of having a horse of his own, as soon as he was old enough to ride it.

Now several years ago, before his marriage, Teirnyon had been one of Pwyll’s lords, sent there by his father to gain more experience in court life, and the way of running a kingdom.  He missed Dyfed very much, and had often meant to go back, to visit old friends and old haunts, but over the years one thing or another got in the way and it had never happened.

One day the little family were sat at breakfast in the hall with the rest of the household.  Gwri had, as usual, gulped his food and was playing a boisterous game with some of the other children in the middle of the floor.  After one glance, Teirnyon left them to it and turned to his wife.

“What do you say to a visit to Dyfed this summer?  For the first time in many years, I can see nothing in our way.”

“Now is a good a time as any, I suppose.” She nodded and smiled, “You really miss there, don’t you?”

“Well, it holds some good memories.” Teirnyon laughed at them as they passed through his mind.

“Maybe I shouldn’t ask any further,” she laughed back and drained her wine cup.  “But do you think now will be convenient?  Because of the sad plight of the Lady Rhiannon.”

“I don’t see why not,” he argued, “I mean, people come to the court all the time.  Would three more matter?”

“But to go, and to see her by the horseblock, and to listen to her telling the story, would that be right, since we don’t believe she is guilty.”

“Perhaps you’re right…” Teirnyon mused.  “It is so unfortunate.  Rhiannon, I mean.  You and I understand the heartache of her and Pwyll, to not be easily blessed with children.  For long years we shared it, until the gods sent us Gwri.”

“And no-one destroys a child they have longed for,” his wife continued softly.

Wistfully, they watched the joyous shrieking of the children on the floor of the hall.

A cold, icy frost crept round Teirnyon’s body in a slow flood, vein by vein.  His hand found his wife’s and clutched it hard.

She looked at him, wide-eyed.  “Husband, what’s the matter.”

“Wife,” he whispered.  All the colour had drained from his face leaving it faintly grey.  “I have never seen as great a likeness between father and son, as between our boy and Pwyll, Prince of Dyfed.”