“Caer Hud”, Gwydion’s Lair
Fiona roamed the halls of Gwydion’s home, called Caer Hud as she knew now, a Welsh name, which basically translates to Fortress or Castle of Enchantment, her mind a tumultuous sea of emotions. The familiar scent of herbs and wood smoke lingered in the air, mingling with the faint trace of incense. She brushed her fingers against the cold stone walls, feeling the weight of the past few days pressing down on her. She wasn’t sure if she was seeking solitude or clarity, but the quiet house offered neither.
When Gwydion disappeared on his inexplicable absences, leaving her alone in this ancient house, Fiona found ways to channel her anger and frustration. She had broken several delicate, ancient vases, their shards scattered like her shattered patience in long trails along the hallways. She drew mocking caricatures of Gwydion on the walls, using charcoal to etch her resentment into the stone. She once hid raw fish under his bed, the stench slowly permeating his chamber, forcing him to search for the source of the foul smell. In a particularly creative act of defiance, she stuffed clay into the keyholes of the doors he kept locked, ensuring he couldn’t unlock them without a considerable effort. Each time he returned, they had brief, intense conflicts over her actions, their arguments echoing through the house like thunderclaps, sending the servants to scurry about even more nervously than usual.
One such conflict had ended with Gwydion storming off again, leaving Fiona to fume in solitude.
Believing he had left again, she rounded a corner, nearly colliding with him, who was slumped against the doorframe of his chamber. His face was pale, and his eyes carried the weight of countless sleepless nights and the pain of his injuries. He looked up at her with a weary smile, attempting to mask his pain with sarcasm.
“My Maiden Fair,” he said, implying a bow, his deep voice tinged with fatigue, the weight of centuries clear in his tone. “On another quest of destruction and demolition, I presume?”
Fiona’s heart skipped a beat. She hadn’t expected to see him back so soon—or at all. “You’re back. Of course you are, go figure. Can you really not let me know you returned? Do I really have to find you every time like an Easter egg?” she stated, her voice a mixture of surprise and frustration.
“It would appear so,” he replied, his voice a mere whisper.
The silence between them was heavy, filled with unspoken words and unresolved tensions. Fiona’s gaze traveled to his blood-stained shirt, recognizing the wounds on his shoulder and midsection that had barely begun to heal.
“Your injuries look bad, again,” she commented, her worry deepening. “A doctor – I mean, you know, healer or something – should really look at this. Are there really no medical personnel in this town? I am serious, I am not a trained professional just because I helped my cousin study for med school. You can’t pick fights with the most skilled vampire hunter and then let a hack like me try to keep you from dying of blood poisoning or infections!”
“There are no healers for men like me. Except maybe you, my gentle muse.”
“Yeah, sure, right. Well, if you can’t seem to be bothered to seek proper medical help, then at least let me clean it and redress it. AGAIN. I think being stuck here with your rotting corpse after you died from an infection would be next level to this hell you make me live in. Pass. So, I still prefer you alive as much as it pains me to say that,” she sighed.
Gwydion raised an eyebrow, a smirk playing on his lips. “Oh, thou dost flatter me so,” he replied.
He hesitated but eventually nodded, bowing slightly. “If it pleases My Maiden Fair, then very well. I shall be your humble charge once more.”
As several times before, Fiona carefully cleaned the wounds and applied fresh bandages, all the while trying to steady her thoughts. The tension in the room could be cut with a knife. Fiona’s frustration and anger simmered beneath the surface, while Gwydion’s fatigue and confusion made him seem more vulnerable than ever.
“Why dost thou harbor such anger towards me?” he asked, his voice barely audible, a hint of vulnerability in his eyes, the soft lilt of his ancient Welsh accent giving his words a melodic quality.
Fiona whirled around, her frustration spilling over. “Why do you keep leaving?” she blurted out, unable to hold back any longer. “You disappear without a word, and then you just show up again like nothing happened. For a while, you managed to at least give me a heads up, but I guess that became too much work again. It’s cruel, forcing me to be here, then abandoning me. And your servants seem to vanish with you, I can never find ANYBODY when you are gone!”
Gwydion’s countenance shifted, a mix of confusion and regret crossing his visage. “I did not think thou cared, perchance even preferred me gone. And I deemed it safer for my servants to not tempt thee with their blood.”
Fiona’s anger flared. “I am not some uncontrollable bloodthirsty monster! And I most definitely do not want to sit here, a prisoner, all alone, day in and day out, with nothing to do but stare holes in the air. That would be one reason I am pissed at you, one of many!”
A flicker of realization passed over Gwydion’s face, and he asked hesitantly, “Thou wishest me to stay? To keep thee company?”
Fiona’s voice wavered between exasperation and sorrow. “No, I wish to go home!”
Gwydion’s expression hardened, his resolve unwavering. “Nay.”
“You make no sense. You act as if you are grateful…” she burst out, but he cut her off in mid-sentence, clearly unwilling to hear the rest. “I AM grateful!” he corrected, his eyes fiery.
“Then why contradict yourself over and over again? You say you’re grateful, then you push me away, treat me cruelly, then you come back acting all nice. What is that? Is that supposed to be the clever part everyone hails you for? Must be outdated, cos in my time we call that psycho. You don’t need an heir; you need a shrink!”
Gwydion sighed heavily, his shoulders slumping. “I comprehend not thy outburst, nor do I wish to. The entire situation is too bewildering for even me to fathom. Oftentimes, it is better when I depart, ere matters escalate beyond control.”
She couldn’t understand him, staring at him, befuddled. “WHAT?!”
“It might be better for me to be gone sometimes. For both of us.”
Fiona’s eyes flashed with anger. “What does that even mean?! And also, there’s an easy fix for that: just return me home. You get your peace and quiet back, don’t have to leave, and I have people I love and need. My family misses me, and I miss them, is that so hard for you to understand?! Just go and find a more obedient and subservient woman to procreate with. That just can’t be so hard. No matter how cruel you treat me, I promise you, obedient and subservient, that will never be me. NEVER!”
Gwydion looked at her, then looked away, his expression pained. “I cannot do that.”
“Sure you can! You are the great Gwydion … a la tralala … sorry, your last name is just unpronouncable to me. You can do anything you want.” she pressed. “Consider this experiment failed and find another broodmare for that male heir. Or hell, get several chicks pregnant! One of them has to be a winner! I can promise you my great-grandfather won’t bat an eye at you releasing all of us from your idiotic pact. We can all walk away from this and act like this never happened. Well, at least try.”
Gwydion’s eyes darkened, but there was a flicker of vulnerability. “Mine name, Gwydion ap Aberffraw, is Welsh, and doth translate to ‘Gwydion from Aberffraw.’ It is a village, but once was a mighty castle, wherein I was born. At the time of my birth, surnames were not used as they are now. Instead, we used descriptions like someone’s son or, in mine case, their origin.” His eyes darkened further, and the look he gave her went straight to her core. “And I cannot do what thou suggesteth either,” he repeated, his voice heavy with sorrow. “I cannot simply find another woman as thou so ornery imply.”
The air between them was charged with tension. Fiona took a step closer, her gaze unwavering. “And why not!?”
Gwydion’s silence was deafening.
“Oh, right, of course. The great mage always has a lot to say and just knows everything, has seen everything, but now you forgot how to speak. Too much logic for your taste, huh?” Fiona mocked.
His head snapped around to her, his glare intense. “Because I desire it not! Thou canst not leave. I do not wish thee to, and that is final.”
Speechless at his odd confession, Fiona’s face turned into a grimace of confusion. “What? Why not? Again, you make no sense. You don’t like the way I am, but you don’t want me to leave? Are you thinking I am going to change, that you can break me, turn me into a mindless servant?! HA, not in a million years from now! And if you think you can cold-shoulder me into submission to willingly spread my legs for you ever again, you are going to really hate life soon too! Good grief, do you even realize how overpopulated the world is, and that’s just those who get counted, you know, regular mortals. Double their numbers for all the occult flying under the radar, and you wanna tell me I am the only option to produce some heir? You definitely are insane, in the clinical way, if you think that!”
Gwydion’s eyes darkened, but a flicker of vulnerability shone through. “I have sought other means before. They have all failed. I require someone of thy nature… I require thee for this,” he said, his voice tinged with desperation and sincerity.
Fiona’s eyes widened in disbelief. “Other means? I know I don’t really understand you when you speak like this, but what does that mean? Goats?”
Gwydion’s eyes narrowed slightly at Fiona’s insolent insinuation, but he quickly masked his reaction with a sigh, his shoulders slumping. His tone was laden with centuries of sorrow and regret, his Welsh accent adding a lyrical, almost mournful cadence to his words.
Gwydion’s eyes darkened, but there was a flicker of vulnerability. “I … I have lived a long time, thou knowest that. I once had heirs, but they did perish ere I could make them immortal. And then a spell, a curse, was cast upon me, one I could not seem to resolve in time. Mine kin didst die out, and I have spent centuries attempting to have another heir, yet none were viable. Mortal women are not strong enough to withstand mine spawn growing within them. They always did perish, and mine heir with them. I sought out other magicians, witches, of any creed I could find, but the result was always the same: the mothers died long before childbirth.” He sighed deeply, the weight of his ancient burden palpable in the silence that followed.
“I didst try vampires before, but none of them even conceived—perchance they were too old and dried up. Vampires were very different back in those days, naught like thy kind today. Naught like thee—thou art kind, caring, and warm, despite all. They were cold and dead, inside and out—gruesome creatures. Ask thy great-grandfather, he will recall. I found an old writ stating that in order to grow power, one must combine two equal powers. I knew the Vannuccis are the oldest vampire lineage, and they do like to mix with mortals, increasing their fertility levels. Obviously, I was correct. Thou art fertile. And nothing like the vampires of yore. Mercifully.”
Fiona’s face twisted in anger. “I probably only understood half of what you just said, but that was too much already. Are you listening to yourself? You sound like some nutty professor on a quest to finish some crazy science project.”
Gwydion’s expression hardened. “I do what I must. What else is there?”
Fiona’s voice dripped with sarcasm. “Let’s stick with logic, clearly not your strong suit. You’re immortal. Ergo, you don’t need an heir.”
Gwydion’s eyes flashed with intensity. “Vampires are immortal, yet they canst die. I could end thy life this very moment, with but little effort. And I canst die as well, though I shan’t expire naturally. Just like thee. An heir is logical for me. I should have many heirs.”
Fiona’s tone was mocking. “Okay, so you realize your ‘charming‘ ways don’t make you very popular, and since you added yourself to my entire family’s shitlist, you know someone is gonna try to off you. Your list of haters is probably endless, so that’s why you need the heir. Got it. Okay, well at least that part makes some sense now. Limited sense, but at least something. But now the boy part is stupid. If you have such a hard time getting pregnancies to stick and carry to term, you need a daughter, not a son. Duh! Then your precious heir can have the baby, and since she is presumably as strong and powerful, she can handle it. But no, you go with misogyny. Shocker. And you don’t even have a last name to preserve or some noteworthy legacy other than centuries of insane behavior, which I think is peaking with the experiment you made me part of.”
Gwydion’s voice was a low growl. “I have slain men for lesser insolence than that.”
Fiona’s eyes blazed with defiance. “Oh my God, not you with THAT again. Threats and long, awkward silences and you vanishing for days to drive me insane with isolation. You know what? Then kill me already, do me the favor! Your torture here is working, because am not exactly loving life, I am out of options to get myself out of this, trust me, whenever you go on your little benders, that is what I do, I sit there and ponder how I can get out. All I know is that I don’t want to live like this. I cannot tell you how many times I have regretted my choice to be turned again. At least then I could just kill myself. Probably already would have.”
Her words clearly affected him. A brief, but heavy silence fell, which his raspy, dark voice interrupted.
Gwydion’s expression softened, his voice sincere and earnest. “What can I do to make it better for thee?”
Fiona’s eyes blazed with determination and anger. “Take me back home! That’s what.”
He shook his head slowly, a look of regret crossing his face. “How can I make life more pleasant for thee here?”
“You can’t. I don’t want to be here. I hate it here. I hate you. I want to go home! The end,” she retorted, her voice filled with frustration and defiance.
Gwydion looked down for a moment, then met her gaze with a quiet, almost pleading voice. “What can I do to make thee not hate me?”
“Argh! Okay fine, maybe I don’t really hate you, hate is kind of a strong word, but I hate it here. I want to go home! The end,” she retorted, her voice filled with frustration and defiance.
His face reflected a myriad of different emotions. He took a deep breath, trying to steady himself. “Fiona, I understand thy anger. I understand thy frustration. But there are things thou dost not know, things I cannot explain easily.”
Fiona crossed her arms, her eyes narrowing. “Try me.”
Gwydion hesitated, his gaze dropping to the floor. “Tis not just about the heir anymore. It hath grown more complicated than that.”
“Complicated how?” she demanded, her voice sharp.
He looked up, his eyes meeting hers with a mixture of sorrow and something else she couldn’t quite place. “I cannot let thee go because… because I need thee here. Not just for the heir, but for… other reasons,” he confessed, his voice laden with unspoken emotions.
Fiona’s heart pounded in her chest. “What other reasons?”
Gwydion took a step closer, his voice softening. “Thou… hast helped me find something I thought lost forever. Thou hast made me feel something I no longer thought I could feel. Thou makest me remember what it feels like to…”
He paused, his voice almost a whisper, “to be alive.”
Suddenly, as if realizing he’d exposed too much, Gwydion turned abruptly and left the room, leaving Fiona standing there, stunned.
She watched him go, a whirlwind of thoughts swirling in her mind. Did he just basically confess he loves me? Or was he talking about liking to have sex with me? What the actual… Why is my life so strange? The man I loved dumps me because of my heritage, and this guy wanted me because of it and now seems to want to be with me? A man who admittedly is much older than my own great-grandfather?! And why the hell do I even care? This must be some sort of Stockholm Syndrome. Has to be. No way could I like that asshole. If I ever get out of here, I am getting therapy. I don’t even care. This is just unreal!
Then it hit her, her great-grandfather’s warnings about Gwydion’s reputation of being manipulative, a trickster, and she realized he was trying to mess with her head to get her to oblige like a love-struck teen. Yeah, that would even make perfect sense. Oh, that despicable little ….
Furious, she stormed off after him, tearing open every single door along her path, to give him a piece of her mind about his attempted manipulation, her frustration mounting with each step. It took her a long time and many opened doors to empty rooms, to finally spot him outside in the garden, just past the magical perimeter he had set for her, which she was unable to cross. That small detail alone made Fiona blow her last gasket.
Gwydion turned when he heard her burst through the door into the garden, yelling “Coward!” while rushing at him like a steam engine. She didn’t even care that she was bound to a certain line, not realizing that she had already crossed it when she used all her force to shove him. She yelled at him, tears bursting from her eyes, contradicting the colorful curse words she bestowed on him.
He let her rant for a while, probably hoping she’d tire herself out. When she didn’t, he winced through the pain and grabbed her, and another one of their usual struggles ensued until he had her contained, his injuries making the effort more arduous. Her back pressed against his body, her arms crossed and pressed against her, effectively immobilizing her.
“What is the meaning of this?” he demanded, his voice a low growl.
“I am onto you, that’s what! You thought you had me, and I admit, for a moment there you had me going, but I am smarter than that! I have you figured out! That won’t work on me!” she voiced her anger, writhing in his hold, trying to break free from him.
Gwydion’s patience wore thin, and his voice dripped with disdain. “What art thou even talking about, thou mad harpy!?”
She kept fighting him, trying to bite his hands, until he gave up and let go of her. She turned around to face him, sparks shooting from her eyes as she glared at him.
“I know what you did in there or tried to do. I am not falling for it.”
“What dost thou think I tried?” he asked, his voice laced with genuine frustration.
“Fuck you!” she yelled, flipping him off with both hands right before his face, then ran back inside, leaving him flabbergasted, shaking his head.
“That fiery maiden might well be the death of me. Many have tried—powerful men, mages, wizards, vampires—and all of them have failed. My Lady Fair has wrought what none of them could, bringing me to my knees without my knowing how, she manages with ease, yet is oblivious to her powers over me. Not even when I did reveal as much unto her. How ironic. A true travesty, indeed.”
Gwydion stood there for a moment, collecting his thoughts. The cool night air filled with the scent of blooming flowers and damp earth, a stark contrast to the heated exchange they just had. He knew he couldn’t leave things like this, he never could. His only option now would be to leave, but he couldn’t bring himself to. Taking a deep breath, he went back inside, searching for Fiona.
He found her in the library, her back turned to him as she stared at a dusty shelf of old books. She was trembling, whether from anger or something else, he couldn’t tell. He approached her quietly, his footsteps barely making a sound on the stone floor. He watched her for a moment, taking in the tension in her posture, before knocking his knuckles on the doorframe to get her attention.
Fiona flung around, her eyes still shooting daggers at him. “What now? Oh, wait, don’t tell me, you are gonna hit one knee and ask for my hand, confessing undying love now too, followed by more drunk and/or angry sex so this can turn into a complete soap opera?” she mocked.
Gwydion raised an eyebrow, his tone dripping with sarcasm. “Ah, my Lady Fair, always with the dramatics. I would sooner wed a rabid badger than bind myself to the likes of thee. I was merely checking if thou hadst decided to redecorate my library with thy temper.”
His mockery turned her anger into fury, and she grabbed the nearest book—a heavy, leather-bound tome—and hurled it at him. The book flew through the air with a whoosh, its ancient leather cover creaking. It thudded against the wall behind him, sending a small cloud of dust into the air. She grabbed another and another, each one an ancient relic, their pages rustling and covers groaning as they were torn from their resting places. She threw them with all her might. He caught some mid-air, his reflexes sharp, while others he sidestepped with ease, the books landing with dull thuds and echoing slaps on the stone floor.
As he made his way closer to her, she grabbed a particularly large volume and aimed it at his head. He caught it just inches from his face, the leather binding creaking under the pressure of his grip. His eyes locked onto hers with a mixture of frustration and determination. In one swift motion, he closed the distance between them and grabbed her wrists, wincing as his injuries flared with pain.
Fiona bit his wrist, her fangs sinking into his flesh. He winced but didn’t let go. Instead, he flung her back into the bookshelves, the impact causing a cascade of books to fall around them. The ancient tomes tumbled down, their pages fluttering and bindings cracking, filling the air with the musty scent of old paper and leather. He forced his bitten wrist against her mouth, forcing her to drink from him, his blood mingling with hers. The moment she did, the dynamics shifted. The anger and frustration melted away, replaced by a raw, intense passion.
Their lips met in a fierce, hungry kiss; their bodies pressed against each other. The heat between them was palpable, their hands roaming, tearing at each other’s clothes, his still healing injuries forgotten. The ancient tomes and dusty shelves faded into the background as they lost themselves in the moment.
They stumbled towards the fireplace, still kissing, their clothing discarded piece by piece, until they collapsed onto the rug by the fireplace. The fire crackled beside them, casting a warm glow over their entwined bodies. Their connection was intense, a culmination of all the emotions they had been holding back.
Afterwards, they lay in each other’s arms, the firelight dancing across their skin. Fiona suddenly started laughing softly at first, then bursting into a full fit of laughter, Gwydion’s confused stares not helping her composure.
“Is this rug bear skin by any chance? Doesn’t have a head, so I can’t tell,” she asked between giggles.
Gwydion raised an eyebrow, a hint of amusement in his eyes. “Nay, ’tis wolf skin. More common in my homeland.”
Fiona laughed even harder. “Where I come from, screwing on a bear skin rug in front of a fireplace is literally the king or queen of all clichés. As is angry make up sex. Or whatever this is we just did again. Go figure. This is my life now. Kinda funny if you really think about it.”
Gwydion smiled, his fingers tracing delicate patterns on her back. “Perchance it hath always been cliché, even in mine times, but probably for good reason. Thou canst not deny the comfort it adds to a pleasant pastime.” He chuckled briefly, then his expression turned serious. “And before thou ponderest this again, what transpired here was no cold calculation by me. This was naught but passion. Honest and pure, no double meaning, no magic. At least not the kind thou would expect from me, although I cannot help feeling quite enchanted and intoxicated myself. By thee.”
She rose up, reaching for her dress, pulling it closer, but before she put it on, she turned to give him a coquettish smile. “Speak for yourself. I only, umm… how did you put it that one time? Oh, I used you to scratch an itch.” She tried to pull the dress over her head, but he caught it, tore it from her hands and flung it across the room, pushing her back onto the rug, rolling atop her.
“Well, then scratch me more, for I am still itchy, thou little enchantress!” he said, his tone playful yet commanding.
EchoesOfLegacy 