User blog:TylwythTeg/Family



Fyn gazed pensively up at the crystal spire, gleaming in the Pentember sunshine, with mixed feelings. For all its brightness and grandeur, its sense of security and sanctuary, and the unmistakable presence of her goddess nearby - like a silent, soothing melody drifting through the air... Fyn did not like Prifddinas.

There was something about it that had always felt wrong; some note in the new melody from which the city had been sung that was too pristine, too perfect. She had been there less than an hour, and already its purity and tranquillity felt saccharine - and she longed to be back in the forest again.

Still... as her eyes moved back down the tower, the gnarled oak door set in its foot brought a slight smile to her face. She had grown up with this door - watched it age and weather over the decades as she grew into womanhood. It was the door she used to push open as quietly as she could, after a long day getting scratched and dirty and tearing her clothes in the woods when she was small; or, when she was a little older, the door she burst through, locked behind her and sank down against in floods of tears after a boy broke her heart for the first time.

The door had been moved, of course, from the homestead in a lonely glade deep in the heart of Isafdar. But it was still the door to home.

Today, Fyn pushed it open carefully, silently - just enough for her slip through - and closed it again behind her without a sound that even an Elf ear could pick up; then waited a moment as her eyes adjusted to the relative dim within.

Every wall of the ground floor interior was hidden by tall mahogany bookshelves, from floor to ceiling; and every inch of shelfspace crammed with glass and crystal vials of potions, or strange ingredients. In the centre of the room was a hearth, and a lonely rocking chair - on which someone in a sunhat was sat, their back to the door.

Fyn casually slung her pack down in the corner with a light thump, letting the occupant know she was there, then strode over to give them a peck on the cheek.

"Hey, grandma."

Branwen stirred slightly with a grunt and a mumble, seeming for a moment as if she wouldn't wake; then all at once her eyes flew open, and she sat up abruptly with a swift, warm laugh.

"Why, if it isn't Fynnien - my, how you've grown!"

She touched Fyn's face, and Fyn couldn't help but smile back.

"And still more beautiful every day. I wasn't expecting you, my dear! Let me put the kettle on - young Cador brought me a special brew, such a sweet boy..."

Fyn shook her head, smiling. "No, no, grandma, don't get up. I can't stay I'm afraid - errands to run, you know. I'm sorry. I just wanted to ask a quick favour..."

Fyn unshouldered the bow Aderyn had sung for her and held it out. Branwen took it curiously.

"Looks alright to me. A bit rushed, but serviceable. What's wrong with it?"

Fyn shook her head stubbornly, clearing it of thoughts of Aderyn - Lyam's perfect fiancée.

"It's technically fine, but I can't use it. It was sung for me by someone... I don't like. She tried to give me clothes too, but I can't wear them. I can't accept her generosity. Can you get it resung?"

Branwen tutted audibly.

"My dear, you know how expensive these services are... can't you make do?"

Fyn smiled, putting her arms around Branwen's neck and giving her another kiss on the cheek.

"Oh, grandma, no I can't. And anyway, half Clan Ithell owes you a favour - and the other half love you because you're just so wonderful. And at the very least I want my seed back. It's special to me, and I don't want that - that woman's voice in it. Can you at least get it unsung?"

Branwen sighed, turning the bow over in her hands slowly before replying.

"Of course I can do it; I can have it redone for you in no time. But my dear, please tell me honestly - why is it I only ever see you when you want a favour?"

Fyn shrugged cheerfully.

"Oh, don't be like that - you know I hate this city. You're more than welcome to come and visit me - any time! It's not that far, you know."

She had already picked up her pack and was halfway out the door. Branwen turned her chair around with an effort, evidently wanting to say more.

"I'll be back before long. Thanks again!"

"Fynnien, my dear-"

The door slammed. Fyn was off again. Branwen remained sitting, staring at the closed door, for a long moment, her face troubled.