User blog:TylwythTeg/A hundred and twenty-two years young

''Late evening. 8 Ire of Phyrrys, Year 7 of the Sixth Age. Meilyr Quarter. Prifddinas.''

By the end of the day on her a hundred and twenty-second birthday, Fynnien could barely contain her exhaustion. She had done her level best to be appreciative of all her grandmother's attempts to make the day extra special for her: the favourite childhood meals, and the lavish gifts, even reinstating her on her apprenticeship... Fyn really had made a special effort to pretend she had wanted any of these things, that any of them made her remotely happy. She could not be sure her grandmother, Branwen, was convinced - misguided presents aside, Branwen did know her fairly well at this point. Now the day was finally almost over; and in a way, they had both done their best.

However, being still a very young Elf, it was only now that it was dark and Branwen had gone to bed that Fyn felt her birthday could really begin.

After spending a considerable amount of time and cleaning and beautifying herself as quietly as possible, she slipped out of the front door to make for her appointed assignation with a young, strong, vapid-but-handsome Crwys Elf she had at market the other day - only to run almost headlong into someone she did not expect coming up the garden path.

The figure stumbled backwards with a sharp gasp. Fyn realised she too had jumped backwards, and someone had squealed loudly - she clamped a hand over her mouth, seconds too late. Straining her eyes into the darkness, she tried to identify the figure - and as her vision adjusted, her heart jolted unpleasantly.

There could be no mistaking it.

One's first love is not a face one forgets.

She breathed his name in a sort of horror.

"Tristan...!"

They stared at each other for several seconds.

He stood awkwardly, scratching his neck. He did not seem to have changed much. Physically, he was at first glance not so terribly unlike Fyn herself: both tall, willowy and fair-skinned, with blonde hair and blue eyes. Yet within those bounds they could hardly have been more different. Where Fyn's skin was deeply bronzed, his complexion was moonlight-pale and crystal-clear; where her hair fell about her shoulders in rich golden tresses like a rockslide, his was silvery-flax, almost platinum, and straight, framing his high cheekbones and jaw; where her eyes were a deep turquoise, his were grey-violet and filled with light. And where Fyn was strikingly beautiful - like lightning igniting a dead tree - Tristan was prettier; like a wood anemone, or a bluebell, in a verdant meadow in the spring.

Eventually he spoke. His faltering words tripped down through the night air like elegant but inexperienced fingers on piano-keys.

"I, ah... heard that you were back in the city. Thought I might come and say hullo."

"Why."

Fyn could scarcely contain her feelings. She had to clench her fists to stop her hands from shaking. He did not seem to know how to respond, so she spoke again.

"You abandoned me."

In the shafting moonlight, she thought she was him flinch.

"I... wanted nothing more than to remain friends. You cut me out entirely..."

"You left me. Ten years ago. Without a warning, with barely a word. You must have been planning it for months - and when I asked you, you lied."

Tristan did not reply for a moment. Then he said:

"Eight."

"What?"

"Years. Eight years ago. Not ten. Well. Eight years and forty-three days."

She stared at him.

"So?!"

He lowered his gaze, turning away slightly, and kicked some gravel on the path.

"Agh, I knew I shouldn't have come."

"No. You shouldn't. You used me. I told you I never wanted to see you again."

"Yes, I... still have that letter. But it wasn't like that. I couldn't stay. I thought it was bad for both of us-"

"I'm not interested in your excuses, Tristan. You think that because it's been a few years that changes anything? Changes what you did? You left me! I will never, ever want to be your friend."

"Fyn. You ran away. Just weeks after we broke up. Your whole clan thought you had gone mad - raving about some children's story about an owl. Now I made no judgement - you know I wouldn't. But can you imagine how different things might have been if you had just stayed? Who knows, we might still have patched things up. How do you think I felt? You wouldn't talk to me! Leaving you - leaving you w-was the hardest thing I have ever done in my life. You cut me out. Refused to see me. Then you just up and left to, wherever it was, Morytania? Literally the opposite side of the world, about as far away as you could get from me. On some ridiculous pretext. What was I supposed to think? I blamed myself! I'd driven you from your home, from your own community-"

"Tristan, look, I really don't care. First of all - you caused all of this, so don't even think about trying to put it on me. Second of all - this was years ago!! It feels like centuries to me. You can't even imagine the things I have been through in between. It was another life. And that life ended long ago. Did you really come here on my birthday just to have this fight now?"

Tristan looked uncomfortable.

"... didn't remember it was your birthday."

"You remember the exact date we broke up. I remember you playing symphonies from memory. Of course you remember my birthday."

She glared at him, hands on hips. That had come out as much more of a compliment than she had intended, so she tried to temper it.

"You're just that... precise sort of idiot."

She watched him compose his reply. Eventually he said:

"... of course I remember."

"Then why are you really here?"

"... I made you something."

"You are unbelievable!! You think you can bribe your way back into my life?? Not a single thing has changed Tristan - I never want to see you again!!"

He watched her silently. She held his gaze, incredulous. Then shook her head.

"I have to go. I'm late for a thing."

"Oh, I'm... sorry to have kept you."

She made to push past him; but he stood aside promptly, out of her way. She turned back to him as she joined the main road.

"Don't ever come here again, Tristan. I mean it."

Several hours and many drinks later, Fyn and her new Crwys friend had made it back to his place, on the edge of the city. All thoughts of ex-lovers were banished from her mind. She had her arms around his neck, pressed against his muscular back, kissing his cheek and laughing at him as he struggled to locate his keys. She wasn't completely sure she could actually remember his name. Oh well.

Eventually, they made it inside - barely over the threshold before they were kissing again, and beginning to shed clothing. The man whose name she couldn't remember shut the door.

About a quarter of an hour later, a muffled man's voice exclaiming in frustration broke the stillness of the night. And a few minutes after that, her hair and clothes somewhat askew, Fyn let herself out. She leant against the closed front door for a moment, taking a deep, steadying breath. Then she strode rapidly, stumblingly, home.

It was a quiet evening. Few folk were about; but she kept her head down all the same. There was nothing at all wrong with what she had just almost done, not in her own mind; so why did she feel so ashamed? She put it down to bad chemistry. After all, brainless brawn had never really been her type anyway; she supposed that she just felt silly for trying to convince herself that it was. That must be it. Anyway it would do for now. Work it out properly in the morning when she was sober. Plenty of time to second-guess herself later.

At long last she reached her grandmother's gate, and let herself through. Closing it behind her, she turned round to find a shadowy figure blocking her path, and almost jumped out of her skin - but only for a moment. The presence was familiar.

"How was your evening," asked Tristan smoothly.

She hated him sometimes.

She stepped forwards, placing her hands on his shoulders and suddenly, without quite realising how it had happened, they were kissing, and pure golden happiness seemed to suddenly fill her whole body, right down to the fingertips, like she couldn't remember ever feeling before. She felt his surprise; and then his warm response. They kissed for a long time.

When at last their lips parted, she could feel him trembling as he brushed her hair out of her face. The moonlight shone off a single tear on his cheek. She brushed it away, and felt his face with both hands... her fingers still remembered his bone structure.

"Tristan," she whispered softly.

"Fyn," he answered.

She laid her head against his chest, and he held her close, under his skin.

"Be with me tonight," she murmured. He held her tighter in answer.