This Present Past

by Traci Harding

  ‘You are taking unfair advantage.’ She watched as he took his time rolling up a big icy ball. ‘You wouldn’t hurt a lady, would you?’ she appealed to his gentlemanly nature.

  ‘Did the Lady finish readying our bath?’ he queried.

  ‘She did,’ she advised most amiably. ‘Very hot and very steamy.’

  ‘Excellent.’ He tossed the ball aside. ‘I shall go and enjoy that, while you think about your shameful behaviour.’ He waltzed past her.

  ‘You cannot just leave me here . . . I’ll freeze!’ She stopped moving her feet as they were not getting her anywhere.

  ‘That is karma for you.’ He was undeterred.

  ‘It won’t be any fun without me.’

  He circled back around, to stand before her. ‘I must concur.’ She gave a squeal of complaint as he took her over his shoulder and carried her back indoors.

  Not until the morning of his leaving did either of them mention the event. They had been in blissful denial this entire time, and had stayed awake all night to help stave off the inevitable. Soon fate would force him from the warm comfort of her body and bed.

  In reality they had known this existence many times in other lives – it was their desire to be together that was keeping them both stuck in the karmic wheel.

  ‘Where will you go now?’ Creirwy rolled over to lean on his chest and gaze up at him with those lovely soft mauve eyes.

  ‘Gwynedd.’

  ‘Gwynedd?’ The Lady was suitably unimpressed. ‘I expected somewhere far more exotic.’

  ‘I need to do some reconnaissance there, before heading back into history to make a few minor adjustments.’

  ‘A few minor adjustments? What if you make things worse?’

  He had to laugh. ‘I’ve been to the future; it couldn’t get worse.’ He was completely serious.

  ‘Mother still blames you for what happened here.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘She and the Night Hunter plan to kill you at birth.’ Creirwy frowned, worried for him.

  ‘Clearly, they do not.’

  ‘What changes their minds?’

  ‘I could not say.’

  ‘Perhaps I talk her round, after all?’

  He kissed her head, thankful for the support, and closed his eyes to immerse himself in their final moments entwined contently thus.

  Once the sun reached its zenith there was no more stalling. Keridwen would be arriving before long. The goodbyes started with Moonlight, who would have passed on by the time he was reborn. Be that as it may, there was a treasure among those in Keridwen’s library known as ‘The Great Horse Catcher’ that would see them reunited in the future.

  ‘So this is the last farewell.’ Creirwy smiled, but beneath her comely front there was sadness.

  He nodded, resigned and oddly at peace – was he finally learning the art of detachment? ‘I have but a couple of errands to perform before I leave this timeline for good.’

  ‘I am glad you came.’ She swallowed back tears. ‘It’s easier to let go now I know that you are in my future, my universe!’ she emphasised.

  ‘And I’ll not be leaving without you.’ He kissed her, and their embrace made his throat ache.

  ‘I imagined I’d be a complete mess at this point, but really . . .’ Creirwy released him and stepped back. ‘I’m just grateful we had this time. You are the most amazing being I have ever known, and I shall treasure these days with you always.’

  ‘I wish you all good things, Creirwy.’ The knot in his throat tightened as he knew what fate lay in wait for her but was powerless to prevent it.

  His lady came forward and he raised his hands so she could place her palms against his, and their fingers folded over each other’s hands tightly. ‘Go in peace, knowing you leave me thus. Whatever happens now is of no matter if I am already immortal and living in space.’ She tugged at his hands to encourage him to better spirits. ‘I shall see you in the past.’

  It was hard to predict when they would next meet in his reality. ‘I will see you in my dreams always.’ His throat might have hurt, but his heart was holding together; destiny had been calling him for some time and he now felt free to follow that call – in fact, he had very little choice in the matter.

  ‘Take care of yourself . . . what name do you go by now?’

  ‘I’ve had so many, I couldn’t rightly say,’ he joked, to cover the fact he was avoiding the query.

  ‘Well, you shall always be Gwion to me. Although I must say, Araqiel does rather suit you.’

  ‘And you,’ he awarded, and considering this made her smile broaden. His mind’s eye captured this one last perfect impression of her. ‘We are one.’ He clutched tight her hands once more, for strength to overcome the dread of parting, and then let go. He backed up, loath to close his eyes and bring this chapter of his life to an end. So, eyes wide open, his mind harked back to his memory of the inner bailey at Degannwy in Gwynedd, and as that place came into form around him, his beloved Creirwy faded into his past forevermore.

  The inner bailey courtyard was mantled in snow and devoid of people.

  It took a moment to control the urge to collapse into the immense sense of loss and sadness that was welling in his chest – a deep, dark void that would swallow him whole, if he allowed it. But he did not. Instead, reflecting on the beautiful memories they had created together – that he had not possessed before – joy flooded his being with gratitude, fortifying him enough to turn his mind to the quest at hand.

  According to Neiryn, King Caswallon, Queen Meddyf, the young Prince Caradoc, and most of the household, had all left Degannwy days before to spend winter at their rebuilt ancestral home at Anglesey on Mon, with Cyngen Brockwell, Gladys and their twins, Calin and Sanan. But the heir apparent to Gwynedd, Maelgwn, had opted to stay alone at Degannwy for the winter.

  A skeleton crew of guards would be keeping watch over the closed portcullis of the outer bailey gatehouse. The door to the royal residence, as it was behind two closed iron portcullis gates, was not presently guarded at all. Not that it would have affected his quest, with teleportation, invisibility, psychokinesis and telepathy all in his skill set these days.

  The trouble with teleportation was that you could only teleport to someone or some place with which you were familiar. He’d never had access to this fortress beyond its room of court – which held, or would soon hold, too many horrendous memories for him – and so he chose to manifest into the courtyard.

  From here, he faded from view to proceed on foot – the impressions his feet left in the snow the only evidence of his presence.

  The doors opened at his wilful bidding, flinging inward as the timber that had braced them from the inside crashed to the ground, still in one piece.

  A servant of the house came running when he heard the ruckus. Clearly puzzled by how the brace had dislodged itself, he was eager to shut out the chilly wind and so closed the doors and replaced the heavy cross-timber – the fresh footprints out and inside the doorway went unheeded.

  Chances were he would find the young prince he was seeking in the library, thus he wandered the downstairs levels as the room in question was more likely to be there. The plan was to see what kind of a character Maelgwn had been before he grew into the monster that would be ruling in Gwynedd twenty-three years from now. Neiryn had insisted that as a lad he’d shown great promise, before his mother, her lover and their deceitful schemes beat all the goodness, reason and compassion out of him.

  He personally felt a lot of resentment towards this future king, and yet he also recognised him as one of the Grigori – their commander, Azazèl, no less. Of all the Grigori, Azazèl, in both his male and female form, were key as the rest of the Grigori would follow them anywhere – they were legion.

  If Maelgwn’s dark character was ingrained and beyond redemption in this age, he would give up on this era altogether and seek another convergence of the Grigori elsewhere in time. But he had it on good authority that he would make his stand here,
and as that same authority had proven correct about other instances past, he was inclined to believe that it would be so.

  The double doors across the hall from the royal room of court seemed a likely place for the room he sought and sure enough, he entered to find a lad, around ten years of age, reading parchments by the fire. The Prince looked up when he heard the door open.

  Before entering he made himself visible but assumed the persona of an old travel-weary bard.

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘I am a bard, Sire, here for your pleasure.’ He bowed.

  The lad frowned, wary. ‘By what name are you known?’

  As he drew closer to the Prince, he noticed the bruises on his face. ‘My name is Taliesin.’

  Again the boy frowned. ‘I’ve never heard of you, but you have my leave to go cheer the house staff. I’d rather read at present.’ His eyes returned to the parchment.

  ‘The reason you haven’t heard my name before is because we shall not really meet until you are thirty-six years of age and ruling all of Gwynedd.’

  The lad’s eyes slowly rose from his script as he considered this. ‘You will surely be dead by then, and we are meeting now.’

  ‘If I get my way, we shall meet much, much sooner.’

  Maelgwn was mildly amused by the premise. ‘How can we meet sooner than now, old man? I fear you might have been out in the weather too long, the cold has numbed your mind.’

  ‘Mead would certainly remedy that, Highness.’ He didn’t wait to be invited to have a seat, and poured himself a goblet of mead that was sitting on the table between their two chairs.

  ‘Help yourself, why don’t you,’ Maelgwn muttered, returning to his reading to emphasise how much he wished him to leave. Although he was the heir to the kingdom, it was not good form, nor good fortune, to turn away a bard.

  ‘Who are you reading with such fascination?’

  ‘Marcus Aurelius.’ He did not look up.

  ‘Everything we hear is an opinion, not a fact, everything we see is a perspective—’

  ‘Not the truth,’ the young prince finished the sentence, staring at him as if he had two heads.

  ‘A wise man indeed.’ If this was a manner of teaching to which the young prince subscribed, there was indeed potential.

  ‘You read?’

  ‘Many languages,’ he concurred.

  ‘But bards never read? Only priests!’

  ‘Well, clearly I am the exception.’ He held his goblet up to his young host, and took a long sip, then sighed gratified as he sat back and got more comfortable.

  ‘I aim to join the priesthood,’ the Prince said with some zeal that faded from his person very quickly.

  ‘I take it from the bruises on your face that did not go down so well with your father.’

  ‘My father did not do this.’ His jaw clenched, holding back the bitter words he wished to voice, but dared not. Instead, he poured himself some mead and drank down the entire goblet.

  ‘So why the need to join the oppression of a cloistered life? Why not just stay here and study?’

  ‘Because there is no one with whom to discuss what I have learned here. No debate that does not stem from pure ignorance.’ Maelgwn poured another drink.

  ‘Pardon my assumption, but Latin is such a difficult language to master, surely you did not teach yourself?’

  ‘No.’ Maelgwn appeared sobered by the query. ‘My father’s cleric, Percival, taught me, but having seen all the strife it has caused us both, I feel sure he now wishes he had not. He has been forbidden to converse or communicate with me in Latin, on threat of death.’

  ‘But surely Caswallon would not do away with his cleric?’

  ‘He would if the Queen wished it.’ The spite in his voice was palpable. ‘My father is completely blind to her manipulation and deceit—’ He gasped back his words, and placed the goblet down. ‘I have remembered there is something I must attend to.’ The Prince gathered his scrolls and tucked them under his arm. ‘Please feel free to take advantage of our hospitality as long as you have need. Drusilla, our head maid, shall arrange a room.’

  ‘I shall linger only so long as it takes to finish this fine goblet of mead.’ He swallowed the rest down and stood as the Prince did. ‘I have need to move on.’

  ‘As you wish.’ The Prince made good his escape towards the door.

  ‘I’ll be seeing you, Azazèl.’ He returned to an invisible state of being.

  ‘That name?’ Maelgwn turned about and was perplexed to find himself alone. ‘Where could such an old man have disappeared to so quickly?’ The lad put the scrolls back down on a chair. ‘Was he ever here?’ He took a seat to contemplate the episode. ‘Mother’s beltings have finally done damage to my mind.’

  He’d seen all he needed to see – Neiryn and his other preemptive source were looking valid; Meddyf was the problem here, not Caswallon or his heir, so he would return to a year before Gwion ever met Owain, and ensure Caswallon found a queen who would love him and serve Gwynedd with honour.

  But first, he had one more errand in this era to run. As the event was over five years on from this point in time, he would need the Lightning Chariot for that leg. Beyond that, he planned to venture further into the future than he’d ever dared go, for he had a contact there that needed to be verified. Then it was back to ancient Gaul, where he had found the key to unlock his master plan.

  Although Creirwy told no one of Gwion’s visit, four full moons later there was no hiding the evidence – for her belly was near as swollen full of child as Keridwen’s. ‘So when do you plan to tell me who the father of my new grandchild is?’

  ‘I’m sure you could extract that information from my mind if you wished to.’ Creirwy finished stripping the bed.

  ‘With the evil eye torc around your neck, it is difficult, and I had rather hoped you’d just confide in me. Are we not friends now?’ Keridwen posed, polishing an apple she planned to devour.

  Creirwy shrugged, still undecided on that score.

  ‘You’ve been so happy lately, I can only assume that the father’s participation in this happy event was welcomed.’

  ‘Very.’ Creirwy lifted her basket of linens to head off down to the stream to wash.

  ‘He came for the chariot, didn’t he?’

  Creirwy swallowed. ‘Who?’

  ‘You know who.’ Keridwen’s stormy green eyes shifted from her apple to her daughter.

  ‘If you know already, then why ask?’

  Keridwen rolled her head as if pained a little. ‘Very clever.’

  ‘Yes, I agree, he is rather.’

  ‘Do you not see what he is doing? Protecting himself from inside the womb.’ Her mother never touched her swollen belly, but regarded it as an enemy.

  ‘I see how you see this, yes!’ Creirwy dropped her basket. ‘And I hope you come to adore this child . . .’ She rubbed her own belly with great affection. ‘If it will stay your hand from murdering one of the greatest beings who will ever walk this earth! Or will you forsake Araqiel and all the Grigori? Just leave them to clean up the mess that you and your kin created?’

  ‘He remembers . . .’ her mother whispered under her breath.

  ‘Much more than he would disclose to me.’ Creirwy felt fortified inside; her mother’s return to the side of the righteous had begun.

  ‘What else did he say?’

  ‘I am not disclosing his plans to you just so you can run off and tell the Night Hunter.’ Creirwy retrieved her basket and headed for the door.

  ‘Daughter.’ Keridwen’s heartfelt call forestalled her again. ‘What is he like now?’

  ‘Luminary,’ she replied with all sincerity. ‘He is the embodiment of everything you could ever have aspired to infuse in a human being.’

  These words inspired tears to well in Keridwen’s eyes.

  ‘Congratulations.’ Creirwy left to be about her chores, suppressing a quiet grin of confidence in victory. If she could deliver this child alive into this world, she knew
it would cement her mother’s connection to the child developing inside her own womb. Then the Goddess would be forced to choose – she could either protect them, or lose them both!

  Over her next few visits Keridwen grew more and more fond in her manner towards Creirwy. Creirwy could tell her mother was more excited by the prospect of having a new grandchild to fawn over than she was letting on.

  Creirwy was quietly praying that by some miracle she would go into labour on full moon and have her mother close to help see her through the delivery of his baby – the memory of her last near-death birthing experience injected her being with fear each time she thought of it, but she was doing her utmost not to give power to her reservations. Still, it was impossible not to consider what would happen if she gave birth mid-month and died in the effort; what would become of her miracle babe then?

  As her time drew close, it became more and more difficult to manage alone. The chill of autumn was shaking the trees bare in preparation for winter hibernation, and Creirwy no longer had the strength to chop her own wood. She barely had the energy to feed the horses, and so remained bundled up in bed to keep warm for a goodly part of the day and all night. Although she felt fit to burst, the moon was at its darkest ebb at present; she had the whole of the waxing moon before her mother would return.

  Just before dark on the following evening, the sound of horses approaching caused a deep dread to rise through her being. If it was Chiglas and Cadfer she would not live to give birth.

  She gripped hold of the dragon whistle that hung on a long chain around her neck below her torc of protection and heaved herself out of bed. She’d only just managed to get to her feet when pain seized hold of her lower abdomen and back – it was a contraction, and it could not have come at a worse time. She could hardly race to the library and conceal herself, if she could barely stand.

  Creirwy pushed through the pain and made it to the front door, opening it only enough to peek outside. Her contraction eased off and she breathed easy once more. The horses had come to a stop beyond her gates, but with no moon and cloud cover it was impossible to see who was out there.