She took over the keeping of Rhain’s farm. She adopted his chickens and goat. She left flowers on the grave mound beneath the old oak tree. She tended the winter-sleeping gardens, preparing the soil for spring. The work soothed her, reminded her there was a world beyond the magical and the monstrous.
The days were easiest. But every night, she dreamed of a wooded clearing. She dreamed of a bow in her hands, the string drawn taut and her arrow aimed at a dark-haired young man. She dreamed how it felt to release that arrow—the despair and determination—only to see the arrow curve from its target.
She always woke before the arrow struck Pryderi. That was one mercy.
She did not pick up a bow. The thought of hunting turned her stomach. Rather, she spent time with her mother. She chopped firewood and crafted candles and ensured their food was well-secured in the pantry.
A month after she returned from the Hunt, she visited Argoed.
It felt strange. She walked among people she had known her whole life, yet they seemed like strangers. They spoke of local gossip, of small scandals, of the weather. There was no mention of kings nor monsters, nothing about the Wild Hunt. Branwen sat at the tavern,nursing a drink while Glaw told her about the rats he’d chased from his barn.
The stories made her feel both more and less at home.
“I know something happened on that hunt of yours,” said Mam one afternoon as they baked bread. Mam’s sleeves were rolled up to her forearms, and the house smelled like honey and oats as she warmed the griddle stone. “If you ever wish to speak of it…”
Branwen kept her eyes on the dough. She added another fistful of flour, kneading it. Palug sat a few feet away, watching them work with interest.
Branwen’s throat went tight. Part of her wanted to talk to her mother, to confide in her. To tell her all of it.
“I know you think me weak,” said Mam, crossing her arms. She regarded Branwen with rueful fondness. “But I am strong enough to carry my child’s troubles.”
Branwen shook her head. “No, Mam. I’ve never thought you weak. You’re… you’re ill sometimes, but that’s not your fault.” Pain twisted through her. She had come so close to saving her mam. The boon would have cured her… but at least she still had Gwydion’s coin. She could afford the sleeping herbs, at least for a year.
“I know.” Mam let out a weary breath. “But I promise if you tell me, I will remember. So long as it’s in the morning,” she added. That earned her a snort from Branwen. It was the first time she had laughed since the Hunt.
“Someday,” said Branwen. “I will tell you all of it. When it’s less painful.”
Mam nodded. They worked in silence for a few minutes untilMam said, “Derwyn sent a letter. He would like us to visit in the spring.”
“Would he?” Branwen looked up sharply.
“He’s been taking in some of the orphans from Gwaelod,” said Mam. “I think he wants us to meet them.”
Branwen thought of her cousin surrounded by children. It made her smile. “We should go. We can find someone to tend to the farm for a few weeks in spring.”
Mam nodded. “Something to look forward to.”
More time slipped by.
As winter deepened, there were rumors that something had changed in Annwvyn. The old sightings of monsters and tylwyth teg were becoming less and less. The villagers spread wildly untrue rumors, but Branwen never argued with them. They would never believe her tales.
And finally, when the first snow touched the land, Branwen ventured out to hunt.
She had to use one of Rhain’s bows. Hers had been lost in Annwvyn. She walked through the wilds, snow crunching gently beneath her feet as she enjoyed the quiet peace of the morning. Her mam had gone to the village, so Branwen did not have to hurry home.
When she crossed a hill, she saw three deer. They were clustered together, nosing at a tangle of dead grass. Branwen’s fingers went still on her bow, but she did not pull it taut. Rather, she watched them.
One of the deer lifted its head and sniffed in her direction. When she remained still, the deer seemed to decide she was not a threat. They went back to searching for greenery.
Branwen watched them until they vanished into the fields.
When she returned home, Palug was waiting for her. He sat beside the door and howled to be let in. “You wanted to go play outside, you monster,” said Branwen fondly. She walked inside, kicking snow from her boots before she pulled off her cloak. Mam’s cloak was hanging from its hook, which meant she had returned. She was probably out doing chores.
Branwen strode inside, heading for the fire to warm her hands. As she walked by the kitchen, a gleam caught her eyes.
Sitting on the table was a brooch.
It was a simple circle, light and worn from years of use. She touched it to see if it was real. It clinked gently against her fingernail.
