Ward & Weft, page 6
He'd never drank tea in the dream before.
Griffith wiped his hands on his trousers, fingers aching. He swallowed. "Are you here?"
Morgan seemed real, his presence as large as in life. In his sixties, hands and hair showing the years his face belied, Morgan claimed to be the bastard son of English landed gentry. Bitterness over what he saw as losing his birthright had turned into poison only matched by his skills with wardings.
Griffith had tasted the poison too late.
"You're in my way, Jones. Remove yourself from this place."
"In your way? How?"
Morgan's hands tightened around his cup, his swollen knuckles standing out. They'd hurt in the rain, Griffith remembered. Half his apprenticeship had been devoted to researching myths for the secret of youth. Morgan had been obsessed with myths and legends, more superstitious than anyone on their side of the Industrial Revolution had right to be.
"You should have stayed lost," Morgan said. "You know one can never go home."
Griffith heard a horse scream in the distance, like the echo of a dream. His charm, warning of Morgan. He felt himself pale. "You're here. Outside— You're truly here."
Morgan smiled, showing his brown teeth. "You were right, Jones. There is yet magic in your little village. I'm pleased I kept an eye on you."
Ropes burst from the table and fastened around Griffith's wrists, burning across his skin and tugging him forward. He set his heels and yanked against the bindings. But that part of the dream was as familiar as his failure with the wolf, and he couldn't get purchase against the floor, which had turned into the tiles from his pensione.
Morgan laughed. He had a horrible laugh.
Griffith was relieved to start screaming.
* * *
When Griffith woke, sweating and shaking, he found Llywelyn by his side and a pile of blankets covering him. Neither had been there when he went to sleep. Questions were loud in Llywelyn's eyes but he didn't voice any, instead producing a roll of bread and a lukewarm cup of tea and offering both. Griffith refused the tea but took the bread, eating small bites until his stomach settled and his hands stopped trembling.
"I borrowed one of your books," Llywelyn said, pointing with his pipe to the small stack at his other side. He'd made himself comfortable, at least. Even found the time to bathe, his mud coating finally gone. "Hope you don't mind."
They're yours. Everything I have is yours.
It wasn't a question so Griffith didn't answer, instead concentrating everything he had on eating and breathing. Eating and breathing. When Llywelyn pushed the tea on him a second time, he took it. It tasted awful, too bitter and not enough milk.
Llywelyn watched him impassively, thin trails of smoke emanating from his pipe. After a last puff, he set the pipe aside in a purloined dish and rolled to his feet. He shaded his eyes against the sunlight streaming from the broken window.
Llywelyn was beautiful, Griffith realised with a sharp intake of breath. As if the knowledge had been rattled loose during the night. Confident in his body and what it could do, in who he was and where he came from. Generous and forgiving, with a streak of mischief stamped in the centre like a stick of Brighton rock. Wasting his time playing nursemaid to Griffith when he could be—truly—anywhere and anything he wished.
Griffith had been in love with the memory of Llywelyn as a boy, holding their missed chance in his heart like a warning of things too impossible to exist. Yet there the man Llywelyn stood, in what Griffith suspected was one of his shirts, and trousers showing too much ankle. His hair was too long for fashion and too short for rebellion and he hadn't shaved in days, had muscles and scars and whatever Griffith's warding had given him, and he'd made Griffith a godawful cup of tea. He smelled perpetually of tobacco and storms.
Griffith didn't say anything about his realisation. Couldn't. His heart was so full it crowded his throat.
Oblivious to the earthquake behind him, Llywelyn spoke. "You should come with me. There's something you need to see."
It wasn't a question, either, so Griffith didn't answer. Just got to his feet and readied to follow.
Chapter Five
From the top of the hill they could see England, or near enough. Though winter needled Griffith's skin, the sky held clear, letting him see almost as far as Llywelyn. A patchwork quilt of fields lay to the east and south, while the sea rolled a murky blue to the west and north. Below, trees surrounded the hill like a moat.
Griffith finished his circle and returned to the beginning, where Llywelyn stood sentry by the grave marker for members of his pack lost at sea. In the full light of day, he looked haggard. Griffith itched to hold him, but he couldn't. He'd promised himself he wouldn't.
After the dream he'd had—the memory that had turned to a true dream—he didn't dare stand closer to Llywelyn than conversation would carry. As if the taint in his soul would smear Llywelyn's. It had taken Griffith years to shed the feeling, and yet one moment with Morgan brought it back like oil over his skin.
Griffith folded his arms against the cold and read the inscription again.
For those who will never come home. April, 1912.
The words were jagged across the polished stone. Made by claws, scratching over and over. Each member of the pack etching their grief permanently into the memorial crowning the only home most of them had ever known.
Griffith looked up. The buried warding stones didn't form a perfect circle but meandered around the hill and surrounding miles. He'd thought his cottage had sat at the centre, but the hill was closer. He'd never noticed before. As if the first wardens had created boundaries in anticipation for the pack. Had they known how the partnership would end? Griffith's grandmother had refused to renew the magical ties to the Hywel pack, not seeing their purpose in a time of peace. Griffith had argued they should join and face the future united, but he'd been brash instead of rational, and unable to sway the decree of Warden Jones. Over time, the link faded like newsprint left out in the sun, becoming a shadow of itself. As a result, they had a warden barely attached to the land, and wolves scattering like leaves in autumn.
Spring had always brought riotous colour to their corner of Wales. Griffith didn't want to think how grey 1913 would be, if they couldn't drive Keeley and Morgan away.
Though they'd been standing in comfortable silence, Llywelyn spoke abruptly, like the words wouldn't stay in his mouth any longer. "Daffyd said, if everything went well at the summit, it'd be my turn to go travelling next." He kicked gently at the soil. "Said he'd heard about a nosy warden wandering about, from packs in Italy. In France. In Bohemia, of all places."
"Lots of magic there," Griffith said, his mouth numb. He'd wondered how the letter found him, had imagined an embassy or similar had been involved. Not that Daffyd had tracked him through local packs.
Llywelyn hugged himself. He hadn't looked away from the memorial. "He said I should go. That he tired of my sad howling." Llywelyn folded to his knees, reaching to touch the marker. "I miss him. All of them, but him most of all." He ducked his head. "That's bad of me, I think."
Llywelyn had never wished to be alpha. Daffyd had shared idle thoughts, on occasion, of if I were in charge, but Llywelyn never had. He didn't want the responsibility. He'd dreamed of visiting other territories, confessing his secrets under the boughs of the lightning tree, where only the wind and Griffith could hear. On their last day, when Llywelyn demanded they go, and Griffith bartered to stay, Llywelyn had shone fever-bright with need for escape. With Griffith's rebuttal the fever broke, as fevers do, leaving Llywelyn visibly defeated. Like he never planned to dream of leaving again.
Griffith's selfish actions, and Llywelyn's unfailing sense of loyalty, had trapped the poor bastard.
And I'm so grateful.
Throat thick with shame, Griffith knelt carefully next to Llywelyn. Damp seeped through the knees of his trousers. It felt a repeat of their meeting at the warden memorial.
"I'm sorry I left the way I did."
"Griff—" Llywelyn sounded tired.
"I meant to say, I'm sorry as hell I wasn't here. When you needed me."
Silence settled dense as fog. Griffith felt raw and vulnerable, exposing more of himself than he ever had. They'd kissed once—and only once—but feelings? He'd rather face claws.
From the tight line of Llywelyn's jaw, claws might be a very real future.
"People keep leaving," Llywelyn said, finally. Me, he didn't say.
Every word that rose to Griffith's lips tasted like false promise. He swallowed them back, keeping silent as he traced the words on the stone with his eyes until they blurred. Fingering the arrowhead at his belt, making sure not to jingle the charms, he wondered if one day he might be allowed to carve his own memorial. For Daffyd. For Alpha Hywel. For all those who were never coming home, like he'd finally managed to do.
Wondered if one day he might be brave enough to ask for the privilege.
Llywelyn rose to his feet. When Griffith glanced at him, Llywelyn extended his hand and smiled lopsidedly, his eyes soft. His expression started to dim when Griffith hesitated, conscious of Morgan's touch, and Griffith rushed to grab Llywelyn's hand before the smile went out like a candle. He got to his feet with Llywelyn's assistance, and in his haste they bumped chests, and almost noses.
Llywelyn's bright laugh put stars to shame. Before Griffith could try another of his terrible apologies, Llywelyn slung his arm around Griffith's neck and yanked him close.
"Somewhere Daffyd is laughing at what a sorry pair we make. Come to the tree with me. You can tell me what this thing on my back means, and how we'll chase those Keeley dogs from our territory."
He didn't let go of Griffith, all the way down the hill and into the forest. The world shrank as they slipped through the trees, branches fracturing the day into splashes of light and shadow. Griffith knew only the warmth of Llywelyn's touch, the steady sounds of their breath, the clean smell of winter. People—evil—like Morgan couldn't exist in such spaces.
Griffith tucked himself more tightly beneath Llywelyn's arm, though it made their progress awkward. Llywelyn didn't seem to mind. His fingers pressed briefly into the muscle between Griffith's neck and shoulder once or twice, as if to check they were both there. That his senses weren't deceiving him. Griffith understood the urge.
The lightning tree welcomed them with outspread arms as they settled beneath like boys, shoving and jostling, Llywelyn finally releasing Griffith. Resting against the trunk, Griffith stretched out his legs, taking nearly twice as much space as Llywelyn sitting neat and cross-legged beside him. Barefooted, as always. When they were younger, Llywelyn and Daffyd had shared one pair of shoes between them, never needing more. How many pairs did Llywelyn own now? Did he ever go anywhere he'd need them?
"Penny for your thoughts?"
Griffith started from his contemplation of Llywelyn's feet, heat rising to his face. "Thinking about things I've missed. Your Sunday shoes. All that."
Smiling slightly, Llywelyn nodded. "You think you remember someone but you only remember an idea. A ghost." His smile faded. "I'm tired of ghosts. You said you came back because you saw a berserker. Like in the stories. Is that true?"
"I wouldn't have believed it if I hadn't seen it myself. I saw him in York, with his alpha. Like they'd stepped straight out of the stories your… your mother used to tell us."
"She hasn't told any stories in a while," Llywelyn said, following the reason for Griffith's hesitancy. He tipped his chin, resting his head against the trunk, and closed his eyes. His eyelashes were perfect. "One day she'll be ready to tell them again."
Griffith tugged tufts of grass, for something to do with his hands instead of holding Llywelyn's like he wanted. He didn't know whether to continue the conversation or change the subject, nervous of choosing incorrectly and hurting Llywelyn more than he had already. More and more it became clear Llywelyn walked the world like a wound, all rawness and vulnerability. In Griffith's memory he was solid, but as Llywelyn said, they were all as ghosts in memories. No one could hurt a ghost.
Morgan was no ghost. Griffith needed to hunt him, or drive him away in such a fashion he never crossed into Wales again. But how? Morgan had decades more learning and significantly less scruples. Where Griffith would baulk at using dark loci for their power, Morgan gathered them in fistfuls. Created them from scratch. Terrified of death, Morgan had no compunction over dealing it to others. He allowed his life to be dictated by omens and portents, and none had yet indicated disapproval.
Flicking grass from his fingers, Griffith glanced at Llywelyn. They'd sat in silence for minutes, time measured in the scattered handfuls of grass by Griffith's hip. Llywelyn seemed content to sit like a statue. Though, when Griffith looked closer, unable to resist for long, Llywelyn's shoulders were stiff and his jaw clenched.
Shit. I guessed wrong.
Desperate, Griffith plucked the first topic that came to mind.
"I met Morgan in London, in one of the libraries my grandmother told me about. They were funny about letting me in, didn't like my accent, but I showed them a warding and they let me by." Griffith glanced at Llywelyn and started to find him staring intently back. When Griffith paused, he raised his eyebrows. Go on, that look meant. Griffith cast his mind to the library, dark with smoke and conversation. "Morgan was the first person who didn't laugh at me. Not then, anyway."
"He's not a good warden? He can't be, to have you so unsettled."
Griffith snorted. "He knows a lot. I doubt much of it is good."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
Griffith would never tell Llywelyn about the wolf on the skinning table. Not in all his days. If Llywelyn didn't already know of the dark practise, Griffith couldn't be the one to say. And if he did know? Griffith already wore the stain of association. If Llywelyn ever felt the same way, it would destroy everything they were tentatively rebuilding between them.
Vow firm in his mind, Griffith shook his head. "In everything, there's darkness. I found out too late how far Morgan had gone down that path. That's when I started travelling."
Llywelyn jostled their shoulders together. "I'll find out, you know. What you're not telling me."
You won't.
"Sooner than you think," Griffith said, choosing to sidestep the truth. "He's Emery's warden. I know he is. Morgan's here."
"Here? But how do you know?" Before Griffith could answer, Llywelyn's expression cleared. "Your nightmare. A true dream."
Griffith frowned. "How do you know of those? I didn't have any until recently."
"Warden Jones told me." Llywelyn flushed and glanced at his hands. "I used to visit her."
Something in Griffith's heart twisted and flipped over. He didn't know whether from joy or sorrow, the emotions too tangled together. The idea of his grandmother and Llywelyn spending time together in the cottage, sharing in each other's lives, made him hollow with longing.
"I'm glad. That you had each other," Griffith said, finding he meant it.
Llywelyn cast his gaze down. "I'm sad you didn't."
Like a punch to the heart. Griffith wanted to fold around himself and cradle his wound, but instead he took a deep breath and held it. One. Two. Three. Four. Expelled it steadily, like a cleansing. Wounds needed care until they could heal and fade.
One day this will be another scar.
But to live that long, Griffith needed to remove Morgan and the Keeley pack. He needed to understand what had gone wrong with the ceremony. Tapping Llywelyn's knee for attention, he gestured to Llywelyn's torso.
"Shirt off. Please." Heat rushed to his face at giving the command, and he hoped desperately Llywelyn chose to ignore it.
Eyebrows raising, Llywelyn rocked to his knees and positioned himself with his back to Griffith. He skinned off his shirt, draping it over his left shoulder and leaving most of his back and right shoulder exposed. For a moment, Griffith forgot entirely what they were doing. His world shrank to the muscles in Llywelyn's back, the strong lines of his shoulders, the tempting vulnerability of his nape. Griffith shifted in place as his prick stirred to attention. He pressed at it with the heel of his hand.
Extremely inopportune timing.
Griffith had lived with his desire for Llywelyn for years. He didn't intend to pursue it. There were more pressing matters to address than how he wanted to bite his way across Llywelyn's body and learn the taste of the sweat making Llywelyn's skin glisten. Wolves ran hotter than other humans, Griffith knew. He didn't know what it would be like to sleep beside one.
Griffith didn't know how it felt to sleep beside anyone, wolf or human or otherwise. He'd never been interested in pursuing such things with anyone other than Llywelyn. And now Llywelyn knelt before him, exposed and willing, and Griffith's prick didn't know what to do with itself. He pressed the heel of his hand more firmly against it.
Llywelyn glanced over his shoulder, mouth open to speak. He closed it again, gaze darting between Griffith's face and his hand.
"I just—" Griffith started.
"Did you—" Llywelyn said at the same time.
They both stopped. Llywelyn's eyes were bright with mirth. Griffith tried to remember if a warding existed to command the earth to open and swallow him. When none came to mind, he swung his legs beneath him and got to his knees, arranging his jacket to fall over his embarrassment.
"Let me look at the mark." He hoped Llywelyn would have the manners not to note what Griffith was supposed to be doing in the first place.
Though he smirked, Llywelyn said nothing. He turned his head and settled on his heels, crossing his bare feet over one another. The trust implicit in the gesture, in his comfort with it, made Griffith's mouth go dry.
Well. The trust and all that skin. Mother of God.
When he focused on the mark, Griffith's mouth went dry for another reason. The purpose of the ceremony had been to wake the ancient stone wardings with a boost of resonant magic. By creating a smaller protection warding and directing his intent outward, borrowing the strength of the pack, Griffith had hoped to achieve a temporary boost. But Llywelyn's interruption at the critical point had redirected the protection.
