She stared to him, noticed his scarf was on the grass, and as the wind blew his coal-black hair allwhither, she understood why he wore it.
A vicious scar tore across his nape, straddling the hairline. Thick and twisted, it appeared as though someone had struck him with a blacksmith’s iron, gouging blood and flesh and hair. She closed her eyes, anguish assailing her as his suffering was made real – Tristan alone in the middle of that dark torrential sea, blood teeming and leg dragging.
She brought a hand to her chest and breathed deep.
On the ride up here, along the beaten track, she’d remembered how Rhys had always been the protective elder brother to them both, been the one to haul Tristan from the deeper river swirls or dab at their tears when one of them had fallen from an apple tree.
She recalled the shepherd’s pup, how intent Rhys had been, never ceasing in his search, and it had struck her that perhaps that could be the remorse that Isabelle had spoken of.
“Imagine,” she whispered, coming to stand behind Tristan. She could sense his body thrumming with energy, just as it used to. “How Rhys perhaps feels. That he…failed to find you. That he saw the wreckage and assumed the worst. We both know what he’s like. So intense and determined.”
Tristan turned. “But I was in Ireland, he could never have known… I’ve no recollection myself, but I must have struck out west, perhaps to run through the storm. It’s absurd for him to think he could have found me.”
“But guiltcanbe absurd.”
“Do you really think that is why he’s been so…” He reached a hand to his nape. “I thought perchance he was…”
The wind blew his hair to a dishevelled mess and she loved him so.
“Disappointed by me is perhaps wrong, but as I said that night, perhaps more that he is trying to come to terms with the brother who has returned. I can no longer sing, dash for salmon, or even dash up the stairs, and my head rages with pain at times. I’m not the same man I was.”
Gwen placed her hands to his cheeks. She had to make him understand. “You are correct, Tristan. You are not the same man.”
His eyes dropped, green rimmed with such bruises of time.
“You,” she continued softer, “are a better man. You stared at death in the eye of that storm and yet survived. You endured unimaginable pain, and how you must then have fought to talk and walk once more.” She blinked back her tears. “Without memories, a past, or even a name, most would be driven to insanity, cowered beneath fear, and yet you fought on. And now, a man of such courage and fortitude has come back to us. Our Tristan come home. Changed? Of course you have. But not for the less, Tristan. Never for the less.”
A trembling hand met her cheek and she didn’t care. Didn’t care as she tipped her head and kissed the palm.
“Gwenlli–”
A pelt of rain – caution that the ashen clouds were thickening.
“Only you ever called me Gwenllian,” she whispered.
He pulled her close. His lips parted and then…
He just held her.
Head coming to rest on hers.
When would she learn?
And oh, how could anything feel so wonderful and yet hurt so much.
“We ought to return,” he rasped in her hair. “Before it’s too late.”
Aware it was already too late for her, Gwen stepped back and began to weave her way through the bracken.
“Aren’t you going to make a wish?” Tristan called.
She turned. “My wish this day needs no dragons, Tristan, for it is solely that you talk to your brother. Do not waste a single precious moment that you have been gifted.”
A nod. “I will honour your wish, Gwenllian.” He stared back to the stones. “And be patient for the Llanedwyn dragons to grant mine own.”
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CHAPTERTEN
