Rhiannon, Descended

Rhiannon rings like a bell through the night

And wouldn't you love to love her?

Takes to the sky like a bird in flight

And who will be her lover?

Somehow, even the howling winds I ride on can’t drown out the jangle of the guitars in my head. The deep onyx waves crash into the limestone cliffs, erode at it little by little, and yet it cannot dislodge that roaring voice, that melody that has placed me on a pedestal for more than half a century.

On a pedestal, far away from the warm ground I long to simply walk.

I reach into the bodice of my gold silk gown and retrieve a vial in the shape of a glass shard. Under this starless sky shattered only by a moonbeam, the viscous amethyst liquid inside is a jewel in my hands. The left corner of my lips lifts itself up to a hairpin curl above as I watch the fluid bubble to a cadence matching my hammering heart.

‘This is it,’ I cry, my voice echoing off the crags. Gwen, my pale white mare, gallops serenely across the clouds, never once betraying the trembling of my legs at her side.

When midnight envelopes the Earth, I shall drink this potion I had scrupulously prepared this afternoon. As I sense the last vestiges of magic drain from my body, I will feel the ebony sand between my toes and giggle, not cackle. And then, I --- finally down from my perch, human ---shall claim what I have yearned to be mine.

 I have been waiting to descend for too many lifetimes.

I have been waiting to shed off this gilded frock I had been given when I came into existence. The day I was first born, the heavens wove the energy of the universe into a piece of fabric my Father, the King of the Wizards, draped on me before dubbing me his heir. As I grew into the powers bestowed to me by my heritage, the luminous cloth grew with me --- first becoming a blanket, then a cloak, then finally, the gown I have reigned over the Wizard Kingdom for two centuries now. I have observed it morph, growing increasingly radiant as I have fulfilled my royal duty to protect my domain from any shadow spirit that threatens to settle in it. When I don it every morning, I essentially transform; from just Rhiannon, I become light itself.

Yet, that light can never pierce the veil between this inborn almost-divinity and the dark void left by being, without a doubt, alone. Along with the resplendence of my birthright is a force field that prevents me from even touching the shoulder of the humans below. Believe me; I have tried. Every single time I try to extend a hand to the Pontddaer fishermen casting their nets, wave hello to the village children skipping to school, my gilt straitjacket of a gown glows ruby red and wraps me tightly. Not even a whisper could escape the covering of the coronation incantation spoken over me when I became queen.

But now, I descend.

I have waited to build myself a cottage of limewashed stone. My advisors and subjects shall never know of the clandestine trips to Pontddaer snuck in when I surveyed the length of my lands every week, a drink of mulberry-infused water from a desert oasis. How I have always adored sitting by the large circular fountain in the middle of town, an unseen sentinel giggling at mothers adorning their daughters’ hair with aureate daffodils and the lilting melodies pervading in the evenings. Sometimes, I would picture myself greeting the morning sun in my own thatched roof dwelling. Oh, the sage and thyme I would grow in a tiny russet clay pot. Oh, the sumptuous feasts I shall whip up for my neighbours. Oh, to be one with the pulse of the hamlet I shall call my own.

Yet the boundless skies I rule still bars me from my dreams of hearth and herbs. In the same manner the bejewelled crown placed on my head pressed its weight on me, I have grown ever aware of the burden of a coven of a million waiting on my every word. Yes, it’s true that I have technically been granted the power to brew an invisibility potion where even wizards temporarily see me. However, every time I attempt that, prepare every single ingredient and open the door to my cauldron room, I am somehow pulled away by matters of state and spells.

But now, I descend.

I have waited to dip my toes into the lapis hued ocean, let the salt prickle my alabaster skin and feel the sting of being alive. I have waited to deftly and lazily wake up to the crowing of hens in the morning, forget about the bugle calls of the royal guards and the interminable to-do list. I have waited to dance in fields of wildflowers, beam as blades of grass tickle every inch of my body. And yet, all the gold in my treasury can never pay for a single second of just being here, breathing, existing. Until now that I descend.

However, if there’s anything I would cast away my diadem, the sovereignty handed to me on a silver platter by the circumstance of my birth, it’s….

‘Dafydd, darling, I may need help walking.’

‘I’m here, my Carys. I’m not letting you go, my queen.’

My heart is half elation, half despair as I watch the couple below me slowly strolling on the obsidian shores. Dafydd Morgan--- his deep chestnut eyes, that voice that triggers my blood to flow hot like lava, those strong arms that have formed stone into abodes --- sends me floating on air once more, just as he always has in the seven years I have regarded him from my celestial watchtower. Yet, his gaze is locked in the cornflower skies of Carys’. His rumble of a laugh harmonises with the lilting giggles of his childhood sweetheart as their lips drink of their affection. His tender yet sturdy embrace snakes around his wife’s belly, rounded and full of the daughter they conceived with passion seven months ago, the night my tears rained upon Pontddaer in crystal drops.

Just like that, I descend. I dip my hand once more in my golden gown until I feel the outline of a small bottle in the shape of a rose. As I pull it out and admire the syrupy, blush-hued potion I brewed just before taking to the clouds, a tidal wave of determination washes over me.

‘Dafydd, it’s time for you to be mine,’ I declare, a grin creeping across my face like a willowy shadow. ‘I put the pure essence of daffodil petals in it, so it’s impossible for you not to fall for…’

‘Well, darling, I know it’s supposed to be my birthday. But what if I wanted my present to be making my beloved husband smile?’

‘Carys, my queen! No, we should be celebrating you. I feel…’

‘Ah, but I insist, my love. After all, the greatest gift I could ever receive, I already have. And that’s you and our little girl.’

My grip tightens on the love potion’s vial’s stem as tears start their shower across my face. I know I need to prepare to sneak the liquid into the beverage in the picnic basket. However, I just can’t look away, as if someone enchanted my eyes to be glued on the husband now cupping his bride’s cheeks. There’s nothing to do but sigh as I continue to listen to the couple.

‘And what, pray tell, my queen, do you intend to give me?’

Carys then pulls out a small music box the colour of freshly picked lavender from the pocket of her dress. The pearlescent crown engravings and the figurine of a princess twirling to the soft melody it plays are undeniably luxurious. Dafydd, though, couldn’t stop staring at the name engraved on the inside of the top lid.

‘Oh, Carys! But you said you loved the name Bronwen. Why…?’

‘Not as much as I love you, darling.’

‘But…’

‘But it would be an honour for me to name our daughter after my husband’s wonderful sister. It’s tragic that she was taken so young, but perhaps, a bit of her can live in our little girl.’

Those two sentences were enough to release a dam from the chocolate pools I have longed to swim in. As Dafydd plants a soft kiss on his wife’s rosy lips, tears can’t help streaking down his cheeks.

…and it was enough to drown out every idea of the plan I had set out to do.

‘I can’t do this. How can I ever curse the bliss they share,’ I mutter. I command Gwen to bring me down near the lapping waves and throw the contents of the two vials in my hand.

‘No, I can’t just ruin what they have. It’s too…What?!’

I gasp as the moonlight fractures itself in a prismic ray of colours around me. The gold silk gown I have donned since ascending the throne shreds itself, and in its place is a simple white frock. The coast meets me and brings me down onto the ground.

‘How did I…?’

‘Excuse me. Are you lost?’

I turn around to a gaze the hue of a morning sky. From this close, I finally observe a whiff of kindness in Carys’ smile

‘Uh, no, not really,’ I sputter out. ‘I’m….’

‘Oh, you must be new in the village,’ she responds, honey warmth coating every syllable. ‘I’m Carys. Carys Morgan. That’s my husband Dafydd. And you are?’

‘Rhiannon. Uh…just Rhiannon.’

‘Rhiannon? That’s what our daughter’s name will be! What a sweet coincidence!’

‘So I hear…I mean yes, it is!’

‘Well, Rhiannon. I’d love to invite you for tea, if it’s okay with you. What do you think?’

‘I…uhm…’

‘No pressure, of course. Only if you want a new friend in town.’

I look at the beaming woman before me, the same one I had long imagined had stolen who was supposed to be mine, and know there was only one answer to her query.

‘A friend? I would love that.’