Chapter 2 Resurrection
The flickering torchlight danced across the dimly lit chamber as Catrin and Tarwyn tangled in a secret embrace, their breaths heavy with desire. The weight of their passion pressed against the reality of their betrayal, but in this moment, nothing else mattered. Catrin's hair spilled across Tarwyn's chest as they lay entangled on the bed, their bodies slick with sweat from their forbidden tryst.
As the intensity of their lovemaking waned, Tarwyn leaned back, brushing a strand of hair from Catrin's flushed face. His dark eyes sparkled with mischief. "When can I see you again?" he murmured, tracing the line of her jaw with his fingers.
Catrin smiled faintly, a bittersweet expression that softened her sharp features. "This was the last time we do this," she whispered, her voice tinged with a mix of regret and resolve.
Carwyn's lips curled into a smirk. He reached out, his hand gently encircling her neck as he pulled her close. His kiss was fervent, possessive, as though he could imprint his claim on her with the force of his passion alone. "You're mine," he breathed against her lips, his voice a low growl.
Catrin kissed him back, her hands clutching at his head, but the reality of their situation loomed over them like a specter. She pulled away slightly, her brow furrowed. "My husband will be back soon, Tarwyn. We have to be careful."
Tarwyn smiled, his fingers lightly tucking a loose lock of her hair behind her ear. His touch was tender, but his eyes betrayed a hunger that refused to be satiated. "Of course, my lady," he whispered, his voice a promise and a warning all at once.
Catrin's heart thudded in her chest as she gathered her clothing, slipping back into her gown with practiced ease. She glanced at Tarwyn one last time, her eyes filled with a mixture of longing and fear. "We cannot be caught," she said firmly, adjusting the fabric around her shoulders. "Not for my sake, nor yours."
Tarwyn stood, his towering frame casting a long shadow across the room. He stepped forward, capturing her hand in his. "I would risk anything for you, for us," he said, his voice low and steady. "Even my life."
Catrin's throat tightened at his words. She squeezed his hand briefly before slipping away, her footsteps light as she vanished into the corridors of the castle, leaving Tarwyn alone in the fading light of their shared secrecy.
---
It had been years since he had been held captive by Glyndŵr's forces. The betrayal by the English crown—the refusal to pay his ransom—had turned the tides for him. Once a pawn of the crown, now he was an ally to Owain Glyndŵr and married his daughter, Catrin. But as the tides of war shifted again, he could feel the whispers, the gathering clouds of treason within his ranks.
The council hall of Machynlleth was heavy with the weight of whispered betrayal. The flickering light from the torches cast long shadows on the stone walls, as Edmund Mortimer sat at the head of the table, his face unreadable. The voices of the lords had quieted, the room thick with unspoken tension. Edmund had always been a man of action, but tonight, the air felt different. The murmurs in the room, the fleeting glances, the promises of English gold—they all pointed to the same conclusion. The rebellion was crumbling, and its supporters were scattered like leaves in a storm.
He had been the one to defy the English, the one who had risen to the cause of Glyndŵr. But now, as he looked around the room, he sensed the shift. The lords had spoken of survival, of surrender, of giving up the fight. The rumblings of betrayal were clear, and Edmund knew that soon enough, Owain Glyndŵr would be left alone in his struggle.
The council session had ended, and the lords departed, murmuring among themselves. Edmund remained seated for a moment longer, his mind racing. He turned to his squire, a young man named Rhys, who had been standing quietly nearby.
"Prepare the horses and tell our men, discreetly," Edmund ordered in a low voice. His heart hammered in his chest, but there was no time for hesitation.
Rhys, didn't question the order. Edmund's face was tight, his eyes narrowed with the sharpness of a man on the edge of a decision he didn't want to make. The squire nodded and hurried off.
---
The chapel at Harlech Castle was silent except for the faint hum of the wind pressing against the wall. Owain Glyndŵr knelt before the altar, his brow furrowed in prayer. His heart, heavy with the weight of his rebellion, felt the pressure of an uncertain future. The flickering candlelight cast long shadows, turning the stone walls into silent witnesses to his whispered words.
Father Bernard, an old, silver-bearded priest, stood beside him, murmuring blessings under his breath. The scent of incense swirled through the air, comforting in its familiarity. The priest laid a hand gently on Owain's shoulder, feeling the tremor of exhaustion beneath the hardened warrior's exterior.
"Have hope, your grace." Father Bernard said, his voice low but steady. "God still has a plan for you, even in these dark times. You are not alone."
Owain's eyes closed as he inhaled deeply, holding onto the priest's words like a lifeline. "Father," Owain murmured, his voice strained. "I thought i was stronger. I have failed Cymru...perphaps this is my fate."
The priest gave him a soft but firm squeeze. "There is more to the path you walk than you can see now. Have faith. Even in suffering, God's will is at work."
Owain stared at the altar, silent for a moment. He sought comfort in the prayers, but it felt hollow. His eyes slowly drifted toward the high windows, where the stormy sea stretched out beneath the cliffs. How much longer could he carry this burden?
The priest, sensing his unease, stepped back. "Go now, . Strength comes not just from the faith of others, but your own. God walks with you."
Owain stood, muttering a final prayer before leaving the chapel in silence. He had been through worse. Or so he told himself. Now, it was time to consider the next steps. His rebellion, his cause—it all seemed to be slipping away. But there was still hope.
In his study, the room was heavy with the smell of parchment and ink. Owain's finger traced the coastline, the river routes, the locations of his remaining loyal forces. His mind was already working, formulating the plan ahead.
"Gruffudd," he called, his voice resolute, though his eyes were clouded with weariness.
His eldest son, a seasoned veteran with a rough countenance, was already in the room. He stood in front of the desk, his posture tense, as though carrying the weight of the rebellion on his own shoulders.
Owain's eyes met his. "We must send messengers. To France and Scotland. We need them. We cannot do this alone."
Gruffudd's brow furrowed in concern. "Father, we've sent word before. We've asked for help time and again. But we're yet to receive the aid we need. The French and the Scots—they are no closer than they ever were."
Owain leaned forward, his fingers gripping the edge of the table as if to steady himself. "I know. But I will not give up. We will not give up. I refuse to let the flame of this rebellion die. We are Welsh. We must stand."
Gruffudd eyed him for a long moment, his expression uncertain.
Owain stood and walked to the window, the weight of the question settling in his chest like a stone. He clenched his fists at his sides. "I don't know what I will do if they do not come. But I do know this—we will fight, even if we are alone. We will die on our feet, not our knees."
The two men stood in silence, the quiet tension in the room thick with uncertainty.
Meanwhile, outside the door, Esma lingered. She had been in the hallway when the conversation began, just close enough to overhear their words, the hushed tones of their desperate discussion. Esma had known her place in the castle for some time now—a servant.
She was a spy, placed among the Welsh to gather information, to sabotage the rebellion from within. And though she had played her part well, listening in on these conversations, her heart grew colder each time. The Welsh cause had more than just fire; it had something the English could not easily extinguish.
Esma carefully straightened, brushing down her apron as she moved away from the door, prepared to continue with her duties. But she couldn't help the lingering unease in her chest.
In the study, Gruffudd left quietly, shaking his head as he walked away. Owain, deep in thought, had not noticed the soft sound of Esma's retreating footsteps.
----
The air was thick with the scent of blood and earth, the last rays of the setting sun casting an orange glow over the carnage. The men who had fallen, their bodies and horses wracked with arrows and life's final breath, lay scattered across the rugged path. The grim scene was silent save for the quiet rustle of the wind.
Ieuan, the defiant son of Glyndŵr, lay still, an arrow buried deep in his chest, its cruel steel pierced through his heart. His face, half-hidden by the shadow of his long, golden hair, held peace and his eyes stared into the heavens, seeing nothing.
As the last breath left him, a low, gravelly laugh broke the stillness.
Out of the shadows, ten men emerged, their faces grim and weathered, their clothes tattered and patched. They were bandits, but not just any bandits—they were survivors, hardened by years of raiding and scheming in the hills and valleys. Their leader, a short, wiry man with one eye, stepped forward, his gaze falling on the fallen Ieuan. His lips curled in disgust as he noted the arrow that had killed the boy.
"You killed him!" the short man growled, his voice raspy with frustration. He turned to his men, his eyes flicking between them, then back to the body of Ieuan. "I told you—don't kill the pretty blonde. We could've ransomed him! Look at his clothing he's probably a noble...."
The bandits exchanged uneasy glances. They knew their leader had a point. A noble, possibly—someone who could fetch a pretty price from his family. But now, the boy was dead, and the opportunity was lost.
"We're not in the business of keeping corpses," one of the men muttered. He was tall, with a long, crooked nose and a thick beard that obscured most of his face. He crouched beside Ieuan, rifling through his pockets. "He's got silver—good silver. We'll make something off this mess."
The leader snapped, his voice low and commanding. "Check them all."
The men scattered, looting the fallen. One of them, a squat man with a balding scalp and a bow slung across his back, tugged at the tunic of Caradoc, pulling a handful of coins from the man's pocket.
The short leader cursed under his breath, muttering more to himself than anyone else. "Well, we're rich for the day, at least," he muttered, eyeing the bodies.
"We should leave before a patrol comes sniffing around," one of the younger bandits said, his voice shaking with nervous excitement.
"Wait," the leader ordered, his eyes narrowing. He crouched low to the ground, his fingers running along the edge of Caradoc's bloodstained clothing. "Make sure they're all dead."
The men didn't hesitate. With practiced violence, they turned their knives on the bodies, stabbing into the hearts of their victims to ensure the life had truly been snuffed out. Gawain, the man closest to Ieuan, had been feigning death, his breaths shallow but controlled. But before he could take action, one of the bandits—an older man —lunged forward and drove his dagger into Gawain's side. The scream that tore from Gawain's throat was cut short as the blade slid deeper, silencing him forever.
The short leader nodded with satisfaction. "Good. Now let's go."
---
Owain Glyndŵr stood at the edge of the tower, his gaze fixed on the horizon, but there was nothing there to meet his eyes. The elder oak, the mighty tree was absent.
The wind howled around him, carrying the weight of his mounting dread. His stomach twisted in unease, and a cold shiver ran down his spine. This is no mere coincidence. This is an omen.
He turned away, his mind racing, heart pounding. He couldn't understand it. No one knew who had done it, or why, but the sacred tree was gone, and the silence left in its wake was deafening. His hands tightened around the stone battlement as he fought to control the panic rising in his chest.
"Summon Tarwyn!" he snapped to a nearby guard, his voice sharp, cutting through the panic in his chest. "Now."
Moments later, Tarwyn appeared, his brow furrowed, his face tense with concern. "My lord," he said, bowing slightly, but Owain's cold, unblinking stare stopped him in his tracks.
"I need answers," Owain demanded, his voice low and rough, like a blade being drawn from its sheath. "Who did this!? Who dares to cut down the oak?"
Tarwyn hesitated, then spoke carefully, as though weighing every word. "I... I do not know, my lord. We have heard no reports, no word of it."
Owain's hand clenched, and for a moment, he fought the urge to lash out. "I want answers! Found out who did it." he asked, his voice barely a whisper, a mix of disbelief and fury.
Tarwyn shifted uneasily. "Yes lord, tommo—"
"No. Now," Owain interrupted, his fury building like a storm.
He turned away, his eyes drifting back to the place where the tree had once stood. The absence of it felt like a wound, a betrayal from the land itself. What does this mean? he thought, his mind spinning.
Is it a bad omen?
The thought hit him like a hammer. His heart clenched, and for the first time in a long while, doubt crept into his thoughts. What if this is the beginning of the end? What if God is turning against us?
Tarwyn nodded and hurried away, but Owain remained on the battlements, his mind racing, his heart heavy.
----
It was now nightfall and something strange happened. A faint glimmer of light began to emerge from the chest of a dead Ieuan. It was faint at first, a soft pulse of light beneath his, but it quickly grew stronger, more intense.
The metallic relic that had been hidden within Ieuan's chest, unnoticed by the bandits, began to hum. Its silver surface, once dull, now shone with an eerie glow. The blood from Ieuan's wound pooled around the relic, and the metal seemed to respond, drawn to the warm flow of life.
Then, without warning, the relic sank deeper into the wound. The light flared brilliantly, as if it had absorbed all the energy it could from Ieuan's blood. The ground beneath his body trembled slightly, a low vibration that reverberated through the air.
The transformation was slow, agonizing. The first to stir were the nanobots embedded in Ieuan's bloodstream. In the wake of the blood that had spilled over them, they awakened, alive once more.
They coursed through his veins and began to repair the damage to his body, stitching torn tissue together, knitting his heart with precision. The arrow wound, once fatal, began to close, the blood around it thickening and coagulating.
In darkness, Ethan—still trapped in the cycle of his endless regrets—felt a shift. The dream that had repeated for so long, the dream of his childrens deaths, his son and daughter both victims of an explosion caused by his experiments, his wife leaving him, and the failure of his work, began to change. It was as if the dream itself was falling apart, the fragments of his guilt crashing to the floor like shards of broken glass.
For the first time in centuries, Ethan woke. He gasped, his breath ragged and heavy. His eyes blinked rapidly, struggling to adjust to the new reality. His body—alive again—felt strange, foreign, like a shell that had not belonged to him in years.