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There are many elements to the Wild Hunt that have remained unspoken and thus, to the mortal participants at least, unknown. It suits the purpose of the hunt to have it so, as all magic flows from intention.
As does the magic of Annwyvn.
It is this that has always driven King Arawn to send his own champion out with clear orders on how to carry out the hunt and the collection of loyalties. With time and repetition, doing his own killing has lost its excitement. Better to send a champion to act with purpose, to deliver the focus needed for a killing blow worth the effort. Killing done without full intention can so often go awry in the magic of Annwyvn, twisting around in unexpected ways.
It’s why Arawn insisted on burying his friend’s son in the magic of his woods.
He’s never bothered to revive those killed in the Wild Hunt, not in all of the long years that it’s happened. Those who enter have always known they risk death in doing so, and the blood of so many sacrifices can only strengthen his realm’s power.
It’s why he doesn’t so much as hint to Pwyll that he need not find himself without the son he found only to lose again. His old friend is grieved, certainly, to lose his heir all over again, but he’d already made his peace with the loss of his son for fifteen years. It’s merely a blink for Arawn and his people, but for a mortal? It’s long enough for resignation to become a habit. Pwyll will mourn, both for the genuine loss he feels and for the show he’ll be expected to be put on for the benefit of his court’s expectations of him, but Arawn can tell already that his friend didn’t have long enough to grow accustomed to having his son back for it to sting too terribly when he was gone once more. Losing him once more is a blow, certainly, but it’s a blow he will weather and survive.
Still, so many years of friendship should end with a boon, Arawn thinks.
Even if, the Otherking thinks a year and a day later with a small smile as magic ripples against his skin when what he ordered comes to pass, it’s a boon that will likely never be known by his old friend.
Good luck, he thinks in the direction of Pwyll’s son as he takes his first few shuddering steps back into the world.
And then he returns to the work of removing his court from it forevermore.
*
It takes Pryderi a while to find Branwen’s village after the morning he wakes confused in Annwyvn, alive even though he’s quite certain that shouldn’t be the case anymore.
Still, if his life has taught him nothing else, he’s at least learned how to adapt to wild new turns relatively quickly.
Even if the looks on Branwen’s and Gwydion’s faces the day they return to Branwen’s home to find him waiting in the garden says that they might not be quite as sanguine in facing the seemingly-impossible as he is.
“I believe,” Pryderi says, throat tight against everything that’s passed between them, everything that needs to be said and everything that may never be said at all, “that I’m still owed a kiss.”
There’s a moment of disbelieving silence between them all, broken when Branwen lets out a noise that’s half a laugh and half a sob.
It’s only the four steps it takes her to cross the distance that lets him brace himself when he finds his arms abruptly full of huntress, a face that begins to feel suspiciously damp tucking itself tightly into the crook of his neck. He wraps his arms around her just as fiercely as she does him, burying his own face in her beautiful hair. She’s whispering things to him that come out half-strangled, but the cadence tells him as much as the words would even if he could hear them.
“I know,” he says, gently, smoothing his hand along her back like he can press the regret and guilt out of her with the touch the same way his foster mother did wrinkles with an iron. “I know. I know.”
He keeps up the steady cadence even as noise has him looking up to find that Gywdion has edged closer, the trickster clearly torn between joining and fleeing. Their eyes meet, a thousand things spoken between them in a moment. Gwydion’s jaw goes tight, and Pryderi barely resists the urge to shake his head in fond exasperation. So stubborn, still.
It’s as reassuring as it is infuriating.
“Have we forgiven him?” He asks, still looking at Gwydion but the words directed to Branwen, who releases her hold on him only enough to step back slightly, still comfortably in the hold of the arm he keeps around her, fitting around her waist as if they’ve shared the gesture for years.
“Not yet,” Branwen says, and if her voice sounds a little congested, he’s seen her skill with her afanc blade too closely to dare comment on it. She lets out a huff of a laugh. “We’re still making him work for it.”
“She’s a ruthless taskmaster,” Gwydion says, voice even. “You should probably run while you can. She’s running me ragged, but there might still be a chance for you.”
Pryderi pulls Branwen closer, leaning into the warm solidity of her body and feeling her lean into him in return. He smiles faintly and tips his head enough to rest his cheek on her hair.
“I think I’m tired of running,” he says lightly. “I think I might like to try staying.”
He extends his hand.
Gwydion looks to it, the moment pulling taut for a long moment.
And then he reaches out in return, fingers warm in Pryderi’s.
“Should I be worried you’re going to act on the Otherking’s command and strike me down at any moment?” Gwydion asks, allowing himself to be pulled in despite his words. When Pryderi guides him, he folds himself into their little huddle, Branwen moving enough to embrace him as well. There’s a slightly-awkward little shuffle as they figure out where everyone’s head and limbs are supposed to go in a hug shared three ways, but they manage it.
They’ve always worked well as a team, after all.
“The woods of Annwyvn have absorbed many lives,” he says. “Apparently the life of one measly prince wasn’t worth keeping after such a bounty for so many years.”
Branwen makes a low, pained noise in her throat, so quiet he almost misses it. He feels Gwydion reach at the same moment he does to press her closer to both of them. Feeling daring after the near-giddiness of this reunion, he presses his lips to her temple. She leans into it, rather like a cat.
As if summoned by the thought, he feels sharp little claws in the fabric of his trousers as Palug joins them, stretching up and using his hold on Pryderi to do so, letting out an imperious little meow that makes all three humans laugh. Gwydion stoops, scooping the cat up with a gesture that speaks of long practice at this point.
“Little monster,” Branwen says affectionately. She tilts her head up, and Pryderi looks away from man and cat when her strong hand on his cheek directs him. There’s doubt in her eyes, fear tightly-leashed but present after a life full of hard lessons. She doesn’t trust this, he can tell, doesn’t trust something beautiful handed over without hard work in exchange. He brings his own hand up to her cheek in return, smiling slightly. He traces his thumb gently over the scar across her cheekbone. He’d like to teach her to believe in good things, he thinks.
He’d like to learn how to do that himself, too.
“Ladies first,” Gwydion says. When they both look to him, he gives them both a teasing smile and a lift of one brow. “You’re owed a kiss, after all,” he says to Pryderi.
“Am I to pay your debts now?” Branwen teases in return. “And here I thought I was keeping you around to pay mine.”
Still, when Pryderi gently turns her face back to him, she doesn’t resist.
Nor does she resist when he leans in to kiss her, resting his forehead against hers when they part, eyes still closed. When she nudges her nose against his, he opens them. She tilts her head towards their audience and then pulls back a bit, Pryderi leaning forward as if to chase her warmth before he stands on his own, turning to Gwydion.
Their kiss is interrupted by the offended complaint of the cat squished between them in the process, but somehow sharing a laugh about a paw reaching up to swat at their chins in reprimand feels nearly as sweet. When they part, Palug gives them a last swat each before turning himself neatly in Gwydion’s arms to climb up and sit on Pryderi’s shoulders, the rumble of his purr soothing as his soft weight settles like the mantle of a fur-lined cloak. Pryderi reaches up, tugging gently on a lock of Gwydion’s hair.
“Is there a story here?” He asks. “Or are you simply trying to copy Branwen?”
Branwen snorts, tugging on Gwydion’s hair as well until they’re both batted away.
“There’s a story,” Gwydion says. “If you’ve time to listen to it.”
Pryderi smiles, taking first Branwen’s hand and then Gwydion’s.
“I’ve all the time in the world now,” he says.
When Branwen turns to lead them towards the house, they fall into a line of three, walking hand in hand towards it.
Together.