A Simple Night's shelter

The long, winded road lay in heavy folds of mist and only the tops of the great mountains of Gwynedd in Cymru were truly visible in the evening light. For a ponderous interval Madrod sat his big-shouldered horse as he meditated the haunting landscape. Behind him, Cyril sat his own horse, though he did not share Madrod's study of the scene before them. Cyril had learned not to question Madrod too closely, for though lovers, they did not share beliefs. Rather, they shared the simple love and passion for each other's person, learning to remain satisfied with that fact.

Now Madrod searched for something in the gaining mist of twilight. Finally sighing, Madrod turned to Cyril a bit resigned, “We must stop and find shelter of some kind... I know this path traces back to a small cavern. I could do with a warm fire and a bit of food.” Cyril smiled his reply and turned his horse about, as did Madrod.

What was it about Madrod that elicited such a sense of bonding, thought Cyril. Madrod was not beautiful, such as they said his father was, nor exotic and ethereal, such as was said of his mother. Certainly he was handsome enough, his long, loosely braided dark hair and piercing brown eyes encasing a semblance of mystery. Though fairly tall with limber strength, there was a lankiness to him that made him seem almost frail. This had proven to be quite advantageous, for Madrod had been well trained to the sword and bow, proving himself far more than a match for any would-be assailant or vandal. Perhaps to Cyril the most attractive thing about Madrod was his voice. Rich and dark; the wonderful, shifting tonal patterns of Madrod's golden voice had been the first thing Cyril had noticed about this enigmatic man. And quite probably the first thing about Madrod that Cyril had fallen in love with.

Others called Cyril the beautiful one, as did Madrod himself. Chestnut hair fell loosely about his sculptured features, his eyes large and brightly green. He, too, was strong, though he had lived the village life whereas Madrod was most certainly reared at court. As Cyril was a wonderful artisan, Madrod claimed he had fallen in love with Cyril because he made beautiful things in metal and leather. Even now, a great and intricate buckle of silver that Cyril had fashioned held tightly about Madrod's waist.

“Cyril, here! Stop!” spoke Madrod loudly, halting his horse to quickly dismount. Cyril did the same as they walked their horses a few paces to the cavern Madrod had spoken of. Madrod smiled warmly, kissing Cyril's cheek before taking his arm. To Cyril, Madrod's allusive dark eyes and mystical carriage seemed to bespeak him as every bit the mysterious magus that many claimed him to be.

Having tethered the horses and set a fire to blaze, they sat to a sparse meal of dried meat, crusted bread and mead. Afterwards Madrod asked simply, “Shall I sing?” Cyril smiled approval and willingly went to get the small well used lap harp Madrod always brought with him from their bags. The harp had been something his foster-mother, Arionrhod, had given him when a young man, saying it had once belonged to his mother. As Cyril nestled as best he could into his warm wraps of clothing, Madrod tested the harp gently before he sang. A gentle whistling of wind stirred about outside and Madrod smiled guessing it likely a light snow would fall into the night. Satisfied with the harp's sound, Madrod began to sing, his clear tenor voice filling the small cavern with its color and warmth. Listening, Cyril soon became sleepy, drifting back and forth a time until he finally moved into the shadows of his own dreams. Setting the harp down and gently wrapping it, Madrod went and laid down close by his lover as the fire subtly settled into warm embers.

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