A/N: Toward the end, this chapter contains a few direct quotes from "The Truthful Harp." Since this story ends right where that one begins, I wanted to stitch the two together with some of Lloyd Alexander's text.

Chapter Eleven

The years swept by and, contrary to his fears, Fflewddur did settle in—more or less—to his role as king. His characteristic optimism and exuberance gradually resurfaced. Time resumed its usual pace, and his days no longer stretched on so tediously.

It struck him one day, as he sat in his Great Hall, just how much time had passed. It had been, what, nearly eight years since he had fully taken up the crown? They had been difficult years, some of them: there were rebellions in other cantrevs; crop failures; the gut-wrenching loss of his mother to illness during the previous winter; and the ongoing struggle to live up to a crown he neither wanted nor expected to wear in the first place. No wonder his memory had tried to swallow those years up whole. But there had been good times, too: meeting new comrades, including the boisterous and big-hearted King Smoit of Cantrev Cadiffor; an improbable romance between Baeddan and Delyth, and their subsequent wedding; the cyclical round of seasonal festivals that let people break free of humdrum routines…

The shouts of several cottagers' children broke his reverie. They came often to play in his Great Hall which, compared to their humble thatched homes, seemed a far more inspiring setting for heroic adventures. Fflewddur didn't mind; it brought some liveliness to the otherwise dreary castle. In fact, he sometimes joined their games when they needed a dragon, or ogre, or some other sufficiently monstrous villain to battle against. Baeddan certainly took issue with it, huffing and spluttering each time he stumbled over one of the children running underfoot. But he deferred to his king and bit his tongue, while silently keeping track of every scuff mark and skewed furnishing he would later need to set aright.

That particular day, a conquest of the Western Isles was at hand. The children had transformed the large table at the center of the Great Hall into a war ship, and hoisted one of Fflewddur's old rooster-emblazoned battle flags as a sail. With a twinge of heart, the king recognized one of the children as Braith's daughter: a girl of about five who was as freckled and strong-willed as her mother. Years ago, Fflewddur had returned from a campaign against rebellious cantrev lords in the south, crossed paths with Braith, and learned that she had been wed. She had seemed quite happy. Fflewddur had expressed his genuine well-wishes, and that was the last they had really spoken to each other, save for a passing greeting when she and her husband came to pay their annual taxes.

'Ah, well,' Fflewddur thought with a sigh. 'Time flows on despite our best efforts to dam it or direct its course…'

He missed Braith's friendship, but was glad she was content with her life. He only wished he were equally content with his. He had grown accustomed to kingship and even took a fair degree of pride in it, but still chafed at its constraints. Adapting to something was a far cry from embracing it…

"My crown's a grievous burden!" Fflewddur cried. "That is, it would be if I ever wore it," he added with a rueful glance at the slightly dented, unpolished golden circlet hanging from the arm of his throne. "But a Fflam is dutiful! My subjects need me to rule this vast kingdom with a firm hand and a watchful eye!"

He had been telling himself that for the past eight years, hoping that repetition would eventually make it ring true. Thus far, it had not; his legs still itched to ramble, and his mind still winged away regularly on the breeze of imagination. And in his heart of hearts, he still yearned to adventure as a wandering bard. Seeing Braith's daughter reminded him of the conversation he and Braith had long ago about his desire to follow that path. Fate had waylaid his dream, but never entirely banished it. Like a treasure put away for safekeeping, he had taken it out from time to time and turned it over in his mind, before wistfully tucking it away again. But why put it aside? Why shouldn't he steer his own course instead of letting himself be swept along by circumstance?

"Drat and blast!" Fflewddur muttered aloud, startling a few of the playing children. "I see no reason why I cannot be both a king and a bard. A Fflam is eager! I'll be as great a bard as I am a king! I shall begin studying directly!"

The children, gathered around and atop their table-ship stared at him a moment, bemused. Then one boy raised his wooden sword in the air and let loose a cry, "A bard! A bard! King Fflewddur Flam the Bard!" The other children took up the cry in a joyous melee of cheers and jumping about. Grinning ear to ear, Fflewddur strode off to notify Baeddan of his new venture.

Baeddan did not take that news well. He attempted to maintain his usual composure, but the strain of repressed frustration turned him a rather beet-like shade of red.

"Your Majesty… please… be reasonable… We can ill afford to have you wandering off for indefinite lengths of time on a whim. It is troublesome enough when service to King Math calls you away. Why, during your most recent campaign, we were barely able to manage…"

"You managed very well!" Fflewddur reassured him with a smile. "Great Belin, the realm was in better shape when I returned than when I departed! All of the wrinkles were smoothed out and the wheels turning freely. Besides," he added, "you're forever complaining about how you manage half of the castle duties yourself as it is. And you seldom seem to approve of the way I handle the other half. This is the perfect opportunity for you to run things just as you see fit, old fellow! I should think you would be pleased."

Baeddan looked as though didn't know whether to be offended or flattered. He sought refuge in a neutral return to his argument. "We were fortunate that your last absence coincided with an unusually uneventful period, in which relatively few conflicts and complaints arose, and your subjects were preoccupied with the autumn harvest…"

"Then I shall keep my ramblings to those times of year," Fflewddur said with confidence. "A Fflam is accommodating, after all. I would hate to trouble you on my account. Yes," he went on, "that is a fine solution, Baeddan. I am so glad you thought of it."

At that point, Baeddan seemed ready to burst into tears. "But… but Your Majesty…" he fumbled helplessly. "It… It… It simply isn't done…"

"There is a first time for everything, is there not?" Fflewddur replied cheerily. "And if I manage to do it, then it will have been done and you can put that particular worry about precedent out of your mind."

And so, Fflewddur dug out the harp he had regretfully set aside years before and began practicing in earnest. He carried the instrument with him wherever he went, until it was nearly as much a part of him as an arm or leg. During councils and diplomatic meetings, he plucked at invisible strings while half-listening to the business at hand. When he did have the opportunity to play, he did so ceaselessly, until his fingers blistered and more than a few servants stuffed wool in their ears to gain a few moments of quiet. Delyth, at least, was unfailingly encouraging. She taught Fflewddur all of the old folk tunes she knew, and would hum along as she went about her work.

Fflewddur also attacked his non-musical studies with a will. He raided Baeddan's shelves for the relevant tomes of ancient lore that the bardic exams would cover. Those, he pored over in every spare moment he could glean. Before long, they were piled up by his bedside, stacked around his throne, and generally scattered throughout the castle. It was all Baeddan could do to keep the scholarly disarray in check. The chief steward found himself spending more and more time protectively gathering up his precious tomes and returning them to their proper shelves, only to have them pulled out once again when Fflewddur needed to re-read a particular passage or cross-reference an event mentioned in multiple texts.

It was a full year before the king fancied himself ready to stand before the High Council of Bards and ask to be ranked among their number. Excitement mingled with nervous anticipation as he gathered supplies for the journey and made ready to set out. Baeddan, rather grudgingly, had issued a proclamation announcing the king's departure to Caer Dathyl and his endeavor to become a bard. Hearing that intriguing news, all of Fflewddur's subjects who could spare the time gathered to cheer him on, to wave farewell, and to wish him good speed. The sight bolstered Fflewddur's spirit; small though his kingdom was, the hearts of his people were great.

Fflewddur swung up onto his charger, readjusted the harp slung upon his back, and rode forth from the castle courtyard. As he reached the gates, he turned back for a final glance at the throng of well-wishers. He saw Cadwallon—ever the sturdy warrior— standing with legs wide and arms folded across his chest, but with a broad, proud grin on his face. Delyth was alternately dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief and waving it vigorously in farewell. Even Baeddan seemed caught up in the celebratory mood—the creases between his brows were only a third as deep as usual, and there was even the flicker of a smile about his lips. Then, just before Fflewddur turned away, he spotted the most heartening sight of all: standing at the front of the crowd was Braith, wearing a smile so bright and warm that it rivaled the sun. She waved encouragingly to him. And with that, head and heart both high, Fflewddur cantered off, westward to Caer Dathyl and wherever destiny would lead him.

The End
(Or beginning, as it were...)