And the Sunflowers Wept

BOOM. The night’s storm hurled lightning across the skies, a great clasp of thunder following with all the wrath of a spurned god. It lit up the whole of the forest ever so briefly, from the crown of the canopies to the underbrush’s underside. It was gone as soon as it came, and the world was darkened by the raging tempest once more. It was far from the first bolt released that night, and she knew it would not be the last. Still, she was alert, on one of the taller branches topped by a roof of thicker fronds. The howling gales made it so the droplets would shoot at her proudly, puffed-up chest, but her eyes remained dry and vigilant.

She gyrated her head, using her oaken guardian's height to assess the grey sea of leaves. That they held on to their branches was a testament of their strength, for the strength of the gusts reminded her of when she’d first seen the ocean’s fury. In the distance, she could see a swarm of bats calling to each other, screeching the location of the ripest berries the winds had not stolen yet. She remembered hating them once. Back when she was first turned, she’d resented sharing her already cruel kingdom with such unsightly creatures. With time and wisdom, she learned that only a few of their kind were aggressive, and most were content with eating fruits and flies.

BOOM.

The next crack of thunder had her looking around again, until she finally saw the startled creature. She screeched, and her great partner landed beside her soon after, watching where her gaze was fixated at. The two took position, calculating the fall, the strength of the wind, the course to their prey. The rain was vicious, seemingly doing its best to blind them, slow them, stop their flight. But she was set, unblinking, and she had not yet come from a hunt unsuccessful. Not even the vicious lightning that set ablaze the great pillar they’d landed on had deterred them from their mission.

BOOM.

It was that blinding light that brought forth a wave of memories from a past she could scarcely remember. She’d been called many names throughout her life, though none of them truly belonged to her. To villagers, she was a phantom, a harbinger of death and an ill omen to those who saw her. To the noblemen, she was the screecher, a bird so ghastly even the day rejected her. To the priests, she was the witch, taking wing and cursing children for misbehaving. To her husband and her lover, she’d been the beautiful Blodeuwedd. But before such chaos, she’d been the flowers that basked in the sun’s bountiful warmth. Her name had been Gwyn.

There had once been a hero, she remembered, an eagle of a man. Proud, handsome, courageous, and invulnerable in almost every way, Lleu Llaw Gyffes was every bit the embodiment of the sun that his people saw him as. Such was his splendor that she imagined no less than half the women of the land would whimsically fantasize about him in their wildest dreams. The men would yearn to be him, and even some fancied the thought of being his princess as well. But Gwyn had been neither.

She had only ever needed the warmth on her petals and water beneath her roots, with the wet soil providing all the feeling of home she’d ever need. Then came the hero’s uncle, the warlock Gwydion. He’d seen the gallant man deprived of a wife, cursed by his own mother to never have a woman as his partner in life. His mother, zealous to preserve her purity, resented her son’s life, and saw to it he’d never hold a lady’s heart as his. But Gwydion was as loyal as he was crafty, devising a way to outwit the vicious mother. He plucked nine of her from her roots, trunks, and weeds, and forged a maid with his spells.

From the broom flower, her hair was woven; from the oak’s bloom, her eyebrows were arranged. The meadowsweet gave her beautiful white lashes. The primrose was her blush, a vibrant pink whenever her heart raced. The petals of the rose were folded into her beautiful lips, and the orchids had painted her nails a soothing lilac. He grafted her pale, soft, supple skin from the snowdrop, and used the black medick for the hairs on her arms and legs, so thin they were harder to see than to miss. Lastly, and most importantly, it was the dark sunflower from which her eyes were sculpted.

Gwyn awoke in pain. Her roots had been torn off; her stems broken away. All the petals she would open and close with the cycles of the day had been bent to shape her into a blushing bride. All she could do was weep when she was reborn, which the warlock ignored as the sign of any newborn being brought into the world. For her, it had been worse. She had been content, mindless, flowers on the field, with no want for food. But then she had been given mind, and her soul screamed in terror. There was fear and anger, cold and heat, and, more than pleasure, pain. It was an awareness she was never meant to have.

After the pain finally went away, Gwyn snuck into the garden, stripped away her robes, and laid with her sisters under the sun. She felt the warmth, but it was not enough to quell her hunger. She felt the moistness of the ground, but still she thirsted. She felt her sisters, but she felt the prickliness of their pointed stems. Where she once had no thoughts, feeling only the naturality of life itself without further meaning, her previous home rejected her, and she was conscious to acknowledge it.

Gwydion brought her in, clothed and comforted her again. He vowed a hundred and one times that only luxuries were what her life had in store for her. He spoke of her incredible beauty, fitting of nothing short of the name Blodeuwedd, the flower-faced. He spoke of the wonders of his nephew, Lleu, of the magnitude of his being. He spoke of the trace of blood from an ancient god of light coursing through his veins. He spoke of the hero’s radiance, and how much his people likened him to the sun. He spoke of a smile that gave courage to the weak, a presence that lit up the darkest of rooms. That gave her hope, the promise of warmth and an end to her hunger. She too caved into the fantasies that surrounded the man and lost herself in the myths that gently comforted her.

His hair was golden like the sun, set free in a leonine mane. Thick, arched brows were placed above a pair of bright blue eyes, separated by an elegantly hooked nose. His soft, pink lips gave way to an easy smile, ample and caring. His jaw was lean and his cheeks clean-shaven. Even without his armor, his body was thick with muscle. When he first saw her, he beamed a grin baring all teeth, and chivalrously took a knee to kiss her hand. He was, in every sense of the word, the perfect man. But Gwydion had lied, for Lleu Llaw Gyffes was not the sun. And for that, Gwyn had hated him. All his adoration and admiration of her fell empty, for she was the flowers plucked from their home, thrust into a cold castle.

Lleu was an attentive husband, but a tireless warrior as well, ready to be called to aid his people. What little his presence did to warm her was shadowed by the icy feeling of being a lonely stranger in a place she did not belong to. And so passed the seasons, and while Gwyn ate and drank with the noblemen in his absence, all she could do was look out the window at the clear blue skies with longing. She’d resigned herself to her body, to growing into a withering old crone, miserable and ungracious.

Gronw Pebr had been half the look her husband was in his worst day, and even less brave. He longed for her, as did the whole of the nobility in their castle. Only where the rest offered riches and pleasures, he offered something she was interested in. He wanted her, her body, her love, her smile. In return, Gronw vowed he’d find a way to reverse the spell and set her free. The three conditions she’d given readily, almost immediately, the prospect of returning home earning him everything Lleu had failed to win. But Gwyn feared for her plan, and she feared her husband’s retribution. She feared to see the fields burn in his rage, to be plucked and reformed again, so her condition was one: her widowing.

In bed, in the aftertaste of the night’s pleasures, she’d pried her husband. He knew her vulnerabilities, it was only fair for Gwyn to guard his as the loyal wife that she was. Lleu sang peacefully, and dreamt so well he’d forgotten the words spoken the morning after. They woke together, and she made him promise her to meet her by the riverbank at dusk. He swore readily and spirited off to ready himself for the occasion. When he was gone, Gwyn brought her lover to her bed. She sung her husband’s weakness just as sweetly to his rival, and by midday, Gronw had forged a holy spear.

In the final hours of the sun, taking a moment to appreciate the last rays to hit her body, she couldn’t help but feel a pang. She felt the cacophony of nostalgia, mourning, exhilaration and shame strike her all at once. Gwyn wept silently, as she had done in her birth. Even when she knew her husband bore no fault for her discontentment, she couldn’t help loathing him regardless. Walking to him as the sun was halved by the horizon, she felt only determination to regain her freedom. To return home. Gronw chucked the spear at dusk with all his strength and passion, and he missed.

Lleu had been wounded, almost mortally so, but for a hero of such legend, she knew it wasn’t enough. He gave a cry of pain, and in his gracious valor, never even looked at her with the spite that betrayal so warrants. There was only disappointment. It made her hate him all the more. He took the form of a great eagle, taking wing and flying away. Gronw came to take her away. Instead, Gwyn ran. She ran far into the woods, away from the fields, far from where she would be caught.

The night had gone from spotless to stormy. The pale light of the full moon could be seen from where the clouds thinned, but most were so thick even the rain they spat pelted her. She fell to a thorny vine that coiled itself around her pale leg, droplets of blood being washed away by the downpour. It was there Gwydion found her, furious where his nephew had been mournful. He cursed her viciously in an ancient tongue, transforming her once more.

Gwyn grew smaller and lost her neck. Her arms retracted and her fingers extended, sprouting skin and feathers between them. Her legs became wiry, her nails became claws. Helpless, hapless, the man called upon a final torture to finish her transformation.

“All birdkind will hunt you, hate you, resent you,” the warlock commanded, “so you may never see the sun again. You will be cold every night, from this evening to your final dawn. A dawn which will come long after your children and your children’s children are dead. Henceforth, you will troll the nights alone, with only the moon and your regrets as your companions. Begone.”

And so she flew, far, far away. Or rather, attempted to. Gwyn spent the night crashing to trees and plummeting to the ground. Every bone broken was repaired, every ounce of blood lost, regained. The pain, however, remained. All she could do was make it to a branch after arduous efforts and wait. She waited until dawn, until her sun returned. It was horrible. The light she’d loved so much blinded her to the point she could only turn away. Such was her exhaustion that when she first blinked, Gwyn dozed off into restless sleep. She only awoke from her slumber at the cry of a hawk, diving into her new body and shattering her skeleton.

Gwyn flew away again, hiding from hawks and eagles and buzzards alike. She flew until she could burrow herself in a hole halfway up an oak tree, where the dark nestled her. She was cold, and a great deal more lonesome than she had ever been at the castle. It was all she could do to strangle the squirrel inside and peck it to quell her aching belly. Just as Gwydion had promised, her only friend was her guilt. And away from a sun that repudiated her, Gwyn finally learned what hell tasted like.

It was only with the passing of time that she grew accustomed to her new life. With the seasons, she’d learned to best her hunters, to hunt for the fattest prey, to claim the best of the nests. And between her husband’s and lover’s seeds, Gwyn laid a great many eggs. Some of the hatchlings grew to be proud and strong like Lleu had been, hunters even in youth. Others were not so strong, but their feathers mimicked the trees and the snows, cloaks woven to ambush. In time, more and more came of her offspring, until the night truly became their realm.

It was a minor consolation, that her mortal enemies dared not enter her territory. It allowed her to drink freely at the lakes, finally getting a good look at her reflection. Gwyn’s second body was pale with black eyes, much like she was as a bride. She lacked her beautiful hair, and her feathers were tame and short. Still, her coat was a rich gold and brown. Her claws were pale and sharp, though no less elegant. In the day, her beauty could be appreciated. In the night, she looked like a ghost, a wandering phantom without rest. Her splendor had come from the flowers that had crafted her, but the night stole away the colors, leaving a somber specter in her place.

Her anguish ended after enough time, but remnants of her hatred remained. Every time Gwyn saw an eagle, she remembered Lleu, in all his magnificence. Even after he’d passed, she looked at the kingly birds with resentment, as cruel echoes of her previous life. They mocked her, and she begrudged them for it. She lacked the strength, but not the fury, and she’d been sure to pass that anger to her children. Every night, when the eagles thought themselves safe in their nests, Gwyn would lead her children to hunt.

Only those born of her Lleu’s power were strong enough to break the eagles’ wings, but she settled for taking the eggs and chicks. She’d carry them into the skies and toss them from the top of the clouds. It had been a restless war, a cruel war, but it was all she had left. Such was her rage that after the first time, she vowed never to spend a night without killing an eagle. After, she vowed she’d never fully rest again until they were gone from her home, down to the last chick. For that, Gwyn supposed she had earned the cruel names the villagers, nobles and priests claimed her to be.

BOOM.

Another crack of thunder and Gwyn was back under the rain, her enormous great granddaughter with her. The eagles were few, and every night fewer. Perhaps she couldn’t erase them from the world, but she could kill the last of her royal kin in her home. She could see him, his oak-brown coat, his gold beak and claws, his white tail. The gales screamed so loud she could scarcely feel her progeny. If the great brown owl following her had been stolen by the storm, she did not know. All Gwyn had was her prey in front of her, the last of his kind. She was close enough. In a moment, he raptly looked at her. She dove at him.

BOOM.

She grasped his wing violently, tossing him away from his shelter. He gave an indignant, enraged cry. He flapped hard enough to toss her from her grip, flying upright again. Gwyn was his target now, but the night was her realm. As she flew far above, descending on him with her claws aimed at his head, she was blinded.

BOOM.

By nothing short of luck did the lightning miss her, only a few hairs away from striking her small body. The ringing in her skull rendered her deaf to the vicious winds. The light, almost as bright as the sun’s, left her floundering about. Gwyn attempted to regain control, but she was falling, much like she fell during her first night. But Gwydion was dead, and his magic had eroded. To plummet to the floor this time was to embrace death’s chilling grasp.

Gwyn felt pain in her shoulders, screeching madly at the claws starting to pierce her wings. Her sight came back to her great granddaughter, flapping her wings and trying to hoot sense into her. A great shadow was above her, and the eagle grasped at her savior’s skull. She fell again, but her hearing had returned.

CRACK.

It came just in time to hear the crunching of bones. Gwyn looked and found the owl falling, limp and broken. She had neither the strength nor the speed to catch her. All she could do was watch her fall into the lake and sink deep. She screeched viciously, flying high above, fearlessly delving into the ferocious clouds, where the eagle dared not follow. Even if she attacked him now, her claws were not strong enough, no matter the distance. Still, she was not done. As she flew beneath the skin of the tempest, trained eyes led her to the same shadow, small and insignificant beneath her. Above the thick of the storm, she could no longer see the moon’s pale light. In the dark of the merciless night, Gwyn screeched and dove down.

BOOM.

CRACK.

She fell, with pain in her skull. The eagle fell next to her, choking out a pitiful cry. His back was broken, bent the wrong way, but still he lived. The winds tossed them through trunks, branches and bushes. Whatever harm her attack had done to the two of them, the fall would certainly worsen. Gwyn hit the ground.

CRACK.

Her wing was bent the wrong way. She didn’t have the strength to move her claws anymore, and pain kept the rest of her still. The clouds swallowed the moon and the stars, leaving her surroundings pitch black. She knew the eagle was nearby, but Gwyn had lost her will to fight. If it planned to finish her off, she could not move an inch. An hour passed, and the storm relented. From wet hail carried by harrowing gusts to a breeze peppered with tiny droplets. Another hour passed, the clouds cleared.

The stars were mostly gone, a faint pink beginning to brush across the sky. She was on her side, Gwyn realized, and outside the forest. The pain was mostly gone, but still, she attempted to move her neck. She looked forwards, finding the mangled body of her mortal enemy before her at the entrance of the woods. He was still alive, twisted in ways he shouldn’t be, reduced to dirt when he was a king. He still lived, though barely. With the dawn behind her, he could see the sun reflecting in his eyes. For a moment, he was Lleu. The twinkle was gone, and the last eagle was dead. If she were human, Gwyn would have wept.

She craned her neck one last time and looked behind her, seeing the sun rising, warding away the final remainders of the night’s fury. Orange and pink and cobalt and azure painted the skies before her, a view she could only describe as divine. The brightness could not hurt her anymore, and on the field once more, amongst her first kind, Gwyn felt at home at last. The sunflowers wept, and the owl born from the flower-faced maid turned to dust in the first breeze of the dawn.