Aneirin.

Somewhere, in a place of my inner darkness, a cold flame was burning. Gradually, it turned into a roaring fire, devouring me at night. Its name was hatred, and it denied me the joys of life. I hated myself, I hated Taliesin, I hated Owain and those who fell at Cattraeth. I hated vehemently, fiercely, madly - and for quite a time, it was my only strength.

Weak, weak, weak.

I had no desire and no strength to oppose Owain, I could not oppose my uncle, I had no guts to be true to my own vows. I was unworthy of being called a bard, I was lower than the lowest of my people, for they did not betray their gods, and I did; unknowingly perhaps, but nonetheless. In the darkest moment of the battle when the swords clashed and shields crushed, I called another one. I did not call my patron, I did not look to him to shield me.

I should have called upon Lleu, the eagle winged healer, the midsummer wrath - but I was a coward, and I implored another for help.

'Lord of the depth, for the love of your fair bride, shield me. Don't let me fall.'

And he came, shining and menacing, dark and dazzling. He offered me a choice and I accepted it, and I chose life over death. Little did I know that I was choosing dishonor over glory, captivity over freedom. He had given me a choice, and I took the chance.

I betrayed my god. I followed the ghostly hope given by another - and fell, yet remained alive. This life was worse than two thousand deaths to me, for after I returned, the one who saved me, took Taliesin from me - and it happened a year and a day after I came back.

A life for a life.

Taliesin never told me it was the price of my return. He pledged his life to the Underworld for my sake, and there was no way of restoring the balance.