Llewellyn, Last King of Wales: his role in the divorce
A Micro Fiction by Felicity James
‘Cilmeri,’ she reads on the sign, rubbing the fug from the windscreen. ‘Site of Llewelyn II’s death.’
He says nothing, shifting down the gears roughly as the van groans on the incline. The wipers squeak in sympathy. Eerf. Eerf. Eerf.
She pages through the guidebook. ‘Caught in an ambush, 1282…’
‘All right, I don’t need the lecture.’
Stupid of her. She knows it’s not his thing.
She looks out to the washed slate and green of the hills. Llewellyn, last king, his land lost. Water falling on his open wounds. All the years of fighting ending in one point of pain, here.
The van heaves and yaws. Slow down, she wills him, silently.
‘I can’t drive this piece of crap any longer.’ He hits the brake. ‘Your turn.’
Slams the door, hunches off over a cigarette. Give him time to cool down. She knows this by now.
When she starts the van, gently, how it likes to be treated, she just means to manoeuvre it. The layby is tight, the hill steep.
But suddenly she’s backing out and away. Gathering pace, the rain clean and clear as a blessing.
Heading out towards the lost lands, hitting reverse. Free. Free. Free.
Author: Felicity James lives in Leicester and likes cats, campervans, and the obscure essayist Charles Lamb (not forgetting his sister Mary).
YAY!