The British Atlantis

Llyr flicked his tail, watching the endless parade of ripples as they marched away from him. Dashing ships against his rugged borders was growing dull, and his younger children were content to play with the seals and porpoises that swam along the shorelines. Turning back to land, Llyr made for the quiet entrance of the River Cynwy, the lazy river with its wide estuary was balm for his soul during such melancholy moments. The steady, unending flow of fresh water lifted his spirits and made thinking clearer.  

Matholwch, the king of Ireland, across the sea, had been making advances on his daughter, Branwen, and despite his attempts to convince her that the man was unreasonable and would only bring her heartache. This all fell on deaf ears once her brother, Bran, heard of it. Llyr rubbed his temples, thinking of how his son, the king of Britain, believed Branwen could finally unite the two lands with a marriage to Matholwch. He had heard enough during his last trip onto land, storming from Bran’s palace in his temper, refusing to bless any such union, and diving from the nearest cliff. Floating on the currents of the Cynwy, Llyr tried desperately to push his troubles aside, mostly his thoughts of sinking Matholwch’s fleet the moment he left the Irish shore. It would serve no purpose other than to ease his own anger, and would likely incite a war for his son to deal with. 

The gentle lull of the estuary slackened, signalling a turn in the tide, and Llyr found a rocky outcrop to watch his realm reclaim the river basin, salt-water forcing its way into the mouth of the river, pushing back the cold mountain-water of Eryri, where the mighty giant, Rhitta Gawr, slept eternal beneath Yr Wyddfa. He spared a glance towards the towering mountains and the cloud-wrapped peak of Yr Wyddfa, remembering how his old friend once brought him strange flowers from far inland, knowing that Llyr was tied to the sea and would never see them otherwise. Llyr hated the land, suffering a heartbroken longing for the sea each time he ventured from his realm, becoming weak and sickly with every minute spent away from his watery kingdom.  

Water began to foam and rush around the rocks, creeping ever closer to him. He enjoyed this, the turmoil of a quick incoming tide, the sense of urgency and feeling that the sea itself was eager to swallow the land whole and never let it resurface. His thoughts wandered as he watched, his icy eyes flitting from one small whirlpool to another as the fresh water current was forced into retreat by the sea. A series of shouts beyond the short cliff that obscured him from any passing mortals drew his attention, the following clang of swords prompting him to slip back into the water and take a closer look.  

On the shore, barely 200 yards ahead, thrashing in the sand of the bay, were two young men. One bore the garb typical of Cymru, not noble in his attire but certainly well-bred for his ability with a weapon, and the other wore the tell-tale tartans of the Gaels, far to the north. Llyr watched intently, trying to discern the cause of the fight and wondering which of the men would be joining him for supper that evening when the tide brought his body and spirit into the sea. It was the long-standing rule he had with his sister, Danu, the earth-mother of Britain. Those who died on land would be in her care until such time as their remains received the proper blessings, those who died in or because of the seas and rivers surrounding her domain would join Llyr forevermore, a restless army of spirits bound to do his bidding. 

The Welshman pushed his foe further into the rising tide, causing the Gael to lose his balance in the soft sand, and in a heartbeat, his life ended. The Welshmans’ cleddyf disappearing neatly into the Gael’s chest, spilling blood into the estuary, and condemning the poor man’s spirit to Llyr’s control. Llyr continued to watch as the victor stepped forward and yanked the Gael’s golden torc from his neck and walked away, not sparing his victim a second glance. It angered Llyr, that this upstart could not even respect his foe in death. The waters around him seethed and rolled, almost echoing his displeasure, as the brutal current of the Irish Sea surged onto land and tugged the corpse along the sand until it slipped beneath the surface. 

Llyr twitched and propelled himself to the corpse, the eerie shape emerging through the gloomy water, fabric and hair floating freely around the body. The light around the body distorted, glowing and weaving, a chilling dance that signalled the soul’s escape from its fleshy shell. Llyr waited patiently, knowing how some souls would refuse to accept their fate and try desperately to remain one with their mortal remains. It wasn’t long before a glimmering spectral arm snaked from the body, slowly followed by the rest of the Gael’s ghostly form. 

“Remain calm,” Llyr started, carefully not to further distress the Gael, wincing inwardly as the lifeless eyes found him in the murk, “Your mortal life is over, and ended violently, and the tides of my realm have claimed you. Tell me your name.” 

The Gael seemed reluctant to answer, but the power of Llyr’s control over souls in his care left him unable to resist, “I am Cambeul, son of Laird O’Bradain of Siorrachd Inbhir Àir.” 

Cambeul’s spirit undulated in disgust, obviously repulsed at being forced against his will. Llyr smiled slightly, silently applauding the warrior’s strength even in death. Llyr studied him, and his sinking body, and realised that this man would not have been so easily overpowered by the smaller Welshman and that this was no fair fight. Anger rose in his blood once more and he fixed the spectre with a command to tell him everything leading to his death. 

Cambeul moved restlessly and tried to fight the urge to repeat the tale of his demise. Llyr laughed at this last attempt at mortal defiance. His laughter broke Cambeul’s will and the sorry story spilled forth like water from a ruptured dam. 

He had been taken for ransom during battle, captured for Prince Helig of Cymru. Held in Helig’s dungeon, he had become aware of several disputes surrounding his ransom and that, finally, a hefty sum had been raised by his father for his freedom. This caused another problem, Cambeul’s transit back to his clan. None of Helig’s peers were willing to volunteer men for the task, and Helig’s nobles were reluctant to offer help. Only one man had stepped forward, a low-born noble called Tathal. Cambeul was released from his cell into Tathal’s care and they had, in good spirits, began their journey. Without his bearings, Cambeul had only become aware of their southward march when the noon sun crept overhead and started its rapid descent to his right. It was then, on the bank of the estuary, that Tathal’s true intentions became clear. He attacked Cambeul from behind, slashing at the back of his knees, crippling him on his right leg and giving himself the advantage. Tathal had demanded Cambeul’s golden torc, his symbol of high-born nobility, and, when Cambeul refused, Tathal proved willing to fight until death for it.  

Llyr nodded slowly, already aware of the rest, having witnessed Cambeul’s death from the sea. Moving closer, he placed a webbed hand on the spirit’s shoulder in understanding and, with a whisper, sent him plunging to the depths on a strong current. The current would deliver Cambeul’s soul to his palace, to await further orders. Llyr tumbled the events in his mind, Tathal was liege-bound to Helig, the prince whose town and palace lay around the coast from Y Gogarth, a giant mass of cliffs and razor-sharp rocks that he enjoyed smashing ships against for the insults of their crews. Noting the fading light, Llyr decided to travel to Tyno Helig in the morning and find what he could regarding Tathal and his motives. 

Dawn broke, casting a lazy haze over the water, muted by the thick sea fog tumbling across the shoreline. Llyr grimaced, pulling himself ashore and transforming into his mortal form. He disliked how frail and old he appeared, hunched over on spindle-like legs, almost white locks tumbling from his head and chin. It would take him the better part of the morning to reach Tyno Helig so, after finding a large driftwood stick to lean on, Llyr set off along the beach, heading eastward to Helig’s palace. The beach was almost deserted, a few commonfolk had woken early to set up fish traps during the low tide and the odd child ran amongst the rockpools, stopping at the larger pools to see what the receding water had left behind.  

Llyr kept close to the water, a trick to lessen the ill-effects of using his mortal form, and, as the sun crept overhead, Helig’s mighty palace rose into view, dominating the town which sat upon a rocky outcrop along the shore. By now, the coast roads to and from Tyno Helig were swarming with mortals, oblivious to the god in their midst, and Llyr listened intently as he walked, trying to glean some information about Tathal or Cambeul. His lucky break came close to the palisade gates when, blinded by drink, a merchant shouted of Tathal’s betrothal to Gwendud, Helig’s daughter. Engaging the drunkard, Llyr enquired about Gwendud and Tathal, curiosity turning to disgust as the tale unfolded. 

Gwendud could not marry Tathal due to his lowly status, and Tathal was as besotted as she was so, to prove himself worthy, Tathal had offered to escort a Gaelic prisoner back to the border. Tathal had returned home with the morning light and told Helig’s court of a grim battle in the night, that Cambeul had died at the hands of bandits despite Tathal’s efforts to protect him. Tathal had spun Helig a pretty tale of gratitude, stating that Cambeul’s dying gift was his torc, that Tathal had proven himself noble, and Helig, in his naivety, had believed him and granted Tathal and Gwendud’s request to marry as reward for his brave actions. The merchant had almost spat the quote at Llyr, betraying his own thoughts about Tathal’s actions.  

‘Is Tathal not a brave man?’ Llyr probed gently, hoping the merchant would spill his suspiscions in his addled state but, seeming to catch himself, the man merely shook his head and waved Llyr away, returning his attention to his stall. Llyr frowned and turned towards the palace, lingering by the main gates to hear any more whispers of Tathal and Gwendud. A small group of women chattered about Gwendud, how she should think herself lucky that Tathal would want her and her horrid behaviour. The youngest woman motioned her peers closer, whispering how Gwendud wasn’t above beating girls to death for the slightest mistakes, coaxing a telling response from a grey-haired woman. 

‘A perfect pair, I’d say. A gift of thanks, more likely common theft. Tathal doesn’t have a brave bone in his body,’ she sneered, slamming the clothes she was washing into the barrel in her temper, ‘I’ve seen rabbits with more fight!’ 

The group erupted into laughter and Llyr moved away, slipping back out of Tyno Helig and along the palisade to the sea. Taking a last glance to ensure nobody was watching him, Llyr wadded into the water and disappeared beneath the surface. Once underwater, Llyr made for his own palace and sought out Cambeul. The Gael was fashioning a set of bagpipes from seaweed and coral when Llyr arriving, yet promptly abandoned the project as the sea-god came into view. 

‘I know why you were betrayed, and how you will avenge your death,’ Llyr stated, a malicious grin spreading across his face. He had long awaited the chance to attack Helig’s settlement, the slow creeping advance of mortal activity into his own realm had been a thorn in his side for 50 years. Cambeuls melancholy slowly shifted into a twisted image of glee as Llyr relayed his plan. 

The day of the wedding, Llyr and Cambeul floated in the waters beneath Helig’s palace, waiting for the boom of drums and bellowing of horns, a signal that the celebrations within the palace were beginning. Cambeul grew restless and made multiple false starts towards the surface, held back only by Llyr’s command. Distorted shouts and music sunk into the sea, followed by the palace drums and horns. Llyr smiled and released his hold over Cambeul, nearly laughing as the spirit raced upwards and vanished as he broke through the surface. Llyr would let Cambeul have his fun, let him torment Tathal during the wedding feast until the murderer admitted his deeds to the gathering. Then Llyr would unleash his own punishment upon Tathal and Gwendud, and teach Helig to respect the gods in the process. 

Hours passed before Cambeul finally returned. He looked more at peace, the form of the man he was in life no longer shifted and twisted against the current, but merely floated with it. Llyr nodded and Cambeul’s soul descended to Llyr’s palace of his own free will. Watching the spirit pass beyond the reach of the evening light, Llyr felt a wicked smile stretching his face. Turning once more to the surface, Llyr summoned the tides to follow and, inch by inch, began his ascent. Within minutes, the sounds of screaming and yelling reached him, a panicked response to water rising in the bowels of the palace. He continued his climb towards the palace, bringing the sea with him, and looked on as the cliff below the palace sank into his realm. The pace was torturous for those on land, slow enough for the innocent townsfolk to rush to higher ground but too fast for any craftsman to find where the water was entering the palace. Llyr looked on, enjoyment driving him forward as the base of the palisade crept into the water, followed by the floors of Helig’s palace itself. Pushing forward, Llyr sank the palace and the town room by room, until he finally stood upon the palace roof and Tyno Helig was no more. The cries of townsfolk stretched across the sea to the now distant shore and, after commanding the sea to remain there forevermore, Llyr swam closer to get a better view of Helig’s dispair.  

The old king was kneeling in the sand, howling with rage and grief, it became apparent that his beloved Gwendud had been claimed by the sea, weighted down by her elaborate dress as the water overtook the town. His new son-in-law, pale and dumbstruck, was being held nearby by what remained of the palace guard for his treachery. Llyr laughed cruelly and swam back to the remains of the town, searching the debris for Gwendud’s corpse. He found her in what was once the market, her clothing tangled on the broken stalls. Her spirit still rested within the body, Llyr could feel it. With disgust, he untied the knotted fabric and pushed her up towards the shore. Her soul would be his, but he refused to have her rotting remains pollute his realm. Fresh roars of anger and despair rose from the shore as her body broke through, and the frantic splashing that followed, the sound of people rushing into the waves to retrieve the corpse, sang to Llyr of a job well done. 

Llyr headed back to the depths, relieved to finally have time to relax. No such welcome awaited him, his servants rushed from the palace as he drew near and began assailing him with news of Branwen and Matholwch’s engagement. Heaving a deep sigh, Llyr turned west and made for Ireland...