[Culhwch]

I wrote this little scene a few days ago and have just now done a quick rewrite. It's from a novel I have been chipping away at for awhile now. In truth I've done more world-building than actual writing, so far, but this scene came to me almost fully realised, so I got it down as soon as I could. At the moment, as I have it planned, it sits as the opening of the second part, maybe a quarter of the way into the book. Since writing it I have had a bit of a rethink, and I'm wondering whether or not the story actually lays away from the character I had so far been focussing on. But then, that's a whole other discussion. Here I was just after impressions - how it flows, any comments on style, tone, voice, whether it holds the interest, draws you in. You know, the usual suspects. Cheers.

I

Alexya woke from her dream with a start, heart racing, bedclothes tangled around her legs. For a handful of moments she was disoriented, unsure of where she was. The familiar scents of her room – lavender, with a hint of witch’s wand – as well as the quiet snores coming from the truckle-bed beside her own brought her back. It was still dark, but some weak light bled through the drapes that covered the opening leading to her balcony. The sun must only now be rising.

Once she had caught her breath, Alexya slipped quietly off the end of her bed, careful not to wake the maidservant still blissfully asleep not three feet away. She padded barefoot across the rushes, pausing first at her writing desk to collect a leather-bound book, before pushing through the drapes and stepping onto her balcony.

The sun was indeed rising, a golden arc just now emerging from the eastern horizon, turning the sea to gold as far as the eye could see. Below her, below the Old Keep, Middlesea was still swathed in darkness. There was life there, lanterns blinking in the morning gloom like fireflies as folk got an early start on the day – or a late finish to the night before. Offshore, Alexya could see the lights of ships moored in the harbour bob up and down on the swell. As she watched, their silhouettes became more and more tangible. She closed her eyes and took a long, deep breath, savouring the cool morning air and the quiet before the hustling day began in truth.

There was a small marble-topped table on her balcony, with two ornate iron chairs tucked underneath. Here Alexya sat, laying the book in front of her. The leather was stained a deep blue, the blue of the sky to the west, and a silver rose had been worked into the cover in silken thread. The book had been a gift from her father, almost a year before. She ran a hand over the rose, delicate, blooming, and full of life.

When you dream, her father had said, write. So she wrote, before the memories fled with the night.