The sun shone brightly in the sky, the sheen on the glossy blades of grass a testament to it's kisses, as Gelert padded behind Llewelyn. The hound wagged his tail enthusiastically, even more every time the prince's hand occasionally brushed his head. A light pant escaped his mouth with each step he took, his paws hitting the earth already made soft by his master's feet.
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Suddenly, Llewelyn stopped. Then he spoke, his voice deep and commanding.
"At my side, Gelert."
Immediately, and almost involuntarily, Gelert came to a halt, and stood at Llewelyn's side, still as a statue and straight as an arrow.
"Time to hunt."
The thrill coursed through him, a bolt of adrenaline running from the end of his tail to the tip of his snout.
Hunting with Llewelyn was more than just a game, more than instinct, even. It was partnership, a moment as intimate as the blood flowing in his veins. Together, they moved like one being, tracking red deer through the dense forests of Gwynedd. Gelert was a part of Llewelyn, and Llewelyn was a part of Gelert.
One cool autumn morning, the castle was buzzing with commotion. A train of caravans had arrived, carrying gifts from King John, among which was a fine hunting hound. The courtiers fawned and flocked over the sleek beast, but Gelert only took a sniff or two before continuing with his day. He felt no jealousy - Llewelyn was his, and no one else's. They were not just master and hound. They were friends.
"Stay behind today, Gelert." The tone was familiar, soft but firm, allowing no argument. There would be no hunting for Gelert for the day. His heart ached, but he obeyed.
Left alone in the castle, Gelert, aching for Llewelyn, found himself sniffing the grounds for the scent of his beloved friend. The trail led to the one treasure even more desirous to Llewelyn than the hunt- his infant son.
Gelert clambered up, and peered into the cradle, at the face of the chuckling baby. He didn't know much, but one thing he knew was that this was Llewelyn's blood. The locks of curly honey-brown hair, the green eyes with flecks of gold, and the slight curve of his lips. Llewelyn's blood.
The little princeling lay in his sheets, gurgling and cooing. Gelert sat alert, ears pricked for any sound of danger.
As the morning sailed on, a peculiar scent wafted into the nursery. Gelert's nose twitched. The musky, earthy odour was unambiguous- wolf. His hackles rose at the scent of danger, and a low growl escaped his throat.
The beast appeared as if melting from the shadows, yellow eyes alive with malice. It slunk into the room almost leisurely, jaws parted in a snarl. Gelert's instincts screamed in his head: Kill! Without hesitation, he leapt.
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They clashed in a flurry of fur, teeth and claws. The wolf's jaws snapped dangerously close to his throat, but he fought with every ounce of strength in him. For the child. For Llewelyn.
The wolf lunged again, but this time, Gelert found it's neck. His jaws clamped down with brute, unyielding force until the beast went limp.
Panting and bloodied, Gelert surveyed the room. The cradle was overturned, the sheets torn, but the scent of the child lingered, unadulterated. His heart swelled with relief. He had done his duty. His friend's treasure was safe.
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Llewelyn finally returned. His laughter filled the air, but faltered when he entered the nursery. His eyes widened as he took in the scene: the overturned cradle, the bloody floor, and Gelert, standing in the wreckage, the wolf's blood fresh on his coat.
"Gelert."
But there was no familiarity in his voice, no recognition in his eyes. Only rage and sorrow.
Gelert whimpered, shaken by this new Llewelyn. Surely he would see the truth. Surely he would smell the wolf's scent and understand what had happened.
The blade struck, swift and unrelenting. Pain blossomed in Gelert's side, but worse was the anguish in Llewelyn's eyes. Gelert's eyes watered with sadness.
As the hound lay on the cold stone floor, his vision dimming, there came a sound- the soft cry of an infant. Llewelyn froze, his dagger clattering to the ground. He rushed to the overturned cradle and pulled back the blankets to reveal his son, squealing and sniffing, but quite unharmed.
Then he saw the wolf's lifeless body.
The realization struck him like a storm. He fell to his knees beside Gelert's dying from, his hands trembling as they reached out to cradle the hound's head.
"What have I done?"
Gelert felt his warmth, his regret. His love. It was enough. His tail thumped against the floor, one last moment of happiness, before he got lost in the darkness.
They say Llewelyn never remained the same. He buried Gelert beneath a cairn of stones, and with him, his passion for the hunt. He withdrew into himself, never wandered into the forests again. The weight of what he had done had shaken him, ensuring he would never again be the same.
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Travelers from far and wide would come, in the years that followed, to hear the tale of Gelert, the faithful hound who gave everything for his master. No, his friend. Llewelyn had taken Gelert's life, but not his heart. That, he had given freely, and would again.
Adapted from The Legend of Gelert.