milliways_bar | (no subject)

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It was cold today, on Clwyd Farm. The cold comes with John Rowlands as the front door opens, and the shepherd steps through.

And immediately looks around, warily.

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"I should like to know," and there's a flicker of something close to frustration, "how the thing fell out."

His wife. Among other things. His wife.

He's not looking at Bran.

There's a brief moment of silence.

Quietly, "The White Rider had her power gathered, in ice and storm, and was being held back."

"And then a house fell from the sky." There is no hint of joking in face or voice. "I do not know what power sent it here then, but it did, and its falling broke through her spells. And the power of that breaking cast her..." A tiny shrug, one-shouldered. "Elsewhere."

A house.

He's looking at Merriman. His voice is tight.

"A house? Was that entirely necessary?"

Merriman's gaze and voice are entirely flat. 'Do you honestly think that of any of countless possible means and methods of orchestrating the Dark's defeat, I would have deliberately selected a house?'

A beat.

'It was as much of a surprise to Will and I as it was to everyone there. To say that it was an "unexpected turn of events" is understating the fact. But even if we do not understand how or why, it does not change what happened.'

And though he would not say it aloud, the unspoken addition to the end of that remark is And I for one would not have it be otherwise.

It's the Old One's tone that is the most insulting. And John knows that it will do no good at all to protest. To fight. To say she was my wife -- and that brings its own pain, for he'd been fooled all those years.

His throat works for a moment.

And then he turns, and opens the front door, and goes through.

The ensuing click is quite loud, all told.

Bran slips his dark glasses onto his face, lifts his harp, and turns blankly towards the door. Instead of moving towards it, he stands by his chair, his posture oddly slumped.

Will exhales, and his shoulders drop fractionally with it.

Low, after a long moment, "There was no way to make that easy, I think."

More sadly, "I wish there were."

He does.

Still turned away from Will and Merriman, Bran says clearly, "It could have been easier. It would have been if I had told him what I knew, when I knew it."

Will would like to be able to say Bran is wrong.

Instead, another sigh.

"Maybe. Or maybe not."

He shoves his hair back from his forehead, ignoring the fact that it flops right back.

Bran breathes out a puff of air. "I can't talk about this now. Goodnight, Merlion, Will." Bran looks neither to his right nor his left as he walks out of Milliways.

Merriman speaks, quietly and a little wearily, into the silence that follows the closing of the door.

'He knows, now. Even if there might have been an easier way to hear of it, he knows. And all that remains is for him to come to terms with it somehow.'

Because he has to.

They all have to.

Will nods.

Not much else to say.

They both understand this. And how little they can do about any of it, for now.

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