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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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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