milliways_bar | (no subject)

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There is a Mordred in the bar. No badge, just himself in his black jacket and plan pin-stripped pants.

Just himself, drinking. Not steadily, but not slowly, either.

[ooc: tag may be slow, as mun is very tired. But they will come]

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Owen leans against the bar suddenly. After a moment, he pulls himself onto the bar stool.

Blankly, "I am sorry?"

"Cywyllog...in her world we married. In mine we didn't. In her world, she and her Mordred had twins. Twin boys. She...a month ago, she brought them here. For their safety, and a trial-run to see if she could. They had their second birthday here, so they are only little. Called me...called me 'tada', and she's taking them away again. Do you understand, Owen?"

"You need to eat something, bachgen." Owen orders stew and bread and black tea for Mordred, and tea for himself. After the food appears and Owen pays, he says, heavily,

"Yes, I understand."

Mordred blinks, not expecting that kindness, so he just rests his head in his hand and whispers,

"Thank you."

"You are welcome." Owen looks away; Mordred's startled gratitude is painful to see. "Eat, boy."

Mordred nods and, slowly begins to eat.

He hasn't eaten for a while.

Owen drinks his tea in silence as Mordred eats. Behind and around them, the normal Milliways buzz of people talking quietly at the bar and in the tables and armchairs continues.

"So. Um. How...how have you been?"

"Well. Thank you." There's a surprising depth of sincerity behind the answer.

A little smile.

"Good."

The silence stretches.

Eventually, Owen elaborates, "Bran is doing very well at school, of course, and everyone on the farm is fine."

That isn't really the reason why Owen Davies is doing well. If asked, though, he probably couldn't explain.

He glances up.

"I'm glad. That...he's doing well at school." It's hard to explain, that at the sight of a lot of people reading in the bar he feels faintly embrassed.

Not as if reading at all was common when he was alive.

Owen Davies never finished high school. When his father died, someone had to support his mother.

"Thank you," he says.

"It's...I can't read, that well. Never formally taught, you see."

Owen Davies gives Mordred an understanding half-smile.

The universe may be coming to an end.

"Most of the things Bran does for school, I never learned at all. I am not a scholar."

"Well, sir? That...makes two of us."

Owen refills both teacups from the pot.

"When I was very young, I wanted to be a minister. Of course it was not possible.

"The chances Bran has are chances most of us were not given. I can only pray he uses them well."

"He...probably will. Take the chances, anyway." He smiles oddly.

"I wanted to be a carver, when I was little. Sit by the fire and carve things. Didn't exactly work out that way, though."

Pause.

"There is a wooden dragon on Bran's bureau. Solid work. Did you make it?"

Mordred glances him.

"Aye, I did."

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