milliways_bar | (no subject)

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Last Saturday, Owen Davies drove Bran to the Machynlleth train station. Since then he has been working very hard indeed on the farm, and volunteering more than usual at chapel. David and Jen Evans had him to dinner three times, and John Rowlands has been a great support, and there has been plenty of work to do.

At night, though, when Owen comes home, leading Lluchddu into the house, the little cottage is far too still.

If anything, Owen is relieved when he finds Milliways at the other side of his bedroom door.

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"I arrived not long ago," Paul says, carefully, "with a friend. We've been here since - I think the term is Bound."

"I'm sorry to hear that." Owen looks at something over Paul's shoulder. "Bran was Bound here once."

Paul's attention may be slightly more focused, now - but then, it was focused already, so it's rather hard to tell.

"Bran is your son?"

"Yes." Owen looks nothing like Bran, of course; he is an ordinary man of average height, with salt-and-pepper hair and lines on his face that go nowhere. "A good boy, always, and a good man now. Have you met him?"

"I think that my friend may have met him, a few days ago."

He hesitates, a moment, before adding, "He rather made an impression. I take it he's somewhat striking."

Owen has forgotten, over the years, that Bran's looks aren't usual. "I suppose. Very pale, he is."

He has that in common with Kim - but Paul doesn't say that; Kim's visual identity might not be something that needs to be handed out to every comer.

"So you both get here the same way?" he asks, instead. "Through a permanent route?"

Owen considers.

"Bran had a way to get here -- not a door, it was something to do with the harp he carried and I am not sure how it works. If I come without him, it is-- there is some kind of strange music, like what Bran plays when he comes here, and then I am standing in the doorway to Milliways and not where I was before at all."

There's another moment of that focused interest.

"Is it something that's inherent in the harp itself, do you know? Or simply another way to reach this place?"

If it's the harp, he's thinking . . . . well.

Music can do many things.

"I do not understand it at all," says Owen with flat finality.

"How did you come here, Paul Schafer?"

"That is difficult to say," Paul says, neutrally.

"Through a door, at the least. In an unexpected fashion."

"That is true for most of the people who come here, I am sure," Owen replies.

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