milliways_bar | (no subject)

A week ago, Bran Davies packed up his clothes, his textbooks and the collection of political pamphlets he's begun to accumulate during his first year at university. He carried his old leather suitcase, full nearly to the bursting point, on one train east to Shrewsbury and a second train west to Machynlleth. Owen Davies met Bran in the LandRover at Machynlleth station and drove him, silently, back to the Dysynni Valley and Clwyd Farm.

It wasn't a bad term, really. Bran found a circle of friends in Cardiff. His exam scores were strong, although not perfect. He was distracted at the end of fall term and the beginning of spring term, and in any case he's finally gotten to a school where many of his classmates are as intelligent and hard-working as he is. The fact that Bran's been able to reach Milliways only once since he returned from the Summer Country, and hasn't been able to go to the bar on purpose at all, hasn't concerned Bran very much.

When Bran finally returned to his old bedroom at the farm, pulled the harp from under his bed and began to play it, he still couldn't reach Milliways.

By now, several days later, he's certain he's lost whatever gift brought him to the bar of his own will. Therefore, Bran's surprised and delighted when one of the barn doors opens, for no reason Bran can determine, on the end of the universe.

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Bran blinks his white-rimmed eyes slowly. "I forgot that they wouldn't. Do you have a choice in the matter?"

"Sometimes. It depends on them, and how much they are inclined to believe that a sudden chill is just the wind, or if their mind starts tumbling over ghost stories. Imagination, and a willingness to believe."

"Or suspension of disbelief, at least," says Bran. "Logical, that."

"Or that's an easier way to put it, yes. Then it depends. If I can talk to them, I'm real. If I'm real, I can change things around me."

"Do you?" Bran asks his brother.

"Sometimes."

Bran considers this flat answer.

"Should we not be talking about Camlann at all, now?"

"I don't know. It's just a field that I care about, now." He waves it off.

"Well, then." Bran pushes a lock of white hair out of his eyes and tries to start the conversation over. "I could tell you about my term, but it's not very interesting, is it? All biology and organic chemistry."

"Hey, it's more interesting then going mad. Tell me more."

Bran isn't quite sure whether to read 'going mad' literally or metaphorically. For now, he lets the question go, and starts into a lengthy description of his life in Cardiff.