milliways_bar | (no subject)

"And all sorts of legends and tales, as well. Magic of a sort, to be sure."

The light soft voice is gently amused.

*cheerfully* I suppose. Arthur, and all.

Arthur? There's a legend I haven't heard in a while. A set of legends, really, I suppose. *He takes another drink of tea.* Are you going to have anything, Will? *mock-severely* Not alcohol, of course.

*Bran joins the conversation in time to hear both of Paul's comment; his lips twist in brief self-mockery.* Oh, a big drinker, is Will. As long as it's tea, of course. Did the Bar give you the tea, Paul?

. . . give me the tea?

*puzzled* Mrs. Rowlands brought it. I assume she got it from the bar.

*Will pushes out a chair for Bran, lifting his eyebrows in invitation*

Paul came looking for me, apparently, and Mrs Rowlands kept him company for a bit before I came.

*His voice is light and conversational, and his face the same. Bran can undoubtedly read beyond that, of course.*

*Bran sits.* Very pleasant of you, Mrs. Rowlands, I'm sure. *Bran is not wearing sunglasses today, and his tawny-eyed glance at Blodwen Rowlands does not suggest gratitude.* Perhaps it would add to the pleasant company if we played music. Join me, Paul? *He begins Scarborough Fair without asking further permission.*

*Paul smiles with pleasure at the sound of the harp, and looks regretfully at his flute.* Probably better to sing, at least until I've found if it's only Greensleeves.

*He begins to sing, and Will joins in.*

Are you going to Scarborough Fair?
Parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme.
Remember me to one who lives there.
She once was a true love of mine.

Blodwen smiles and sits back to listen to the music with every evidence of finding quiet pleasure in it. There is a slightly wistful look in her eyes.

She starts to pick up her own cup of tea and then sets it aside instead, while still listening.

Hearing the singing and the harp, Mordred strolls over. Modern clothes, but no sunglasses.

Still, the prince says nothing; just watches his hands in his jacket pockets.

*Will smiles in brief greeting at Mordred, but keeps singing. On to the second verse, his voice and Bran's harmonizing over the harp's liquid notes. Paul has dropped out of the main melody, and Bran gives him quick sidelong glance, but it smooths out a moment later when Paul sings the first lines of the intertwining Canticle descant from Simon and Garfunkel's version.*

Tell her to make me a cambric shirt
Parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme
Without no seams nor needlework.
Then she'll be a true love of mine.

*Paul spares a quick glance at Mordred, but, seeing no one else has stopped, keeps singing as well.*

A hill in the deep forest green
Tracing of sparrow on snow-crested brown
Blankets and bedclothes. The child of the mountain
Sleeps unaware of the clarion call . . .

*Bran grins briefly at Mordred and takes up the next verse.*

Tell her to find me an acre of land,
Parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme;
Between the salt water and the sea strand;
Then she’ll be a true love of mine.

Blodwen appears to be paying very close attention to the words, but takes a moment to smile a warm welcome at the newcomer and to pat a seat nearby in invitation for him to join them.

Smiling back at her, Mordred pads over and gracefully sits down on the chair cross-legged.

You didn't really expect him to sit normally, did you?

That done, he watches his brother and the others with bright golden eyes, listening to the works with a small smile.

*As the seating arrangements are worked out, Paul softly accompanies Bran's verse.*

On the side of a hill, a sprinkling of leaves
Washes the grave with silvery tears.
A soldier cleans and polishes a gun.

*Will continues. If he notices significance in the song -- impossible lands below the waves, and his brother singing about incomprehensible battles -- his face shows nothing of it, though unreadable eyes slide briefly to meet Bran's as they sing.*

Tell her to reap it in a sickle of leather
Parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme
And to gather it all in a bunch of heather.
Then she'll be a true love of mine.

*Paul's voice grows a little louder, and his eyes are on Will, unfocused, as though he is looking at something far away.*

War bellows blazing in scarlet battalions
Generals order their soldiers to kill
And to fight for a cause they’ve long ago forgotten.

She looks at Paul very carefully as he sings, and then glances at Will for a long moment.

Finally, Blodwen looks again at Bran, watching him with a gentle smile as he plays the golden harp.

Perhaps he would have noticed Blodwen's watching, but his eyes aren't seeing the scene in front of him. They seeing battle-field after battle-field, fighting the Saxons and then each other...

Soldiers fighting, dying, because after so many years of the Romans leaving them, they knew nothing else but that. Peace? Peace was a dream that none of them believed in anymore.

A few short years, maybe two at the most, and then he dragged them back into the blood because at least then he knew he was useful.

The prince looks at Paul, looking so much like Will, and his eyes are empty.

*Bran's eyes narrow at Blodwen's stare, but then he is distracted by the lostness in Mordred's eyes; he sings the last verse gently to his brother.*

Are you going to Scarborough Fair?
Parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme
Remember me to one who lives there;
She once was a true love of mine.

As the music fades, an eerie stillness settles over the table for a moment. It is broken by a light soft voice, saying, "Oh, now, that was so lovely a thing to hear."

Blodwen turns to Paul. "I did tell you, that Bran has a particular gift for the harp."

*nods* And so he does. Beautiful playing, Bran. How long have you been learning?

Eight years, it is now. Half my life, really. *Bran's tone is friendly enough.* Have you met Mordred, then? Mordred, Will's brother Paul Stanton, and Mrs. Rowlands. She lived on Clwyd Farm. *Bran omits further information about Mordred.*

To get the whole last name business out of the road, seeing as it would look odd if he did have one, Mordred offers his hand first to Paul, and then to Mrs Rowlands.

"Mordred Ambrosius, pleased to meet you both," he sounds British, but impossible to place; Cornish? Welsh? Slightly Irish, and more Scottish?. Ah, well.