milliways_bar | (no subject)

As am I. It is not at all what I expected.

Owen heard from Bran that Gwen is dead now. He nods again in that strange apologetic motion. "I am sure it must be very hard for you."

No. *She tucks a strand of black hair behind her ear.* Life in the court was hard. This is simply different. Unexpected, but not unpleasant.

Life in the court was hard. Now they come to it.

"Gwen -- my lady Guinevere," Owen corrects himself, "was it safe for you in the court? When you went back?"

[ooc: And slowtimed.]

*She's not sure how she feels about his correction.*

As safe as before. I did not stay long -- I left for the convent.

Owen nods. "I am glad you had shelter."

*She smiles.* As am I.

Owen smiles back at her; the expression wipes ten years from his face. There is a pause.

"Do you have what you need here? Would you like anything? Tea? Food?"

I am well-provided for, thank you.

*She gazes at him for a moment, and then laughs lightly.* I am at a loss to talk to you, Owen Davies.

Owen, something wilting in his face, answers slowly, "So am I. My lady."

*Her brow furrows with concern.* Owen?

I -- I am sorry, it has simply been so long. . .

Owen nods shortly. His face has returned to its normal level of distance, and his eyes stare slightly over Gwen's shoulder.

*She looks down, and her hands twist together anxiously, hidden beneath the table in the folds of her skirt.

An awkward silence falls over the table.*

It is at this moment that Bran returns. He stands near the table, posture perfectly straight, harp tucked under his arm. The silence does not become any less awkward.

*She looks up, not sure if she's grateful for the interruption or not.*

Bran?

"Noswaith dda," Bran's eyes flicker to Owen before he looks back to Gwen and finishes, "Mother. Da."

*Her breath catches.*

. . .Noswaith dda, blentyn.

"Bran. Sit down." Owen's precise voice has gone hoarse.

Bran sits. He has no words for what he wants to say now, though, so with a brief glance at Owen for permission, he pulls the harp onto his lap and begins to play a wordless song.

The music is strange as the Old Ones' bells, but more tied to the things of the earth. It sings of seawater and hawthorn blossoms, seven trees in a lowland clearing, a Dyfi salmon leaping, a silver-eyed dog in the hills. Bran's heard it in his dreams always, since he was a young boy, dreaming of black hair and blue eyes and a warm low place by the sea. He plays it now for Guinevere and Owen both, as a gift: This is who you are. This is who I am.

*A long time after the music fades away, Gwen speaks.*

Thank you.

You have a gift.

Owen's heard Bran play before, of course, at lessons with John Rowlands, and once at an eisteddfod, and just now when Bran took them both to Milliways. This is the first time that Owen has listened, though. The music reminds him of a black-haired girl with an infant and a harp. His eyes fill with open love, anguish, pride; it is not only Owen's love for Gwen, but sixteen years of love and pride Owen has for Bran, finally naked on his plain ordinary face.

Bran sets the harp down on the table and looks up. His hands tremble. He can bear his mother's gratitude, but the raw emotion in Owen's eyes is almost too much. Bran bows his head for a moment before lifting it again and gazing up at both of his parents.

His voice, clear and tenor, does not shake at all. "Croeso."

*She gazes at him for a long moment, then glances at Owen, and in both, she sees them as they were many years ago -- but now so much more.*

*softly* It grows late.

"Yes. Time to go home, now," Owen says matter-of-factly, with perhaps a touch of relief. The moment of vulnerability is past, but there is still some wonder in his face.

"Take care," Owen says to Gwen as he stands.