milliways_bar | (no subject)

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[OOM: After Bran reclaimed his harp from the lake and went home, Bran and his da had a quiet holiday, and an interesting conversation.]

Harpsong winds through the front of Milliways. Owen Davies holds open the door so that Bran can go through first, and follows after. Both men are dressed in their Sunday best.

Bran goes immediately to the bar, where he receives a gift and a note. As he reads the note, his jaw tightens.

[ooc: Yes, they're both here. Please ping before tagging, though.]

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The silence, when she is gone, is utter.

Will looks at Gwion.

He says nothing, but his face has softened into a grave sorrow far too old for his features. Thank you, he does not say, but it is there to be seen.

And the gifts put into some men, he half thinks and half remembers, shall light the dark corners of life for all the rest.

In so brave a world.

It is there to be seen; Gwion catches the end of it, for he is busy working the string of his harp around his wrist again. Where it belongs.

And when his dark eyes catch Will's, the harper gives him the old smile -- the one that is wry, and fond, and crinkles the lines at the edges of his eyes.

Quietly: "Well, now."

Will's eyes warm in response, a smile that barely touches his lips.

"Yes," says Owen. The fury that crackled through him is gone now; he looks drained, old and weary. There is a moment of silence, and then he adds, with a faint echo of his everyday fussiness, "It is late. We should be getting home, Bran bach."

Bran nods. He, too, seems suddenly exhausted. A long look traded with Will, and he moves towards the door, with his father. He holds Taliesin's golden harp close.

As the door swings closed, Owen slips an arm briefly around his son's waist.

Will lingers.

Gwion is looking at the flowers again.

Slow, he says, "They cannot create things for themselves. I think -- this is held together by the power of the Dark." And now he looks at Will. "I do not think I can take them back with me, can I."

Will reaches out, but does not touch the frost-flowers. His arm falls back to his side.

He shakes his head.

Quietly, "They would be only snow. It is her power that holds them as they are. Without it they would fall to pieces."

The harper nods, and is silent for a moment.

"I will ask the Bar to keep them for me, I think. That will do." A small smile. "A gift freely given, by one of the Riders of the Dark. I did not think I would see this day, Will Stanton."

"No."

Poor Blodwen, he thinks, and yet knows in the deepest part of him that it changes nothing. She is still bound by what she has chosen to be.

Blodwen will not last, in extremity. Only the Rider.

Will looks at Gwion, with a crooked ghost of a smile.

"Nor I."

"What is driving her is what she has lost. That is what she told me -- and what I told Merlion." He shakes his head slightly. "And after seeing this...well. I am not convinced that she was lying, or that I was wrong."

Something in his gaze sharpens, then, as though he is coming back to the present.

Time is a slippery thing.

"He said he'd be in the library, for a time. I should find him." And the old smile, again. "I bid you a good evening."

"Good night, Gwion."

The quiet, tiny smile back.

A well-wishing.

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