Non-challenge - Loyalty (3/7)
Title: Loyalty
Chapter: 3/7
Characters/Pairing: Bran, Barney, Will, John, Simon
Rating: G
Warnings: None
Summary: Six must be gathered again, to face an old threat wearing a new face.
All chapters: one, two, three, four, five, six, seven.
It was still early morning when Bran opened the door to find Barney there. He wasn't entirely surprised to see him, and it wasn't as if he'd been hauled out of bed to answer the door. He rose with his da, which was to say, with the dawn. He doubted even Barney, who looked like a morning person, had been up as long as him. "So, what is it you're wanting, Sais bach?" he asked, teasing a little. Eagerness was quite plain on Barney's face. "And where are your brother and sister?"
"Oh, Jane's going out with her beau, and Simon's studying or something." Barney wrinkled his nose. "Boring stuff, in other words."
Bran scowled a little. "You met Michael?"
"Well -- sort of." Barney shrugged. "That's sort of what I'm here about. Only sort of. Did Will tell you about my scrying?"
"I haven't spoken to him yet. Come on in, then. Looks like you've got a story you're bursting to tell."
Barney made a face at him. Bran politely didn't tell him that it made him look both younger and cuter than ever, and instead led him inside without further comment. There was tea made already, so he poured Barney a cup, and let him pick through the biscuit barrel for the nicest biscuits. Barney chattered about nothing all the while, and Bran marvelled at how much he didn't mind when it came from Barney.
"So," Barney said, from around a mouthful of biscuit crumbs, when they sat together at the table in the kitchen. "I came to talk to you about my scrying."
Bran nodded. "It can wait until you've finished your biscuit. No rush, like."
There was a pause, while Barney washed his biscuit down with tea, nearly choking on crumbs in his hurry, despite Bran's words. Bran rolled his eyes, but didn't comment, just reached across and slapped Barney's back firmly until he stopped coughing. Barney grinned at him, unabashed. There was a bright, eager light in his eyes. "I asked Will to teach me how to, you know, control my scrying. It's not much use to us if it just happens randomly, right? So we got a bowl and filled it with water, and we poured oil on it. Like -- oh, right, you wouldn't know. Once, a man from the Dark made me scry -- "
"I know about it," Bran said. He stretched his legs out under the table, nodding for Barney to go on.
"Okay, so, we got the bowl and filled it with water and put oil on the surface, like the man from the Dark did, and we sat quiet for a bit. Will told me to... try to see through the oil or something. I thought it wasn't going to work..."
"Obviously, it did."
"Yeah, it did. I saw..." He paused for a moment, gathering his thoughts. Bran waited. Barney took a deep breath: when he spoke again his tone was almost dreamy, almost sing-song, in recollection. "I saw Tywyn. I think it was the same afternoon. I heard Jane laughing and talking to someone, and then she came up with someone older than Simon. Really pale skin, really dark hair. He looked... weird. Then it was like he looked up and saw me -- nobody else did, not even Jane -- and then it ended."
"And?"
"And I want to try again. Try to see more..."
"Why not ask Will?"
Barney hesitated a moment, lifting his eyes to Bran's face. He looked almost puzzled. "I'm not quite sure. I just feel... like it should be with you here, not him. Looking into it with me. Will just sat there opposite, didn't see with me, but I feel like you could... or that you could help me, anyway."
Bran stood up, taking his empty cup and going to wash it out. For a moment, there was silence in that small kitchen, but it wasn't a bad kind of silence. Barney sat there, waiting, and content to wait. And Bran thought about what he'd said. "Okay," he said, finally, putting the cup on the draining board, upside down. He turned round, leaning back against the counter, arms folded. Barney's eyes met his again, the same bright eagerness almost shining out of them. Bran wondered where he got so much energy from. "You need a bowl. Water, and oil."
"Yes."
"Let's see what I can do, then," Bran said, and smiled. Barney jumped up, like an excited puppy, and helped him look. It wasn't hard to find a decent sized bowl, plain white and pattern free, though Barney wasn't sure whether that was important or not. It didn't take them long, once they had the bowl, to set it up on the kitchen table.
"Da shouldn't be home until evening, he's visiting someone," Bran said.
"It's funny how things happen like that," Barney said, absently, already seated and looking down at the bowl.
"Like what?"
"Convenient. It always happened around Gumerry. And Will, too, I suppose."
"That's the way they are, I think," Bran said. He shook his head, moving to stand behind Barney's chair. "Do you want me to do something? Hold your hand? Look into it with you? Anything?"
"Just... be quiet," Barney said, not rudely, but absently. Bran cast a brief look at him and saw his eyes were already unfocused, dreamy. "Just be quiet, and stand there."
Bran stood still, as Barney said, and stayed quiet. He had his hand on the back of Barney's chair, and he was looking at the back of Barney's head -- unless he twisted and stooped a little to look at the bowl, or craned to see Barney's face. He noticed how pale the blond of Barney's hair was, noticed chips in the white paint on the kitchen chairs. He could hear a faint buzzing from outside, and realised he could hear the humming of bees in flight. He felt as if his senses were expanding, pushing outward. First he could just hear the hum of the bees, and then the baa of sheep, though there were none of the stupid woolly creatures close at that time of year. And then the hum of a car's motor, driving up the path, but much lower down or much higher up. He thought he heard John whistling to his dogs, and for a moment, thought he could hear his da's voice, but younger -- calling out his mother's name, desperate and lonely.
The bitterness of that thought took him back to the present, unsure if he'd really heard anything. He didn't know how long he'd been standing there, but nothing seemed to have changed; Barney hadn't moved. Cautiously, he moved his hand from the back of the chair to Barney's shoulder. He was about to speak when Barney stirred.
"Two gifts," Barney said, in a thick, deep voice that seemed to come from somewhere deep inside the earth. Bran froze, listening, clutching Barney's shoulder tighter. "One from the bards, and one from the king."
"From my father?"
Barney continued as if he hadn't heard, as if the thing that borrowed his voice couldn't also hear through him. "From the bards, the true tales, the warnings that are forgotten. From the king, a sword, greater than the first. The birthright of Bran, son of Arthur, lies hidden..."
"Excalibur," someone said, from the door, and Bran let go of Barney's shoulder and whipped round to see Will standing there, with John Rowlands behind him.
"How long...?"
"We came as soon as possible," John said, while Will moved over to Barney, touching his shoulder as Bran had done. "Will thought... he felt danger in the use of power."
John said the words awkwardly, Bran noticed, still troubled by the idea of powers beyond that that he'd learnt of in church since he was a boy. Bran smiled at him and then turned to Barney, who looked very, very pale, but like himself again. Bran knew that whatever the voice was, it had gone.
"I was looking for a sword for Bran," Barney said, weakly, to Will. Will smiled at him.
"And it was well done. Excalibur, King Arthur's sword, remains in this world. We only need to find it."
"And the warnings from the bards?" John asked.
"Gwion," Bran said. Will looked at him, and their eyes met, and they smiled at each other.
"I think so, yes. I think... Barney, do you remember what I said yesterday, about the true tales being distorted? I think that... the stories about Mordred going against Arthur aren't true, not in that sense, but in a symbolic sense. Mordred never fought Arthur. He'll fight Arthur's son. His brother. The stories give us the origin of Mordred, warn us against him, but he wasn't there when the Dark fought the Light..."
"Like the Bible," John said, unexpectedly. "We know some of the stories cannot be true, yet they express a truth."
Will smiled again. "Exactly."
"What about Excalibur, then?" Barney asked. There was already a little more colour in his face, and in any case, his eyes were brightly curious again. "I saw it -- where it's hidden. I don't know how to explain it... but it's near, we can find it, it's the right time to find it..."
"This is my quest," Bran said, quietly, thoughtfully. "My birthright."
"No," Will said, equally quietly, "I don't think so."
"It feels," John said, slowly, glancing at Bran almost warily, "as if this is my task. It... calls to me."
"Perhaps it is," Will said, thoughtfully, before Bran could say anything. "But things will happen as they happen. Let it be for now. If it is the right time, something will happen, something will lead us to it. That's the way of things."
---
"You won't... mind, if it turns out to be my task after all?"
Bran looked up at John, pausing on the path, tilting his head to one side. There was a scowl somewhere, like a threatening stormcloud, but he didn't let it loose. "I suppose, if it's the way of things, I'll have to forgive," he said, letting his tone lighten a little. John smiled in relief.
"I'm glad for that. I wouldn't want you to be angry."
"I wouldn't be angry," Bran said, quietly. "I just... I want to prove myself. It's been a long time since I fought the Dark. I want to show Will that I can still... I want to show him that returning my memories wasn't a mistake. I want to be useful to him, like Barney is. Did you see the way he smiled at Barney...? The way he said it was well done? I want..."
John looked at Bran for a long moment, as if measuring him up. Under the scrutiny, Bran lifted his head, straightened up. John found he had to smile. "When you stand like that, I certainly believe you're a prince," he said.
"That doesn't mean I'm worthy of the task, though."
John sighed. He turned and walked over to a low stone wall, sitting down on it. After a moment's hesitation, Bran followed. They sat together on the wall, not saying anything for a while. Bran let that be, knowing that if John had something to say, he would say it; and in any case he remembered the solemn, not uncomfortable silence, from other times when John had wanted to say something. He tipped his head back to look up at the sky: still clear, the blue bright, but with clouds coming, scudding along on the quick wind.
"I think," John said, slowly, "that if you are not worthy of the task, Will would already know. He would never have... we wouldn't have had the dream. He knows we're the right people, even if he doesn't know how things will go... And I think there will be a task for each of us, one we are meant to complete. It may not be easy, but we all have a part. It seems to us, now, that Barney has a greater part. But perhaps his part is only for now, and it will be him feeling useless at the end."
"I suppose... It was that way the last time. Each of us had... a trial. Will and I went to the Lost Land, Jane had to stand up to the afanc..."
John reached up and put his hand on Bran's shoulder, gripping tightly. "Then your task will come soon enough."
"Still... Excalibur was my father's sword," Bran said, and there was a fierceness in his strange eyes. "It should be my task to find."
"Perhaps there's a reason," John said, gently. For a moment he sounded almost like Will often did: knowing so much more, and being patient with those who didn't know. Bran sighed, getting to his feet again.
"Maybe there is, but I don't have to like it, do I?"
"I suppose not," John said, smiling. He hesitated, plainly on the verge of saying something more. Bran waited a moment, watching him.
"Something else you want to say?"
"Yes. Your father... Owen loves you. If anything were to happen to you, he would be distraught. I think he only stopped searching for your mother because he had you to take care of. And he has never stopped grieving. If something happened to you, he would -- "
"I know," Bran said, interrupting him. "And if Owen has to hurt for the good of the Light, Will has to let him hurt, doesn't he?"
"Yes. That... do not trust too much in the Light, bach. It is good, but it... do not think of it as the sun's light, though there's that in it too. It's the moon's light that Will represents. Cold and clear, near and yet far away."
Bran smiled, just a little. "You're becoming a poet, John Rowlands."
"I'm telling you to be careful, is all."
"I will be careful," he said, sighing softly. He raised his eyes to look John in the face, smiling at him again. "For you, as well as for Da. You... you're like a second father to me."
John didn't say anything, just looked at Bran; there was tenderness in that look, and pain, and perhaps regret. Bran started to walk away, and then turned back and quickly embraced John, squeezing tightly. And then he walked away faster than before, and before John could regain his wits enough to say something, was gone.
---
Bran was still walking fast when he bumped into Simon. The clouds were coming over fast, heaping up over their portion of the sky, and the sheep in the field nearby were huddled together as if in fear of something. Simon was walking slowly, thoughtful, but apparently untroubled. Bran felt suddenly angry at his ambivalence about the whole thing; Will had warned him, but --
But Simon should know better than to disbelieve. Bran hadn't liked him best, but he'd liked him well enough, and now -- he thought this was below the Simon Drew he knew. Perhaps it was that which put the contempt into his voice. "Why haven't we seen you yet today, Sais bach? Your little brother has been doing something constructive, but we've seen nothing of you or Jane."
"What's Barney been doing?" Simon asked, frowning.
"You'd know, if you'd been there," Bran said. "He's proving himself a lot more useful than you, isn't he?"
Simon just shrugged. "I'm saving my energy for serious things."
Bran's voice was oddly quiet -- not a calm quiet, but more like the air around them: charged with tension; it was the calm before the storm. "Serious things? The Dark may rise up to take our world, and you have more serious things to do? Or do you think it's child's play we're at, Simon Drew? Don't you remember Merriman? Did you not stand in the dream with the rest of us and remember those things?" He grabbed Simon's shoulders, staring into his face. His voice rose, as if he was trying to break through -- break in -- make Simon hear him. "Do you think this is just a game? It isn't, Simon! This is -- this is the most important thing in the world. In all of time!"
Simon didn't move. "Wasn't that your supposed heroism? Slicing the blossom from the tree?"
"That was the start. This... that wasn't the end. It was the beginning! Will can't do anything, he just has to guide us -- " and as he said that, Bran realised how true it was, and fell silent for a moment. He took his hands from Simon's shoulders, voice soft again. "This is... the age of men. This is our time -- that's why Merriman went. Simon, we have to -- "
"I'm tired of this," Simon said, suddenly, forcing Bran to break off again. "I'm tired of all of it! We were kids, and we thought we were saving the world. But we're not kids anymore!"
"One of us is," Bran said, sneering.
"Better a child than delusional."
Bran laughed. "Then your little brother is the most delusional of the lot of us, Sais bach."
"You think I don't know that? I'm worried about him. That's the only reason I was coming up to join you!"
It seemed to be getting by the minute, Bran thought, and glancing up saw that the great humps and drifts of clouds had darkened. He looked back at Simon. "The storm's coming, Simon," he said, quietly. "And whether you believe in it or not, you'll be caught in it. Maybe you'll die. Maybe I'll die. Maybe your little brother will die. Will you call it delusion then?"
"You're all mad," Simon said, stubbornly. "Barney's perfectly safe, unless Will does something to him. I swear that Will must be -- "
Bran hit him. He didn't think, just hit him. His voice was dead quiet again, and dangerous, like the coming storm. "Get out of here, Drew. Just get out of my sight. You don't deserve Will's trust, you never deserved any of it. Merriman would be ashamed of his 'great nephew'. You never deserved to be one of the Six if you can say such things about Will. Now leave."
Simon stared at him. His lip had split from the blow, and as he stood there, the blood trickled a little, down over his chin. As if snapping back into awareness, he drew the back of his hand over his mouth, looking down at the red smear as if in shock. Then he looked up at Bran, looked up at his angry face, and turned to go -- almost fled. Bran stood there watching him, fists still clenched, not even understanding why he'd hit Simon. It had... it had made sense.
His fists clenched tighter, but the anger had already gone from his face. He looked as if there was a bad taste in his mouth -- as if he felt sick.
Chapter: 3/7
Characters/Pairing: Bran, Barney, Will, John, Simon
Rating: G
Warnings: None
Summary: Six must be gathered again, to face an old threat wearing a new face.
All chapters: one, two, three, four, five, six, seven.
It was still early morning when Bran opened the door to find Barney there. He wasn't entirely surprised to see him, and it wasn't as if he'd been hauled out of bed to answer the door. He rose with his da, which was to say, with the dawn. He doubted even Barney, who looked like a morning person, had been up as long as him. "So, what is it you're wanting, Sais bach?" he asked, teasing a little. Eagerness was quite plain on Barney's face. "And where are your brother and sister?"
"Oh, Jane's going out with her beau, and Simon's studying or something." Barney wrinkled his nose. "Boring stuff, in other words."
Bran scowled a little. "You met Michael?"
"Well -- sort of." Barney shrugged. "That's sort of what I'm here about. Only sort of. Did Will tell you about my scrying?"
"I haven't spoken to him yet. Come on in, then. Looks like you've got a story you're bursting to tell."
Barney made a face at him. Bran politely didn't tell him that it made him look both younger and cuter than ever, and instead led him inside without further comment. There was tea made already, so he poured Barney a cup, and let him pick through the biscuit barrel for the nicest biscuits. Barney chattered about nothing all the while, and Bran marvelled at how much he didn't mind when it came from Barney.
"So," Barney said, from around a mouthful of biscuit crumbs, when they sat together at the table in the kitchen. "I came to talk to you about my scrying."
Bran nodded. "It can wait until you've finished your biscuit. No rush, like."
There was a pause, while Barney washed his biscuit down with tea, nearly choking on crumbs in his hurry, despite Bran's words. Bran rolled his eyes, but didn't comment, just reached across and slapped Barney's back firmly until he stopped coughing. Barney grinned at him, unabashed. There was a bright, eager light in his eyes. "I asked Will to teach me how to, you know, control my scrying. It's not much use to us if it just happens randomly, right? So we got a bowl and filled it with water, and we poured oil on it. Like -- oh, right, you wouldn't know. Once, a man from the Dark made me scry -- "
"I know about it," Bran said. He stretched his legs out under the table, nodding for Barney to go on.
"Okay, so, we got the bowl and filled it with water and put oil on the surface, like the man from the Dark did, and we sat quiet for a bit. Will told me to... try to see through the oil or something. I thought it wasn't going to work..."
"Obviously, it did."
"Yeah, it did. I saw..." He paused for a moment, gathering his thoughts. Bran waited. Barney took a deep breath: when he spoke again his tone was almost dreamy, almost sing-song, in recollection. "I saw Tywyn. I think it was the same afternoon. I heard Jane laughing and talking to someone, and then she came up with someone older than Simon. Really pale skin, really dark hair. He looked... weird. Then it was like he looked up and saw me -- nobody else did, not even Jane -- and then it ended."
"And?"
"And I want to try again. Try to see more..."
"Why not ask Will?"
Barney hesitated a moment, lifting his eyes to Bran's face. He looked almost puzzled. "I'm not quite sure. I just feel... like it should be with you here, not him. Looking into it with me. Will just sat there opposite, didn't see with me, but I feel like you could... or that you could help me, anyway."
Bran stood up, taking his empty cup and going to wash it out. For a moment, there was silence in that small kitchen, but it wasn't a bad kind of silence. Barney sat there, waiting, and content to wait. And Bran thought about what he'd said. "Okay," he said, finally, putting the cup on the draining board, upside down. He turned round, leaning back against the counter, arms folded. Barney's eyes met his again, the same bright eagerness almost shining out of them. Bran wondered where he got so much energy from. "You need a bowl. Water, and oil."
"Yes."
"Let's see what I can do, then," Bran said, and smiled. Barney jumped up, like an excited puppy, and helped him look. It wasn't hard to find a decent sized bowl, plain white and pattern free, though Barney wasn't sure whether that was important or not. It didn't take them long, once they had the bowl, to set it up on the kitchen table.
"Da shouldn't be home until evening, he's visiting someone," Bran said.
"It's funny how things happen like that," Barney said, absently, already seated and looking down at the bowl.
"Like what?"
"Convenient. It always happened around Gumerry. And Will, too, I suppose."
"That's the way they are, I think," Bran said. He shook his head, moving to stand behind Barney's chair. "Do you want me to do something? Hold your hand? Look into it with you? Anything?"
"Just... be quiet," Barney said, not rudely, but absently. Bran cast a brief look at him and saw his eyes were already unfocused, dreamy. "Just be quiet, and stand there."
Bran stood still, as Barney said, and stayed quiet. He had his hand on the back of Barney's chair, and he was looking at the back of Barney's head -- unless he twisted and stooped a little to look at the bowl, or craned to see Barney's face. He noticed how pale the blond of Barney's hair was, noticed chips in the white paint on the kitchen chairs. He could hear a faint buzzing from outside, and realised he could hear the humming of bees in flight. He felt as if his senses were expanding, pushing outward. First he could just hear the hum of the bees, and then the baa of sheep, though there were none of the stupid woolly creatures close at that time of year. And then the hum of a car's motor, driving up the path, but much lower down or much higher up. He thought he heard John whistling to his dogs, and for a moment, thought he could hear his da's voice, but younger -- calling out his mother's name, desperate and lonely.
The bitterness of that thought took him back to the present, unsure if he'd really heard anything. He didn't know how long he'd been standing there, but nothing seemed to have changed; Barney hadn't moved. Cautiously, he moved his hand from the back of the chair to Barney's shoulder. He was about to speak when Barney stirred.
"Two gifts," Barney said, in a thick, deep voice that seemed to come from somewhere deep inside the earth. Bran froze, listening, clutching Barney's shoulder tighter. "One from the bards, and one from the king."
"From my father?"
Barney continued as if he hadn't heard, as if the thing that borrowed his voice couldn't also hear through him. "From the bards, the true tales, the warnings that are forgotten. From the king, a sword, greater than the first. The birthright of Bran, son of Arthur, lies hidden..."
"Excalibur," someone said, from the door, and Bran let go of Barney's shoulder and whipped round to see Will standing there, with John Rowlands behind him.
"How long...?"
"We came as soon as possible," John said, while Will moved over to Barney, touching his shoulder as Bran had done. "Will thought... he felt danger in the use of power."
John said the words awkwardly, Bran noticed, still troubled by the idea of powers beyond that that he'd learnt of in church since he was a boy. Bran smiled at him and then turned to Barney, who looked very, very pale, but like himself again. Bran knew that whatever the voice was, it had gone.
"I was looking for a sword for Bran," Barney said, weakly, to Will. Will smiled at him.
"And it was well done. Excalibur, King Arthur's sword, remains in this world. We only need to find it."
"And the warnings from the bards?" John asked.
"Gwion," Bran said. Will looked at him, and their eyes met, and they smiled at each other.
"I think so, yes. I think... Barney, do you remember what I said yesterday, about the true tales being distorted? I think that... the stories about Mordred going against Arthur aren't true, not in that sense, but in a symbolic sense. Mordred never fought Arthur. He'll fight Arthur's son. His brother. The stories give us the origin of Mordred, warn us against him, but he wasn't there when the Dark fought the Light..."
"Like the Bible," John said, unexpectedly. "We know some of the stories cannot be true, yet they express a truth."
Will smiled again. "Exactly."
"What about Excalibur, then?" Barney asked. There was already a little more colour in his face, and in any case, his eyes were brightly curious again. "I saw it -- where it's hidden. I don't know how to explain it... but it's near, we can find it, it's the right time to find it..."
"This is my quest," Bran said, quietly, thoughtfully. "My birthright."
"No," Will said, equally quietly, "I don't think so."
"It feels," John said, slowly, glancing at Bran almost warily, "as if this is my task. It... calls to me."
"Perhaps it is," Will said, thoughtfully, before Bran could say anything. "But things will happen as they happen. Let it be for now. If it is the right time, something will happen, something will lead us to it. That's the way of things."
---
"You won't... mind, if it turns out to be my task after all?"
Bran looked up at John, pausing on the path, tilting his head to one side. There was a scowl somewhere, like a threatening stormcloud, but he didn't let it loose. "I suppose, if it's the way of things, I'll have to forgive," he said, letting his tone lighten a little. John smiled in relief.
"I'm glad for that. I wouldn't want you to be angry."
"I wouldn't be angry," Bran said, quietly. "I just... I want to prove myself. It's been a long time since I fought the Dark. I want to show Will that I can still... I want to show him that returning my memories wasn't a mistake. I want to be useful to him, like Barney is. Did you see the way he smiled at Barney...? The way he said it was well done? I want..."
John looked at Bran for a long moment, as if measuring him up. Under the scrutiny, Bran lifted his head, straightened up. John found he had to smile. "When you stand like that, I certainly believe you're a prince," he said.
"That doesn't mean I'm worthy of the task, though."
John sighed. He turned and walked over to a low stone wall, sitting down on it. After a moment's hesitation, Bran followed. They sat together on the wall, not saying anything for a while. Bran let that be, knowing that if John had something to say, he would say it; and in any case he remembered the solemn, not uncomfortable silence, from other times when John had wanted to say something. He tipped his head back to look up at the sky: still clear, the blue bright, but with clouds coming, scudding along on the quick wind.
"I think," John said, slowly, "that if you are not worthy of the task, Will would already know. He would never have... we wouldn't have had the dream. He knows we're the right people, even if he doesn't know how things will go... And I think there will be a task for each of us, one we are meant to complete. It may not be easy, but we all have a part. It seems to us, now, that Barney has a greater part. But perhaps his part is only for now, and it will be him feeling useless at the end."
"I suppose... It was that way the last time. Each of us had... a trial. Will and I went to the Lost Land, Jane had to stand up to the afanc..."
John reached up and put his hand on Bran's shoulder, gripping tightly. "Then your task will come soon enough."
"Still... Excalibur was my father's sword," Bran said, and there was a fierceness in his strange eyes. "It should be my task to find."
"Perhaps there's a reason," John said, gently. For a moment he sounded almost like Will often did: knowing so much more, and being patient with those who didn't know. Bran sighed, getting to his feet again.
"Maybe there is, but I don't have to like it, do I?"
"I suppose not," John said, smiling. He hesitated, plainly on the verge of saying something more. Bran waited a moment, watching him.
"Something else you want to say?"
"Yes. Your father... Owen loves you. If anything were to happen to you, he would be distraught. I think he only stopped searching for your mother because he had you to take care of. And he has never stopped grieving. If something happened to you, he would -- "
"I know," Bran said, interrupting him. "And if Owen has to hurt for the good of the Light, Will has to let him hurt, doesn't he?"
"Yes. That... do not trust too much in the Light, bach. It is good, but it... do not think of it as the sun's light, though there's that in it too. It's the moon's light that Will represents. Cold and clear, near and yet far away."
Bran smiled, just a little. "You're becoming a poet, John Rowlands."
"I'm telling you to be careful, is all."
"I will be careful," he said, sighing softly. He raised his eyes to look John in the face, smiling at him again. "For you, as well as for Da. You... you're like a second father to me."
John didn't say anything, just looked at Bran; there was tenderness in that look, and pain, and perhaps regret. Bran started to walk away, and then turned back and quickly embraced John, squeezing tightly. And then he walked away faster than before, and before John could regain his wits enough to say something, was gone.
---
Bran was still walking fast when he bumped into Simon. The clouds were coming over fast, heaping up over their portion of the sky, and the sheep in the field nearby were huddled together as if in fear of something. Simon was walking slowly, thoughtful, but apparently untroubled. Bran felt suddenly angry at his ambivalence about the whole thing; Will had warned him, but --
But Simon should know better than to disbelieve. Bran hadn't liked him best, but he'd liked him well enough, and now -- he thought this was below the Simon Drew he knew. Perhaps it was that which put the contempt into his voice. "Why haven't we seen you yet today, Sais bach? Your little brother has been doing something constructive, but we've seen nothing of you or Jane."
"What's Barney been doing?" Simon asked, frowning.
"You'd know, if you'd been there," Bran said. "He's proving himself a lot more useful than you, isn't he?"
Simon just shrugged. "I'm saving my energy for serious things."
Bran's voice was oddly quiet -- not a calm quiet, but more like the air around them: charged with tension; it was the calm before the storm. "Serious things? The Dark may rise up to take our world, and you have more serious things to do? Or do you think it's child's play we're at, Simon Drew? Don't you remember Merriman? Did you not stand in the dream with the rest of us and remember those things?" He grabbed Simon's shoulders, staring into his face. His voice rose, as if he was trying to break through -- break in -- make Simon hear him. "Do you think this is just a game? It isn't, Simon! This is -- this is the most important thing in the world. In all of time!"
Simon didn't move. "Wasn't that your supposed heroism? Slicing the blossom from the tree?"
"That was the start. This... that wasn't the end. It was the beginning! Will can't do anything, he just has to guide us -- " and as he said that, Bran realised how true it was, and fell silent for a moment. He took his hands from Simon's shoulders, voice soft again. "This is... the age of men. This is our time -- that's why Merriman went. Simon, we have to -- "
"I'm tired of this," Simon said, suddenly, forcing Bran to break off again. "I'm tired of all of it! We were kids, and we thought we were saving the world. But we're not kids anymore!"
"One of us is," Bran said, sneering.
"Better a child than delusional."
Bran laughed. "Then your little brother is the most delusional of the lot of us, Sais bach."
"You think I don't know that? I'm worried about him. That's the only reason I was coming up to join you!"
It seemed to be getting by the minute, Bran thought, and glancing up saw that the great humps and drifts of clouds had darkened. He looked back at Simon. "The storm's coming, Simon," he said, quietly. "And whether you believe in it or not, you'll be caught in it. Maybe you'll die. Maybe I'll die. Maybe your little brother will die. Will you call it delusion then?"
"You're all mad," Simon said, stubbornly. "Barney's perfectly safe, unless Will does something to him. I swear that Will must be -- "
Bran hit him. He didn't think, just hit him. His voice was dead quiet again, and dangerous, like the coming storm. "Get out of here, Drew. Just get out of my sight. You don't deserve Will's trust, you never deserved any of it. Merriman would be ashamed of his 'great nephew'. You never deserved to be one of the Six if you can say such things about Will. Now leave."
Simon stared at him. His lip had split from the blow, and as he stood there, the blood trickled a little, down over his chin. As if snapping back into awareness, he drew the back of his hand over his mouth, looking down at the red smear as if in shock. Then he looked up at Bran, looked up at his angry face, and turned to go -- almost fled. Bran stood there watching him, fists still clenched, not even understanding why he'd hit Simon. It had... it had made sense.
His fists clenched tighter, but the anger had already gone from his face. He looked as if there was a bad taste in his mouth -- as if he felt sick.