((after
this.))
It was odd.
Melou seeing his father again, beginning to put things into place, the fact that Mordred didn't seem any keener on letting his son go than Bran was -- it should have been good, right? Scratch that. It was good. Bran ought to have been happy, have been proud, been all sorts of things -- none of them feeling subdued and shaken, a big cold lump in his stomach like a burden he hadn't wanted to carry.
Will was walking slightly ahead of him as they retraced their steps through stonework more becoming to a clois`ter than the Nexus (although given the Nexus it was hard to say there was anything inappropriate to it given its nature). He was quiet too, and Bran couldn't tell whether that was because Will was similarly affected by the scene they'd witnessed between father and son, or out of deference to Bran's mood -- Bran wasn't sure when he'd noticed that Will seemed to know his moods better than Bran did but having once noticed it was hard to unnotice. "Almost there," he said, and Bran grunted in response.
He didn't know how Will had managed to balance the Nexus with his ordinary school-life and whatever the hell else it was he did, but Bran always had trouble shaping himself from the pace of the Nexus to refit the confines of their school and he had a feeling that tonight would be harder than usual. "Not looking forward to Latin drills tonight," he complained, as they stepped through the stone arch that usually led to the hall before their dorm.
Tonight however, they stepped not onto faded carpet but bright green grass of a hue Bran swore he'd know anywhere. He looked up sharply. "Will! This isn't school--"
"No," Will agreed placidly, neither slowing his pace or turning to look at Bran. "It's not." He was following the path -- well, not a path. Merely the sheep's track, worn by the endless rotation of pasture -- down the hill where beyond a low grey stone wall, pock-marked with moss and lichen, a low white cottage rested.
Bran stood still a long moment, before starting after Will. He didn't jog, but his stride was determined; he was the first to reach the cottage.
Owen Davies had just got the fire lit when the dogs set up a bark of greeting. Someone they knew from the sounds of things -- Rowland, maybe, of one of Evan's boys -- though you couldn't call them boys any longer, Rhys a farmer in his own right -- just think of that! And Bran away at school in England. Owen shook his head. "Door's open," he called, reaching for the kettle. He shook his head at himself. Was he that short of company that he was ready to light the kettle not even knowing who it was? And then he caught sight of his adoptive son in the doorway and the kettle was forgotten. "Bran!"
"Da." Bran's smile was bright, mischievous, a disconcerting flash of white in the shadow of the dim cottage -- much like the rest of him. Owen Davies had never been a superstitious man, but he had to admit the sight of Bran in the doorway gave him a turn. Then again, that might have had as much to do with the fact that he knew that at this moment his son had no business being out of school.
"What's all this then?" he asked drily, recovering himself enough to set the kettle down. "Fancy yourself a ghost looming up out of the shadow like that? You didn't come all this way just to frighten your old Da, I hope."
Bran snorted as he always did at any suggestion that Owen might be old. "Will took it into his head to make a scenic detour on our way back to school," he said, making way in the doorway for his friend.
The English boy grimaced apologetically. "This was a spur of the moment thing," he said, smile polite and somehow wistful -- as if he didn't expect to be believed but was still hopeful. Not the self-composed young man that the Davies had entertained over the Christmas break -- more changes then? "I hope you don't mind us dropping by, Mr Davies, sir."
"Mind seeing my boy, Will Stanton?" Owen shook his head. "Are you staying for tea?"
"Apparently!" But Bran's grin made it clear he didn't mind. Whatever had happened -- Owen had a sudden inkling of why Will Stanton might have decided to detour to London via Wales. "Hope you've enough, Da, because school dinners --"
"I can feed one working shepherd, I think I can manage for two school boys," Owen said with teasing scorn. "Do I want to ask why you're not in school?"
"Probably not," Will said, firm but still respectful.
Owen considered them, then mentally shrugged his shoulders. He'd raised Bran to know right from wrong, and try getting the boy to shut up about any perceived injustice. Whatever they'd been doing, he'd trust Bran to know the right of it -- and Will to see that Bran got home safely after. "Bran, you'll want to set the table."
"Why me? Will's here too--"
"Will's a guest, boyo. Well, on with it then."
The dorm had two phones that the boys were allowed the use of, neither of them particularly private or easy to get a hold of. Will managed to snag the one phone, and camping out with it behind the back of the common room sofa gained a vestige of privacy. It was still hard to hear though.
"Hello?"
"That you Mum?"
"Will? This is Gwen. Mum's down the village -- Wednesday is CWI night, you know that."
"Oh," Will said, abashed. "Of course, I do. I just forgot."
Gwen's laugh was not unsympathetic. She'd only lasted two terms away at school. "Wanted to talk to her?"
"Mm," Will admitted. "Or anyone really."
"You were just home for the bank holiday. Can't be missing us already, kiddo."
Will bit his lip. How do you explain the fact that sometimes time moves differently for you, that it's not just days you've been away, but long nights of watching without sleeping and waiting too, and on top of that time lived out of taking, in the whirl of the Nexus? "Seems longer, is all."
Gwen's voice is kind. "Well, you're in luck. I can just hear Dad now -- one moment."
Will could hear dogs barking and clutter and voices -- and then Roger Stanton picked up the phone, his voice completely familiar and ordinary and the tight anxious feeling in Will's gut melted away entirely. "I swear those dogs of ours get more badly behaved with every passing day," he complained. "Now then, Will. How are you?"
"Dad!"