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bronze_ribbonsOriginally posted to my RL journal back in June 2004.
Title: Suite
Characters: Paul, Bran, Will, and Lord Peter Wimsey's great-niece.
Rating: PG
Genres: Hurt/comfort, established relationship (Paul/Bran), futurefic, Set twenty years after Silver on the Tree.
Warmup
pstantondavies: almost done here – should i pick up anything on the way home?
bstantondavies: forgot we were out of pine nuts for the pesto.
bstantondavies: used walnuts instead. i think it’ll do, though.
pstantondavies: of course it will be fine. how are we on milk?
bstantondavies: a bit low, but since will takes his tea plain
bstantondavies: we can hold off another day or two.
pstantondavies: we’ll go out after the concert.
bstantondavies: how was rehearsal?
pstantondavies: worst visiting conductor ever.
bstantondavies: ?ever?
pstantondavies: ok, *almost* the worst.
pstantondavies: enough i couldn’t wait to get back to grading.
bstantondavies: duw.
bstantondavies: from the sound of it
pstantondavies: don’t you start
bstantondavies: should i actually bring will to this concert?
bstantondavies: i mean, i’m used to things not being quite right
bstantondavies: but he hasn’t had practice, you know?
bstantondavies: not being a music prof’s spouse and all.
pstantondavies: it won’t be that bad
bstantondavies: ah
bstantondavies: so it’s suddenly good that the students aren’t watching the conductor?
pstantondavies: the students are pretty much ignoring him
pstantondavies: mira dawson worked wonders coaching them
pstantondavies: if she doesn’t win tenure something’s terribly off.
bstantondavies: cariad
bstantondavies: you didn’t deserve this
pstantondavies: stop that
pstantondavies: it was my choice
bstantondavies: but did you really know how much you would have to give up
bstantondavies: when you gave it up?
pstantondavies: how could I have known
pstantondavies: that you could mean even more to me
bstantondavies: the next james galway, they were calling you
bstantondavies: the next james galway, stuck teaching theory 101
bstantondavies: and pinch-hitting for students with mono
pstantondavies: STOP THAT
pstantondavies: my choice. mine. touring got old a long time ago.
pstantondavies: a good thing will’s visiting
pstantondavies: stops you brooding
bstantondavies: it’s not that he stops it
bstantondavies: more his way of making it seem so terribly silly
bstantondavies: then again seeing what he does
bstantondavies: if i ran a hospital i wouldn’t put up with what-ifs either
pstantondavies: you, run a hospital?
pstantondavies: love, you pass out whenever you see skeletons
pstantondavies: plus that georgia o’keeffe exhibit
bstantondavies: bloody hell, will I never live that down?
pstantondavies: fainting in the middle of the v&a? i should think not.
pstantondavies: bring will tomorrow, he’ll like the vaughan wms
bstantondavies: so, so English of him
pstantondavies: enough! home soon.
bstantondavies: not soon enough. mwah!
pstantondavies: didgd
Not Quite In Tune
[Hartsfield-Jackson Atlanta International Airport, North Terminal]
"Good God, man, how can you stand that swill?"
Will Stanton looked up from his copy of USA Today, his glance flickering to the glass of MGD in front of him. He replied, mildly, "The paper or the beer?"
Lucy Parker-Arbuthnot grinned back at him. "Both, come to think of it. But especially the beer," she said, taking the chair across from Will. She picked up the glass, delicately sniffed at its contents, and grimaced as she set it back down on the table. "It's got absolutely no flavour and it's cold, Will. Isn't there some sort of universal law against proper Englishmen drinking this stuff?"
Will replied, "Well, as a proper Englishman, you could hardly expect me to order Sam Adams, now could you?" Lucy chuckled appreciatively. Will continued, "I fear the wine selection here is even more limited, but may I buy you a glass?"
"No need," Lucy said, leaning back in her chair. "I'd best head on to my gate soon."
"Business or pleasure?"
"New York," Lucy answered. "I need to visit a couple of showrooms there, but I think I might be able to squeeze in a trip to BAM or Lincoln Center." Stretching her legs into the aisle, she added, "This, of course, presumes that I'm not completely paralyzed with calf cramps by the time the plane lands. And you?"
"Home," Will replied. "Not home home, but England, at any rate. Starting with a visit to my brother Paul and his partner."
Lucy's brow furrowed as she mentally reviewed the list of Will's brothers. "Paul. . .Paul. . .not the admiral, not the artist - the bar owner? Will, he would be so ashamed of you!" she exclaimed, gesturing at his beer.
"No, no," Will said, laughing. "That's Robin you're thinking of - but you were close. Paul's his twin. Teaches at ______ College of Music."
Lucy's eyebrows rose. "That's a bit of a haul from Heathrow. You'll take the train, I suppose?"
Will pinned her with a mock-reproving gaze. "Now, Lucy, there is plenty of documentation confirming the existence of civilization outside of London."
"Piffle." Lucy waved away his claim. "Fairy-tales. Like all those dreadful beach novels about King Arthur being carried about. They shouldn't let pollutants like that past Security. Have you seen the movie?"
"No time, I'm afraid," Will said. "And I'd rather just go to the beach, given the choice."
"And you haven't done much of that either, from the look of you."
"We can't all be jet-setting internationally renowed interior designers, Lucasta Parker-Arbuthnot."
"No, we just happen to run the best damn ER in the southeastern United States, is what." Lucy smiled at Will with genuine affection, tinted with a hint of concern. "And running ourselves ragged, it seems. Will, you're not superhuman - you should take better care of yourself."
Repressing a sudden urge to snarl at her, Will settled for what he hoped was a friendly scowl: "Don't you have a plane to catch?"
Lucy stood up, laughing. "Yes, yes, I'm going already. Will, by now you ought to know better than to mind my fussing. Endemic to the profession."
"Yes, but I'm not one of your six-hundred dollar lampshades."
With one hand on her roller-case, Lucy leaned over the table and dropped a kiss onto Will's brow. Then she frowned. "You're certainly radiating enough heat --"
Will held up a hand, cutting her off. "Lucy. Who's the physician here?"
"All right." Lucy sighed, straightening up. "All right. Even though we all know that you doctors are absolute ninnies when it comes to taking care of yourselves. At least you're getting away from this swamp for a bit."
Will touched the sleeve of her suit, trying to answer the concern still clouding her eyes. "Lucy. It will be all right. Paul and Bran always spoil me rotten."
At the mention of Bran's name, Lucy halted, and then beamed. "Oh! Bran! I remember him now! Your sister Mary's wedding!"
Will said, drily, "Well, his appearance is distinctive."
Lucy smirked. "And here I thought she didn't wear white because it was husband number three."
"Lucy!!"
"I know, I'm terrible."
"Also part of the profession?"
"Absolutely." Lucy clasped Will's hand, her eyes now lit with humor instead of worry. "Actually, what I really remember about Bran was how he constantly hovered over you, even when you were clear across the room. Almost possessive, even, like an ex-boyfr--"
"LUCY!!" Will snatched his hand away. "That is quite enough speculation about my love life."
Lucy leaned in, refusing to let the point go. "Allow me some fun with this, Will. It's not as if you have one in real life."
Will gritted his teeth. "Busy. You know that."
Lucy leaned in even closer, relentless. "Can't be bothered, more like."
Silence. The tension between them tightened, like an elastic stretched almost to its breaking point.
Then she drew back, apologetic. "I'm sorry, Will. Truly not my business." She took a deep breath. "We make our choices. Not for me to judge."
"No, it's not," Will snapped back. But, inside his head, a voice murmured, Easy, Will. She has no idea. Except that she knows what it's like to be alone. It took guts for her to dump Hilleary and his millions and the squadrons of so-called friends. . . Aloud, he muttered, "Sorry. I think you're right. I haven't been getting out enough."
Her voice not quite steady, Lucy replied, "Well, we'll just have to fix that when we're both back in town." She took another deep breath and then straightened up once more, affecting her usual brisk, imperious style. "Lord knows my clients prod at me often enough about the delectable and unattainable Dr. Stanton."
"And I remain grateful to you for not setting me up with any of them thus far," Will intoned.
"And thus it ever shall be, world without end, amen," Lucy replied cheerfully. "I could see you with a professor, though. Susannah Boden took me to a luncheon at Emory the other week --"
"Lucy," Will held up his hands in surrender, laughing. "I am all yours when you get back. Go catch your plane!"
Lucy grinned, but her eyes were serious as she said, "All mine, Will Stanton? I don’t want 'all' you. I don't want 'all' anybody, because I'm damned if I'll waste 'all' of me on anyone ever again."
Will kept his voice light. "Besides which, you've never wanted me anyway, which is one of your most fetching qualities."
As he'd hoped, Lucy's face crinkled with amusement. "Oh, so that's why you put up with my venemous tongue and aristocratic nonsense?"
"And the insider's discount on thousand-dollar firescreens, of course."
"Bah, so you're no different than the rest."
"If only, madam. If only."
"What, and give up the instant authority that comes with your posh English accent?"
"True, o queen. With a face like this, I need all of the superficial authority I can muster."
Lucy snorted. "You? Superficial? William Stanton, you've been old as the hills and wiser than serpents ever since I've known you - and I'm certain neither med school nor your MBA had anything to do with it."
"See? Fooled you too."
Lucy laughed outright. "All right, darling. I'm off to the wilds of Manhattan. Have a good trip." She paused. "And give my love to your boys, if they remember me. I know they'll take proper care of you."
Will raised her hand to his lips and kissed it gently. "Safe journey, Lucy."
As she turned away and strode down the corridor -- a leggy, blonde, Chanel-clad whirlwind -- Will's smile faded. Typical Lucy, he thought. Adorable and maddening and utterly exhausting. The granddaughter of a Scotland Yard detective, she was one of the sharpest women he knew -- and she turned the intelligence on and off like a light switch, depending on her audience. Which meant, in turn, that she wasn't wholly deceived by Will's own façade of genial imperturbability, but she seemed to have automatically classified it as a variation of the friendly ruthlessness underpinning her career as a star decorator and his as a healthcare executive -- part of their "extraordinary expatriate" armor.
She also generally stuck to needling him on more frivolous topics, such as football standings and his standing order for Flake bars whenever she brought back goodies from England. Will frowned: for all of her cheek, it was not like Lucy to twit anyone on their romantic inadequacies, given the spectacular mess that had been her marriage. Hilleary really was a total git, Will reflected. But is she missing him anyway? She's so gregarious, it must be hard for her to adjust, even if he did suck the life out of every . . .
Will let the thought recede away. Trying to fathom Lucy's feelings for Hill was not only utterly unproductive, it was guaranteed to make his head ache. He touched his forehead, where she had kissed him. It did feel a touch warmer than usual. He probably did look off his feed. "Definitely past time for a holiday, my boy," he said to himself. "And Bran is going to fuss over you, you know. Very protective of you and Paul and everyone else he loves."
He smiled to himself then, remembering a conversation with his old friend Jane Snow about her first encounter with Bran. "It's funny," Jane had mused. "That whole week was a blur, but I distinctly remember Bran jumping down my throat about being stupid. Something about you having enough to worry about without us adding to it."
Then she'd frowned. "But for the life of me I don't remember what was wrong. Just that Bran was absolutely determined that I not make it any harder for you. Ready to bite at anyone who did, even back then."
Will had shrugged, casually. "You know how anything and everything's a drama at that age."
To his relief, Jane had instantly replied, "Oh yes, don't I know it. Every day with Elaine -- it's always the end of the world when things don't go her way, and it's always my fault because I'm her mum and I just don't understannnnnnd. I don't remember Elizabeth or Margaret being this awful -- but I think they were also sneakier about getting what they wanted."
"Fate of the youngest," Will had agreed. "Hard to get away with murder when your sibs already used up the best excuses."
"Ha. I'll have to ask Barney if he felt that way, but Simon and I were so tame... Anyhow, that handicap doesn't seem to have stopped either of you from turning out all right, so I'll just have to keep that in mind the next time my littlest girl wants to pierce unmentionable body parts. For all I know, Beth and Meg probably splurged on tattooes that I'll never hear about because they know that their mum would just die."
"So," Will had enquired solemnly, "just where is your tattoo, Jane?" And the suggestion of the staid, self-conscious teenager she had been even venturing inside a tattoo parlor -- let alone baring any unmentionable body parts to strangers -- had been so patently ludicrous that they had both dissolved into hoots of laughter.
Leaving the bar, Will folded up the newspaper and chucked it into the trash cabinet. As the moving walkway took him past a bookstore, he inwardly cringed at the garish cardboard displays advertising King Arthur's Little Instruction Book and Chicken Soup for The Modern Knight but kept his face expressionless. Just another guy in a suit, on his way to somewhere not quite home.
Tri
Pan ddôf adref dros y môr
Cariad gura wrth dy ddôr
When I cross the sea once more
Love comes knocking at my door
"Clychau Aberdyfi"/"The Bells of Aberdovey"
“About time you came back to us, boyo,” Bran drawled.
Will blinked, gazing up at his friend’s pale face, the worry in the tawny eyes belying the casual greeting. “Time?” he whispered.
“Friday,” Bran said. “Three days you’ve been out cold.” He paused. “What do you remember?”
The shriek of hissing metal, the screams and howls of the other passengers -- Will shuddered. Bran instantly bent closer to comfort him, inwardly cursing the IV tubes in his way. He settled for stroking Will’s face, his other hand curving around the Englishman’s clenched fist.
“Hell of a way to come back to the Isles,” Bran murmured.
“You’re telling me,” Will groaned. “Past time, though. . .” He tried to sit up but his body felt anchored to the bed, from head to toe.
“Wait,” said Bran. “Let’s try this.” He fiddled with a panel by the side of the hospital bed, raising its upper half. “Better?”
“Much,” Will sighed. Bran’s hand returned to his cheek, fingertips lightly stroking. Will closed his eyes briefly, savoring the sensation, then opened them again to look directly at his friend.
“Three days?”
“Yes.”
“You’ve been here the whole time?”
“Paul and I took turns.” Bran’s eyes flickered to the couch in the room, where some pillows and blankets were haphazardly piled. “A good thing you thought to name him ‘next of kin’ all those years ago. He’s downstairs dealing with some paperwork. You and your bizarre, Byzantine, benighted American HMOs –- ”
Will smiled weakly. “He may be a musician, but he’s always been reliable, too. And patient. And then you came along—“
“Please,” Bran closed his eyes in mock-exasperation. “I get enough tweeting from your sisters and brothers on what a stable, cozy couple we are. Especially Mary.”
“Well, of course,” said Will. “She’s jealous.” He added softly, “And, for that matter, so am I.”
“Nonsense,” Bran said, in a stern voice. “If you go all self-pitying on me, Will Stanton, I shall have to throttle you. Until you come back to your senses.”
“No fair throttling someone who can’t throttle back, Davies,” Will joked –- but his mouth went dry as the humor drained away from Bran’s face.
“Hey,” he said hastily. “No harm, no foul.”
“No harm like hell,” Bran snapped. “A hundred dead, another half hundred injured, and your arm so crushed that they had to saw it off—“
“A good thing you’re a translator and not a nurse, love,” murmured a voice from the doorway. “Your bedside manner is somewhat lacking.” Paul eased into the room and slid an arm around his agitated partner.
“So they did,” Will said, in a surprised tone. He tried to glance down, to get a look where his arm should have been, but his head still felt stuffed with bricks. Yet curiously light --
“It will take some getting used to,” Paul said, gently. “But we’re here for you—“
“No time for that,” Will said suddenly, despairingly. “I can’t afford—“
“I don’t care what your medical center says,” Paul said firmly, “they will just have to do without you until you’re well again. We’re not letting you out of our sight—“
“You don’t understand!” cried Will, almost angrily. “All those people—“ He broke off, astonished, as Bran’s voice spoke inside his mind.
Cariad, said the voice, we know. We know who you are and what you need to do, and we will make sure of it.
You what? Will would have shouted the words aloud, but for Paul’s fingers on his lips, ostensibly to stem his hysteria. Bran’s lips were compressed together tightly, his gaze seemingly fixed upon the control panel of the bed.
Collecting himself, trembling, Will asked, How on earth —
Will, said Paul, joining the silent conversation, the accident –- it happened at daybreak. Light breaking on the horizon –- and then smothered by clouds. Paul spoke with a hesitant accent -- that of someone new to a language.
In contrast, Bran spoke with the confidence of someone once fluent – of someone returning to a beloved country. Old One –- Will started, hearing the title no one had used in some twenty years –- Old One, it is not the Dark. That is why it took you unawares, you and your unfortunate fellow-travelers on the train from London to Leeds.
Will stole a look at his brother, fearful at what he might find in Paul’s face. Incomprehension? Skepticism? Revulsion? But Paul was still gazing at him steadily, his pale blue eyes full of concern, yet calm. Not empty, Will realized with a shock. Not horrified. What had happened?
Not the Dark, Bran repeated quietly. The last Rising was indeed the last, and the silver on the tree a banishment out of Time for all of time. But there is far more to magic than the Light and the Dark, and there is now a splintering of the gates and the unraveling of reins and rules cast away like broken toys.
And you are no longer marked by the Light, Will Stanton, Bran added, his voice resonant and regal. And therefore no longer bound by its strictures. No more nonsense about mortals needing to forget the old ways for their own good, he added, with a tinge of bitterness.
Will winced. So many years. . . I’m sorry, he said lamely.
Paul interrupted, soothing. You meant well. And you were so young.
But I am still of the Light, Will answered slowly, painfully. And my powers, my gifts, those were shaped by the Light –-
But the Doors of the Light are not locked, said Bran, his voice that of a parent speaking of urgent matters to a confused child – full of suppressed frustration, full of love.
Not locked, Will echoed, his mind whirling. Not locked –-
And suddenly he remembered words spoken to him long ago, by another breaker of rules: Nothing can end or die that has once had a place in Time. And as the memories of apple trees and prancing skeletons and glittering, menacing mirrors surged through his mind, Will stretched his senses towards the arm no longer a part of his body.
Bone, blood, flesh, scar – all ashes now, incinerated. And somehow in the burning—
With a great effort, Will looked directly at Paul, and at Bran, and said aloud, “We?”
Paul’s hand rose to touch his cheek. Bran pressed up against Paul’s back, one hand reaching for Will’s, the other squeezing Paul’s shoulder. And as his fingers twined with Will’s, the dream-infused chimes of the Light rang in the air, brilliant and brittle –-
but unlike any other time he had heard it, the melody did not melt into the folds of a disappearing cloak or the crease of a closing door. A sweep of harp-strings ensnared it, and then the lilt of a flute lifted it, up higher and wilder, the silvery combination of bells and harp and flute blossoming into a waterfall of enchanted sound. A sound that spoke of beauty and strength and love beyond boundaries--
Will closed his eyes, spent. Far more to magic, Bran had said.
“Rest, Will,” ordered Bran. “You won’t be of any use if you don’t get your strength back.”
“All right,” Will whispered, not opening his eyes. “There will be time. . .”
Watching his youngest brother drift into sleep, Paul wearily leaned back, letting Bran’s arms cradle him.
I wasn’t ready for this, he confessed silently.
Nor was I, Bran replied softly. But my father didn’t win all of his battles either.
And yet the world went on, and here we are.
Yes, said Bran, his lips tracing Paul’s ear, spelling Dw i’n dy garu di into his hearing. And the world has need of our magic.
[Fin.]
Notes: “didgd” – short for “Dw i’n dy garu di” (“I love you” in Welsh)
"Tri" = "three"
Title: Suite
Characters: Paul, Bran, Will, and Lord Peter Wimsey's great-niece.
Rating: PG
Genres: Hurt/comfort, established relationship (Paul/Bran), futurefic, Set twenty years after Silver on the Tree.
Warmup
pstantondavies: almost done here – should i pick up anything on the way home?
bstantondavies: forgot we were out of pine nuts for the pesto.
bstantondavies: used walnuts instead. i think it’ll do, though.
pstantondavies: of course it will be fine. how are we on milk?
bstantondavies: a bit low, but since will takes his tea plain
bstantondavies: we can hold off another day or two.
pstantondavies: we’ll go out after the concert.
bstantondavies: how was rehearsal?
pstantondavies: worst visiting conductor ever.
bstantondavies: ?ever?
pstantondavies: ok, *almost* the worst.
pstantondavies: enough i couldn’t wait to get back to grading.
bstantondavies: duw.
bstantondavies: from the sound of it
pstantondavies: don’t you start
bstantondavies: should i actually bring will to this concert?
bstantondavies: i mean, i’m used to things not being quite right
bstantondavies: but he hasn’t had practice, you know?
bstantondavies: not being a music prof’s spouse and all.
pstantondavies: it won’t be that bad
bstantondavies: ah
bstantondavies: so it’s suddenly good that the students aren’t watching the conductor?
pstantondavies: the students are pretty much ignoring him
pstantondavies: mira dawson worked wonders coaching them
pstantondavies: if she doesn’t win tenure something’s terribly off.
bstantondavies: cariad
bstantondavies: you didn’t deserve this
pstantondavies: stop that
pstantondavies: it was my choice
bstantondavies: but did you really know how much you would have to give up
bstantondavies: when you gave it up?
pstantondavies: how could I have known
pstantondavies: that you could mean even more to me
bstantondavies: the next james galway, they were calling you
bstantondavies: the next james galway, stuck teaching theory 101
bstantondavies: and pinch-hitting for students with mono
pstantondavies: STOP THAT
pstantondavies: my choice. mine. touring got old a long time ago.
pstantondavies: a good thing will’s visiting
pstantondavies: stops you brooding
bstantondavies: it’s not that he stops it
bstantondavies: more his way of making it seem so terribly silly
bstantondavies: then again seeing what he does
bstantondavies: if i ran a hospital i wouldn’t put up with what-ifs either
pstantondavies: you, run a hospital?
pstantondavies: love, you pass out whenever you see skeletons
pstantondavies: plus that georgia o’keeffe exhibit
bstantondavies: bloody hell, will I never live that down?
pstantondavies: fainting in the middle of the v&a? i should think not.
pstantondavies: bring will tomorrow, he’ll like the vaughan wms
bstantondavies: so, so English of him
pstantondavies: enough! home soon.
bstantondavies: not soon enough. mwah!
pstantondavies: didgd
Not Quite In Tune
[Hartsfield-Jackson Atlanta International Airport, North Terminal]
"Good God, man, how can you stand that swill?"
Will Stanton looked up from his copy of USA Today, his glance flickering to the glass of MGD in front of him. He replied, mildly, "The paper or the beer?"
Lucy Parker-Arbuthnot grinned back at him. "Both, come to think of it. But especially the beer," she said, taking the chair across from Will. She picked up the glass, delicately sniffed at its contents, and grimaced as she set it back down on the table. "It's got absolutely no flavour and it's cold, Will. Isn't there some sort of universal law against proper Englishmen drinking this stuff?"
Will replied, "Well, as a proper Englishman, you could hardly expect me to order Sam Adams, now could you?" Lucy chuckled appreciatively. Will continued, "I fear the wine selection here is even more limited, but may I buy you a glass?"
"No need," Lucy said, leaning back in her chair. "I'd best head on to my gate soon."
"Business or pleasure?"
"New York," Lucy answered. "I need to visit a couple of showrooms there, but I think I might be able to squeeze in a trip to BAM or Lincoln Center." Stretching her legs into the aisle, she added, "This, of course, presumes that I'm not completely paralyzed with calf cramps by the time the plane lands. And you?"
"Home," Will replied. "Not home home, but England, at any rate. Starting with a visit to my brother Paul and his partner."
Lucy's brow furrowed as she mentally reviewed the list of Will's brothers. "Paul. . .Paul. . .not the admiral, not the artist - the bar owner? Will, he would be so ashamed of you!" she exclaimed, gesturing at his beer.
"No, no," Will said, laughing. "That's Robin you're thinking of - but you were close. Paul's his twin. Teaches at ______ College of Music."
Lucy's eyebrows rose. "That's a bit of a haul from Heathrow. You'll take the train, I suppose?"
Will pinned her with a mock-reproving gaze. "Now, Lucy, there is plenty of documentation confirming the existence of civilization outside of London."
"Piffle." Lucy waved away his claim. "Fairy-tales. Like all those dreadful beach novels about King Arthur being carried about. They shouldn't let pollutants like that past Security. Have you seen the movie?"
"No time, I'm afraid," Will said. "And I'd rather just go to the beach, given the choice."
"And you haven't done much of that either, from the look of you."
"We can't all be jet-setting internationally renowed interior designers, Lucasta Parker-Arbuthnot."
"No, we just happen to run the best damn ER in the southeastern United States, is what." Lucy smiled at Will with genuine affection, tinted with a hint of concern. "And running ourselves ragged, it seems. Will, you're not superhuman - you should take better care of yourself."
Repressing a sudden urge to snarl at her, Will settled for what he hoped was a friendly scowl: "Don't you have a plane to catch?"
Lucy stood up, laughing. "Yes, yes, I'm going already. Will, by now you ought to know better than to mind my fussing. Endemic to the profession."
"Yes, but I'm not one of your six-hundred dollar lampshades."
With one hand on her roller-case, Lucy leaned over the table and dropped a kiss onto Will's brow. Then she frowned. "You're certainly radiating enough heat --"
Will held up a hand, cutting her off. "Lucy. Who's the physician here?"
"All right." Lucy sighed, straightening up. "All right. Even though we all know that you doctors are absolute ninnies when it comes to taking care of yourselves. At least you're getting away from this swamp for a bit."
Will touched the sleeve of her suit, trying to answer the concern still clouding her eyes. "Lucy. It will be all right. Paul and Bran always spoil me rotten."
At the mention of Bran's name, Lucy halted, and then beamed. "Oh! Bran! I remember him now! Your sister Mary's wedding!"
Will said, drily, "Well, his appearance is distinctive."
Lucy smirked. "And here I thought she didn't wear white because it was husband number three."
"Lucy!!"
"I know, I'm terrible."
"Also part of the profession?"
"Absolutely." Lucy clasped Will's hand, her eyes now lit with humor instead of worry. "Actually, what I really remember about Bran was how he constantly hovered over you, even when you were clear across the room. Almost possessive, even, like an ex-boyfr--"
"LUCY!!" Will snatched his hand away. "That is quite enough speculation about my love life."
Lucy leaned in, refusing to let the point go. "Allow me some fun with this, Will. It's not as if you have one in real life."
Will gritted his teeth. "Busy. You know that."
Lucy leaned in even closer, relentless. "Can't be bothered, more like."
Silence. The tension between them tightened, like an elastic stretched almost to its breaking point.
Then she drew back, apologetic. "I'm sorry, Will. Truly not my business." She took a deep breath. "We make our choices. Not for me to judge."
"No, it's not," Will snapped back. But, inside his head, a voice murmured, Easy, Will. She has no idea. Except that she knows what it's like to be alone. It took guts for her to dump Hilleary and his millions and the squadrons of so-called friends. . . Aloud, he muttered, "Sorry. I think you're right. I haven't been getting out enough."
Her voice not quite steady, Lucy replied, "Well, we'll just have to fix that when we're both back in town." She took another deep breath and then straightened up once more, affecting her usual brisk, imperious style. "Lord knows my clients prod at me often enough about the delectable and unattainable Dr. Stanton."
"And I remain grateful to you for not setting me up with any of them thus far," Will intoned.
"And thus it ever shall be, world without end, amen," Lucy replied cheerfully. "I could see you with a professor, though. Susannah Boden took me to a luncheon at Emory the other week --"
"Lucy," Will held up his hands in surrender, laughing. "I am all yours when you get back. Go catch your plane!"
Lucy grinned, but her eyes were serious as she said, "All mine, Will Stanton? I don’t want 'all' you. I don't want 'all' anybody, because I'm damned if I'll waste 'all' of me on anyone ever again."
Will kept his voice light. "Besides which, you've never wanted me anyway, which is one of your most fetching qualities."
As he'd hoped, Lucy's face crinkled with amusement. "Oh, so that's why you put up with my venemous tongue and aristocratic nonsense?"
"And the insider's discount on thousand-dollar firescreens, of course."
"Bah, so you're no different than the rest."
"If only, madam. If only."
"What, and give up the instant authority that comes with your posh English accent?"
"True, o queen. With a face like this, I need all of the superficial authority I can muster."
Lucy snorted. "You? Superficial? William Stanton, you've been old as the hills and wiser than serpents ever since I've known you - and I'm certain neither med school nor your MBA had anything to do with it."
"See? Fooled you too."
Lucy laughed outright. "All right, darling. I'm off to the wilds of Manhattan. Have a good trip." She paused. "And give my love to your boys, if they remember me. I know they'll take proper care of you."
Will raised her hand to his lips and kissed it gently. "Safe journey, Lucy."
As she turned away and strode down the corridor -- a leggy, blonde, Chanel-clad whirlwind -- Will's smile faded. Typical Lucy, he thought. Adorable and maddening and utterly exhausting. The granddaughter of a Scotland Yard detective, she was one of the sharpest women he knew -- and she turned the intelligence on and off like a light switch, depending on her audience. Which meant, in turn, that she wasn't wholly deceived by Will's own façade of genial imperturbability, but she seemed to have automatically classified it as a variation of the friendly ruthlessness underpinning her career as a star decorator and his as a healthcare executive -- part of their "extraordinary expatriate" armor.
She also generally stuck to needling him on more frivolous topics, such as football standings and his standing order for Flake bars whenever she brought back goodies from England. Will frowned: for all of her cheek, it was not like Lucy to twit anyone on their romantic inadequacies, given the spectacular mess that had been her marriage. Hilleary really was a total git, Will reflected. But is she missing him anyway? She's so gregarious, it must be hard for her to adjust, even if he did suck the life out of every . . .
Will let the thought recede away. Trying to fathom Lucy's feelings for Hill was not only utterly unproductive, it was guaranteed to make his head ache. He touched his forehead, where she had kissed him. It did feel a touch warmer than usual. He probably did look off his feed. "Definitely past time for a holiday, my boy," he said to himself. "And Bran is going to fuss over you, you know. Very protective of you and Paul and everyone else he loves."
He smiled to himself then, remembering a conversation with his old friend Jane Snow about her first encounter with Bran. "It's funny," Jane had mused. "That whole week was a blur, but I distinctly remember Bran jumping down my throat about being stupid. Something about you having enough to worry about without us adding to it."
Then she'd frowned. "But for the life of me I don't remember what was wrong. Just that Bran was absolutely determined that I not make it any harder for you. Ready to bite at anyone who did, even back then."
Will had shrugged, casually. "You know how anything and everything's a drama at that age."
To his relief, Jane had instantly replied, "Oh yes, don't I know it. Every day with Elaine -- it's always the end of the world when things don't go her way, and it's always my fault because I'm her mum and I just don't understannnnnnd. I don't remember Elizabeth or Margaret being this awful -- but I think they were also sneakier about getting what they wanted."
"Fate of the youngest," Will had agreed. "Hard to get away with murder when your sibs already used up the best excuses."
"Ha. I'll have to ask Barney if he felt that way, but Simon and I were so tame... Anyhow, that handicap doesn't seem to have stopped either of you from turning out all right, so I'll just have to keep that in mind the next time my littlest girl wants to pierce unmentionable body parts. For all I know, Beth and Meg probably splurged on tattooes that I'll never hear about because they know that their mum would just die."
"So," Will had enquired solemnly, "just where is your tattoo, Jane?" And the suggestion of the staid, self-conscious teenager she had been even venturing inside a tattoo parlor -- let alone baring any unmentionable body parts to strangers -- had been so patently ludicrous that they had both dissolved into hoots of laughter.
Leaving the bar, Will folded up the newspaper and chucked it into the trash cabinet. As the moving walkway took him past a bookstore, he inwardly cringed at the garish cardboard displays advertising King Arthur's Little Instruction Book and Chicken Soup for The Modern Knight but kept his face expressionless. Just another guy in a suit, on his way to somewhere not quite home.
Tri
Pan ddôf adref dros y môr
Cariad gura wrth dy ddôr
When I cross the sea once more
Love comes knocking at my door
"Clychau Aberdyfi"/"The Bells of Aberdovey"
“About time you came back to us, boyo,” Bran drawled.
Will blinked, gazing up at his friend’s pale face, the worry in the tawny eyes belying the casual greeting. “Time?” he whispered.
“Friday,” Bran said. “Three days you’ve been out cold.” He paused. “What do you remember?”
The shriek of hissing metal, the screams and howls of the other passengers -- Will shuddered. Bran instantly bent closer to comfort him, inwardly cursing the IV tubes in his way. He settled for stroking Will’s face, his other hand curving around the Englishman’s clenched fist.
“Hell of a way to come back to the Isles,” Bran murmured.
“You’re telling me,” Will groaned. “Past time, though. . .” He tried to sit up but his body felt anchored to the bed, from head to toe.
“Wait,” said Bran. “Let’s try this.” He fiddled with a panel by the side of the hospital bed, raising its upper half. “Better?”
“Much,” Will sighed. Bran’s hand returned to his cheek, fingertips lightly stroking. Will closed his eyes briefly, savoring the sensation, then opened them again to look directly at his friend.
“Three days?”
“Yes.”
“You’ve been here the whole time?”
“Paul and I took turns.” Bran’s eyes flickered to the couch in the room, where some pillows and blankets were haphazardly piled. “A good thing you thought to name him ‘next of kin’ all those years ago. He’s downstairs dealing with some paperwork. You and your bizarre, Byzantine, benighted American HMOs –- ”
Will smiled weakly. “He may be a musician, but he’s always been reliable, too. And patient. And then you came along—“
“Please,” Bran closed his eyes in mock-exasperation. “I get enough tweeting from your sisters and brothers on what a stable, cozy couple we are. Especially Mary.”
“Well, of course,” said Will. “She’s jealous.” He added softly, “And, for that matter, so am I.”
“Nonsense,” Bran said, in a stern voice. “If you go all self-pitying on me, Will Stanton, I shall have to throttle you. Until you come back to your senses.”
“No fair throttling someone who can’t throttle back, Davies,” Will joked –- but his mouth went dry as the humor drained away from Bran’s face.
“Hey,” he said hastily. “No harm, no foul.”
“No harm like hell,” Bran snapped. “A hundred dead, another half hundred injured, and your arm so crushed that they had to saw it off—“
“A good thing you’re a translator and not a nurse, love,” murmured a voice from the doorway. “Your bedside manner is somewhat lacking.” Paul eased into the room and slid an arm around his agitated partner.
“So they did,” Will said, in a surprised tone. He tried to glance down, to get a look where his arm should have been, but his head still felt stuffed with bricks. Yet curiously light --
“It will take some getting used to,” Paul said, gently. “But we’re here for you—“
“No time for that,” Will said suddenly, despairingly. “I can’t afford—“
“I don’t care what your medical center says,” Paul said firmly, “they will just have to do without you until you’re well again. We’re not letting you out of our sight—“
“You don’t understand!” cried Will, almost angrily. “All those people—“ He broke off, astonished, as Bran’s voice spoke inside his mind.
Cariad, said the voice, we know. We know who you are and what you need to do, and we will make sure of it.
You what? Will would have shouted the words aloud, but for Paul’s fingers on his lips, ostensibly to stem his hysteria. Bran’s lips were compressed together tightly, his gaze seemingly fixed upon the control panel of the bed.
Collecting himself, trembling, Will asked, How on earth —
Will, said Paul, joining the silent conversation, the accident –- it happened at daybreak. Light breaking on the horizon –- and then smothered by clouds. Paul spoke with a hesitant accent -- that of someone new to a language.
In contrast, Bran spoke with the confidence of someone once fluent – of someone returning to a beloved country. Old One –- Will started, hearing the title no one had used in some twenty years –- Old One, it is not the Dark. That is why it took you unawares, you and your unfortunate fellow-travelers on the train from London to Leeds.
Will stole a look at his brother, fearful at what he might find in Paul’s face. Incomprehension? Skepticism? Revulsion? But Paul was still gazing at him steadily, his pale blue eyes full of concern, yet calm. Not empty, Will realized with a shock. Not horrified. What had happened?
Not the Dark, Bran repeated quietly. The last Rising was indeed the last, and the silver on the tree a banishment out of Time for all of time. But there is far more to magic than the Light and the Dark, and there is now a splintering of the gates and the unraveling of reins and rules cast away like broken toys.
And you are no longer marked by the Light, Will Stanton, Bran added, his voice resonant and regal. And therefore no longer bound by its strictures. No more nonsense about mortals needing to forget the old ways for their own good, he added, with a tinge of bitterness.
Will winced. So many years. . . I’m sorry, he said lamely.
Paul interrupted, soothing. You meant well. And you were so young.
But I am still of the Light, Will answered slowly, painfully. And my powers, my gifts, those were shaped by the Light –-
But the Doors of the Light are not locked, said Bran, his voice that of a parent speaking of urgent matters to a confused child – full of suppressed frustration, full of love.
Not locked, Will echoed, his mind whirling. Not locked –-
And suddenly he remembered words spoken to him long ago, by another breaker of rules: Nothing can end or die that has once had a place in Time. And as the memories of apple trees and prancing skeletons and glittering, menacing mirrors surged through his mind, Will stretched his senses towards the arm no longer a part of his body.
Bone, blood, flesh, scar – all ashes now, incinerated. And somehow in the burning—
With a great effort, Will looked directly at Paul, and at Bran, and said aloud, “We?”
Paul’s hand rose to touch his cheek. Bran pressed up against Paul’s back, one hand reaching for Will’s, the other squeezing Paul’s shoulder. And as his fingers twined with Will’s, the dream-infused chimes of the Light rang in the air, brilliant and brittle –-
but unlike any other time he had heard it, the melody did not melt into the folds of a disappearing cloak or the crease of a closing door. A sweep of harp-strings ensnared it, and then the lilt of a flute lifted it, up higher and wilder, the silvery combination of bells and harp and flute blossoming into a waterfall of enchanted sound. A sound that spoke of beauty and strength and love beyond boundaries--
Will closed his eyes, spent. Far more to magic, Bran had said.
“Rest, Will,” ordered Bran. “You won’t be of any use if you don’t get your strength back.”
“All right,” Will whispered, not opening his eyes. “There will be time. . .”
Watching his youngest brother drift into sleep, Paul wearily leaned back, letting Bran’s arms cradle him.
I wasn’t ready for this, he confessed silently.
Nor was I, Bran replied softly. But my father didn’t win all of his battles either.
And yet the world went on, and here we are.
Yes, said Bran, his lips tracing Paul’s ear, spelling Dw i’n dy garu di into his hearing. And the world has need of our magic.
[Fin.]
Notes: “didgd” – short for “Dw i’n dy garu di” (“I love you” in Welsh)
"Tri" = "three"