TDIR: Constraint
Fandom: The Dark Is Rising
Pairing: None
Warnings: None
Rating: None
Summary: John gives Owen some advice. For over_look.
"Is something wrong, Bran-bach?"
Bran's nearly seven, now, tall and lanky for his age, and fiercely sullen today, his golden eyes red around the rims like he's been crying. Owen should know better than to try and pry his secrets out of him, and he does sort of know better, but he can't help but ask. Bran glares at him a little. "I'm fine. Absolutely fine. There's nothing wrong. Leave me alone!"
"Bran..."
"People in school are idiots, that's all," Bran says with the kind of fierce vehemence that comes from who-knows-where. Owen's never been like that, himself, and only a slimeball like Prichard can stir him into anger, and that with a lot of stirring -- but then, he forgets; Bran isn't his own son. Gwen... she'd seemed so calm, so thin and quiet and lost, like she was fading. Or running. Running from her past. Owen looks at Bran and wonders if that arrogance and bubbling anger comes from his father, his real father, or just from circumstances.
He has a feeling he'll never know.
"What have they been saying to you?"
Bran shakes his head, his white hair fluttering about his face, and he gives Owen a firm look, like he might give a dog: stop that, now. "It's nothing, Da, it's really nothing. I just don't get on with anyone at school."
And with that he's jumping up from his chair, snatching his jacket and leaving, letting the door slam behind him. A moment later, there's a knock on the door, and before Owen can move to answer it, John Rowlands opens the door and peers in, smiling just a little. "Heard Bran-bach had a bad day at school, so I wanted to come and talk to him, but it seems he's not in the mood."
Owen snorts softly. "That's an understatement. Come on in. Would you like a cup of tea?"
"I've somewhere to be going, but some tea wouldn't hurt," John says, smiling with that friendly smile of his that Owen half fancies could calm a whole flock of frightened sheep. The few times he's been angry, there's been John, all sane and calm and friendly, to draw him back out of the ungodly anger. He's a good man, a good Christian -- a solid one.
"I'll make you a cup. It's no trouble."
He gets up to make the cup of tea, and John sits down, shrugging off his coat and holding it in his hands. He's something to say, Owen can tell, and so he stays quiet and waits for it. John Rowlands always talks sense -- there's no denying that -- and it's worth waiting.
"I think Bran is just going to have to learn to deal with these people," he says, slowly. He sighs, stretching his legs out in front of him. "But I think you're going to want to protect him, him being your son and all in all but blood."
"He's my son," Owen says, surprising even himself with his vehemence -- because Bran is his son, for always, in the eyes of God and man, and he's brought him up to be a good Christian boy, and that's all that matters, not the blood that runs in his veins. "I don't want him to ever think anything different."
"He won't. That's not what I'm saying, Owen. Just..."
"What?"
John sighs softly. "I know you want to protect him. You've bumped heads with Prichard over the boy enough to prove that. But you can't shelter him forever, and it'd be hard to do it even in the short term. You have to let him come face to face with these people and find his own ways of coping. Not to say," and John smiles one of those smiles, "you can't support Bran, and not to say that I won't be having a word with some of these boy's fathers myself, but..."
Owen looks up from the teapot, out of the window, to see Bran climbing the slope, feet dragging. He sighs softly and nods. "I understand what you're saying, but..."
"Nobody's saying you don't love the boy, and nobody's saying that, so far, you've brought him up wrong. But he needs to know what people are like."
Owen nods again. And then, his voice feeling thick, the words hard to say, he turns to look at John as he speaks. "The good, as well as the bad. You, and Mrs Rowlands, and the Evanses, those people he needs to know as well as those idiots. What I'm trying to say is -- "
John knows what he's trying to say. He gets up and takes the cup of tea from Owen's hands, smiling at him. "I know. I'll always be here for Bran, too, and so will Blod. We're fond of him, you know. And of you."
He wants to say thank you, oddly touched by the concern and the warmth in John's eyes. Instead, he turns to look out of the window again, finding that Bran's already climbed up away out of sight. He turns back to John and nods slightly.
"Do you think he'd like it if I got him a dog?"
"I think he'd love it," John says, and Owen feels humbled by the depth and warmth of friendship he knows John has for both of them -- knows that, no matter what he does, he has this, even if he nearly beat Caradog Prichard to death and would've done if not stopped, even if somewhere inside him there's an unholy wellspring of rage that defies all constraints, when it comes to his son and his lost Gwen.
"I'm not a good man, John Rowlands."
"That's between you and God," John says, and puts a hand on his shoulder, squeezing gently. He finishes his tea in a few quick gulps, despite the heat, and goes to the sink, washing his cup and putting it down upside-down on the draining board. "I'll be getting to work now."
"Thank you," Owen says, as John is going out of the door, and John smiles in recognition as he climbs away out of sight.
Pairing: None
Warnings: None
Rating: None
Summary: John gives Owen some advice. For over_look.
"Is something wrong, Bran-bach?"
Bran's nearly seven, now, tall and lanky for his age, and fiercely sullen today, his golden eyes red around the rims like he's been crying. Owen should know better than to try and pry his secrets out of him, and he does sort of know better, but he can't help but ask. Bran glares at him a little. "I'm fine. Absolutely fine. There's nothing wrong. Leave me alone!"
"Bran..."
"People in school are idiots, that's all," Bran says with the kind of fierce vehemence that comes from who-knows-where. Owen's never been like that, himself, and only a slimeball like Prichard can stir him into anger, and that with a lot of stirring -- but then, he forgets; Bran isn't his own son. Gwen... she'd seemed so calm, so thin and quiet and lost, like she was fading. Or running. Running from her past. Owen looks at Bran and wonders if that arrogance and bubbling anger comes from his father, his real father, or just from circumstances.
He has a feeling he'll never know.
"What have they been saying to you?"
Bran shakes his head, his white hair fluttering about his face, and he gives Owen a firm look, like he might give a dog: stop that, now. "It's nothing, Da, it's really nothing. I just don't get on with anyone at school."
And with that he's jumping up from his chair, snatching his jacket and leaving, letting the door slam behind him. A moment later, there's a knock on the door, and before Owen can move to answer it, John Rowlands opens the door and peers in, smiling just a little. "Heard Bran-bach had a bad day at school, so I wanted to come and talk to him, but it seems he's not in the mood."
Owen snorts softly. "That's an understatement. Come on in. Would you like a cup of tea?"
"I've somewhere to be going, but some tea wouldn't hurt," John says, smiling with that friendly smile of his that Owen half fancies could calm a whole flock of frightened sheep. The few times he's been angry, there's been John, all sane and calm and friendly, to draw him back out of the ungodly anger. He's a good man, a good Christian -- a solid one.
"I'll make you a cup. It's no trouble."
He gets up to make the cup of tea, and John sits down, shrugging off his coat and holding it in his hands. He's something to say, Owen can tell, and so he stays quiet and waits for it. John Rowlands always talks sense -- there's no denying that -- and it's worth waiting.
"I think Bran is just going to have to learn to deal with these people," he says, slowly. He sighs, stretching his legs out in front of him. "But I think you're going to want to protect him, him being your son and all in all but blood."
"He's my son," Owen says, surprising even himself with his vehemence -- because Bran is his son, for always, in the eyes of God and man, and he's brought him up to be a good Christian boy, and that's all that matters, not the blood that runs in his veins. "I don't want him to ever think anything different."
"He won't. That's not what I'm saying, Owen. Just..."
"What?"
John sighs softly. "I know you want to protect him. You've bumped heads with Prichard over the boy enough to prove that. But you can't shelter him forever, and it'd be hard to do it even in the short term. You have to let him come face to face with these people and find his own ways of coping. Not to say," and John smiles one of those smiles, "you can't support Bran, and not to say that I won't be having a word with some of these boy's fathers myself, but..."
Owen looks up from the teapot, out of the window, to see Bran climbing the slope, feet dragging. He sighs softly and nods. "I understand what you're saying, but..."
"Nobody's saying you don't love the boy, and nobody's saying that, so far, you've brought him up wrong. But he needs to know what people are like."
Owen nods again. And then, his voice feeling thick, the words hard to say, he turns to look at John as he speaks. "The good, as well as the bad. You, and Mrs Rowlands, and the Evanses, those people he needs to know as well as those idiots. What I'm trying to say is -- "
John knows what he's trying to say. He gets up and takes the cup of tea from Owen's hands, smiling at him. "I know. I'll always be here for Bran, too, and so will Blod. We're fond of him, you know. And of you."
He wants to say thank you, oddly touched by the concern and the warmth in John's eyes. Instead, he turns to look out of the window again, finding that Bran's already climbed up away out of sight. He turns back to John and nods slightly.
"Do you think he'd like it if I got him a dog?"
"I think he'd love it," John says, and Owen feels humbled by the depth and warmth of friendship he knows John has for both of them -- knows that, no matter what he does, he has this, even if he nearly beat Caradog Prichard to death and would've done if not stopped, even if somewhere inside him there's an unholy wellspring of rage that defies all constraints, when it comes to his son and his lost Gwen.
"I'm not a good man, John Rowlands."
"That's between you and God," John says, and puts a hand on his shoulder, squeezing gently. He finishes his tea in a few quick gulps, despite the heat, and goes to the sink, washing his cup and putting it down upside-down on the draining board. "I'll be getting to work now."
"Thank you," Owen says, as John is going out of the door, and John smiles in recognition as he climbs away out of sight.