(no subject)
[Pre-Milliways]
There is a harp playing somewhere.
Bran Davies, in an old faded black sweater and black jeans, harp nestled in his arms, opens the door and stares. The harp gives off a discordant chord before he stills it.
Owen is holding the hand of a dark-haired woman.
Bran can't see her face, but suddenly he knows her absolutely. He stands white and trembling, and the harp shakes in his arms.
I am the womb of every holt.
There is a harp playing somewhere.
Bran Davies, in an old faded black sweater and black jeans, harp nestled in his arms, opens the door and stares. The harp gives off a discordant chord before he stills it.
Owen is holding the hand of a dark-haired woman.
Bran can't see her face, but suddenly he knows her absolutely. He stands white and trembling, and the harp shakes in his arms.
I am the womb of every holt.