(no subject)
This section could quite rightly be called the Plot of Plotting Plotness. Of course, how it plays out will be up to all of you - and I'm quite looking forward to it.
--
It is the first time he can remember that Will has hunted for the dreamplace, and it is only instinct that he follows, reaching toward it, surrounded by the floating fragments of his own subconscious thoughts, and the faint rhythm, barely heard, of Bran's breathing.
Once the first fragments begin to coalesce, though, the dream-state seems to rush toward him, pulling him in as eagerly as he had sought it himself. The soft noises of the room, the softer breathing of the young man beside him...all fade into the warm and gentle breeze and the rustling of wind-swept grass.
So real, the warmth of the sun on his face, the breeze, the scent of fresh grass. Will sets out across it, though he could wait just as easily, with the same effect.
He doesn't have to wait for long. Within moments (or minutes, or hours, for Time has next to no meaning in this place), Merriman is walking beside him, as easily and naturally as if he had always been there.
Will's hands are hooked in his beltloops, his pace slow and easy, there is no reason to hurry here, as there is nowhere, really, to go. He smiles at Merriman, broad and beaming. 'I'm glad to see you.'
'And I you.' Merriman does not smile, but his hooded eyes shine at the sight of his young charge, and he appears to be as near to relaxed as he ever seems. 'You are well, I trust?'
'Brilliant,' Will answers honestly, and accepts the bare softening of his mentor's expression for the gesture of affection that it is. 'And--I found something.'
'Did you?' Merriman stops then, his cloak tracing a soft swirl over the grass as it skims the ground. He looks quite interested - this is a new development, and something of the old questing light glitters in his eyes. He looks rather like a hunting dog that has picked up the scent of its quarry...for the chase, it seems, is on. 'Do tell.'
'Apparently,' Will explains, his voice pensive, thoughtful, but mostly pleased, 'somebody anticipated all of this happening after all. And wove it into a tapestry, and left it in Cornwall.'
'A tapestry....' One can almost see Merriman's mind working, connections being made at lightning-fast speed across centuries of lives lived and battles fought. 'If it is the one I am thinking of, then....' He shakes his head suddenly, breaking off his train of thought. 'Tell me more of it. The where, primarily.'
'Under about eight inches of dust,' Will says dryly, but he knows this is not what Merriman means, and he pushes his hair back out from his forehead, calling up the recollection. 'Will it be too incredibly trite if I say Tintagel? They uncovered part of it after the landslide last winter. All very convenient, of course.'
'Ah, yes....' A definitely private half-smile creeps into the corners of Merriman's mouth. 'Of course, the official scholarship would say that it is only the ruins of a ancient buidling foundation that might have been what the concept of Tintagel Castle was based upon.' He speaks with a dry, rather nasal tone that gives a very strong hint as to what his professorial personality might have been like. 'But you found the tapestry well enough. And I seem to recall that there was lettering on it - was it still legible?'
'Barely,' Will answers, a little frustrated. 'It's pretty well frayed--centuries of rock and dust and seawater is not good for textiles, apparently. I think I got enough.'
Merriman nods slowly. He expected as much, after all, but it is a little sad to hear of the toll the years have taken. 'It was very beautiful, in its day,' he says, rather wistfully. 'A true work of art, even if taken on the skill of its craftsmanship alone. 'What could you make of it? I will try to fill in any gaps as best I remember.'
Will clasps his hands behind his back, the unconscious and habitual movement of a choirboy about to recite. 'When the moon hangs full and high, and the waves break on the sand--blast, I can't remember the next bit, something atmospheric--on the night when things began.'
'All times are interwoven, all battles overturned, all history's misspoken, and all standing bridges burned....' He's translating, from the Old English it was actually written in, though it's hardly necessary. 'With choices--ugh, the last bit of this line was pretty bad, it was so close to the bottom. And more about a sword, and moonlight.'
'A very good translation from the original, as near as I can recall.' Merriman's eyes narrow, and his gaze sweeps the horizon as if he could call the rest of the words to him from afar. 'The metre is rather odd when put into our tongue, though it would sound quite lyrical in modern-day English. I think that the last bit of the first part went: "The northern lights embraced the sky/ On the night when things began"...though I wouldn't quote myself on that.'
'Well, I'm glad you approve of my translation, at any rate,' Will says dryly, glancing up at him, but remembers the lines for later, after he wakes up. 'It really did look like it had been very pretty, once.'
'How long did you have to look at it?' Merriman asks after a moment's thought. If he has heard or registered Will's teasing tone, he makes no show of it. 'Could you see if any of the original colour was left in the threads?'
'Actually, I found it,' Will says softly, a fact which only aids in confirming that this was all somehow more than coincidence, 'so they let me look at it a bit, over shoulders anyway. But yes, there was original colour, because Professor Northway made such a big deal out of pointing it out. Glad she did, really.'
'Northway?' Merriman looks rather startled. 'I once had a Janet Northway as a graduate student, back in....' He stops abruptly, coming back to himself. 'The colour of the main part of the tapestry should have been an indigo, so dark that it would look black in the proper light. It might have bled into the lettering. But if you could read enough to get the main part...then....' He frowns. 'There should have been a pattern around the outside--could you see if any of it was intact?'
'Something like filigree,' Will confirms, 'and it would have been in gold, when it was new. It's very faded, now. But the indigo--that's what she was so excited about, how true the colour had stayed.' A pause, thoughtful. 'What should the pattern have been? It was hard to see--pretty, but I didn't make any particular sense of it.'
'There were gold threads running through it, yes.' Merriman closes his eyes. 'But the pattern told a story as well, one that began at the top and worked its way around the tapestry, anti-clockwise. The story itself is vague in my mind, but I do know that at the top were two figures in full armour...holding a sword between them.'
'....Two figures?' Will asks, his voice low and his breath tight. 'I didn't see....'
Merriman opens his eyes, and turns his implacable gaze to Will. 'You wouldn't have, if it was as worn as you say it was. But they were there, all the same.'
'I believe you,' Will says dryly. 'I was just wondering what they might have looked like.'
'You and Bran Davies, unsurprisingly.' Without waiting to see the expression on Will's face, he continues in the same placid, unhurried tone. 'Though at the time, it was said that they bore a marked resemblance to myself and my lord Arthur. Interesting, how events play out.'
'Well,' Will says thoughtfully, 'time, stories, they move in cycles. That's not anything new to us either.' He's calm, still--it's the answer that he expected, but still, the confirmation of it makes his fingers tense, thinking.
'No,' Merriman agrees. 'Not new. But the cycle is never exactly same, regardless.' He presses his fingertips together. 'Could you possibly find a way to view the entire tapestry again? For a longer period of time...and preferably alone, or with Bran?'
Will gnaws pensively on his bottom lip, thinking--'I'm sure I could. Well--I could go back and look at it in its original form, if I need to, couldn't I? Don't know if Bran's quite ready for that yet, though.'
'Which was why I suggested the alternative,' Merriman says. There is no irony in his voice--it is a simple statement of fact. 'Bran would certainly not be prepared to meet the weaver herself.'
Will's teeth nearly go through his lip, but he nods; he'd suspected somehow, and yet-- 'No, he wouldn't, I suppose. Although,' he adds, quietly, barely audible, 'I wish he could....'
Merriman sighs softly. 'She wove it during the long hours of solitude, in the weeks and days of her confinement. If Bran cannot meet her, then perhaps something will come of seeing the work of her hands.' He meets Will's troubled gaze. 'Would he be prepared for that much, do you think?'
Will considers, but nods: 'I think it would be--good for him.' He isn't sure that is exactly what he means, and he could yet be wrong, but intuition directs that this is something he would like to give to Bran, little as it is.
'If you feel uncertain, there would be no harm in going alone, the first time,' Merriman says gently. 'It is a rather large step, after all.'
'Actually I'm not uncertain at all,' Will says abruptly, pushing his hair out of his eyes. 'I'll feel out the water a bit, first, but--but I do think we should.'
'Very well.' The point is conceded, without further question. 'The only difficulty is the how - and I think that will not be as much of a problem as we might imagine. Dr Northway was on the dig with you...would I be right in thinking that she has access to the tapestry?'
Will just nods, grinning. 'She wasn't going to let anybody else near it, I think.'
Merriman chuckles, a low rich sound. 'That would be the Janet I remember. Ask her, when you next meet, if it would be possible for you to have a closer look at it--and mention that the memory of your late great-uncle's fascination with Arthurian legends has sparked your curiosity in such a remarkable piece of work.'
Will grins, grey eyes glinting with mischief. 'You just want to know what she has to say about you, once she figures out who I'm talking about.'
'Not at all.' For a moment, it is Professor Lyon who is speaking, and not the Oldest of the Old. 'Students - undergraduates in particular - don't seem to realise that professors know exactly what is being said about them. And quite often, who is saying it. But if she shows any reluctance, then you might make a vague reference to Tennyson, and a rare book. I think you'll find her most co-operative after that.'
'Especially,' says Will dryly, but with definite affection, 'when the professors are nosy old cheaters with magic powers. Any particular rare book, or just something related to Tennyson in general?'
Merriman scowls at him. 'First the poet, then the book. And watch yourself, young man. You never know who might be listening.'
'Actually,' Will says wryly, 'I've got a pretty good idea.' He's grinning, though, it's not often he gets to tease, after all, and he's more than a bit excited about the prospect of what he's going to be able to share with Bran.
'Hmph.' The older man arches an eyebrow, but his mouth does not stay turned down for long. 'Do what you will, then.'
'I'll drag Bran down there today, if he's got time,' Will says firmly. Abruptly, impulsively, he darts a few steps away from Merriman and turns a handspring on the grass, then returns, smiling sheepishly. 'Sorry. It's so nice here, was just too tempting to resist.'
A genuine smile makes the craggy face look positively benign. 'It is, at that. I've always found it peaceful.' He turns his face to the breeze, letting the wind make his wild white hair even wilder-looking. 'And the company, despite its attempts to the contrary, is greatly appreciated.'
'I'm not trying to be contrary!' Will counters, laughing. 'I'm in a good mood, is all. But--it's really good to see you, too. Always.'
Merriman chuckles again, regarding Will with a fond smile. 'Then I hope that good mood will carry you until the next time we speak.' The wind dies down slightly, but the mist that has begun to roll in does not slow in its course.
Will eyes the oncoming mists reluctantly, and, good mood still pervading, throws his arms around his master impulsively. 'Guess that's my cue to leave, but--I'll see you.'
Merriman returns the embrace, releasing Will after a long, still moment. 'Please give Bran my regards, when you wake.'
'I will,' he promises, and it seems like he might be going to say more, but decides against it, it wasn't important anyway. And then the mist rolls in and swallows him, and he is gone.