"My lord," Bran says clearly. "My lord, I want you to meet Owen Davies, who raised me from a child. My father. Da, this is Arthur Pendragon, once king of Britain, now king of the land beyond the North Wind."
Several years ago, by mortal reckoning, Bran Davies made a choice.
('Loving bonds....That is what I have, here.')
It hurts a little, of course, to hear that choice reaffirmed loud and clear. But those of the Pendragon line are not known for going back on their decisions, and any momentary twinge of sorrow or regret fades quickly into non-existence, for it is as nothing to the pride that blooms deep within Arthur's chest.
When he speaks, it is to Owen this time.
'Owen Davies.' Quietly, but with regal dignity. 'I have no words that can fully express my thanks, and my gratitude. Not only for the care and comfort that you gave to my lady in her time of great need, but also for giving Bran what I could not give him...a home, and a true name, and a father to raise him to manhood. As I see you have done, and clearly done well.'
He bows then, deeply.
'I am in your debt, sir. And I hope that you will continue to guide him, in the world that is yours and his -- now and for always.'
Owen swallows hard, straightens, meets Arthur's eyes across the doorway. "I will, sir." He struggles for further words, saying at last, "And I thank you for my son."
A little of the royal gravity leaves Arthur's expression. It is not precisely a smile that he gives to Owen, but a smile alone could not convey anything near to what is in his mind at the moment.
'Then I wish you both joy and peace.' He looks to Bran then, and adds, 'And glad I am, Bran Davies, to have met your father.'
Bran's smile warms in rising wonder, and he looks from Owen to Arthur and back.
"I should tell you both. All. I did not think I would ever have the chance. It is easy to say, one is my father, the other is not, but it is not complete. I swore, a year ago now I swore, to serve the world I live in as befits a mortal man, and I swore it on both my fathers' names. There is still work for me in the world, my lord, and when I do it, I will remember you."
It had been for the best, he knew, that Bran should have been made to forget the first time. That does not mean he had accepted it in his heart as well as in his mind. So now, to be remembered in such a fashion....
(....Wherefore, let thy voice Rise like a fountain for me night and day)
'A worthy service indeed,' he murmurs, nodding. 'Which brings to mind a service of my own.' His gaze grows stormy then, visibly clouding. 'Merlion has informed me of the current troubles with those of the Dark, in this place -- a new battle, with old foes.'
A brief, curt nod. 'In turn, I informed Merlion that whatever assistance I could give, save leaving this land, is but his to request.'
Without realising it, his hand has drifted down to the hilt of the sword buckled at his side. An instinctive gesture, that of a warrior and a king -- but just as his grip tightens on it, he pauses, suddenly and acutely aware of the weapon at his hand.
'There is little, in truth, that I can offer here,' he says slowly, as if thinking aloud. 'Little enough that I can give. But where there may be a need...that, perhaps, I may be able to fill.'
Merlion is standing nearest to the king, and so he sees the near-imperceptible tightening of grip. As light dawns in Arthur's eyes, a similar light also kindles in the Old One's fathomless gaze.
'My lord.' Quietly, respectfully. 'It can be done, if you so desire.'
Arthur does not respond aloud to Merlion's words, but his hand drifts from the hilt of the sword to the solidly-worked buckle that secures it fast at his side.
'Bran Davies of Clwyd,' he says firmly. ' This is the sword Caliburn, made by Wayland Smith in the days when such weapons were sorely needed. You wielded Eirias against the Dark, in the battle that drove it from your world. Would you wield this sword against the White Rider, against the Dark that threatens this place and those within it?'
Bran's breath catches in his throat, and his face lights with joy. "Yes," he says, and it is accident only that he chooses the words he used years ago, when the king Arthur Pendragon made a different offer to him. "Oh, yes!"
Will's breath catches, too, at the king's offer and at the wild blaze of joy in Bran's face.
He sees for an instant Bran, younger, standing straight and commanding with a sword like a flame in his hand; and Bran, now, beside one father and before another, the lights of a bar beyond all the universes shining on his white shock of hair and a fierce astonished gladness in his face.
Yes, Will thinks, echoing Bran, yes, and his fingernails dig into his palms.
A momentary glance at Will, first, and once Will has come forward and taken hold of the door, he steps aside and then passes through the open doorway. He takes the sword carefully as the king passes it to his keeping, and without a pause he turns and crosses the threshold once again to stand before Bran.
No words, this time, as he presents the sword. Merely a respectful bow and a properly formal presentation, hilt first, so that the Sign of the Light is displayed to its full prominence.
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('Loving bonds....That is what I have, here.')
It hurts a little, of course, to hear that choice reaffirmed loud and clear. But those of the Pendragon line are not known for going back on their decisions, and any momentary twinge of sorrow or regret fades quickly into non-existence, for it is as nothing to the pride that blooms deep within Arthur's chest.
When he speaks, it is to Owen this time.
'Owen Davies.' Quietly, but with regal dignity. 'I have no words that can fully express my thanks, and my gratitude. Not only for the care and comfort that you gave to my lady in her time of great need, but also for giving Bran what I could not give him...a home, and a true name, and a father to raise him to manhood. As I see you have done, and clearly done well.'
He bows then, deeply.
'I am in your debt, sir. And I hope that you will continue to guide him, in the world that is yours and his -- now and for always.'
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'Then I wish you both joy and peace.' He looks to Bran then, and adds, 'And glad I am, Bran Davies, to have met your father.'
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Bran's smile warms in rising wonder, and he looks from Owen to Arthur and back.
"I should tell you both. All. I did not think I would ever have the chance. It is easy to say, one is my father, the other is not, but it is not complete. I swore, a year ago now I swore, to serve the world I live in as befits a mortal man, and I swore it on both my fathers' names. There is still work for me in the world, my lord, and when I do it, I will remember you."
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(....Wherefore, let thy voice
Rise like a fountain for me night and day)
'A worthy service indeed,' he murmurs, nodding. 'Which brings to mind a service of my own.' His gaze grows stormy then, visibly clouding. 'Merlion has informed me of the current troubles with those of the Dark, in this place -- a new battle, with old foes.'
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"Yes. The White Rider wishes to raise the Dark. But we will hold her back again. We must."
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Without realising it, his hand has drifted down to the hilt of the sword buckled at his side. An instinctive gesture, that of a warrior and a king -- but just as his grip tightens on it, he pauses, suddenly and acutely aware of the weapon at his hand.
'There is little, in truth, that I can offer here,' he says slowly, as if thinking aloud. 'Little enough that I can give. But where there may be a need...that, perhaps, I may be able to fill.'
Reply
'My lord.' Quietly, respectfully. 'It can be done, if you so desire.'
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'Bran Davies of Clwyd,' he says firmly. ' This is the sword Caliburn, made by Wayland Smith in the days when such weapons were sorely needed. You wielded Eirias against the Dark, in the battle that drove it from your world. Would you wield this sword against the White Rider, against the Dark that threatens this place and those within it?'
Reply
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He sees for an instant Bran, younger, standing straight and commanding with a sword like a flame in his hand; and Bran, now, beside one father and before another, the lights of a bar beyond all the universes shining on his white shock of hair and a fierce astonished gladness in his face.
Yes, Will thinks, echoing Bran, yes, and his fingernails dig into his palms.
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'Merlion.' The name is enough of a command.
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A momentary glance at Will, first, and once Will has come forward and taken hold of the door, he steps aside and then passes through the open doorway. He takes the sword carefully as the king passes it to his keeping, and without a pause he turns and crosses the threshold once again to stand before Bran.
No words, this time, as he presents the sword. Merely a respectful bow and a properly formal presentation, hilt first, so that the Sign of the Light is displayed to its full prominence.
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