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.
Owen nods jerkily and holds out his arms for it. No musician, he looks apprehensive as he takes the instrument into his work-roughened hands. He cradles it as gently as once he cradled the infant Bran.
Bran, his face still filled with that dazzling joy, takes the hilt of Caliburn in his hands. He lifts it so that it points straight upward; the lights of two worlds are reflected on the steel crosspiece and the end of the scabbard.
*Guinevere draws in a quiet breath, and lets it out.
A tear, finally, overflows -- for what mother wouldn't find tears on her cheeks, when so much pride and joy and love fill her heart -- and she brushes it away absently.*
in silence. Perhaps he stands a little differently now, conscious as he is of the weight no longer at his side.
From the single tear that falls upon Guinevere's cheek, his gaze turns to Will Stanton, who holds the door open like a sentinel on guard. And before Merlion can turn to relieve his young colleague from the post, the king speaks directly to Will.
'Will Stanton, Sign-Seeker,' he says. 'Will you see to the sword, when its purpose has been fulfilled?'
Bran draws close to Owen. They do not touch; at the moment, they cannot. Bran has set the king's sword, scabbard and belt across his outstretched forearms, and Owen is holding Bran's harp in both his arms, almost embracing it. But the two men stand together, silent, shoulders almost meeting, as Arthur Pendragon calls Guinevere of Britain home.
The first time he had taken her hand, it had felt small and cold and dry, a definite contrast to his own. He had been nervous then, and thus over cautious, for fear that a too-sudden move on his part would crush her fingers or bruise her soft skin.
There is no such nervousness now. And as he steps backwards, and she steps forward across the threshold, the sun is warm on his back and the air is rich with the heady scent of summer grass. They are far, far away from the cold and draughty great hall that had been the site of their first meeting -- as far away as they could possibly be, in truth.
Once she is across the threshold, out of Milliways and into the sunlit courtyard, he takes her hand in both of his own.
No words, not yet. Just the feel of her hand in his, and the sun shining on her dark hair.
'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?'
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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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A tear, finally, overflows -- for what mother wouldn't find tears on her cheeks, when so much pride and joy and love fill her heart -- and she brushes it away absently.*
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(the old order changeth, yielding place to new)
in silence. Perhaps he stands a little differently now, conscious as he is of the weight no longer at his side.
From the single tear that falls upon Guinevere's cheek, his gaze turns to Will Stanton, who holds the door open like a sentinel on guard. And before Merlion can turn to relieve his young colleague from the post, the king speaks directly to Will.
'Will Stanton, Sign-Seeker,' he says. 'Will you see to the sword, when its purpose has been fulfilled?'
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"I will, my lord."
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'My lady Guinevere.' He holds out a hand, palm upturned in a manner that is half-invitation, half-supplication. 'Will you come home?'
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My lord Arthur.
*Stepping to the threshold, she lays her hand in his.*
I will.
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There is no such nervousness now. And as he steps backwards, and she steps forward across the threshold, the sun is warm on his back and the air is rich with the heady scent of summer grass. They are far, far away from the cold and draughty great hall that had been the site of their first meeting -- as far away as they could possibly be, in truth.
Once she is across the threshold, out of Milliways and into the sunlit courtyard, he takes her hand in both of his own.
No words, not yet. Just the feel of her hand in his, and the sun shining on her dark hair.
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Be well. Be well.
*Then, though she's aware of the sun, the scents of flowers around her, the new world, she looks back at Arthur.
The rest can wait another minute or two.*
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