He looks...pensive, somehow. Like he's musing on what we've just done - or worse, questioning it.
Whatever - he definitely looks slightly...absent. Not all there, my mother would say, and she'd be right. He wasn't all there. Oh, he did it well - as far as I know, and I've no experience to judge - but it was like he was holding himself back. It was good, but it wasn't tears and roses and the earth moving beneath us. It wasn't perfect, when that was everything it should've been.
And now he lies there, the white sheet draped over the curve of his bare hip, chewing on his bottom lip like a schoolboy caught doing something bad.
One of us has to break the silence, but I can't think of anything to say. I can't think of anything but him, lying there with still-damp hair falling in his eyes and his achingly familiar body exposed for all the world to see. He's so white it dazzles - not the sickly white of illness or the bone white of death, but the creamy white of skin that my hands know too well. His white-blonde hair, streaked dark with sweat, covers one of his eyes; the other, tawny-yellow like an owl's, stares off into space as though I don't even exist.
I flick my eyes to the heap of crumpled clothing at the foot of the bed, my green shirt almost hidden under his black one and black jeans. I hate the way he dresses to emphasise his difference - not because I hate his difference, but because I hate that he feels he has to. Not that all-over black doesn't make him look good, but he's got a light blue T-shirt and faded blue jeans that he looks perfect in. Or the dark blue jumper that he sometimes pulls over that stark black shirt. He even owns - though I've only once seen him wear it - a beautiful ensemble, white long-sleeved T-shirt and white jeans, that accentuates every line of his body and makes him look like a pure white flame, so stunning that it takes my breath away.
Bran pushes his hair out of his eyes, looking at me almost warily from under his white lashes. "You're very quiet all of a sudden."
Why do I feel so awkward? Less than a minute ago I was in his arms; now I daren't even touch him. "Speak for yourself."
He looks down at the bed between us, one finger tracing idle patterns on the damp sheet. "Did you...enjoy it, then?"
Platitudes come leaping to my tongue - yes, it was perfect, incredible, I love you; slower, the truth forces its way through - no, I didn't, and neither did you - why? I evade instead, answering a question with a question. "Is something wrong?"
He looks up at me, then away, the fine hairs at the back of his neck shining golden in the lamplight. "I...I think..." Then he turns back, a forced smile slipping into place. "Wrong? Iesu Crist, no! Nothing's wrong! After all," he runs a hand seductively along my leg; his fingers are cold, "you are quite the lover, Will Stanton."
I colour, only half-believing; he shifts closer, sliding his arms around me, the side of his face pressed into my neck. One leg hooks over mine, then he pushes down against me, his breath damp against my skin. "Fuck me, Will..."
I'm halfway inside him before I realise what's going on. "No - I'll hurt you."
He pushes down harder, still not looking at me, his voice half-pleading. "Won't...fuck me, Will, please..."
Instinct takes over as I slip all the way inside and begin to move - but something still isn't right. He lies completely still, his body taut and unresponsive under my hands. His arms are loose around me, barely touching, as though he's afraid. Gone is the bravura of earlier, the easy lover who knew everywhere to touch me, and in his place this frightened boy I don't even know.
I pull out after less than a minute, making him shudder and cry out. His hair is in his eyes again; I smooth it away, trying to recapture some of the emotion from that moment by the river, trying to sound loving and concerned as I ask again, "What's wrong?"
Bran tries to force a smile again, but it dies on his lips. His yellow eyes are tired; so is his voice, when at last he speaks. Quiet and formal, like he's talking to a teacher or a stranger, not his lover.
"I am wondering, Will Stanton, if this is not just a little bit wrong."
"Wrong?"
He won't look at me. "That's what I said." The formality is even stronger, his accent more marked, as if he's trying to put distance between us.
"I don't understand." I reach out, wanting to stroke his hair, tilt his chin up so I can look at him; he shies away.
"It feels...dirty."
My heart drops out of my chest; my stomach turns over. Dirty? But he's the one who...and... Dirty?
He looks up at last, meeting my gaze with apologetic golden eyes. "Sounds stupid, doesn't it? A minute ago I was begging for it, and now..." He flaps a hand wordlessly.
"And now?" I feel horrible asking it, and I hate the tone of my voice, but I can't help it. What went so wrong, in between him calling me cariad and telling me this?
"My Da won't like it." Simple words, so simple I'd laugh, were it not for the tears glimmering as yet unshed on his lower lashes. And somehow they're not so simple after all - he's not just talking about his father, but about everyone and everything around him. No wonder he thinks it's dirty, when his father and his friends and chapel tell him so. Suddenly there's bile in my throat and anger in my heart - how dare they! They call him a freak already, for his pale skin and yellow eyes and white hair, when all he looks is lovely. They make the sign against the Evil Eye, when he was the greatest part of the greatest good ever done on this earth. They tell him what he should look like, and what he should do, and now they want to tell him who he should be...
All the anger comes boiling out of me in a single burst, so vehement, so forceful that he looks at me with wide eyes. "For god's sake, Bran, be yourself for once, not the person they made you be! Forget your father, forget your friends, forget all those...those idiots at chapel!" I catch his startled face between my hands, brushing white hair back from his temple with my thumb. "I don't care." Then, softer, "I don't care, Bran Davies, Bran pen Dragon. I don't care what they say, what anyone says. This isn't wrong." I swallow, barely holding back the tears - of rage, of fear, of love. "Loving bonds, cariad. Outside everything. As right as sun rising, as tides turning."
Bran draws a deep, shuddering breath, then lets it go, tightening his arms around me and pressing his face into my neck. Slightly muffled, his voice comes up to me, choked as though he's trying not to cry.
"Pen Dragon, you called me then. I thought I wasn't any more. Merriman said..."
I squeeze him in response, stroking his hair gently with one hand. "I...I don't know. Merriman said you wouldn't remember, and he was wrong about that, right? Maybe...maybe Arthur found some way." God, I never realised how much it meant to him, to finally know who he was, and why. To finally be someone. "I...don't know why..."
"Why?"
The question was quiet, not strident or demanding, and yet the tone said this must be answered, for I will not leave it lie.
Arthur's mouth curved, ever so slightly. "Why what, my lion?"
Merriman dropped down beside him in the grass, folding his legs underneath him with the ease of one long accustomed to his own body. Once settled, he waved a hand at the scrying bowl, causing ripples to flutter across the image of two boys in each other's arms. "Why did you make me a liar, my lord?"
"A liar, old friend?" Arthur was now smiling, a secret smile that said not for that reason only, but I enjoyed it nonetheless. "Not just for the fun of it, I assure you. There is..." He paused, as if searching for words; the smile disappeared like the sun behind a cloud. "There is something, something I cannot see, and it lays its hand upon them both. I have a feeling," he waved his hand in turn, and the image faded into the ripples of the inky water, "that they will need the strength that they can draw from such a bond."
Merriman's face was inscrutable, as ever, the dark eyes hooded beneath the great white brows, but his voice was strained. "I can feel it too, my lord, but...there is something else. That bond," his face creased as if in pain, "may bring them grief as well as happiness."
Arthur sighed. "Well I know that, but I had no choice. Will must face a trial, though I cannot tell what it may be. Without Bran by his side, in his full power, he would fail; the strain of taking it alone would break him. There was no other way."
Impassive again, Merriman spread his fingers towards the surface of the water, and spoke softly in the lilting tongue that was the Old Speech. The water creased as though ruffled by a breeze, and another image formed - a girl, sitting on the end of a bed with her face in her hands, her long dark hair falling unheeded around her. "There is another who has already come to grief, my lord. Will you spare a thought for her?"
Arthur turned his face away, and there was pain in his voice. "I have thought of little else, and the fault is indeed mine. Yet she too must face her trial, and though we cannot help her, she may draw her strength best in times of sorrow."
Beside him, Merriman looked with compassion upon the desolate girl. "She needs no sorrow to bring her strength."
Turning back, Arthur stretched out a hand as if to touch the image, then withdrew it, his face hardening. "Rather the grief of one than that of three."
Merriman stood abruptly, walking quickly away. His face betrayed his thoughts, but the king was too busy staring into the scrying bowl to read it; instead they lingered unspoken inside his head.
This could be the greatest mistake that we have made since our failure to recognise Blodwen Rowlands for what she was. Powerless as we now are, the fate of the world may rest upon the shoulders of the five who remain - and not even the greatest of us can see what must happen. Which way has my lord tipped the scales?
Pulling his cloak more tightly around him, he shook his head as if to clear it, and headed back to the silver-circled city of the Light, his purposeful stride taking him straight to the tallest and slenderest of all the towers. There is one who might give counsel. I will seek her out.
I let him cry, hot salt tears burning my throat, until slowly he gets himself under control. He props himself up on one elbow, still sniffing, tear-tracks glistening on his pale skin, and pushes his hair out of his eyes with that familiar gesture. Just to see him do that lifts my heart - it means he's himself again, shaken but not broken.
"Will..." and then he stops trying to speak, but instead reaches out and cups my cheek in his hand, leaning forward to press his lips tentatively, gently, fleetingly against mine. I wrap my arms back around him; he strokes his thumb across my lips.
"I...love you," he whispers, sounding almost surprised with himself - not a declaration, but a wondering realisation. Then, louder, "I love you", as if affirming; then he crooks his arm around my neck and pulls me in close, till I'm staring into his lovely golden eyes from a distance of less than six inches.
"I love you, Will Stanton," he says, eyes alight with laughter, and I laugh with him as he draws me down and kisses me daringly, his hair falling into his face; I reach up and brush it away, my fingers lingering on his warm skin.
"I love you too, Bran Davies."
Whatever - he definitely looks slightly...absent. Not all there, my mother would say, and she'd be right. He wasn't all there. Oh, he did it well - as far as I know, and I've no experience to judge - but it was like he was holding himself back. It was good, but it wasn't tears and roses and the earth moving beneath us. It wasn't perfect, when that was everything it should've been.
And now he lies there, the white sheet draped over the curve of his bare hip, chewing on his bottom lip like a schoolboy caught doing something bad.
One of us has to break the silence, but I can't think of anything to say. I can't think of anything but him, lying there with still-damp hair falling in his eyes and his achingly familiar body exposed for all the world to see. He's so white it dazzles - not the sickly white of illness or the bone white of death, but the creamy white of skin that my hands know too well. His white-blonde hair, streaked dark with sweat, covers one of his eyes; the other, tawny-yellow like an owl's, stares off into space as though I don't even exist.
I flick my eyes to the heap of crumpled clothing at the foot of the bed, my green shirt almost hidden under his black one and black jeans. I hate the way he dresses to emphasise his difference - not because I hate his difference, but because I hate that he feels he has to. Not that all-over black doesn't make him look good, but he's got a light blue T-shirt and faded blue jeans that he looks perfect in. Or the dark blue jumper that he sometimes pulls over that stark black shirt. He even owns - though I've only once seen him wear it - a beautiful ensemble, white long-sleeved T-shirt and white jeans, that accentuates every line of his body and makes him look like a pure white flame, so stunning that it takes my breath away.
Bran pushes his hair out of his eyes, looking at me almost warily from under his white lashes. "You're very quiet all of a sudden."
Why do I feel so awkward? Less than a minute ago I was in his arms; now I daren't even touch him. "Speak for yourself."
He looks down at the bed between us, one finger tracing idle patterns on the damp sheet. "Did you...enjoy it, then?"
Platitudes come leaping to my tongue - yes, it was perfect, incredible, I love you; slower, the truth forces its way through - no, I didn't, and neither did you - why? I evade instead, answering a question with a question. "Is something wrong?"
He looks up at me, then away, the fine hairs at the back of his neck shining golden in the lamplight. "I...I think..." Then he turns back, a forced smile slipping into place. "Wrong? Iesu Crist, no! Nothing's wrong! After all," he runs a hand seductively along my leg; his fingers are cold, "you are quite the lover, Will Stanton."
I colour, only half-believing; he shifts closer, sliding his arms around me, the side of his face pressed into my neck. One leg hooks over mine, then he pushes down against me, his breath damp against my skin. "Fuck me, Will..."
I'm halfway inside him before I realise what's going on. "No - I'll hurt you."
He pushes down harder, still not looking at me, his voice half-pleading. "Won't...fuck me, Will, please..."
Instinct takes over as I slip all the way inside and begin to move - but something still isn't right. He lies completely still, his body taut and unresponsive under my hands. His arms are loose around me, barely touching, as though he's afraid. Gone is the bravura of earlier, the easy lover who knew everywhere to touch me, and in his place this frightened boy I don't even know.
I pull out after less than a minute, making him shudder and cry out. His hair is in his eyes again; I smooth it away, trying to recapture some of the emotion from that moment by the river, trying to sound loving and concerned as I ask again, "What's wrong?"
Bran tries to force a smile again, but it dies on his lips. His yellow eyes are tired; so is his voice, when at last he speaks. Quiet and formal, like he's talking to a teacher or a stranger, not his lover.
"I am wondering, Will Stanton, if this is not just a little bit wrong."
"Wrong?"
He won't look at me. "That's what I said." The formality is even stronger, his accent more marked, as if he's trying to put distance between us.
"I don't understand." I reach out, wanting to stroke his hair, tilt his chin up so I can look at him; he shies away.
"It feels...dirty."
My heart drops out of my chest; my stomach turns over. Dirty? But he's the one who...and... Dirty?
He looks up at last, meeting my gaze with apologetic golden eyes. "Sounds stupid, doesn't it? A minute ago I was begging for it, and now..." He flaps a hand wordlessly.
"And now?" I feel horrible asking it, and I hate the tone of my voice, but I can't help it. What went so wrong, in between him calling me cariad and telling me this?
"My Da won't like it." Simple words, so simple I'd laugh, were it not for the tears glimmering as yet unshed on his lower lashes. And somehow they're not so simple after all - he's not just talking about his father, but about everyone and everything around him. No wonder he thinks it's dirty, when his father and his friends and chapel tell him so. Suddenly there's bile in my throat and anger in my heart - how dare they! They call him a freak already, for his pale skin and yellow eyes and white hair, when all he looks is lovely. They make the sign against the Evil Eye, when he was the greatest part of the greatest good ever done on this earth. They tell him what he should look like, and what he should do, and now they want to tell him who he should be...
All the anger comes boiling out of me in a single burst, so vehement, so forceful that he looks at me with wide eyes. "For god's sake, Bran, be yourself for once, not the person they made you be! Forget your father, forget your friends, forget all those...those idiots at chapel!" I catch his startled face between my hands, brushing white hair back from his temple with my thumb. "I don't care." Then, softer, "I don't care, Bran Davies, Bran pen Dragon. I don't care what they say, what anyone says. This isn't wrong." I swallow, barely holding back the tears - of rage, of fear, of love. "Loving bonds, cariad. Outside everything. As right as sun rising, as tides turning."
Bran draws a deep, shuddering breath, then lets it go, tightening his arms around me and pressing his face into my neck. Slightly muffled, his voice comes up to me, choked as though he's trying not to cry.
"Pen Dragon, you called me then. I thought I wasn't any more. Merriman said..."
I squeeze him in response, stroking his hair gently with one hand. "I...I don't know. Merriman said you wouldn't remember, and he was wrong about that, right? Maybe...maybe Arthur found some way." God, I never realised how much it meant to him, to finally know who he was, and why. To finally be someone. "I...don't know why..."
"Why?"
The question was quiet, not strident or demanding, and yet the tone said this must be answered, for I will not leave it lie.
Arthur's mouth curved, ever so slightly. "Why what, my lion?"
Merriman dropped down beside him in the grass, folding his legs underneath him with the ease of one long accustomed to his own body. Once settled, he waved a hand at the scrying bowl, causing ripples to flutter across the image of two boys in each other's arms. "Why did you make me a liar, my lord?"
"A liar, old friend?" Arthur was now smiling, a secret smile that said not for that reason only, but I enjoyed it nonetheless. "Not just for the fun of it, I assure you. There is..." He paused, as if searching for words; the smile disappeared like the sun behind a cloud. "There is something, something I cannot see, and it lays its hand upon them both. I have a feeling," he waved his hand in turn, and the image faded into the ripples of the inky water, "that they will need the strength that they can draw from such a bond."
Merriman's face was inscrutable, as ever, the dark eyes hooded beneath the great white brows, but his voice was strained. "I can feel it too, my lord, but...there is something else. That bond," his face creased as if in pain, "may bring them grief as well as happiness."
Arthur sighed. "Well I know that, but I had no choice. Will must face a trial, though I cannot tell what it may be. Without Bran by his side, in his full power, he would fail; the strain of taking it alone would break him. There was no other way."
Impassive again, Merriman spread his fingers towards the surface of the water, and spoke softly in the lilting tongue that was the Old Speech. The water creased as though ruffled by a breeze, and another image formed - a girl, sitting on the end of a bed with her face in her hands, her long dark hair falling unheeded around her. "There is another who has already come to grief, my lord. Will you spare a thought for her?"
Arthur turned his face away, and there was pain in his voice. "I have thought of little else, and the fault is indeed mine. Yet she too must face her trial, and though we cannot help her, she may draw her strength best in times of sorrow."
Beside him, Merriman looked with compassion upon the desolate girl. "She needs no sorrow to bring her strength."
Turning back, Arthur stretched out a hand as if to touch the image, then withdrew it, his face hardening. "Rather the grief of one than that of three."
Merriman stood abruptly, walking quickly away. His face betrayed his thoughts, but the king was too busy staring into the scrying bowl to read it; instead they lingered unspoken inside his head.
This could be the greatest mistake that we have made since our failure to recognise Blodwen Rowlands for what she was. Powerless as we now are, the fate of the world may rest upon the shoulders of the five who remain - and not even the greatest of us can see what must happen. Which way has my lord tipped the scales?
Pulling his cloak more tightly around him, he shook his head as if to clear it, and headed back to the silver-circled city of the Light, his purposeful stride taking him straight to the tallest and slenderest of all the towers. There is one who might give counsel. I will seek her out.
I let him cry, hot salt tears burning my throat, until slowly he gets himself under control. He props himself up on one elbow, still sniffing, tear-tracks glistening on his pale skin, and pushes his hair out of his eyes with that familiar gesture. Just to see him do that lifts my heart - it means he's himself again, shaken but not broken.
"Will..." and then he stops trying to speak, but instead reaches out and cups my cheek in his hand, leaning forward to press his lips tentatively, gently, fleetingly against mine. I wrap my arms back around him; he strokes his thumb across my lips.
"I...love you," he whispers, sounding almost surprised with himself - not a declaration, but a wondering realisation. Then, louder, "I love you", as if affirming; then he crooks his arm around my neck and pulls me in close, till I'm staring into his lovely golden eyes from a distance of less than six inches.
"I love you, Will Stanton," he says, eyes alight with laughter, and I laugh with him as he draws me down and kisses me daringly, his hair falling into his face; I reach up and brush it away, my fingers lingering on his warm skin.
"I love you too, Bran Davies."