AN: IT'S ALIVE! I am alive and I do still write. So there are just two things we should address before the story.
a) You know how some things have warnings, like, "lemon, lime, shojo-ai, non-con" or whatever? Well, this needs a warning: Weirdness. Seriously, this what happens when you put Fruits Basket through the "Restless" strainer in my head, which for those of you who have yet to experience the Whedonverse means that it's pretty much all dreams. This is all metaphor, illogicality, and thought-process.
b) The sources. I am an expert at plagiarism, but this… takes the cake. I can't possibly credit everyone who deserves it in these little notes, so if anyone wants to know where all these things come from, let me know and I'll go through and label the bits – gonna do it for someone in particular anyway, so… But fair warning; this will be a lot easier to understand if you know your musicals, fairy tales, and Buffy.
Dedication: Windswift. I don't think she's got one yet, and the genius deserves one. This, then, is my humble offering. She's on this site, people, go on and check it out.
Disclaimer: I own nothing here but the exact phraseology. The biggies are; Natsuki Takaya (Furuba), Sir Harold Boulton ("All Through the Night"), Raikune (Storm, on this site), Joss Whedon ("Restless", "Fear, Itself," and all other dream or fear episodes), and last but nowhere near least, Katia-chan – also on this site – and her incomparable Ivory. It sorta pushed the buttons, darling, nothing too blatantly stolen, I hope… Mostly in the second part… Except for the weather. Which is also from Storm, but not entirely by any means, so.
For more on "All Through the Night," the song, see bottom.
All Through the Night
Sleep, my child, and peace attend thee,
All through the night;
Guardian angels God will send thee,
All through the night;
Safe the drowsy hours are creeping,
Hill and vale in slumber sleeping,
I my loving vigil keeping,
All through the night.
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While the moon her watch is keeping,
All through the night;
While the weary world is sleeping,
All through the night;
O'er thy spirit gently stealing,
Visions of delight revealing,
Breathes a pure and holy feeling
All through the night.
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Hark, a solemn bell is ringing,
Clear through the night;
You, my love, are heav'nward winging,
Home through the night.
Earthly dust from off thee shaken,
By good angels art though taken;
Soul immortal shalt thou waken,
Home through the night.
Part One:
Don't Say a Word
0. Prologue
Many children are afraid in the dark. In fact, many adults are afraid of the dark, but eventually the majority of us push this primordial terror out of the way as impractical. Children do not have our – as Virginia Woolf might phrase it – "perspective."
So children are the ones known for their fear of the dark.
They might be afraid of the loneliness in it, the gap it puts between themselves and any companionship previously only as far as the next room, now an ocean of black away.
They might be afraid of the darkness itself, a huge, amorphous creature prowling the halls like a drowsy but rapacious beast, spreading tendrils like fingers into every nook where a nightlight goes out.
They might be afraid of the things the darkness hides. Things change when the dark hides them; every child knows that. Closets become portals, coats and hats hung on doorframes become Der Kindestod. Clothes twisted on the floor become Midgard Serpents. Innocent dolls' eyes gleam in the light that lets you see the darkness, and floorboards sigh the words of a house that is hungry.
These are the classics, brought to life in the films of countless men and women who realize that we never kill these fears. We just bury them.
The worst, though, are the ones we can't see. No coat, no half-open door, no malevolent doll with a broken, frozen smile. Just the feeling, the knowledge that while your back is turned something is behind you. You can't turn around fast enough to catch it; it will always be behind you until it's too late, and then you'll wish you hadn't seen it. It gets closer and now you can hear it, can feel the fingers a breath from your neck, and maybe this time the blankets aren't going to protect you –
These are not the things, even at the age of eleven, which frighten Sohma Akito in the dark.
Loneliness might frighten him – more than anything else, in the end – but he has never truly felt it.
No mere lack of light can keep him from any of his juunishi. Darkness itself is the closest thing he has to a casual friend. It's comforting and dependable. He lives in and thrives on it, but he would exist without it. Unlike the other things he counts as his own. He won't contemplate losing these.
He is not afraid of the things the darkness hides. Nothing lies abandoned in this house of so many servants in any case, but even if it did… he has an excellent memory and no imagination. A coat is a piece of tailored cloth; an open door leads to nothing but the next room and he distinctly recalls leaving it open himself.
Least of all is he afraid of unknown things behind him. The susurration in the black… he knows what these things are, with freezing or burning fingers, voices made of tears, souls made of hope, and minds made of memory and what-ifs, no pinch of "now" existing.
They're nightmares.
And they're not his.
I. Kureno
When the lightening rips through the sky for the first time, it wakes Akito. The thunder has been roaring for hours, the sound of the sky tearing like wet tissue vibrating the house, and now it has finally gone through and a piece of sun screams through before the hole is sealed.
The wind, too, has been rattling windows, whistling and howling, and still is. Trees lose branches; tiles leave the roof.
Still, it's the light that wakes him.
He sits for a moment, skeletal arms clutched around his own shoulders, shuddering, heart cold with fear. He can feel tears in his eyes and blinks rapidly, clutching the blanket. The wind rattles, thunder rolls, and lightening hisses down with the hail.
Akito has his own fears; he is certain of this. But at night, when it storms, he can't remember them.
I stare down into the coal-black eyes glinting up at me. "Kureno," my god says, "tell me a story."
"Another one?" I glance at Gure-niisan. He looks… tired.
"Yes. You know, my Kureno, it's your turn. You have to tell me a whole story."
"But then there won't be time for Nii-san to finish his."
A wraithlike hand floats up to caress my face from where he lies, head in my lap. "Then each of you get to live one more night. Isn't that the bargain?"
Yes. Yes, of course I know… I remember.
I remember…
So I speak, and tell a story. My story has a happy ending. And then Nii-san tells his story, but it doesn't have an ending or a plot, it's just things happening, one after the other. His is true. His is right.
I wish mine were, but it isn't, and my happy ending is made of lead that not all the alchemists in the world could change to gold. But it glitters like a rising sun.
"You won," Nii-san whispers in my ear. "Congratulations."
"It was just a story," I say. "It isn't meant to be taken seriously. It's just a metaphor."
"There is no such thing," he answers with a hollow laugh, "as just a metaphor. You can be killed by windmills or giants, and it doesn't matter, Kureno-kun. You'll still be dead."
"I like this ending," Akito says, tossing a paperweight with little people inside.
"It's not a toy if you choose it. You'll make it real."
"It might be real," he says, leaning over me, close enough to kiss, "but it's still my toy."
These are not his fears.
He crawls slowly to the other side of his futon. He doesn't like to sleep alone, and even as he gets older and people start to hesitate, and Shigure's jokes get him smacked harder because everyone worries that they won't just be jokes for long, he can still avoid it. He can do anything he likes, after all.
So he puts a hand that he can't quite stop from shaking on the shoulder of the older boy, muttering fitfully in his sleep, and rolls him from his side onto his back, burying his fingers in the comforting cloth.
He wishes that Kureno would wake, warm brown eyes and concerned words, warm arms around him even though, of course, he doesn't need them, not at eleven, not because of some fit the weather throws. But he only sighs in his sleep, face twisting.
Akito leans down and lays his forehead against the bird juunishi's own.
He feels the fear, sees the visions, makes them his, and smiles.
"You will not win," he says.
And Kureno stops dreaming.
II. Yuki
Akito clenches his teeth and fights to breathe slowly, evenly; tells himself that he is not drowning. He could scream right now if he wanted to, and everyone within hearing distance would come running to his call. They would listen to him, because he can speak.
He pushes back the covers reluctantly, leaving what warmth and comfort Kureno can offer from catatonia. The pulse in his throat throbs; his heart races as if there's a finish line, as if this will ever stop for good. For good…
No, almost – almost, he can say he prefers this.
At any other time, the answer would be definite. He wants everything of theirs. It's just right now, with the wind screaming like the bean sidhe, the hail pounding like fists on a door that won't open, and the lightening…
I'm sitting on the porch, legs dangling over the edge. When Akito sits like this, his feet go almost to the ground, but mine are barely halfway there. The water, though, is creeping up the edge of the house, and pretty soon I guess my feet will be touching it. Then I'll be as tall as he is.
"No you won't," my mother says, glancing over her shoulder from where she's talking to Shigure-niisan and Hatori-niisan. "Don't start thinking like that, Yuki." Now it's Akito talking, though he stays the same height and age as my mother. "You mustn't be mistaken. It makes you look stupid." He sighs and turns back to them. "So Yuki's job is settled?"
Hatori nods and they keep talking, and Shigure looks at me.
I shake my head. I want to say I don't want that job.
But he reaches up and takes off his mask, and underneath everything is exactly the same except he's not smiling and his eyes are cold.
The water closes around my ankles. I look down and it's black. I want to get out of it.
"Gross! It's cold and sticky!"
I look over and the boy, the cat, the red-head… Kyo… is sitting there too. He's still yelling.
"Get me out of it! It's nasty!"
The man I've seen him with, the one with the ponytail and green yukata, smiles and picks him up. "Okay, Kyo. Relax, it will come off."
The water is up to my knees, sliding over the edge of the porch and wrapping around me. I open my mouth and nothing comes out.
"Come in." The words sound more like a prediction than a request or even an order. Akito is in the water, and something closes around my ankle, hidden in the inky black.
It looks cold.
He frowns. "It is."
I turn my head to look at them, but they're gone. Only… Ayame, the boy who looks like me only… more, more beautiful, more strong, more here… Only he is left. He's looking at something I can't see, and smiling.
I put my hand around the cuff of his pants and it slips through, intangible.
The water is up to my chest.
Akito puts his hand on my cheek. "See, I don't go through."
The water is over our heads, and everything looks green now. He smiles as I drown. And I smile back.
These are not his fears.
Now…
He walks very carefully, because he will not run. He is dizzy with compounded terrors, but he can only take one step at a time. And it isn't far to Yuki's room, not far at all.
He pushes the door open and kneels beside the smaller boy's futon, clenching his fists until his fingers cease trembling and only then laying a hand on the hot, dry forehead above eyes twitching in fevered nightmares.
He feels the fear, sees the visions, makes them his, and smiles.
"You will not be silent," he says.
And Yuki stops dreaming.
III. Shigure
Potential energy can be due to position. The bigger they are, the harder they fall, or put another way, the higher they are. What good is the sky to a creature who'll never do better than crawl? But Shigure has seen the sky and he wants it.
He has a very long way to fall, and he's barely begun climbing. So Akito goes to him next, though it is a bit out of his way, because he thinks that maybe he will be able to breathe long enough to get to the others without this vague, suffocating terror.
"You know, you really don't have to do this," I say.
Akito shrugs, turning down the corner of the sheet. "Tuck in the corner."
I comply with a grin, or I mean to. I can't feel my face, so I'm not sure. The room is smiling for me, though, filled with butter-yellow sunshine, and it laces itself around my fingers as I tuck the blanket in at the foot of the bed under. Funny, I don't feel the warmth.
"There," he says, standing and surveying it judiciously. His shirt is violently red against the yellow and white room.
My eyes are level with his, his height equaling mine. I meet them and find I've said, "It'll just get dirty again."
"Cleanliness is next to godliness," he says. "You should be able to manage that much." He turns away and looks into the mirror, where Kureno is reflected back at him. "He can help me next time" Akito shrugs again, not a gesture he makes often, and it disorients me. Then he winces and turns to face me with a frown. "Aren't you ever going to take this thing out?"
I look at his back in the mirror, and the knife between his shoulder blades. I don't know how it got there.
He says something, and I don't hear it. I shake my head, ask him to repeat it.
He's holding the knife now, and Aya doesn't seem to see it, chattering away at Ha-san again.
"Akito," I try, and though he doesn't acknowledge me I continue, "I'm sorry."
The knife slides into Aya's chest without a sound, and Ha-san just looks quietly as it turns on him. Akito stands and looks down at their bodies, with his back to me again, and murmurs, "Why? It's not your fault." He lifts his head, turns it until it is silhouetted against the sunlight with blood streaking down from an empty socket, and adds, "After all, you didn't do anything."
These are not his fears.
Flashes, those are all he gets. Not cohesive images, inasmuch as any dream is cohesive at all. What he does get the full force of is the feeling. Feelings, rather. So many of them…
He's glad he doesn't see much of the images, right now.
Akito doesn't know this room as well; Shigure usually comes to him, so often and casually that it never occurs to him to go to these rooms unless he needs to… get away from his. Even then, it is more of a habit to find Hatori, who will answer him instead of asking questions.
So in the dark, it's hard to find the futon without stumbling over something, and when lightening tears through the night again, leaving the air breathless and dry, the boy bites back something that could have been a gasp or a sob. He isn't worried that anyone will wake. They never do, not on these nights. But he still sinks his teeth into his lip until his breath is caught, and only then does he trail a finger up a fitfully twitching torso to the head, which is at this point nearer the foot of the pallet than the head, and cradle the sweat-damp cheek.
He feels the fear, sees the visions, makes them his, and smiles.
"You will not be helpless," he says.
And Shigure stops dreaming.
IV. Ayame
They're not true, the things he tells them. Not lies, maybe, because he isn't omniscient (now) and can't say for sure that the things they fear will become reality, but if they continue as they are… Yuki may not be silent, but he will never speak. Isuzu may not lose hope, but she will never triumph.
Akito has heard that lying is wrong. But "right" and "wrong" are just words, concepts that apply to other people. He does what he does to protect them. Parents lie to their children all the time; he hears about it from Isuzu, from Kisa, from Hiro and Momitchi, Ayame and Hatsuharu… from all of them whose parents care enough to lie or don't care enough to tell the truth. So many little things every day to make them think the world is a better place than it is… Well, the world is a horrible place and he knows it, and he's the only one willing to tell them the truth about it.
The thing he lies to them about – and only when they're asleep, because he won't be caught at it – is themselves.
Maybe he shouldn't. But… he does. And he always will.
I pump the treadle and slip the shuttle in and out, in and out. The loom clacks and the blanket grows.
Shigure puts a hand on top of mine, and I smile. "You're going to ask about the spinning wheel, aren't you?" I mean to ask. I never do, but the words have been said, somehow.
"You have to admit, it features prominently in more than one classic. I can think of nothing that would befit you more aptly than a tried and true testament to beauty."
"Shigure, can't you for once get the facts straight?" Tori-san is wearing a white mask, sitting in a chair by the window. He has a book open on his lap, but it's hard to tell if he's reading it or not. "In the other story, the wheel is the cause of –"
"Ha-san, the old ladies were just saying that! I mean, maybe it contributed to their… physical deterioration… but some people are just ugly. And anyway, even in the event that spinning could so transform a person, fundamentally they were doing a pretty a girl a favor above and beyond mere –"
"Your parents were right." Tori-san sounds amused. "You should consider a career in law. If only because you could easily turn the courtroom into a three-ring circus."
That's why it's so hard to see where he's looking – the sequins over the eyeholes. I wonder if he can see at all.
"You've been enchanting, Aya," Shigure says, "But you haven't been watching."
I look over my shoulder at the cradle beside the huge bed. The four-poster is curtained in cobwebs, with Mother and Father lying on it, deathly pale and not breathing visibly.
The cradle… I look at the loom, and at my hands. Gure-san still has one of his over mine, and where he touches is the only place that doesn't hurt, burn as if I've been weaving thorns.
I stand and pull away, the remaining cool relief dying with a burst of new pain. The baby is still in the cradle, and I pick it up gently.
"Not watching," Gure-san singsongs, and the baby melts away in my hands. It was made of ice, and the cold bites to my bones as the freezing water spills down, leaving my freezing-burning hands empty. Outside over there, Akito cradles Yuki and smiles.
"Time's up," Tori-san whispers, reaching for Gure-san's hand. He pulls him to the bed and the cobwebs part, and they lie down beside each other. Their eyes close, breaths still, skins drain. Nothing left but shells.
I turn and there's a huge gilt mirror on the wall, my reflection horribly vivid and alive, and the rest of the room dissolves –
These are not his fears.
They remind him too much of Momitchi's, too much of his own, but they are not his. Ayame's rooms are nearby. They had not been, originally, but at some point in the last decade the flamboyant nineteen-year-old had found that another room (which happened to be much nearer Shigure's) was more fitting to his splendor, with a better view and more space or some such rot. And once Ayame wrapped around something, he never let it go.
More importantly, it never seemed to want him to, and that was what made Akito as happy to avoid the snake as anything else. How did he suffocate them without incurring their resentment?
But still, he bends down and strokes the loose braid. He touches a forehead as hot and dry as his brother's.
He feels the fear, sees the visions, makes them his, and smiles.
"You will not be alone," he says.
And Ayame stops dreaming.
V. Ritsu
Dreams are not like this. Imagination does not run along these lines. Dreams do not make sense, and nightmares are never so frightening in the harsh light of day. It is usually very difficult to explain at the breakfast table the next morning why, exactly, it was so deathly horrifying when the carrot chased you through the cabbages with a pom-pom.
But on nights like this… New Year's, or a storm, and especially when both happen at once… Akito speculates (remembers) that it was a night like this, under the clouds, when an oath was taken above them.
Nights like this make dreams tell stories to him, and they're fairy stories.
Once, when he was three, Shigure read him a book of fairy stories. He had nightmares for months after, usually about Bluebeard or the children who killed the witch. After that, Shigure made up his own stories.
That doesn't stop the dreams, though. It never has, and it never will. And they're worse.
So he goes into the nearest room, hands cupped over his mouth because it makes it easier to breathe, or is supposed to, and trying to think clearly. Rationally… Or to just think on his own at all.
They're all sitting around the table. Mother, who is dead and rotting; Father, who has propped her up against him and is smiling and laughing; all the juunishi members, crowded around Ayame-niisan in the middle. Kyo-san – the cat, part of him whispers – is even there, smiling and laughing along with everyone else as if he belongs (deserves to be) there.
I smile too, because it's polite and it would be awful to burden the others with my inexcusable manners on top of everything else, but I can't hear what they're saying. Or I can, but don't understand, can't remember seconds after they've said it.
My gaze drops to my lap, where my fingers have wrinkled the silk of my kimono. Their voices echo and flow around me, glide across my skin like water on oil, never leaving a mark.
"Rit-chan!" I hear that, finally, and it stays in me, making an indentation. My head snaps up.
"Yes?" I'm eager; I want to please. To do something right.
Ayame-niisan isn't even looking at me, whispering in Shigure-niisan's ear, but he waves a hand in one of his majestic gestures and says, "Pour us some tea, will you?"
I know I've already said I would, so I start pouring. The cup I'm holding is empty, and then it's overflowing, burning liquid that the oil inside does nothing to dispel, and I drop the pot.
It shatters everywhere, no shards left but dark red-stained water spreading across the floor, creeping under the table, pooling at their ankles and in the doorway, covering the entire room's light boards.
I gasp, tears in my eyes, and cry, "I AM SO SORRY! I DESERVE NO FORGIVENESS, I SHOULD BE PUNISHED IN THE WORST OF ALL IMAGINABLE WAYS, FLAYED AND BEATEN FOR MY PRESUMPTION IN DESTROYING YOUR WONDERFUL THING, FOR BEGGERING OUR HOUSE AND SHAMING THE FAMILY NAME!"
And no one even looks up. I was wrong, I caused destruction. They should stop me. They should… they should look…
Nothing.
I turn and Akito-san walks into the room, and I slump to my knees. "Akito-san –"
I don't move, and he does not stray from his path, but somehow he passes through where I was kneeling, and he's by without a glance.
My knee is bleeding, having landed in on the teapot. It's broken, so many small pieces.
Being cursed is all that makes them look.
I pick up the teacup. It's empty.
These are not his fears.
He's wearing, Akito notes, what could be considered boys' pajamas.
The blankets are as twisted as were Shigure's, and some have fallen off the futon entirely. His parents are in the next room, and Akito worries that this spell will hold outsiders until he's kissed every last sleeping royal. So he's quiet as he picks the blanket up, shivering, and wraps it around himself for a moment, resting a hand on the troubled face. He smoothes back the auburn hair gently, replaces the blanket and pulls it up to the quivering chin.
He feels the fear, sees the visions, makes them his, and smiles.
"You will not be invisible," he says.
And Ritsu stops dreaming.
VI. Momiji
He does not like these dreams, Momitchi's. When this boy wakes in the night with tears and no breath in his small body, it is not because of Akito. Akito doubts that he is even present in these nightmares, not every time.
He is certain that he is always in the others', or at least that he causes them, but Momitchi has never had cause to fear him. He thinks that he will have to make the annoying brat work for his affection in the future. It seems to be the key to his heart – that woman rejected him out of hand, and he's never let anyone matter to him as much as she does, despite Hatsuharu throwing himself at the blonde's feet whenever he so much as whimpers, despite even Ayame being as fond of him as he can be of anyone who is not Shigure or Hatori.
And Akito. Of course Akito matters – more.
His room is empty, a fact Akito knows without going in, and which does not surprise him. He doesn't think the seven-year-old has slept on his own when there was another option once in his life.
Akito narrows his eyes a moment and refuses to think of his own habits where this matter is concerned.
I lie on my side on the picnic blanket, one arm over my head so that I can see my white sleeve against the dark green grass. The picnic basket is open beside me, and Mutti, Haru, Kagura-nee, Aya-niisan and Ha'ri are here. They're going through the basket, pulling things out.
I'm hungry, but I can wait. I want to just watch for right now. The clouds are perfectly round and puffy, the sky's blue. It's warm, but there's a light breeze picking light things up and swirling them around. It's an idyllistic scene, but I don't see why it can't be real.
I don't see the sun, but the sunlight is shining off Mutti's hair and it gleams everywhere, the most beautiful light in the world.
"You want some?" Haru is holding out a handful from the basket, and I take it.
Pictures, of me and Vati and Mutti, laughing. On the beach, at the table, at a playground. She's tucking me in, kissing me goodnight, singing me to sleep.
She's humming now. I know the words.
"Hush, little baby, don't say a word,
"Mama's gonna buy you a mocking-bird
"And if that mocking-bird don't sing,
"Mama's gonna buy you a diamond ring…"
Kagura puts a finger to her lips and shakes her head.
"This never happened," I say.
The pictures blur, at first because of the tears in my eyes, and then because they're soaking the pictures themselves. I look to Mutti, but she's so blurred now I don't think it's her. Her hair is black now, and short, and she looks sharp and narrow through the blur.
I turn to Haru-nii, and he looks at me silently. His face is always expressionless, or at least usually, but now it looks… dull, and why is he so much older? "Don't you ever stop crying?" He asks coldly.
I reach out for him, hands shaking and fragile, and Ayame-niisan knocks them aside when he reaches for Yuki's shoulder between us.
"Oh," he says. "Excuse me."
I bite my lip, and try not to cry, but they keep coming, and always before they've… not helped, but someone always came.
Yuki stands up, pulling on Haru's hand. "Rin and Kyo need you too, you know," he says, with a glare at me. "The kid can't cry forever."
"Mm. He'll get over it." Haru rolls his eyes, letting Yuki pull him up and slinging an arm around his waist.
Mutti is holding Momo, cooing and giggling through her black hair.
"Mutti –"
"She's sleeping!" Black eyes narrow to slits. "Do not disturb her, my Momitchi."
And she's singing the words now.
"Mama's gonna buy you another today…"
My tears soak the blanket as Vati picks her up and twirls her, Momo still in her arms, and I don't think there is an end to their laughter.
These are not his fears.
They come horribly close, but no.
He goes to Hatsuharu's room, which is nearby, and grimaces at the sight that greets him. The two-toned boy is sprawled with one arm around the mussed blond whose head is on his shoulder. Curled like a cat in the improbable position above their heads, legs beside Momitchi, hair tangled around Hatsuharu, is Isuzu.
He would be angry at this conspiracy, but it means that much less to travel, so he goes to Momitchi and puts his hands on either side of the clouded face, eyes gleaming beneath half-open but unconscious lids.
He feels the fear, sees the visions, makes them his, and smiles.
"You will not be unloved," he says.
And Momitchi stops dreaming.
AN: Okay! I have been a long time here, people, much with the deprivation of new stories and all the wonders they entail, and we must feed the Alice Machine or it gets cranky. So… reviews…? Please?
Next part will be all. Not too much further to go.
About this song, "All Through the Night," I have a link to a place where you can hear the tune, which I'll space out at the bottom. However, if you want a truly sob-inspiring rendition, allow me to advise the first place I heard it – Angel's "Lullaby." Of course, you have to watch at least the first eight episodes of the third season to understand this glorious ninth one, but… Well, I have yet to see anyone not do an abrupt about-turn when it comes to Holtz. You don't get to hear the whole song, and Keith Szarabajka (guy who plays Daniel Holtz) is not a singer – he sorta chants it – but the entire setting is just heartbreaking. One other little thing to do with that – the song is Welsh, the translations are varied, and the one I use is slightly different from the one we hear Holtz singing. The Welsh name is "Ar Hyd y Nos." Just for the record, I now have three conflicting reports on who wrote the lyrics and music, so… take your pick…
Link:
h t t p / w w w . k i d i d d l e s . c o m / m o u s e u m / a 0 0 2 . h t m l