jack_inthegreen | Good Solstice, milliways

Good Solstice, milliways_bar

In the gray pre-dawn light, the man in green has been busy.

There are rows of trestle tables set up by the lake--far from the new grave as well as anything else that might be disturbed by such things--and on the central table he sets up the horn of plenty he carved the day before. Now he lays a hand on the wood and quietly asks the elements around it to fill the horn and assemble themselves, so that there will be plenty to eat and it will all be nourishing and tasty. When he has done this the horn begins to fill and soon food is spilling out: fruit and bottles of wine and loaves of bread and slabs of cold cooked meats and wheels of cheese and whatever else a patron might think to ask for.

At the end of the rows of tables there is a wooden platform, with a small raised stage for musicians and plenty of room for dancers. Jack has found no one to play pipes but no matter, there are still musicians aplenty should anyone wish to dance. And he hopes they will, for what's a celebration without dancing?

Beyond the tables there is a small course set up for races, just a starting- and finish-lines marked off. There is a large rope for tug-of-war, various props like sacks for sack races and spoons for an egg-and-spoon race, and a pitch for bowls and another for playing horsehoes. He thought about playing tossing the caber but decided that might be pushing things a bit, even here.

Farthest from the bar proper is the bonfire, currently unlit. He pauses there and asks the fire within the wood to do no harm to anyone, that there will be no stray sparks or wayward ash to burn.

There is a great deal of magic at Milliways for him to draw upon and soon the party preparations meet with his satisfaction. He blesses the area before he goes back inside for some more rest before the party begins: that no one will be hurt in play or eat themselves sick, that not even a dancer's ankle be turned.

When he is done the morning fog is just beginning to burn off. It's going to be a beautiful day.

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*The force of Bran's gaze is surprisingly disconcerting, and Merriman has to consider his reply quite carefully before he speaks.*

I had considered the thought, yes. I must admit that I had not considered the purpose itself with any great thoroughness -- that sort of thing is normally left to the individual to discover. Though, I imagine, your question itself is part of the discovery.

*He tilts his head slightly to one side, in thought.*

If I may ask...who are you? Or rather, who do you believe yourself to be?

Bran's smile twists into the old self-mocking look, but beneath it he is serious. "I am... my fathers' son. And my mother's. All of my parents made me, and I have a responsibility, I think, to all of them."

*Merriman resists the urge to raise an eyebrow at Bran's response.*

When I spoke to you on this day four years before, I told you that the decision you made then was the right decision both for you and for the world. And 'the world' is not necessarily a vague name for a nebulous concept -- it may be rather more concrete and immediate than that.

Does that make sense, somewhat?

"It does," Bran says at once. "It is ... what I was thinking. And I had no words to say it with."

Good. *It is impossible to tell exactly which of Bran's statements Merriman happens to be replying to, with that single word.* And in that same fashion --

*He had been on the point of saying something more, but he breaks off abruptly, mouth partially open as if the very word he had been planning to say had vanished from his throat without warning.*

*After a moment, he closes his mouth, and turns the full force of his piercing gaze directly on Bran -- the gaze of a hawk in flight seeing far into the distance, of an Old One looking both backwards and forwards through Time.*

'And for him is the charge, the promise and the proof, and in his day the Pendragon shall come again.' *His voice is soft and lilting, the near-recitative quality a sharp contrast to the dry, professorial tones of a moment before.* 'And that day shall see a new Logres, with evil cast out...when the old world shall appear no more than a dream.'

"And the new sun rose, bringing in the new year," Bran breathes, tawny eyes burning. "Thank you, Merlion. That is what I needed to know." His nod is that of the king acknowledging his advisor.

*And Merlion inclines his head gravely.* My lord.

*There is a brief pause before he speaks again -- perhaps connected with the fact that another young man has just stepped outside to observe the party. The lyrical lilt in his voice has not changed, but there is a definite touch of wistfulness in it that had not been present before.*

'And I, the last, go forth companionless,
And the days darken round me, and the years,
Among new men, strange faces, other minds.'

Bran looks sharply at Merlion.

"Arthur vanishes, and Bedivere goes, and in the end something else remains in the world in their places. That is the story, at least."

His gaze narrows. "It isn't your story. You followed the king."

Not the first time. *His gaze is still not quite centred in the here-and-now, and it takes a moment for his eyes to clear.* I could not follow then. And the days and years were many and long, even for an Old One, and there were times when it was not always easy to remember what once had been...and what had been lost.

*The wistfulness has remained, even if it is not as prominent as before.*

Though you are indeed correct -- it is not my story. But I was not speaking of myself, this time.

Bran goes still and wistful himself.

"Yes, Will must go alone in the end.

"I promised him my company. Fifty years, more or less, is all I can give, and it will not be enough... I suppose it would be impolite, and also unnecessary, to say I could not have done so much if I had not known what I do about his goals and his destiny."

Slowly, he realizes, "You had not even that much time beside your king."

It is not given to us to ask for more than that. *A strangely soft voice, as if the very act of voicing such thoughts is so foreign as to require an actual modulation in his tone.* And Will understands that -- perhaps not so personally now, but when the time comes he will certainly understand.

*He looks at Bran then, and though the young man might not realise it, the calm, approving and almost avuncular light in the Old One's eyes would be instantly familiar to his father...who had not been that much younger than Bran is now, the first time he had seen it.*

To have seen you on your way -- that is enough.

Bran nods gravely under the weight of Merlion's approval.

"We all do what it is that we can do. I think that is some of what you meant, when you said that the responsibility and the hope and the promise are in our hands."

Something of that, yes.

*The bonfire has been lit, and flickers of brilliant red and gold create fire-streaked tangles of light in their near-identically white hair -- a parallel which is certainly not lost on Merlion.*

Will has remained to keep the watch for you...but it is wholly in your control, at long last, to do with as you will.

The firelight, orange and red and gleaming, reflects off of the gold of Bran's harp and the brass of his horn. It glints in Bran's tawny eyes.

"Then I will live my life knowing that I have a duty to the world, to serve it as befits a mortal man and my fathers' son."

The statement carries the force of an oath.

*There is a glittering light in Merlion's eyes that does not come from the glow of the fire. It is sharp and fierce and brilliant...but there is real warmth in it as well, and not merely the chill power of the Light.*

And may you perform your duty well, Bran Davies, in full understanding of the decision you have made and with full knowledge of who and what you are.

*His own statement carries the force of a benediction.*

The air fills with a faint whispering music. A warm wind blows in, and the bonfire seems suddenly to leap higher. Somewhere in the forest a wren's song rises. Bran feels joy flooding in on him as it did four years ago when the Lost Land opened itself between the shore and the sea; an involuntary smile breaks upon his face. The High Magic has ratified Bran Davies' oath.

*And in the high whirl of magic that surrounds the both of them, Merlion can feel - *
Fire on the mountain...
* - a ripple of power and magic, one that had lain dormant but nonetheless present for many long years - *
Oldest of the old...
* - it is Guinevere's plea from so long ago. Her request that the Light should grant sanctuary to her unborn child, sanctuary for a child innocent of his mother's wrongs and his father's human failings...that request has been fulfilled, at long last, here beyond Time and at the End of the Universe - *
Lost beneath the sea...
* - and there is a sense of completion, of rightness, that is wonderful and terrifying at one and the same time as the old magic woven around Bran so long ago seems to dissolve and melt away, burning off like morning mist in the steady heat of a rising sun.*
All shall find the light at last....

Silver on the tree.
Bran stands and waits, full of wonder, as the old spells loosen about him and blow away into the night. As they go, a great weight seems removed from Bran's body. He stands lightly and tosses his head back, letting his hair fly wild.

*The High Magic and old whispering spells of the Light are swirling about them, weaving through and over and under the Wild Magic of Jack in the Green's that is everywhere on this Midsummer solstice, an achingly beautiful half-heard song. It tugs at Will, pulling him towards them, pulling an unconscious wondering smile to his lips.*

*And yet he knows, with an Old One's deep unquestioned certainty, that this is not for him, not now. Later, perhaps, but in this moment and this rising wind of power it is Merriman and Bran's to stand at the center of it, and he to be the Watchman.*

*And so he stands, straight-backed and marveling, and all through him sings the clarion call of the mingled magics. Renewal, rebirth, growth and green life and the passing of what was old to make way for exuberant hopeful newness.*

*And he watches Merlion, hawk of the Light, and Bran the son of two worlds, with their faces alight grave and joyful and their white hair blowing back like twin flames, and he laughs aloud for joy.*

At last the powers blowing through the air begin to dwindle. The wind slows. The fire retreats to its normal height. The bell-like music rings into silence.

Bran stands in the sudden quiet, his eyes alight with amazement. He closes them briefly, in an owl's blink. Then he bends to untie the horn from his belt. He lifts it to his lips and blows it once, a clear, triumphant call, to mark the moment and do honour to the High and the Wild Magics.

From somewhere, the wren warbles a reply.
...y mae'r arglwyddes yn dod.

*The echo of the horn's single pure note fades slowly, and with it the last of the whispered magic -- both old and new -- vanishes from the air. And into that pause, where the high call of the horn had been, comes a new and rather unfamiliar sound.*

*Merriman's deep laughter, laughter made of mingled relief and unashamed wonder and a bright unwavering joy, rings out into the stillness.*

*It is not loud, or boisterous, but it is entirely real.*

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Good Solstice, milliways_bar

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