merrimanlyon | (no subject)

After midnight, Bran realises there is no point trying to sleep. He dresses himself again and goes to the king's office, where he sits, taking notes and making plans.

Some hours later, the scrap of palimpsest before Bran is filled with comments on the order of

- protection against intrusion?
- gates, beach - are there other physical borders?
- personal defence-methods?

Bran has been thinking in circles for long enough. He stands up and walks out into the hallway of the castle.

Two floors higher, on the east side of the castle, he discovers Merriman. "Good morning," says Bran.

(Ten thousand times I've done my best)

Merlion doesn't visibly startle, but something in his bearing changes. Even at this early hour, even with all that is weighing on his mind, he nonetheless manages to look as if he had been expecting Bran to appear all along.

'Good morning, Bran Davies.' His voice echoes a little against the stone walls and floors. 'How goes it with you?'

"As well as might be expected." Bran's lip quirks. "Moiraine's answer is very useful sometimes. And you, Merlion?"

'That it is.' He gets a similar twitch of the mouth in return. 'Useful, truthful, and able to mean any number of things.'

The sky outside the window is rose-tipped grey, with only a few stars still visible.

'I am well enough,' he adds. 'And mostly succeeding in staving off a few of the less useful old habits -- otherwise, you would likely be receiving a detailed briefing of the kind that only properly belongs on a battlefield or in the chambers of a council of war.'

They haven't quite reached that point yet. Not at this hour of the morning, at least.

"I am proud of your self-restraint." Bran adds, less drily, "If you have a little time, I would be glad for some advice."

He tilts his head, inquisitive and attentive. 'Pray continue.'

"I have been thinking about yesterday. Over and over again. And I am thinking, we should never have come so close."

Bran shakes his head. His hair, already unkempt from the sleepless night, sticks out at even odder angles than before.

"You know, Merlion, you saw it. I was standing at the open gates of this castle, alone and unarmed, when the intruder came. That should never have happened, and it shows we have not planned well enough."

He knows well enough. Neither the memory nor the resulting headache have faded.

'I had wondered, when Raven was able to make his way here, whether that might imply that others would find it that much easier to do the same. I agree that the possibility of someone deliberately seeking out this place was one that should have been taken more carefully into consideration.'

It was one of the reasons why the only people who had advance notice of his absence from Milliways -- Henry Wellard and Amy, most specifically -- received as little information as he had been able to give them.

"You are doing all you can to keep the borders, I know that much. If they weaken, I doubt we can trust any further to magic."

Bran attempts, and fails, to smooth his hair out.

"I am no strategist. I've read books, that is all. But I am thinking that we have a castle here. With good strong gates, and soldiers from God knows how many centuries to man them. Food and drink inside the walls, too. Should we prepare a siege, Merlion?"

Merlion, it may be said, is something of a strategist -- has had to be in the past, for that matter. And one of the things that a strategist must take into account is the fact that in times of crisis, it is absolutely vital to keep people occupied with something productive. Whether in a military encampment, on a sailing ship on the high seas, or under the threat of nightly bombing raids, it is better for there to be too much to do than to have people standing about idle.

Work is a very good substitute for thought.

'There are some here who I think would welcome that,' he says slowly, thinking aloud. 'Who would relish the chance to do something active, even in preparation...and preparing defences would provide that opportunity. I believe it could be arranged without much difficulty.'

"That is something, anyway.

"I will have to stay within the walls, I suppose, and let them all defend me. I do not like it." Bran stares out of the window. The sky has grown rosier, with the faintest hint of orange about the horizon. "Merlion, do you think I should arm myself?"

'You would not have to stay entirely within the castle walls, but it would not be wise for you to go beyond them unaccompanied. If Moiraine were to go with you, for instance, that would be another matter.'

The last thing he wants at the moment is for Bran to think of himself as more of a prisoner of circumstance than he already is. Being confined within the walls of the castle would only add to any existing sense of claustrophobia.

He takes a moment to consider Bran's question. 'I do not think it would hurt to arm yourself. There are any number of people here who would be more than willing to work with you on matters of weaponry and training.'

A beat.

'And there is a weapon here, within these walls, that you have wielded before.'

Bran turns sharply towards Merriman. "I gave up my right to it."

'You are here nonetheless,' Merlion points out, with quiet finality. 'And you are of the blood, regardless of the decisions that you have made. You are the only one here who has the right to wield it, if it is to be wielded at all.'

It is nearly light enough to see without the need for the torches overhead, as the eastern horizon becomes a blur of greys and pinks and oranges.

'It is your choice, above all else,' he adds. 'If you would not have it, then I will consider the matter closed. But if you would have it, then I will bring it to you when you ask for it.'

"If you believe it proper... well." Despite the lines of strain on his forehead and the shadows under his eyes, Bran smiles. There is an arrogant tilt about his white head, and cool proud music in his voice. "Will you bring me the sword Eirias, Merlion?"

It may not entirely be that he believes it to be proper, but that it is as near to 'proper' as they are likely to get. But whatever the reason, Bran's request has a resonance that triggers any number of automatic, nearly instinctive reactions -- first and foremost of which is the bow that he gives to Arthur's son, the regent of the Summer Country.

'I shall.'

The first rays of sunlight strike his hair as he straightens, creating a faintly glowing corona of silvery-white around his head.

'Will you accompany me to your high father's chambers, so that I may present it to you?'

The regent bends his head, accepting Merriman's salute as his rightful due. "I will, and gladly."

They see no one else as they pass through the corridors of the castle, taking paths that Merlion knows will lead them to the king's rooms without nearing the main halls and chambers.

There are only a very few who would come here, fewer still who would feel right in entering without ceremony, even in Arthur's absence. Merlion opens the door, stepping aside to let Bran pass through first before closing it behind them.

A weighty silence hangs in the air in the outer chamber, the silence that tends to fall in any place when its rightful occupier has been long absent. It is part of the reason why Merlion does not linger, crossing the room without delay and reaching out to pull aside a heavy drapery that separates the main room from the one that lies beyond it.

Just visible through the now-open doorway is the far wall -- though little enough of the stone itself shows through. Three large tapestries, intricately worked in rich, vibrant colours, take up the better part of the space available.

One is a field of roses in crimson and green. Another is a noble unicorn in silver, woven with such care that the mythical beast seems to shimmer with life. And the third is a radiant golden sun, glowing with a warmth all its own.

Bran strode this far confidently, but he stops in the archway, looking through at the brilliant tapestries. "There should be a puzzle, now, or a test. A riddle to solve."

He tilts his head, thinking. When no barrier snaps up before him, Bran steps through the arch. The next room is bare. Light comes only from a few narrow apertures in the wall and from the tapestries themselves. Sheepskin rugs warm the stone floor.

There is a sudden flickering of the shadows in the room, and then Merlion steps forward, holding a lighted candle in one hand.

His face looks colourless in the candlelight, and his mouth is set in a thin and tight line, but his stride is purposeful as he approaches the tapestries and turns round to look at Bran.

'I think, perhaps, it is here before you.' The quiet gravity of his voice leaves a faint echo in the room. 'Or rather, the means to remember the answer.'

As he speaks, he brings the candle up and holds it before the tapestry, letting the steady white flame illuminate the field of bright red roses.

When Bran comes to the tapestry, the roses vanish. An image shines out of the glowing embroidered square, as bright and deep as a sunlit picture seen through a window frame: a cave within a hill, in which rests a great, black-bearded head, with deep-set brown eyes and a falcon's nose. The head is nearly as large as a man, and it is not attached to a body.

The tapestry flickers and becomes a field of roses again.

If Will were at his side, Bran would make some quip: funny place for a head, isn't it? But Will is sleeping, and Merlion holds the candle next to Bran. Bran says only, "I see. There must be more, here," and walks to the next tapestry.

Merlion holds the candle aloft again, in front of the tapestry of the unicorn. The silver threads flash brightly in the candlelight before the weaving also vanishes, and another image appears in its place.

It is a stone-walled enclosure, like the interior of a keep, and within it are a pair of fantastical creatures that can only be described as dragons. A small pool or cistern of some kind is nearby, and it reflects a very faint light upon the dragons' scales. There is just barely light enough to discern that one dragon is of a reddish colour and the other is much lighter, possibly greyish or even white.

(At any other time, this scene would bring a wry half-smile to Merlion's face. Here and now, though, his expression remains flat, revealing nothing.)

"Now, that story I know," Bran says. "Vortigern's tower, isn't it, and the dueling dragons that Merlin saw in the foundations. I suppose it isn't fair to ask if you did see them. But what has it got to do with a giant's head?"

He turns to the third tapestry, which shows, at first, a glowing golden sun.

The light of the single candle does not have the same calm radiance of the sun in the tapestry. It is a colder and more solitary white light, and as it nears the weaving, the sun disappears and is replaced by another glowing image.

It is of another head -- but of this one only the skull remains, a macabre vision of empty eye-sockets and grinning jaw. The skull rests within a casket, and in a second casket beside the first is a small pile of other bones, all ones that Bran should be able to identify with ease. It is all that remains of a man.

"They should put that in my anatomy textbook, now," Bran fends off shudders with a joke. "A test for the first-years. But wait, let me think. That is the question already, isn't it? A head, the dragons, bones. A head, the dragons, bones. I am sure there is something..."

Bran considers the bones in the caskets. They're separate caskets, ornamented, like a king's casket, or a saint's reliquary, maybe. A saint would make more sense. Kings are buried in single caskets, but saints' bones are shared out. What about the giant's head, hidden in a cave, in a hill? Concealed in a hill -- concealed -- he knows.

Bran takes a step backwards and to his left, so that he stands precisely at the midpoint, equidistant from all three tapestries. In his loudest, clearest voice, he says,

"The three fortunate concealments of the Island of Britain. The Head of Bran the Blessed, son of Llyr, which was concealed in the White Hill in London, with its face towards France. And as long as it was in the position in which it was put there, no Saxon oppression would ever come to this island. The second Fortunate Concealment: The Dragons in Dinas Emrys, which Lludd son of Beli concealed. And the third: the Bones of Gwerthefyr, or Vortimer, the Blessed, in the chief ports of this island. And as long as they remained in that concealment, no Saxon Oppression would ever come to this island. "

As Bran finishes speaking, the air in the room seems to shimmer faintly, like heat haze seen from afar on a hot, still summer's day. The only thing in the room that does not seem to blur around the edges is the flame of the candle in Merlion's hand, which remains as bright and sharp and thin as a blade.

The disorienting sensation lasts barely long enough to blink, though -- and when it is over, there is a long wooden chest beneath the tapestries, up against the far wall.

Bran lets out a hoot of relief and steps forward. The chamber is utterly silent, except for the sound of Bran's boots, muffled by the sheepskin rugs on the floor.

He lifts the iron latch of the chest and opens it. Inside, wrapped in a length of blue velvet, is a long, narrow object: a scabbard and belt of white leather, set with gold, holding a crystal sword like a white icicle. Bran takes up the belt and fastens it around his waist, over his long black shirt and black trousers. He folds up the velvet neatly, closes the chest and stands up.

Whatever strain marked Bran's face earlier this morning is gone. He holds himself with the arrogant dignity proper to the Regent of the Summer Country.

"Thank you, Merlion," says the Regent, with a proud tilt of his head.

It is right, and yet it is not right at all.

It is an easing of his own burden in a way, and yet at the same time he is hard pressed to think of another time when he has felt quite so old, or quite so tired.

And so Merlion bows his head, deeply, because if nothing else it gives him the chance to bring his facial expression under control. But he cannot quite keep his voice entirely steady as he says, softly and simply:

'At your service.'

My lord Pendragon.