Christmas Eve, 2035

[theravenboy]

The house in the hills is full of noise and light and people; three generations of the Davies family, with Will and Jane and Cordelia, not to mention the tree standing in the parlor, are more than enough to crowd Bran's comfortable home. It is a happy crowd, in any case. Children are everywhere, chattering peacefully, and adults are making small talk in the corners. A Yule log burns in the hearth, and mistletoe and holly hang over the windows.

Two children, both about ten, are nudging each other and laughing. Their conversation is in Welsh, but can be translated to, "You ask!" "No, you!" "Your turn!"

A few minutes later, both of these children approach Cordelia Vorkosigan. They smile at her in an alarmingly innocent fashion.

Comments

[veryvorkosigan]

She smiles back, cheerful and friendly and not fooled for a moment.

"Let me see, it's ... Elen and Gwyn, isn't it?"

There are what seem like dozens of grandchildren, but after over thirty years of working the Vor social scene, Cordelia is that good with names.

[theravenboy]

"Yes, that's right," the girl says in lilting English. "I am Elen, and Gwyn is my cousin."

"Ask her," hisses the boy. "You said you would."

Elen favours Gwyn with a good-natured shoulder-punch, but says, "We were wondering, Gwyn and I, whether..." She hesitates.

"Come on," says Gwyn.

Very fast, almost stumbling over her words, Elen finishes, "Whether you are a great queen. Or one of the Tylwyth Teg. Because you came down from Cader alone, and that only happens in stories."

[veryvorkosigan]

They're both still trying to restrain giggles, of the nervous we-know-we-shouldn't-be-doing-this variety. It's enough to make Cordelia's own laugh genuine.

"Do I look like a great queen to you? Or one of the -- I'm not even sure I can pronounce that."

[theravenboy]

"The Fair Folk. The people under the hill," Gwyn explains importantly.

Elen says, "You might be a great queen. Your clothes were strange. And Branwen of Ireland came down that very path once."

"It was Rhiannon," Gwyn corrects her. "Rhiannon of the Birds."

[veryvorkosigan]

"Really? I don't think I know that story."

She leans forward in the soft chair, arms resting lightly on knees, and looks from one young face to the other in curiosity as frank as theirs.

[theravenboy]

Bran, who has come to this side of the sitting room for a cup of eggnog, stops a little behind Gwyn and Elen to listen. He raises his finger to his lips and meets Cordelia's eyes: don't tell them I'm here.

[theravenboy]

Elen takes charge of the story. Her high voice wavers, at first, but grows more confident as she continues. Unconsciously, she takes on the cadences of the storytellers she knows: her uncle, and her grandmother.

"Branwen was the sister of the king of Britain, and she married Matholwch, king of Ireland. For a few years they were happy, and they had a son, but then the king's advisors told him to put Branwen away, so he did. And he set her in the kitchen and the butcher boxed her ears every morning.

"But Branwen was pregnant again, you see, and she was afraid of what would happen to her new son. She was very wise, Branwen was, and she knew things, so she cast a spell. It took her all the way out of Ireland, and all the way out of Time, and Branwen lived a very long time ago. And then she and her child were just there--" Elen points in the general direction of the mountain, although there is a bookshelf in the way-- "and it was not long ago at all. And she had to go home, but the child stayed, and he grew up and lived happily ever after."

[veryvorkosigan]

Cordelia keeps her eyes on the children, after one amused flicker at Bran.

When Elen finishes, she smiles warmly. "That's a lovely story. Does it tell what became of Branwen after she went home?"

[theravenboy]

Elen smiles once, proudly, but then she looks down. "There was a war, and Branwen died. And her husband, and her brother, and her first son, and almost everyone. I do not like the rest of the story."

Gwyn, who has been switching his balance from foot to foot waiting for Elen to stop talking, says crossly, "It was not Branwen anyway. It was Rhiannon. I told you."

[veryvorkosigan]

Her face has gone sober, but before she can respond -- that's what wars do is what's in her mind to say -- Gwyn speaks first.

So she turns to him. "How does that story go, then?"

[theravenboy]

"Mrs Evans over at Clwyd told me about it," Gwyn explains. He, too, has the delivery of someone who's been listening to tale after tale since he was born, and knows the rules of storytelling as one of his native languages.

"She said that Rhiannon was the wife of Pwyll, who was lord of Dyfed. The night she bore her first child, six women came to watch her and the child and keep them safe, but instead of watching all night they all fell asleep, and when they woke, the boy was gone. And they were very worried, for fear they should be blamed, so they took some dogs and killed them, and put the blood and the bones next to Rhiannon, and said that it was the blood and bones of the child and that Rhiannon killed him in the night."

The boy seems to be taking relish in the gory details.

[veryvorkosigan]

Cordelia's eyebrows rise, and she looks duly impressed by the horribleness of it all.

"And were they believed?"

[theravenboy]

"Yes, for a long time," says Gwyn. "But it wasn't that at all, you see, because Rhiannon knew that people would fear her son, so as soon as he was born, she put the women to sleep by magic, and she took him forward in Time, to Cader, and she brought him down here to grow up. And it was not easy for her at all, because she had just given birth and she was still in pain, and she was so sick that she almost died before she found shelter in a cottage off the path. And it was even worse when she went home, and was punished for seven years. But the boy grew up here, and when he was grown, he went back to his mother and father's land, and Rhiannon's shame was over, because everyone knew she was falsely accused. And Mrs Evans says Rhiannon left a gift here, for us, because she was sheltered here: that there are days when the birds sing so beautifully that they hardly seem to be birds at all, and those are the birds of Rhiannon, and they are singing her thanks."

Elen looks doubtful, at this bit of corroborating evidence, but she says, "You're wrong. It was Branwen."

[theravenboy]

[from here]
Margaret Davies slips out of the parlor into the warm kitchen, and from there, walks into her own book-lined study. She stands there, back very straight, staring out of the window into the black Christmas night.

[jane_drew]

Jane glances into the study before knocking lightly on the door frame. She doesn't want to intrude if Margaret doesn't want her to be there.

[theravenboy]

Margaret turns her head towards Jane, but does not smile, and her back remains rigidly straight.

"Did you know that story, Jane Parsons?"

[jane_drew]

"I heard part of it told, once," Jane says softly. Long ago, now.

She doesn't move forward into the room, yet, remaining in the doorway.

[theravenboy]

"I thought you might have."

Margaret looks at the other old woman and shrugs. "Oh, you might as well stop hovering there. Come in and sit down." She gestures Jane towards an armchair at one side of the room, and takes her own seat at the chair in front of the computer desk.

When Jane has seated herself, Margaret says very quietly, "That story has not been told aloud in this household since before the children came."

[jane_drew]

She enters the study and moves over towards the armchair to sit.

"I'd imagine that it's not the sort of topic that comes up in everyday conversation," she says, gently. "Understandably so."

[theravenboy]

"We tell all of the other stories."

Margaret sits rigidly, her hands interlocked together in her lap.

"It is only that one that I prefer not to hear."

[jane_drew]

"It doesn't give the comfortable distance of 'Once upon a time', as the other stories do," she says, nodding faintly, a look of understanding on her face.

[theravenboy]

"There is never very much distance," Margaret says, and the twist of her mouth rejects any sympathy from Jane. "Not here, not in this family. That is what I loved about Bran when I first met him. I could see it, when I looked at him, that he belonged to the stories."

[jane_drew]

"I know what you mean, though," Jane says.

That is the exact reason why Jane didn't like Bran when she first met him.

Special.

How long ago that was.

"Belonging to stories, or even being close to those who are, isn't easy. It only serves to throw into relief the gap between those who are of the stories, and those who are not."

And yes, it does hurt, sometimes.

[theravenboy]

Margaret says nothing for quite a while, and there is nothing to hear but the ticking of a clock on the wall.

"I can't understand," she says at last, "why he won't go back."

[jane_drew]

Jane hesitates, watching her with a solemn, slightly sad look on her face.

"If you were in his place, would you?"