There is a knock on the door...
     It is not the front door, but the door that adjoins the two suites which is, as it should be, lockable from your side. You did not have to insist upon this arrangement; it was made for you. Couldn't you just hate him?
     Bran ap Davydd -- whom you have dubbed with the dubious Davies -- stands in his jeans, layered shirts (one is a button-down) and shoes, even a scarf and jacket, a bottle of wine in his hands as an offering to the room service he has ordered and which was just rolled into your half of the suite.
     The puzzle is changing before my very eyes, Gillian West. What was the center of the labyrinth is now the beginning of a much larger road. I can see the walls shifting. And your hands are on the lintel of them, shoving them into place. Your hands...
     Open the door, Gillian...
     Bran smiles, his dark red hair short but still wavy, the waves won't be denied. "I believe we have the rock pheasant... oes... is that what I am smelling?" It is, of course, correct. He was the one who ordered it.

     "It's open," Gillian calls. She is trying to brush her hair out, frowning at a mirror in the front of the room. She is dressed predictably, in one of her almost uniform-like pants suits, trying to get her hair to behave. She eyes you in the mirror a bit warily, then blushes uncomfortably and returns her attention to herself.
     "I think so. I haven't checked under the lids," she tells you. "I'll just have a salad. I need to lose at least another five pounds, after all." Gillian leans in to examine her reflection in the mirror critically, then picks up a tube of lip gloss and begins meticulously to apply it. She looks tired, and maybe a little wan, but none the less determined for it. "By the way, we should see about going to a lawyer."

     He closes the door behind him softly and he sets the wine aside. Bran is quiet a moment. He doesn't lift the lids to the food or offer any quipping or otherwise humorous or pithy statements. He comes over to you, joins you in the mirror's reflection, and he places a gentle hand on your back. "Gillian," he says quietly, and he doesn't need to say what he is about to say because it is on his face quite plainly. "I am worried about you. And don't say it's ridiculous or that I shouldn't bother." He brooks no argument. His hand lightly moves. "I am an academic, but I'm not blind. Dinner can wait a bit, and lawyers too."
     His other hand reaches for the brush. "Please talk to me. If I am anything at all, I am your friend, am I not?" His voice is a warm hush, his dark green eyes most earnest. "I am stopping time," he boldly announces. "See? There... it's not moving. So... no need to rush. Slow down and talk to me..."
     Little but do you know that I can not only stop it, I can take us in and out of it, plop this hotel in the middle of shadows where there is no time, and back without you even noticing, and without missing a beat...

     She stiffens slightly at the touch, with a nervous jumpiness as she turns to look at you. "There's nothing to worry about," Gillian insists, looking over the rims of her glasses at you before she begins to unscrew the tube of gloss. "But fine. Talk? We can talk. What do you want to talk about?"
     Her chin comes up in a way you will recognize. It is reminiscent of your mother. Battle may soon be joined.

     And he, his father's son, stands stalwart in the center of the storm. "How about this? The fact that you are clearly not sleeping well... that you are stressed, worried," his arms fold against his chest (not a very academic chest you might notice), "...that you refuse to nourish yourself, which is only exacerbating your stress and sleeplessness, all of which is culminating in the way you brush your hair, in the bellicose tilt of your chin, and your unconvincing insistence that there is nothing to worry about. I think that about covers it," Bran notes, his expression even. "I am concerned for you, because I genuinely care about you. But if it makes you more comfortable to discuss it in business terms then there is also this: you are wearing yourself out, too thin, and you will need both your rest and all of your faculties to get what you want. I'm trying to help you. I don't need the glamour. I don't need the fame. I don't even need the find. I want you to succeed. I want you to have what you want. You need to stop treating me as a threat. You need to trust someone," he leans in close to you, his voice lowering, his gaze lowering with it.
     "Most of all... you need to trust me. It is not a failure to admit that you need something, or someone." Bran straightens. "I just want you to succeed, Gillian. I want you to have this jewel you've uncovered. I ... more than anyone else... want you to have it because I understand what it is, and what it means to you. So... how about that for a topic? A lecture series, it should be."

     She is still feeling a little prickly, but not so much so that she cannot listen to you; she isn't your mother, clearly. "I haven't been sleeping well," Gillian admits (and excuses). She applies a careful layer of pink gloss to her lips, then moves to find a seat, leaning back and closing her eyes. "Anyway, I - would like to like you, but I don't know you well enough to say what I think about you."
     It isn't entirely true. It's partially true; just not entirely. "I'm glad you want me to succeed, but I'll succeed with or without you. It'd just be ... something ... if it was with you..."

     Bran smirks. "Better. The word is Better. It would just be better if it was with me." He chuckles a little then exhales. "You want to like me... that's a start. Okay, what's keeping you from actually liking me, then? That seems as good a start as any. Do I smell badly?" He grins. "Do I dress poorly? Am I dim and thick? Or... is it just that you don't want to need anyone? You are Ms. Self Reliance. Which is, by the way, one of the things I do admire about you but it also drives me nuts."
     Arms still folded at his chest, he rocks back and forth in playful thought. "So, what is it, Gillian? You're going to be my wife... wouldn't you at least like to enjoy it? I know I would. What would be the real harm in it becoming more than a handshake? You don't know me well enough? Then look, ask... I'll bee honest. What do you want to know? What can I tell you before we get to Powis Castle. That is where we're going by the way...lovely gardens and four private libraries..."

     "There's nothing wrong with you that I can find out." She sounds almost regretful, dragging her fingers through her hair with a little sigh. "There should be something wrong, though. I mean, obviously there's something odd about you. You agreed to marry me despite not even knowing more about me, not really, than my name. You don't act like a fortune hunter, after all."
     Gillian looks at you with the eyes of a girl who has had to deal with more fortune hunters than not, then hides her gaze behind the rims of her glasses again. "Does it matter if I enjoy it or not? I mean, we're not marrying for love," she points out reasonably (too reasonably). "You're not a bad dresser. You're not - dim, or smelly, or ... anything... anything like that. I just ..."
     I don't want to like you. Liking people just means I'll get hurt.

     Unfolding his arms, Bran crosses over to the wine he brought. He opens it. "I don't need the fortune, no. I'm already wealthy, which is why I can do what I want to do, like talk about old Roman ruins and the Dark Ages and shining a light on lost things, it's what I do. It affords me the opportunity to do that."
     He pours a glass for himself and one for you. The wine is dark red, a shiraz. There is no asking whether you want it or not, nor will your refusal to take it really be heeded. He sets it on the table beside your chair, and he pulls up a chair in front of you. "Cheers," he says quietly, tapping the glass. "I know, spotless record, annoying personality," Bran is smiling. "An almost preternatural sense of timing. I'm not easy to like. But... don't you want to, I don't know, feel love? Emotion? Now, I'm not gushing about, saying I'm in love with you. I do, however, care about you very much. I could love you," he notes quietly with a swallow of wine. "You have all the qualities of someone I'd absolutely adore. But you'll never know any of that, and whatever I tell you won't matter, if you can't trust me and... open yourself up to Possibility. Because, what's the point of unearthing a lost Roman villa if you're still hidden? What's the good of that?" he wonders softly. "I love ruins, who doesn't. I want them to see the light of day the same as you. But there's a secret buried even deeper than that, and that's you, Gillian. What do you think you can offer the world, if you won't give yourself a break? A chance. What's the point of it all, all of it, if you can't share it with someone?"

     She takes the glass, intending not to drink from it. And she watches you covertly, dragging her fingers back through her hair for a moment; and she averts her gaze at what you say. "There isn't anything that important or interesting about me," Gillian insists,more quietly. "All I am is a brain, you know. The body round it isn't that good or important. I don't have much of a personality."
     Now she does take a swallow of wine, quickly, gulping it to keep from showing emotional reactions - or pain. "The work is what's important, isn't it? I know you're not in love with me," Gillian answers you more briskly. "Don't worry. I don't expect you to be. I don't even expect you to be faithful to me - not with it being the kind of marriage it is. If I were marrying for love it'd be different, of course, but I'm not, so what does it matter? All I ask for is discretion. I realize we'll be spending most of our time apart. Except when we're working."
     It's as if she didn't even hear you.

     Where is my brave girl? Beset by the whims of fortune, as any hero...
     Bran looks at you. Your motions tell him everything your words deny. You do not speak Truth; you move in it. "You put your faith in me; I put my faith in you. That's how this works." He sets his wine aside and he rises. He takes your glass from you, setting it aside on the table again. "I care about you, Gillian. I see your hands in my sleep, moving aside the gates and curtains of my dreams. It will become love, if you allow it to be."
     His hand brushes your cheek, and he shakes his head. "Can you honestly not see? You need glasses for your brain," he notes. "If you choose not to see yourself, you're not going to be able to find what you're looking for out there. You won't hear me when I tell you how lovely you are. You will continue to not feed yourself, without realizing you are already starving. You're afraid. Afraid that if you say: alright then, I do need someone, I do want you: that I will take off. But I'm not as easily shaken off as all that." He lifts your chin with his hand. "I put my faith in you; you put your faith in me. That's how this works, Gillian."
     His gaze lifts and lowers from your eyes to your lips and back. But he knows you are not ready, not yet. Not for that. "Are you ready to listen to me... to listen and to hear me? If I grade you, will you pay attention?"

     She looks at you unwillingly, surrendering her glass to you and folding her hands in her lap. She blushes at the touch to her cheek, scowling for a moment and then biting her lip. Being in love means letting people hurt you and walk all over you. Why would I willingly seek it out for myself? Why does everyone have to run headlong into the path of traffic? Isn't it bad enough when it hits you from behind while you're still in the crosswalk?
     "Fine," Gillian answers you out loud, pulling her chin back with a toss of her head. "Grade me. I know how to listen to professors. I just don't promise to agree with your analysis, doctor."

     "Fine then," he says, returning to his chair but leaning forward. "You're abso-bloody-lutely terrified of being hurt and rejected. You haven't been praised for your looks, which in my mind is a horrible oversight. You're lovely. You're bloody brilliant, and not just your brain. You need to feed yourself. You're far too thin and it's making your eyes puffy. So's the lack of sleep. You can rely on other people. In fact, in life you have to rely on others. That doesn't mean you're less capable or less intelligent. If anything, it makes you smarter..."
     Bran looks at you squarely, his face (he's handsome rather, not some magazine beauty mind you) intense in his study. "That you don't see any of this in yourself is startling to me. You are a brave, feisty, beautiful young woman. I would kiss you, and I want to, but I want you to pay attention to what I'm saying. I... care... about...you. I am attracted to you. I desire you and want to get to know you. And... for me... this marriage isn't a scam. I'm treating it quite seriously, which isn't my habit with women before you. And if that doesn't tell you something about yourself, then I don't know what to tell you, Gillian. You're fucking special. So wake up, sweetheart. There.. I'm done. Disagree all you like, but you will be eating meat tonight. If I see a leaf of salad pass your lips I'm going to put you over my knee, I swear to God in heaven."

     She blushes, though it's with irritation as much as any other emotion (embarrassment, frustration, and perhaps a few other little things in there). "You wouldn't," Gillian mutters, folding her arms over her chest and glowering at you from over the rims of her glasses. "Look, vegetables are healthy. And I'm fine. I'm just a little tired is all."
     Most of what you say she doesn't respond to. She doesn't know what to say; she doesn't know how to answer that. She looks away. "I'm ... I've never said I'm not special. But all I've got is my brain, okay? No matter how brilliant you think I am, I'm - I'm not." Her voice goes softer on the words, from defensive to merely sad, and she wilts, drooping in her chair. "I'm just not, that's all. If I were all that, I'd - I'd have made different choices. I'd be - I'd be somewhere else. Someone else. And it doesn't matter. I am who and what I am, and that won't change. Look, let's just eat and go to bed. Tomorrow we have to meet your family, and I have to convince them that I - that I'm the sort of girl you should marry."

     Bran stares at you. If you doubt that he'd put you over his knee, doubt no more in that look. He's tempted even without the food. "You know what you need," he drawls out. "You need a swift kick in the arse. You're not going to be able to convince them if you don't believe it. Worst of all, you don't believe in yourself, Gillian. Enjoy your supper."
     He rises from his chair, turning to set it aside. What am I to do with a key that won't turn? "You're so dead set in being by yourself, thinking you control the universe, or your little corner of the universe. Would it make you happier," his voice lilts in the thoughtful drawl of his voice, "to know that you don't control shite? Would it give you peace of mind to know, for a fact, that you have zero control of the outcome of anything. Would that free you, Gillian?"
     It's not a rhetorical question. He's waiting for your answer.

     She flushes, folding her hands very tightly in her lap, still glowering at you. She looks down at her lap, glowering at it and biting her lower lip. "I know I don't control anything!" Gillian yells the words, throwing them at you and looking as if she'd like to throw something else at you as well. "Why do you think I think otherwise? Do you think I'd be half as worried, half as tense, if I thought that anything I said or did made the slightest bit of difference in this or any other world? Why would it give me peace to have that confirmed when every day I - I go to university, or wherever else, hoping that I'll be able to make enough of an effect this time to get along for a little while longer? Stop yelling at me about it! It's not my fault!"
     She's quite red in the face, her hair escaping any attempt at manageability. And abruptly, she bursts into tears.

     You're going to have to be broken, I see, in order to gain strength. You wouldn't be the first. You won't be the last.
     "Why? Because you have the world in a death grip. Your knuckles are white, Gillian." Bran's voice never lifted. But in your condition, your mood, any whisper would be a condemnation. His face softens and he's back at your chair sooner than you can get up to run.
     "You do make a difference," Bran whispers. "Come here." His hand appears beneath your elbow. Stand up, Gillian, the touch says. "You do, and you can. Why do you think you don't? Who is it that you're trying to please? Your parents? You have no idea the effect you can have on the world. I saw it in you immediately. I just wish you would allow yourself to feel it and see it. I wish you would believe it of yourself. Trust in that brain of yours, and in your good heart. That you're worth sommat." His arms come around you, and he kisses the top of your head.
     "You have the ability to show the world things they've only read about, or haven't even had the chance to read about it. And you're a young woman, yet. Do you truly believe, in your heart of hearts, that you're not going to make the slightest bit of difference in the world? Honestly?"
     Bran tips his head back slightly to look at you, a hand moving against your face to wipe at your tears. "Well, you're wrong, Gillian, if you think so. I believe in you. And I think you're bloody marvelous."
     You're not ready yet to know how I know... to see what I have to show you. The first Lost Thing we have to reveal is... you.
     A hand, strong hand, not an academic hand, moves over your hair, brushing it back. He closes his eyes and kisses your cheek. It's not at all platonic. There's far too much tenderness.

     Slowly and reluctantly, she stands, looking at you with those tears in her eyes, coming down her cheeks. She allow you to hug her, hold her, for once without stiffening even though she doesn't seem ready to ove into it. "I don't know why you think that," Gillian answers you, and her voice quavers, the tears continuing to spill now that they've begun. "I don't see that at all."
     Her expression crumples the rest of the way, and suddenly she is sobbing against your chest, wordlessly, grief and pain racking her small figure. I don't see that at all...

     "I know you don't," he sighs it in your hair, his arms wrapping around you in a solid and protective hold. His chest is solid. The man is total and very muscle under his layers of clothing. Here, you're safe and secure. His arms are better than a church for sanctuary. And he smells a little of clove. "But trust me," Bran murmurs. "Trust me, until you can believe it for yourself."
     Closing his eyes, he holds you warmly, rocking you slightly, unconsciously. He bends, folding to kiss the crown of your head again, one hand cradling your head to his chest.
     You don't... but you will...
     I believe in you, Gillian West...
     I believe you and I love you...
     "I do love you," he admits it as he holds you. "And I believe in you. One day, you will too. Just trust me."

     "You don't love me," Gillian insists, through the tears. "You don't know me. When you do, you'll see. You'll see..."
     Somewhere along the line, a bad idea got stuck in, and she's never been able to shake it loose. And now... here you are...
     And here she is...
     Two stubborn peas in a likeminded pod, right?

     "Now, I just think you're being contrary," Bran drawls out, leaning back so you can see his smirk. "You're just like my brother, Aeron. A fatalist to the end. It's a bloody good thing I'm an optimist, or where would we all be? At the bottom of the sea," he tries to get you to smile, "...with cement boots, yeah? Come on, Gillian, do you truly think, in your heart of hearts, that you're unworthy of love? That when I know more of you, you fantastic puzzle you, that I'll like you, or love you, less? How on earth did you manage to get through school with this sort of thing? How is it that the smiling, confident, crawling around in the London sewers discovering bits of antiquity girl end up here? Not in Wales but here. Unsure of herself. Uncertain and suspicious. You're not being honest with yourself or with me. Come on then," Bran says, all joking aside, "... what's happened that's shaken the Unshakable Gillian West?"
     Bran taps your forehead, your third eye with his finger. Hello, is this thing on? "I know you know better than that. You forget that I've seen you. You're not that good an actress..."
     What has happened... hmm hmm hmm... shall I stroll through the labyrinth of your own subconscious? The tapping on your third eye is like the opening of a vine covered doorway. He's good at untangling knots; it's his special gift. What a tangled web is this...

     She looks up at you as solemnly as a child, unsmiling and serious and with a tear-stained face. "There isn't anything to tell," Gillian whispers to you, lowering her gaze again. The tears have gone, but the self-doubt remains.
     She has no idea of your powers; of your gifts. She looks at you with cracks not in the self-doubt, but at least in the suspicion of you; that you have weathered her tears and said such things, she is no jaded roue of a woman. And she dearly wishes to trust you, despite her misgivings.
     Inside, of course, it is a maze of moments; her sense of responsibility from her youngest memories, for her siblings who seem no longer to need or want anything to do with her - her mother, impossible to please and increasingly imperious and demanding. Her father, loving but often distant with his own work, her grandfather, who has little real use for her though loving in his own way. Increasingly she has been isolated - and, of course, among her peers, the intellectual divide has proven vast...

     He looks at you with gentleness and even patience, with care and with concern. "You heap expectation upon expectation on yourself. Your own, your family's." His hand brushes against your face, smoothing the tears, wiping them from the corners of your eyes. "Does that sound about right? Trying to please everyone, yourself always last; trying to prove yourself. Trying to get someone's attention. Well, you did. You got mine. It's not what you were looking for," he smiles a little in acknowledgment. "It's not the same thing as mum or dad or brother and sister. But...a little recognition please, for yourself. And if not for you, then for me." He smiles a bit, a moment of levity interjected.
     Bran tucks your hair behind your ears, moving the curtain of it back. "I noticed, Gillian. Right away. I said: that girl has something special. I think we will make a very formidable team. But you've got to let me on the course, girl. I'm here to help you. To block for you, run alongside you. I'm on your side. No one else's. It's alright, you know, to put a voice to your own disappointments. Better that, than to bottle them all in until they keep you awake at night, or make you so miserable that you begin to lose track of your essential light. I'm full of advice tonight, aren't I." His mouth twists a bit. "You're not alone, Gillian," Bran murmurs. "In case you haven't noticed, you have a bit of a big Welshman standing here, wiping away your tears. Not a bad looking bloke, either. A bit annoying at times, particularly when he thinks he's right about something. A bit mysterious. You'd like to sort him out but you're not very sure of things at the moment. That's alright," his hand brushes against your hair again, "... he's not going anywhere. And it's not because he wants a piece of the villa. It's because he believes in a girl, a woman I should say. And he wants to see her happy, most of all."

     She looks at you, the solemnity remaining. "Why are you being so nice to me?" Gillian whispers to you, head tipped back. Her lower lip quivers, and she clamps her teeth down on it to hold it in place, blinking a few times. Abruptly, her arms move around your waist; and she is hugging you for dear life, cheek pressed in against your chest. "I do like you, Bran. I just - I don't want to..."
     I don't want to be wrong again...

     He's a solid reinforcement, and he holds you to him. "I'm glad you like me." Most people don't. It's nice to be liked, actually. Bending, his arms around you, he kisses you again at the top of your head. "Don't worry. You can't make a mistake with me. I'm not going anywhere, right. Nowhere that you won't be."
     His hands move lightly along your back. He wants to kiss you -- he does, but it lands on your head, your face is tucked too far against his chest for anything else. "Hungry? I'm sure it's still warm," he murmurs. "We can tuck in, talk or not talk. But you should have something to eat."
     Bran bends his head again, kissing you this time on the ear. "It's going to be alright, Gillian," he whispers there. "Come on now, let's eat a bit shall we? We've a big day tomorrow..."

Posted by rowan at May 31, 2009 09:42 PM