It's going on lunch time. She can tell because her stomach is just quietly growling. Gillian does her best to ignore it as she bounces down the steps from the library, unwrapping an energy bar (today's flavor : Blueberry! made with REAL Blueberries and high in all the antioxidants for the modern on the go woman!) and cramming it into her mouth as daintily as it's possible to do while in a hurry.
     She has an overstuffed bag with her, filled with notebooks, and her laptop's in a separate case. There is the guilty existence of a certain stone in her pocket like a lucky charm she hasn't yet outgrown or left behind; or possibly, a touchstone to give her proof that her recent finds were no dream. She's dressed down since the FotD, as she's come to think of it (Find of the Decade) - jeans, a white button-up dress shirt, ankle boots with sensible heels and a pink scarf to tie back her hair. Gillian tucks stray locks of her behind her ears and pushes up her glasses as she hurries towards the college of history, mumbling to herself as she forces the remains of the energy bar down. I should make sure to eat a real dinner - or maybe a snack. Skipping breakfast wasn't smart, I'm so hungry. It isn't as if I'm going to actually find anything, anyway. Nobody knows about it, so how could there be anything written? Unless there's a record of letters written from Londinium to Rome...
     Gillian sighs and picks up her pace. I know I'm not going to find anything. If I knew what to do, it'd be different. And Balthazar - I don't want to think about him right now. As if my life weren't getting complicated enough! Tapping her hand against her opposite shoulder, she passes a hedge, ignoring a poster for a concert that's fluttered to land in bright yellow splash against the green.
     What should I do?

     "Gillian!" It is a familiar voice. One of the history masters' advisors, Professor Biggs, is all but tumbling down the stairs to catch you before you zoom off. These Americans, always racing around like time's running out on them. He's an older gentleman, in his 60s, and probably hasn't run this quickly -- it's not all that fast, actually -- in years.
     Walking down the steps behind him at a far more relaxed pace is a tall, red-brown haired man. He's young, likely either a doctoral student -- apart from the fact he's dressed too smartly -- or perhaps a new lecturer or visiting scholar like yourself. He is dressed in wool trousers with a sweater, scarf and jacket to go with. His hair is more straight than not, more short than it is long, and he wears a amusement like a shiny coat upon his face.
     "My dear," Professor Biggs says, "I want to introduce you to someone... and someone to you. This is my star, my Rhodes Scholar," he says, pivoting to the younger man as he finally comes to join you both. "Gillian West. Gillian, may I introduce you to Bran ap Owain, our new visiting lecturer from Cardiff University."
     Up close, he is fetching -- not in obvious ways, but in the sum of all his parts. His eyes are a dark green, and he makes eye contact with you in ways that Americans appreciate and prefer as he offers you his right hand. His other hand cradles a couple of books. The titles? Pax Britannia: The Lasting Effects of Roman Culture on the British Empire. and Liber Niger: The Lost Poems of Wales.
     Bran ap Owain smiles. "Gillian West, a pleasure. Professor Biggs was just telling me about your thesis. I'm sure you've been to the Nine Maidens in Kernow and Amesbury, but I could tell you a bit about Cymru in relation to stones. We Celts do fancy rocks. Whether we're hauling them out or burning them for fuel."
     Professor Biggs chuckles. "I believe he might make for an interesting resource for you, my dear. We have him on loan, we stole him rather, from Cardiff for a year."

     Gillian whirls, smiling quickly and smoothing herself out with one hand. "Oh, hi, Professor Biggs! Sorry, I was just on my way to the reading room, if it hasn't closed." She turns towards him, and grabs her glasses just before they go flying off the tip of her nose.
     Of all days to have gone for the casual look...
     She goes a bit pink with embarrassment, holding out a hand to you. "How do you do, Mr. Owain? Or is it more properly Doctor Owain? I'm sorry, I can never quite tell." She smiles goodnaturedly, her gaze falling for a moment onto the books you carry, and her eyebrows go up. "I'm afraid I haven't been to the Nine Maidens yet, but I'd love to hear more. Burning rocks? I wouldn't think rocks burned well."
     She grins at the professor with a natural affection for old men and historians alike. "Stole him? That sounds like there's a story in it, professor. What did you do, lay a trail of smoked salmon down?"

     Bran's eyes twinkle with delight. I love smoked salmon. "That would have been sufficient. But I fear they're paying me to do what I love, yammer on about the golden age of Britain. You know, before the English came along and ruined it."
     Professor Biggs chortles at that. "He's our Romano-British expert. But he brings that Welsh revolutionary spirit we've all come to know and love."
     "He says that," Bran speaks conspiratorially, "...but he doesn't believe a word of it. And...yes... we do burn rocks: coal." He smiles at that and it's a meteor of a smile. "Please, Miss West, I prefer Bran. Mr. Owain is my father. I have to earn respectability. I'm only a lecturer."
     "Only, the cheeky rascal. He's on a trajectory like yours. Youngest in his class at the time. A very promising lecturer at, what are you anyway, a whole twenty-five now? And there is a bit of a story. Cardiff hates losing to Oxford. We'll be hearing about this for years."
     Bran goes a bit pink-faced. "Well, a little theft never hurt anyone," he notes. "I was finishing up my first term there, wasn't sure if I was going to be hired on tenure track, and while they were trying to make up their mind, Professor Biggs and the faculty advisory committee made me an offer I couldn't refuse. They're good at that, I'm sure you've realized."

     "Coal! Oh, but that's cheating!" Gillian looks mock-indignant, laughing. "All right, Bran, I won't mister at you. I'm American and we're pretty casual about titles, anyway, except when we're not." She grins at you, cheeks still a bit pink, a spark of intellectual interest lit behind her eyes. Romano-British. Hm...
     "I'm afraid as a lowly visiting student, I don't get many offers of that sort," Gillian answers you demurely. She smiles at Professor Biggs. "Are you planning on stealing him permanently, Professor? Or not quite prepared to set Cardiff against you that long and that much?"

     Who, me, cheat? Bran smiles: "We're all visitors of one type or another..."
     Professor Biggs clicks his tongue, "We'll see, we'll see. Not good to let the fox know what's going on in the hen-house." He pats the young lecturer on the arm. "For now, I must be off, I'm late for a meeting. I will see you tomorrow for tea, yes?" he asks Gillian. "In the meantime, get back to work you two!"
     As he's rushing off very White Rabbit like, it's not a bad nickname for him either, Bran chuckles. He looks from him back to you. "You were rushing off somewhere before we hijacked you? If you have some time, I would be interested in hearing more about your research. Would you fancy a coffee, Gillian? Might I call you Gillian?" He thinks to say afterwards. "I mean, if you have the time." Eyes are lit and find their echo. Mirrors of interest, intellectual and general, reflect green to grey.

     "Just to the reading room, but I could get a coffee. I could use it," Gillian admits, waving at the professor's back with a chuckle. "He's such an old sweetie. Not at all like my counselor during my bachelor's. He was more interested in ... well, anyway." She goes pink again, adjusting the straps of her laptop case and her purse, trying to disentangle them a bit. "I like Professor Biggs."
     She turns back the way she came, drifting to the side to let you accompany her, pushing her hair back again. It is irreconcilably uncooperative. "Please do call me Gillian. I hate being Ms. West, though it's better than Miss West. My research is ... well. Let's get coffee first, shall we?"

     Bran says nothing to your commentary. The blush was revelatory enough. As you and he turn, steps taken subconsciously to the nearest cafe that all students and lecturers seem to know the way to -- like they're all on tractor beam -- Bran looks to you, the smile hovering around his face and in his eyes. They do twinkle, those eyes. "Then Gillian it is. I'm not really one for formality. I'm from the country, as they say. Ah, can I get any of that?" he wonders suddenly. "Yes, Professor Biggs is a good man. A fantastic scholar. I think he will be a good mentor. I'm excited about my term here. How are you adjusting to life in a foreign land? It takes a bit of getting used to..."
     The Welsh are resolutely foreign, and no one can tell them any different.

     "Get any of which?" Gillian inquires. She pulls open the door, preceding you into the shop and moving to look for an empty table. "It's not all that foreign. My family traveled all over the place, so by the time I hit puberty I'd been to more than a dozen different countries. If there's anything I've had to get used to, it's the different attitude in the service sector."
     She lowers her voice as she says it, then laughs, parking her rump on the edge of a chair. Laptop case and purse both tumble into her lap before being slid down to the floor. "You're younger than I would've expected, for a lecturer, I have to admit," Gillian mentions. "I hope I get to your level by your age. But right now, well. We'll see if I can stay on top of my studies."
     And out of jail...

     "Oh, I was just going to offer to carry ...some of that. You're a bit laden. But I know the feeling. I thought I was going to be a new Dickie Crookback before I finished levels. I managed to finish early and without major damage to my back and shoulders. Amazing."
     "Life's a bit slow in the country," he says with a smile as he sits across from you. "It was easy to stay focused, but... most of it's circumstance. I was home tutored a good deal of the time. I was able to test out of a bit. You as well, I hear. Professor Biggs loves you like a daughter, I think. He was bragging," he grins. "Really? You're a bit more worldly than I. I've traveled a bit, but not so many countries. I don't think Ireland, Scotland and Cornwall really count..."
     As a server comes over, Bran interrupts with a look up to the newly arrived. "Just a coffee for me thanks, cream and sugar, nothing fancy..." He pauses, waiting for you to order.

     She colors again, blushing for the praise. "Professor Biggs is too kind. I'm not that great! Really," Gillian protests immediately. "It's not false modesty. If I were that good, I'd have my thesis done already. Instead, I'm starting to wonder if I picked the right thing."
     She listens to you with apparent interest, smile sticking around to be given to the server. "I'll have a plate of cucumber sandwiches and the smoked salmon sandwiches, and a pot of brown tea. Ooh, and cream and sugar." Gillian looks at you apologetically. "I skipped breakfast, and I've been living on energy bars lately."

     "I can't imagine skipping meals. As it is, I have second breakfast at least twice a day." Bran grins at that. It's a wide, beaming smile. It comes and goes so easily. "Well, theses always develop over time. They're all a bit wobbly, like jellyfish. Eventually they become more solid. What's piqued your interest?"
     Dark green eyes are darker than forest green. It's almost like they're a black green, the deepest hue of emerald possible. Sitting across from him, in close proximity, you can take note of his build. He may be a scholar but he doesn't waste away in the corners of libraries. He must run. Or box. Or something.
     The server returns with the coffee and tea. The sandwiches will be along shortly. Bran adds cream and sugar to his to make it milky and sweet, and he looks up at you, interested and curious to hear your thoughts.

     "I don't know where you put it. I work out obsessively and I still feel fat." Gillian makes a face at you, and sits back, tucking her bags between her ankles. She goes a bit pink again as she glances at you, then looks up with relief at her tea's arrival. "Actually, it's funny timing, but what's got my interest right now is actually ... well ... Roman."
     Said the fly to the spider.

     He goes a bit pink on the high cheeks and the tips of is ears and he chuckles into his coffee, swallowing before disaster strikes. "You're the furthest thing from fat, Gillian. I run, play a bit of futbol," he shrugs. "Mostly, I'm running to meet deadlines," he grins. "And lifting lots of heavy tomes."
     Roman. His eyebrows open outward and his eyes sparkle with keen interest. "Oh? Is there a particular period? I'm always happy to have recruits," Bran beams.

     "I don't know," Gillian admits, "but I'm thinking from sometime after the original founding of Londinium but before the Romans left or were integrated. It's - complicated." She mutters the last word, looking down into her tea grumpily before she picks it up in both hands to take a sip. She ignores the compliment, letting it pass over her head with just a hint of renewed blush for it. "I don't know enough, I admit it. I'm too ignorant, and I'm not used to feeling stupid. So it's - a problem."
     And because it's very hard to tell you yeah, I've found something, but shh, don't tell anyone. Gillian watches you over her tea cup, measuring and considering and trying not to frown.

     "Pax Britannia. The period after Hadrian but before Macsen Wledig and Ambrosio Ambriosus," he notes. "Well, I will be happy to help you in any way that I can. It's my specialty. Really tribal pre-Roman Britain through the Roman conquest and the development of the Saxon Shore and how that led to the Anglo-Saxon conquest of Britain. I sort of lose interest after seven-hundred AD," Bran chuckles.
     "It's not really a problem, Gillian," he notes, sitting forward, his hands surrounding his coffee cup. "If it interests you, I suggest you follow the thread like Theseus until you're out of the maze. If I have any twine that could assist you, it would be my pleasure. I can put together some recommended reading, if you like. Are you wanting to tie in the idea of magic stones or stones of power and significance with the Roman and Romano-British periods or are you moving off that altogether?"

     "I'd love a reading list, at least then I'd feel like I'm doing something productive towards this dilemma." Gillian sighs, frowning. "I'm wondering, was there much communication between Londinium and Rome? It seems there had to be some, but it was surely a highly non-trivial affair. What with it being a period where the golden era was sputtering out as the Empire shrank bit by bit back in on itself, and travel itself being both hazardous and time-consuming, and of course you add in issues such as literacy, language shifts, the decay of documents... it must be very hard to narrow down information on specific places and events which were not major campaigns or the like."
     She sips her tea pensively, then shifts, smiling as the waiter returns. Oh, good. Sandwiches! Her mouth is almost watering; Blueberry Bar (tm) was not filling enough. Once the waiter's dropped the platters and moved on, she turns her full attention back onto you, looking at you through and over her glasses. "I don't know. I'm not sure if stones of significance still would fit. I don't know if I'd call them magic, though. That seems to me a little bit ... well, frivolous. Anyway, it could be a dead end, you know? I might end up leaving Rome and going back to my original thesis." Even she doesn't sound as if she believes it.

     "Well... magic," he pauses, "...meaning significant. To those who believed in them, they held power. They still resonate, whether you believe they hold actual power or not. As for Rome and England? England was far. Really a fringe part of the empire. It benefitted from that, of course, with greater stability, in the end, than even Rome. Roman Britain outlasted Rome in the end. It was fairly autonomous. Almost a sub-empire after a while. There was trade, slaves, et cetera. Families communicated, soldiers certainly. The indigenous languages, Gaelic and Brythonic, which became Welsh and Cornish and eventually Breton, flourished. Latin was the language of commerce. There are several Latin words still in the Welsh lexicon, with the original spelling and meanings intact. There were enough histories written by both Celtic and Roman sources that a solid picture can be painted. We learn more every day. Every day is a new opportunity to trip over a Roman coin or some other artifact," Bran grins.
     He picks up his coffee, sipping at it once, twice, three times. He raises his hand, motioning for a refill, as he looks to you. "I will work on a list for you. Something to whet your appetite," he smiles.
     Nodding, Bran looks to you with agreement. "You never know where questions will lead. What avenues will open up for you. I think you should follow your instincts, Gillian. They won't steer you wrongly."

     "I'd like to see what you recommend," Gillian agrees with good cheer. She sips at her tea, working her way through her sandwiches by a series of delicately placed and carefully considered nibbles. "I want to learn more - I feel a bit hamstrung, really."
     She taps her toe lightly against the back of the opposite ankle. "I would imagine that some finds are still out of bounds, though. What are the rules on such things, anyway?" Gillian asks casually. "For reporting of finds and so on. I suppose it depends a lot on provenance. So are you going to be giving lots of lectures? I'm sure you'll be very popular."

     "Actually," Bran says with a smile, sitting forward. There is a touch of mischief in his eyes. "It's much like finding any buried treasure or shipwreck. Possession is nine-tenths of the law. For example, the shipwreck The Valiant found some years ago," he waves that off, timing doesn't matter, "... a group of Americans found it in British waters. Finders keepers, losers weepers. The English government negotiated for the artifacts, but had to pay for them. It would be somewhat similar. Say, for example, you happened to have a metal detector and found a huge stash of coins, or a viking treasure. It would be yours to claim or sell or even license, even if you found it on a public beach or other parcel of publicly held land. Now, if it's private property, that gets a bit more tricky."
     The coffee cup is refreshed with coffee and then again with cream and sugar. Bran looks at you as he stirs. "If you found some deserted subway tunnel, same thing. Londinium itself was pretty small. The outlying suburbs, northwest and west of town likely have all sorts of Roman bits. There are parts of the island, many parts in fact, that we simply haven't unearthed. There hasn't been a reason to. The subway discoveries were only made because they were busy building the tube. They weren't looking for buried treasure; they just happened to find it. Ah, my lectures," he smiles. "I have some time carved out for research. I'd like to gain a fellowship, but yes, it's a pretty good docket. Four courses on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays and two courses on Tuesdays and Thursdays. I also am contracted to give special lectures every third Saturday evening. I know you're slate is likely full enough, but you're always welcome to audit. I can talk about this stuff for hours...which is, of course, why they pay me." Bran smiles and sips.

     "And Italy is less likely to try and lay claim to Rome's treasures than Spain to their sunken galleons," Gillian agrees thoughtfully. "I see." And she does see, filing it away. "Though it gets into some tricky ethical questions, as far as research and papers go, if you're in academia and you find something and sit on it for publication, I'd imagine." She slips it in so casually! And she finishes off a sandwich, turning to pour herself some more good brown tea. "It'd be a tricky position to be in. I wouldn't want to be in that sort of position myself, not without knowing how to deal with it, anyway."
     Hypotheticals mentioned, she slides away from them again with a grin at you, going a bit pink. "Well, I'm a master's candidate, so I don't have all that many classes, actually. But it's a bit late for them to let me add or drop anything. They might let me audit, though, if you sign me into it. How much would it cost? It'd have to go to my scholarship board - I'm here on a scholarship, y'see. Though I might get mumsie and daddy to pay for this..."
     She's already mentally juggling what rules, regulations and payments would be necessary...

     "Audits are free," he says with a toast of his coffee cup and a smile. "You only need instructor's permission, and I think we can get you in. He's a bit of a pushover. As for provenance and publishing," he exhales a touch at that, in consideration, "...ethics don't really enter into it. After all, if you find something that hasn't already been located, then no one's really missing it. If you were to find something," he gestures to you, meaning hypothetically, "...then you'd want to research it well to ensure that it is, indeed a find before you reveal it. It would be worse to base an entire white paper on someone else's find, after all. So that's the part that really takes the most work. Once you are certain your find is your find, then the only real pressure is to reveal it before someone else finds it, else you lose your provenance. It all comes down to gambling in the end," Bran grins. "Only in the case, you're not betting money until the secret's out. Your betting the possibility of payment, whether that's in actual monetary units or in units of prestige."
     "You would be welcome to attend and audit any lecture you have time for, really. I will send you my syllabi and schedules and you can pick and choose. I'll send that over with the reading materials. Are you mainly interested in Londinium and the settlements around Londinium or the whole of southwest Britain?"

     She slides a covert glance over at you, considering. "Londinium, I think," Gillian answers. It isn't what she was considering, but she is cautious by nature. "Thanks for your help, by the way. It's much kinder than I have any reason to expect. And I don't for a minute believe you're hurting that much for students to attend your lectures," she adds with a sudden mischievous grin. "At a guess, I'd say they tend usually to be packed. What would I find out if I looked you up online, professor?"
     The mockery is friendly and cheerful, much the same as she turned upon your nephew when he first sat at her table. Gillian lifts her cup for a demure sip. "Haven't you noticed that Oxford's filled with unmarried women? The only way you could raise your chances higher would be to be independently wealthy and possibly titled."

     There is laughter for that and coloring in the face. Red-heads do a lousy job of hiding excitement or really any sort of emotional reaction, be it anger or embarrassment or delight. "You would find a number of very dry articles," Bran explains with warm humor, "my curriculum vitae outlining those articles, and potentially embarrassing photos from a consortium I attended in Rome. Not horribly embarrassing, mind you, no one is passed out, no one wrote Loser on my face in Latin, but ... let's say I became very close friends with chianti during my stay."
     There is a twinkled-eye wink at that and he drinks at the coffee. He manages to swallow before you bring up the ...demographics. He clears his throat. "I have noticed that many hands are unringed. As are mine actually," he even holds them out. Nice hands. He's done work though of some kind. They are hands that a man should have -- purposeful. "There are a few upsides to being a young lecturer on the rise. However, there really hasn't been much time for a social life. Or, there isn't. I should make time, shouldn't I? I would hate to wake up after a nap in the library only to discover I'm ninety-five and still a bachelor."
     "The classes are full but I always have an extra one or two places. Please... I would enjoy it."

     "I'll remember to start wearing my granny's ring, just to throw off the curve," Gillian teases you with a widening smile. She sets her tea down, friendly and without malice. "There's nothing wrong with a life lived in service to knowledge. But it's good to leave oneself open to new experiences, too - I try not to be closeminded in my pursuit of learning. I don't always succeed; I'm very focused on what I want to do. But mostly I manage it. I'll tell you what - I promise if I come across you napping in the library..."
     She pauses for effect, mischief dancing in her eyes. "...I'll send the best-looking girl in the library over to wake you up. They might get into catfights over who gets the right to, though."
     Gillian laughs, then bends to get her bag. "It's been nice meeting you, professor. I'd better get back to work, though. I've got a date with my roomie to go swimming tonight, and then I have to revise my notes."

     Bran laughs, finishing his coffee with a final swallow. His laughter eases into a grin, eyebrows lifting skyward in humored surprise, at the library scenario. "I think I've heard of this story, but that would make me Sleeping Beauty and not Prince Charming. And I don't think I can pull off the princess gown and tiara look," he looks at you skeptically. Actually, he'd probably be pretty damn precious.
     "You are very kind to say," he says to that. "Maybe the young lady would even be a fan of Romano-British fortifications, and then we could have coffee." As you bend to get your bag, Bran smiles with that meteor streak again. It is warm, openly humored, and has a kind of bookish rascality -- the sort Indiana Jones would have, being the ultimate in professor-adventurers.
     He reaches for his wallet, paying for the coffee. "It has been a pleasure, Gillian, really," he says quietly, and quite seriously. "I will look forward to seeing you... in or out of the library. And ...you can expect the reading list and other notes by the end of the week. I will have some time on Thursday after my lecture to concentrate on that. In fact," he notes, "...we should just meet for coffee again and I can give them to you in person. Easier than trusting inner campus post. And we have the bonus of good conversation on top of it."
     He rises and he offers you his hand again, his eyes on yours and the shake direct, like Americans prefer them. "Have a lovely swim."

     She laughs at you - with you, but also at you, and she smiles, cheeks going a bit pink as she shakes your hand. "I'll look forward to it," Gillian answers you, and there's no doubt she means it. "If I can make it Thursday, I will. I'll have to check my schedule."
     She slides her bag onto her shoulder, taking out her wallet to pay for her tea and sandwiches and dropping the money on the table. Scooping up her laptop, she gives you one last sunny smile, then turns while sliding up her glasses before she bounces on towards the door.
     No promises, but an agreement of sorts. You'd be disappointed if it were too easy, right?

Posted by rowan at March 11, 2009 10:43 PM