While Shepherds Watched

by Ashura Nagisa

pairing:  Will/Bran

disclaimer:  not mine, no money, just good Christmas vibes for all :) 

I'm still not using ff.net much, but my URL and mailing list are both in my author profile for anyone actually interested in following my ramblings.  And remember the Dark is Rising slash list at http://groups.yahoo.com/group/dir-slash!

Ash

****

The dark sky was clear, abnormally so, and the waning moon hung thin and silver over the jagged line of the Welsh mountains.  Sheep wandered amiably over the frostbitten hills, restive with the contented peace that had infused the countryside.  And in the middle of it all, leaving a trail of footprints bending the grass back toward the little farmhouse and scraping at the frost on the wooden fence, Will Stanton was singing.

He stood with his hands stuffed casually into his coat pockets, grey eyes half-closed against the cold with his worn striped muffler wrapped to his chin, a solitary dark figure against the indigo sky.  It was the first Christmas Eve of his lifetime that he had not spent with his family, noisy and bustling in the bright din of a two-storey farmhouse full of children and spouses and nieces and nephews and neighbours dropping by just to say hello, the smell of cinnamon and apples and pudding, the warmth of the fire interrupted by bursts of cold air when the door opened, the sound of six or seven Christmas carols all jangling together at once. 

'I can understand why you want to spend Christmas with Bran,' his mother had said when he told her; she called it over her shoulder as she flew to the kitchen in pursuit of a buzzing timer.  'But he's welcome here, with all of us, why don't you invite him?'  She beamed at him over the shepherd's pie, confident that her entire, massive, extended family would be hers for the holidays. 

'Because he can't just up and leave, Mum' Will explained patiently, breaking off a bit of the crust.  'It's only just him and his father, and he can't very well just leave his dad alone for all of Christmas, can he?'

She swatted his hand away from the pie.  'I suppose not.  Will, love—' a pause, because delicate matters sometimes demand to be preceded by them—'does Bran's father know about you two?'

'No,' said Will.  'We're not sure how he'd take it, is all.  He's a deacon at the church.  Very upright and proper.'  His own family had not so much as acted particularly surprised when he had told them he and Bran were lovers.  They were unfazeable, and besides, they told him laughingly, he always had been a little odd.

'Mm.  You told me.'  She handed him a stack of plates from the cupboard and nodded toward the table.  Obediently, Will began to set them out.  'Well, you can go then, but you two behave yourselves, if you're going to go on keeping it a secret.  And you tell Bran I said so,' she added, waving a wooden spoon at him.  'And don't you go trying to get out of going to church!'

Will rolled his eyes.  'As if I would.  They have choirs in Welsh churches too, you know.'

And so he had gone, they all had.  Will and Bran and his father, and John Rowlands, and Aunt Jen and Uncle David and Rhys and Dyfan and his wife Megan had gone into Tywyn together, where they had taken up two entire pews in the small sanctuary of St. David's Church.  Some of the hymns were in English, and some were in Welsh, and at those times Will would sing along quietly and Bran would be close to his ear, because although Will had the words, now, he still couldn't quite get the accent right.  They sang Adeste Fideles in Latin, and then Will was the one to do it all properly, and he lost himself for a while in the music and the peace and the story and the lilting voice of the minister.  And then they had gone home, amid cheerful calls of Nadolig Llawen and pob bendith, and there had been tea and biscuits and laughter in Aunt Jen's kitchen until she and Uncle David had gone to find their beds.  Will and Bran and Owen Davies and trudged up the hillside back to the cottage then, and at some point after, Will had been compelled to go back outside, and look at the sky, and start singing.

Warm arms slid around him, clasping over his chest, as Bran pressed against his back and nuzzled his ear.  'Looking for a Christmas star, cariad?'

'A bit,' said Will, resting back against him, covering Bran's gloved hands with his own.  'It's so quiet.  I imagine it must have been a bit like this for the shepherds, at first.'

'Ah, but you have it backwards then,' said Bran, pressing his lips to the back of Will's head, 'because I am a shepherd, and had no intention of coming out in the cold to watch over the sheep until after I heard an angel singing at them.'

Will meant to say something tender, then, but abruptly Bran's arms tightened around him, and the body pressed to his went stiff.  A shout went through his blood, danger! and he heard Bran say tightly, 'Hullo, Da.'

The silence that stretched between them now was not peaceful or calm, but tense and worried and awkward.  Will did not turn, could not have turned even had he meant to, not with Bran holding him so tight and still.

'Just came out for the music,' Owen Davies said, after the moment had been stretched to its limit.  He did not sound angry.  His cap was pulled low over his face, his coat buttoned tight to his chin, his posture stiff and pensive and uncomfortable.  'You've a good voice, Will bach, and it's certainly a night to be sung to.  Sound better with a harp behind it, though.  You both might come inside.'

He turned then, and trudged back up through the field and over the fence and the hedges, toward the house.  Halfway there he paused and turned, and he stood on the frozen hillside watching his son with his arms around the odd English boy who had been there for so long, the only boy who had ever made Bran really, truly smile.  He noticed the way Bran's white skin glowed in the blue moonlight that bathed him, the reflection of the stars glinting from the frost-covered ground, the possessive tilt of Bran's body and the resigned slump of Will's shoulders when he pulled away.  He saw them clutch at each other, clumsily, the silhouette of their lips meeting before they moved to follow him.

He hurried ahead of them to put the kettle on for tea.

[fin.]

Translations:

Nadolig Llawen:  happy Christmas

pob bendith:  every blessing

cariad: dear

bach: boy, used here as a term of affection