I woke from a strange dream that did not leave me so I lay in the dark mulling it over and from those images and flashes of a dream came this story. I do not know what it means, or where it came from but whatever muse was whispering in my ear that night dear reader … it was one of pure melancholy.

…

1

The castle is in various degrees of repair, people working diligently to place stonework as others move about with the daily tasks of a normal life. Someone throws dishwater out the back door as smells of cooking waft about. Washing is on a line blowing in the breeze, white tunics and sheets. It was a white wash day.

The castle is on the point of a river mouth, the sea and river mixing as the blue meets the green and the foam churns. The grass around the castle is brown, wind burnt and dry with the summer heat. It is clearly a late summer and although the sun has cast it's angry eye over the land there is a cool southern wind blowing off the sea.

The figure stands on the bluff looking out over the water as children play on the beach below, their laughter mixing with the sound of the gulls and the clanging of the men working in the forge in the keep. A woman is chasing one as two men watch silently. Guards.

The figure is clothed in many layers of fabric, as if chilled to the bone despite the warmth of the sun. The wind whips the cotton about as the black and dark blues swirl in his shadow, the only parts of him visible the hands as a hood hides his face. His hands. Yes, they contain a worry stone. It is polished and clearly well loved, any markings or paint worn away and the faint bumps still there only vaguely resemble the body of a small dragon, the life of this stone constantly lived in these fingers that even now are turning it, smoothing it, caressing it as if it were a lover.

There is the clattering of hooves and the dim rolling thunder of carriage wheels, causing the figure to turn, his hood blowing back briefly as it is caught in the wind and his face is younger than we thought it would be, not as weathered as his mood or stone. His eyes a stormy grey to match the loud blowing in, the rain that will be here before dark.

He seems to hesitate as he watches the ornate carriage roll towards them then his frown mars his face, the handsome look of concentration becoming one of annoyance. Genuine annoyance. His hand slips the stone into a pocket as he swings from the bluff, leaving the children to play down below with their watchers.

He moves with grace and speed along the stone path towards the castle, the only entrance from this point is though what appears to be an overgrown garden. Long since neglected as is everything else. As he moves along the barely distinguishable path his hand reaches out to touch a dead tree standing in the middle of the courtyard. Like a sentry. Or a Wraith.

It is the Torchwood Tree.

It is said that the lightning that hit this tree was dragons' breath. It has stood for many years, maybe hundreds. It never grows, yet never dies. Perpetually frozen like it is preserved from the flame that raced though its sap as though it were heroin in the veins of a junkie. The leaves had exploded and the bark crackled then hardened to stone. Sometimes when he touched it, he heard the cracking still.

The legend says … he who can entice the leaves back to the tree is the true owner of the castle. The true Master of the Glen. Of course, they say a great many thing, all fanciful and bullshit.

His fingers seek that bark.

He lets them scrabble for a moment as if drawing strength from it then he let that hand drop, along with his shoulders as he moves once more, slipping inside to the incoming annoyance.

.

.

.

..

The woman was younger than the man although both were elderly. She was taking in the refurbishment underway, a look of distain as she plucked at some fabric on a table, the dust riding from it as she dropped it back with a huff of annoyance. They had entered the castle from the front, unannounced or invited as if they owned the place, her skirts brushing the immaculate floor even as outside the dist from the construction marred the ground.

"Leave it" he warned in a low tone as the figure burst form the garden doors and strode towards them.

He stopped a good four feet from them and began to unravel the many layers of cloth, a woman rushing to help gather the layers he would seek again when the children's laughter called him back to the sunlight. The colours seem to lighten for a moment and the woman recognised a layer that had been someone else's' once. She froze as she stared at the pale blue cloth that was so delicately handled then at the man now dressed only in a tunic and trousers, his face free of the hood and his hair swept back off his face.

He looked at young as the first time they had met him. So many years ago now … at least … fifteen? Sixteen? Surely not. This man could not be thirty odd? He raised his head to look them in the eye, something he could not do back then as he had scraped and bowed as most of the common folk do. But that was then and this is now. He is not the waif abandoned on their doorstep by his family to serve in their house anyomre.

No.

They are in his house toady.

"Mi' Lady. Mi' Lord" his voice was gentle, not the hint or trace of anger and trepidation he felt either as he stared them down.

"Hello Ianto" the woman finally said, inclining her head in the most she could offer as a greeting.

Ianto stared at the mother of his long missing soul mate and fought the grimace of pain. His heart pounding as he hoped they would piss off back to where they had come from before they saw too much.