Will Stanton shifted.
He wandered down the ancient road, lanky in his long, dark blue coat and tall for his age at nearly fifteen, stopping to peer into the forest at the snow that weighed down the evergreen trees along the way. Rooks cried and wheeled in the sky above him; only a few, interested in the movement he caused in the quiet winter's day.
The blacksmith's shop was silent and empty. Will stepped inside and hitched his thigh onto the side of the forge, picking up a pair of tongs that had a weary inch of dust clinging to their handle. He put it down again, into the tool box that lay open on the floor.
Atop the anvil was an imprint, a circle with a cross through its center. Will hopped down from the forge and stepped up to the anvil, reaching out hesitantly at first, then with more confidence. His finger touched the center of the symbol.
He smeared the ashes across the metal, blurring the sign into grey, empty lines.
With a sigh, Will brushed the soot from his hands and turned to go, peering one more time around the smithy, as though hoping red flames would leap upon the forge, that John and Martha Smith would appear in the doorway, offering him sweet cakes and a turn at the hammer.
At this place and time, what had been - would become - the village of Huntercombe, just down the path from the Stantons' farm, there was nothing left.
They'd gone across the sea, every one, and Will was alone.
Dejected, he closed the door behind him and continued on, down the Old Way, feeling the magic of the Light that infused the path with security and warmth. Am I the only one keeping it safe? he wondered, as he had so many times in the last three years, since the last time he'd seen Merriman, the Lady, the Drews .. and Bran. What happens to the Old Ways if I'm no more? What if I forget?
This is where I turned off the path to find the Walker. And here the Black Rider tried to take me away, when I had barely come into my power ...
But now the paths were empty and still, and the rooks were silent; the only sound in the whole old world was the crunch of Will's rubber boots in the snow.
The strange feeling that came over Will then wasn't antipathy, or unwelcomeness, or unbelonging. I shouldn't have come, he thought; then no, that's not quite it - it doesn't matter that I came.
There was nothing left for Will in this place and time; nothing left for him in any place or time, it seemed. Merriman had told the Drews and Bran that it was their world now, now that the Dark had gone, theirs to build with wisdom in defiance not of the large evils of the Dark, but of the small evils of men. But Will ... Will was an Old One, and could not find his place in that bright future.
My Will the watchman, Merriman had called him, on the last day, before he went over the mountain. "Merriman," Will said, his voice loud in the silent woods. "I'm watching! Why didn't you tell me what I'm watching for?"
The forest soaked up his words, and no answer came.
"I can't do it!" he yelled into the sky, and now a rook did come wheeling across the clearing where the tall pines lined the path, cawing at him in reproof. Will ignored it. "I can't be the only Old One left in the world! I cannot do this by myself!"
Branches nearest the path shivered, and somewhere deep in the woods, a tree shed its burden of snow with a loud schlump. And then silence.
Will kicked at a drift of snow, sending flakes in the air to catch on his hat and lashes. He sniffled. The grey sky was still and silent.
"Oh, forget it," Will muttered, and in the space of a thought, he turned, and shifted.
~⊕~⊕~⊕~⊕~⊕~⊕~
"So, Mum," asked James, "is everyone coming home for Christmas this year?"
Will's ears perked up. He set down his mug of tea and snagged a slice of ham off the plate his mother was carrying to the breakfast table. He hoped Stephen would be home this year - though he was no longer as close with his oldest brother as he used to be, since that time a few years ago when he'd had to wipe Stephen's memory clear of the existence of the Old Ones, he still cherished the rare times when the Navy let Stephen come home.
"Well," said Mrs Stanton, settling into a chair and buttering her toast, "Gwen and Rory will be up in Glasgow with his family, so we may not see them till the new year. Max has a show; he said he'd try to be here for Christmas dinner. Barbara's university lets out the 21st, so Mary, you'll have to share rooms for a bit."
"Awwwww, but I've got -"
"No buts!" said Mr Stanton. "Your sister won't be sleeping on the couch."
"And Paul's got a concert Sunday night!" Robin, Paul's twin, put in.
Paul blushed, and Robin laughed at the expression on his face. "The London Symphony," Paul said, grinning despite himself behind his gold-rimmed spectacles. "They plucked me out of the N.Y.O. this year. I'm only last chair - "
"Paul, that's outstanding!" Mr Stanton said.
"We're all so proud of you," added Mrs Stanton. "Our musical prodigy!"
"It's Miss Greythorne's flute," Paul said self-deprecatingly as he futzed with his toast. "Something about it that just ... it makes me better."
"It's all you and you know it," said James admiringly. "You'll come out caroling with us though, right?"
"'Course," Paul said, with a glace at his twin. "Wouldn't miss it."
"Hmph," said Mary, still put out over the loss of her single bedroom.
Will couldn't stand it any more. "Any word from Stephen?"
"I'm sorry, Will," Mrs Stanton shook her head. "He's stationed off Jamaica again, he doesn't think he'll make it."
"Oh," said Will. He'd been counting on Stephen home, to make the holidays feel - well, like they used to, before the Dark came rising. "Oh well."
"Anyone we should ask to tea on your birthday, Will?" Mrs Stanton looked at him over her mug, eyes wide and concerned.
Will blinked. He'd forgotten his birthday again, for the second year in a row. Three days before Christmas, it shouldn't be hard to remember -- but the memory of an Old One spanned several thousand years, and compared to that fifteen didn't seem quite so - important.
"Oh, um, I haven't - " Will started. His mother smiled sadly at him - he knew she worried, he hadn't brought any friends home from school recently - something broke in Will's chest, and he burst out with an idea he hadn't realized until that moment how much he wanted - "Can Bran come stay with us for Christmas this year?"
That was probably a very bad idea, Will thought, and held his breath.
"That's a very good idea, Will! I'll call your Aunt Jen this afternoon, and see if Bran's father would mind." Mrs Stanton beamed.
"How long's it been since you saw him, Will?" Mr Stanton asked.
"Two and a half years," Will said. "But we send letters." Letters that meant nothing, of course, since Will couldn't talk about anything real, not even with Bran, who had been the most important person in the world ...
"Ooh, this'll be great!" said James. "What's Bran like, Will, you never told us much before!"
"He was a weird little kid when I stayed at Aunt Jen's," Mary interjected, skeptically.
"Well, he -"
"What's he do?" asked Robin. "His dad's a shepherd, right?"
"Does he play?" asked Paul.
"He's got a harp ..."
Will sighed, and filled his plate with another helping of toast and bacon. Yes, this was a very bad idea.
~⊕~⊕~⊕~⊕~⊕~⊕~
When the car dropped Bran off, fresh from the train station, at the end of the Stantons' driveway on Huntercombe Lane, Will was waiting at the door. He burst out to greet him, and stopped, just barely short of throwing his arms round the smaller boy's thin shoulders.
Bran smiled, and lifted up his dark glasses to show Will the gleam in his tawny eyes. His shock of white hair was tucked up in a red woolen cap, and a matching scarf wound round his neck.
He was beautiful. Will caught his breath, and it was all he could do not to kneel in the snow, before this radiant vision of a distant and glorious past. "Bran ... " he breathed.
"Hi, Will," Bran said in his lilting Welsh tones, reaching out a hand. "Happy birthday!"
Will grinned, and took his hand to shake it; Bran gave a great tug and suddenly they were rolling around in the snow, over and over, laughing and tussling and mushing snow in each other's faces, till they lay back in a snowbank, panting and red-faced and happy.
"Thanks for coming," Will said. "I've missed - ackphth! Racer!" The farm dog had come over to investigate the commotion, and finding it was only Will, was licking his face and wagging his tail.
"You have a very pretty dog." Bran sat up and reached out to scritch Racer behind the ears.
"I s'pose." Will sat, too, and brushed the snow from his hair. "He's no Cafall, though." He glanced up sharply, not sure if he ought to've mentioned Bran's old dog, who had been killed by the Dark years earlier.
"Never will be another," Bran said amiably enough, still smoothing Racer's fur. Will smiled.
"He's here!" cried James, bounding around a snowbank after the dog. "Hi! You must be Bran, I'm James!"
Paul, Robin, and Barbara were just behind him, grinning and chattering. Paul grabbed for Will's hand and pulled him up.
As the others went ahead, surrounding Bran in a bevy of welcomes and questions and barks, Paul held Will back for a moment and looked at him searchingly. Will fidgeted.
"You look really happy, Will," Paul said. "And Bran's only been here five minutes."
"Hmm." Will thought for a moment, then grinned. "Yeah, s'pose I am!"
"I'm glad," said Paul, and smiled back. "Now grab his things, Mum's set up a cot in your bedroom!"
Will dashed off to do exactly that.
~⊕~⊕~⊕~⊕~⊕~⊕~
Later that night, after Bran had been shown Will's attic room ("Duw, Will, it's perfect!"), taken for a tour of the house and the farm ("Only hares and chickens? Where's your sheep?"), and invited to join in an epic snowball fight, they sat by the fire in the glow of the Christmas tree, clutching mugs of hot cocoa while Mrs. Stanton put the finishing touches on Will's birthday dinner - liver and bacon, as usual. ("Well," said Bran dubiously, "if Will likes it I'll give it a try.") For once, Will's siblings were all in their respective bedrooms, and they had the fire all to themselves.
"I'm glad you're here," Will said happily.
"Glad to be here," said Bran. "Oh! Will, I've got a birthday present for you, hang on."
Bran ran up the stairs to Will's room and then down again, arriving breathless and holding out a gaily wrapped package. "It's mostly from Dad," he said. "He says thanks, by the way. And so does John Rowlands. What for, d'you think?"
"Probably that sheep we saved a few years ago," Will answered distractedly, pulling the paper from the gift. Bran cocked his head to the side and regarded Will calmly. "Hmm."
Will opened the white box and pulled out a new wool jumper, bright red to match Bran's hat and scarf, and emblazoned in the center in a darker red wool was the symbol of the Light, the cross in a circle. Will hugged the jumper to his chest and looked at Bran, eyes gleaming. "I love it. Thank you. And tell your dad and John so, too!"
"O'r gorau, and you're welcome," said Bran. He sat back down next to Will, who put an arm round his shoulders and squeezed. Bran's hair blazed in the firelight. "I don't know what the sign means. John told me you'd know."
"It's ... " Will stopped, at a loss. He didn't know how much he ought to say - Bran had forgotten everything, all about the Light and his own birthright as Pendragon, had chosen to forget - "Well, it's sort of my symbol," he fumbled. "Ever since I was born. There's a wooden ornament, on the tree there, that our neighbor down the street made me for my first Christmas, it's that sign instead of a W for Will ... "
Bran nodded solemnly and pulled his knees up to his chest. "It's just - I almost know what it means, but can't quite get it out, you know?"
Bran turned his face to Will, and those wide tawny eyes - so like his true father's, so like Herne the Hunter - seemed to look deep into Will's soul, drawing him out and up and into the world, an Old One alive and crackling with power and so in awe of he who was born to save the world and would ask only to be left alone in return -
Bran's lips parted, and the firelight painted him red and golden, so like the sunrise they'd shared on the beach at Aberdyfi; Will reached out and caressed Bran's soft cheek with the pad of one finger, and said - almost a sob - "Oh, Bran, I don't have a Christmas present for you!" -- only because he couldn't cry out and say, Bran Davies ap Arthur, oh my King, I would give you Camelot!
Bran smiled, and grasped Will's outstretched arm; he might have answered, but just then Mary careened in from the dining room, shouting "Will! Bran! Dinner's - oh!"
She stopped, next to the Christmas tree, eyes wide and face as red as Will's new jumper. "Oooh," she said, coming closer. "Are you two boyfriends?"
Will glared daggers at his sister, then turned to look at Bran, who was still holding his arm. "Hmmm," Bran said thoughtfully. "Are we?"
Will couldn't look away. He swallowed.
The front door burst open, and in a swirl of cold and snow and laughter, there was Max on the doorstop, Will's next-oldest brother, all smiles, his long hair pulled back in a ponytail and epaulets of snow piled on the shoulders of his faded leather jacket.
"Swear this storm's never going to end," he said. "Ho, Will! Happy birthday! Look what I picked up for you in London!"
Stomping his boots on the mat, he stepped aside, and there in his starched and pressed uniform coat, Navy hat clutched under his arm, was - "Stephen!" Will cried. He leapt up from the fireside and ran to wrap his brother in a hug - a proper hug, now, he was almost up to Stephen's height.
The rest of the family had come in from the dining room, crowding through the doorway to greet the newcomers.
"Hey, little brother," said Stephen. "Have we missed the liver? No? Max, I told you you drive too fast! -- Ow!" He rubbed at his shoulder. "Will, haven't you been told it's a punishable offense to punch a Lieutenant Commander?"
"Whoa, really?" said Robin. "Congratulations, man!"
After the chorus of congratulations died down, Mrs Stanton asked, "We weren't expecting you, Stephen! What happened?"
"I got a promotion, is what," said Stephen, making his way to the table where Barbara had hastily set two extra places. "And I had some leave time coming, so I took it, and here I am, just in time for Will's birthday. Say, who's this?"
"Oh!" said Will. "This is Bran."
"Hi." Bran reached across the table to shake Stephen's hand. "I'm Owen Davies' son, visiting from Wales."
"Right! I've heard a lot about you!"
"And he's Will's boyfriend," Mary said, before Paul reached around to smack the back of her head. "Ow!"
"Really?" Stephen turned to Will and Bran, looking them both up and down. "You could do worse."
Will groaned. "I wish everyone would stop asking us that."
"That's enough, everyone," Mr Stanton said loudly, tapping out his pipe. "The bacon's getting cold. Let's eat. And Happy Birthday to Will! Fifteen!" he said, over the scrape of eleven chairs being pulled back from the table at once. "That's old enough to date, wouldn't you say, Alice?"
Will sputtered into his glass of water. "I am not -- "
He glanced at Bran, seated next to him, who was calmly slicing his bacon. "You're enjoying this, aren't you?" he hissed.
Bran just winked, and shoveled a slice of liver into his mouth. "Eat your liver and bacon, cariad."
I knew this was a bad idea, I just knew it.
Will groaned, kicked at Bran's chair, and resigned himself to sitting through the best birthday dinner he'd ever had.
~⊕~⊕~⊕~⊕~⊕~⊕~
Bran's cot was set up under the window in Will's attic room. Once Will's mother had made sure he was comfortable, and knew where the spare blankets were kept - in the closet just at the foot of the stairs - they were alone in the dark, Will snug under the quilt his mother had given him two years ago Christmas, Bran tucked in three layers of a massive afghan Gwen had crocheted over many cold nights the winter she was twenty. Stars shone through the skylight and the window - the flurries had finally moved away - and Will could see Bran, silhouetted against the sky, up on one elbow and peering at him through the darkened room.
"Bran?"
"I like your family," he said.
"Thanks," Will answered. "They're pretty nice. Except when they're obnoxiously annoying."
"I always wanted a brother. Or a sister."
"Hmm," Will said noncommittally, thinking of a man with Bran's eyes, a golden boat, and a flaming blue sword.
"Will, what are you hiding?"
"What?" Will sat up sharply, panicking; bad idea, bad idea, bad idea. "What do you mean?"
"The way you looked at me earlier, and that sign on your jumper - it matches the scar on your wrist. It's like you know something about me that I don't. I want to know what it is."
"I'm ..." Will swallowed, glad of the dark. He rubbed at his wrist, at the old scar that would never fade, though it no longer burnt hot or cold. "I'm just really glad you're here, is all. I don't know, maybe Mary's right, I'm in love with you."
Somehow, that topic was easier to broach than the other. He flopped back down onto his pillow, clutching the quilt under his chin.
"Hmmmm," said Bran.
"Look, I'm really tired. We can talk tomorrow, okay?"
"Hmmmmm," said Bran again, but Will heard the cot squeak as he rolled over, pulling the covers above his head.
And as Bran's breath evened out, softening in sleep, Will shifted; the bed became a beach, Bran's breath the soft sussuration of surf, and the starlight faded into the muted grays of a cloudy winter afternoon.
Aberdyfi.
Will stood, and there behind him, perched on a rock like a great bird, was a long, grey-headed figure in a dark coat.
"Merriman!" Will shouted with joy, and ran across the beach toward the oldest Old One.
"How are you, Old One?" Merriman asked, when they'd hugged and sat down once more, side by side on the rocks facing the grey, choppy sea.
"I .. I don't know," Will answered slowly. "I don't know what use an Old One is, now that the Dark has been defeated. If I'm your watchman, what am I watching for? They can't come back, can they?"
"No," Merriman said with certainty. "The Dark is gone, gone from the world forever - thanks to you, Will Stanton."
"And Bran."
"Mmm. Yes. And Simon and Jane and Barnabas." There was pain in Merriman's voice as he listed those names.
"Have you been back to visit them?" Will asked.
"I haven't. I can't, Will, you know that."
The surf went in and out, in and out. Streetlamps came on in Aberdyfi over the way.
"Merriman, what will happen if I tell Bran the truth?"
"I don't know."
"But -"
"It was the High Magic that stripped his memories away; only the High Magic can give them back. Would it break the laws of the High Magic if you told him what he was? I don't know."
Merriman sighed. "But Will, why must you try? He made his choice. Do you need him so badly, that you would risk not only the High Magic, but also Bran's trust in you?"
"He wants to know!"
"Are you sure?"
Will fell silent for a moment. Gulls cawed mournfully in the sea breeze, and Will felt drawn to them, as though he could follow where they led and leave the trials of this world forever.
"I can't be the last Old One, alone, with nothing left to fight and no one to stand with. I can't do it, Merriman," he said more forcefully. "I've been trying."
"I've seen you," Merriman replied, and there was great compassion in his voice. "Do you want -"
"No," Will was certain. "I don't want to forget. I understand - the Dark has gone, we think, forever, but there's always the slightest of chances it could return. Or there might be something else rising - something worse. Someone needs to watch, to call the Old Ones back if they're needed. I'm the youngest. It has to be me."
"But?"
"But I can't do it alone. And you said, once, that loving bonds are the strongest thing on earth, stronger even than the High Magic. And I think you were right, and so does Bran, and I think we'll be fine. So, Merriman, yes: I need this."
Merriman nodded slowly. "Very well. Good luck to you, Will Stanton: pob hywl."
"You're leaving, aren't you?"
Nodding again, Merriman looked away. "My work is done; now I know that the earth is safe in your hands. I go tonight, to join the rest of us; to join Arthur in the apple groves behind the North Wind." He sighed. "Perhaps it was meant to be thus: Maerlyn and Arthur beyond the crystal seas, Will and Bran in the living world that is."
"You and Arthur - " Will started.
Merriman turned to him, eyes sparkling. "Wasn't it obvious?"
"Oh - " Will broke into a grin, behind sad eyes. "Merriman, oh, you should go to him. But I'll miss you. And tell them all - especially the Lady -" Will's voice hitched. "Tell them all I said 'Farewell.'"
"I will. And I'll miss you too, Will Stanton, until I see you again at the silver-circled castle, many years from now." Merriman put an arm round Will's shoulder, and pulled him close; and they sat there until the light faded, and Merriman faded, and the rock faded into Will's bed in the attic room, Bran's even breaths loud in the dark.
"Y mae'r mynyddoedd yn canu," Will said, not whispering but not too loud either. The mountains are singing.
"Ac y mae'r arglwyddes yn dod!" Bran sang out from across the room, finishing the old prophesy: and the Lady comes. His breath faltered, but he did not wake.
Will held still, still as a statue; the quilt twisted in his fists, and he said clearly, "Bran, do you remember the rose garden?"
"Roses -- I am the shield for every head -- Eirias!" With that cry, Bran sat up straight and rubbed at his pale eyes.
"Will? What - did I wake you? I'm sorry, I ... have nightmares sometimes." Bran's voice faltered, and his shoulders fell.
"No - Oh, Bran, no." Will's heart clenched; he climbed out of bed and padded on bare feet across the cold beams of the floor. Nightmares. Of course Bran would have nightmares. He took hold of Bran's shoulder and tucked him back down into the afghan, planting a kiss on his pale forehead as his eyes fluttered closed. "Sleep well this time, my king."
"Will..." Bran turned on his side, mumbling as sleep took him again. "Missed you .. rwy'n dy garu di ... "
Will slid back into bed, visions of Merriman and of Bran dancing in his head; and before he closed his eyes and slept, he turned toward the window and whispered, "You too."
~⊕~⊕~⊕~⊕~⊕~⊕~
The next two days passed in a blur of shopping and snowmen, cookies and carols and skating on the frozen Thames.
Christmas Eve night was cold and snowy, and after the usual tussle over who was staying and going - they couldn't give it up, even with only three of them younger than twenty - all nine of them (the Stantons, minus Gwen and plus Bran) piled out onto Huntercombe Lane for their annual rounds of caroling.
"Be nice to have your baritone with us this year, Stephen," Robin said.
"Even nicer for me, believe it," Stephen answered. "You've got a nice tenor, Bran; you'll fit right in with Will and James."
"I wish I had my harp, though," Bran said mournfully. "I'd rather play than sing."
"Nah," said Barbara, trotting along through the snow in chunky high-heeled boots. "Then Paul would have to learn a duet!"
"Hey, I'd like to see you ...!"
Will, in front and wielding the torch, shared a secret grin with Bran as the rest of his family bickered behind him, Max and Mary teaming up to threaten bodily harm upon Paul's flute. They turned down the drive for the first house on their list, and Will cleared his throat, and began: "Joy to the world / The Lord is come / Let Earth receive her king! ..."
Twenty carols, four hot cocoas, and sixpence later they tumbled down the front steps of Miss Hawthorne's house (Miss Hawthorne was not at home, the servants said, but they'd be pleased to pass some cider around if the Stantons came in anyway) and set off for home.
"Happy Christmas," Stephen said, his voice hoarse in the cold air. "And God bless us, every one!"
"I'm the youngest," Will said. "Isn't that my line?"
"You can have whatever line you want, little bro." Stephen held Will's shoulder, pulling him back while the others went on ahead. He caught Bran's eye and smiled, letting him know they'd be along in a moment, and the horde moved forward, breaking out in a line of song every few minutes, Paul's flute clear and bright in the melody.
"Will," Stephen said seriously, "I just want to say - you're happier this Christmas than I've seen you in years, and if you and Bran are - well, if you're not, I think you should be. If you know what I mean."
"Oh." Will shoved his hands in the pockets of his long blue coat, scuffing his boots in the snow. He looked off the Way, the same welcoming Old Way, into the dark forest - James had the torch now - and thought about how he felt with Bran, at home, how being the last Old One didn't seem to bother him at all, anymore. "Paul said almost the same thing, before you got here. I guess .. you might be right, Stephen, and -- thanks." He grinned up at his older brother. "I mean, yes sir, Mr Lieutenant Commander!"
"Oh, you." Stephen swatted at Will's head as they walked on toward the others. "He really does like you, doesn't he?"
"Yeah, I think he does." After a moment, Will asked, "Stephen? When do you have to go back?"
"Just a few more days. I got a week this time."
"I wish you didn't have to go."
"Me too. But the ship needs me, too."
"Can I ask you something?"
"Shoot."
"If you forgot something - something terrible, but really important - would you want to be reminded? Even if you wanted to forget in the first place?"
"Hmm. That's a tough one, Will. What brought this on?" Stephen turned to gaze at Will, concerned and curious.
"Nothing, I just .. wondered." Will kicked at the snow again, staring fixedly as his feet as they walked along. Don't look at Bran, don't look at Bran ...
"Well .." Stephen pondered the idea. "I think I'd want to know. I'm not sure I'd want to remember, mind you, but I think I'd want to know. Does that answer your question?"
"Yeah, I think it does," Will said happily. He thought he knew what to do, now, finally. "Thanks, Stephen."
"Any time. Look, we're back - someone's waiting for you!"
Bran stood by the mailboxes at the end of the Stanton's drive, his long red scarf trailing in the snow behind him. "They've all gone inside. I said I'd wait for you two."
Will looked at Stephen, and nodded, and said "Go on. We'll be along in a few minutes."
Stephen bounded up the walk toward the warm, inviting light that poured out of the front door. Will and Bran watched the door shut behind him, closing the sound of caroling inside.
Will took Bran's hand, and leaned towards his ear and whispered, "Rwy'n dy garu di." I love you.
He felt Bran's breath hitch; their cheeks pressed together, warm and soft, and as Bran's lips found his, the tails of Will's coat fluttered around their legs, brushing the top of the snow, toying with the ends of Bran's scarf. Will grasped Bran's other hand, tightly, deepening the kiss; he felt a snowflake land on his nose and laughed as Bran pulled back, eyes sparkling with delight, and leaned his head forward onto Will's shoulder. "I know, Will. And you even pronounced it right!"
With a laugh, Will hugged Bran tightly, squeezing him like he'd never let him go. "Oh, Bran, my Bran -"
Bran's red hat sat atop his head like a crown of light, snowflakes sparkling on it in a setting of diamonds. Will pulled it off, and planted a kiss right in the middle of the tousled white hair. "Come on inside," he said, letting go of Bran except for one hand, which he used to tug him along. "I've got a story to tell you tonight."
"Does it have a happy ending?" Bran stumbled along behind, grinning, rubbing his hair with his free hand.
Will turned, and grinned, and kissed Bran again. "Now it does," he said, and they went inside, to love and family and Christmas.