Some hours later, the two sat under the starry drape of the night sky, staring at the crackling fire, their faces ruddy with the heat of the flames. The conversation between them was casual, but there was a strain to it, Will felt. It was his fault, for acting without thinking. Now they were both skirting around the issue, neither willing to speak of it.

Instead, they talked about school, Bran told of the goings-on at the farm, and Will passed on the news of their friends the Drews back in England. Safe topics, Will thought. By unspoken consent, neither of them mentioned the future, or what it might bring. Will knew that Bran was still undecided about further education - studying at University would mean he'd have to move to the city, which he was reluctant to do.

Will, meanwhile, knew that his future lay along a different path from any mortal's. But that was something he was unable to discuss with Bran; yet another of the forbidden topics that kept widening the gulf between them.

There was silence now, the conversation exhausted, and Will stared into the glow of the coals, the flicker and dance of the tongues of the flame rising from them mesmerising. The sight summoned memories of the golden Sign of Fire, born of the flames, that he had carried upon his belt, long ago. But his Signs were gone now, having served their purpose, leaving him with nothing but memories and emptiness.

"Will, do you ever have strange dreams?"

Will looked at Bran sharply, his reverie abruptly broken. "Dreams?"

"Yes. Dreams so vivid you might swear they were real." Bran paused, poking at the fire with a charcoal-ended stick. The flames cast strange, flickering shadows upon his too-pale face. "Dreams that don't disappear upon waking."

Will tried to ignore the sudden thudding of his heart. Bran was supposed to have forgotten - to have dismissed any dreams that remained as nothing but the fancy of his subconscious. The fact that he didn't gave Will a sudden bright flair of hope. But when he spoke it was lightly, with apparent casualness. "What do you mean?"

"I don't know exactly!" Bran's white eyebrows drew down in frustration, and he threw his stick into the fire in disgust. "Oh, never mind."

Will knew he had to tread carefully; to encourage, without leading. "I have dreams, dreams that seem very real to me. I sometimes wonder what they mean."

It seemed to be the right thing to say, for after a few minutes broken by no sound but the crackle of the fire, Bran hesitantly began again. "I don't know what my dreams mean, either. I dream of things I do not understand, magical things that could not possibly be real."

"Like what, Bran? What do you dream?" Will asked softly.

"Sometimes it is a harp of gold, and sometimes a monster in a lake. Often I dream of Cafall, who is dead so long, and cold beneath the ground." Will heard the note of pain in the Welsh boy's voice at the memory. "But most often, I dream of a sword that flames so brightly I can scarce look at it. It is the sword of a King, I know, and yet I am holding it, in my own hand. And always, in my dreams, you are there."

Bran looked sideways to catch and hold Will's gaze, his tawny eyes seeming to glow orange-gold in the firelight, and Will's heart pounded within his chest at the wildness that he saw within their depths.

"Why are you in my dreams, Will Stanton, Sais bach?"

There was no glib answer Will could give. He could neither claim ignorance nor tell Bran the truth. Instead, voice sounding a little hoarse to his own ears, he asked, "What have I done, when I've been in your dreams?"

Bran shrugged. "I don't remember. Those parts are hazy, and indistinct." The effect of Merriman's compulsion to obscure his and Will's true nature would hold strong over everything else, Will knew. "But you are there, wherever I am. In a shimmering tower of glass, or inside the very mountain. I remember..." He frowned, a look of intense concentration on his face. "There is a symbol..."

There was a sudden realisation in his expression and he grabbed Will's wrist as he had done earlier, turning it over to reveal the scar. "This symbol! Whenever I see you, I see this symbol. Why this circle, Will? What does it all mean?" The plaintive question brought back echoes of the twelve year old child Bran had been, when Will first met him upon Cadfan's Way. Then, it had been his task to instruct. Now, he had no choice but to deny Bran that knowledge.

"I... I can't tell you, Bran. I'm sorry. I so wish I could."

Despite his obvious confusion and disappointment, there was a note of triumph in Bran's tone. "It means something, then. I was certain that it did. I don't understand how, but those dreams, they are more than dreams. Somehow, they are real."

Will found himself holding his breath, almost giddy with lack of air and the enormity of what Bran's understanding might mean. Bran was still looking at him, gaze so bright it almost seemed fevered, hand still wrapped about Will's wrist.

"And in the middle of all of these peculiar things, there is you."

"There is me..." Will echoed, in wonder and pain, but with hope that he couldn't keep hidden.

"There is something about you, Will Stanton. When I'm near you, I feel different. It feels right." Bran's fingers were so tight around his arm that Will thought there would be bruises there tomorrow. "I feel like I am supposed to be at your side. Do you think me mad, then?"

Will shook his head quickly. "Not mad." He swallowed, trying to compose himself as his voice cracked with sheer emotion. "Not mad at all. It's how I feel, as well. I just never expected that you would..."

"There is something between us, isn't there?" Bran said intently. "Is it something that has already happened? Or something that is going to happen?"

"I don't know," Will replied honestly. When had it begun? How would it go from here? He just didn't know. "I think maybe both. At least... I hope that it will happen... or continue." He was daring so much, even to say it, his hand shaking in Bran's grasp. Would Bran interpret it the way he intended? And what would happen if he did?

But Bran just sat and looked at him, eyes so bright and gold and fierce in his pale, angular face, staring as if he could see into the depths of Will's soul. Will wanted to look away, but found he was unable. He was utterly caught, and terrified at his vulnerability. Not with all the Power he possessed could he protect himself, if Bran decided to turn his derisive scorn upon him.

And then suddenly, Bran let go of his wrist, grabbed his shoulders, and jerked him forwards.

Their mouths met awkwardly, roughly. Will was too stunned to react, with Bran's lips pressed hard to his own, his white hair a pale blur at the edge of Will's vision. His heart thudded loudly in his ears.

As abruptly as the kiss had begun, it ended, when Bran jerked backwards, away from him. His hand flew to his mouth, as if he couldn't believe what he had just done.

"Myn Duw..." Bran whispered. "I should not have done that. I did not mean--"

"Please don't say you didn't mean it!" Will broke in, desperately. "I'll understand if you don't want me like... like that, but please don't say that you regret it. I couldn't bear it. Please, Bran!"

"Regret it?" Bran's accent thickened as it did when he was emotionally distraught. "Duw, na, I thought that you would hate me, I did not think that the sensible Sais bach would want me so!" He finally lapsed into Welsh, sounding close to hysterical.

Will didn't feel much calmer himself, struggling to grasp what Bran was saying, hindered by his disbelief and his limited Welsh. "What? Are you saying, you do want me like that?"

Bran abruptly ceased speaking and blinked at him, his expression peculiar, and Will would have found it comical if the situation hadn't been so tense. And suddenly Bran grinned, and then laughed, with a note of hysteria there still, but genuine amusement as well.

"Foolish English boy! Do you think I go about kissing all of my friends like that?"

Will's thoughts were so perturbed that Bran's meaning didn't quite seem comprehensible, let alone believable. "Really? You mean, you honestly want to be with me?"

"Didn't I just say that?" Bran asked, sounding nervous, but the grin still quirking the corners of his mouth.

"Yes, but... there is with, and there is 'with', and I don't want to misinterpret you or assume too much--"

Whatever Will was about to say was abruptly cut off as Bran hooked a hand behind his head and drew him into another kiss. Bran's nose bumped his, and it was still awkward, but this time not so harsh. And then Will tilted his head slightly and everything seemed to fall into place; his lips against Bran's, warm and sliding in a way that sent tingles down to settle somewhere deep within his belly.

His fright and uncertainty slowly dissipated as he closed his eyes and gave himself over to the experience, tentatively resting a hand on Bran's shoulder for balance, and then grasping it tightly with kind of desperate need. Bran's breath ghosted warmly against his cheek, and he could feel the hand at the back of his neck tangling in his hair.

Finally it was Bran who broke away, gently this time, releasing Will's head and drawing back so that he could look at his friend more clearly, blinking owlish eyes.

"Oh," was all Will could think to say, his mind whirling with incoherent fragments of thought. He could feel a flush reddening his cheeks.

"Well. Now that I have gone and kissed you silly, I hope that I haven't made a complete and utter fool of myself," Bran said matter-of-factly. "With all of that babbling you were doing, it wasn't exactly easy to tell what you were trying to say. I am hoping it was something like 'please kiss me again, you handsome Welshman', but of course, I may have translated badly and it was actually 'if you come within ten foot of me, I'll break your bleeding kneecaps'." Bran attempted to mimic Will's English accent, mangling it completely.

Will couldn't help but laugh, his insides suddenly unclenching with a rush of relief. "It was the former." He continued to grin inanely as he tried to gather his wits, then suddenly sobered. "And you're not a fool at all. I'm the fool, for hiding for so long, for being so terribly afraid that you'd think badly of me if you knew." He dropped his gaze, embarrassed and ashamed of his own cowardice.

Bran snorted. "I already knew that you were a no-good English boy. There is no worse I could think of you, is there?"

"I suppose not." Will was so completely and utterly relieved that on a sudden impulse, he threw himself bodily at the pale, solemn boy, knocking them both off the log they were sitting on to land sprawled and tangled on the ground. Will found himself lying half on top of his taller friend, his head on Bran's shoulder. He drew a breath, inhaling Bran's unique scent. He smelt of the wildness of the hills, something uniquely and essentially Welsh, mixed with the muskiness of Bran's body.

"Well? Are you going kiss me back, or just lie about on top of me all night?" The voice floated from somewhere above his head, with Bran's particular mocking tone.

"Don't you ever get tired of teasing me?" Will asked ruefully, hitching himself up on one elbow so that he could see the other boy's face.

"No," Bran replied cheerfully, not looking at all contrite.

"Huh. Suppose it's in my best interests to keep you quiet, then." Before Bran had time to come up with a cutting reply, Will took him up on his suggestion and inclined his head to kiss him soundly.

It was different this time, his body stretched full-length against Bran's. He could feel all of himself responding to the contact, coming alive, having somebody so warm and solid against him, when usually the British restraint kept everybody at a polite distance. This closeness, this trust, was somehow exhilarating.

Never mind what Bran was doing to his mouth! Bran seemed to take the kiss as some kind of challenge, becoming bolder by the minute, experimenting with pace and pressure. At one stage Will felt Bran's tongue quest tentatively against his lip, silk-smooth, before it disappeared again, shyly. He felt dazed, drawn along in a whirlwind of emotion and sensation.

It was all happening so fast. And it was Bran -- all he could see and touch and taste was Bran. The locks of white that had somehow escaped Bran's ponytail pooled on the ground around his head. Will felt his own fringe fall forwards over his forehead to curtain them off from the prying eyes of the night. His own little world, with just he and Bran - it was something like magic.

"Are you a dewin, a wizard, to bewitch me so?" Bran asked against his lips a moment later.

"No more so than you," Will murmured in return, surprised that Bran had very nearly spoken his thoughts. "You have me caught in your spell."

Bran smirked and kissed him for a little longer, then gently pushed at Will's shoulder. Drawing back, Will caught Bran's expression, which had suddenly become serious. He rolled himself off Bran's hips and sat up, absently brushing bits of bark from his sleeve as he waited for Bran to speak, apprehension uneasily stirring.

Bran sat up also. He hesitated for a few moments, and then voiced his question abruptly. "What are you, Will Stanton?"