Disclaimer in first chapter!

Reviews will be fondly read, taken out to dinner and tucked up in bed with a cup of warm cocoa.

Author's Notes: The title of the chapter comes from a fantastic book called "Familiarity is the Kingdom of the Lost" by Dugmore Boetie, set in the Apartheid era in South Africa. A reviewer described the Afrikaans protagonists in the story as: "asleep in a worn-out, broken down, deeply comforting familiarity-the kingdom of the lost-unaware of what is truly going on."

I'm not trying to draw any parallels with the story, of course, I just wanted to make use of one of my favourite book titles! And I think the description above resonates very well with the state of mind of the protagonists in TdiR who are not Old Ones and the state that Will, deep down, yearns for himself.

BTW If anybody's wondering about the strangely old-fashioned train station in this chapter, don't forget that SotT is set in the late seventies when things like British Rail and Station Masters and platform tickets still existed (and I'm old enough to remember them too!)

Thanks to the following (who have really kept me writing):

norah-hunt: Thanks, glad you enjoyed it. Sorry about the 6th chapter thing - I was being a dunce and an idiot and managed to upload chapter 5 twice. Doh! Never mind - real chapter 6 up now! Chapter 7 may follow very soon, so keep your eyes peeled…

kalariah: Glad you thought so - although I did find it much harder to write! I've always been really intrigued by notion of Bran not knowing he's the Pendragon and he's going to stay ignorant about it for the rest of the story. I find it more interesting, character-wise, than him suddenly and conveniently remembering everything, but maybe that's just me…

liptonrm: You write the best reviews! Thank you. I like angst, but it is difficult to maintain convincingly without a leavening of lighter moments, so I'm glad you thought it was OK. I enjoyed writing Bran and I think that when the reader knows far more than the character, you get subtler shading of emotion and lots of room for foreshadowing and irony etc. Glad to hear I'm not the only one who wants to hug Will - that impulse may get stronger over the next few chapters…

Neonlights: Thanks! Don't know if it's good - but here's more anyway!

callie: Got a big grin when I read your review - I tried very hard to stay in canon with the books because that was the only way I could fully explore the problems I had with SotT. Susan Cooper leaves so many unanswered questions and I always feel the need to tie up loose ends! There will be no easy answers though.

Silver on the Tree: Your wish is my command - here's the next chapter for ya. I like the idea of using different perspectives, although this story will mainly concentrate on Will. Expect a few words from Paul at some point though…

Kemenran: Ask and ye shall be given…

CHAPTER SIX

The Kingdom of the Lost

Will had never felt a homecoming quite like it.

It was the end of a long, dreary, tiring day; the rattling and slow train across mid-Wales to Birmingham, the smoother express to Reading, back on the small, crowded regional line eastwards along the Berkshire/Buckinghamshire border through Henley-on-Thames and Maidenhead and finally Windsor. An endless procession of grimy air and brick houses, of bumps and starts and metallic, hypnotic rhythms. He'd sat through it all in a stupor. Never talking, barely eating, trying very hard not to think.

He didn't start to come alive until, through a break in the trees, he glimpsed the flag fluttering above the Round Tower of Windsor Castle and knew that he was almost home. Not that Windsor was all that close to the Stanton Farm either (it was merely the most convenient station), but the sight of the landmark, familiar since early childhood, enveloped him in a sense of peace that he could scarcely ever remember having felt before. The persistent but usually ignored knot of tension in his shoulders eased slightly, but so suddenly that an aching throb ran the length of his spine and his head wobbled strangely, somehow too heavy for his neck.

His thoughts felt slow and halting after so many hours of wilful lethargy, but something like eagerness seemed to seep through the fog in his mind when the train began to ease gently into the station. As Will stiffly gathered his suitcase and rucksack, he wondered who would be coming to pick him up. Max probably, who had his afternoons free, working behind the bar of the local pub in the evening. Or Paul? Will remembered vaguely that his musical brother was coming home for a week between rehearsals and recitals, but the dates escaped him. It was even likely that there would be no-one waiting for him at the station door – Will thought of the memorable occasion when he'd come home from Wales the first time to find a message from his mother waiting for him with the Station Master requesting that he get the bus as far as High Wycombe as the car had been making strange noises all day. One got used to a certain amount of chaos where the Stanton family was concerned.

He was therefore totally unprepared when a large, capable hand grabbed his toppling suitcase as he struggled backwards onto the platform and his startled spin brought him nose-to-chest with his father's reassuring presence.

"Dad!"

Roger Stanton, the laughter lines around his eyes and mouth crinkling at the sight of his youngest son. Roger Stanton who should have been at work at this time, who had never picked Will up from the station in his life and who stood there smiling with a green platform ticket poking out of the top pocket of his jacket. Later, Will would wonder why his first reaction had not been apprehension, but caught in the moment, a sudden fierce gladness burst in his chest which wiped all other thoughts from his mind leaving him giddy and breathless.

"Hello Will. Good journey?"

Without waiting for an answer, Roger Stanton reached forward, gentle fingers ruffling quickly through his son's fringe, a thumb resting briefly at the corner of his eye, the ghost of a warm pressure close against his cheek, before landing on the strap of the rucksack and plucking it from Will's shoulder.

"Come on, then," he said, turning and striding to the exit.

Will trotted after, his heart swelling. His father's gesture – so reticent and silent and so articulate of tenderness that Will had to swallow hard against the pressure in his throat even as the largest, stupidest grin broke onto his face.

He was home and it felt as though he was discovering the meaning of the word for the first time.

~~~~~#######~~~~~~

The hours of silence on the train were forgotten under a torrent of chatter. Will talked and talked, discovering within himself an almost frantic need to communicate. To connect. To prolong the almost ecstatic relief he had felt at the sight of his father's face. Roger Stanton interjected comments when the ripple of words faltered but for the most part was quiet as he carefully guided the ageing estate car through the mid-afternoon tourist traffic.

If the omission of Simon's or Blodwen Rowland's name from the narrative was noted, it was never acknowledged and Will could only be thankful for it.

As the car pulled away from the town and began its laboured journey through the gentle undulations of the Chilterns, Will's words finally ran out and a gentle silence fell upon the passengers of the car broken only by the whine of passing traffic and the overhead drone of aircraft heading for Heathrow. Will closed his eyes, enjoying the sun's warmth against his face and felt a small contented smile pull at his lips. He had been granted distance and a moment of soul-deep peace and he was accepting the gift without question.

Will was not a fool. He knew that his problems were not going to go away. He could feel the insecurity and fear and uncertainty like a darkness in him, unseen but oppressive, a threatening storm. But surely for a moment he could be still? - for a short time he could pass unnoticed through the noisy, seething, overwhelmingly loving mass of his family and gather strength. Decide exactly what he was going to do with the rest of his life.

A very long life…

The words whispered through his mind and despite the hard earned, fragile balance he had achieved, he winced. Feeling his father's eyes on his face, he turned his face to the window, breathing deeply.

"You look tired."

The voice was steady and surprisingly deep for a man of only average build. Will, who liked to think he knew his father rather well, did not miss the almost cautious quality of the statement and a ripple of unease passed over his features.

"Ah well - they start early on these Welsh farms, you know. Sheep and everything and er…other things to be done."

He kept his voice light, the tenor of the little speech inviting amusement. He risked a glance at his father's face and caught a half-rueful smile.

"Oh, I'm sure you were up with the lark every morning."

"Well…with the cockerel, maybe."

"Hmmm"

The response was typical, but Will sensed another question forming and knew his father was trying to ask him something but was unsure how to approach it. It seemed his moment of peace would be just that - a moment. But how could he prevent the concern of his family? Did he even want to? Will sighed again and asked a question of his own - one he had been avoiding diligently up to now.

"Why aren't you at work?"

The answer didn't come immediately and Will eyed his father cautiously. Mr. Stanton, his face thoughtful, changed gear with practised ease and glanced at his son. Their eyes met briefly before he turned back to the road ahead.

"We're almost home," he commented absently. Then lightly, "I thought I'd have a half day for a change. Had a late lunch at home, then came to get you."

Simple. And yet, not. Roger Stanton owned his own business, after all, and was entitled to close whenever he wanted. Except he rarely did anything of the kind. With nine children and six at home, even the loss of half a day trading could be felt and Will knew for a fact that his assistant Mrs. Collins only worked mornings.

So. Something else.

Will thought he knew what it was, and felt misery rise in his throat. He turned back to the passenger window again, knowing that he couldn't meet his father's eyes in whatever was to follow. He gazed out, unseeing, then without warning felt a shiver of apprehension that made him blink in alarm. His eyes refocused on the passing countryside, but the deep, sloping shadows under the trees, made darker by the sparkling late-afternoon sun disorientated him and it was a full minute before he realised that the car was slowing down.

Apprehension thrummed again, more urgent and focused. He knew at once that something had awakened the Old One in him. A flutter of panic, then that hidden quiescent part of him, the part that his family only barely glimpsed, took over and steadied his racing heartbeat. He forced himself to look properly and saw that his father was guiding the car onto a grassy verge

The verge at the corner of the turning into Tramp's Alley.

Will stared. Why had they stopped? Why here of all places? He knew he should ask the questions - that would be normal behaviour, but first…

…he listened to his heartbeat, felt the power roll through him like a breaking wave and…

Nothing.

The apprehension dimmed sharply. There was still power around him - he could sense the distant throbbing of it, like a deep rolling drum that still sounded through one of the Old Ways of Britain. But there was nothing malevolent here; in fact the silence was entirely benign. Then why had he…?

Will returned to himself abruptly, took a deep, slow breath. He was confused, doubting himself and his own instincts. It was the second time now that he had confused his own turbulent feelings for a more unnatural explanation. Didn't he know better than that? Tramp's Alley merely drowsed in the sunlight and Will slowly realised why he had felt so apprehensive. Wasn't it in this place that he had first doubted himself? He associated it with shame and with fear - the stupid, uncontrollable fire, the insinuating menace of that witch-girl Maggie Barnes.

I'm too young for this, he thought suddenly and perhaps for the first time.

"Will?"

Will startled and cleared his throat nervously. Without thinking, he said,

"Why have we stopped?"

A little late to be asking the question, perhaps, but he was belatedly realising the oddity of his own behaviour. Mr. Stanton was silent for a moment and Will glanced up at him expecting to see the concern in his face but upset by it nonetheless.

"I wanted to ask you something."

"What?" he replied dully.

Roger Stanton shifted in his seat and half turned towards his son. He hesitated briefly, almost nervous, but when he spoke, his voice was very kind.

"I…that is, your Mum got a phone call from your Aunt Jen last night."

Will sighed and nodded, completely unsurprised.

"She was worried, I think. She told us about that Mrs. Rowlands and how you'd seemed quite...upset." A brief questioning glance followed. Anxiety in his father's eyes, a seeking of denial, maybe.

Upset. Had he been upset? Will wasn't sure any more. It seemed an odd way to put it and Will had to wonder what Auntie Jen's exact words had been. To tell the truth, after the initial shock, he hadn't given a thought to John and Blodwen Rowlands, so caught up had he been in his own problems. A shaming rush of guilt followed hard on this thought and he pressed his lips together, unsure what to say.

Of course, he had been silent too long and his father's anxiety could only increase. That word of his odd behaviour might get back home had not even occurred to him - so separate did the high places of Wales seem from the gentle ways of Buckinghamshire he had almost believed that he was the only thing connecting them. He was still unused to being the subject of others thoughts as well. It made him uncomfortable.

Don't they have anything better to do?

He was surprised that his mental voice could sound to sullen and resentful. It seemed he was veering between arrogance and self-pity at an alarming rate.

"I'm okay," he blurted finally, willing his father to drop it.

"Are you?"

"Yes of course I am, Dad"

He tried to sound earnest and a little exasperated, but probably just sounded nervous because his father's brows drew together in a frown as he studied his son's face.

"I'm not so sure…" Roger Stanton began slowly, "… mean, I know she wasn't someone you knew very well, but David seemed to think…" He trailed off again and Will, who had never seen his father so uncertain, floundered briefly in a wash of insecurity.

"Did you really pass out?"

The raw concern in Mr. Stanton's voice hit Will like a fist in the stomach.

Fool, fool, fool

How had he thought this wouldn't get back to his parents?

"I…I wasn't feeling well," he responded lamely and then wished he hadn't because the excuse was hardly going to decrease his father's concern. Especially after last year. Hurriedly he continued, "I hadn't eaten. I…I…"

Why was everything so difficult? Hadn't he always been able to lie his way out of trouble before? When had he stopped being so sure of himself? He remembered how sad he had been about lying to Paul and to Stephen, but there had been so much self-righteousness in him then. Such certainty that he was doing the right thing and fighting the good fight and…

His father's hand closed gently over the back of his neck, cradling his head, stilling him. Will wondered if he looked distressed. The hand was so wonderfully comforting.

What does being an Old One have to do with being comforted?.

Yes. Well. This one found he needed it. He was a poor, miserable excuse for an Old One at the moment anyway.

"You know…I don't think you can ever be prepared for coming face to face with death," said Mr. Stanton slowly and contemplatively. "Especially sudden death. It's…it's shocking and awful and it's all right to feel upset."

Will felt a degree of his tension ease at the kindness – the common sense of his father's words. Roger Stanton was right – even though he was completely wrong; death was not something that should have disturbed an Old One. But Will was listening to what lay beyond the words. A father telling a son of his concern, expressing his support. In a moment, he would smile and ruffle his son's hair and they would go home and Will would know there was someone watching out for him. Someone who would neither intrude nor insist on explanations.

Yes, comforting. What was so wrong with needing comfort? It brought perspective. It brought him back into himself. It brought him back to his family. His father's hand shifted and Roger Stanton did everything that Will had imagined he would.

~~~~~~~~~~~ ######### ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Engulfed in his mother's embrace, feigning annoyance and embarrassment, but inwardly grinning, Will revelled in the sights and sounds of his family.

Paul was home after all – had come that morning from London in fact and if the abstracted look on his face was anything to go on, had already spent most of the afternoon practising. Will, always somewhat awed by his brother's gift, smiled at him and received a warm look over the top of wire-framed glasses in response. Gwen and Barbara fussed around him as usual, keeping themselves busy as they did so – the large noisy kitchen was permeated with cooking smells. They had patted him and ruffled his hair and admonished him.

Probably checking I'm in one piece, thought Will amused, but touched by their inarticulate welcome. He ruefully acknowledged that he would always be the baby of the family no matter how old and wise he became.

All the more reason not to worry them.

He quashed the thought quickly and concentrated on James' enthusiastic, if incoherent description of the day's fishing. Shirtless and grass-stained, his next oldest brother was evidently delighted not to be the youngest in the household any more. An odd sort of welcome, but fairly typical and it made Will smile.

Max was slouched in the corner reading; he'd smiled and waved at Will's entrance, then returned to his book content to talk to his brother at a later time. So too with Robin, it seemed, who had merely shaken Will's shoulder in passing and was now deep in conversation with their father. Both faces were solemn and earnest, hands gesticulating.

They're talking about football, Will thought affectionately.

The next few hours passed in a kind of blissful daze. Dinner had arrived – liver and onions – which made Will disproportionately happy, if a little guilty at the look of disgust on James' face. Talk flowed over and around him. Sometimes quiet, more often louder than was bearable, but always seeking to include him. Will was reminded of that unspoken, protective concern they had all expressed that time, earlier in the summer. The nasty incident at the stream with Manny Singh…

…but memories like that reminded him too much of what he wanted to forget.

Tomorrow. Tomorrow I'll deal with it all.

Will was twelve years old and tonight he needed his family.

But nothing in his life had ever been that simple.

TBC

OK - sorry to leave you hanging a bit there, but this chapter was originally going to cover a lot more ground. I just don't know when to stop writing sometimes. I reached a natural break and thought I'd do the rest in the next chapter. I've already started writing it, so expect it soon. Maybe.

Coming soon: Chapter 7: Losing perspective.