Master and Mage

By Sam Davidson

Disclaimer: Susan Cooper graced the world with these characters, and we mortals may only pick them up and play with them, putting them back gratefully when we are done.

A/N: This story is slash. If you have a problem with that, then do not read it. Or do, but don't get mad at me if it offends your homophobic sensibilities. And on a lighter note, I dedicate this chapter to the fabulous Gramarye, who helpfully answered my queries about DiR canon (I don't actually have the books gasp, and haven't read them in a while, so I needed a little refresher).

Chapter Three: Bed

Bran lay awake in his bed, staring at the ceiling. It was a nice ceiling. It was a familiar ceiling. He knew the knots and swirls of the wood like the back of his hand. Pulling the covers up to his chin, he basked in the comfort of warmth and familiarity. It was the first morning of the season where it was just cold enough that even wide awake, there was a certain temptation to simply not get out of bed. The sunlight streaming in the window had a certain crisp quality, and even though everything outside was still green, it looked somehow more brittle now, ready to be blown away by the coming autumn winds. And yet, there was something invigorating about the crispness, as well, something that made one want to get up and do things. And so, after savouring the warmth a few moments longer, Bran steeled himself to relinquish the comforts of bed. Pulling the covers reluctantly aside, he sat up, swung his legs around, and set his bare feet gingerly on the floor. Due to the gap between his father's Calvinist frugality and Bran's own growth rate over the past few years, there was a considerable amount of ankle showing between those feet and the bottoms of his pyjama trousers, but this was something Bran had never minded before. Now that he was going to university, however, little things like this were beginning to worry him. Would the other freshers think him unworthy to rub shoulders with them? Would they laugh at the poor sheepherder from the Welsh hinterland? No matter how many times Bran told himself that these sorts of fears were totally unfounded, not to mention childish, they kept coming back to nestle in the back of his mind.

Now fully out of bed, he padded over to his wardrobe, the cold air prickling at his bare arms and torso. He quickly pulled on a shirt, buttoned it, and added a dark green jumper for good measure. This completed, he changed into his customary black jeans and examined the final product in the mirror on the wardrobe door: nothing to be ashamed of. Besides, if you're trying not to attract attention by your appearance, he reminded himself, clothing is likely to be the least of your worries.

Now fully dressed, he walked back over to make his bed, and as he did so his eyes fell on the envelope still sitting on the table next to the bed. He had read and reread the letter inside many times, just like all of the ones that had come before it, and yet at times he still couldn't believe his luck. Who would have thought that a poor Welsh sheepherder would get the opportunity to study music, his passion, and not just at any school, but at the school of his dreams? He knew the beginning of the letter by heart:

Dear Mr. Davies:

On behalf of all the staff and faculty here, it is my pleasure to welcome you officially to St. John's College, Oxford…

Bran pictured those words, on their background of creamy white stationery, as he made his way down the stairs to the kitchen. His father had of course been up for hours, but there was still some porridge in the pot on the stove, so Bran turned on the burner to heat it up again. There was also a quickly scrawled note on the table, reminding Bran that he needed to repair a piece of fence in one of the pastures. Yes, Da, I know, he thought, but not just yet. There's plenty of time. And with that he filled up the kettle, set it to boil, stretched, and sat down to wait, totally at peace.