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The World of Man	By : psychocatblah Category: A through F > Dark is Rising Views: 1790 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Dark is Rising, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
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A couple of hours felt worlds longer than it was, and Will wondered if he shouldn't just pitch in, but as he stared out the back window, it looked as if John Rowlands had things well in hand. He'd followed Owen Davies over from Clwyd farm. After the engineered death of Blodwen, he'd never remarried, and was also subject to Bran's occasional teasing. "The Great Lot of Bachelors" he'd called his father and John, grouping Will along with them.
Will smiled slightly at the thought of what he might say now, the grin fading with the memory that Owen had passed on and would not be part of such conversations any longer. He had just started to let his mind drift to the subsequent kiss that he'd shared with Bran, wondering if it meant anything more than seeking comfort, when he saw a flash of dark hair and the wiry figure of Mordred approaching John Rowlands.
The look on John's face told Will everything he wanted to know about what he thought of the strange man. He looked wary and even annoyed, but then John's rough-hewn face, with his craggy lines that had only deepened with grief and the passage of time, always appeared terse. Maybe Will was simply fancying that, but then, Blodwen aside, John had always seemed to be a keen judge of character.
John's gestures were strident and his eyes narrowed and it occurred to Will that he wasn't sure if John knew that Owen had passed on. He stood, prepared to run out and let him know and give him relief from having to deal with Mordred, when he heard a soft rustling behind him.
"He knows, Old One."
Will saw the flash of white hair and the hooked nose in the scant reflection of the window before he wheeled around to find Merriman standing in the middle of the modest living area. "Merriman!"
He smiled down at him, and Will couldn't quite remember the last time he'd had a visit in person. But as the Lady had started to appear faded and tired, so was Merriman losing his strength to stay in this world. He had promised to Will that he would see him again, but he said he would appear to Will alone, so he assumed this meant their time would be short. "You tried to speak to me in my dream."
"Yes. I am afraid that my time is fading and with it, my ability to reach you in times of strife and question." Merriman didn't appear fully corporeal, but almost silvery in the way the sleepers once had, and again Will was fraught with the sense of being truly alone. "Do not let your thoughts drift to regret. I will pass outside of time, but that is the way of things. We do not have time for such mortal concerns."
"Sorry," said Will, shaking his head and knowing that he was right. "It's a consequence of the situation."
Merriman nodded and patted Will's shoulder, an almost surprising gesture in some ways, but Will found comfort in it. "You have not told Bran."
"No. I... didn't the Dark protest his inclusion in the proceedings at the time?" Will turned to gesture back to John Rowlands, who had made the sound judgment that Bran belonged to this time.
"Yes. He did. And now that they've established that he belongs to this time, they are attempting to question his legitimacy as Arthur's rightful heir."
"But..." started Will, a million protests all reaching his mouth at once, making it hard to speak them.
"He clearly was. He gave it up."
"Why now?" he asked again. "A decade has passed since the time of the fall of the Dark. The world has been passed on to men; they have been banished."
Merriman looked at Will for a long while, finally exhaling slowly with the burden of the ages. "You might do better to ask why you are left here alone when the rest of the Light has moved out of time, but for me while my light is slowly fading."
Will felt a twinge of panic at the notion that he'd never even questioned why he was left. "I assumed it was because I was eleven and too young to pass out of time."
"Bran was offered the opportunity to pass along with the rest of us. Age was not a consideration on that offer. Life can be short, and fate can be cruel. You have a further destiny, as did Bran, should he choose it." Merriman's dark blue robes rustled as he shifted. It appeared he was having a difficult time finding a comfortable position in which to stand.
Remembering the look of awe on Merriman's face and the delight on Arthur's, though he was losing the only chance for him to get to know his son, Will realized that he had very much underestimated the situation. "You said that he was giving up the right to be the Pendragon, that he would never see Arthur again, that he would live and die as a mortal."
"In an age in which Light and Dark as forces have passed on to mortal virtue, it would take a mortal to lead them."
Will stared blankly at Merriman; his jaw dropped as he looked around the simple shepherd's home. It was hardly Camelot. "How is he going to lead them? What right would he have if he's not the Pendragon?"
"The Pendragon is a title, Will. The Pen Draig, or chief dragon. It is the name given to a leader in war, in battle. There are no epic battles other than the ones that men wage with one another. This is not a time which needs a Pendragon, which was why in order to maintain that title, he would have had to pass with the time that claimed it. By refusing it, he became a mortal, but that does not change who he really is."
Pushing his hair back from his face to tuck it behind his ear, Will looked down, shaking his head. "But... but... maybe before, given his Political Science studies at Oxford, but now... now he's here. He's a farmer."
Merriman gestured around the room dismissively. "Did you really think that Caradog Pritchard had a sudden change of heart? He was, and always had been, an agent of the Dark. This is a distraction. You ask why it took a decade for this to happen, and I tell you that there is much more at work, because there is much more at stake. Removing Light and Dark from the world that created it is not so simple a business as it may have seemed, Will. The world needs a leader to unite them. Not a warrior, but a leader."
"Bran," said Will, his voice husky with fear for what lay ahead for him. It was tinged with longing for a kiss that seemed even more inappropriate now than it had at the time.
"As I was there to guide Arthur, so shall you be there to guide Bran, Will. That is why you are here; that is why you were left. Your fates are inextricably intertwined. He will need you as you will need him."
The sound of a motor outside reminded Will of the time, and though his heart was sinking and breaking for what kind of future he might realistically have with a man he'd have to share with an intolerant world, he kept a keen eye on Merriman.
"I will be there for him. But what about..." He gestured behind him where Mordred was breaking away from John, likely to try to speak with Bran. Will was just as desperate to get to him, perhaps more so now that he knew Mordred was headed that way, but he wasn't sure when he'd see Merriman again.
"I will return again for the trial, but you must tell him, Will. He must know his place in the order of things." With that, Merriman faded, blending slowly into the stone fireplace he'd been standing before.
After a beat, Will dashed outside to see Bran shaking his head at Mordred only to be caught up in an inappropriately affectionate hug.
I have no right to that with him, Will reminded himself, but thought savagely to Mordred, But you have even less of a right.
Will approached the pair, trying to keep his expression stoic. "Bran."
Bran's face was lit up with red, pinched and glossy with tears and pressed against Mordred's chest. "He's gone, Will. He's gone."
Reaching for him to pull him from Mordred, Will took Bran inside, running his hand up and down Bran's back tenderly as he shut and locked the door. He held him for a long while, just rocking him, resisting the urge to kiss the top of his head. Bran had a destiny now, a destiny that Will would be part of, just not in the capacity he wanted to be.
Once Bran had calmed down, he tilted his head up to kiss Will again. It was so sweet and soft that Will almost didn't realize it was happening. A wet brush of lips followed with a feather-light curious tongue, asking permission, begging, exploring, searching and finally meeting with Will's. It felt as if time had suspended, making the seconds tick like hours, where he felt united, part of something, part of someone.
There was always something about Bran-- perhaps it was his completely otherness-- but it made Will feel comforted, open, as if he could really share something meaningful and have it understood. Bran was not completely of this earth, but he was of this time now. He was Will's age, and he saw things, felt things; they'd been places and accomplished missions together.
Will kissed him back as if he could express all of this to him in the kiss-- as if this single commingling of tongues and lips could take away Bran's isolation and tell him that it was for a purpose, that there was a meaning to it. He kissed as if it could break the enchantment that kept his real memories at bay. Will kissed as if he had a right to this, as if their destinies didn't dictate their behavior which made this forbidden.
"Bran. We can't."
Bran stood stock still, his tongue still left over his bottom teeth, his lips plush and red from kissing and his eyes focused on Will's mouth, questioning why it had stopped. His expression registered each word slowly, resolving into astonishment, shock and finally agony.
It killed Will to end this before it even began, especially as it was all he really wanted for himself; out of time and magic and destiny, he'd only ever wanted one boy, one man, and now he had to tell him that he couldn't. That they couldn't.
"Bran, I have to tell you something."
Never had Bran look so betrayed-- even the loss of Cafall paled in comparison to this look of slow-burning rage. "Save it, Will."
Bran was pulling away and Will tried desperately to keep a hold of him, wishing he could take it back, but he knew he couldn't. Still, Bran looked hopefully up at him as Will grabbed him, surrendering to it momentarily, until he read the finality in Will's expression. Then he pushed away.
"Look, it's really important."
Heading to the bedroom, Bran shouted behind him, "Go back to Oxford, Will. I won't be coming with you, so you might as well just move on."
Will started after him but the door slammed with such force that he knew there was no talking to Bran now. Standing on the other side of the door in the small hallway, Will slumped down the wall and held his head in his hands, wishing he could make him understand. But in an instant, he'd had everything he'd wanted and lost it all.
Though it was the afternoon, the world began to grow dark.
**
Bran did not leave his room for supper and though Will knew that there were no locks on the doors, as far as he was concerned, it was sealed shut. Given the choice between sleeping in Owen's bed or the lumpy plaid fiber couch, Will chose the couch. Though Owen would not be returning to claim his room, Will couldn't be so presumptuous over how Bran would feel about someone he'd asked to leave sleeping in it.
Were the situation less dire, Will would have found himself an inn to give Bran some space to mourn and consider. The information he had directly pertained to what must have seemed a cruel rejection, although after a night's rest, Will wondered if it would have even been a good idea for them to explore these feelings so soon after such a loss.
His mind kept returning to the question of whether Old Ones were even allowed such luxuries as relationships of that sort. Will thought about how affectionately Arthur had called Merriman "my lion" that night as he stood on the boat and bid them farewell. He remembered Gwion and the King of the Lost Land. Such worry. Such love. Such affection. Of course he had not thought to ask how deep those relationships went, nor would he now, as it was a terribly personal thing to question someone about.
Sighing, Will rolled over and squinted out into the mid-morning shade. There was no breakfast laid out for him this time, and he could easily envision the contemptuous look his presence must've elicited from Bran. It felt like there was a hole that burned through his body. As if part of himself was now missing. He and Bran had always had each other, even if each was necessarily separate because of so terrible a secret as he carried. Now all he could feel were the questions that he had left unanswered, and worried that he might not get a chance to answer them at all.
Outside, Bran stood in a broad-brimmed hat next to Mordred, staring out at the flock imperiously, dark shades over his eyes, his lips a line on a face that Will saw jovial more often than not. He knew it wasn't always so, or at least that's what he was told. Will wished that being an Old One was something that he could return. That if he could give it up just to make that smile return to Bran's face, he'd count it as well worth it.
"Duw, it troubles me, too." John Rowlands' voice broke through Will's gloom and he started.
Immediately Will felt embarrassed for how much he'd let his guard down to be ambushed like that. "Mordred?"
John nodded and pushed a mug of tea into Will's hand. Will smoothed his hair back, realizing he hadn't even brushed it since waking up on the couch.
"Bran gave him some of Owen's clothes this morning, so at least he's not quite the sideshow he's been." John worked his jaw slowly, as if rehearsing how to say what he wanted to. "For someone who claims to be a relation of Bran's... he seems rather..."
Outside, Mordred wrapped his arm around Bran and pulled him into an intimate hug that Bran didn't fight, nor did he fall into. Instead, he continued to just stare out at the flock.
"Affectionate?" asked Will, his breath catching at the movement.
"That would be the word." John's fingers were white around the mug, making it apparent that he was as alarmed as Will was.
The spectacle of two shepherds embracing was a little odd. Bran stood a good few inches taller than Mordred and his shoulders were set broader, cutting the figure of a slender king. Mordred was shorter, narrower, but he exuded a terrible malice that would likely overwhelm any physical disparities between the two.
"The funeral is in a couple of days. I expect that's why you're about in spite of the row?" asked John.
Tearing his eyes from the pair, Will looked at John in surprise.
"He was sketchy on the details, but made it sound pretty final." John took a sip from his mug, keeping his eyes on Will's.
"I..." Will had no idea what to say because he had no idea what was said. "It was my fault. I shouldn't have..."
"He'll get over it, Will. Whatever it is, he'll get over. You two share a bond that is stronger than this strife. You've loving bonds that are stronger than any magic," said John with a faraway look in his eye.
"Loving bonds," Will repeated, his mind moving from his predicament with Bran to the speech Merriman had made so long ago.
"Like that, do you? I don't know where it came from. Something... I have these dreams sometimes," John said, gesturing with a light turn of his wrist.
"Yes, I like that." Will wondered if this wasn't the true answer to his questioning after all. It was the loving bond that was keeping Bran here, but maybe that was what really kept him here as well. No, he was here by destiny, by plan, by fate. He was not here by will of love.
"You two will sort it out," said John before turning back to the window. What he saw must've surprised him, as his eyes widened.
Will looked out as well to see Mordred cupping Bran's face, saying something that appeared personal. Their faces were close and Bran's back was to Will, making it difficult to tell how what he was saying was being received.
Mordred looked over Bran's shoulder, straight through the window, and leered at Will before leaning in, his head tilted just so. It was enough to spur Will into action with John right behind him growling words of alarm and disgust as they ran out of the backdoor to stop this.
Lazily, Bran pushed Mordred away and then glared over his shoulder at Will. "Why are you still here?"
The hostility in his voice stung. As did the fact that Bran was chastising Will and not Mordred for advancing on him that way.
"I'm here for you," said Will.
"I don't want you any more than you want me," Bran spat back.
Mordred crossed his arms, obviously frustrated by his brother's reticence, but he appeared smug that he wasn't being shouted at for his action.
"Bran, this is a difficult time. Don't push Will away." John looked at him in appeal. Silently, Will thanked him.
"I wasn't the one pushing away." At those words, Will could see the hurt plain on his face and he longed to relent, to take it all back, and to be someone else.
Instead, he dropped his gaze and Will said, "I'm sorry."
"Don't be sorry. Just go." Bran's voice was filled with a lethal calm. He sounded weary, and surely he must be so. Everything had been so trying since he'd left Oxford, maybe kissing your brother seemed reasonable in a mad world.
"Bran," John started his hands up in surrender already. "He knew Owen, too. You should at least let him mourn his loss."
Bran pulled his hat off and smoothed his hair back. He stared into the top of the hat for a moment as if the answer was written inside. "I suppose you're right."
Will exhaled in relief. It bought him time, at least. John nodded to Will and then to Bran.
"Good. Why don't you go in and get some rest, Bran?" asked John. "You look weary."
It took a few moments for Bran to make up his mind on this. He stared for along while on the horizon, then he looked at Mordred and finally to Will. "All right."
Bran trudged inside and Will watched his slow, stiff movements, as if he were carrying a boulder behind him, the weight too much to bear. He vowed he would make this right. "Bran, I need to talk to you..."
In response, Bran slammed the door behind him and Will closed his eyes.
"Time, boyo," said John as he patted Will's shoulder. "He just needs time."
Will nodded weakly and then turned to address Mordred in order to vent his spleen on someone who deserved it, but he had already disappeared. It wasn't hard to see that Mordred was avoiding him, and wisely so. Were it to come down to it, Mordred would be hopelessly outclassed. The silence vexed Will. As angry as he was for the man coming ahead in time to seduce Bran and to try and take his birthright from him, he wondered if the Dark had been completely honest with him about what it might entail or what the result for his life might be.
As it wasn't in the best interest of the Dark to say so, he guessed that they'd promised him a position of power in a new world that they'd create. Mordred was likely foolish enough to buy it. Maybe they even said he could keep Bran around.
He knew from history that there was no love lost between Mordred and Arthur. Perhaps this was just another way to twist the knife in his father's heart. No matter what his reasoning was, Will swore to himself that Mordred would not prevail-- not over Bran, or over the Light.
After shooting John a wry grin, he headed inside to make himself available on the off chance Bran might be willing to talk.
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The World of Man