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The World of Man	By : psychocatblah Category: A through F > Dark is Rising Views: 1789 -:- 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.

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Dear Will,
I hope this letter finds you well and in good spirits. I know it's been far too many months since I've last written, but you know me, boyo, not much of interest happens on the farm. But since something queer did happen, I thought I'd write it up and send it off to you as an excuse. I still wish Oxford had worked out, but there's little point in belaboring that. My father needs me and I am here.
In any case, today I was out mending the fence, as some foxes had craftily managed to make yet another hole, when some punter looking like a reject from some Renaissance reenactment toddles up and demands I surrender my kingdom to him as he is my elder brother.
Naturally, I told him that he was welcome to help out fortifying his castle and stepped back to let him have a go on the fence. He asked why my serfs don't tend to the fence and I told him it was their day off.
That didn't seem to deter him, so as I had a fence to mend and he wasn't getting on his way, I asked which side he spawned from. He said my father's side and had I not been so convinced the fellow was mental, I would've swung at him right then and there. Owen Davies is not that sort of man, a fact which I shared with him. Then, get this; he claimed that I was King Arthur's son moved ahead in time.
Thought he was having me on and expected telly cameras about, but none came around. Silly git even fancied himself Mordred. Doesn't that just beat all?
I left him when I finished the fence. He was frothing on about how my life and my destiny belonged rightfully to him. He claimed he should have my power. I'm not sure from power, but he was powerfully amusing and I told him so.
That was hours ago, but I still see him lurking about the farm. Might need to call someone out if it keeps up, but I feel sorry for him.
That's my news, anyway. Finally something to report other than the excitement of animal husbandry and the fresh forms we've been given to fill out about scrapie, yeah? That's pretty exciting for me, anyway. Hope Oxford's treating you well.
Sincerely,
Bran
**
The dense overhang of burdened clouds highlighted the verdant green of the pasture with dreary mountains misted in shades of azure and russet in the distance. Before Will, the slate color of the rain-slicked stony road cut into the landscape as rude an interruption as his hired Land Rover and the grunting motor and chipper pop music on the radio.
It felt weird to take the turn onto the once-verboten property that had been Caradog Pritchard's land. It now belonged to Bran Davies out of some latter-day redemptive gesture on Pritchard's part, as likely as hope for the Light's indulgence on his bad behavior. Not that Bran understood that, exactly. What he did seem to know was what the town gossips chirped when they thought Bran wasn't in earshot. His mum arrived pregnant, stayed three days in which she was attacked by Pritchard and then she left with a note to Owen Davies.
Will inhaled at the memory of Bran's revelatory letter and his mad dash to get to Wales as soon as he'd received it. It was bad enough that Bran had to find out once; although that time he had a context for it. The second time was a much more human reaction, and though Will could still sense that chaotic energy from him, so long as Bran was in ignorance of his power, he could not use it.
The tires squealed and crunched over the mud and gravel-soaked land providing a bumpy ride to the gate that Will had to get out to open and then close again after he'd driven through. If there was but one thing that was ground into him from that fateful summer on the farm, it was that the gates must always be seen to. Now that agriculture was shrinking and giving way to tourism, there was little room for error. Even when Bran was properly enrolled at Oxford with him, he still had his hand in the farm, filling out the endless stream of paperwork that his father's farmer-mind had no taste for.
As he parked in front of the small stone house, Will remembered Bran's comment that once kids from Wales got into college, they never returned. He had certainly proved the exception. It was hard for Will to imagine Bran, so pale and seemingly frail, outside day in and day out. Even his eyes were photo-sensitive. Bran's diffident comments about his beekeeper gear gave a funny visual, but Will was concerned that such measures in the summer heat would prove unbearable.
Grabbing his rucksack full of clothing and books once he'd disengaged the vehicle, he slipped out of the white Land Rover to head to the door when movement out of the corner of his eye attracted his attention. A rangy pale man with stark black hair and beard peered at him, eyes golden like Bran's but with the furious madness that Will had always associated with Caradog Pritchard's farm. The strange man, whom Will deduced must be Mordred, ducked from the shadows to get a good look at Will, and likely to let him know that he was observed.
Though Will was tempted to use his powers on him right then, in truth he wasn't certain what power the Light even had anymore, and especially over a descendant of Arthur. He'd known when they were eleven that Bran held power that Will could only dream of, but the chaos of Bran's magic had always been well-intentioned. Mordred's past was murky, and his intent was something far less Bran's crafty arrogance and something far more callous and cold.
"Will, you made it!" Bran's voice sounded chipper and worry-free, reminding Will that he really had no clue what sort of threat the Dark could pose over his life.
Will turned to flash him a bright smile and then looked back to find empty the space in which Mordred had been lurking. "Yeah, of course I did."
Bran squinted in the direction Will was looking and pulled his glasses down to try and observe the shape of the shadows better. "Strange fellow. Not sure what to make of him, really. Seems harmless enough and even a bit friendly at times, but then he gets to lurking. Probably part of his disease."
His pale hand fluttered around his shockingly white head in a circular gesture to express how crazy Bran thought he was. Will finally relaxed enough to really consider Bran. He'd expected him to be sunburned, but the beekeeper costume must have kept him safe enough from the sun's rays as he was milk white as ever, like a blanched shell from the beach, white and eerily seeming to glow amidst the dreariness of Wales.
He was dressed neatly as he often was at Oxford, in conservatively dark trousers and a sweater in a dark grey that to this day Will thought Bran must wear for its sharp contrast to his haunting complexion. His hair was a bit longer on top so that it fell to his chin, but was shaved underneath in a style that even on campus tended to get looks. Bran would protest that people were going to look anyway, so he might as well go the full route, but Will thought the haughty Welshman side of Bran reveled in the attention.
Here Bran was willowy but still somehow intimidating, Will felt soft and pudgy by comparison. His brown hair still brushed his shoulders, and his face was round, making him appear deceptively chubby, although he wasn't particularly large. Next to Bran's sharp, angular features, his head looked like a pumpkin, and his grey eyes were dreary next to Bran's gold.
Silver and gold, Bran charitably said when he was of a mood to lecture Will about how he could pull fit birds if he bothered. Not that Bran dated that often himself, but Will was loath to point that out lest it disrupt the happy balance of their dorm room.
"Going to just stand there, Will Stanton?" Bran asked as he held his arms open, using his full name for effect. Will rolled his eyes and crossed into the embrace, slinging the sack back over his shoulder to get it out of the way, enjoying the warm greeting.
He detached after a moment and looked back once more. "So he's been here since you sent that letter?"
"Right down to business, Uncomplicated Will, eh? Yeah, he's been 'round and about. Come inside and have some tea and get settled in, and you can tell me what's so alarming about the odd schizophrenic in Wales that brings you from Oxford in a hired Land Rover."
Will gave a weak smile and nodded, realizing that this would seem extravagant to practical Bran, although in truth it had been all he could do not to exploit his magic to get him here faster. Surely the Dark knew that he would come. He had little else to do of Light business since the final rising-- or what he'd assumed would be the final rising. But he decided that it wouldn't do to give them any sort of hint on what his plans were, especially since he wasn't sure he had any. In fact, his message to Merriman had either not carried through, or Merriman was detained or just plain gone.
"Yeah, I think some tea would help that conversation," said Will, trying to keep the discussion light. He really hoped he wouldn't have to bring Bran back into this, especially when he'd opted not to know these things. With his father laid out in the hospital with a heart condition, it was even crueler. The Dark chose its time for attack well.
Bran looked out towards the hills and shook his head. "Something else rolling in. Breath of the Brenin Llwyd. Remember those old games we used to play when you first came?"
Will could only feel forlorn at that. Of course Bran would have to think it was all just a childhood game of pretend. "Yeah. The Grey King," said Will, his voice tight.
Laughing, Bran slapped Will on the back and pulled him into the house. "Quite the imagination young boys have, I guess. Really, you always made up the most exciting games, Will."
"Yeah, exciting." Will looked once more out the door before the heavy wood closed with a thud behind him.
**
After Will did his best to relate the well wishes of the Oxford Fencing Club, who missed Bran terribly, he settled in with his chipped mug of tea served with the wry remark that he was amongst bachelors now. Will didn't mind. Though Bran had always seemed somewhat conscientious of keeping to Will's aunt's house when he'd visit in the summer, Will speculated that Bran's home life would be just like this-- cozy, modest and genuine. But he knew Bran's pride kept him from letting him see just how modest. Now that they'd lived together, he supposed Bran had loosened up on being so self-conscious about it, which pleased him. He felt they were a bit closer now, which was saying a lot since Will, though he cared for many people, had never felt properly close to anyone but Bran. Even that had been cut traumatically short, at least for Will.
From what Will heard from his Aunt, Bran still never quite fit in with his peers, but Will knew that had to be by looks alone. Of course they wouldn't sense the magic and power he had, or perhaps they did. Maybe instead of awe, they felt fear. That was a human enough reaction; Will reflected on his own uncertainties when he'd first met Bran, and he hadn't even properly known who he was yet.
The secret stood on the tip of his tongue, begging to be set free, to let Bran know what he was in for, but he kept thinking about that night, about the sacrifice he made to be with Owen Davies, and also to stay in this time. Sometimes Bran would stare off into space, lost in some thought or reverie, and Will would watch him and wonder if it really had all been for Owen. Of course he knew that much of it would have to do with being bound to this time, but in moments of sheer indulgence, Will fancied that Bran stayed at least in part for him.
Maybe Will could have visited him in another time, but Will was pretty certain that he couldn't. Things happened as they were meant to, and tinkering with the past could be dangerous, but Will was of the opinion that all things happened as they were destined to happen with only a few shining moments of true choice.
Even those choices were, to an extent, foretold and accounted for, so perhaps had Bran made another choice, it would have been different. Or maybe he didn't trust that the Light would see his friendship as important enough to bend time for. The Light could be cold that way, unfeeling in the sense of stark light to dark-- black and white in a world where Bran was most certainly grey. He made the choice he made as the boy that he was. Who he became was still him, only with a piece missing. Will thought perhaps that missing piece was why Bran had those dark, quiet moods of confusion. He'd wished he could take it all away without betraying him, and perhaps now the Dark was providing him that opportunity.
The fact that it was the Dark made Will suspicious of it being the correct path, so he kept the conversation practical, about delusional people being dangerous. He could tell, though, that Bran saw something in this Mordred-- something familiar.
"It's his eyes, Will. It's... he claims to be my brother, and while his age makes me seriously question it-- because my mum should be about his age-- I can't dismiss that he could possibly be my real father and just... confused," said Bran.
For the first time, Will saw the longing to actually belong somewhere, to have a relatable family, and he ached for him and for that. Even Bran didn't know just now how much he truly loved Owen Davies and what he'd given up for him. Or maybe some part of him did and now regretted it.
"I really don't think he's your father, Bran," said Will quietly, staring at his hands as the fire crackled and popped in the simple living area.
The fireplace was made of dark grey stone, stacked together with a light mortar to hold it in place. A small shelf jutted out where there were pictures of Bran and Owen and various sheep with ribbons and awards and trophies from Bran's school days, accolades for how brilliant he was at anything he put his head to. At the end was a lonely fencing trophy, and Will couldn't help but picture a younger version of Bran holding Eirias so proudly.
"No, Owen Davies is the only man to properly have that title, but even if this man is addled, he could be a blood relation to me. I can't call someone to get him. I just... can't. If I can just bring him around enough, then we could... maybe he'd..." Bran stared off into space in another of his moods and Will watched him, wishing that he could know just what he was thinking when he flinched or frowned or his brow creased with unfathomable worry.
Will nodded and yawned, even though he wasn't tired. He had a lot of thinking to do and decisions to make. He hoped that perhaps someone would contact him to give him some sort of advice. Surely someone else from the Light knew that this was happening, but they were all so silent.
He felt alone, and it frightened him.
**
Will dreamt himself adrift on a rollicking sea. He was on the boat with Arthur and Bran. Merriman was at the stern but did not turn towards him. Instead, he kept his eyes on the course with no time to look back. Bran held Eirias out and the sword flamed and crackled with magic, but Bran's expression was frightened.
"You can't let me go with them. Don't let me go, Will," he begged.
Will reached out and took his hand, feeling it grow firmer and larger in his own as the boat rose up and slammed hard back down to the water. "I won't, Bran. I swear."
Bran nodded and laced their fingers together. Holding his sword away form him, he leaned in and kissed him. It was just a mere brush of lips and warmth of fanning breath on his cheek, but it was enough to spark Will out of his dream, waking up to find himself in Bran's room. It was silent but for the soft, regulated breathing of Bran who slept on the floor, offering his guest the best while he insisted that a few blankets on the floor was all he needed.
Peering over the edge of the bed, Bran appeared rumpled from sleep but otherwise placid and undisturbed. Will exhaled and flopped back onto the bed, ignoring the protesting squeal of the springs. "I won't let you go."
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The World of Man