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Entry tags:
TDIR: Forget
Fandom: The Dark Is Rising
Pairing: Will/Bran
Warnings: Sap
Rating: PG
Summary: It's hard to silence the memory of the son of Arthur.
Bran pulls a blade of grass up, looking at it, splitting it down the middle with his thumbnail. Will watches, aware of the subtle nuances of his mood. He's keeping himself busy, hands and eyes at least, if not his mind. There's something he's avoiding. Will shifts just a little, enough to remind Bran of his presence, and waits.
"I didn't forget, like."
Will's heart near skips a beat. He's hoped for -- and dreaded -- this moment. He's been alone. He's had the other four, yeah, but they've forgotten. The other who remembers is gone, to his rightful place, perhaps, resting at Arthur's side. And because Bran still lives, Will must stay, too. Merriman made it look so easy -- but, there: he must be sure it's the right moment.
"Didn't forget what?" he asks, forcing his voice into a drowsy tone of almost-but-not-quite interest.
"Everything. When Merriman said we'd forget, I did. For a while. But... the son of Arthur and Guinevere isn't so easily silenced."
There's a long moment of silence that Will lets stretch as he takes in the words. It's not uncomfortable in itself, and Bran lies back, his expression relaxed and open. What once was odd to Will -- the white hair, the tawny eyes -- is now familiar and beautiful in the warm afternoon.
"Won't last," Bran says, softly, as if listening to Will's thoughts. He's missed that, too -- that, the undefinable point where they spoke and thought together, always.
"I know."
But he's an Old One, and when he needs it, this afternoon will be here.
"You can't make someone forget feelings so easily, either. The Lady gave John Rowlands a comfort, but he didn't fully take to it. The memory's like a newborn lamb rejected by its mother dressed in a dead lamb's skin. The sheep knows something's wrong, like. Sniffs and sniffs. But never finds it out. I found it out."
"Feelings?"
His heart is like a drum, now, like the hoofbeats of a great horse, galloping. Beat, beat, beat, beatbeatbeatbeat -- beat. He watches Bran -- watches his face, and watches the words come, as they came to save them so often before. His Bran, brave and beautiful and wise, beyond all reckoning. He smiles.
"Love," he says, softly. His tawny eyes are soft and sincere, and his strangeness is all familiarity in this world. This world of peace that the Light has won -- for a time, or forever: that's not for anyone on earth to know. Merriman might know, but his days are done. Will's days are still beginning.
"I feel it, too."
"Can you?"
The Light is cold and hard, at times. But the Old Ones feel. They have human in them, human blood and human bodies, born into human families, a cuckoo in the nest, and yet not. "I can."
Bran's smile is lazy. "Took you long enough."
Hesitantly, Will reaches out to take Bran's hand. They've stood together so many times. As Bran squeezes his hand, Will thinks of one time. The time they watched the Mari Llwyd prance, white bone gleaming in the Lost Land. The way Bran squeezed his arm then, fingernails leaving a mark. He hadn't minded -- the warmth of Bran close to him, even with that tinge of pain, was a comfort beyond any power he had and any message from the Lady.
Will looks at Bran steadily. If Bran were any other boy, Will knows what he would say. But he leaves it for his eyes to say that, his mouth, his muscles, all lax and gentled.
He leans down, and he kisses Bran. Clumsily, at first, with a click of teeth and an awkward position, but then it's all the sweeter for it. He closes his eyes, feeling the warmth of the sun through his worn shirt, the light itself brighter than once it was.
Bran grins at him from his bed of grass.
Pairing: Will/Bran
Warnings: Sap
Rating: PG
Summary: It's hard to silence the memory of the son of Arthur.
Bran pulls a blade of grass up, looking at it, splitting it down the middle with his thumbnail. Will watches, aware of the subtle nuances of his mood. He's keeping himself busy, hands and eyes at least, if not his mind. There's something he's avoiding. Will shifts just a little, enough to remind Bran of his presence, and waits.
"I didn't forget, like."
Will's heart near skips a beat. He's hoped for -- and dreaded -- this moment. He's been alone. He's had the other four, yeah, but they've forgotten. The other who remembers is gone, to his rightful place, perhaps, resting at Arthur's side. And because Bran still lives, Will must stay, too. Merriman made it look so easy -- but, there: he must be sure it's the right moment.
"Didn't forget what?" he asks, forcing his voice into a drowsy tone of almost-but-not-quite interest.
"Everything. When Merriman said we'd forget, I did. For a while. But... the son of Arthur and Guinevere isn't so easily silenced."
There's a long moment of silence that Will lets stretch as he takes in the words. It's not uncomfortable in itself, and Bran lies back, his expression relaxed and open. What once was odd to Will -- the white hair, the tawny eyes -- is now familiar and beautiful in the warm afternoon.
"Won't last," Bran says, softly, as if listening to Will's thoughts. He's missed that, too -- that, the undefinable point where they spoke and thought together, always.
"I know."
But he's an Old One, and when he needs it, this afternoon will be here.
"You can't make someone forget feelings so easily, either. The Lady gave John Rowlands a comfort, but he didn't fully take to it. The memory's like a newborn lamb rejected by its mother dressed in a dead lamb's skin. The sheep knows something's wrong, like. Sniffs and sniffs. But never finds it out. I found it out."
"Feelings?"
His heart is like a drum, now, like the hoofbeats of a great horse, galloping. Beat, beat, beat, beatbeatbeatbeat -- beat. He watches Bran -- watches his face, and watches the words come, as they came to save them so often before. His Bran, brave and beautiful and wise, beyond all reckoning. He smiles.
"Love," he says, softly. His tawny eyes are soft and sincere, and his strangeness is all familiarity in this world. This world of peace that the Light has won -- for a time, or forever: that's not for anyone on earth to know. Merriman might know, but his days are done. Will's days are still beginning.
"I feel it, too."
"Can you?"
The Light is cold and hard, at times. But the Old Ones feel. They have human in them, human blood and human bodies, born into human families, a cuckoo in the nest, and yet not. "I can."
Bran's smile is lazy. "Took you long enough."
Hesitantly, Will reaches out to take Bran's hand. They've stood together so many times. As Bran squeezes his hand, Will thinks of one time. The time they watched the Mari Llwyd prance, white bone gleaming in the Lost Land. The way Bran squeezed his arm then, fingernails leaving a mark. He hadn't minded -- the warmth of Bran close to him, even with that tinge of pain, was a comfort beyond any power he had and any message from the Lady.
Will looks at Bran steadily. If Bran were any other boy, Will knows what he would say. But he leaves it for his eyes to say that, his mouth, his muscles, all lax and gentled.
He leans down, and he kisses Bran. Clumsily, at first, with a click of teeth and an awkward position, but then it's all the sweeter for it. He closes his eyes, feeling the warmth of the sun through his worn shirt, the light itself brighter than once it was.
Bran grins at him from his bed of grass.
no subject
Thanks for the crit. :) I'll keep it mind, even if this is an old piece. :D