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TDIR: Beyond
Fandom: The Dark Is Rising
Pairing: Will/Bran
Warnings: Angst, deathfic
Rating: PG
Summary: Bran's gravestone is already crumbling away. For![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
over_look.
The rules of his existence have been simple: move on, move on, move on. He hasn't let himself feel in, oh, a few centuries. Not since he saw this grave first. Or maybe it was before that, when Bran Davies kissed him and placed his heart in his hands. He'd disappeared from Bran's life then, though he'd have given anything to stay before. He's skimmed the centuries, his eyes only for the Dark, watching -- guarding.
The words crumble on the stone now -- already? Will thinks, for it hasn't seemed so long to him, and yet an eternity all the same -- but his fingers trace them as easily as they did when the letters were new-carved and no lichen covered the gravestone.
When Bran had kissed him, it'd hit him -- Bran's choice, and what it meant, and how little time he would have him and all the time without. And it seemed to him, then, best to let Bran go and never have that. And now he knows he should've had it, that time of impermanence spent in love rather than regret.
"It had to be that way," Merriman says, behind him. He's glad to hear that voice -- glad, so glad, and so angry. It seems right that Merriman has come for him now, to take him to rest, to take him home. It seems so horribly unfair, though, without Bran. With Bran cold in the clay for years now. "It was better that way."
"He loved me." Merriman's hand on his shoulder is a firm pressure; the most solid touch Will has felt since Bran. He takes a deep breath, and the words spill out, defiance and bitterness. "And I loved him. I loved him so much," and then he has to stop, the words choking themselves into silence. Merriman's touch doesn't waver. Will closes his eyes and finds the tears spilling, tears he's held back for centuries.
"I understood," another voice says. Will turns, quickly, quickly, as if a shadow spoke, as if --
"Bran?"
His tawny eyes are intent, his mouth unsmiling, his eyebrows scrunched together in a familiar expression of almost-anger. "Who did you think it was? I've been waiting for you, boyo."
"But -- "
"Loving bonds are beyond even the High Magic," Merriman says, quietly, not quietly enough to disguise his own wonder and confusion. Will takes a step towards Bran, watching the smile ease across the tight features.
"I'm sorry," he says, like he's always wanted to say. The knot of emotion is still drawn up tight in his chest, so it feels as if he can't breathe, and then Bran opens his arms, an offer and summons, and Will goes to him and finds him real, solid, beautiful, the wool of his jumper soft and smelling of washing powder. His face fits against Bran's shoulder as he scrunches his eyes up to hold back tears again.
"I know, Will," Bran says, almost tenderly, and Will knows they're not in that windswept graveyard anymore, and Bran might be laying cold in the clay but he's here too. And he has another chance opening to him, giddy and amazing and new.
Pairing: Will/Bran
Warnings: Angst, deathfic
Rating: PG
Summary: Bran's gravestone is already crumbling away. For
over_look.The rules of his existence have been simple: move on, move on, move on. He hasn't let himself feel in, oh, a few centuries. Not since he saw this grave first. Or maybe it was before that, when Bran Davies kissed him and placed his heart in his hands. He'd disappeared from Bran's life then, though he'd have given anything to stay before. He's skimmed the centuries, his eyes only for the Dark, watching -- guarding.
The words crumble on the stone now -- already? Will thinks, for it hasn't seemed so long to him, and yet an eternity all the same -- but his fingers trace them as easily as they did when the letters were new-carved and no lichen covered the gravestone.
When Bran had kissed him, it'd hit him -- Bran's choice, and what it meant, and how little time he would have him and all the time without. And it seemed to him, then, best to let Bran go and never have that. And now he knows he should've had it, that time of impermanence spent in love rather than regret.
"It had to be that way," Merriman says, behind him. He's glad to hear that voice -- glad, so glad, and so angry. It seems right that Merriman has come for him now, to take him to rest, to take him home. It seems so horribly unfair, though, without Bran. With Bran cold in the clay for years now. "It was better that way."
"He loved me." Merriman's hand on his shoulder is a firm pressure; the most solid touch Will has felt since Bran. He takes a deep breath, and the words spill out, defiance and bitterness. "And I loved him. I loved him so much," and then he has to stop, the words choking themselves into silence. Merriman's touch doesn't waver. Will closes his eyes and finds the tears spilling, tears he's held back for centuries.
"I understood," another voice says. Will turns, quickly, quickly, as if a shadow spoke, as if --
"Bran?"
His tawny eyes are intent, his mouth unsmiling, his eyebrows scrunched together in a familiar expression of almost-anger. "Who did you think it was? I've been waiting for you, boyo."
"But -- "
"Loving bonds are beyond even the High Magic," Merriman says, quietly, not quietly enough to disguise his own wonder and confusion. Will takes a step towards Bran, watching the smile ease across the tight features.
"I'm sorry," he says, like he's always wanted to say. The knot of emotion is still drawn up tight in his chest, so it feels as if he can't breathe, and then Bran opens his arms, an offer and summons, and Will goes to him and finds him real, solid, beautiful, the wool of his jumper soft and smelling of washing powder. His face fits against Bran's shoulder as he scrunches his eyes up to hold back tears again.
"I know, Will," Bran says, almost tenderly, and Will knows they're not in that windswept graveyard anymore, and Bran might be laying cold in the clay but he's here too. And he has another chance opening to him, giddy and amazing and new.
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Once again, although I love your dialog what I find most striking is your use of physical description. Probably because it's so sparse - when you use it you use it well, and you manage to call up really vivid imagery.
Anyway, what I meant to say about this particular piece is I like the mix of angst with a happy, but not saccharine, ending.
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