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Entry tags:
TDIR: Lazarus
Fandom: The Dark Is Rising
Pairing: Will/Bran
Warnings: Angst, sap
Rating: PG13
Summary: It was the one year anniversary of Will Stanton's death.
"Bore da," Bran said, to Rhys, when he reached the main cluster of buildings that made up the heart of the farm. It was a bright morning, everything sharp-edged and crisp, the air cool. Early spring -- late enough that there was a promise of warmth in the air, in the bright sunshine. Early enough that there was still frost most mornings. Bran leaned against the gate, watching Rhys knock mud off his boots. Bryn, his dog, waited patiently for a moment and then wandered off, sticking his nose into a patch of weeds, sniffing at anything that seemed interesting. "Isn't that a bit of a pointless exercise?"
Rhys smiled briefly, warmly. "Bore da, Bran. And it is, but I'm tired of carrying half the farm into the house with me."
"Your mam would have your ears if she caught you wearing your great muddy boots inside at all."
"Ah, but today I'm safe," Rhys said. The smile faltered and he looked back down at his boots. "Mam's not here, anyway. She's gone down to Buckinghamshire to be with Alice Stanton today. And for the rest of this week. It's a year ago today that young Will died."
Bran had to struggle to keep his tone light. "Plenty of time to clear up any mud you track indoors, then."
"I forgot," Rhys said, suddenly. He looked stricken. "I forgot how close you were with him, for all that I remember you being thick as thieves. I'm sorry, Bran. I didn't mean to remind you. I'm sure it's on your mind enough already without me putting my great big muddy feet in it."
"It's alright," Bran said, softly. There was a moment of silence, a few instants where there was nothing -- just an absence, a gulf. Awkwardly, Rhys stood and crossed over to where Bran was leaning against the fence, putting a hand on his shoulder and squeezing firmly.
"If you'd like the day off..."
He shook his head, tried for a smile. It felt sharp, fragile. "That'd probably be the worst thing for me. Thank you, though."
Rhys nodded, understanding. "Well, we don't have much to do, to be truthful, but if you'd like busy-work, speak to John. He knows what needs doing around here, and truth be told, he's not as efficient at all of it as he used to be. Could do with someone young and strong to help him -- but don't tell him I said that. He's a good worker, even if he refuses to admit that he can't do as much work as he did ten years ago."
"You'll never get rid of him," Bran said, with that sharp smile still sticking out of his face like broken and twisted barbed wire. Rhys looked, for a moment, like he wanted to say something more, but then he shrugged.
"That's all, then. There might be some straying sheep to round up, I suppose. I'll be doing a count later and then I'll let you know."
Bran nodded. "You just let me know. Tyrd yma, Bryn."
The dog made some noise of protest and then followed obediently. Bran led the way towards John's house, pausing once he was out of sight of Rhys. He crouched down suddenly and Bryn came towards him, letting Bran wrap his arms around him and pat him a little.
"It isn't fair," Bran said, for all the world as if Bryn could understand him. He bit his lip hard. "It's not fair. He was my best friend. He was only eighteen. I still feel like I'm going to get a letter from any day now -- or like he might just walk out of the Evanses' house one day on an unexpected visit..." Bryn whined, pushing closer to Bran. There was a sniff, and then Bran cuffed at his eyes, standing up, voice gruff. "Come on, Bryn. Let's get to work. Can't stand about all day, can we?"
---
It was evening by the time Bran got home: twilight just settling in over the world. Bryn trotted at his heels, tired and subdued, letting out a plaintive whine as they got closer to home. Bran looked down at him and snorted.
"I'm not carrying you. You're not a puppy anymore, you know. Da already thinks I spoil you too much. When we get back you can have your dinner, okay?" Bryn woofed and Bran laughed. "Cheeky sod. Come on, let's get home already. I'm hungry, even if you aren't."
Bryn woofed again and took off like he was after something. Bran grinned, but followed more slowly, finding his keys and letting them in. Bryn hared off into the house.
"If you break something again, I'll make you into a fur coat!" Bran called after him, bending down to pick up a letter as he closed the door. There was the sound of a muffled thump, but it didn't sound like anything was broken. This time. "One day, I'll train you out of this enthusiasm," he muttered, going into the kitchen and tossing the letter on the table while he filled a bowl of water and got out the dog food. He resolutely didn't look at the picture of Will on the side -- the awkward school picture that made Will seem so unremarkable, so ordinary. So -- mortal.
It was possible, he thought, if you'd known Will Stanton, known how strange he could be, to pretend that somehow, everything was going to be alright. Even after a year.
He put the two bowls down on the kitchen floor, calling for Bryn again, and then picked up the letter. The address was typed, not handwritten, the postmark somewhere he didn't recognise -- it sounded Scottish. He looked down at Bryn as the dog came flying into the kitchen. "Calm down, boy. Who do you think's writing to me, hm? Reckon it's just junk or something?"
Bryn whined again. For once, he didn't go straight over to his food, but instead moved closer to Bran, practically leaning against his legs. Bran frowned.
"What's wrong with you now?"
The dog just whined again, settling down on Bran's feet and leaning his body against his legs heavily. Bran shook his head and ripped open the letter, pulling out the neatly folded note inside and smoothing it out on the kitchen table. He caught sight of the handwriting and his heart leapt into his mouth, and slowly, slowly, he groped for a chair, lowering himself into it.
"Will?" he said, blankly, looking down at the note without reading a word of it.
Bryn whined again.
---
When John Rowlands opened the door to Bran at nine PM, he wasn't sure what to expect. He'd half-expected the visit, the swollen, reddened eyes; it wasn't the first time Bran had shown up like that, in the last year especially. But there was something different, too, something wild and hopeful and strangely joyous. Bran thrust a letter toward him. "Look," he said, his voice cracking and almost breaking like it hadn't since he was fourteen. He cleared his throat impatiently. "It's his handwriting."
"Bran -- "
"Just look at it." Bran caught at a breath, straightening up. Bryn, at his feet, seemed strangely calm, staying close to him. "Tell me I'm not going mad, John. Tell me that note says that he's alive."
"Who?" John asked, but there could be no one else. "Will Stanton?"
"Look at it," Bran said, again, his eyes strangely bright. John reached out, catching hold of his elbow and pulling him gently inside.
"Bran, I went to the funeral with you," he said, gently, leading Bran down the hallway. "I don't need to look at the note. Will is dead, has been this past year. I know you miss him, and he was a good lad, but..."
"Closed coffin," Bran said, pulling away impatiently. He ran his fingers through his hair, looking away from John. "I know it sounds mad, but... Iesu mawr, just look at the note for me. If you say that it doesn't say what I think it says, I'll go home right now and check myself into a hospital in the morning."
Owen Davies might have become angry, then, at his son, at what he'd have seen as madness. John Rowlands just stood there, looking quietly at Bran, at the passion on his face and his clenched fists, and the terrible hope in his eyes. "I will, then," he said, quietly. "But first, come inside and have a cup of tea. Has Bryn had his dinner yet?"
Bran took a deep breath. "Alright. Yes. Well, I don't know if he ate anything, actually."
"Then I'll find one of Pen's old dishes. Come on, Bryn. Let's get you fed. Bran, you can put the kettle on and make us some tea, you know where everything is."
The dog woofed, sounding pleased. Both of them followed John into the kitchen, and Bran carefully put the letter down before going to fill the kettle. "I'm sorry I came here like this," he said, belatedly. "I know you prefer to go to bed early."
"It won't do me any harm, this once, and I think you needed me."
"Yes," Bran said, quietly. "I got home and there was that letter, and all day I've been thinking of him -- and it is his handwriting. I don't know what to think. Could he really be alive?"
John didn't answer, at first. He bent down, a little stiff now, stiffer than he'd like, and set the bowl of dog food down. Bran waited, watching.
"John?"
"I don't know," he said, standing up again, slowly. He met Bran's eyes. "I just don't know. He was... strange. I don't want to give you too much hope, but -- "
"The letter already took care of that," Bran said, impatiently. He closed his eyes for a minute, obviously trying to be calm. "Please. Look at it now?"
John nodded and reached for it, glancing briefly at the envelope. "Scotland?"
"I don't know." A shrug. "That's not important, really."
"No, I suppose not." John pulled the letter out, carefully, smoothing it out, noting that already the paper was rather worn from reading. There wasn't much, really -- I'm sorry, it said, first, without a greeting. John's lips moved silently as he read the letter to himself. 'I'm sorry,' it said. 'I know you think that I'm dead, but I had to do it. I know you'll have questions, and trust me, if you see me, I'll answer them. All of them. I wish I could explain why I'm coming back into your life like this, but I can't, not now. I know you used to trust me. Trust me now, okay? In a week, I'll be in Tywyn, and I'll come up to see you then.'
And that was all. It wasn't even signed.
"It is his handwriting," Bran said again, quietly. John looked up at him, troubled.
"I don't think you need to go and check yourself into a hospital in the morning, but I can't say I know what you should do."
"I'll see him," Bran said, with a shrug. There was a light in his eyes again. "I'll see him -- and probably punch him for doing this."
"There's no reason why it wouldn't be him."
"No," Bran said, the excitement showing in the tense line of his shoulders, the bright colour in his face. "It's real, isn't it? It's him. It's really him."
Foreboding made John's stomach twist. "Yes, I think so," he said, quietly. Bran hardly seemed to hear.
---
Will was careful not to really let anyone see him as he walked up towards Bran's house. That wasn't a problem for him, of course: he'd been made, it seemed, to be unremarkable, but for his eyes, and people tended to believe what he wanted them to believe. Anyone who watched him without particularly careful attention might not even remember he'd been there. Bran would see him, he knew, if he looked out of the window.
There was a flutter in his stomach at the thought of seeing Bran. He squashed it firmly: he'd been selfish enough without even thinking of -- well, he couldn't ask the question he'd been thinking of, and that was all. He hesitated, when he got to the path that led off to the front door of Bran's house. It was a little house, but a nice one, Bran's first home of his own. He remembered how proud Bran had been of it, how he'd helped Bran clean it up, mending a door frame and hanging curtains, opening all the windows wide to let in the fresh air.
He had no right to even think of asking Bran to come away with him.
And he knew, he knew, he wouldn't be able to help it, if he went up and knocked on that door. It might even be the first words out of his mouth. So he hesitated.
The door opened. Bran looked out of the house, leaning against the wall just inside, a dog -- Bryn, surely, still -- at his feet. "You didn't give me a time," he said, calmly. "Luckily, I have an instinct for these things, when it comes to you. The kettle just boiled."
"Bran," Will said, dumbly.
"Yes, that's still my name. I suppose that is a question with you. Do you still call yourself Will?"
"When I'm with you, I do," Will said, taking a deep breath. "Bran -- "
"Get inside already," Bran said, rolling his eyes, and he straightened up. "Unless you want to be shut out."
He was never really aware of how he got there, how he closed the gap of six meters or so, but all of a sudden he had his arms tight around Bran and his face buried in his friend's shoulder. "Bran."
"Will," Bran said, and his arms came around him, tightly, so tightly, so he almost couldn't breathe, and it didn't matter. After a moment, Bran pushed him away a little, hands gripping his shoulders, and he gave him a shake. "Do you have any idea what this year has been like for me? Why did you do something so stupid as fake your own death?"
"I'm sorry," Will said. "Do you trust me?"
"Don't be an idiot! Of course I trust you. You were my best friend."
"Were?" Will said, and he couldn't help a sad smile. "Did you find someone better?"
"Don't be an idiot," Bran said, jaw tightening. "Excuse me for labouring under the impression that my best friend was dead, for a whole year."
"Bran -- "
"Couldn't you have told me you were going to pull a stunt like that? You're a fine one to talk about trust!"
"I'm sorry," Will said, a trace of desperation in his voice. He jerked away from Bran's hard grip on his shoulders. "Aren't you going to even give me a chance to explain myself?"
The dog chose that moment to move between them, barking excitedly as if he'd only just realised an old friend was there. He jumped up at Will, paws scrabbling at his legs, and Will laughed and reached down to fondle his ears.
"Hey, Bryn," he said, quietly. "I guess you want me to come in, even if your master doesn't."
"Will... I'm sorry. You just don't know how hard..."
"I'm sorry, too," Will said, quietly, shrugging. "Can I come in, Bran?"
Bran huffed. "Yes. Come on. I'd better make us some tea, too, before the water in the kettle goes cold. Come away from him, Bryn, go lie down. Lie down. Good dog. Come into the kitchen, Will. Don't forget to close the door behind you."
Will gave Bryn a last pat and then a little push. "Better do as we're told, mutt," he said, and found himself grinning. It was good to see Bran, despite all this, despite the trouble between them. It was very, very good. He followed him to the kitchen. "You look good."
Bran looked up and snorted. "Fresh air and hard work does that to a man. You don't look so bad, yourself. Considering you're supposed to be dead."
Will nodded. "I'm sorry."
"You've said that already." Bran finished making the tea and pushed a cup into Will's hands. "Come on. Let's be civilised. Come and talk about it in the living room. And if you say 'I'm sorry' one more time, I shall have to hit you."
Will bit back on his first response to that. Bran grinned.
"I don't really know where to start," Will said, as he sat down. He took a sip of the tea and then quickly put his cup down, wincing. "That's hot."
"Strangely enough, it was made with boiling water. Do they not have that in England, Sais-bach?"
"If I could be bothered getting up, I'd hit you for that."
"You could try," Bran said, smirking. He put his own tea down. "Come on, though. Serious now."
Will nodded. "Well... Part of the problem is that this is connected to something that happened when we were children. When I was very young and came to stay in Wales while I recovered, and we met for the first time. I'm sure you remember parts of that, but there are parts of it that you were made to forget. Don't say anything -- I will explain, and I'll try to help you remember. See, I'm... not human, not really. Or only partly."
"Will..."
"Ssh, I swear, I'm getting to it." Will took a deep breath. "I'm, well, you called me a dewin, but really the term is 'Old One'. I'm... an immortal. And -- I swear, this sounds like something out of a fantasy novel, but just listen -- I was born to fight the Dark, everything that's evil in this world. A year after we met, we defeated the Dark for the last time -- "
"We?"
"You and me, and the Drews, and... my masters."
"Will -- "
"No, never mind, let me -- "
Will reached for Bran's hand. The second before they touched, the world seemed to hold its breath. The second they touched, everything seemed to judder to a halt.
He gripped Bran's wrist. "Come on," he said, softly. "Come outside. I've got something to show you."
---
"What are you talking about?" Bran asked. There was something in his tone that suggested he thought Will was a madman. He let the front door close behind them and turned to lock it. Will grabbed his arm, squeezed a little.
"Bran. Look around."
Bran turned, raising an eyebrow, and then caught his breath. All the usual sights were gone -- the hillside he'd known for years, ever since he could remember. It wasn't so different... and yet it was completely different. The scatter of farm buildings was gone, the walls, the familiar shapes of the fields. And when he turned, looking back for the door he'd just been putting a key into, his house was gone.
"This is the time you were born into," Will said, softly, and it shouldn't have been such simple words that unlocked it all for him, but it was. His vision went dark, and then bright, and then he saw. He was aware of Will at his side, holding his arm still, but he saw a spinning kaleidoscope of bright, sharp images -- memories, memories he hadn't been able to touch for years. He lost his breath at the beauty of some of the things he saw, felt it choked out of him at the darkness he confronted.
He blinked away the images, after a time that could have been seconds or a small eternity. Will stood there beside him, still, his expression unreadable, his eyes dark and old and sad. "How did we ever do all that?"
"Youthful energy," Will said, lightly, but then he was kneeling -- actually going down on his knees. "My lord," he said, softly, "my lord Pendragon."
And that was what really took Bran's breath away. For a moment he just stood there, and whether he knew it or not his back was ramrod straight, his eyes were piercing bright, and the look on his face would have reminded anyone of his royal father.
"Will," he said, breathlessly, and he reached out to touch Will's brown hair. "You don't have to kneel for me. My dewin."
Will looked up, his hair falling back from his face, and he smiled a solemn, sad smile. "I want to. My king."
"If this is your way of saying you're sorry for the millionth time, then, for the millionth time, you're forgiven," Bran said, and then, kneeling down to be on Will's level: "Not that I quite approve of this business of taking my memories away."
"It wasn't my choice," Will said, and slowly he raised his hands to Bran's face, cupping it. "I hated it."
"I'm sorry you were alone."
"No more apologies," Will said, and he leaned forward suddenly and kissed him. He should have been surprised, probably: there'd never been this between them, before. Although, maybe -- maybe there had been, in some ways, but there'd always been a dividing line before, one Bran couldn't have put his finger on for the life of him. He moved closer to Will, tangled his fingers in his hair, and kissed him back. He kept it light at first, drawing back with a light nip.
"We'll agree to forgive," he said, and Will gave the tiniest nod. Bran found his eyes drawn to Will's lips -- moist, slightly parted, ready for another kiss -- and couldn't help himself. It was awkward, crouching like that, his hands in Will's hair, but he kissed him again anyway. "Do you suppose we could go back to my house, now?"
"Eager to do something?" Will asked, slyly, teasing.
Honesty seemed important, after the year of untruth. "Yes," Bran said, simply, kissing Will again -- deeper now, his fingers twining in Will's hair, drawing him closer, opening his mouth a little. Will was breathing faster when he pulled back.
"Okay," he said, and around them the world span back -- or forward, Bran supposed -- to how it was supposed to be.
"Get inside already," Bran said, for the second time that day. This time, Will didn't hesitate to follow him.
---
"I didn't know I wanted this," Bran said, quietly, into Will's hair. He held him tightly. Both of them were still breathing a little fast, and their bodies were still hopelessly entwined. Bran didn't mind, in the least, and he supposed Will wouldn't either. "I... never thought about it."
"You weren't supposed to," Will said, burrowing against Bran a little more. "I was supposed to be unremarkable."
"I knew you were my best friend."
"That's different, though. I wasn't supposed... This was unexpected. This wasn't supposed to happen. I was supposed to be entirely anonymous, for the rest of time."
Bran shifted slightly, kissed the top of Will's head. "You've got me, now."
"For a time."
He ran his fingers through Will's hair. "Yeah."
"Don't leave me."
"Says you," Bran said, but his eyes made his promises, silently. "Why did you come back, anyway? Is there something... Do you need me?"
"I need you, but..."
"But?"
"I need Bran Davies. Not the Pendragon." Will sat up a little, looked down at Bran seriously. "I... This was selfish."
"Sometimes, you have to be selfish," Bran said, rolling his eyes. "So you're saying... there's nothing to fight?"
"All's quiet. And I was lonely. I -- "
"Shh," Bran said, and put his finger against Will's lips. "That's all I needed to know. Don't leave me again?"
"Never," Will said, and kissed Bran's finger, closing his eyes. "Never."
Pairing: Will/Bran
Warnings: Angst, sap
Rating: PG13
Summary: It was the one year anniversary of Will Stanton's death.
"Bore da," Bran said, to Rhys, when he reached the main cluster of buildings that made up the heart of the farm. It was a bright morning, everything sharp-edged and crisp, the air cool. Early spring -- late enough that there was a promise of warmth in the air, in the bright sunshine. Early enough that there was still frost most mornings. Bran leaned against the gate, watching Rhys knock mud off his boots. Bryn, his dog, waited patiently for a moment and then wandered off, sticking his nose into a patch of weeds, sniffing at anything that seemed interesting. "Isn't that a bit of a pointless exercise?"
Rhys smiled briefly, warmly. "Bore da, Bran. And it is, but I'm tired of carrying half the farm into the house with me."
"Your mam would have your ears if she caught you wearing your great muddy boots inside at all."
"Ah, but today I'm safe," Rhys said. The smile faltered and he looked back down at his boots. "Mam's not here, anyway. She's gone down to Buckinghamshire to be with Alice Stanton today. And for the rest of this week. It's a year ago today that young Will died."
Bran had to struggle to keep his tone light. "Plenty of time to clear up any mud you track indoors, then."
"I forgot," Rhys said, suddenly. He looked stricken. "I forgot how close you were with him, for all that I remember you being thick as thieves. I'm sorry, Bran. I didn't mean to remind you. I'm sure it's on your mind enough already without me putting my great big muddy feet in it."
"It's alright," Bran said, softly. There was a moment of silence, a few instants where there was nothing -- just an absence, a gulf. Awkwardly, Rhys stood and crossed over to where Bran was leaning against the fence, putting a hand on his shoulder and squeezing firmly.
"If you'd like the day off..."
He shook his head, tried for a smile. It felt sharp, fragile. "That'd probably be the worst thing for me. Thank you, though."
Rhys nodded, understanding. "Well, we don't have much to do, to be truthful, but if you'd like busy-work, speak to John. He knows what needs doing around here, and truth be told, he's not as efficient at all of it as he used to be. Could do with someone young and strong to help him -- but don't tell him I said that. He's a good worker, even if he refuses to admit that he can't do as much work as he did ten years ago."
"You'll never get rid of him," Bran said, with that sharp smile still sticking out of his face like broken and twisted barbed wire. Rhys looked, for a moment, like he wanted to say something more, but then he shrugged.
"That's all, then. There might be some straying sheep to round up, I suppose. I'll be doing a count later and then I'll let you know."
Bran nodded. "You just let me know. Tyrd yma, Bryn."
The dog made some noise of protest and then followed obediently. Bran led the way towards John's house, pausing once he was out of sight of Rhys. He crouched down suddenly and Bryn came towards him, letting Bran wrap his arms around him and pat him a little.
"It isn't fair," Bran said, for all the world as if Bryn could understand him. He bit his lip hard. "It's not fair. He was my best friend. He was only eighteen. I still feel like I'm going to get a letter from any day now -- or like he might just walk out of the Evanses' house one day on an unexpected visit..." Bryn whined, pushing closer to Bran. There was a sniff, and then Bran cuffed at his eyes, standing up, voice gruff. "Come on, Bryn. Let's get to work. Can't stand about all day, can we?"
It was evening by the time Bran got home: twilight just settling in over the world. Bryn trotted at his heels, tired and subdued, letting out a plaintive whine as they got closer to home. Bran looked down at him and snorted.
"I'm not carrying you. You're not a puppy anymore, you know. Da already thinks I spoil you too much. When we get back you can have your dinner, okay?" Bryn woofed and Bran laughed. "Cheeky sod. Come on, let's get home already. I'm hungry, even if you aren't."
Bryn woofed again and took off like he was after something. Bran grinned, but followed more slowly, finding his keys and letting them in. Bryn hared off into the house.
"If you break something again, I'll make you into a fur coat!" Bran called after him, bending down to pick up a letter as he closed the door. There was the sound of a muffled thump, but it didn't sound like anything was broken. This time. "One day, I'll train you out of this enthusiasm," he muttered, going into the kitchen and tossing the letter on the table while he filled a bowl of water and got out the dog food. He resolutely didn't look at the picture of Will on the side -- the awkward school picture that made Will seem so unremarkable, so ordinary. So -- mortal.
It was possible, he thought, if you'd known Will Stanton, known how strange he could be, to pretend that somehow, everything was going to be alright. Even after a year.
He put the two bowls down on the kitchen floor, calling for Bryn again, and then picked up the letter. The address was typed, not handwritten, the postmark somewhere he didn't recognise -- it sounded Scottish. He looked down at Bryn as the dog came flying into the kitchen. "Calm down, boy. Who do you think's writing to me, hm? Reckon it's just junk or something?"
Bryn whined again. For once, he didn't go straight over to his food, but instead moved closer to Bran, practically leaning against his legs. Bran frowned.
"What's wrong with you now?"
The dog just whined again, settling down on Bran's feet and leaning his body against his legs heavily. Bran shook his head and ripped open the letter, pulling out the neatly folded note inside and smoothing it out on the kitchen table. He caught sight of the handwriting and his heart leapt into his mouth, and slowly, slowly, he groped for a chair, lowering himself into it.
"Will?" he said, blankly, looking down at the note without reading a word of it.
Bryn whined again.
When John Rowlands opened the door to Bran at nine PM, he wasn't sure what to expect. He'd half-expected the visit, the swollen, reddened eyes; it wasn't the first time Bran had shown up like that, in the last year especially. But there was something different, too, something wild and hopeful and strangely joyous. Bran thrust a letter toward him. "Look," he said, his voice cracking and almost breaking like it hadn't since he was fourteen. He cleared his throat impatiently. "It's his handwriting."
"Bran -- "
"Just look at it." Bran caught at a breath, straightening up. Bryn, at his feet, seemed strangely calm, staying close to him. "Tell me I'm not going mad, John. Tell me that note says that he's alive."
"Who?" John asked, but there could be no one else. "Will Stanton?"
"Look at it," Bran said, again, his eyes strangely bright. John reached out, catching hold of his elbow and pulling him gently inside.
"Bran, I went to the funeral with you," he said, gently, leading Bran down the hallway. "I don't need to look at the note. Will is dead, has been this past year. I know you miss him, and he was a good lad, but..."
"Closed coffin," Bran said, pulling away impatiently. He ran his fingers through his hair, looking away from John. "I know it sounds mad, but... Iesu mawr, just look at the note for me. If you say that it doesn't say what I think it says, I'll go home right now and check myself into a hospital in the morning."
Owen Davies might have become angry, then, at his son, at what he'd have seen as madness. John Rowlands just stood there, looking quietly at Bran, at the passion on his face and his clenched fists, and the terrible hope in his eyes. "I will, then," he said, quietly. "But first, come inside and have a cup of tea. Has Bryn had his dinner yet?"
Bran took a deep breath. "Alright. Yes. Well, I don't know if he ate anything, actually."
"Then I'll find one of Pen's old dishes. Come on, Bryn. Let's get you fed. Bran, you can put the kettle on and make us some tea, you know where everything is."
The dog woofed, sounding pleased. Both of them followed John into the kitchen, and Bran carefully put the letter down before going to fill the kettle. "I'm sorry I came here like this," he said, belatedly. "I know you prefer to go to bed early."
"It won't do me any harm, this once, and I think you needed me."
"Yes," Bran said, quietly. "I got home and there was that letter, and all day I've been thinking of him -- and it is his handwriting. I don't know what to think. Could he really be alive?"
John didn't answer, at first. He bent down, a little stiff now, stiffer than he'd like, and set the bowl of dog food down. Bran waited, watching.
"John?"
"I don't know," he said, standing up again, slowly. He met Bran's eyes. "I just don't know. He was... strange. I don't want to give you too much hope, but -- "
"The letter already took care of that," Bran said, impatiently. He closed his eyes for a minute, obviously trying to be calm. "Please. Look at it now?"
John nodded and reached for it, glancing briefly at the envelope. "Scotland?"
"I don't know." A shrug. "That's not important, really."
"No, I suppose not." John pulled the letter out, carefully, smoothing it out, noting that already the paper was rather worn from reading. There wasn't much, really -- I'm sorry, it said, first, without a greeting. John's lips moved silently as he read the letter to himself. 'I'm sorry,' it said. 'I know you think that I'm dead, but I had to do it. I know you'll have questions, and trust me, if you see me, I'll answer them. All of them. I wish I could explain why I'm coming back into your life like this, but I can't, not now. I know you used to trust me. Trust me now, okay? In a week, I'll be in Tywyn, and I'll come up to see you then.'
And that was all. It wasn't even signed.
"It is his handwriting," Bran said again, quietly. John looked up at him, troubled.
"I don't think you need to go and check yourself into a hospital in the morning, but I can't say I know what you should do."
"I'll see him," Bran said, with a shrug. There was a light in his eyes again. "I'll see him -- and probably punch him for doing this."
"There's no reason why it wouldn't be him."
"No," Bran said, the excitement showing in the tense line of his shoulders, the bright colour in his face. "It's real, isn't it? It's him. It's really him."
Foreboding made John's stomach twist. "Yes, I think so," he said, quietly. Bran hardly seemed to hear.
Will was careful not to really let anyone see him as he walked up towards Bran's house. That wasn't a problem for him, of course: he'd been made, it seemed, to be unremarkable, but for his eyes, and people tended to believe what he wanted them to believe. Anyone who watched him without particularly careful attention might not even remember he'd been there. Bran would see him, he knew, if he looked out of the window.
There was a flutter in his stomach at the thought of seeing Bran. He squashed it firmly: he'd been selfish enough without even thinking of -- well, he couldn't ask the question he'd been thinking of, and that was all. He hesitated, when he got to the path that led off to the front door of Bran's house. It was a little house, but a nice one, Bran's first home of his own. He remembered how proud Bran had been of it, how he'd helped Bran clean it up, mending a door frame and hanging curtains, opening all the windows wide to let in the fresh air.
He had no right to even think of asking Bran to come away with him.
And he knew, he knew, he wouldn't be able to help it, if he went up and knocked on that door. It might even be the first words out of his mouth. So he hesitated.
The door opened. Bran looked out of the house, leaning against the wall just inside, a dog -- Bryn, surely, still -- at his feet. "You didn't give me a time," he said, calmly. "Luckily, I have an instinct for these things, when it comes to you. The kettle just boiled."
"Bran," Will said, dumbly.
"Yes, that's still my name. I suppose that is a question with you. Do you still call yourself Will?"
"When I'm with you, I do," Will said, taking a deep breath. "Bran -- "
"Get inside already," Bran said, rolling his eyes, and he straightened up. "Unless you want to be shut out."
He was never really aware of how he got there, how he closed the gap of six meters or so, but all of a sudden he had his arms tight around Bran and his face buried in his friend's shoulder. "Bran."
"Will," Bran said, and his arms came around him, tightly, so tightly, so he almost couldn't breathe, and it didn't matter. After a moment, Bran pushed him away a little, hands gripping his shoulders, and he gave him a shake. "Do you have any idea what this year has been like for me? Why did you do something so stupid as fake your own death?"
"I'm sorry," Will said. "Do you trust me?"
"Don't be an idiot! Of course I trust you. You were my best friend."
"Were?" Will said, and he couldn't help a sad smile. "Did you find someone better?"
"Don't be an idiot," Bran said, jaw tightening. "Excuse me for labouring under the impression that my best friend was dead, for a whole year."
"Bran -- "
"Couldn't you have told me you were going to pull a stunt like that? You're a fine one to talk about trust!"
"I'm sorry," Will said, a trace of desperation in his voice. He jerked away from Bran's hard grip on his shoulders. "Aren't you going to even give me a chance to explain myself?"
The dog chose that moment to move between them, barking excitedly as if he'd only just realised an old friend was there. He jumped up at Will, paws scrabbling at his legs, and Will laughed and reached down to fondle his ears.
"Hey, Bryn," he said, quietly. "I guess you want me to come in, even if your master doesn't."
"Will... I'm sorry. You just don't know how hard..."
"I'm sorry, too," Will said, quietly, shrugging. "Can I come in, Bran?"
Bran huffed. "Yes. Come on. I'd better make us some tea, too, before the water in the kettle goes cold. Come away from him, Bryn, go lie down. Lie down. Good dog. Come into the kitchen, Will. Don't forget to close the door behind you."
Will gave Bryn a last pat and then a little push. "Better do as we're told, mutt," he said, and found himself grinning. It was good to see Bran, despite all this, despite the trouble between them. It was very, very good. He followed him to the kitchen. "You look good."
Bran looked up and snorted. "Fresh air and hard work does that to a man. You don't look so bad, yourself. Considering you're supposed to be dead."
Will nodded. "I'm sorry."
"You've said that already." Bran finished making the tea and pushed a cup into Will's hands. "Come on. Let's be civilised. Come and talk about it in the living room. And if you say 'I'm sorry' one more time, I shall have to hit you."
Will bit back on his first response to that. Bran grinned.
"I don't really know where to start," Will said, as he sat down. He took a sip of the tea and then quickly put his cup down, wincing. "That's hot."
"Strangely enough, it was made with boiling water. Do they not have that in England, Sais-bach?"
"If I could be bothered getting up, I'd hit you for that."
"You could try," Bran said, smirking. He put his own tea down. "Come on, though. Serious now."
Will nodded. "Well... Part of the problem is that this is connected to something that happened when we were children. When I was very young and came to stay in Wales while I recovered, and we met for the first time. I'm sure you remember parts of that, but there are parts of it that you were made to forget. Don't say anything -- I will explain, and I'll try to help you remember. See, I'm... not human, not really. Or only partly."
"Will..."
"Ssh, I swear, I'm getting to it." Will took a deep breath. "I'm, well, you called me a dewin, but really the term is 'Old One'. I'm... an immortal. And -- I swear, this sounds like something out of a fantasy novel, but just listen -- I was born to fight the Dark, everything that's evil in this world. A year after we met, we defeated the Dark for the last time -- "
"We?"
"You and me, and the Drews, and... my masters."
"Will -- "
"No, never mind, let me -- "
Will reached for Bran's hand. The second before they touched, the world seemed to hold its breath. The second they touched, everything seemed to judder to a halt.
He gripped Bran's wrist. "Come on," he said, softly. "Come outside. I've got something to show you."
"What are you talking about?" Bran asked. There was something in his tone that suggested he thought Will was a madman. He let the front door close behind them and turned to lock it. Will grabbed his arm, squeezed a little.
"Bran. Look around."
Bran turned, raising an eyebrow, and then caught his breath. All the usual sights were gone -- the hillside he'd known for years, ever since he could remember. It wasn't so different... and yet it was completely different. The scatter of farm buildings was gone, the walls, the familiar shapes of the fields. And when he turned, looking back for the door he'd just been putting a key into, his house was gone.
"This is the time you were born into," Will said, softly, and it shouldn't have been such simple words that unlocked it all for him, but it was. His vision went dark, and then bright, and then he saw. He was aware of Will at his side, holding his arm still, but he saw a spinning kaleidoscope of bright, sharp images -- memories, memories he hadn't been able to touch for years. He lost his breath at the beauty of some of the things he saw, felt it choked out of him at the darkness he confronted.
He blinked away the images, after a time that could have been seconds or a small eternity. Will stood there beside him, still, his expression unreadable, his eyes dark and old and sad. "How did we ever do all that?"
"Youthful energy," Will said, lightly, but then he was kneeling -- actually going down on his knees. "My lord," he said, softly, "my lord Pendragon."
And that was what really took Bran's breath away. For a moment he just stood there, and whether he knew it or not his back was ramrod straight, his eyes were piercing bright, and the look on his face would have reminded anyone of his royal father.
"Will," he said, breathlessly, and he reached out to touch Will's brown hair. "You don't have to kneel for me. My dewin."
Will looked up, his hair falling back from his face, and he smiled a solemn, sad smile. "I want to. My king."
"If this is your way of saying you're sorry for the millionth time, then, for the millionth time, you're forgiven," Bran said, and then, kneeling down to be on Will's level: "Not that I quite approve of this business of taking my memories away."
"It wasn't my choice," Will said, and slowly he raised his hands to Bran's face, cupping it. "I hated it."
"I'm sorry you were alone."
"No more apologies," Will said, and he leaned forward suddenly and kissed him. He should have been surprised, probably: there'd never been this between them, before. Although, maybe -- maybe there had been, in some ways, but there'd always been a dividing line before, one Bran couldn't have put his finger on for the life of him. He moved closer to Will, tangled his fingers in his hair, and kissed him back. He kept it light at first, drawing back with a light nip.
"We'll agree to forgive," he said, and Will gave the tiniest nod. Bran found his eyes drawn to Will's lips -- moist, slightly parted, ready for another kiss -- and couldn't help himself. It was awkward, crouching like that, his hands in Will's hair, but he kissed him again anyway. "Do you suppose we could go back to my house, now?"
"Eager to do something?" Will asked, slyly, teasing.
Honesty seemed important, after the year of untruth. "Yes," Bran said, simply, kissing Will again -- deeper now, his fingers twining in Will's hair, drawing him closer, opening his mouth a little. Will was breathing faster when he pulled back.
"Okay," he said, and around them the world span back -- or forward, Bran supposed -- to how it was supposed to be.
"Get inside already," Bran said, for the second time that day. This time, Will didn't hesitate to follow him.
"I didn't know I wanted this," Bran said, quietly, into Will's hair. He held him tightly. Both of them were still breathing a little fast, and their bodies were still hopelessly entwined. Bran didn't mind, in the least, and he supposed Will wouldn't either. "I... never thought about it."
"You weren't supposed to," Will said, burrowing against Bran a little more. "I was supposed to be unremarkable."
"I knew you were my best friend."
"That's different, though. I wasn't supposed... This was unexpected. This wasn't supposed to happen. I was supposed to be entirely anonymous, for the rest of time."
Bran shifted slightly, kissed the top of Will's head. "You've got me, now."
"For a time."
He ran his fingers through Will's hair. "Yeah."
"Don't leave me."
"Says you," Bran said, but his eyes made his promises, silently. "Why did you come back, anyway? Is there something... Do you need me?"
"I need you, but..."
"But?"
"I need Bran Davies. Not the Pendragon." Will sat up a little, looked down at Bran seriously. "I... This was selfish."
"Sometimes, you have to be selfish," Bran said, rolling his eyes. "So you're saying... there's nothing to fight?"
"All's quiet. And I was lonely. I -- "
"Shh," Bran said, and put his finger against Will's lips. "That's all I needed to know. Don't leave me again?"
"Never," Will said, and kissed Bran's finger, closing his eyes. "Never."
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*Hugs both of them