The Gift
A fanfic of The Dark is Rising Sequence by Rabid Lola
A/N: I just finished re-reading The Dark is Rising Sequence, and I swear, I fell in love with it all over again. Now more than ever I know the reason I love this series. :D
Inspired because-well, I'd love to see the painting. And I'd love to see this happen. And that is all. :)
Barney shifted nervously from one foot to the other. He settled, and then in a few seconds one foot began tapping the ground again, restlessly. One hand fidgeted with the still-wet paintbrush it held. His eyes were focused on the young man beside him, trying to read the lines of his suddenly stiff shoulders, the expression in the eyes that were fixed on the large canvas before them. He never could tell what this friend of his was thinking, not since he'd met him nearly a decade ago.
Finally, in a burst of impatience, he said, "Well, Will?"
Will Stanton looked up, an expression that was almost dazed on his normally amiable face. Then he shook his head like a sleeper new-awakened. Astonishment was clear in his pleasant brown voice as he said, "It's…a wonder. Marvelous. You really outdid yourself this time, Barney."
"I'm surprised, frankly, since I usually don't do faces very well." The twenty-year old gave him a quick smile. "I suppose I was inspired by the occasion. But…" His face turned pensive and he stared at the painting, at once critical artist and anxious brother, and brother-in-law-to-be. "Will it fit? That's what I called you down here for, you know. I mean, I know they'll like it, and honestly I think it's the best wedding gift they'll receive"—he grinned as Will laughed, then went on, almost haltingly. "But…Is it right to give it?" He made a frustrated noise and pushed a hand through the tousled, white-blond hair slipping over his forehead. "Ah, I don't even know what I'm trying to say!"
Will gazed at him, one arm folded across his chest, the other hand cradling his chin in a thoughtful gesture. He turned his eyes back to the painting before asking, "Whatever gave you the idea? The scene's fantastic, even for you."
Barney was silent for a long while, and when he spoke it was soft, hesitant. "I don't know. You may find it strange—but no, this is you I'm talking to. One reason I called you and not Simon." He shifted slightly, and said in a clearer voice, "I've just been seeing things, bits and pieces of this picture in my dreams for months now. Around the time they announced their plans. Very sharp and very detailed pictures. To tell you the truth, though, it's this face that wouldn't go away." He pointed with the end of his paintbrush, and Will's eyes followed the motion to rest on the figure he was talking about.
"He was the one whose face I first saw," Barney continued. "And he just kept appearing and appearing. Like he wanted to be painted. He had to be an important person in the picture, somehow I knew that." Barney drew his hand away a little, and then moved it to point again. "It's this one that intrigued me like anything though. Even if you can't see anything of his face, I feel like whoever he is, he's important, and familiar in a strange way." Barney let his hand fall with a self-conscious laugh. "I feel so stupid. Like Pygmalion, thinking my art is alive."
Will said nothing. He gazed long at the painting again, taking in every detail. The sky was the bright, glowing blue of high summer. A silvery castle rose in the distance, set in a thick grove of apple trees. A laughing, festive crowd was emerging from among the trees, gaily-dressed and carrying garlands, banner, flags, pipes, lutes, drums. They were gathering on the grassy green banks of a river, gathering in welcome of a graceful, high-prowed ship that was just touching the riverbank.
Clear in the foreground, decked in finery from another time, were two people both knew well. There was Will's best friend, white-haired, tawny-eyed Bran Davies and his soon-to-be-wife, Jane. The former was on shore and holding his hand out to his lady to assist her off the boat, his face alight with an expression Will marveled Barney could capture so well. The latter, Barney's own sister, looked amazingly beautiful, transformed by the joy that bound her to her lord. His eyes traveled over the crowd, and he felt his heart ache with a feeling both happy and sad. He wondered if Barney knew just how detailed he had been: here were faces he'd seen before, in a time long past that none seemed to remember.
Then his eyes went once again to the first figure Barney had pointed out: a man with kind, keen eyes that were a sea-colored blue in a weathered face; an ageless-looking man with the air of a king, whose arms were held open to the happy couple in welcoming.
And then he looked at the second figure, startling in its anonymity. It leaned against one of the trees at the other end of the canvas, half-hidden in the shadows. It was hooded, tall, and cloaked, its face shrouded by darkness.
A father's gift, is it? was the silent question he asked, and for a flash of magical unreality, it was like dark, deep-set eyes glittered from under the hood with an expression that was both amused acquiescence and fond greeting.
"You even got a name for the ship." Will's fingers hovered a breath away from the proud letters on the side of the boat.
"Yeah. Pridwen. Sounded Welsh. My tribute to Bran. Well?"
The Old One looked up with an inexplicable feeling singing through him, and he settled for giving the artist a quick, reassuring grin.
"It's perfect, Barney. They'll love it, I'm sure of it."
-EnD-