Will knew that it would never get better, that there was a part of him that would always miss his lord--not Merriman, (although he missed the others of his kind with an ache that would never quite go away,) but his other master, the true one he was bound to since long before either of them were born.
It was written, maybe decided by the High Magic, maybe folded into the Book of Gramarye if only Will had remembered it-- just as Merriman was destined to serve Arthur in all his lifetimes, so was Will Stanton bound up with another Pendragon--their fates interwoven so closely that Will knew the pain of keeping his distance would never fade.
He expected the hurt, that sharp deep stab whenever some not merely chance would bring the memory of tawny eyes and white skin to him. The Old One, still somewhat separate from the twelve year old boy, woud console him even in the midst of his own pain--it is only to be expected, he would sigh.
Ties made of the High Magic are hard to break.
He was able to reassure himself with the knowledge of that inevitability until he was fourteen and he saw him again.
When his cousin Rhys came to stay for a few weeks in December to look at universities in England, he brought the Raven boy with him. His father had just died, they explained, the poor child. A change of scene would probably do him good--and he had seemed so fond of young Will all those years ago.
Will was expecting the pain he felt when golden swirled eyes looked at him without a trace of recognition, when that softly accented voice had no slant of secret knowledge behind it that had always given him that edge over even Will, when the bitter twist of his mouth was just the same except for the lack of smugness in it, a daily reminder that they were equals no longer.
What he didnt expect was how a hand clenched itself tightly about his heart when Bran smiled crookedly at Mary, when he woke in the middle of the night to see a too-white frame shuddering on the pallet in his room, the way he found himself hanging on every word that passed from those lips no matter the lack of knowledge behind them.
He had missed the boy, he realized, not just his companion to the Lost Lands or the wielder of Eirias or even his Lord--he had missed the crinkles at the corner of those eyes, the way just the tip of his tongue flicked out to catch the last drops of his morning porridge from his lips, how his hair seemed to collect light, not just reflect it.
Will had not expected his heart to tear itself into a million pieces when Bran stepped into his father's station wagon and turned around to wave goodbye to Mrs. Stanton, a grin on his face for Mary and Paul, his eyes meeting Will's for an instant that lasted forever as the car pulled away.
Later, as Will stood in the darkened attic where no blackbirds ever roosted anymore, he pressed a hand softly to his chest and reflected on the unforseen.