Master and Mage
By Sam Davidson
Disclaimer: Susan Cooper graced the world with these characters, and we mortals may only pick them up and play with them, putting them back gratefully when we are done.
A/N: This story is slash. If you have a problem with that, then do not read it. Or do, but don't get mad at me if it offends your homophobic sensibilities. For the rest of you: enjoy!
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Chapter Four: Down from the hills
England is an awfully flat place, thought Bran, as his train chugged steadily east, away from the mountains, and away from home. Parts of England had hills aplenty, he knew, having seen them himself, and yet whenever he made the journey from the Welsh border eastward through Herefordshire, it always seemed to him as if some giant had taken the land and stretched it out flat. All that horizon made him nervous. Well, to be honest, there were other things making him nervous at the moment as well. He shifted in his seat, unconsciously reaching out to place a hand on his harp case, which was sitting on the floor in front of his seat. He had told himself it was just his imagination, but it felt like he had got more odd looks than usual since setting out from home. He felt extremely self-conscious, and had to fight the urge to glance around the train car to see if someone was looking at him.
He pulled out a book and tried to read, but he couldn't keep his attention on the page. His mind would wander, and he would realise he didn't know how long he'd been staring at the same sentence. Somewhere in Gloucestershire it began to rain.
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Will didn't know how long he'd been staring out the widow. The steady rocking of the train car had had the effect of putting him in a sort of trance, almost like the sensation of being outside of Time. Well, not quite. There was nothing like being outside of time—nothing.
It had been raining steadily since he had got on the train in Buckinghamshire, and while the scenery had changed around him, the hills levelling out as the train headed south and west, the sky had remained a solid, empty grey. There were no discernable clouds, no threatening dark bulks, just a colourless, concrete opaqueness. It looked, Will thought, as if the painter in charge of depicting the day had simply left that portion of the canvas blank. The sun was nowhere to be seen, trees and telephone poles along the track cast no shadows, and the streams looked steely and hard. The world looked dead, and Will found it hard to keep his spirits from sinking in accordance with the view through the glass.
With a conscious effort, he pulled his gaze away from the window and back into the compartment in which he was sitting. He had the train car almost to himself, a fact he attributed only half-jokingly to the fact that no one would really want to be going anywhere on that sort of day. The few other passengers also sat silently huddled in their seats, many staring out their respective windows as Will had been doing. One man caught Will looking in his direction, frowned, and hid behind his copy of the Times. The car was a modern one, in which smooth plastic curves had replaced the wood panelling of the classically romanticised cars of the heyday of British rail. The predominant colour was a shade of tan Will had once heard referred to as "industrial blah", and was contrasted starkly by the patriotically blue seat cushions. This décor did little to raise Will's mood. Reaching into his rucksack, which was occupying the seat next to him, he pulled out the waxed-paper packet of shortbread his mother had given him for the trip. Alice Stanton was famous for her shortbread. He unwrapped the packet gingerly so as not to get crumbs everywhere, broke off a piece, and placed it in his mouth. Maybe, he thought, the day isn't really all that bad.
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It hadn't taken Bran long to unpack his things, as he didn't have much to unpack. The room had come with a bed, desk, chair, wardrobe, and bookshelf, and the only major addition to these basic furnishings that the room now contained was Bran's harp, which had taken up a place of honour in one corner. His clothes were stored in the wardrobe, and his electric typewriter—a going away present from his father—sat on the desk, along with a few pens. Looking around the room, he made a mental note to buy a desk lamp when the opportunity presented itself.
Sensing that there was little more to be done at that juncture, he decided to investigate the rest of the hall. As soon as he stepped out the door, however, he was promptly run into by a large cardboard box.
"Oi, watch where you're going!" he snapped, still somewhat irritated from the long train ride.
The box froze.
Realising that snapping like that at someone he didn't know and who he might very well be living with for the next year probably wasn't a great idea, Bran quickly apologized. "Sorry, I didn't mean that. It's been a long day."
The box stayed frozen.
"Uh," Bran tried, "do you want a hand with that? If you want, I could—"
"Bran?"