Edited December 2007

CHAPTER SIX: Better Luck Next Time

To his credit, Stephen didn't faint, or scream, or even cry out as the giant carnival head he'd sent to his brother so long ago came to life and began talking to him.

Stephen didn't make any sound at all, in fact, though perhaps this was simply because shock had paralyzed his tongue. Even in his wildest dreams and in his worst nightmares, Stephen Stanton could never have anticipated something like this happening to him, and he didn't quite know how to react. Should he be awed, terrified? He was both, of course, because after all the bloody carnival head was talking to him, but at the same time he wasn't as surprised as he probably should have been. Though he could not have known it, the part of himself that had once been given the truth about his youngest brother, the part that should have been lost but still teased the edges of his consciousness, had seen enough changes in Will's behavior to sense that something was wrong.

And even the part of Stephen that hadn't retained any knowledge or extra awareness of his brother had realized that something inside Will himself had changed. Will had always been an odd young man, strangely silent and enigmatic for one who should have been a simple English farm boy. There was an inexplicable air of mystery about him, or at least of elusiveness, but Will had become even odder these past few days, and neither the sleeping part of Stephen nor the rest of him could have failed to notice that. The boy had become far too tense, his behavior erratic and reasonless.

Stephen had also, in moments when Will hadn't thought anyone was looking his way, seen how Will's eyes sometimes became haunted with what Stephen thought was naked loneliness, and dread, and possibly resignation. Will was behaving as though his world was falling apart and he could do nothing to stop it. What, though, could a not-quite eighteen-year-old boy be so worried about?

Whatever Will was afraid might happen, Stephen knew the carnival head was involved. This inanimate object had somehow been given life and voice, was looking at Stephen and speaking to him, and of course that alone would have been all the proof Stephen needed. Stephen just couldn't decide how the carnival head might be involved, or what it meant for Will. Did his little brother even know this thing could come alive? Stephen didn't think so, because Will was too smart to get involved with something like that, and he wouldn't have kept it if he knew what it could do.

Then again, Will certainly viewed this thing with an emotion awfully close to reverence, and that could only be explained if Will thought there was something…special about this old gift of Stephen's. So perhaps he didknow that it lived, but didn't realize how evil this thing really was. Maybe he thought the head was innocent, and magical, and so didn't suspect that he might be in danger from it.

Stephen wasn't about to let anything happen to Will. He had always felt a compulsion to protect his youngest brother, and maybe that was why he found himself moving slowly, steadily forward. He didn't stop until he was only a few inches away from the carnival head, and he bent his knees, kneeling in front of it so he could stare directly into those creepy and strangely familiar owl's eyes. His voice, when he finally forced himself to speak, was quiet and a trifle breathless. "What do you want?" he asked it, trying to sound stern and unafraid but knowing he wasn't even remotely succeeding.

The head blinked slowly at him, and Stephen, as he gazed back, suddenly found himself wondering how he could have thought this thing was completely evil. There was a certain cruelty in the face, still, but there was also a trace of genuine humor in the yellow depths of the eyes, and faint laugh lines around the firm mouth. Could a being devoid of goodness be capable of humor? Maybe, maybe not, but Stephen could no longer say with a certainty that this head meant ill for his brother.

He also couldn't say that it didn't.

"Watcher…" the head repeated in its gravelly voice, and Stephen sighed, thinking that was all he would ever get out of it. He opened his mouth to repeat the question he already believed was useless, but was not allowed to go on. The head's mouth was moving again, now in harsher, more urgent tones.

"Watcher,"it said again, but this time it didn't stop. "I seek the Watchman of the Light." The words were surprisingly formal and even, and uncomfortably coherent. "Where is Will Stanton, the Sign-Seeker?"

Stephen gaped at the head, almost completely forgetting his earlier fear but still shocked by the mention of his little brother's name. "Will? What does he have to do with this?" He paused, then added, "And what are you, anyway?"

The head didn't bother to answer his questions. Perhaps it had realized that Will was not there and wouldn't be making an appearance any time soon, because it only looked back at Stephen with its inhuman eyes. "Tell the Watcher," it said suddenly, "that the Huntsman would speak with him. Tell Will Stanton that the Dark is Rising, and he is out of time."

Will hadn't been completely human in a very long time. He wondered, sometimes, if he had ever been, but that issue aside, being an Old One meant that he was also no longer capable of experiencing purely human emotions. Though he had never quite acknowledged it, Will couldn't, for instance, love as only a human can love, with all his heart and no thought to the consequences. Love meant sacrificing everything just to keep one person safe, meant giving all of himself and holding nothing back, and Will couldn't do that anymore. He had too many people depending on him, had too many secrets too dangerous to share. He couldn't trust anyone else with the knowledge of what he was or what he could do, and since love can't exist without trust, Will Stanton wasn't capable of real love, of human love.

He also wasn't capable of being afraid the way humans are afraid. Human fear often meant needing to protect oneself, meant doing whatever was necessary to stay safe from pain and loss and death. Will understood all that, might even share a little of it, but it wasn't the same with him. For Will, there was no sense of self. There was only the quest, the knowledge that nothing he endured, that nothing he was or had been or wanted to be would matter if he could not keep the Dark from Rising again. He wasn't afraid of getting hurt, as most humans would be. He wasn't afraid of losing everything, of dying and worse than dying. He was only afraid of losing to the Darkness, of not preventing the end of the world, and that wasn't generally a concern most humans have.

Still, perhaps his lack of human fear was the reason why Will could stare up into what should have been a bright sky over an empty field, see instead that dark cloud of evil, and not feel any desire to run. Anyone else would have bolted by now, or at least would have wished to, but the idea never even occurred to Will. As the Dark bore down on him, he only gazed back with clear grey eyes, his handsome features set in a rugged mask of stone that revealed nothing of the uneasiness he was really feeling. "The Grey King," he whispered, his voice soft and calm even though his mind was whirling with the impossibility of it. "I never would have guessed."

That was true enough, though he knew he should have. The Brenin Llwyld had always been the greatest of the Dark Lords, more powerful and more mysterious than any other, or even all others. If anyone could escape the prison of the Light, it was he. And yet, Will was having a difficult time accepting the situation. Even the Grey King, powerful and ancient as he was, should not have been capable of such an escape. The power of the High Magic was absolute, and not even the Grey King's strength should have been enough to defy it. How, then, had he done this?

Will continued gazing at the sky, watching as what was supposedly his enemy roiled in a dark mass overhead, invisible to the human eye but never to his. "How did you do it?" he asked bluntly. "How did you escape?"

He thought he could hear what might have been laughter, though it was so dark and so deep within his mind that it might have been something else entirely. I didn't have to, the voice whispered in instant reply, and though the Old One didn't even remotely trust this creature, the words were forthright enough that Will thought he might be telling the truth. Perhaps the Grey King simply didn't have any reason to lie. I knew what the fate of my kind would be, long before the final battle started. How could I not? The High Magic claims not to take sides, but the Light was clearly favored. The High Lords didn't wish this world to end, or to be under the control of the Dark, and even the Wild Things of the earth and sea were caught in your spell. I saw that as clearly as I see you now, and so I did not pit all of myself against you, that final day. I retained the bulk of my power, and thus was not cast out by the High Magic at the last.

Will nodded. In an odd sort of way, the explanation made sense. He'd had only a very limited experience with this being, but even Will had known that the Grey King never involved himself very deeply in confrontations between the Light and the Dark, not even when he believed he could win. He'd always been content to hide away on his mountaintop, standing guard over the hidden treasures and sleeping warriors of the Light, preying on the occasional wanderer into his territory. Even during their first confrontation, the Grey King had attacked Will only through others, through his foxes and his deceptions and once through the mind of a pathetic but still very dangerous man. Not even Merriman had ever faced the Brenin Llwyld directly, and it didn't surprise Will to learn that this Lord of the Dark had withheld his power during that final battle. It only surprised him that he was being told this at all, and that it had taken the King so long to resurface. What did he plan, now that he was free?

Will peered up at his enemy, grey eyes narrowing, forehead wrinkling with a frown. "Why are you telling me this?" he asked, genuinely puzzled, his curiosity great enough to keep his voice free of any true animosity even though he hated this being nearly as much as he could hate anyone.

The dark cloud was solidifying again in answer, once more becoming something a little more tangible than it had been. It swirled around Will, close enough that he could feel the biting cold of it against his skin. He shivered, but didn't look away and didn't back down. He simply waited for an answer, knowing the Dark would respond in one way or another. He was not disappointed.

You and I are the only ones of our kind left, the Grey King's inhuman voice murmured into Will's mind. The last of the Light, and the last of the Dark, and the greatest both had to offer.

Nothing else was said, but Will understood well enough, now. He laughed, though the sound was harsh and disbelieving and more than a little disdainful. "An alliance?" he snapped. "Is that what all this was about?"

We could be strong together, you and I.

Will snorted, for a moment sounding almost completely human. "Yes," he agreed easily, shaking his head and sending wisps of brown hair into his eyes. "Except for the fact that we were very literally made to fight each other. Even if I was willing to be your ally, even if I really believed youwere willing, it wouldn't work. We would always be seeking dominance over each other, contending in a lesser version of what came before. What strength can there be, in that?"

This world is big enough for both of us. We needn't fight.

Will shook his head again, the disdain gone from his features and, oddly enough, replaced by resignation. "It is the way of things," he replied softly. "We create balance in our very opposition. Were we to join together, that balance would be destroyed, and perhaps we would be, as well. I don't think even you would want that."

Will's words were met with only silence, a silence that, for a moment at least, was curiously free of animosity. Then…

You were wasted on the Light, Watchman. You could have been great, had you chosen the Dark instead. I might almost regret destroying you.

The words had barely registered in Will's brain, before the much-anticipated attack came. The full force of the Grey King suddenly came bearing down upon him, the powers of this King of the Dark wrapping around him, stifling him, choking him. A chill had seeped into his very bones, into his blood and his heart and his soul. It drained his strength and his gifts, brought him to his knees with the sheer force of the Dark-wrought despair.

And, oh gods, the visions…

Will had thought that which he'd glimpsed in the warestone had been terrible enough. He would always be haunted by the possibilities he'd seen, by the losses he was already beginning to mourn though they hadn't even happened yet and might never happen at all. And yet, as awful as those first visions had been, as real as they'd seemed, they were nothing in comparison to that which was now flashing through his mind.

Somehow, the Dark Lord was dredging up every memory Will had ever had, every moment of joy and contentment and loss and despair and fear. He was reliving everything he had ever done, every emotion he'd ever felt and every thought he'd ever had, and it was not even remotely bearable because it was happening all at once. His mind was being stretched into a thousand big moments and a million small moments that he'd all but forgotten and gods did it hurt because no mind was meant to bend this way and was it never going to end?

Will cried out, all but breaking under the weight of memories piled upon memories, under the weight of so many emotions he'd struggled enough with the first time around. The boy that was Will was slowly being driven insane by this burden, and even the Old One that was also Will was fighting not to break under the pressure. And somewhere, deep inside and under everything else, Will was wondering how in the world one of the Dark could do this to him. He should have been able to protect himself more than he was, but now it was all he could do to keep his mind intact. Where were his gifts, his strengths as an Old One? It wasn't supposed to be like this…

And then, suddenly, it wasn'tlike that. In that moment when Will thought he simply couldn't take anymore, in that moment when he was finally almost willing to give up and just let go of himself, to let the darkness take him, he found that he simply didn't have to. Images were still flashing through his mind, still piling on top of each other, but…but it was suddenly different, because the part of Will's mind that was as old as the earth itself was taking control again, almost in spite of Will and almost in spite of that older self. That part of himself was starting to separate faces from the blur of everything else, was starting to focus on one moment rather than all of them, and he found that this was all he'd needed to save himself. Concentrating on one moment, on one person and what that meant to him, remembering the bad and remembering the good but not having to remember them together…it was enough to force the darkness back.

Will's eyes had slammed shut when the Dark had attacked, his knees and the palms of his hands pressing hard into the wet earth and wetter, mostly winter-dead grasses of the field. Now, though, as his strength returned and he was finally able to throw off the terrible pressures of the Dark, his eyes slowly opened again, and he pushed himself away from the ground. He couldn't quite force himself to his feet, yet, and succeeded only in leaning back on his heels, but it was better than nothing. He could feel the dew from the grass sinking into his knees, could feel the bits of earth clinging to his hands, and somehow this was enough to stop the shaking of his body. He gazed up into the sky, still breathing hard, eyes narrowed with anger. "Better luck next time, Your Majesty," he muttered, his voice very sarcastic and thus very human.

The Brenin Llwyld didn't give an answer, but Will hardly felt the need to wait for one. The young man simply stood, looked up at a sky suddenly much lighter than it had been. He could still sense the Grey's King's evil, could still sense the heaviness that always came with the presence of the Dark, but he knew his enemy was no longer quite with him. The Lord of the Dark was retreating from this conflict, probably only leaving to plan his next attack yet still going. Will shook his head, knowing he needed time to recover himself, and, without a backwards glance, turned and walked away.