A/N: A longer chapter this time - getting into my stride! I've often wondered exactly how others saw Will and thought I'd explore that a little here. Nobody else at this point have their memories of Will as an Old One to draw on, but there must be memories of some sort taking their place. What exactly would those memories be? And I truly think that Will would be perceived as 'odd' by any standards. He's an Old One and he demonstrates again and again his maturity, but Cooper also makes it clear that that part of him is quiescent until it's needed. If he's to be a 'Watchman', he must surely be aware of it all the time now and he's also yet to discover exactly what it all entails. The poor boy is only 12 years old for pity's sake! Pressure, much?

Thanks to Thyme and Ananda for the reviews. Keep on reading!

CHAPTER THREE

Taking the news

Five figures, spread out in a straggling line tramped the last few hundred yards towards Tywyn. Tired and hungry, their pace was measured, but Will Stanton had never felt so out of step in his life. Out of step with his friends, with his thoughts, with himself. And what was worse, he couldn't understand why.

From elation to depression so fast his head had spun.

I'm an Old One. He repeated it in his head, a kind of mantra, attempting to regain that sense of surety and confidence he had felt at the falling of the Dark. That confidence had faltered badly, and he knew it. Where had his bland mask gone when he needed it? His stupid, erratic behaviour had alerted Bran to something off-key and he could not even be certain that his attempt to encourage them to forget had been entirely successful. It was hardly something that could be tested…

…Excuse me, Simon, but was I behaving strangely a few minutes ago…?

Not that he would have asked Simon anyway. Not with those dark, suspicious looks that came his way every so often. He couldn't tell if it was caused by present or past dislike, or even a mixture of both and to Simon they were all one in any case. That churlish cold-shoulder that had been shown to a strange interfering English boy in Cornwall was back in full force.

As for Bran, Will was simply avoiding him altogether.

He tramped on, and caught himself back from wishing for Merriman's presence for the umpteenth time. Even off-balance, as he was, the Old One in him knew that contacting that enigmatic figure at such a distance was not something to be undertaken lightly. That would be for another time and place. He only wished that he had been given more detailed instructions.

What am I supposed to be watching for?

The answer would come. These things had a way of making themselves known to him at the right time, but he couldn't prevent himself feeling helpless and vulnerable as though he was standing at a precipice.

Or holding back a flood

The thought came fast and unexpected and with it, a surge of something he would later identify as resentment.

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Later, he would also have cause to kick himself for his uncharacteristic self-obsession. So distracted had he been by his turbulent emotions on the walk back to Bryn-Crug that he had forgotten a detail he surely should have prepared himself for.

Blodwen Rowlands was dead.

A car crash, probably. An accident at any rate. An event that he knew more about than anyone living, and he had forgotten in the midst of his self-pity. Forgotten so completely, that when the solemn, soul-sick face of his Uncle David had greeted them at the door of Clwyd Farm, apprehension had thrummed through him without an inkling of the true reason for that expression.

Then, in a gentle, muted voice, David Evans told them.

His first emotion was chagrin, followed hard by a swirl of relief so vivid, his head reeled. He was not sure, even later, why he should have felt such relief, but his first glance at his semi-Uncle's face had sparked a feeling of irrational dread in him, a dread so instinctive and primitive that it defied analysis. But that thought was for later, for on the heels of the relief came the shame that he should have felt relieved in the first place, then a faint pricking of cold fear at his true knowledge of what had really occurred. An agent for the Dark she had been. A loving wife and kind neighbour too. How could that be reconciled?

His face had felt strange, bloodless; the exclamations of shock from his friends coming from far off. What was wrong with his hearing? Then a strange darkness, a rushing...

"Will!"

…confusing sounds…a hand at the back of his neck…the horizon tilted, then steadied…

He came back to himself, seated on the ground, cold and uncomfortable, his head thrust low between his knees and held there by the none-too-steady hand of David Evans.

The hand gentled, rubbed softly.

"All right there, Will, Bach?"

Will sucked in a deep breath and shrugged his shoulders almost imperceptibly so that the hand moved and he was able to lift his head. Reluctantly, half-ashamed, he met his uncle's eyes. Concern in them, as it had been in the soft endearment, also a touch of bemusement quickly turning to chagrin. What must Uncle David see on his face, Will wondered?

"I'm fine", he said roughly. "Sorry".

He made as if to stand up, but the hand lifted again and pressed on his shoulder, keeping him on the ground.

"What have you got to be sorry about, Cariad?".

Uncle David crouched before him, his voice earnest and brow furrowed in worry. Will could only be relieved that his body shielded him from the no-doubt curious gazes of his friends.

"…it was just the shock, like. Can take you in unexpected ways."

Shock?

Will's mind whirled. Was that what this was all about?

Maybe, maybe…

"Um…" he managed.

A shadow moved to his left. Will startled and lifted his head instinctively. He found himself looking directly into Bran's eyes and the intensity of that gaze jolted through him, forcing the strange fuzziness in his brain to dissipate.

"Will?"

Bran crouched as he spoke.

"Yes?"

Bran looked down at the ground for an instant, his lips pursed thoughtfully. He glanced at David Evans fleetingly, then back at Will. The look was too intense, too knowing. Will gaped at him stupidly, tensing slightly in anticipation of the question to come. When it did come, it took him completely by surprise,

"When did you last have something to eat?"

"What?"

Bran ignored him, glancing back at David Evans, his mouth twisting in a rueful grimace.

"Stupid English", he said, half-humorously. "Didn't have any lunch, did he?"

What on earth?

Will couldn't wrap his head around it. What was Bran talking about? What exactly did he think had happened today? Then, his mind grasping, he realised belatedly that Bran was offering him a way out – an explanation of sorts. Why he felt that one was needed was a question for later and when they were alone; for the moment, Will would take any moments of grace that he could.

"I…I don't remember", he faltered. Which was at least true.

David Evans sighed in a peculiarly Welsh manner and tousled Will's hair with his callused hand. It was an action he might have used on one of his own sheepdogs. Affectionate and reassuring.

"Well, that was daft, boy", he said, not unkindly. "Go and see Auntie Jen and make sure you eat something now. Your mother will be accusing us of neglecting you."

Uncle David smiled at Will; relief on his face, but enough tension left to mark a furrow between his brows. Will felt an absurd desire to start apologising and never stop for causing even a moments worry for this kindest of men, but merely bit his lip and allowed himself to be pulled slowly to his feet. They felt steady enough. He risked a glance around him and noticed the Drews, standing in a huddle, slightly apart. They were feigning polite disinterest, as he might have expected, but he could feel their keen interest in events like a pricking on the back of his neck.

Why are you so angry with me, Simon Drew? thought Will suddenly, his eyes on the taller boy. But Simon turned away, hiding those sullen eyes. Jane, for once oblivious to the undercurrents, smiled slightly at Will, her eyebrows raised questioningly. Will forced a smile back, and shrugged deprecatingly.

He was forced to turn away when Uncle David grasped his shoulder and steered him towards the Farmhouse.

"Go on then, Bach. Inside with you and mind you wipe those feet. Better still, take your trainers off altogether…"

The voice trailed off and Will responded unresistingly to the gentle shove between his shoulder blades.

I'll deal with it all later.

"Go with him, Bran", Uncle David continued, "Sit on him if you have to, until he gets some proper food in him. He mustn't…"

The voice trailed off again, but more abruptly. Will, disconcerted by the strange quality of the pause that followed, turned to see Uncle David and Bran gazing at each other, expressions serious and intent.

"I know", stated Bran softly but with finality.

Will felt a fine, cold sweat break out over his back. What was up with them now? He felt strangely exposed, almost embarrassed suddenly. There was too much happening that he didn't understand. Was he truly so paranoid that he thought…

"Come on then, boyo", said Bran sounding surprisingly cheerful, but firm with it. He grabbed Will by the arm and dragged him forward until Will found his feet and jogged slightly to catch up.

Displeased, his nerves still jangling from that strange exchange of glances, Will muttered, "What was all that about?"

"All what?" replied Bran, unconvincing and knowing it.

"Don't humour me!" Will practically growled. "You know what I mean. That little let's-not-tell-Will-anything conspiracy you've got going on with Uncle David."

He knew that petulance was unlike him, but couldn't seem to stop himself.

Bran sighed heavily and stopped walking. He turned and narrowed his eyes appraisingly at Will's scowl.

"He just worries", he said quietly. Then practically inaudible, "I do too." Bran looked away and stared off into the middle distance, lost in thought.

Will was starting to realise just how much everything had changed. Did he have to suddenly re-evaluate his relationship with everybody?

"Worried about what?" he asked, not sure he wanted to hear the answer.

Bran sighed again as though resigned.

"Well…" he trailed off, started again, "…you know what you're like…"

Did he?

"…you take some watching, you do. Because of…because you're…"

"Because I'm what?"

"Kind of…fragile, like"

"What?"

Bran merely shrugged and smiled.

Fragile?

Will stared down at his stocky body, the sturdy legs and feet planted solidly on the damp grass. A sense of unreality enveloped him.

"Me?"

Bran huffed slightly, amused and started back up the path the Farmhouse door.

"You and your odd illnesses, and funny turns." He said over his shoulder.

"Funny turns?" Will wavered, uncertainly.

"You don't look fragile, mind. I mean, you look normal, don't you?"

"Do I? I mean, I do."

"You're just a bit…sensitive. Like this afternoon, when you came over all wobbly like a mad poet. Typical, I thought. Barmy English. Funny no one else seemed to notice…"

Bran's voice was muffled in the shadow of the doorway and Will, who had faltered at Bran's words, followed more slowly into the house. Didn't work, he thought, unsurprised. Not on Bran, anyway. There was too much of the High Magic in him, probably. A dark, silent undercurrent that Will could not touch, even with the powers at his disposal.

Bran was swallowed into the gloom of the hallway. Will felt oddly bereft. Adrift. He could almost laugh at his own paranoia; worried about how he might be appearing, but apparently he'd always seemed odd to them. He couldn't equate it - he was too full of shared experience that only he could remember. He shivered.

Who am I? He thought, suddenly.

Who am I?

TBC