The World to Come
by Eildon Rhymer
What if the Dark had won at the end of Silver on the Tree? The world is sliding into darkness, and only tattered remnants of the Light remain. Will, Bran and the Drews grow to adulthood, and each to their own destiny in this World to Come.
Part two picks up the story some six years after the end of part one.
Part two: chapter oneThe letter
"Letter for you." The boy swallowed anxiously. "Sir," he added, later than he should have, but earlier than some managed.
Bran took it without looking at it. "Dismissed." There were no thanks, not any more.
He walked to the small barred window, made, of course, from bullet-proof glass. He wondered how old the boy had been. Eighteen, perhaps. Bran remembered being eighteen, fresh from school, determined to tread his own path and free himself from expectations. Some paths, it seemed, were dug too deep. They were like chasms, and climbing out was impossible. All you could do was come to like it.
He ran his fingers over the glass. It was cold, and thick enough that the courtyard outside looked as if it was in another world. Sometimes, in winter, he went for weeks without being outside in daytime. There was skin on his face that had not been touched by sunlight for half a dozen years.
The letter slipped to the floor. Bran bent to pick it up, and saw his name on the envelope, hand-written in black. "Pendragon," it read, and nothing more. He pressed his lips together. This was the name he had chosen to go by, but sometimes he still felt a little jolt when he saw it. He still thought of himself as Bran, although he could not understand why. Bran was the name of a weak child, lied to by everyone he loved.
He tossed it on the desk. There was a knock at the door, and a woman entered, bearing his morning coffee. He did not know her name, and did not ask. He took it, looked at it, and said, face impassive, "I prefer it stronger."
"I'm sorry, sir." She flapped and flustered, visibly afraid. Pendragon despised her. Bran, not quite dead inside her, pitied her. "I'll get you another one."
He let out a breath. "Leave it," he said, his voice flat. "You can go."
He was twenty-four years old, and feared by someone old enough to be his… He stopped that thought just in time, because she was backing out, and might still be able to see his face.
When the door was safely closed, Bran sat down stiffly at his desk. He did not open the letter. He did nothing at all, just for a moment. When he sipped the coffee, though, it had gone completely cold. That happened quite often. Moments became hours, and he had no idea where they went.
The door opened again, this time without the warning of a knock. Bran snapped his head up. "I thought I told you…"
"You tell me nothing, Bran." The voice was mild, almost pleasant, but in this man, such a tone could be a weapon, as harsh as any shouting.
He shuttered himself, masks upon masks. "What are you doing here?"
His guardian sat down in the chair that had become "his" chair. No-one else used it. Bran sometimes wondered if they knew. "Rude, Bran?" his guardian said, arching an eyebrow. He was the only one who still called him "Bran." "I thought you'd got over this little rebellious patch of yours."
Bran shook his head. He moved his hand from the desk, so he could clench it on his lap, unseen. He had refused all his guardian's offers upon leaving school, and had set out to do… something. All he had found was doors that closed in his face. The world was not like school. People were scared or hostile. He tried to start at the bottom, but found that he did not like it.
Then someone had laughed at his appearance… His guardian himself had come to collect Bran from jail.
The day after that, Bran had said yes.
"I've told you lots of times," Bran said now, to the ageless man in the chair before him, "I didn't choose the Dark. I still haven't. I despise what you stand for. I just despise the Light more."
"Despise us, do you?" His guardian's blue eyes glittered like chips of ice. "May I remind you, Bran, how much I paid for your education? How many strings I had to pull to get you this job?"
Something twisted inside him, and made him reckless. "You didn't pay anything," he spat. "It was all stolen or extorted anyway."
"Come now, Bran." His guardian spread his hands. "Not stolen. All of mankind is ours. They are merely stewards of our riches. They give us gifts and tribute because…"
"You've tricked your way into power," Bran said. "No-one out there knows that the Dark exists. They think this is all the work of men. Even the general on the throne. He doesn't know what you are. Only I know, and I…"
"Will not tell." His guardian leant forward in his chair, and Bran felt the breath stop in his throat. "What we are, you are. You threw your lot in with us. If we fall, you fall." He steepled his fingers together, and Bran felt the breath flood into his lungs again. He tried not to gasp. "Besides, we both know that you will never tell. You whine and rail like the spoiled child you are, but deep down you like it. We both know that you like it."
"I don't," Bran tried to protest, because he had to. But he remembered the boys at school. He remembered standing over the man who had laughed at him, declaring that no-one would ever dare taunt him ever again.
If you were powerful enough, no-one dared betray you.
"Well…" His guardian brushed his hands together briskly. "On to other business. Your friends of the Light…"
"They're not my friends!" Bran said hotly, then flushed, realising that he had let his guardian bait him yet again.
"They are troublesome." All smiles died on Bran's guardian's face. "They are persistent and troublesome. Stronger measures are called for. The general has decided to set up a new body within the security services specifically to hunt down the last agents of the Light, and all who sympathise with them."
"He's decided that, has he?" Bran said, to cover his racing thoughts. The general decided nothing, although he still thought that he decided everything. The Dark ruled mankind, though men did not know it.
"You're wasted in this job," his guardian said, studying his nails.
Bran pictured himself confronting Merriman, and spitting in his face as he hurled every one of his lies back at him. He imagined seeing all hope die in Will Stanton's face. He imagined them cowering before him, humbled and pleading and broken.
"I'll do it," he blurted out. "I want to be part of it."
His guardian did not respond. Instead, he said softly, "I see you didn't open my letter."
"Letter?" Bran echoed. His hand moved unconsciously for the white envelope. "Why write when…?"
"Maybe it was a test." His guardian's face gave nothing away. "Maybe I changed my mind, and decided that I wanted to see your reaction with my own eyes."
Bran's stomach clenched, and his heart started to beat very fast. "I… I'll open it after you've gone, then."
"Very well." His guardian stood up. "You will receive intructions soon about your new assignment." He nodded slightly, a mocking bow. "Pendragon."
Bran watched him go. He picked up the letter, then glanced at the bin, wondering if he dared. His hand was trembling, as if he was just a weak and unloved child, and not the person he had become.
I can face it, he told himself. Whatever it is.
He tore open the envelope, and read the words within.
For a minute, he sat very still, his eyes closed. He blinked. His eyes felt wet, but that wetness burnt like flames, and flames turned into fury.
"Why did you think I'd care?" He strode across the room and flung open the door. His guardian was outside, just as he had known he would be. "He wasn't my father!" he cried. "He was nothing to me."
"So now I know." His guardian smiled.
"He was nothing," Bran repeated. "No, not nothing. He lied. I hate him. You can't hate nothing."
"No." Still that smile. Bran felt a sudden overwhelming urge to tear it off with his nails.
"And why should I care when the funeral is?" Bran demanded. "Why tell me that? Did you actually think I might want to go?"
"Certain… others might expect you to go."
"They all think I'm dead." It was a strange thing to say it. It felt like a cold breeze whistling through the chambers of his heart.
"Not all." His guardian's eyes gleamed like steel. "Some know. Some might be there, to claim you back. To lie. To get revenge."
Will, he thought. He pictured Will Stanton standing there on the mountain, watching a tiny procession of mourners issue from Own Davies' small cottage. He saw him leaning forward, waiting for Bran, watching… But it was a child Will that he saw. It was a child Bran that he imagined following Owen's coffin disconsolately, tears pouring unseen behind his dark glasses. It was a child Bran who brightened as he saw Will, and was comforted, knowing that he would never entirely be alone.
It was all lies. If Will was there, he went there armed with lies and armoured with trickery and magic. If Will was there, he was there with a trap.
"But the hunter," smiled his guardian, "can oft become the hunted. The trapper can be trapped."
Bran whirled away from him, and stumbled into his office. He slammed the door, and locked it, and then he stood. He just stood.
End of part two: chapter one