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: chapter one
Dust to dustMerriman was far away.
Owen Davies is dead, Will thought. That means…
He paced to the window, and back again; ran his hands through his longish hair.
Surely he wouldn't… he thought. Surely he would…
Merriman was far away. Merriman had gone north, and had been away for months, though messages still came through. Will and Merriman were closer than they had ever been. If was as if all the links that had always bound the Circle together were now focused on the few who remained. They were stronger and closer than ever. At the same time, though, they had never been further apart. Just because two people could communicate, it did not mean that they did.
Will pressed his hand to his brow. Merriman had made him promise not to seek out Bran. Merriman had hinted of terrible consequences. But maybe terrible only to me, Will thought. He had stopped visiting his family long ago. They were untouched by his visits, but to him they were still agony. They were suffering, and he could not help them, but at least they were together, while he had no-one but a cold master.
He returned to the window, with its view of nothing but darkness. No-one could see in. No-one could find him. If he needed to contact people, he went out to find them. Only Merriman knew his real name, and the world thought him dead.
But Owen is dead. Owen dead now, and John Rowlands two years before him, both of them dying prematurely. They had both died in spirit years before. So much had died, that day when Bran and Will could have slipped into the ocean and gone forever.
Will wondered if there would be anyone there to mourn the man. "Bran won't be there," he said aloud, as if the echo of his words would linger in the room, and be there to defend him from Merriman's wrath. "I'd be going for Owen's sake, because he served the Light, and deserves this goodbye."
And thus, so easily, could decisions be made.
The Dark was there.
The Dark was there, but Bran was not, or, at least, if Bran was there, he was hidden and Will could not see him.
Will edged forward. He did not mean to do it, but his feet started moving, one tiny step, then another.
A small group stood around the grave, looking awkward and uncomfortable at the new funeral rites. It was three years since religious services had been outlawed, but it took longer for strict enforcement to reach the remotest rural places. The chapel looked as if it had only recently been boarded up. The officer conducting the terse funeral was English. Will wondered if the minister had gone into hiding, or if his body lay beneath the other recently-dug mound.
He frowned, peering into the distance, trying to identify faces. David and Jen Evans were there, but not their sons. The other mourners were people Will did not know. They all had the pinched, closed-off look of people who did not wish to be here, but felt that they ought to be. There was discomfort, but no grief. Too many tears had been shed for the world, for true tears to fall for a man they hardly knew.
A man was standing in the shadow of a building. Will inched forward, as if drawn by an invisible string. Was it…? Could it be…? He could not express the thought. Here to mourn Owen, he told himself. That's all.
The last words were said. The mourners started to depart. Rest in peace, Owen Davies, Will thought, wrenching his thoughts back to where they were supposed to be. You were a good man. You served the Light. You didn't deserve this.
He thought of his own father, and all fathers like him. Roger Stanton and Owen Davies had both lost a son on the same day. Countless other fathers had lost their sons to death over the years, but Owen and Roger had lost theirs to lies. Comfort could have been given at any time, but had been withheld, and now, for Owen, it was too late. He had died alone, in a world that no sane man would choose to inhabit.
Will blinked. The graveyard was empty, except for the stiff-backed officer by the grave, and the figure in the shadows. As Will watched, the figure moved. Its face was in shadow, but Will shivered, suddenly sure that it was watching him.
He was not shielded in any way. Just as he could sense the Dark, agents of the Dark could sense the Light. He could not openly use his powers, in case that drew their attention. Merriman could unleash the full might of his magic on agents of the Dark, but Will had to be more covert. Unlike Merriman, Will was dead in the eyes of the world, and in the eyes of the Dark as well.
His only disguise was the natural disguise of years. At twenty-four, there was nothing left of the boy of twelve who had witnessed the end of the world. He was not tall, but he was as lean as Merriman, after years of living in hiding on the fringes of society. His hair was down to his shoulders, and was often in need of a comb, raked through by anxious fingers. The Light had lost too much, and pain and loss was etched into all their faces. They were fully part of the world, bound to mankind by shared pain.
If that is Bran, Will thought, then this is surely a trap.
Yet still he edged forward. Maybe it wasn't a trap after all. Death changed things. When Owen was alive, Bran had kept away, but people often felt more charitably towards those who had died. Perhaps Bran was standing there in the shadows, weeping behind his dark glasses, crying tears that his Dark masters would never see or understand.
I could do it, Will it. Try it. Risk it. Hazard everything.
He half-closed his eyes, imagining it. Bran would look up warily, perhaps not even recognising him at first. But then Will would speak his name, an Englishman saying his name in the Welsh way, and Bran would know him. There would be no welcome, but perhaps there would be no hatred, either. Grief could make the most passionate man numb.
"I came…" Will would say.
"For Owen?" Bran's voice was harsh in Will's imagination.
Will shook his head. "For you."
"To bring me back?" Bran laughed harshly. "Drag me back to Merriman for punishment? Lock me in a room and try to turn me back to the Light Side?"
"No." Will shook his head. "I came in case you were here, grieving. I came in case you needed someone. We can go back afterwards, each to our own places. It doesn't have to change anything. But for now, today…"
His lips started moving, and he spoke the words aloud. "I am here, Bran."
The Darkness shifted, like a large beast lumbering to its feet. Will's eyes snapped open as he returned to the present. The figure was still there in the shadows, but other shapes had appeared behind him and around him. Will was too close to them. He had crept far too close.
He clenched both fists at his sides. Choices raced through his mind. He could unveil himself in all the glory of his power, and fight the Dark in open confrontation. He had grown greatly in power over the years, so victory was possible. Even failure only meant going out of Time, and there was peace and rest in that. At least he would be fighting, after a dozen years of skulking and hiding, dead to all who knew him.
He raised his hand, felt the possibility of power tingling with him, ready to break out.
The figure in the shadows was utterly still.
Or walk forward, Will thought, and do nothing at all. Surrender to Bran. Show him that I trust him, and he will give me trust in return. He will not let them hurt me.
He saw the midsummer tree, and a crystal sword, and pure hatred in the eyes of the one who wielded it. The hatred had been directed at all the Old Ones, but to Will most of all. Most of all, to Will.
Will took a slow step back, and another. The low figures edged forward into the light, and became creatures that smiled, with small, sharp teeth.
I cannot, Will thought, making a sound that was close to a sob. The world was sinking ever deeper into the darkness. The people were small and lost and afraid, staring into an abyss of hopelessness. Loved ones died, because of a ruler's caprice. Freedoms were snatched away, and behind it all lurked the Dark, laughing as it pushed mankind ever closer to the brink of doom.
Against all that stood the Old Ones, tired and dwindling, but still with power. Will had once been the youngest of many; now he was the youngest of oh so few. If he was defeated, the Circle would be weaker, the Dark would be stronger. He could not do this – could not. He could not show himself. He could not fight. All he could do was walk away.
He breathed in, and drew his magic back inside him, cherishing it like a secret hoard. As he did so, the squat shapes in the cemetery shimmered and became men, their forms grey and ordinary. Only an Old One could see through their glamour to their true forms beneath, and Will no longer saw things as an Old One. He was an ordinary man, a labourer from one of the farms, who had paused to watch a funeral, and was now walking away, having seen nothing unusual whatsoever.
The sense of Darkness reached for him, groped at him. Will emptied his mind, and walked on. He did not even shiver, though its touch sickened him. He did not let out a shuddering breath when it moved on past him, and he did not falter at all when it withdrew.
Just an ordinary man, he thought, who has seen a man buried, and is now returning to the hollow shell that is his life.
No tears showed upon his face.
End of part two: chapter two