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 ten

Flight

Simon was running. It felt as if he had been running for hours. His chest was heaving; his palms were scraped raw from when he had fallen. There was too little cover. Once he had thrown himself onto his face, rolling round and staggering up again, as a bullet had shot high above him. Others had scattered near him, spouting up dust.

There was no shouting, not any more. That had come first. "Stop right now." Running on, biting his lip, half of his mind floating above his body, amazed at what he was doing… Stop, it said. Turn around. Surrender. Talk about it. "Stop!" The shout had come again, further away, yet seeming louder. "Stop or I shoot."

There had been no stopping. Feet pounding at the ground, hands clenched across his chest, making him small, even though it slowed him down. A gun! his mind gibbered. If I don't stop, he'll shoot me. I'm going to die.

No stopping. No stopping. The floating part of his mind was still there. This isn't real. This isn't happening. People didn't shoot at you in real life, not in Britain. It happened in stories, or in far parts of the world.

Another shot. He cowered, a sob wrenching its way out of his breathless throat. His chest hurt. Had he been hit? How long did it take for a bullet to reach you? His mouth tasted horrible; was that blood? He ran on, and his legs still supported him. He thought he was still alive.

Think. Another part of his mind detached itself and looked down on him sternly. It's only one man. He's not very fit, and obviously not a very good shot. You just have to outlast him and use whatever cover you can.

But streaks of colour danced in front of his eyes whenever he blinked. There was green and black and lurid red. Exhaustion and panic made the trees run like paint in the rain. Fear had a colour. He never knew that before.

It wasn't supposed to be like this, the colours wailed. The red saw him dead in a ditch and forgotten. The green saw him panicking and running away. The black saw a world that was lost, a world in which all this was possible.

Simple. It should have been simple. Something large was being built out in the countryside, and the Resistance wanted to know what it was. Others had been given the most dangerous jobs, and Simon had complained about that, arguing that he had been a member for long enough now that it was time he was allowed to do something big, not just run messages like any stupid errand boy. He would do what he was told, they had said, and without message carriers nothing would happen at all, and for want of a nail the shoe was lost, and stupid things like that. Worse than the government, he sometimes thought darkly. Not the noble thing he had been expecting, and sometimes he hated Barney for saying…

His pursuer shouted. It sounded further away than Simon had expected. There were no bullets. I'm getting away! he thought. I've outrun him. He's run out of ammunition. Only a matter of time now. Just got to keep going.

He dodged left, heading for a gap in a hedge. The field on the far side was rough and bumpy, and he feared for his ankles, but still he ran.

Investigate the timings of their deliveries, then, he had been told. He had been given a cover story. This place was not yet out of bounds. Better not to be spotted, but if they did spot him, he was doing nothing wrong, as long as he had kept his distance. Brazen it out, they had told him. Watch their faces, and learn what you can.

A single guard, that was all it had been. A single guard, asking, not even shouting, for his papers. They had all been ready in his pocket, and his story on his lips. He had stood before the guard, and seen the gun. He had seen the eyes and the uniform and the power that lay in both. His voice had dried up; his hands had started to tremble.

And he had run.

But I'm getting away, he told himself. I was right to run away. I was right.

An exposed root tangled itself around his foot, and he fell, his foot twisting painfully beneath him. He tried to get up, but it pulled him down again. He clawed at it, ripping it apart. "You ran," a voice said, racked with breathlessness, but chilling. Simon cowered into the sunlight, into the barrel of a gun. "You will come with me."

"No," Simon whispered. His hands skittered in the dust. Roots and grass tangled in his fingers. "No. Please no."

He tried to get up, slipping, sliding. "Or I will shoot you," his pursuer said coldly. "Resisting arrest."

I can't! his mind cried. I don't want to die. I can't go with him, I can't.

The gun was level, not trembling, though this man had run as far as Simon had run, and Simon was shaking, heaving with lack of breath. Simon saw the man's finger on the trigger. He saw it move, and then stop. He saw the man's face, frozen. He pushed himself backwards, still half sprawled on his back, scraping against the earth. The man did not move. He was still, not blinking…

Not breathing.

Simon scrambled to his feet. His ankle hurt, but it took his weight. He bit his lip. Should run, he thought. He reached towards the man. "Are you…?" It had to be a trick, he thought. But he could feel the wind stirring his own clothes, but the man's were utterly still. It was a stillness beyond anything he had ever seen. He had never realised before how much movement there was even to a man at rest, until he saw it now, gone.

"Don't," a voice said softly, as Simon moved to touch the gun. Then, even softer, "You can't."

Simon snatched at the gun, and came away without it. For a moment, he had felt it there against his fingers, but he had been unable to grasp it. Even that touch left his fingers numbed, as if this stillness was catching, spread by touch.

"I'm not one of them," the voice said. "Don't be afraid."

"I'm not afraid!" Simon cried. He turned round, tried to still the savage heaving of his chest. His hands felt empty, without a weapon, and he was caught between two strangers, and the world was not what he had always thought it was.

The newcomer stood in front of him, placid in the long grass. He cast a shadow. The man with the gun, Simon remembered, did not. He was about the same age as Simon, but he did not look like anyone remarkable. Something about him looked faintly familiar, but when Simon looked more closely for it, it was gone.

"You weren't there a minute ago," Simon said, because the field ahead of him had been empty, and the grass was long, but not long enough to hide a man. Then he cursed himself for saying such a thing, because it sounded weak.

"I was nearby," the man said. "I saw you. You needed help."

It was him, Simon thought. He did this. It was bizarre, ridiculous, but it slotted into his mind like a jigsaw puzzle piece that had long been lost. This stranger had done something to the man with the gun, something that should not be able to happen. But they don't exist! he tried to protest. The government spread its stupid lies about sorcerers, but Simon had never seen one, and whenever anyone asked one of the captains in the Resistance, they just smiled and shook their heads.

"It's true," he said. He brought both hands up to his mouth, and let them fall. "It's true."

"Yes." The man nodded. His hands were folded neatly in front of him, and he was not dressed for war.

"What did you do to him?" Simon was getting his breath back now, but his throat felt scraped raw, and words hurt him. "What did you do to him?" he rasped.

"What was needed," the man said. "It won't hurt him. When he… returns, I will make it so he doesn't remember you. A false alarm, he will call it. You will be safe."

Before, when he had been running, the whole world had been made of lurid colours. Now it faded all to white. He was standing in the middle of a world made of mist, and nothing was real but this strange and impossible thing. "I don't…" he stammed. "I don't…" He brought his hands to his face again. I hate this, he whispered. I ran, and he… And he…

"How can you stand there?" he shouted, bunching his trembling fists at his sides. "How can you stand there like this, and talk like this, and do things like this? I didn't need saving. I was getting away, and you… and no-one should be able to do this. It isn't right."

The man shook his head, smiling slightly. Simon despised the smile. It looked superior, inhuman.

"I didn't need rescuing." Simon jabbed his hand towards the man's chest. "If you're really a sorcerer, why aren't you off doing something more important? Why don't you stop all this from happening? Why don't you make things go back the way they used to be?"

He was almost screaming now, he realised. Behind him, the man with the gun stood silent and unmoving, like a statue, but even more still.

"We are doing what we can," the man said. "Their power is greater than ours, because they are many. We strike where we can, but we always must stay hidden. I must stay hidden. That's why you couldn't know. None of you could know. That's the only reason, Simon. It wasn't because we didn't trust you."

"I'm fed up with not being trusted," Simon cried. "I never get to do anything important. I didn't need rescuing." He realised something then, and it darted through him, cold horror, followed by scarlet fury. "How do you know my name?" He took a step back. "How did you know my name?"

"I knew you once," the man said, "when we were boys, before. We were… not quite friends. You were never entirely comfortable with me. I stepped onto your territory. You felt… Well, there's no need for that. I just… take an interest. Something to cling to. Sentiment, I suppose. There's so little else."

His voice was vague and distracted. Simon wanted to stay angry, but bizarrely he also wanted to laugh. This could not be happening. This was a dream. He had died to his pursuer's bullet, and this was some warped form of afterlife.

The man have a smile that seemed full of sorrow, but was doubtless full of lies. "Of course, I can only speak like this, because you won't remember it. I have no choice. You and him both. Walk away and forget this, and I…"

"Forget…" Simon echoed. He brought his hands up to his brow as if to hoard his memories there.

"It was done to you before," the man said, "though not by me, and I sorrowed for it. I hate to do it to you again. But I have to, Simon. I'm sorry. I have secrets, and too much rests on them. I don't think you would keep them."

"I'd keep them," Simon shouted, hating this man. "Why doesn't anyone trust me? I've served my time in the cause. I've been loyal."

"But you are angry," the man said quietly, almost as if he was apologising for it, "and you ran. I cannot. I am sorry, Simon. I am glad to have met you again, and I am glad that you are well, but I cannot let this pass. Not you. Not today. You have to walk away, and then you will forget."

"I don't…" Simon whispered. It was all the sound he could produce. The mist welled up and consumed him. His feet started moving him forward, and there was nothing around him but greyness, and a half-remembered dream. Don't… he thought. It was like gripping the edge of a cliff with his fingertips, struggling hopelessly to hold on. Don't take…

He blinked. The sun faded in around him, like sound welling up from silence. His ankle hurt, which was a nuisance, but he could see the road ahead. His car was not much further beyond that. He had done his job, keeping watch on the secret place in the countryside, and now he was on his way back, with nothing to report but silence.

Nothing had happened at all. But I wish it would, he thought, curling his hand into a fist inside his pocket. I wish it would.

It made him feel faintly sad, for some reason.

End of part two: chapter ten