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 thirteen

All things change

Something's going to change today, Barney thought, as he stood on the ornamental bridge overlooking the dried-up stream. He had woken with that feeling. It had not shifted as he had walked to the park, to the latest of many meetings. It was still with him now.

He did not let it affect him. He knew people who anticipated doom every time they went on a simple mission, and they were still alive. He had known others who had departed with smiles and plans for the future, and were now dead. This world had changed everyone. Some clung to superstition, and some were ruthlessly practical. Some believed in fate, and some thought that there was nothing in a man's future that could not be changed, if you tried hard enough.

And which one am I? Barney wondered. He ran his finger up and down the rusty railing, slivers of paint chipping off against his skin. Which one am I?

He watched the figure approach, heard the steps on the bridge. A long-ago memory raised its head, of stamping over a bridge just like that, pretending to be the billy goats gruff. "Who's that trit-trotting over my bridge?" he muttered.

"What?" Simon took his place beside him. "Oh. Childish games. It's hardly the time for that."

"I was just remembering," Barney said softly. "I think it's good to remember that we used to be happy. It reminds us what we're fighting for."

Simon snorted. His hand curled around the railing, his knuckles white.

"I paint them, sometimes," Barney said. "Happy memories. Places we went on holiday. Cornwall. Wales. Mum and Dad. Children on a beach…"

"Don't," Simon rasped. He drew himself up, all stern older brother. "We're here to do our job, and nothing else," he said sternly. "There's no time to chat."

There's time, Barney thought. It's going to happen anyway. We might as well talk before then. We might as well remember.

He did not say it, though. He shook his head. "No," he said. "I'm sorry. You're right."

It was more important than ever to be friends, he thought. If something was really going to happen… No, even if it wasn't. For years, he had only occasionally seen Simon, and most of those meetings had been like this one, when their roles in the Resistance brought them together. There seemed to be an enormous barrier between them now. They were both engaged in the same dangerous work, but that had only pushed them apart.

"But we should meet up sometime," he said, "apart from this."

"It would be dangerous," Simon said. "Wouldn't it?" He sounded sarcastic and biting. It was five years since Simon had first discovered that Barney had joined the Resistance, but Barney knew he was still not forgiven. Simon wanted glory; Barney just wanted to serve.

Simon could be dangerous, he thought. If something really is going to happen today, it will be because of him.

He tried to ignore that thought, too, but he could not do so entirely. They had been taught to act on intuition, and follow up on any hunch of danger, however small. "Could someone know about this meeting?" he asked. "Could someone have followed you?"

Simon looked over his shoulder, and back again. "Of course not."

Barney breathed in, and out. He wondered whether to tell Simon the truth, and decided that he had to. Always pass on your hunches about danger, they had been told. If you did not, and then someone died…

"I've just had a strange feeling all day," he said. "A… warning, perhaps. A feeling that something's going to change."

"You believe in things like that?" Simon laughed.

Barney moved his finger up and down the railing. Almost all the paint had now gone, speckling the ground at his feet. "I don't know," he admitted. "Maybe."

"I don't," Simon scoffed. "Superstition is for cowards. I believe that individual people can change the world. Our fate's in our own hands. That's why I joined. That's why I'm doing what I'm doing."

"I believe that too," Barney said, "but…"

"If you believe in fate," Simon said, "then you're saying that all this was meant to be. That we can't fight it. That we shouldn't fight it."

"I didn't say it was fate," Barney tried to explain. "It's just a feeling…"

"Besides," Simon interrupted, "it doesn't even mean anything. Something's going to change." His voice was high and mocking. "How vague is that? It could be a good change. Maybe someone's going to assassinate…"

"Don't," Barney cried. He let out a breath. "No, it felt like a bad change. I don't know if I believe it, but…"

He believed in magic. The government spoke of sorcerers in the Resistance, and everyone denied it, but Barney was sure it was true. He had no idea why he was sure. All he knew was that all talk of magic resonated inside him, and made him think of green mountains and golden sand. Sometimes, when he was painting his old memories, he felt the same way, as if he could fall into a picture and walk in a place of magic, with a guardian at his side.

He believed in magic, then, but he also believed in the power of every man. Mr Thomas had shown him that. Mr Thomas had shown him that a single artist could change the world, and a single man's death could change a boy and shape the man he would become. Barney had joined the Resistance to help change the world, by actions big or small. If sorcerers were working alongside them, then they would do their part, but every ordinary mortal still had to play their part.

"I don't know," he admitted. "I just don't know."

"Well, I don't believe it," Simon said. "Stop babbling. We've got a job to do."

Barney nodded. He was still nodding when the men emerged from the trees, armed with guns, and shouting.

So I was right, Barney thought.

The end, when it came, was almost gentle.

End of part two: chapter thirteen