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 three: chapter two
Before
"Do you remember?" Barney wondered out loud, as he studied his coarse hunk of bread. "How it was before, I mean. Sometimes it seems like a dream."
Simon took a spoonful of soup, and grimaced as he found it too hot. He dropped the spoonful back in the bowl, but the grimace was still there, frozen onto his face.
"Six years, we've been in here," Barney said, "and years before that, fighting all this. Years before that, when things were going wrong, but we didn't really understand what was happening. How long has it been like this? Nearly all my life, really, but I still remember what it was like before."
"Don't," Simon rasped. He took another spoonful of soup, and swallowed it, though Barney could see that it hurt him.
"No," Barney said gently, for they had been through this before. "We have to remember. It reminds us why we're here." He tried some of his own soup, for he understood why someone might seek the simple pain of a burn. "I don't think I could bear it," he said, "if I didn't remember what we were fighting for. We failed, but at least we were right to try."
"Twenty-four years," Simon said. He put his bowl down, and started worrying at his hunk of coarse bread, tearing it to pieces. "Twenty-four years ago this September. It's been awful ever since."
Barney almost questioned it, then understood. For Simon, it had all started to go wrong when he had started his new school that year. The world had started to decline at about the same time. It was only understandable that the two things were mixed up in Simon's head. Personal things always hit hardest. After all, Barney had turned a blind and innocent eye until Mr Thomas had been killed in front of him.
"There's no point talking about it." Simon's bread was nothing but crumbs now. "Nothing's going to change."
"We don't know that," Barney had to say. He had been saying it for six years, and he could not stop not – could not.
Simon, as always, just grunted.
"They don't tell us a thing," Barney went on, as he always did. "The government might be teetering and about to fall, and we wouldn't know anything until the fences get torn down. The Resistance might be winning. And then there's that man…"
Another grunt, louder this time.
Barney gave up. He could never find much to say about the man who had come to their prison door six years before, and brought them to this place. "I cannot free you completely," he said, "but I can at least save your lives. A lifetime in the camps, yes, but at least you'll live. I did what I promised. I will not need to lie."
Barney had fired questions at him. Was he a friend, he had asked, but the man's cold face had answered no. Was he a sympathiser? A tight sucking in of breath had been his answer to that. Was this a trick, a warped tactic to get them to talk?
"It is a gift," the man had said, "though not to you. A payment, some might say, but I prefer not to."
They had never seen him again. If it was a gift, Barney had no idea who had received it. If it was a payment, he did not know who had paid the price.
"He helped us once," Barney pointed out now. "He might…"
"If he even existed," Simon grunted. Simon had been unconscious throughout. "We've talked about this hundreds of times before, Barney."
Barney picked up his black coffee and swirled it, watching the thick liquid splash against the sides of the chipped mug. "Yes," he said. "I know."
He took comfort in the repetition. It was almost a ritual by now. It made him believe that some things did not die. Some things endured, even if everything else was crumbling around them. He was still alive, and so was Simon, and there was continuity and comfort in that.
"I wish you wouldn't go on so." Simon turned on him, suddenly fierce. "Always nagging. You won't let it lie. It's easy for you, but I… You're just making it worse. You won't let me forget."
"Easy for me?" Some coffee splashed onto his leg, black and scalding.
"Because you were so young when it happened." Simon's hand closed into a fist around the remaining crumbs of his bread. "Just a baby, really. You never knew. You never had hopes. You never…"
"No," Barney cried sharply. "No."
Sunlight dancing on water. Children laughing. A leaf in autumn. A brush moving on canvas, and mother's smile.
He let out a slow, careful breath, reminding himself that this was his brother, and they had enemies enough, and must not be angry with each other. "I was nine, Simon," he pointed out. "I have lots of memories of what it was like before. I had lots of hopes. I was going to be an artist."
"Forget them, then," Simon said harshly. "It does no good to think about them. Best forget. Best forget all of it."
Of course, Barney thought, Simon had had further to fall. Barney had never hoped to change the world, only to do his little bit to lessen the grip of darkness upon it. Simon, the eldest, lordly and confident, had always expected to be a leader. Barney, the youngest, had trotted behind, lost in art and stories. Simon had never known how to cope with failure.
It made him feel strange, as if he was the older one now, and Simon was the younger, needing a guide and comfort.
But, "No," he said gently, wrapping his hands around his still-warm mug. Above him, thin sunlight seeped through the smoky clouds, warm on his face. "I think it is important to remember. It hurts, yes, but the alternative is worse."
The klaxon sounded, marking the impending end of their break. Simon struggled to his feet, but Barney sat there a moment longer, face tilted to the light.
"Forgetting is a little like dying, you see," he murmured. "You can't have hope without regret."
Simon was limping away, taking his place in front of the stone-faced overseer, and did not answer.
The cloud parted completely, and full sunlight shone upon the dingy yard, transforming it utterly.
End of part three: chapter two