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 eighteen
The Dark is Rising
The Dark came rising.
It was not like the last time, when the final confrontation had been foretold for a thousand years. Then, the Light and Dark had gathered their forces, and the Light came en masse, and the Dark was an army that filled the earth and the skies. This time, the Light was one Old One and a small group of mortals, one of whom had already betrayed him. But the Dark, too, was weakened, caught off guard.
Can we really do this? Bran thought.
A moment later, he realised that he had thought, "we", and he trembled, knowing that he had no right to claim to be one of the Light, even though he was fighting on Will's side in this final, desperate battle.
Will had opened the box and handed out the Signs. Bran dimly remembered dropping his, twenty-four years before, when he made his decision to turn from the Light. The children perhaps had clutched on to theirs, but Merriman must have taken them when the children lay forgetful and sleeping, and had kept them as a secret all these years.
"Merriman kept them," was all Will had offered in explanation. "I only knew about them afterwards."
After he had died – that's what Bran thought he meant. After I killed him. He could not forget the sight of his knife, stained with Will's blood. He could not forget the rage and the hatred that he driven him. He could not forget Will lying so still on his floor. Now Will said that his death had brought him wisdom, and this wisdom brought them hope, but that changed nothing. He had killed Will. He almost wished that Will would hate him for it.
They each held a Sign, and Will held two. Bran felt sick as he raised his high, clutching it in whitened fingers. The intervening years faded to nothing. He felt as if he was looking into a mirror, looking at his younger self, holding Sign and sword, staunch in the Light, determined to conquer the Dark. He had been so sure, both in hope and in friendship, and it had all come crashing down.
"Please," he whispered. "Please… Let me pass the test this time."
The Dark came in ones and twos at first. Some ambled up surprised, as if they could not believe that this was happening. Some came storming up in all the majesty of their fury. They brought storms with them, and a terrible, crushing darkness, like a giant fist pressing down on the earth and everyone upon it.
As the light faded, only the Signs shone true. Bran felt himself falling into the maelstrom, and he pinned himself to the shining sign of fire in Will's right hand, and the glistening black in his left. "I can't," he whispered. "I can't."
"Old One," a voice hissed, louder than the thunder, more intimate than a lover. "So it is you, Sign-seeker."
"Yes." Will inclined his head. "It is I."
"How clever you must think you are, Old One," Bran's dark guardian sneered. "To have existed this long, without us knowing. To have seduced my little Pendragon there. You think you are winning, do you not, Old One?"
The Rider raised his hand. Behind him, lost in the darkness, were other lords of the Dark, their bone-like fingers emerging from the mist to point at Will.
Will did not waver as he held the Signs aloft. "You cannot," he said. "I am protected by the Signs and the Circle. You took my master, but you cannot take me."
Laughter swelled from the darkness like the tearing sound of thunder directly over head. The hair stood up on Bran's arms, and the Sign of Light tingled against his fingers, almost enough to hurt.
"I have been to the edge of Time, and back," Will said, quite calmly. I have seen secrets. I am no longer a child, to be cowed with threats."
The Rider's eyes darkened. "Don't," Bran gasped in sudden horror. "Don't provoke him, Will."
"Ah, but I am provoked already, Pendragon." The Rider's mouth curled into a thin smile. "It is my nature, as it is his. It is not something you mortals can understand."
All the while he was speaking, Will was gazing fiercely at Bran. There was some desperate message in his eyes. The tree! Bran thought he heard. Watch for the blossom. Don't let him take your attention from the tree.
Bran tried to wrench his eyes back to the tree, but something was pressing down on him. The Sign in his hand grew heavy, and he had to hold it up with both hands. Darkness swirled in his head like madness. Dimly, he heard Jane moan. Barney was sobbing. Simon was on the far side of the tree, a lifetime away.
"Petty signs," the Rider laughed. "Relics of the past, and useless now. What ever were you thinking, Old One?"
Will did not reply. His face was white with the strain of holding up two Signs, and perhaps he was using his magic, too, to hold the Dark at bay.
"We have already won," the Rider sneered. "And now, because of this foolish attempt, you are flushed out. You fell into our trap, Old One. We have you now, and these traitors you have seduced. Our Pendragon laid a pretty trap, did he not?"
"I didn't!" Bran lunged towards Will.
"No!" Will screamed. "Keep in the Circle! Hold the Sign!"
Bran was rocked back to place by the force of Will's voice. "I didn't," he pleaded. "It wasn't…"
"I know," Will said.
"He lies," said the Rider.
Bran closed his eyes. As soon as he did so, the pressure on his mind lifted. The weight in his hands fell away. He was on a smooth green hill, sloping down to a golden beach. Silver waves rippled on the sand, and the soft breeze whispered through his hair.
"Bran," his mother crooned. "At last you have come back to me."
Bran looked at her. She raised her arms, offering love and sanctuary. She was beautiful, and she was his, and she loved him. She forgave everything, for he had done nothing that she needed to forgive. Everything he had ever done had been for the love of her.
"Bran." She spread her arms wider. "Won't you come?"
The sea was a silver mirror, and things shimmered beneath it, like a lost land, a paradise. He had dreamed of this place, he realised. He had dreamed of swimming here with Will, and dying with him, side by side.
"Don't think about him," his mother snapped. Then her smile returned again, but now that Bran had seen her angry, he thought he could see the coldness that always lurked beneath her smile.
"You are not my mother," he said. Tears welled up in his eyes as he said it. "You never were. I have never seen my mother. I never will."
"Does it matter?" His mother's face changed, and became the face of a Lord of the Dark, with silver eyes, and cheekbones like a knife blade.
"Yes." Bran backed away, but something lunged out and tripped him up, and he landed hard on his back on the ground. It hurt him, and he realised that it was no longer grass, but paving stones, made of grey marble. A castle was in front of him, with people lining the ramparts, but he was completely alone.
"As alone as you will be if you persist in aiding the Old One," a voice said in his mind.
There was no-one around him, no-one. He struggled to his feet, and hard laughter rattled from the distant walls. Gunshots fell short of him. A beggar shambled into sight, then turned away. The loneliness inside him was a clawing, rending hunger than could not be eased.
"You will never be forgiven," hissed the voice. "After everything you have done for the Dark, only the Dark will welcome you. In any other future, you will be an outcast."
He thought of himself sobbing at school, a five year old shunned by the others because he was strange. He thought of a boy who spent whole days running with his dog, exchanging barely a word with anyone human. He thought of Simon and Barney and Jane, recoiling from him in horror when they saw him at Will's side. He thought of himself, cowering in a dark bedroom, hating himself and what he had done.
"The Dark will forgive," the voice said, "for you have brought us such a prize as Will Stanton. The Dark will greatly reward such a service."
An army rode from the castle, but when it reached him, it stopped and honoured him. Ten thousand men bowed towards him, and a servant brought him a richly-caparisoned horse, and he mounted it, taking his place at the head of an army who feared him and lauded him and followed him. His sword had blood on it, but he could not feel guilt. He did what he did, and he reaped the rewards, and he never trembled.
"What future would you want for yourself?" the voice asked. "Power without remorse, or a lifetime of guilt and self-loathing, shunned by the people who tried to help?"
The army vanished. Bran fell to his knees on the marble, and pressed his fists into his eyes.
The Light has forgiven him, and who are you to question the Light? He had shuddered with awe and gratitude. Who am I? Who am I? Because he had not been able to forgive himself, but Will forgave him. Will would stand by him. Will would help him. And one day… Perhaps one day soon… He lowered his hands. "Perhaps, one day, I will even be able to forgive myself. Perhaps I can even be happy. Will says…"
"Will will be gone," the voice said. "He knows this. If the Light wins, you will be utterly alone."
"But…" He turned a full circle, seeking the source of the voice, desperate to see a lie on its laughing face. The castle faded away. He was alone forever, on an endless slab of stone.
He fell forward, and there was grass beneath him again, and he was staggering under the weight of the Sign, and Will was calling to him to stand firm, to be strong, not to listen, Bran, please, don't listen…
Bran's eyes were gritty. "Is it all lies?" He mouthed it, unable to speak. He could barely see Will's face through the darkness.
Barney, he saw, had fallen, but Simon was at his side, helping him up, and Jane had staggered round to fill the gap, decreasing the size of the circle. They were still standing, so small, so doomed, so valiant.
This is right, he thought, but there was no triumph in it. This was the cause he had to fight. Nothing else mattered. If he had to spend the rest of his life shunned and hated, then so be it. Let his life be dull, empty years of guilt and self-hatred, but at least he would know that here, at the end of everything, he had made the right choice.
"Now!" Will gasped.
The darkness grew until it was as black as midnight. The only light left came from the signs, and there, above them all, a tiny speck of silver, blossoming on the tree.
Bran had no sword. He watched the blossom opening, and it seemed as if all the powers in the world were watching, too, for the darkness grew still, and air grew silent. Bran breathed in, and out, and it seemed to take an hour. On the edge of his vision, he saw Will sag forward, drifting gracefully towards the ground, with dark shadows entwined round his throat. He saw Jane's mouth open in a silent scream, and Simon laughing in frozen defiance.
The blossom opened, pure and silver. Bran leapt. For the Light! he thought, and his hand closed round it, and oh, it hurt! It was cold, like ice, like silver, like virtue in the heart of someone clothed in sin. Bran sobbed, and clung onto it. For Will! It hurt, and the tears that fell from his eyes were molten silver, and the pain inside him was like a sword of crystal through his heart.
Please, he whispered, as the darkness rose up screaming, and the world came to an end.
End of part three: chapter eighteen