Hunt
Fandom: The Dark is Rising
Characters: Will, Bran
Rating: PG13?
Warnings: Dark. Mildly disturbing? Implied character death.
It felt wrong. It felt evil. it felt like dark tendrils pawing at him, trying to get into him, to take him, use him, steal away things so secret he didn't even know them. But he did it anyway, for the glory, for the things he was promised, for being able to finally track down and catch that infuriating Will Stanton and be able to say "I've got you now."
Just the thought of him angered Bran. Despite the distance, they'd been best friends until they were fifteen and then, suddenly, Will had disappeared. Bran's letters had been returned unopened, calls were answered with "sorry, there's no Will Stanton here," and it was as if every trace of him had been erased.
But Bran remembered.
"Kill it. Kill it. Kill it! Kill it, kill it, killitkillitkillitkillitkillitkillit," the voice hissed painfully inside Bran's head and he didn't want to, the dog had done nothing wrong - it even looked like Cafall a little - and he almost refused, almost managed to wrap his mouth around that oh-so-simple 'no', but then couldn't. It needed to be done, it needed to die. The thought kept slithering around his head as he moved, not shooting it mercifully or slitting the throat, but taking his knife and stabbing it in the belly, leaving it to bleed and die on its own.
There was blood on his hands now, they were soaked with it and it dried and crusted under his fingernails where he wouldn't be able to get to it. It bothered him and it would bother him weeks later still when no amount of soap would make it go away.
He was getting closer. He could smell it. Almost like a lover's touch, it choked him till he could breathe no more. Will Stanton. Dark and secretive Will Stanton. Secret-keeping, friend-deceiving, traitorous Will Stanton.
He wasn't in his own time, what little of him that was still him told him that much, but of how he'd gotten there, not a word. Only one thing mattered. Will was here. And half like the dog he'd killed, Bran sniffed his way toward him. Evil, traitorous, dishonest, hiss, hiss, hiss. On and on and on, a soundtrack to his mad hunt.
He didn't even have the decency to look surprised. No "oh Bran, what are you doing here" or "Bran, great to see you, I need your help." Nothing. Just a blank look and the stench of a spell at his fingertips. so when he moved closer and drew his sword - a sword? He hadn't known he had one. Not one like this, made of dark and sharp and useful and death - raising it to cut at Will, to shatter that blank look, make him beg for forgiveness. He felt the muscles in his face stretch to accommodate a feral smile not his own and swung down, but never made it there. His arms were frozen, his wrists locked, his entire body stiffened in the greatest pain, just to hear those words with perfect crystal clarity.
"Oh Bran. I'm so sorry."
Characters: Will, Bran
Rating: PG13?
Warnings: Dark. Mildly disturbing? Implied character death.
It felt wrong. It felt evil. it felt like dark tendrils pawing at him, trying to get into him, to take him, use him, steal away things so secret he didn't even know them. But he did it anyway, for the glory, for the things he was promised, for being able to finally track down and catch that infuriating Will Stanton and be able to say "I've got you now."
Just the thought of him angered Bran. Despite the distance, they'd been best friends until they were fifteen and then, suddenly, Will had disappeared. Bran's letters had been returned unopened, calls were answered with "sorry, there's no Will Stanton here," and it was as if every trace of him had been erased.
But Bran remembered.
"Kill it. Kill it. Kill it! Kill it, kill it, killitkillitkillitkillitkillitkillit," the voice hissed painfully inside Bran's head and he didn't want to, the dog had done nothing wrong - it even looked like Cafall a little - and he almost refused, almost managed to wrap his mouth around that oh-so-simple 'no', but then couldn't. It needed to be done, it needed to die. The thought kept slithering around his head as he moved, not shooting it mercifully or slitting the throat, but taking his knife and stabbing it in the belly, leaving it to bleed and die on its own.
There was blood on his hands now, they were soaked with it and it dried and crusted under his fingernails where he wouldn't be able to get to it. It bothered him and it would bother him weeks later still when no amount of soap would make it go away.
He was getting closer. He could smell it. Almost like a lover's touch, it choked him till he could breathe no more. Will Stanton. Dark and secretive Will Stanton. Secret-keeping, friend-deceiving, traitorous Will Stanton.
He wasn't in his own time, what little of him that was still him told him that much, but of how he'd gotten there, not a word. Only one thing mattered. Will was here. And half like the dog he'd killed, Bran sniffed his way toward him. Evil, traitorous, dishonest, hiss, hiss, hiss. On and on and on, a soundtrack to his mad hunt.
He didn't even have the decency to look surprised. No "oh Bran, what are you doing here" or "Bran, great to see you, I need your help." Nothing. Just a blank look and the stench of a spell at his fingertips. so when he moved closer and drew his sword - a sword? He hadn't known he had one. Not one like this, made of dark and sharp and useful and death - raising it to cut at Will, to shatter that blank look, make him beg for forgiveness. He felt the muscles in his face stretch to accommodate a feral smile not his own and swung down, but never made it there. His arms were frozen, his wrists locked, his entire body stiffened in the greatest pain, just to hear those words with perfect crystal clarity.
"Oh Bran. I'm so sorry."