My first Dark is Rising fic. *wibble*
I wrote this last night for ashkitty's DiR-Slash Christmas challenge.
Am incredibly nervous about posting this, as I've not posted fic outside the HP fandom in...um...over a year and a half, I think. So, if you are in the Dark is Rising fandom, please forgive me if I've butchered these characters.
Feedback (especially concrit) would be greatly appreciated.
Brightly Shining
The Welsh moon rises over the hills. It is, of course, the same moon that rises and sets everywhere else in the world. And Will Stanton has seen many. The English moon, the Irish moon, the huge and ghostly Egyptian moon--none of them match the Welsh moon at Christmas. And though he has even seen the winter sky over Bethlehem, this sky, these stars, this moon are what he thinks of when he hears the familiar carols.
He hasn't sung with any true gift since he was a child. His voice changed at fourteen to a pleasant-enough baritone, nothing special, but he still enjoys making music. So as he stands looking out the window, he breathes softly, "O, holy night! The stars are brightly shining..." But he trails off, unable to sing of birth now. Not tonight.
There is a soft rustling sound behind him, and Will half-turns to see Bran Davies watching him from where he lies on the bed. "Why did you stop?" murmurs Bran.
"I didn't want to wake you," Will replies, crossing to stand beside the bed. He looks down at its occupant after filling a cup with water from the small pitcher on the nightstand.
It is profoundly unfair. At fifty-two, Will does not look old. Of course he has aged since coming into his powers on his eleventh birthday. He is taller, and his prepubescent soft stockiness has long since matured into the harder musculature of manhood. His dark hair is now threaded with silver, and he has worn a short beard ever since he was able to grow one. His hands are hard and brown from good, honest work, and duty and emotion have carved some lines into his face. But nevertheless there is an ageless quality about him, as there was with Merriman and all the others. He is not an old man. He will never grow old, and he will never die. It is the double-edged gift of the Old Ones.
Bran's appearance contrasts sharply with Will's. In a way, they have always been opposites of one another. Will brown and solid, Bran white and deceptively delicate. But now the differences are more pronounced than ever. Bran's skin is unusually pale, of course. Being albino, his hair and skin have always been the colour of cream. He is even paler than usual, now, however, and there is a faint translucence to his skin. In the soft light of their bedroom, it is almost difficult for Will to tell where Bran ends and the linens begin. His face, too, is relatively unlined, but only because the skin is stretched taut across his bones. His hand upon the coverlet is too thin; Will can see the sharp angles of tendons, the curve of each knuckle standing out. Only his golden falcon's eyes still hold life; as if to compensate for the slow death of his body, they shine even more brightly than usual.
Bran has never been a big man. He grew tall but retained the slenderness of his youth. Now, wasted by illness, the raven boy looks more bird-like than ever. But he is no longer a boy. He is a man, old before his time, and he is dying. Even the gifts of the Old Ones cannot conquer cancer, and it is profoundly unfair.
"You couldn't wake me. I wasn't asleep." Bran's voice causes Will to start as he realises he's been staring. He sits gingerly on the edge of the mattress, gently lifts Bran's head, and holds the rim of the cup to his dry, cracked lips.
"Drink," Will says softly. He doesn't need to, as Bran is already doing so, but he discovered some time ago that giving small orders and obeying small requests helps to make the situation marginally more bearable. After a moment, he withdraws the glass and helps Bran to lie back on the pillows. "And I'm sorry. I thought you were asleep, or I wouldn't have left," he adds, replacing the cup on the table.
Bran exhales through his nose, a small laugh. "You went to the window, cariad. Not China." He studies the ceiling, and a wistful expression crosses his face. "I assume the stars are bright tonight?"
Will nods. "Of course. It's Christmas Eve." He smiles a little, knowing what Bran wants. "They are like diamonds, but the moon is bigger and brighter than them all. It shines down on the snow, making it look like the ground is covered with stars, as well. Everything seems still tonight, and cold, like the world is frozen in time. It looks...mysterious, and wonderful."
He has done this so many times before, and yet he still looks to Bran expectantly to see how his description was received. Bran looks at him and nods ever so slightly--he could see it; he remembers; it was real--before giving him a sad smile. "Thank you."
"Of course." Will forces his own smile wider, wanting to break the melancholy mood. "And tomorrow I'll spoil it all and make you a snow angel."
Bran actually laughs at that, though it turns to a cough halfway through and causes him to gasp and clutch his chest. At last, he arches a wintry brow and breathes, "That's ironic, considering by tomorrow I could be a snow angel."
Will frowns. He wants to say that it isn't funny, but he cannot bring himself to chastise a dying man, especially not one he loves so dearly. So instead he takes Bran's hand in his and says softly, "I'll make one every year on Christmas, then, for you."
Bran's thin fingers tighten almost imperceptibly around his. "And I'll be certain to watch. And laugh."
"A grown man making snow angels will be quite a sight, I'm sure." Will chuckles. Bran doesn't reply, and Will looks down after a moment, concerned. "What is it?" he asks, schooling his tone to keep the worry from it. Bran's eyes are far away, and there is an odd look on his face.
"I'm...not certain," Bran says slowly. He looks up at Will with wide eyes. "I think...I've a feeling I may get to watch you make that snow angel tomorrow, after all."
Will's heart skips a beat and then claws its way up to his throat. He swallows hard. All the wisdom of the Old Ones has not prepared him for this. He is utterly lost, with nothing to say. With everything left to say.
"I love you!" He says it desperately, squeezing the words past the lump in his throat.
Bran breathes a laugh again. "I didn't mean immediately, cariad." He strokes Will's palm with his thumb. "But I love you, too."
Will nods, looking down at their clasped hands. "I had to say it."
"I know." They sit in silence for a moment, bathed in the fragile stillness of the night. "I'm afraid, Will," Bran whispers at last. His voice threatens to crack, and Will's heart does as well.
He squeezes the pale hand as tightly as he dares and nods again, trying in vain to summon the reassuring aura of an Old One. He gives up after a moment; now is the time to be a man. Just a man. Whose lover is dying whether Will is an Old One or not. "I know. I am, too." He sighs and looks helplessly at Bran's face. "Is there anything I can do?"
Bran goes quiet again, considering. "Tell me a story, please. A Christmas story."
"The Christmas story?"
"No." Bran smiles softly. "I know that one. I know Him. I'm ready."
Will nods. He knows another Christmas story, and what would be the harm, now? His heart feels like ice as he thinks, for the thousandth time, that he should have told this one sooner. This is a confession long overdue. And it is fitting, in a way, that tonight a king should come into his own. He looks down at Bran again, gives him another sip of water. "It's a long story," Will says at last.
"I have time." Bran's hand alights upon his wrist. "But lie down first. Be with me."
After replacing the cup, Will removes his shoes and carefully climbs beneath the bedclothes, trying not to jar the mattress. He curves his body next to Bran's and begins to stroke his palm over his chest. Bran sighs beneath Will's touch and turns his head on the pillows to smile at him. "Dw i’n dy garu di."
Will smiles and reaches up to caress his cheek. "Diolch yn fawr." He knows the language, now, but he still sounds like an Englishman.
"Sais," Bran murmurs affectionately. Then, "Tell your story, cariad."
Sometimes Will feels that Cariad is more truly his name than William Stanton. They have known one another forty years, have loved one another nearly that long. Of course it is his name. He looks into Bran's eyes, gleaming in the lamplight like burnished gold, or frankincense, or myrrh. He takes Bran's hand, entwining their fingers. And he begins.
"It began the Christmas when I turned eleven. Odd things began to happen shortly before my birthday..."
And the story grows, hour by hour, conjured by his low, rhythmic voice in the stillness of the night. He paints pictures:
Six signs, some plain and some beautiful, hanging from a simple farmboy's belt.
A thick taper being set into a circle of light against the Dark.
A cloaked rider, a mask, a quartered cross, a white horse.
A white boy and a white dog on the green grass, with eyes of gold and silver.
A ship, a sword, and a choice.
The windows frost and then begin to lighten with the grey touch of dawn as Will finishes at last, his voice gravelly from emotion and lack of sleep. "And so you are Bran Ap Arthur Ap Aurelius, the Pendragon, and I am Will Stanton, last and youngest of the Old Ones."
His voice catches as he lifts Bran's cold hand to his lips and murmurs, "And, beyond all else, through all times, I am yours, my lord."
And then he moves to kiss the lips of his beloved one last time before climbing slowly out of bed. Bran's eyes are closed, translucent lashes curving like a fringe of frost against the snow of his cheek. He looks almost as if he sleeps, so Will draws the blankets up to his chin. "Nos da, Bran, cariad," he whispers brokenly.
There is no reply.
Half-blinded by unshed tears, Will makes his way back to the window. There is an ominous numbness in his chest, a flood of grief held in check only by shock and disbelief. He will weep later. For now, he stares out the window as light slowly and inevitably spreads across the sky.
It feels wrong. Will closes his eyes and imagines that the moon is still shining, that he has but to turn and Bran will be there, watching him. His heart shattered tonight, but he would live it again if only to have those few precious moments with Bran returned to him. If only to be Cariad one last time.
But instead he looks through the frost-covered pane once more and begins to sing. His voice is far worse than usual, hoarse, tremulous, and thick with tears, but he manages the words nonetheless. "For yonder breaks a new and glorious morn. O fall on your knees! O hear the angel voices! O night divine..."
The sun, a star itself, comes over the horizon as he steps into his shoes and heads for the door, not bothering to put on his coat. It would only distort his snow angel, anyway.
He will grieve later. He is already grieving, but he has a promise to keep.
"Happy Christmas, Bran," he whispers from the doorway. "Nadolig Llawen."
* * *
"O night! O night divine! ...And that was the Saint Mark's Children's Choir singing 'O Holy Night.' The time is six thirty in the morning on this beautiful Christmas Eve day."
Something pokes Will in the ribs, and he twitches, wondering blearily when he turned the wireless on. And that carol! How dare they play that carol when Bran is dead?
Bran is dead. How could he have slept? He closes his eyes more tightly shut, feeling the scratchiness behind his lids that comes from hours spent crying.
Bran is dead. His heart twists painfully in his chest, and he moans softly.
Something jabs his ribs again, bringing him another step closer to consciousness. He groans, but then it strikes him. The wireless just said...Christmas Eve day? His eyes snap open, and he gasps.
Bran's face is inches away from his own on the pillow, smiling sleepily. "About time you woke up, cariad," he murmurs, leaning forward to peck Will on the cheek. "You were talking in your sleep. In Welsh, no less."
Will closes his eyes, feeling his heart pounding like thunder in his ears. He can't believe it. The world is spinning. Bran isn't dead. They aren't in their fifties. They are students at university, currently spending Christmas hols at Will's family's home. More specifically, they are in Will's attic bedroom.
And Bran isn't dead.
He opens his eyes again and just looks at Bran. It was all so real! He had lived years in the dream! He had seen them grow older. He had lived it all. He remembers it all. But...it was just a dream.
"Have I grown a second nose or something?" Bran asks dryly, waving a hand in front of Will's face. Will grins.
"No. I just love you. And I missed you."
Bran laughs. "You were asleep!"
"Still." He moves closer and wraps his arms about Bran protectively.
Bran yawns. "By the way, Nadolig Llawen to you, too. Though you're early."
"Better than too late," Will whispers, burying his face in Bran's shoulder and inhaling deeply. He needs to touch him, hear him, smell him--everything to make certain that this isn't the dream.
"Will, what's wrong?" It is so good to hear his voice--his real voice--again, not cracked and thin with illness.
Will looks up into his eyes and smiles. "Nothing." He clears his throat. "But...there is something I have to tell you."
"What is it?"
"A story. A Christmas story. Do you mind if we stay in bed for a bit?"
Bran kisses him softly and traces the curve of his cheek with a fingertip. "We have all the time in the world, cariad. Tell me your Christmas story."
Will reaches up and takes Bran's pale hand in his rough brown one, entwining their fingers. And he begins.
"It began the Christmas when I turned eleven. Odd things began to happen shortly before my birthday..."
Sunlight shines upon the snow outside, a new and glorious morn.
Welsh-to-English Translations
Cariad: endearment (I've seen it on various Welsh-language pages as love, darling, dearest, and beloved)
Diolch yn fawr: thank you very much
Dw i’n dy garu di: I love you
Nadolig Llawen: happy Christmas
Nos da: good night
Sais: an Englishman
Oh, so very nervous. *wibble, wibble, wibble* Here goes nothing! *posts*
Am incredibly nervous about posting this, as I've not posted fic outside the HP fandom in...um...over a year and a half, I think. So, if you are in the Dark is Rising fandom, please forgive me if I've butchered these characters.
Feedback (especially concrit) would be greatly appreciated.
Brightly Shining
The Welsh moon rises over the hills. It is, of course, the same moon that rises and sets everywhere else in the world. And Will Stanton has seen many. The English moon, the Irish moon, the huge and ghostly Egyptian moon--none of them match the Welsh moon at Christmas. And though he has even seen the winter sky over Bethlehem, this sky, these stars, this moon are what he thinks of when he hears the familiar carols.
He hasn't sung with any true gift since he was a child. His voice changed at fourteen to a pleasant-enough baritone, nothing special, but he still enjoys making music. So as he stands looking out the window, he breathes softly, "O, holy night! The stars are brightly shining..." But he trails off, unable to sing of birth now. Not tonight.
There is a soft rustling sound behind him, and Will half-turns to see Bran Davies watching him from where he lies on the bed. "Why did you stop?" murmurs Bran.
"I didn't want to wake you," Will replies, crossing to stand beside the bed. He looks down at its occupant after filling a cup with water from the small pitcher on the nightstand.
It is profoundly unfair. At fifty-two, Will does not look old. Of course he has aged since coming into his powers on his eleventh birthday. He is taller, and his prepubescent soft stockiness has long since matured into the harder musculature of manhood. His dark hair is now threaded with silver, and he has worn a short beard ever since he was able to grow one. His hands are hard and brown from good, honest work, and duty and emotion have carved some lines into his face. But nevertheless there is an ageless quality about him, as there was with Merriman and all the others. He is not an old man. He will never grow old, and he will never die. It is the double-edged gift of the Old Ones.
Bran's appearance contrasts sharply with Will's. In a way, they have always been opposites of one another. Will brown and solid, Bran white and deceptively delicate. But now the differences are more pronounced than ever. Bran's skin is unusually pale, of course. Being albino, his hair and skin have always been the colour of cream. He is even paler than usual, now, however, and there is a faint translucence to his skin. In the soft light of their bedroom, it is almost difficult for Will to tell where Bran ends and the linens begin. His face, too, is relatively unlined, but only because the skin is stretched taut across his bones. His hand upon the coverlet is too thin; Will can see the sharp angles of tendons, the curve of each knuckle standing out. Only his golden falcon's eyes still hold life; as if to compensate for the slow death of his body, they shine even more brightly than usual.
Bran has never been a big man. He grew tall but retained the slenderness of his youth. Now, wasted by illness, the raven boy looks more bird-like than ever. But he is no longer a boy. He is a man, old before his time, and he is dying. Even the gifts of the Old Ones cannot conquer cancer, and it is profoundly unfair.
"You couldn't wake me. I wasn't asleep." Bran's voice causes Will to start as he realises he's been staring. He sits gingerly on the edge of the mattress, gently lifts Bran's head, and holds the rim of the cup to his dry, cracked lips.
"Drink," Will says softly. He doesn't need to, as Bran is already doing so, but he discovered some time ago that giving small orders and obeying small requests helps to make the situation marginally more bearable. After a moment, he withdraws the glass and helps Bran to lie back on the pillows. "And I'm sorry. I thought you were asleep, or I wouldn't have left," he adds, replacing the cup on the table.
Bran exhales through his nose, a small laugh. "You went to the window, cariad. Not China." He studies the ceiling, and a wistful expression crosses his face. "I assume the stars are bright tonight?"
Will nods. "Of course. It's Christmas Eve." He smiles a little, knowing what Bran wants. "They are like diamonds, but the moon is bigger and brighter than them all. It shines down on the snow, making it look like the ground is covered with stars, as well. Everything seems still tonight, and cold, like the world is frozen in time. It looks...mysterious, and wonderful."
He has done this so many times before, and yet he still looks to Bran expectantly to see how his description was received. Bran looks at him and nods ever so slightly--he could see it; he remembers; it was real--before giving him a sad smile. "Thank you."
"Of course." Will forces his own smile wider, wanting to break the melancholy mood. "And tomorrow I'll spoil it all and make you a snow angel."
Bran actually laughs at that, though it turns to a cough halfway through and causes him to gasp and clutch his chest. At last, he arches a wintry brow and breathes, "That's ironic, considering by tomorrow I could be a snow angel."
Will frowns. He wants to say that it isn't funny, but he cannot bring himself to chastise a dying man, especially not one he loves so dearly. So instead he takes Bran's hand in his and says softly, "I'll make one every year on Christmas, then, for you."
Bran's thin fingers tighten almost imperceptibly around his. "And I'll be certain to watch. And laugh."
"A grown man making snow angels will be quite a sight, I'm sure." Will chuckles. Bran doesn't reply, and Will looks down after a moment, concerned. "What is it?" he asks, schooling his tone to keep the worry from it. Bran's eyes are far away, and there is an odd look on his face.
"I'm...not certain," Bran says slowly. He looks up at Will with wide eyes. "I think...I've a feeling I may get to watch you make that snow angel tomorrow, after all."
Will's heart skips a beat and then claws its way up to his throat. He swallows hard. All the wisdom of the Old Ones has not prepared him for this. He is utterly lost, with nothing to say. With everything left to say.
"I love you!" He says it desperately, squeezing the words past the lump in his throat.
Bran breathes a laugh again. "I didn't mean immediately, cariad." He strokes Will's palm with his thumb. "But I love you, too."
Will nods, looking down at their clasped hands. "I had to say it."
"I know." They sit in silence for a moment, bathed in the fragile stillness of the night. "I'm afraid, Will," Bran whispers at last. His voice threatens to crack, and Will's heart does as well.
He squeezes the pale hand as tightly as he dares and nods again, trying in vain to summon the reassuring aura of an Old One. He gives up after a moment; now is the time to be a man. Just a man. Whose lover is dying whether Will is an Old One or not. "I know. I am, too." He sighs and looks helplessly at Bran's face. "Is there anything I can do?"
Bran goes quiet again, considering. "Tell me a story, please. A Christmas story."
"The Christmas story?"
"No." Bran smiles softly. "I know that one. I know Him. I'm ready."
Will nods. He knows another Christmas story, and what would be the harm, now? His heart feels like ice as he thinks, for the thousandth time, that he should have told this one sooner. This is a confession long overdue. And it is fitting, in a way, that tonight a king should come into his own. He looks down at Bran again, gives him another sip of water. "It's a long story," Will says at last.
"I have time." Bran's hand alights upon his wrist. "But lie down first. Be with me."
After replacing the cup, Will removes his shoes and carefully climbs beneath the bedclothes, trying not to jar the mattress. He curves his body next to Bran's and begins to stroke his palm over his chest. Bran sighs beneath Will's touch and turns his head on the pillows to smile at him. "Dw i’n dy garu di."
Will smiles and reaches up to caress his cheek. "Diolch yn fawr." He knows the language, now, but he still sounds like an Englishman.
"Sais," Bran murmurs affectionately. Then, "Tell your story, cariad."
Sometimes Will feels that Cariad is more truly his name than William Stanton. They have known one another forty years, have loved one another nearly that long. Of course it is his name. He looks into Bran's eyes, gleaming in the lamplight like burnished gold, or frankincense, or myrrh. He takes Bran's hand, entwining their fingers. And he begins.
"It began the Christmas when I turned eleven. Odd things began to happen shortly before my birthday..."
And the story grows, hour by hour, conjured by his low, rhythmic voice in the stillness of the night. He paints pictures:
Six signs, some plain and some beautiful, hanging from a simple farmboy's belt.
A thick taper being set into a circle of light against the Dark.
A cloaked rider, a mask, a quartered cross, a white horse.
A white boy and a white dog on the green grass, with eyes of gold and silver.
A ship, a sword, and a choice.
The windows frost and then begin to lighten with the grey touch of dawn as Will finishes at last, his voice gravelly from emotion and lack of sleep. "And so you are Bran Ap Arthur Ap Aurelius, the Pendragon, and I am Will Stanton, last and youngest of the Old Ones."
His voice catches as he lifts Bran's cold hand to his lips and murmurs, "And, beyond all else, through all times, I am yours, my lord."
And then he moves to kiss the lips of his beloved one last time before climbing slowly out of bed. Bran's eyes are closed, translucent lashes curving like a fringe of frost against the snow of his cheek. He looks almost as if he sleeps, so Will draws the blankets up to his chin. "Nos da, Bran, cariad," he whispers brokenly.
There is no reply.
Half-blinded by unshed tears, Will makes his way back to the window. There is an ominous numbness in his chest, a flood of grief held in check only by shock and disbelief. He will weep later. For now, he stares out the window as light slowly and inevitably spreads across the sky.
It feels wrong. Will closes his eyes and imagines that the moon is still shining, that he has but to turn and Bran will be there, watching him. His heart shattered tonight, but he would live it again if only to have those few precious moments with Bran returned to him. If only to be Cariad one last time.
But instead he looks through the frost-covered pane once more and begins to sing. His voice is far worse than usual, hoarse, tremulous, and thick with tears, but he manages the words nonetheless. "For yonder breaks a new and glorious morn. O fall on your knees! O hear the angel voices! O night divine..."
The sun, a star itself, comes over the horizon as he steps into his shoes and heads for the door, not bothering to put on his coat. It would only distort his snow angel, anyway.
He will grieve later. He is already grieving, but he has a promise to keep.
"Happy Christmas, Bran," he whispers from the doorway. "Nadolig Llawen."
* * *
"O night! O night divine! ...And that was the Saint Mark's Children's Choir singing 'O Holy Night.' The time is six thirty in the morning on this beautiful Christmas Eve day."
Something pokes Will in the ribs, and he twitches, wondering blearily when he turned the wireless on. And that carol! How dare they play that carol when Bran is dead?
Bran is dead. How could he have slept? He closes his eyes more tightly shut, feeling the scratchiness behind his lids that comes from hours spent crying.
Bran is dead. His heart twists painfully in his chest, and he moans softly.
Something jabs his ribs again, bringing him another step closer to consciousness. He groans, but then it strikes him. The wireless just said...Christmas Eve day? His eyes snap open, and he gasps.
Bran's face is inches away from his own on the pillow, smiling sleepily. "About time you woke up, cariad," he murmurs, leaning forward to peck Will on the cheek. "You were talking in your sleep. In Welsh, no less."
Will closes his eyes, feeling his heart pounding like thunder in his ears. He can't believe it. The world is spinning. Bran isn't dead. They aren't in their fifties. They are students at university, currently spending Christmas hols at Will's family's home. More specifically, they are in Will's attic bedroom.
And Bran isn't dead.
He opens his eyes again and just looks at Bran. It was all so real! He had lived years in the dream! He had seen them grow older. He had lived it all. He remembers it all. But...it was just a dream.
"Have I grown a second nose or something?" Bran asks dryly, waving a hand in front of Will's face. Will grins.
"No. I just love you. And I missed you."
Bran laughs. "You were asleep!"
"Still." He moves closer and wraps his arms about Bran protectively.
Bran yawns. "By the way, Nadolig Llawen to you, too. Though you're early."
"Better than too late," Will whispers, burying his face in Bran's shoulder and inhaling deeply. He needs to touch him, hear him, smell him--everything to make certain that this isn't the dream.
"Will, what's wrong?" It is so good to hear his voice--his real voice--again, not cracked and thin with illness.
Will looks up into his eyes and smiles. "Nothing." He clears his throat. "But...there is something I have to tell you."
"What is it?"
"A story. A Christmas story. Do you mind if we stay in bed for a bit?"
Bran kisses him softly and traces the curve of his cheek with a fingertip. "We have all the time in the world, cariad. Tell me your Christmas story."
Will reaches up and takes Bran's pale hand in his rough brown one, entwining their fingers. And he begins.
"It began the Christmas when I turned eleven. Odd things began to happen shortly before my birthday..."
Sunlight shines upon the snow outside, a new and glorious morn.
Welsh-to-English Translations
Cariad: endearment (I've seen it on various Welsh-language pages as love, darling, dearest, and beloved)
Diolch yn fawr: thank you very much
Dw i’n dy garu di: I love you
Nadolig Llawen: happy Christmas
Nos da: good night
Sais: an Englishman
Oh, so very nervous. *wibble, wibble, wibble* Here goes nothing! *posts*