(Untitled)

[theravenboy]

Not long ago, the Circle of the Light took to a room in the west wing of the castle; night and day, in rotating shifts, the Old Ones focus on holding the damaged spells that guard the Summer Country. Half of the Circle, including Merriman and Will, is currently on duty, and the other half sleeps. Bran looked in on the Circle this afternoon, but

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[wolflord_andain]

Bran's scent is on the wind in this place, the very feel of him somehow imprinted on the earth.

Galadan follows the call, heedless of the imprint of his own passing, the burning, writhing Wild that follows him wherever he goes, the tang of his own power that even the strongest shielding will not entirely hide.

He is hunting, and there is little on his mind but his target.

Such are the hazards of wolf-shape, at least when his blood is high, body yearning for the kill.

[theravenboy]

The land speaks to Bran all the time; it usually says Pendragon, and sometimes Bran. Beware! the Summer Country whispers now. Intruder!

Bran jerks his head up, fully alert despite the blazing headache, and starts cataloguing his options. He's quite alone; few men and women walk abroad in the country these days. He's not wearing a sword, and he left the harp and hunting horn in his chambers. Bran is sure Will and Merriman hear the same call he does, but they're busy with their work and might not come at once.

Bran reaches down into himself, summoning what strength he can, and hurries forward towards the front gate of the castle. He doesn't run; he'll need all his power when he encounters the visitor.

[wolflord_andain]

He will, indeed, for even so far from his home, so far from Fionavar (so far from Time itself) Galadan is still a force not to be treated lightly.

He is running at a good clip, now, distance devoured by his relentless stride.

There is the castle, there is the gate, and there--

There is the one whom he seeks.

Galadan does not howl, he does not want to attract any more attention than may be helped, but his red eyes flash fire as he looks at the albino boy.

Fire, and the promise of swift and violent death.

[theravenboy]

To a mortal onlooker, the young man approaching the gate might seem odd, but not supernatural: a white-haired, white-skinned young man in a black shirt and black trousers, standing tall and unsmiling as he faces the wolf.

But Bran has called up all the magic that remains his to claim, and let his consciousness recede behind it. The Wild Hunter stares out of Bran's golden eyes.

[wolflord_andain]

Galadan growls, the sound rumbling deep in his chest, threat and promise both.

Then his nostrils flare, ears pricking up as he feels--

He feels--

No, it cannot be. He would have--

With a loud snarl, though not a whit of slackening in his pace of approach, Galadan's form blurs from wolf to man, hand dropping to the sword at his side.

"You. But it cannot be so. It cannot be."

His mouth is still twisted in a snarl, wolf battling with man for supremacy, or so it appears.

[theravenboy]

The Hunter knew Galadan when they first met. Now he meets Galadan with a calm readiness: We are kin, of a sort, and I do not fear you.

"Why not, Galadan?" the Hunter inquires. Faint thunder echoes in his voice.

[sign_seeker]

Raven's visit some increasingly indeterminate time ago shook the threads of this world. But he was a familiar presence, and not an unwelcome one, and Moiraine carried a feather of his already, and so it was easy enough to adapt the spells to his presence.

None of that is true of Galadan.

And the Summer Country is increasingly strained, these days.

The sudden influx of so much unfamiliar Wild Magic hits the country like a blow. Old Ones gasp, hands tightening, minds fighting to keep the web of spells together. And then Bran calls on his power. The power of the Wild Hunt, the power of Herne -- the power that does not belong to the Summer Country.

And the Summer Country is anchored, right now, on Bran.

The balance between Pendragon and Hunter is tipping, unbalancing, slipping further and further from its precarious center, and the already frantic work of holding the spells becomes a battle in truth.

[wolflord_andain]

Galadan's lip lifts away from his teeth, snarl unheard but fully present as he paces toward Bran, toward Cer--

No.

"It will not matter to you much longer, fa--Bran. But I will make your ending swift."

His sword is already clearing its sheath as he speaks, voice harsh and almost ringing in the clear Summer Country air.

[theravenboy]

"No." The Hunter touches the Summer Country's power, preparing to raise it as a shield or a weapon. He can feel the kingdom trembling around him. If he draws too much from the land, here and now, it might snap: an earthquake, perhaps, and then the sea rising over the shore, and the fields and woods, and the castle itself.

If Galadan kills Bran, of course, the Summer Country is doomed.

Now, thinks the part of Bran that is still aware, would be a very good time for someone else to come help.

[wolflord_andain]

"Yes."

He sounds caught between wolf and man, teeth fairly snapping around the word.

His pace is swifter, sword coming up and poised to strike.

And yet--

He holds, teeth bared and gleaming, grey eyes fever-bright in his face.

He wants so badly to spill this man, no, this boy's blood, and yet--

"Damn you!"

Galadan, lord of the andain, passionless master of intrigue and cool, distant will, fairly howls that last.

Only part of it is directed at Bran.

"Damn you, father, will you not leave me be!"

[theravenboy]

Father? Bran blinks twice, white eyelashes flickering. I am not anyone's father. Even the Hunter is startled.

[sign_seeker]

Merriman and Will are the oldest and the youngest of their kind, and there are certain gifts that they have that others of the Old Ones do not. Or perhaps it is only that the pattern must be held, and most of the Circle must stay behind to concentrate all their focus on that, and only a few can be spared to split their attention.

Those few, however, must be spared. If Bran is hurt -- if the regent cannot hold the pattern -- then it makes no difference if the spells are maintained or not.

At any rate, it is only two figures that dash into the courtyard now. One is a young man, with flopping brown hair and a round face now drawn with weariness and urgency; the other, white-haired and craggy, towers over him. Both of them stumble as they run towards Bran and Galadan; both of them run anyway, and faint whiteness shimmers around them from the intensity of the power of the Light that surrounds them.

[wolflord_andain]

And it is the Light that pricks at the corners of Galadan's mind, that sends his hackles up more than they are already.

His snarl this time is wordless and far, far more wolf than man.

His teeth are very white as he bares them one final time at Bran, free hand coming up to rest over his heart, twisting in a well-remembered gesture.

He lunges toward Bran, growling low and deep in his throat, but the Light is stronger here, now, and he cannot stand against it.

With one last howl, sharp and vicious, he turns away, black shape fading to shadow as he runs.

Leaving Bran, son of the Pendragon and temporary linchpin of this country outside Time, behind him.

Alive.

[creator_raven]

And as he runs, a swift winged shape begins to pace him, shadow covering the wolflord as he moves along the ground.

There is a sensation much like a very large hand shaking Galadan by the scruff of his neck, and the Summer Country fades away around him.

He tries once more to howl, rage, and despair, and defiance, but in the space between there is no air at all.

It is a pity.

But Raven's eardrums are happy.

And when the vertigo of passage fades, Galadan is running toward Milliways.

Hopefully he stops before he dunks himself in the lake.

It is still very cold, after all.

It would not do for the lord of the andain to catch a chill.

Really.