DiR: Memories of Being (Bran/Will)
May. 8th, 2005 05:40 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
soraciaTitle: Memories of Being
Author: Kagemihari![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
flamesword
Rating: G, I suppose
Pairing: Bran/Will
Kagi's notes: Er. Wrote the main part of this in about an hour one night, some weeks after I had finished rereading SotT. I make no promises of quality or coherence, and it is short. And weird. (DiR in general is weird, so I suppose that's not a warning.) I am a linguist who thinks too much, and the entire point of this ficlet is the three questions, or rather the same question in three tenses, at the end. Sad, yes. Also, I am now nervous as hell about it, and make apologies to Ash for any resemblance borne to the snippets she just posted... it's entirely coincidental, if rather unsettling, and she assured me that it was okay to go ahead and post this, so. *cough* It ends differently? ^^; But there needs generally to be more Bran/Will, which this is, or nearly, and I kind of like it, so. x-posted to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
thedarkisrising
He came to the university one day, asking for Stanton. Will Stanton, he said. He was directed to the anthropology department; for Will had found, like his mentor before him, that having the reputation of being in such a field of study gave you the most useful ability to go strange places and ask odd questions, and have no one think anything of it.
Will knew him at once, for all that he had grown taller and broader in the shoulders, and for all that it had been nearly ten years since he had last seen him. His hair was still more white than blonde, his skin unnaturally pale, and his face still looked too young for his old, old eyes. Oddly tawny colored eyes that were older, even, and more weary than when Will had seen them last. Yet there was a spark in them of something that burned with a clear, sure fire.
"Will Stanton," he said, and his voice was soft, and slow, with a Welsh lilt that made his voice ripple like a quiet wind.
Will nodded. "I am," he said.
The stranger who was not a stranger tilted his head, studying Will with his strange colored eyes. "I wonder," he said meditatively, "if you would have lunch with me?" He had not introduced himself, and no one asked for his name.
Will smiled, a faint shadow of a smile.
They went to a small cafe, eating mostly in silence, and often on Will's face there was that shadow smile, as if he knew something and was glad of it. When they left, they walked without speaking, following a trail to a nearby cliff that overlooked the sea; for it was a seaside town. There they stood side by side, in comfortably expressionless silence, looking out at the sea for several long minutes.
When the stranger, who was not a stranger, spoke at last, it was in a musing, almost dreamy tone. He seemed to be looking at something other than the view before his eyes. "I have these dreams," he said slowly, "dreams, and nightmares. They are clear, vivid, as if they were memories and not dreams--yet I have no memory of them. I dream of impossible things, things which cannot have been and cannot be." He fell silent, and when he continued, his voice was softer, and yet more sure.
"I dream of a hawk, a tree, and a crystal sword. I dream of a boy with bright, sharp eyes that see the past and the future, and the souls of men. Of a battle and a war, against forces which could rend the world across time and space.
"I dream of a drowned land that is now destroyed, and I am the one who caused it's destruction. I know this, in my dream, but I do not know why. I left that land to it's fate for my own ends, which I cannot recall; I was saddened, but not sorry." He did not look at Will, and his voice remained calm, even--as if he knew well, that he were saying things already known.
"I have blood on my hands, of those I once knew, if only for a moment; and now I cannot remember who they are, or what they died for. It seems to me a great injustice--and then I remember that it is a dream, not a memory, and so it cannot be true."
Silence hung, the final word lingering in the air, like the echo of a challenge, or a question. Then the quiet voice spoke once more, in words still soft, but resonant, insistent.
"But these dreams, they speak of truth. They speak of memory. It troubles me, that I have done, that I have been things I cannot now remember. I have, for many years, told myself that it is not possible, that I am being foolish; and then, that it is not for me to say that I must know, when those who are greater, and no doubt, wiser than me have said that I must not."
The soft, smooth voice went on in a steady murmur like a rising wind, and Will was aware of a gathering tension in the air, or in himself, a sense of a wave about to break.
"I have found," and the words were slightly wry now as the voice which did not at all belong to a stranger continued, "that I am no longer content with this."
The man at his side turned finally to look at him, fixing Will with his strange eyes, as he paused just briefly--for emphasis, or balance, or perhaps to collect his thoughts. "My dreams tell me that I have a past I do not know, memories I cannot recall, with consequences I cannot imagine. My dreams tell me that you, Will Stanton--that you can give them to me."
The wind blew strands of pale hair across his golden gaze, but it remained still unblinking, unwavering, and intent.
"Tell me, Will Stanton. Tell me--who am I?"
Will swallowed, meeting those eyes steadily as a curious thrill ran down his spine. "You are Bran," he answered slowly. "Son of Owen Davies, the farmer. You live near the Aberdyfi, under the shadow of Cader Idris."
Bran nodded, deliberately. "Yes," he said. "That is who I am." His head canted slightly, watchfully, searching again. "But now, tell me. Tell me, who have I been?"
A long silence fell, as if the question were a heavy weight that held it down, immovable.
"You were...the Pendragon," Will said finally, his voice stilted as it forced it's way out through the silence. "You were the son of Arthur--brought to the town in the Grey King's land when you were young, that you might aid the Light. You were... at my side, at the end, at the last great rising of the Dark, when it fell for the final time. You were... a friend." And more, perhaps...
A smile then, a faint and wondering joy crossed Bran's face--the kind of smile one might wear when hearing the notes of an old familiar song in an unexpected place. The smile was one of recognition, understanding; remembering things, both the spoken and unspoken.
"Yes," he sighed at last. "Yes. I was."
And he did not ask the last question, for they both knew the answer.
Who will I become?
Mine.
Author: Kagemihari
flameswordRating: G, I suppose
Pairing: Bran/Will
Kagi's notes: Er. Wrote the main part of this in about an hour one night, some weeks after I had finished rereading SotT. I make no promises of quality or coherence, and it is short. And weird. (DiR in general is weird, so I suppose that's not a warning.) I am a linguist who thinks too much, and the entire point of this ficlet is the three questions, or rather the same question in three tenses, at the end. Sad, yes. Also, I am now nervous as hell about it, and make apologies to Ash for any resemblance borne to the snippets she just posted... it's entirely coincidental, if rather unsettling, and she assured me that it was okay to go ahead and post this, so. *cough* It ends differently? ^^; But there needs generally to be more Bran/Will, which this is, or nearly, and I kind of like it, so. x-posted to
thedarkisrisingHe came to the university one day, asking for Stanton. Will Stanton, he said. He was directed to the anthropology department; for Will had found, like his mentor before him, that having the reputation of being in such a field of study gave you the most useful ability to go strange places and ask odd questions, and have no one think anything of it.
Will knew him at once, for all that he had grown taller and broader in the shoulders, and for all that it had been nearly ten years since he had last seen him. His hair was still more white than blonde, his skin unnaturally pale, and his face still looked too young for his old, old eyes. Oddly tawny colored eyes that were older, even, and more weary than when Will had seen them last. Yet there was a spark in them of something that burned with a clear, sure fire.
"Will Stanton," he said, and his voice was soft, and slow, with a Welsh lilt that made his voice ripple like a quiet wind.
Will nodded. "I am," he said.
The stranger who was not a stranger tilted his head, studying Will with his strange colored eyes. "I wonder," he said meditatively, "if you would have lunch with me?" He had not introduced himself, and no one asked for his name.
Will smiled, a faint shadow of a smile.
They went to a small cafe, eating mostly in silence, and often on Will's face there was that shadow smile, as if he knew something and was glad of it. When they left, they walked without speaking, following a trail to a nearby cliff that overlooked the sea; for it was a seaside town. There they stood side by side, in comfortably expressionless silence, looking out at the sea for several long minutes.
When the stranger, who was not a stranger, spoke at last, it was in a musing, almost dreamy tone. He seemed to be looking at something other than the view before his eyes. "I have these dreams," he said slowly, "dreams, and nightmares. They are clear, vivid, as if they were memories and not dreams--yet I have no memory of them. I dream of impossible things, things which cannot have been and cannot be." He fell silent, and when he continued, his voice was softer, and yet more sure.
"I dream of a hawk, a tree, and a crystal sword. I dream of a boy with bright, sharp eyes that see the past and the future, and the souls of men. Of a battle and a war, against forces which could rend the world across time and space.
"I dream of a drowned land that is now destroyed, and I am the one who caused it's destruction. I know this, in my dream, but I do not know why. I left that land to it's fate for my own ends, which I cannot recall; I was saddened, but not sorry." He did not look at Will, and his voice remained calm, even--as if he knew well, that he were saying things already known.
"I have blood on my hands, of those I once knew, if only for a moment; and now I cannot remember who they are, or what they died for. It seems to me a great injustice--and then I remember that it is a dream, not a memory, and so it cannot be true."
Silence hung, the final word lingering in the air, like the echo of a challenge, or a question. Then the quiet voice spoke once more, in words still soft, but resonant, insistent.
"But these dreams, they speak of truth. They speak of memory. It troubles me, that I have done, that I have been things I cannot now remember. I have, for many years, told myself that it is not possible, that I am being foolish; and then, that it is not for me to say that I must know, when those who are greater, and no doubt, wiser than me have said that I must not."
The soft, smooth voice went on in a steady murmur like a rising wind, and Will was aware of a gathering tension in the air, or in himself, a sense of a wave about to break.
"I have found," and the words were slightly wry now as the voice which did not at all belong to a stranger continued, "that I am no longer content with this."
The man at his side turned finally to look at him, fixing Will with his strange eyes, as he paused just briefly--for emphasis, or balance, or perhaps to collect his thoughts. "My dreams tell me that I have a past I do not know, memories I cannot recall, with consequences I cannot imagine. My dreams tell me that you, Will Stanton--that you can give them to me."
The wind blew strands of pale hair across his golden gaze, but it remained still unblinking, unwavering, and intent.
"Tell me, Will Stanton. Tell me--who am I?"
Will swallowed, meeting those eyes steadily as a curious thrill ran down his spine. "You are Bran," he answered slowly. "Son of Owen Davies, the farmer. You live near the Aberdyfi, under the shadow of Cader Idris."
Bran nodded, deliberately. "Yes," he said. "That is who I am." His head canted slightly, watchfully, searching again. "But now, tell me. Tell me, who have I been?"
A long silence fell, as if the question were a heavy weight that held it down, immovable.
"You were...the Pendragon," Will said finally, his voice stilted as it forced it's way out through the silence. "You were the son of Arthur--brought to the town in the Grey King's land when you were young, that you might aid the Light. You were... at my side, at the end, at the last great rising of the Dark, when it fell for the final time. You were... a friend." And more, perhaps...
A smile then, a faint and wondering joy crossed Bran's face--the kind of smile one might wear when hearing the notes of an old familiar song in an unexpected place. The smile was one of recognition, understanding; remembering things, both the spoken and unspoken.
"Yes," he sighed at last. "Yes. I was."
And he did not ask the last question, for they both knew the answer.
Who will I become?
Mine.
