The Raven Boy

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.

From:

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.

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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.

From:

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.

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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.

From:

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.

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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.

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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.

From:

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.

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"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!"

From:

theravenboy

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

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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.

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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.

From:

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.

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Only when the intruder is well and truly gone does the power of the Light fade from around the Old Ones. The urge to find something to lean against, some measure of outside support, is nearly overpowering.

Merlion rakes a hand through his hair, an impatient gesture masking both exhaustion and tightly-controlled fury. All clear, is the silent message he sends to the others of the Circle. For the present. Hold fast for now.

When he finally speaks aloud, addressing Bran, his voice is quiet and rough. 'Are you unharmed?'

From:

theravenboy

Bran's been leaning forward, breathing hard. He straightens. "Yes. Iesu mawr. What was that about?"

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Will shakes his head, not in negation but as if to clear his head, and cannot quite hide the way his eyes tighten at the too-sudden movement. He shoves his hair off his forehead absently.

"Wild Magic, all through..."

"I don't know. He should not have been here. Been able to come."

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'The natural defences of this land are not what they could be at the moment, I fear,' Merlion says, gritting his teeth. 'It is a mercy that matters did not escalate further. What precisely happened?'

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theravenboy

"I was in the courtyard, near the fountain, and the land told me that someone was here who did not belong. So I came as fast as I could, and there was a wolf, except he was Galadan. I am sorry, I am not saying this at all clearly."

Bran swallows. The headache from before has not dissipated. "Of course, I had nothing at all to face him with, but I woke the Hunter, and somehow.. well. Galadan must know the Hunter, or something very like him. I think he might have fled even before you came. I don't know."

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"Father, he said."

It's hard to think these days; harder to carry on a serious conversation. All of them have less and less attention to spare.

Today's sudden, desperate struggle helped none of that.

"I do not know if he was talking to you, Bran, or someone inside his head. It was closed, or at least I could not see. Couldn't look enough, at any rate." He did not exactly have attention or energy to spare. "Wolf and man, anyway, yes. Both."

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'It would not surprise me if there were further parallels between the worlds -- parallels of which we know very little.' He is attempting to slow his breathing, to marshall enough of his thoughts to draw upon any bit of knowledge that might be of use. 'In our own world...well, the stories of the Hunter have any number of connections to other gods of the island. Knowing where one legend ends and another begins is difficult enough without the added complication of another world's past.'

There is no point in even trying to begin to piece together connections of this kind. Not now, and perhaps not until much later, when they have had a chance to recover some of their strength.

'Whatever he was thinking, it was clear enough that his intent was to kill.'

From:

theravenboy

"It must have been. But it doesn't make any sense. How did he come here? Why did he come here? Was he looking for me or for someone in some other world, and is he likely to come back?"

Bran sags against the castle wall. "And we have no way to find out about any of this."

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Will pushes his hair back again, the habitual gesture now half a forehead rub against the pounding headache and exhaustion.

"Not just now, we do not."

Exhaustion or not, he meets Bran's eyes and then Merriman's.

"It depends partly on where precisely he came from."

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'I would hazard a guess that Milliways served as a bridge of sorts.' The statement is flat, and just this side of irritated. 'He would not be the first to find the way here from there. And if he came following a scent, so to speak, he would have a means of tracking his quarry to ground.'

One corner of his mouth twitches at the thought.

'The Hunt had that power in our world; it enabled them to chase the Dark to the ends of the earth.'

From:

theravenboy

"Well." Bran sighs. "A good guess, and we are not likely to get anything better. In any case, nothing else is likely to happen right now, and you are hardly standing up, either of you. If I commanded you, as your regent, would you get something to eat and some rest?"

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Will breathes out in tired, wan amusement.

And inclines his head with a faint irony that is, nonetheless, not refusal.

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