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[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 there was nothing for him to see or do in that room; there were only Old Ones, hands linked in a closed chain, staring blankly into the air.

Bran has no other duties, for the moment, and he can hardly focus for the weight of the power pushing on his mind. He would seek out Moiraine, except that she has gone to Milliways. Instead, he crosses the castle courtyard to walk to his mother's chambers.

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[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.livejournal.com]

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.