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Feb. 8th, 2005 06:55 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
theravenboyLluchddu is barking, wildly and loudly; something is not right. From his shelter beneath the antlered mask, Bran wonders what has disturbed the dog. Is some danger threatening the sheep?
--A great grey fox with a bloody mouth, and a sheep on the hillside with his neck torn out, and Cafall shot through the heart--
In sudden terror, no, not Lluchddu too, Bran struggles back to full awareness. He can see, now, and hear, and think, although the Hunter still screeches at the back of his mind and the electric tension still sings through his fingertips. There is no fox and no sheep; only an empty meadow, late afternoon, the air chill and threatening rain, and Lluchddu confused nearly out of his wits by his own master's strangeness.
Bran reaches out to scratch behind Lluchddu's ears. "Good dog, good Lluchddu." At first, Lluchddu cringes, growling softly, but at last he settles under Bran's hand. The memories return to Bran's mind: first the dream, Cafall Owen Guinevere Arthur Will Eirias, then the morning, Owen's face, all of the unforgivable words.
The dream wasn't real. My lord Arthur did not kill my mother. I did not kill Will.
Then two realizations, one on top of the other, freeze Bran suddenly.
I would have killed Will. I would have. And I did betray him. I broke my promise, to help him in his work. I left him to face the mad king of dreams without my help.
The conviction grows in Bran that Will is in danger now, this instant, and that he must go at once, or else never hope for forgiveness for these betrayals. The Hunter in his mind calls out for its quarry.
"Tyrd yma, Lluchddu." Bran runs home, flanked by his dog, as fast as he can.
***
It is too late for tea; Owen is gone again, back to the pastures. I should have told him. I should have told him I was sorry. Too late, too late; all of Bran's instincts cry out, Go now.
But if I die tonight--
Bran pulls a scrap of paper from his knapsack and writes a quick note. Then he imagines Owen reading it, face grey with anguish and old age, folding it up and placing it into his wallet next to the other note.
Bran tears up the paper and throws it in the dustbin.
Whatever I do will be treason for someone. Go. Go now.
Bran goes upstairs to his room and pulls the horn out from under his bed, tying it to his belt. He hesitates over the harp but decides against it; the instrument would not be safe, and he does not need it to transport him, now, with the Wild Magic pouring through his bloodstream. He stands still beside his bed for a moment --Da, da, I'm sorry, I'm sorry-- and then walks through his bedroom door into Milliways.
--A great grey fox with a bloody mouth, and a sheep on the hillside with his neck torn out, and Cafall shot through the heart--
In sudden terror, no, not Lluchddu too, Bran struggles back to full awareness. He can see, now, and hear, and think, although the Hunter still screeches at the back of his mind and the electric tension still sings through his fingertips. There is no fox and no sheep; only an empty meadow, late afternoon, the air chill and threatening rain, and Lluchddu confused nearly out of his wits by his own master's strangeness.
Bran reaches out to scratch behind Lluchddu's ears. "Good dog, good Lluchddu." At first, Lluchddu cringes, growling softly, but at last he settles under Bran's hand. The memories return to Bran's mind: first the dream, Cafall Owen Guinevere Arthur Will Eirias, then the morning, Owen's face, all of the unforgivable words.
The dream wasn't real. My lord Arthur did not kill my mother. I did not kill Will.
Then two realizations, one on top of the other, freeze Bran suddenly.
I would have killed Will. I would have. And I did betray him. I broke my promise, to help him in his work. I left him to face the mad king of dreams without my help.
The conviction grows in Bran that Will is in danger now, this instant, and that he must go at once, or else never hope for forgiveness for these betrayals. The Hunter in his mind calls out for its quarry.
"Tyrd yma, Lluchddu." Bran runs home, flanked by his dog, as fast as he can.
***
It is too late for tea; Owen is gone again, back to the pastures. I should have told him. I should have told him I was sorry. Too late, too late; all of Bran's instincts cry out, Go now.
But if I die tonight--
Bran pulls a scrap of paper from his knapsack and writes a quick note. Then he imagines Owen reading it, face grey with anguish and old age, folding it up and placing it into his wallet next to the other note.
Bran tears up the paper and throws it in the dustbin.
Whatever I do will be treason for someone. Go. Go now.
Bran goes upstairs to his room and pulls the horn out from under his bed, tying it to his belt. He hesitates over the harp but decides against it; the instrument would not be safe, and he does not need it to transport him, now, with the Wild Magic pouring through his bloodstream. He stands still beside his bed for a moment --Da, da, I'm sorry, I'm sorry-- and then walks through his bedroom door into Milliways.
