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Feb. 8th, 2005 03:37 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
sign_seekerWill is walking through a labyrinth. His trainers crunch on white gravel; the walls are high hedges of hawthorne, too tall to see through, dense and thick-leafed. He is not worried; he turns corners at random.
He is following something. As he wonders what, he knows: the sound of Greensleeves played by a flute, flowing through the air. It is lovely, sweet and soft, and he hurries his steps. He turns right, left, right again, following the sound, trying to catch up, but it grows no louder, or perhaps it is receding even as he advances.
He needs to find it, needs to find Paul. He must. He has to warn him. He speeds up, nearly running, but the lovely haunting music eludes him, dancing just out of reach. Paul does not know the danger, he must be told--
Dead end. He turns around, trying to backtrack, but the hedges have closed in around him. Green leaves are everywhere around him, and the ground is littered with shed twigs.
A flash of movement, and he looks down. A rook tugs at something on the ground, futilely, hopping and digging claws into the twigs for purchase. Will crouches, and it releases the thing, cocking its head at him, bright-eyed. "Kaaaaaak," it croaks. "Kaaaaaaak." The music has stopped, but he does not notice. He bends to look.
It is a key, a small ebon key buried in the dirt. He pulls at it, but it is stuck firmly. He uses both hands, leaning all his weight against it, and finally the key slides free. The rook is gone. He stands, and inserts it into a keyhole in the hedge, which is now great doors of carved wood. They open.
Paul stands on the other side, playing the flute. Will steps towards him, ablaze with gladness, because he made it after all, found Paul in time--
Paul turns around. His coat is green, his face is the Walker's, Hawkin's bright-eyed face aged with agony and centuries. "Foolish," he whispers. "Foolish, Old One."
Will realizes that he forgot to put holly over the door before he opened it, forgot to guard the threshhold. Paul-Hawkin-Walker clutches the flute to him, and it is ancient worn bronze. "Mine," he says. "My choice. Go away. I wish I had never heard of the Light and the Dark, and your stupid quests. Go away."
And Will stands alone on a high headland above the sea, and the wind is in his ears, and Tethys's soft laughter.
He is following something. As he wonders what, he knows: the sound of Greensleeves played by a flute, flowing through the air. It is lovely, sweet and soft, and he hurries his steps. He turns right, left, right again, following the sound, trying to catch up, but it grows no louder, or perhaps it is receding even as he advances.
He needs to find it, needs to find Paul. He must. He has to warn him. He speeds up, nearly running, but the lovely haunting music eludes him, dancing just out of reach. Paul does not know the danger, he must be told--
Dead end. He turns around, trying to backtrack, but the hedges have closed in around him. Green leaves are everywhere around him, and the ground is littered with shed twigs.
A flash of movement, and he looks down. A rook tugs at something on the ground, futilely, hopping and digging claws into the twigs for purchase. Will crouches, and it releases the thing, cocking its head at him, bright-eyed. "Kaaaaaak," it croaks. "Kaaaaaaak." The music has stopped, but he does not notice. He bends to look.
It is a key, a small ebon key buried in the dirt. He pulls at it, but it is stuck firmly. He uses both hands, leaning all his weight against it, and finally the key slides free. The rook is gone. He stands, and inserts it into a keyhole in the hedge, which is now great doors of carved wood. They open.
Paul stands on the other side, playing the flute. Will steps towards him, ablaze with gladness, because he made it after all, found Paul in time--
Paul turns around. His coat is green, his face is the Walker's, Hawkin's bright-eyed face aged with agony and centuries. "Foolish," he whispers. "Foolish, Old One."
Will realizes that he forgot to put holly over the door before he opened it, forgot to guard the threshhold. Paul-Hawkin-Walker clutches the flute to him, and it is ancient worn bronze. "Mine," he says. "My choice. Go away. I wish I had never heard of the Light and the Dark, and your stupid quests. Go away."
And Will stands alone on a high headland above the sea, and the wind is in his ears, and Tethys's soft laughter.
