methuselahsattemptatlife:

A flash of white hair through the trees. The tumble of fall leaves, loud and scratchy, echoed among the foliage. Bursts of oranges and yellows rained down on him as he stumbled and hit a thin sapling. In the rolling, lush, and misty hills of Wales, one boy was in a hurry to get into town. There, all the people would be coming in from England, at the train station. It called out to him. He knew that was where he would find them. The one. The clouds over head shifted and shook off their shadows, as if anticipating. All around him the still, cold air burned his lungs as he pushed clouds of steam passed his lips. The lush green field showed through the thick woods as his boots pounded the earth. He strove for it – it was the last obstacle between him and the edge of town. Pushing off the sapling, he took off at a run, his black scarf flying.
His timer was counting down. 000h 00d 15m 45s. Fifteen minutes. He turned his wrist to look at it through dark sunglasses and grinned. He was excited. Nervous. Whoever it was, he hoped they liked him. He was really sure he would really like them, no matter who it was. As he ran his heart pounded in his chest dangerously. It ached with anxiety, as well as being pushed. He’d never run so fast in his life.

Of course his father, a preacher, was skeptical about meeting his true love at thirteen. Everybody was. Bran had been the only one in his class with at least three years less on his timer than anyone. That made him an outsider, but he already was, with his moonlight-pale hair and skin.
What was so special about Bran Davies? No one really knew. His mother came down out of the woods thirteen years ago, with a baby in her arms, and met his father. The moment they met, both their timers synced. He took her in, cared for her, fell in love at once with both her and the baby she had brought. Him. But one day she vanished, and he was left with a baby and a broken heart. The villagers and farmers had to raise Bran until he was three, because his father was wandering the hills searching for her. But she was never found again.

Bran reached the edge of the trees and his long legs carried him across the even ground of the field. He laughed aloud, disturbing a flock of peasants, which took flight in fear and he was lost in a flurry of feathers. Nothing could stop him now. He was drawing closer and closer to the station. Who would they be? What would they look like? Their hair, their smile? Would they love to run? Would they want to build a life together, so young? He didn’t know. He was so excited. It bubbled up in him and he felt like he’d explode. As he sailed up the steps of the train station, the steam from the wheels filled the platform, and he panted, heart racing.
He checked his timer. 000d 00h 05min. 23s. Five minutes. Hastily he tucked his black turtleneck in. He pulled up his black jeans and kicked the mud off his black boots. His pale hands shook with nerves and adrenaline as he fixed his scarf.

000d 00h 03m 30s. The doors to the train opened and people poured out onto the platform. Friends and family sent to meet them flooded in as well, and Bran gasped as he was swept up in the current of bodies. Thick, old coats that smelled of mothballs and smoke-ridden passengers puffing on pipes covered him up. His timer was counting down, fast. He pushed through the people, wadding through them as if they were obstacles and he needed to reach a goal at the end. And he did. Clumps of people stopped and hugged and talked lovingly. Some rushed off. He glanced at his timer. 000d 00h 00m 14s. He could feel blood rushing in his ears.
Then, suddenly, he smacked into another figure his size and they collapsed together amidst the shifting bodies. “Ouch,” Bran groaned, his body finally catching up to him. It burned and ached with the damage pushing he had done to get down here so fast, and he could hardly sit up. His glasses had fallen off as well, so the world was painfully bright.

“Damn,” swore a boy’s voice with a softly Northern English lilt. “Sorry, sorry, I was shoved from behind. Didn’t mean to knock your block off.”
Bran rubbed his eyes until they began to focus and the boy knelt at his side, holding out his glasses. His timer had run out. Bran looked at his own. It was out as well, empty. He looked at the boy in shock. A curl of nut brown hair, like bark on a sapling. A pair of warm hazel eyes that reminded him of tea early in the morning before a sheep run, and the lush icing on the cakes Mrs. Stanton makes every Christmas. His heart soared.
Soft lips parted, surprise taking over this new face, and he tugged at his gray scarf. “Your eyes,” he said breathlessly, even though it was Bran who was panting. “They’re gold, just like pirate treasure.”
A disarming grin took over Bran’s face. “You think so?” He accepted the glasses and fiddled with them a bit, looking up at the boy. “You’re English.”

“And your hair is white.” The boy replied. “I thought we were exchanging obvious things.” Bran laughed, and the other boy held out his wrist. “Are… Are you it? The one?” Bran held out his own wrist, and they both studied the other’s empty timer.
“You got lucky,” Bran said. “I’m a handsome bloke.”
The boy burst out laughing, and wiped his eye. “You got lucky my ma is not a fairy hater!” He smiled warmly and held out his hand, the one with the timer on the wrist. “I’m William. Will Stanton.”
Bran clasped his hand with his timer arm and shook it firmly. “Bran. Bran Davies. I like your eyes.”
“Come off it!” Will laughed.
“No, really,” Bran insisted, grinning as they got to their feet, arms locked. “They’re lovely. I’ve never seen hair so soft, either. Everybody around here has black hair, coarse like steel wool.”
Will helped him up and supported him when he began to stumble. “Jeez, my legs,” the white-haired boy muttered. He slung his arm around the other boy’s shoulder, and felt an arm wrap around his waist.
“Don’t worry. I’m here.” Will said gently. “And I always will be.”

–

“When the Dark comes rising six shall turn it back;
Three from the circle, three from the track;
Wood, bronze, iron; Water, fire, stone;
Five will return and one go alone.

Iron for the birthday; bronze carried long;
Wood from the burning; stone out of song;
Fire in the candle ring; water from the thaw;
Six signs the circle and the grail gone before.

Fire on the mountain shall find the harp of gold
Played to wake the sleepers, oldest of old.
Power from the Green Witch, lost beneath the sea.
All shall find the Light at last, silver on the tree.”

― Susan Cooper, The Dark is Rising Sequence

THIS IS SO FUCKING CUTE AAAAHHHH FUCK YOU HOW CAN I STOP SCREAMING NOW LOOK AT THIS, READ THIS, IT’S PERFECT AAAAHHHHHH

my fucking feelings

this is amazing and i’m going to read it a million times and memorize it by heart.