Chapter Text
Wil opened his eyes. It didn’t seem to make much of a difference.
He tried to sit up, and groaned. He touched his hand to his aching ribs, “I’m alive.”
“Well, you’re sort of alive.”
Wil felt his breath escape him as he recognized the familiar voice. He sat up slowly, his eyes gradually adapting to the darkness.
“Bandon? Is that you?” Wil’s hand reached for the place his sword had been.
“No sword. No Elfstones either,” Bandon sounded closer now, “I checked.”
“I gave them to Mareth, before I –" Wil hesitated, remembering, “before I fell into the water.”
“Before you died, you mean.”
Flames erupted suddenly between them. Wil could see Bandon clearly now, his hand drawing back from the crackling branches he had set alight.
“You have many questions. Ask them,” Bandon sat down across from Wil, the small fire between them.
“Why should I trust anything you say?”
“Have I ever lied to you, Wil?” Bandon met Wil’s gaze, and held it.
“No. No, I suppose you haven’t,” Wil admitted, reluctantly. He could feel anger growing in him as his shock subsided. “You’re not a liar, just a murderer.”
Whatever response he was expecting, it wasn’t the silence that followed. He tried to remember. There had been the pain of the wound, then the cold embrace of the water, followed by an unexpected feeling of peace. Then, he had awoken - somewhere. Furies in the sky, an attack, a sudden flash of light. He could remember no further.
“That was me, attacking the Fury –"
“Get out of my head!”
Bandon lifted his hands, palms out in a gesture of peace, “Okay, okay. You’re right. Sorry.”
“I don’t understand!” Wil rose to his feet, his voice rising in frustration. He lifted his shirt, his unbroken skin glowing in the firelight. “The Warlock Lord ran me through with his sword. It was a fatal wound,” Wil ran his fingers over the spot, “where is it? Where am I?” He looked at Bandon. “You’re dead. Am I dead?”
“Yes, but not irreversibly,” the corner of Bandon’s mouth twitched with wry humor, “there’s hope for you yet.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Bandon sighed, shrugged. “As far as I can tell - from what I’ve seen, and from my visions - this place is a kind of plane of existence for those killed, but still bound by magic to the land of the living. The correct spell could bring us back to life,” he stared into the fire, “if someone with magic knew it existed, and took the trouble to perform it.”
Wil ran his hands through his hair. “Unbelievable,” he shook his head, “I make the ultimate sacrifice and instead of a peaceful afterlife, or oblivion, whatever - I get this!” He gestured accusingly in a few randomly selected directions, “some kind of hellish realm with undead magic beings.
Just my luck.
Wait - how am I bound to the land of the living?
Wait! Is Allanon here?”
“Allanon?” Bandon lifted his gaze to Wil, “He’s dead then?”
“Not here then, I take it?”
“No,” Bandon pressed a clenched fist to his mouth, “not here.” He shut his eyes.
A few moments passed in silence.
Wil looked around at their immediate surroundings. A cave of some kind. Bedding in the corner. Various weapons in a disorganized heap. Piles of torn clothing. “How long have you been here?”
“I’m not sure how time passes here. There’s no day or night. No need for food or drink. The mind however,” Bandon tapped his temple, “does need rest, or bad things happen. But I stopped counting sleeps a while back.
As for your question - you’re a Shannara. I think you can’t fully die if you are childless, or at least not the way you died. You need to pass on that special Shannara blood of yours.”
“Great.”
Bandon gave a wry smile again, “Don’t worry. I’ve had visions of you being brought back to life. You just need to stay alive here until that happens.”
“Stay alive?” Wil touched his bruised ribs again. “What happens if you get hurt here?”
“Death here is real death. Final death. Your old wounds don’t exist here, but new ones,” Bandon gestured towards Wil’s ribs, “like the bruise you got from me dropping you on the way here - sorry, by the way - are very real.”
“So, what, we spend eternity together in this cave now? Hiding from Furies and whatnot? Singing songs around the campfire?”
Bandon raised his eyebrows. “Don’t be so dramatic. I’m sure your new girlfriend will figure it out.
And we don’t hide from Furies and whatnot, we fight them,” he added.
“That’s it?”
“That’s it. I sleep, I fight, I sleep again. I think sometimes, but I wouldn’t recommend it.”
“That’s a lot to take in. A lot,” Wil rubbed his chin, paused. “Why are you here?”
“I –" Bandon looked at Wil thoughtfully, “I’ve actually dreamed about this moment.”
“You had a vision about this?”
“No,” Bandon replied, slowly, “I just mean I imagined it a lot, what I would say to you, and how.”
He stood up, walked across the cave and picked up a sword. He weighed the feel of it in his hand, squared his shoulders and strode back.
Wil took an instinctive step back.
Bandon stopped about an arm’s length away, and then held out the sword, offering Wil the hilt. “Please, take it.”
“Why –"
“Just take it. Please.”
As Wil took the sword, Bandon slowly lifted the blade to his own throat, and then dropped to his knees in front of Wil.
“What is this?” Wil pressed the blade to Bandon’s throat just below his chin. “Don’t tempt me.”
“I owe you my life, Wil. You saved me. You were kind to me,” Bandon spoke earnestly, his eyes never leaving Wil’s face, “I can never atone enough for what I have done, the pain I have caused. I trust you more than I trust anyone - if you think I deserve death, then I will accept that judgement.”
Wil’s hand gripped the hilt harder, unintentionally nicking Bandon. “Flick is dead because of you. Allanon is dead because of you. Who knows who else is dead because of you,” he watched the drop of blood slide down the side of Bandon’s neck, “the elf who did that deserves death.” Wil met Bandon’s gaze, and slowly lowered the sword.
“But I’m not an executioner. And I’m not entirely sure you are the same Bandon who did those things. Are you?
Why are you here?”
Bandon closed his eyes, a single tear making its way down his cheek. “I don’t deserve your mercy.”
“Yeah, you see, saying things like that kind of makes me think you might. Generally speaking, evil people don’t usually fall at my feet begging to be killed.
So - what happened?”
Bandon bowed his head, “I was under the thrall of the Warlock Lord. My mind was weak after the Dagda Mor, after Allanon’s training... the Warlock Sword possessed my mind, poisoned my thoughts. I was like another version of myself. I was me, but also not, somehow. It’s hard to explain. My mind is my own now, though.” He looked at Wil, “I killed a child,” he said in a strangled voice, “I remember everything, what I did and how it felt.”
Wil kneeled, put his hand on Bandon’s shoulder. “So you’re Bandon again? My Bandon?”
“Your Bandon?” Bandon wiped his face with the back of his hand.
“Yeah, my Bandon. The one I found in a barn. My friend. The one who wanted to save his family even after they muzzled him and locked him away, the one who Allanon pushed too far too soon,” Wil placed his other hand on Bandon’s cheek, “I can’t even imagine what you must’ve gone through, or the guilt you’re feeling now, but I believe you. Okay? I forgive you. You weren’t yourself.”
Bandon stared at him. “That easily?”
“It’s not easy,” Wil half smiled, the smile not quite reaching his eyes, “but I can feel the truth of it. The Bandon that kidnapped my uncle - that’s not the Bandon that’s here with me right now.”
Bandon nodded. “Thank you,” he whispered.
“But why are you here?”
“I’m not sure, actually. It has to do with the possession somehow, I think. With the fact that it wasn’t my mind in the body that died.” He shrugged. “Does it matter? Here I am.”
“Here we are,” Wil agreed, and after a moment’s hesitation, embraced Bandon.
He felt Bandon stiffen, then slowly relax. He pulled him away, still grasping his shoulder. “So, show me around?”
Bandon made a half-hearted attempt at a smile, and nodded. “Follow me, then. I’ll show you the sights.
Keep the sword close.”
Bandon took up a crossbow, then beckoned to Wil, “Cave entrance this way.”
Wil nodded, clapped Bandon on the shoulder. “Can’t say our lives are boring.”
“Or our deaths.” Bandon smiled.
“Or our deaths,” Wil agreed, following Bandon.