By the fourth day, everyone believed Sir Horace Altman was going to live.
Not comfortably or quickly for that matter, but he will live.
The worst of the bleeding had finally stopped sometime during the second night, and though the injuries to his ribs and lungs remained severe, the healers had managed to stabilize him enough that the constant fear of sudden death no longer hovered quite so heavily over the infirmary wing.
The fever had lowered. His breathing, though painful, no longer sounded quite so wet.
And most importantly, he had started waking up.
Not for very long stretches, never more than a few minutes at a time before exhaustion dragged him under again. But still, consciousness was a good sign; talking was an even better one. The entire infirmary seemed to breathe easier because of it.
Especially after what was happening across the hall.
Elias tried not to think about Ranger Treaty too much.
Nobody did if they could help it.
The Ranger had become something whispered about in corridors and supply rooms. Some staff refused to enter his chamber alone anymore. Others swore he watched them before they even opened the door. One girl burst into tears after Will shattered a flower vase against the wall without warning.
The healers were exhausted.
Everyone was exhausted.
Elias himself hadn't slept for thirty-one hours. He had closed his eyes twice--once against the shelves in the supply room and once sitting upright beside a dying cavalryman who had stopped breathing ten minutes later--but sleep itself had become something distant and unreachable. After the cavalry group, the Ranger, and the Knight were brought in, the infirmary seemed to no longer operate on a set schedule, only for emergencies, only for the next person bleeding through bandages or burning alive with fever.
And everywhere, everywhere, there was whispering.
The Ranger was going mad. The Knight, they thought at first, would not survive the week. The Ranger Commandant himself was seen coming down the halls at dawn. Elias had moved through it all like a ghost.
But somewhere after all that exhaustion, hope had quietly settled itself around Horace’s recovery like fragile glass.
The blonde healer clung to that hope harder than most.
He was nineteen years old and six months into formal infirmary service.
Too young, some said. Too eager, said others.
The senior healer of their wing, Miriam, said he thought with his heart too often and his head not enough.
Still, she trusted him more than most trainees, which was why he now found himself carrying fresh bandages and a tray of tinctures toward Sir Horace’s room just after midnight.
The castle had gone mostly quiet.
Rain tapped softly against the infirmary windows, oil lamps burned low along the corridor walls, casting everything in tired gold light. Somewhere farther down the hall, a patient groaned in a restless sleep.
Elias nudged open the chamber door gently with his shoulder. He was pleasantly surprised to see the Knight was awake. Barely, but still conscious.
He lay propped against the pillows, pale beneath the candlelight, dark hair damp against his forehead with sweat. Heavy bandages disappeared beneath the collar of his infirmary shirt, wrapped tight around the damage to his ribs and chest.
But his eyes opened a little wider when Elias entered.
Elias snorted softly as he crossed the room. “I’m your least annoying healer.”
“Exactly.”
Horace’s voice was rough from the disuse of it, but the humor in it was unmistakable. Elias smiled despite himself. That was another good sign.
People close to death rarely joked.
“How are you feeling tonight?” Elias asked quietly as he set the tray down and moved to light a candle.
Horace considered this seriously for a moment.
“Like I was trampled by a horse,” he answered.
“That’s good,” Elias said distractedly, then quickly amended his response, "I mean, not good, but still you're awake and talking, and that's... encouraging," he finished awkwardly.
“Mm. Very.”
Elias swallowed heavily and busied himself checking the bandages, trying not to look too pleased by how much warmer Horace’s skin felt compared to the previous night.
Another good sign.
“You’ve been improving,” Elias admitted carefully.
Horace’s eyes fluttered half-shut again. “Good. I was beginning to worry I’d die before my wedding.”
Elias blinked, startled enough that Horace cracked one eye open again.
“What?”
“You’re engaged to the Princess.”
“Yes?”
“You say that like it’s normal.”
Horace looked genuinely puzzled for a moment. “I suppose it became normal eventually.”
Elias huffed a laugh under his breath.
God, the man really was getting better. The thought eased something in his chest he hadn’t realized was tight.
Outside the chamber, the rain intensified briefly against the windows.
Horace shifted slightly against the pillows, immediately grimacing.
“Careful,” Elias warned.
“I’m trying.”
He coughed once afterward--shallow, controlled.
Elias reached for the water cup beside the bed and handed it over carefully. Horace accepted it with slightly trembling hands.
“You should sleep,” Elias said.
Horace made a face. “Every healer in this building says that like sleep is some magical cure sent by the gods themselves.”
“That's because it is.”
“Then the gods are very boring.”
Elias laughed quietly again.
Then paused.
Something about Horace’s face looked wrong.
The color. He seemed too flushed suddenly.
His smile faded.
“Sir Horace?”
Horace blinked slowly. “Hm?”
Elias reached for the cloth resting near the bedside and pressed it gently against Horace’s forehead.
His stomach dropped instantly.
Hot. Way, way too hot.
No.
No, that wasn’t possible.
The fever had been falling steadily all day.
Elias moved quickly now, checking pulse.
Fast. Much too fast.
Horace noticed the change in him immediately.
“That bad?”
“Your fever’s spiked again,” Elias admitted quietly, trying to keep a calming tone in his voice like he'd heard the senior healers do.
Horace exhaled softly through his nose. “Thought I felt warmer.”
Elias, still trying to appear calm, crossed back toward the tray.
Fever spikes weren’t uncommon after trauma like this. The body fought strangely after severe injury, especially when infection risk remained high.
This could still be managed; he just had to get him to sleep. Lower the fever enough to encourage comfort.
He scanned the tinctures quickly, muttering what he was looking for under his breath: "Something to lower fever, ease pain, encourage rest..."
Horace needed sleep desperately. Real sleep. Not the fractured, feverish unconsciousness he’d been trapped in for days.
Elias reached automatically for the willowbark tincture. It was a safe and familiar choice, he recalled in school it was known as the backbone of fever remedies.
Behind him, Horace coughed again.
Longer this time.
Elias uncorked the bottle quickly, pulse beginning to quicken in his own throat.
“You lot are obsessed with knocking me unconscious,” Horace muttered weakly.
“It helps people heal.”
“Or helps healers avoid conversation.”
“That too.”
Horace smiled faintly.
Elias poured the dosage carefully into a cup.
Then paused.
His exhaustion tugged at him strangely tonight; his thoughts felt slower than usual, slippery somehow. He glanced once toward the dosage instructions etched in faded ink near the bottle’s neck.
Then back at the cup again.
He knew the correct dosage. This was the correct dosage for a man of Horace's size and the severity of his fever, yes, this was right.
He handed the cup over to the man in the bed.
“This’ll help lower the fever.”
Horace accepted it without argument. Drank it with a slight shrug. Coughed once afterward at the bitter aftertaste and leaned back heavily against the pillows.
For several moments, everything seemed fine.
Elias let himself breathe again.
See? Fine. Everything was fine.
Elias turned back toward the tray, then froze as he heard a chilling noise.
Horace’s breathing had changed. Too slow.
Elias spun immediately.
“Sir Horace?”
Horace blinked slowly, almost drunkenly.
And suddenly Elias understood.
His blood turned to ice.
No.
No no no--
He crossed the room in two steps and snatched the bottle back up with trembling hands, reading the instructions again. Then once more more thoroughly.
His heart stopped.
Not for use on patients with lung trauma.
Do not use in elevated dosage with compromised lung function.
Elias stared at the bottle in horror.
Elevated dosage.
God.
Oh God, he had doubled it.
Because Horace was larger. Because the fever had worsened. Because Elias was exhausted and careless and trying too hard to help, trying to hard to be responsible to be trustworthy--
His stomach twisted violently, he felt he might be sick.
His hands shook violently now as he set the bottle down too hard against the tray.
Patients with lung trauma.
Compromised lung function.
Stupid.
Stupid stupid stupid--
Across the bed, Horace’s breathing slowed unevenly.
“Sir Horace? Sir Horace, I need you to stay awake for me.”
The knight blinked toward him sluggishly now.
“You look frightened,” he murmured.
Elias nearly dropped the bottle.
“I-- there's nothing to worry about, sir, I'm just going to get Miriam.”
Horace frowned faintly as Elias stumbled backward toward the door.
Then his eyes drifted shut.
“No,” Elias whispered.
He crossed the room immediately and grabbed Horace’s wrist.
The pulse was still there. But thready and slow. Much too slow.
Panic clawed violently up Elias’s throat, as Horace's shoulders sagged in an unconscious state.
“Miriam!”
The shout ripped down the corridor hard enough to echo.
Footsteps thundered seconds later.
Senior Healer Miriam entered the room fast, grey hair half-falling from its knot, exhaustion etched deep into every line of her face.
“What happened?”
Elias could barely force words past the terror choking him.
“I--I administered willowbark for the fever and I didn’t realize--”
Miriam’s face drained instantly.
“You what?”
Miriam crossed the room immediately, checking Horace herself.
Her expression changed almost at once. “How much?”
Elias told her.
If the woman could've gotten any more pale, she certainly would have.
“Oh, God.”
The silence stretched.
Longer.
Longer.
“Damn it.”
Horace stirred faintly beneath her hands. But his brow furrowed weakly, as though somewhere deep beneath the sedation he sensed the panic gathering around him.
Elias stood frozen near the foot of the bed.
“We can reverse it,” he said quickly. “I can fix this.”
Miriam didn’t answer immediately.
Her expression had shifted into something Elias had never seen before.
Fear.
“He’s already compromised,” she whispered, mostly to herself. “If we shock the lungs further--”
She stopped suddenly because she didn't truly know what would happen if they did that. It would be an experiment. And an experiment on possibly the most important patient they've ever cared for was... risky.
Elias realized then, with a cold sickness spreading through him, that there might not be a way to undo this cleanly.
Horace’s breathing shuddered again.
One breath. Then a pause. Then another shaky one.
Miriam swore softly under her breath and reached for another tincture.
Elias stared at her. “What are you doing?”
“Trying to keep him calm before the lungs worsen.”
“But if we add more sedatives--”
“I know what I’m doing.”
The sharpness in her voice cracked instantly afterward from the terror she was fiercely trying to disguise.
Elias wasn't fooled.
Outside the chamber, the infirmary continued on obliviously.
Footsteps, muffled voices, the distant clatter of metal trays.
The world, refusing to stop, while this room quietly tilted toward catastrophe.
Elias looked at Horace again.
The knight’s face had gone strangely peaceful beneath the fever.
Asleep.
He looked asleep.
God.
Across the corridor, Ranger Treaty sat awake in his own chamber staring blankly at walls while the only person he’d fought six days to save slipped backward toward death because Elias had been too tired to think clearly.
Elias felt suddenly sick.
“We have to tell someone.”
Miriam rounded on him instantly.
“Tell them what?”
“That I--”
“That a trainee healer may have accidentally worsened the condition of the future prince consort?”
Her voice dropped lower.
“If word spreads before we stabilize him, panic will tear this infirmary apart. And if any officials find out about this...” She left the sentence hanging intentionally, knowing the weight settled harsher on the young man. He would be fired without a doubt. Imprisoned. Possibly hanged.
Elias stared at her in disbelief.
“Miriam--”
“No one says anything yet.”
Elias looked toward Horace again. The knight stirred faintly in the bed.
His lips parted slightly, brow tightening as if hearing voices through water.
Dreaming.
Or drowning.
Elias couldn’t tell which.
But somewhere deep in that drifting unconsciousness--
Horace heard them.
Not clearly or consciously.
Only fragments.
Mistake.
Wrong dosage.
Too much.
Don’t panic.
Stabilize him.
No one says anything yet.
The words slipped into the fever-dream haze of his mind like distant echoes through fog.
And though he would not remember this moment fully later, some broken part of him would remember enough.
TW: references to medical negligence/malpractice, brief suicidal implications/misunderstandings, panic attacks, and major character death
---
The castle was silent the morning after Horace died.
Not necessarily quiet in the way it usually is when nurses are coming in to trade murmured shifts with the night staff, trading reports and information in low voices, or when patients are woken by the sunlight and gently shifting in their beds to receive breakfast or morning medications.
This silence was unequivocally different.
Quiet implied peace, or healing and restoration as it did often in the infirmary. Rest. A pause between storms.
This felt like the aftermath of something truly catastrophic. Like the world itself had stopped breathing out of respect for the dead.
No servants spoke above a whisper. Boots against stone corridors sounded muffled somehow, swallowed by the heavy grief hanging over Castle Redmont. The banners flying above the towers that were often heard flapping in the wind had been taken down the previous evening once the news had broken. The news that Sir Horace Altman had passed away.
The sun had risen hours ago, but dawn’s yellow light looked to linger weakly through the narrow windows, as though it too were afraid to be so insensitive as to shine too brightly.
No one had slept. Not really. The castle had drifted into that strange, haunted stillness that follows tragedy, where people lay down because their bodies demanded it, not because rest was possible.
The day before, Halt and Alyss had half-carried, half-dragged Will back to his room after his collapse in Horace’s chambers. He had barely been conscious by then. One moment, he’d been shaking so violently Halt feared his heart might give out entirely, and the next his body had simply… stopped. Exhaustion had claimed him all at once, brutally and without warning. He’d gone limp in Halt’s arms before they’d even made it halfway down the corridor.
Alyss had cried quietly the entire walk back. Silent tears slipped endlessly down her face as she held Will’s hand and whispered to him even though he didn't look to hear her.
Pauline had tried to remain with Cassandra afterward. God knew the girl shouldn’t have been alone after that, but Cassandra had looked at her with eyes so hollow and broken that Pauline understood immediately there was no comfort anyone could offer her now.
So Pauline had done the only thing left to do. She had taken control.
She made Alyss eat. Forced Halt to sit down long enough to drink coffee gone cold in his hands. Ordered fresh blankets to be brought to Will’s room. Ordered servants to mind their damn business when they lingered too long near the corridor outside Horace’s chambers.
If life insisted on tearing their family apart piece by piece, then Pauline would hold together whatever remained with her bare hands if necessary.
But Halt still hadn’t slept.
Not properly.
He had lain awake for hours staring at the ceiling of the small adjoining room Pauline finally bullied him into using, listening for sounds through the wall like a man waiting for another disaster to strike. Every creak of floorboards made his eyes snap open, every gust of wind against the windows tightened something ugly in his chest.
And beneath it all lingered the same horrible thought:
Horace was dead.
The words still didn’t feel plausible.
At some point before dawn, exhaustion must have dragged Halt under briefly, because the next thing he knew, pale golden light was bleeding through the windows and his neck ached from sleeping half-upright against the headboard.
For one blissfully empty second, he had forgotten everything that occurred the previous day, then memory returned all at once, sharp and painful.
Horace.
Will.
The woods.
The note.
Halt inhaled sharply through his nose and stood immediately.
Something felt wrong.
He couldn’t have explained it if he were asked to. The castle was as silent as it usually was at this hour, the corridor outside seemed undisturbed, everything was exactly as it should have been.
But thirty-plus years as a Ranger had taught him to trust instinct over comfort. And his instincts were screaming at him loud enough to make his stomach churn.
The walk to Will’s room felt far too long.
Halt moved quickly down the corridor, boots striking stone in sharp, echoing clicks. The air was cold this early in the morning, carrying the faint smell of rain drifting through the open castle windows. Somewhere far below in the courtyard, he heard stablehands beginning their morning work.
He stopped outside Will's room and--
Nothing.
No movement was heard from inside. No quiet voice from Alyss. No shifting blankets telling of a man waking from sleep. Not even the sound of breathing.
Halt stood frozen outside the door, his stomach twisting in excruciating knots.
Slowly, carefully, knowing exactly what he'd find, he pushed the door open.
The room was as violently empty as he expected.
The bedclothes had been shoved aside carelessly, half hanging off the mattress. One of the leather restraints lay discarded on the floor, the buckle snapped clean through. The water pitcher near the bedside had shattered against the wall at some point during the night, leaving glittering fragments scattered across the stone.
Cold morning air swept through the room, catching Halt's attention, diverting his gaze to the open window. The wide open window. It's curtains shifted softly in the wind.
For one terrible heartbeat, Halt couldn’t move.
He couldn't even breathe. Then his gaze landed on the dresser across the room. Will’s knives were gone from the table Halt had left them on. His bow, which Halt had restrung for him, was gone too.
“No,” he whispered. The word barely made it past his throat when the possibility struck him. No, it didn't feel like a possibility anymore; it felt like that strange gut feeling he had that morning, that instinct. That terrifying fear that his boy was gone.
For one awful instant, every piece of the room rearranged itself into a single, horrifying conclusion.
The broken restraint, the shattered pitcher, the open window.
Will's empty bed.
Halt crossed the room in three strides, his pulse hammering so violently he could hear it in his ears. The cold air pouring through the window struck his face as he reached it, and for the first time in years, perhaps decades, he found himself unable to move. Unable to look.
Because he already knew what he was going to see.
A broken body at the base of the tower.
Too late.
Again.
I failed him.
His hands clenched against the stone windowsill hard enough to ache.
Then, slowly, he forced himself forward and looked down.
The world seemed to stop.
The courtyard below was beginning to stir with the first signs of morning. Stablehands moved between buildings, horses shifted in their stalls, and a servant crossed the far side of the yard carrying an armful of laundry.
There wasn't a crowd.
There was no one shouting.
And there was no body.
Halt's lungs finally remembered how to draw breath. For a second, he simply stood there, dizzy with relief so sharp it bordered on pain. Then his gaze shifted farther toward the stables. And there it was. An empty stall.
Tug's stall.
The sight struck him almost as hard as the terror had.
He's not dead, but he is gone.
Halt closed his eyes briefly, fighting the sudden sting behind them.
Because this alternative should have felt better. It was better.
And yet somehow, as he stared toward the distant treeline beyond the castle walls, he knew with dreadful certainty that whatever waited out there might not be much kinder.
When his eyes opened again, something in them had changed completely.
He knew he couldn't panic now. He turned slowly at the sound of movement in the hallway.
Alyss was in the doorway, still wrapped in one of Will’s cloaks, hair disheveled from sleep. “Halt? What’s wr--”
She saw the room, the window, Halt’s face. And went completely stark white.
She moved slowly, mechanically, toward the bedside table, and clutched one of Will’s abandoned bandages in white-knuckled fingers, her breath catching as she looked back at Halt again with wide eyes. Pauline had gone utterly still near the doorway, one hand at her throat, the other pressed against the wood as though steadying herself.
Halt looked at the open window again toward the treeline.
“No,” Alyss whispered.
The word cracked apart halfway throough. “He wouldn’t—”
Halt was already moving.
Fast.
Pauline saw the grim determination in his stance instantly and caught his arm. “Halt.”
He turned back to her at the doorway.
Alyss’s voice shook violently. “Where did he go?”
Halt didn’t answer immediately. Because he already knew, he was just weighing in his mind whether he should tell them.
There was only one place Will Treaty would run to after something like this. Only one place his fractured mind would drag him. The realization hit him with such brutal certainty that it felt physical.
“He went back,” Halt said quietly.
Alyss stared at him.
Back.
Understanding dawned slowly across her face, followed immediately by horror.
“No,” she breathed again.
But Halt was already moving again.
Pauline grabbed his other arm frantically as he tried to move past her. “Halt, wait, you can't go alone.”
“Yes,” he said flatly, “I can.”
“Halt--”
“He’s unstable, Pauline.”
The words sounded wrong and desperate coming from him. Too clinical and similar to how all the other infirmary staff referred to his old apprentice. Detached, as though saying them too gently would make them more true.
“He’s grieving, sleep-deprived, half-starved, and barely tethered to reality as it is. If soldiers go after him, he’ll run.”
His jaw tightened. “And if they corner him…” He didn’t finish. He didn’t need to.
Everyone in the room knew what a Ranger could do when cornered.
Especially Will.
Especially right now, in the fragile state he was in.
Alyss stepped forward suddenly. “I’m coming.”
“No.”
Her eyes flashed immediately. “Don’t you dare tell me no, I'm coming with you.”
Halt really looked at her then.
The exhaustion, the grief, the terror barely stitched together behind sheer stubbornness. She had just lost a brother, one of her best friends since childhood, and now her boyfriend was out in the middle of the woods where they had nearly lost him the first time.
But beneath all of it--
Love.
God, the girl loved him.
Halt swallowed hard.
“He’s not himself right now,” he said quietly. “If he thinks you’ve followed him, he may disappear deeper into the woods just to keep you away. I guarantee you, Alyss, he doesn't want you seeing him like this.”
Alyss’s face crumpled slightly; she knew he was right.
Halt softened--just barely.
“I’ll bring him home... I promise.”
The pledge sounded more like a plea.
Then he was gone.
—
The forest was exactly as Halt remembered it.
And yet somehow still much worse.
The trees stood tall and skeletal beneath the pale afternoon sky, their branches whispering softly overhead as wind threaded through the leaves. The ground was still damp from the recent rain, and thick mud clung to Abelard's hooves.
Halt barely noticed. Every instinct he possessed was focused outward. Searching, tracking, trying not to give in to the panic that threatened to overwhelm him.
Looking for signs of a boy he had once taught to vanish better than anyone alive. Which meant finding him now was nearly impossible.
Except it was apparent now that Will didn’t truly want to disappear, not this time, not in the careless way he was moving.
Halt saw the signs almost immediately. Broken fern stems, fresh bootprints, a snapped branch at shoulder height.
It was too obvious. Far too obvious for a man of Will's skill.
Will had been leaving a trail. Not consciously perhaps, but enough for Halt to make out where he'd been and where he was going.
The deeper he rode into the forest, the quieter the world became. Until eventually even the birds stopped singing.
Halt knew this place.
He knew it from Will’s broken, hollow voice in the bathing room.
Cold and dark.
So many stars.
His chest tightened painfully.
Hours passed.
Then finally, he arrived at the clearing. The clearing.
Halt pulled Abelard to a stop, and for one terrible moment, time folded in on itself. The clearing looked almost untouched.
The remains of a collapsed fire pit sat blackened near the center. Torn cloth fluttered weakly from a low branch nearby. A dark color still marked brown, almost black patches across the ground where blood had once soaked into the earth.
The place still smelled faintly wrong.
Rot and rain, and death.
And there--
At the edge of the clearing beneath the trees--
Sat Will.
He sat motionless against the trunk of an enormous oak, knees drawn slightly upward, one arm resting across them loosely. Tug grazed nearby without wandering far, ears flicking anxiously every few seconds toward his master.
Will didn’t move when Halt approached. Didn’t even look up, didn’t acknowledge him at all.
For a horrifying second, Halt thought--
No.
No, not again.
Then Will spoke. “This is where he died the first time.”
Halt stopped several feet away. Will’s voice was calm, far too calm.
Not quite empty this time, but worse, it was precise.
“He just didn’t stop breathing until later... I guess.”
Halt dismounted slowly, leaves crunching softly beneath his boots.
Will’s eyes remained fixed ahead.
“You shouldn’t have come alone,” he said quietly.
Halt’s throat tightened unexpectedly, because the tone in which his old apprentice spoke was familiar. Not quite broken or hysterical as it had been hours earlier. But familiar, he spoke like a Ranger.
And he was using cold Ranger logic.
The same voice Will used during ambushes. During strategy meetings. During moments where emotion became dangerous. It terrified the older Ranger more than the psychosis ever had.
“You disappeared,” Halt replied carefully.
“I left.”
“That’s not better.”
Will ignored that.
Instead he stared out across the clearing like he was seeing something no one else could.
“I slept here.”
The words came softly now.
“After they found us. Just for a second while Gilan was talking to one of the cavalrymen.”
His fingers tightened slightly against his sleeve.
“And when I woke up, Horace was still breathing.”
Halt stayed silent.
Will finally looked at him then.
God.
His eyes were clearer now. Clearer than they had been in weeks.
And infinitely more haunted.
“I kept him alive,” Will whispered, sounding almost irritated with himself.
The sentence wasn’t reflecting the hauntedness in his eyes; it was more bewildered than anything. Like he still couldn’t understand how the world had broken its own rules.
Halt stepped closer carefully. “Will--”
“No.” His voice sharpened instantly. “No, Halt, listen to me.”
Halt froze as Will stood abruptly, fast, as though he had something urgent to tell him, with not much time to tell it.
Tug lifted his head immediately, ears pinning back anxiously.
Will paced once through the clearing, dragging trembling hands through his curls.
“He was getting better; we all saw that. Well maybe not me, I didn't see much of anything at all, but from what I heard, from what they said, he was-- he-- he was...”
Halt frowned slightly.
“The fever was lower,” Will continued rapidly, ignoring his own trail off. “His breathing sounded stronger two nights ago, I heard the nurses say that in my room. His pulse stabilized yesterday morning. I checked.”
Halt’s stomach twisted.
Checked.
Of course, he had, he hadn't simply bolted from his room last night, he had likely stolen every document from the healers regarding Horace that they possessed.
Even half-lost in psychosis, some part of Will had still been tracking everything around him. Every breath, every symptom concerning his friend that they discussed in front of him, every detail.
Will turned toward him sharply.
“Something must've gone wrong.”
Silence. Wind rustled softly overhead. Halt stared at him, not completely sure if Will had had yet another psychotic break.
“What?” he croaked out.
Will swallowed hard, silently pleading that his mentor didn't turn on him now, didn't think him insane. Maybe he was a little insane, but he knew this much: he knew that he had been personally tracking Horace's state since he had been admitted into that damn infirmary, he had been sneaking out in the middle of the night to check on his vitals, and he had been the one breaking into their file cabinets to monitor his charts. His progress. And there was progress. He knew, better than any of them, that Horace had been getting better.
“Something went wrong.” His breathing quickened slightly now. “There was a healer I remember seeing him coming from his room the other day. Young. Blonde hair. Scar on his left wrist, looked like an old burn mark or something from his childhood.”
He pressed shaking fingers to his temple. “He was there when Horace received his last dosage, I just know he was. Halt, he was shaking. Not from whatever grief you'd think he'd feel after losing a patient. No, he was afraid.”
Halt said nothing.
Will laughed suddenly. It was a horrible sound, thin, raspy, and unstable.
“They thought I wasn’t paying attention.”
His face crumpled briefly before hardening again through sheer force.
“But that kid, he was sent to dispose of the cup, and I intercepted him. I -- I smelled willowbark in it.”
Halt frowned. “That’s not unusual; he had a fever.”
“No,” Will snapped immediately. “Not unless the patient has lung damage severe enough to risk fluid buildup. I found that out.”
Halt went very, very still.
Will stepped backward suddenly, shaking harder now.
“He was breathing too slowly afterward, right? That's what Evanlyn said.”
The words came faster.
“He couldn’t stay awake for more than a few minutes at a time; his pupils were wrong, I tried to tell myself it was exhaustion, but it wasn’t exhaustion, and I knew that, but I couldn’t think properly, and then--"
His voice broke. “I left him alone.”
Halt’s chest clenched painfully.
“Will.”
“I LEFT HIM ALONE!”
The scream shattered through the clearing violently enough to send birds exploding from nearby trees.
Will staggered backward like the force of it physically hurt him.
“I came back here because I thought--” He choked hard on the words. “I thought if I found the place again, maybe I could figure out where I made the mistake. I thought if I came back I would understand, but it still didn't make any sense... now I think it does.”
Halt crossed the distance between them instantly. Will tried to step away, but Halt grabbed him anyway.
“You listen to me right now.”
Will froze.
Halt’s hands gripped his shoulders hard enough to shake.
“This was not your fault.”
Will laughed again weakly, tears spilling down his face now. “That’s easy for you to say.”
“No.” Halt’s voice cracked violently. “No, it isn’t.”
Will stopped breathing for a second. And suddenly, Halt looked exhausted.
He didn't look like the terrifying figure of Halt O'Carrick. The legend who could fight a bear with his bear hands.
He just looked like a man. A father. A grieving one. A desperate one.
“I already lost one son this week,” Halt whispered roughly. “I will not lose another to guilt.”
Will stared at him.
Halt looked horrified immediately afterward, as though the words had escaped without permission.
But he didn’t take them back like Will expected.
And Will's face shattered.
Like glass finally giving way after too much pressure. His knees buckled.
Halt caught him before he hit the ground.
And this time Will broke completely.
Not the manic terror from before not the dissociation from weeks prior.
Grief.
Pure and catastrophic grief.
He clutched fistfuls of Halt’s cloak with shaking hands and made a sound Halt had never heard from him before--a raw, wounded noise dragged from somewhere deep enough to ruin anyone who heard it.
“I stayed awake,” Will sobbed brokenly. “Six--six days and he still died. But it... it wasn't even my fault.”
Halt held him tighter.
Rain began softly overhead.
“I know,” he whispered hoarsely.
Will shook violently against him.
“I was enough out here,” he cried. “I kept him alive out here, and then I brought him home and they--”
His breath hitched painfully.
“They killed him.”
Halt closed his eyes. And for the first time since Horace died, something colder than grief settled into his chest. Fury. Unabated anger.
Because deep down, he knew Will's theory sounded less like grief and more like truth. He knew Will was right.
lol so this is based on a tumblr post i made, and then took very seriously.
---
The deck of the Wolfwill rolled gently beneath the steady waves, the longship cutting through the darkening water as the sun bled copper into the horizon.
They were going home.
And Horace and Cassandra had just gotten engaged.
"I'm not sure my father would totally approve of us getting married here. I think he might like to know about it first." Evanlyn continued.
Horace, unabashed, shrugged, "Fine," he said, "it was just an idea. But if you say no, no it is."
Halt stepped closer to him and patted him gently on the arm. "Get used to that," he said.
There was laughter along the rail. Even Halt's beard twitched.
Horace accepted the teasing with good grace, slipping an arm around Cassandra’s shoulders. “I only meant,” he added defensively, “that we’re already here. It seems efficient.”
“Marriage is not a military maneuver,” Cassandra informed him.
“Sometimes it feels like one,” Halt muttered.
Will, leaning against the mast a few paces away, snorted softly. Alyss stood beside him, the wind tugging strands of pale hair loose around her face.
Cassandra turned suddenly.
Her eyes narrowed with dangerous inspiration.
“Well,” she said thoughtfully, “if we’re discussing efficiency…”
Horace looked wary. “That tone worries me.”
Cassandra ignored him and fixed her gaze on Will and Alyss.
“What about you two?”
The shift in attention was immediate.
Several Skandians straightened. Gundar perked up as if someone had shouted “raid.”
Will blinked. “I beg your pardon?” he said carefully.
Cassandra’s expression sharpened with wicked delight. “You’ve grown up together, crossed half the world together, survived castle sieges together. You've been together for nearly 4 years and been in love for God knows how long before that. You’re clearly insufferably devoted to each other. So. Why not be... efficient?” She finished looking over at her fiancé, pointingly at the last word.
The deck went quiet.
Several Skandian heads turned as the prospect of a party was in the air once more.
Halt, standing near the rail, went very still.
Alyss felt the heat rise up her neck as Will glanced at her with something undefinable in his eyes.
It wasn't panic or even surprise, but something steadier. Something that showed he had been thinking about this for a lot longer than people would assume.
“Well,” he said slowly, “I suppose that depends.”
“On what?” Nils demanded eagerly from his position by the mast.
Will looked at Alyss again.
“On whether you’d want to.”
And there it was. No big grand speech, no kneeling or obnoxious flourish.
Just him.
Alyss swallowed.
“You’re serious.”
“Completely.”
The wind tugged at her hair. The sea rolled beneath them as if anticipating her next words. Home was still weeks away, the future was always uncertain, and their lives were never calm for very long.
But he was here.
Asking her to marry him in the most Will-Treaty-way possible.
And looking at her like that.
She let out a soft breath. “You are aware this is a Skandian longship.”
“Yes,” he said with a crooked grin.
“And that Gundar would be officiating.”
He winced slightly at that. “I am.”
“And that Halt is going to have opinions. Not to mention Pauline.”
“I usually ignore those. And Pauline... we can deal with at a later date. ”
“I heard that,” Halt said mildly.
Alyss looked at Will for a long moment.
Then she smiled.
“All right.”
The word was almost whispered.
But it landed like a thunderclap as the Skandians erupted into cheers.
“Ha!” Gundar roared. “I told you I could do it!”
“You most certainly did not—” Cassandra began.
Nils clapped a massive hand onto Gundar's shoulder. “Go on then. Try not to insult Araluen diplomacy too badly.”
Halt stepped forward slowly.
Will glanced at him, just briefly, unsure of the thoughts in his head.
Halt’s eyes rested on Alyss, then on Will.
There was no humor in them. But the brief nod he gave spoke volumes.
Nils dragged them to the center of the deck with enormous enthusiasm. “Right! Stand there. No, closer together. You look awkward.”
“We are awkward,” Will muttered.
“Shut up. This is romantic.” That word sounded so foreign coming from the rough-and-tumble Skandian that it was almost laughable.
Cassandra, unable to resist, stepped forward and caught Alyss’s hands, squeezing them once. “If this goes terribly wrong, I’ll have it annulled.”
“Thank you,” Alyss said gravely, although the smile that snuck through showed that she knew they would never need that.
Gundar cleared his throat.
“In the presence of the sea--” he gestured broadly, “--and the Wolfwill, and Emperor Shigeru, who is not here but would probably approve--”
“Would he?” Horace asked.
“--and with the Princess watching, which makes it official--”
“It does not,” Halt said.
“--I declare that if these two idiots want to bind themselves together, that’s their problem.”
There was laughter again.
But Will wasn’t laughing.
He was looking at Alyss like the world had narrowed to just her.
Gundar squinted at them, then, seeming to have forgotten what else there is to say, said a bit awkwardly. “Right. Say something nice to each other.”
Will inhaled slowly.
“Alyss,” he said quietly, the noise of the ship fading around them, “I’ve spent most of my life being told to observe, not to speak. To stand in the shadows.”
Her fingers tightened in his.
“But you’ve always seen me anyway.”
The humor left her face.
“And I don’t want a someday like we keep talking about,” he finished. “I want you. For as long as we’re given.”
Alyss blinked rapidly, as tears threatened to spill over her lashes.
“You absolute menace,” she whispered.
He smiled at her.
She straightened, diplomat to the core--even now.
“Will Treaty,” she said, voice clear despite the tremor, “you have done so much in your life; crossed oceans, defeated countless armies, negotiated treaties, and once attempted to teach Skandians table manners. I believe that demonstrates sufficient courage.”
A ripple of snorts ran through the crew.
“And I,” she continued more softly, “have loved you for longer than either of us was rational enough to even know what love was. So yes. I suppose I’ll endure you. Permanently.”
“Good. Great. Very romantic,” Gundar muttered approvingly.
He raised both arms dramatically. “Then by the power vested in me by absolutely no one, I pronounce you... um, married!”
There was a beat.
“Is that it?” Horace asked.
“Oh! Right!” Gundar snapped his fingers. “Uh, you can kiss now.”
Will hesitated--not from uncertainty, but from habit, from the knowledge that everyone was here watching them.
Alyss solved it for him.
She stepped forward and kissed him deeply as the crew and their friends erupted in cheers.
When they separated, the sea breeze catching in Alyss’s hair again, the crew erupted again, pounding shields and stamping boots against the deck.
And later, when the celebrations had died down, and they had almost run out of the crew's whiskey reserves, Halt finally approached his former apprentice and his new wife.
Will met his eyes.
Halt looked at Alyss first.
“You understand,” he said mildly, “that he’s impossible.”
“Yes,” she replied serenely. “I’ve known that for years.”
Halt’s mouth twitched.
Then he turned to Will.
“And you understand,” he said quietly, “that Pauline will have mine and your head for this.”
Will rolled his eyes with a smile, “Of course.”
Halt’s hand came to rest briefly on his shoulder. Firm and steady, an unspoken pride in his eyes, and a smile fighting for a place on his lips.
Then he stepped back.
The moon had now risen high into the night sky, and the Wolfwill sailed on toward Araluen.
And somewhere between one world and the next, with salt in the air and laughter still echoing across the deck, Will Treaty and Alyss Mainwaring were married.
Not in a castle, or before a court, but under an open sky. Where they each felt at home.
Once again, I pulled this little idea from a Grey's Anatomy episode and don't ANY of you judge me for it lol.
Rated T for a bit more than a mild innuendo at the end
---
Castle Redmont glittered in all its decorated glory.
However, tonight, the only glittering that mattered was the money from incredibly and obnoxiously rich donors.
Baron Arald’s grand fundraiser, an annual event-- "a night of generosity and noble giving" -- is what it read on the grand purple velvet invitation that half of Araluen received. However, it was, in reality, a room full of overly perfumed aristocrats bragging about whose meager donation bought the most influence.
Will tried once again to loosen his collar with his finger, stretching it as far as possible to get some airflow in his throat. To no avail, of course. He lasted exactly fourteen minutes before leaning toward his wife and whispering:
“I’m bored out of my skull. When can we leave?”
Alyss, who was smiling rather blindingly at a baroness who was explaining to her the virtues of importing one's own lace, replied without moving her lips:
“You last longer every year. Growth.”
Will scoffed at her, grabbing two glasses of champagne from a nearby server who was carrying them around on little silver trays.
He nudged her with his elbow as she disengaged from the very meaningful conversation she was having, and pursed her lips as he handed her a glass. They didn't drink very often.
That's how she knew he must be very bored.
They sipped their glasses together, making eye contact over the rims. Alyss bit back a smile as he winked at her.
A crash from behind them made them jump. Will shook his head as one of the servers hurried to clean up the spilled champagne and block people from walking on the glass. He then looked over at his wife again. He had done that quite often this evening, but he couldn't help it. She really did look stunning. She wore a simply cut dark red dress that hung a little low on both shoulders and cut into a deep V on the neckline. Not too much skin, hardly. But Will couldn't blame himself for being unable to keep his eyes off of her.
He nudged her shoulder again.
“Want to make this interesting?”
That caught her attention, and she swiveled her head to look at him, both eyebrows raised.
“Oh?”
Will nodded toward the crowd, the nobles glittering like extravagant fish who’d swallowed their own bait. “Guess how much money a Ranger can pull from these people.”
Her lips curled slowly as she caught on. “A bet.”
“Obviously.” Another mischievous wink.
“How much time?”
“Midnight. When Arald rings the bell.” Will jerked his head toward the dais, then he lifted a finger. “Rules: no outright lying, no threats, no revealing confidential information--”
Alyss waved a hand in dismissal. “Yes, yes, ethical conduct, agreed.”
“Winner gets bragging rights for a month.”
She raised a brow. “And loser?”
Will smirked innocently. “Loser does whatever the winner says for one night.”
Her eyes gleamed, then narrowed. “You’re on.”
They shook hands, Will kissed her knuckles, "I'd say good luck, but I don't really mean it."
"Well, you're the only one who will need it anyway."
Then they split like wolves on the loose into a sheep pen.
Alyss, being Alyss of course, adapted quickly.
In less than ten minutes, she had three nobles charmed, flattered, and eagerly handing over checks like she was collecting autographs instead of donations.
Will walked back over just as Alyss was waving goodbye to a duke who was practically glowing with delight.
She pocketed a rather fat envelope as though she were just adjusting her sleeve. Casually.
Will narrowed his eyes. “What was that?”
Alyss blinked with full innocent affront. “What was what, dear?”
“That--” Will gestured vaguely at her entire being. “The whole sparkly-eye thing.”
“I can’t help if my eyes naturally sparkle.” She folded her newfound wealth into her purse, her face hiding absolutely nothing from him.
Will’s brow arched, and a smile played at his lips. “You were flirting, my dear.”
She scoffed. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
She definitely did.
“You tilted your head,” he accused. “You only tilt your head like that when you’re about to manipulate a foreign ambassador or... when you're flirting. With me." His emphasis increased with every word; he was trying to highlight the fact that he was the only one she should ever flirt with. But he had a feeling she knew that. He knew too.
And that's what made it all the more humorous. They both knew that nothing of substance was in her playing coy; she knew Wil was the last man in the world to be insecure about the game she was playing, which is why she was so confident about playing it.
Alyss had to almost physically wipe the smile coming on her face. “That is entirely untrue,” she said, subtly angling her head again before catching herself. “And this--this is diplomacy. I've simply been trained excellently in the department, where you, Sir Ranger, are lacking.”
Will leaned in. “He blushed."
“Well…” She lifted a shoulder. “Some men startle easily.”
“At your face?”
“At my skill,” she corrected, patting his cheek. “Don’t worry, darling. It’s perfectly harmless.”
Will crossed his arms. “Fine. If that’s how you want to play.”
“What, are you planning on flirting your way through them?” she teased, pointing to the group of men he was just engaged with.
Will shrugged, adjusting his cloak. “People trust Rangers.”
“And trust,” she said smoothly, “is my specialty.”
They stared at each other for a long moment before splitting again.
Across the room, Halt and Crowley had caught on.
Crowley sipped wine. “Are we supposed to be supervising this?”
Halt sighed. “You mean are we supposed to be supervising two grown adults entering financial combat for fun? Absolutely not.”
Crowley grinned. “Fine then, put me down for two royals on Alyss.”
Halt gave him a look of disappointment. Then sighed and raised a brow. “You underestimate Will’s creativity.”
“Excuse me,” Crowley said, offended. “I have dedicated a little more than a decade to being suspicious of his creativity. Alyss will win unless Will fakes an injury or--”
They froze.
Across the hall, Will was absolutely faking an injury.
Or at least dramatically favoring his shoulder while recounting some clearly embellished battle story to a cluster of wealthy donors who were nearly crying from concern.
Crowley muttered, impressed, “That little snake.”
“Creative,” Halt murmured again with reluctant pride.
Alyss, meanwhile, had collected an entire pile of envelopes and had a count of aristocrats hovering around her like brightly clothed butterflies.
Halt shook his head. “Well, they deserve each other, then.”
Crowley nodded. “And we deserve stronger wine.”
Minutes later, Will drifted back to Alyss, his pocket a little heavier.
Alyss arched a brow. “Did you just emotionally manipulate half the west wing?”
Will sniffed. “They asked.”
“Asked what, exactly?”
“If I’d ever been grievously injured in the line of duty.”
Alyss stared at him.
He waited.
“…Have you?” she asked.
He blinked. “Ally. I’ve been grievously injured thirteen times in the past two years.”
She sighed. “Okay, fair.”
He smiled smugly.
She smirked back.
“Arald should ring the bell soon,” she murmured. “You ready?”
“Born ready.”
They both lifted their coin piles.
Paused.
Squinted at the other’s stack.
Will frowned. “You have… a lot.”
Alyss smiled sweetly. “Optimization.”
Will gave her a flat look.
They stared each other down.
Arald rang the bell.
When the dust settled, Crowley declared the winner was most definitely and undeniably Alyss.
Will groaned into his hands. “Unbelievable. I even played wounded soldier.”
“Which was adorable,” Alyss said graciously, running one hand through his hair, while the other flipped theatrically through the envelopes.
“I had a dramatic limp.”
“Yes,” she said, kissing his cheek. “And it was darling.”
Crowley laughed. “Alyss edged you out by eight coins.”
Will groaned as Halt clapped a hand on his shoulder, shaking his head, "touch luck,"
Alyss smiled knowingly over at her husband. “Do remember your terms, dear.”
Will groaned again.
Alyss leaned in, lips brushing his ear as she said something that made Will's eyes go wide, and his neck go red.
He swallowed.
Crowley overheard and choked on his wine.
Halt removed his hand from Will's shoulder faster than he could blink and pretended not to hear a thing.
Alyss took Will’s arm and steered him toward the exit with regal grace.
Horace had never felt more relieved to see the tired old ranger. The knight watched as Halt hung around in the shadows until the majority of the guards were out of eyesight. Then he slunk from shadow to shadow, slyly making his way to the prison door.
"Are you two alright?" He didn't hesitate to ask after the two guards at the cell were disposed of. Halt dug through one of their pockets for keys.
"Yeah, we're okay--technically."
Halt looked up sharply from the lock he was trying to open. The door was rusty and old, and it didn't help that the keys looked to be older than the lock somehow.
"What do you mean technically? Will, are you okay?"
Halt addressed his old apprentice, who at first appeared to be asleep, but stirred at the sound of his voice, looking up with bleary and glazed eyes, then, after hearing no further sound, laid his head back on its resting place on the wall.
Halt couldn't help but panic at that reaction. Or lack thereof.
"What's wrong with him, Horace?" He demanded darkly, his voice wavering as a deep fear settled in his stomach.
Horace hesitated, "He was drugged, Halt, a temporary one, but it was strong; he's been like this ever since. I was hoping it would've worn off by now, but..."
Halt looked up sharply again at Horace's first words, nearly dropping the key, and fumbling with it before it hit the ground in a clatter of noise. Then he stared fiercely into the knight's eyes, concern and fury mounting in them.
"Drugged? With what? Why the hell did they drug him?"
Horace looked pointedly at the lock to move him along. Halt jabbed the rusty old key into the hole, working quickly to open the door.
"They wanted to question him. They kept asking about Araluen's oil reserves, about Duncan's strategy on that, nothing too imperative, but Will still wouldn't budge on telling. I suppose they thought drugging him to make his mind mush would make it easier and faster. He's just been real tired, though. He's basically slept ever since they force-fed it to him a couple hours ago."
Halt shook his head, processing Horace's words as his eyes glued to his old apprentice. Worry gnawed in his stomach like a disease.
The last time his old apprentice was drugged was not a fond memory for Will, and that ordeal was quite a long recovery journey for the both of them, following Skandia.
The door finally swung open with a loud creak. Halt winced at the noise, but desperation to get the two men out overpowered the fear of being heard anymore.
"We've gotta get him out of here, and we don't have much time, hurry up, move, move!"
Horace scooped the dead-eyed ranger in his arms and hurried through the open door, turning around hastily for Halt to direct him where to go.
"The door near the end of the hall, second to the end. It's a servant staircase," Halt hissed sharply.
Will's feet dragged on the ground, his head lagging behind him like an infant who wasn't strong enough to hold it up.
Halt led the way, moving with a speed and stealth that came with his age and experience. As well as a bit of panic. His mind raced frantically as he glanced back at Will, slumped in Horace's arms.
The sight of his former apprentice in such a state brought back a flood of uncomfortable memories. The fear, the helplessness, the long nights of watching over Will as he battled the aftereffects of the drug, the fatigue and mood swings that he would observe from his apprentice during training, knowing that it was all withdrawals, stemming from a non-stop hunger and a devastating craving for the self-destructive drug. Not to mention the trauma from slavery and the nightmares--Halt felt the familiar weight of dread settling over him as he fought a shudder.
They reached the servant staircase without incident. Halt pushed open the door and motioned for Horace to follow. The narrow steps creaked under their combined weight, and Halt held his breath, hoping they wouldn't give away their presence any more than they already had. They descended quickly and finally reached the bottom of the stairs, finding themselves in a dimly lit corridor.
Halt paused, listening intently for any signs of guards. Hearing nothing, he signaled for Horace to continue. They moved through the maze-like passages, guided by Halt's sense of direction and his half-assed estimations that they were, in fact, going the right way.
Finally, they emerged into a small courtyard, hidden from view by high walls and overgrown ivy. Halt scanned the area, ensuring it was clear before turning to Horace.
"We need to get him to the horses. They're hidden just beyond that gate," Halt said, pointing to a small, weathered door at the far end of the courtyard.
Horace nodded, adjusting Will's weight in his arms. "Let's move then."
They crossed the courtyard swiftly, Halt pushing open the gate to reveal their horses wandering untethered as usual, just outside. The animals, sensing their approach, nickered softly in greeting. Halt quickly untied Tug, who nuzzled Will's mumbling form with all the concern that a horse can feign.
"Here, lay him across Tug's back. We'll need to support him to keep him from falling," Halt instructed stoically, trying to keep his voice as steady as possible despite the absolute panic inside him.
Horace carefully positioned Will on Tug, and Halt secured him with a makeshift harness to prevent him from slipping. With a final glance around to ensure they weren't being followed, they mounted their own horses.
"We ride fast and quiet," Halt said, his eyes meeting Horace's. "We need to put as much distance between us and this place as possible before they notice your absences."
Horace nodded, determination etched on his face. "Let's get him home."
They set off at a brisk pace, Halt leading the way, the horses' hooves muffled by the thick underbrush. The forest closed in around them, providing cover but also adding to the sense of urgency.
As they rode, Halt couldn't help but glance back at Will, his heart aching at the sight of his former apprentice's lifeless form. He knew they had to get him back to safety, to doctors, and Alyss, who had helped him through something like this before.
Hours passed in a blur of trees and moonlight.
Finally, as dawn began to break, they reached the edge of the forest. The familiar sight of Redmont Castle loomed in the distance, like a lighthouse on the horizon. Halt felt a surge of relief, knowing they were close to safety.
"We're almost there," he called to Horace, who was visibly exhausted but resolute. "Just a little further."
As they approached the gates, sentries recognized them and quickly opened the way. Halt led the way through the courtyard, calling for help.
Within moments, Pauline and Alyss appeared, having heard the announcement of their arrival home, their faces quickly paled with worry. Alyss rushed to Will's side, helping Horace carefully lift him from Tug's back.
"What happened?" Alyss asked, her voice trembling as she examined Will's pale face, and unfocused eyes.
"He was drugged," Halt said, his voice rough with emotion. "We need to get him to a healer, quickly."
Pauline nodded, already moving to help support Will's weight. "Let's get him inside, hurry. Get him to the Infirmary."
They half-dragged, half-carried Will into the infirmary. The air inside was cool and smelled faintly of herbs and linen, a blessed relief after the humid forest air. Alyss guided Will toward a cot, her usually steady hands trembling slightly as she helped Pauline lower him onto the bed.
Will murmured something incoherent--just a whisper of sound--, and his head lolled to the side. His eyelids fluttered, but his gaze was vacant, unfocused.
Alyss brushed damp hair from his forehead, trying to mask the fear creeping up her throat. “He’s burning up,” she said softly.
Pauline was already rifling through the shelves, pulling down jars and vials. “The sedative is likely still in his system. We’ll need to flush it out. Halt, water--boil it. Horace, fetch the healers. Quickly.”
Horace didn’t waste a second. He sprinted out of the room.
Halt moved mechanically, as if his body knew what to do before his mind could think. He filled a kettle, set it over the fire, and returned to Will’s bedside.
Will’s breathing was shallow but even. He looked younger like this--too young, Halt thought grimly. Not the seasoned Ranger who’d saved kingdoms and faced warlords. Just a boy again, broken down by something he never should’ve had to endure twice in one lifetime.
Alyss’s hand found Will’s, her thumb stroking gently over his knuckles. “You said it was temporary?” she asked, voice quiet, directed more to herself than anyone.
“Horace said a few hours,” Halt muttered. “But every drug hits differently. It’s been longer than that.”
She nodded faintly.
They both let out a deep sigh as they knew they were thinking of the same thing.
Halt remembered Will in a haze of fever and tremors, caught between withdrawal and nightmares, sobbing apologies he didn’t owe to anyone. He remembered sleepless nights where every small sound made him fear his boy had stopped breathing. And now… now it felt like history clawing its way back, refusing to stay buried.
The kettle began to whistle. Pauline took it wordlessly, her movements brisk but controlled. She mixed the steaming water with a crushed blend of dried roots and poured the mixture into a cup. “This should help draw the toxins out,” she said. “If we can get him to drink.”
Alyss slid an arm behind Will’s shoulders, lifting him gently. “Will,” she whispered, “love, can you hear me?”
His head rolled weakly toward her voice.
“That’s it. You have to drink this, alright? It’ll make you feel better.”
He didn’t respond, but when she pressed the cup to his lips, he swallowed reflexively. Not much--but enough for now. Alyss exhaled shakily. “Good. That’s good.”
Halt moved closer, resting a hand briefly on Will’s hair. It was damp with sweat. “You’re alright, son,” he murmured. “You’re safe now. Just sleep.”
The words were meant to soothe, but Halt said them mostly for himself.
Hours passed in slow, heavy silence. The healers came and went, saying they'd done all they could to push the toxins out, and now his body had to do the rest of the work.
Pauline stayed, checking Will’s pulse, his breathing, occasionally adjusting the damp cloth Alyss kept on his forehead. Horace returned at one point, exhausted and pale, but refused to rest until Pauline sent him away.
By late afternoon, the drug had begun to wear off. Will stirred fitfully, his eyes darting beneath closed lids. Then, with a faint groan, he blinked awake.
His gaze was hazy, unfocused, but when it found Halt, his brow furrowed. “Halt…?” His voice was a croak.
Halt’s relief came out as a sigh that was half a laugh, half a prayer. “You gave us a scare, Will.”
Will blinked again, trying to orient himself. “Where…?”
“Redmont,” Alyss said softly, leaning closer. “You’re home.”
That word seemed to sink in slowly. He closed his eyes again, visibly relaxing, though a faint frown remained between his brows. “They… tried to ask about Araluen,” he murmured. “I didn’t--”
“I know,” Halt interrupted gently. “Horace told me. You did fine, Will. More than fine.”
Will’s eyes opened again--bleary but searching. “Did… anyone get hurt?”
“Only the fools who laid hands on you,” Halt said, his tone turning gruff, though the corner of his mouth twitched.
A ghost of a smile flickered across Will’s face before his head tilted back, exhaustion overtaking him once more. He slipped back into sleep.
Alyss sat back slowly, pressing a hand over her mouth as tears welled. Pauline placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. “He’ll recover,” she said softly. “He’s strong.”
“I know,” Alyss whispered. “I just hate seeing him like that.”
Halt said nothing. He simply watched Will breathe--watched the slow rise and fall of his chest until it sank in that he was truly safe.
When Pauline finally left to fetch coffee for the three of them, Alyss remained beside Will, her fingers intertwined with his. “He’ll need a few days’ rest. Maybe even weeks,” she said.
“He’ll try to be up tomorrow, though,” Halt replied dryly.
She smiled faintly. “Oh, I know. I’ll make sure he doesn’t.”
Silence settled between them again. Alyss looked over at Halt after a moment. “You always find him,” she said quietly.
Halt’s brow creased. “What?”
“Wherever he is. However bad it gets. You always bring him home. Thank you.”
He didn’t answer right away. He just looked down at Will, then said, almost under his breath, “I promised him I would. I resolved I always would. That’s... what fathers do.”
Alyss’s throat tightened, and she smiled at the grim ranger, switching her gaze from him to Will. She didn’t say anything in response--she didn’t need to.
Through the open window, the late afternoon light spilled in, painting Will’s face in gold. The faint lines of exhaustion eased. He looked strangely peaceful.
And for the first time since Halt had found that wretched cell, he allowed himself to believe it was over.
The first time Will held a Ranger's dagger, he was disappointed by how light it felt. It was nothing compared to the grand swords he thought he'd once hold as a knight.
For weeks, he had imagined the moment.
He had imagined ceremony. Importance. Something grand enough to mark the dividing line between the orphan nobody wanted and the apprentice he had fought so hard to become.
Instead, Halt simply handed him the knife.
The forest around them was quiet except for birdsong and the distant murmur of water moving over stone from the creek nearby. Sunlight filtered through the leaves overhead, scattering patches of gold across the ground.
Will turned the dagger over in his hand.
It was smaller than he'd expected. Lighter too, yet perfectly balanced.
Halt watched him with the expressionless patience he reserved for apprentices making discoveries they believed were unique.
"Well?" he asked.
Will frowned, realizing he'd been silent for a few solid minutes and his mentor expected an answer from him. Of course, it was always hard to tell when Halt wanted words and when he wanted silence. The man was impossible to read. Will hoped that'd become an easier task as he advanced in his apprenticeship.
"I thought it'd be heavier," he said simply.
For a moment, Halt merely stared at him.
Then he reached into his cloak and produced a second knife--the broad-bladed saxe every Ranger carried.
He handed that one over as well.
"The weight comes later."
At fifteen, Will assumed he meant practice.
Years later, he would realize what exactly Halt meant by that.
The daggers became part of him somehow.
The throwing knife rested at his belt so often that reaching for it became instinctive. The saxe accompanied him everywhere, serving as a tool more often than a weapon.
They cut through rope, prepared meals, sharpened stakes, whittled branches, opened letters. Performed a hundred small tasks that nobody would care to think about a ranger using it for.
Will carried them through his apprenticeship and into manhood, and gradually the steel began to gather memories.
The daggers aged beside him, as did the hand that carried them.
The first life he saved with a dagger was not particularly dramatic.
There was no fanfare about it, just a frightened farmer pinned beneath a collapsed wagon while a horse panicked itself into exhaustion.
The saxe sliced through tangled harnesses.
The horse bolted.
The farmer lived.
That night, sitting beside the fire, Will remembered feeling absurdly pleased with himself. Not because he had done anything truly remarkable. But because, for the first time, he had felt useful.
The dagger had weighed almost nothing; Will had wielded it as such.
The first life he took with it was different.
He remembered the man's face.
Years later, he still remembered it.
Not every detail, not the exact shape of his nose or the color of his eyes.
Just enough.
Enough to know he had been real. Enough to remember the surprise.
The fear. The pain.
The sudden absence of anything on that face afterward.
Will cleaned the blood from the blade three separate times that evening.
The dagger felt heavier then.
The Skandians took the daggers along with everything else Will possessed.
The loss should have mattered less than it did.
His freedom was gone. His dignity, his pride. His bow and his oak leaf. They were all gone. Stripped from him in a matter of days. tt
His future seemed to have vanished entirely.
Yet there were moments during those dark months when his hand would drift automatically toward his belt before remembering there was nothing there.
He had never realized how much comfort could reside in familiar weight.
When Halt finally found him and began the long process of dragging him back from the edge of himself, the replacement daggers came once again without ceremony.
Much like the first pair.
Halt simply presented them to him in those Skandian woods.
"Thought you'd need these again," he had said quietly.
Will stared.
The leather smelled new. The steel gleamed.
For a moment, he could not bring himself to touch them.
Because these were not the daggers of an apprentice.
Those had belonged to a boy.
This pair belonged to the man who remained.
When he finally picked them up, they felt heavier than the originals ever had.
The years passed.
The daggers remained.
His friends married.
He married.
His mentor aged.
Conflict came and went as it always had.
The knives became witnesses. They watched him become a Ranger. They grew experienced right alongside him. They were there when Will was promoted to a senior Ranger.
The realization disturbed him more than most injuries ever had.
It seemed that one morning, he was asking Halt for advice. The next, people had begun asking him.
He lost the throwing knife once.
A mission gone wrong near the border
By the time the fighting ended, the dagger was gone.
Will spent nearly an hour searching for it afterward. Horace found this hysterical.
"You can get another knife, Will."
"It won't be the same!"
"It would be exactly the same!"
"No!"
Horace studied him.
Then, to his credit, stopped laughing.
Because it wasn't the steel.
It was never the steel.
It was every year attached to it. Every mile. Every mistake. Every triumph.
The knife contained pieces of his life no smith could forge and no replacement could replicate.
When he finally found it buried in the mud, the relief felt ridiculous and entirely justified.
Many years later, he placed a dagger into another apprentice's hand.
The gesture felt strangely familiar.
The apprentice's eyes widened.
Exactly as Will's once had.
The same excitement.
The same certainty that the future contained nothing but adventure.
Will nearly laughed.
Instead, he merely nodded.
Maddie turned the blade over in wonder.
"It feels light."
Will looked away before the young girl could see the anguish in his eyes.
"Give it time."
One quiet evening, Will sat outside the cabin as the sun settled beyond the trees. Feeling a peace settle over him. The sort of peace that Rangers rarely trusted, even after decades of service. He was sharpening his saxe knife with a precision and care not many men possessed in his age.
The world had seemed to grow softer with age. Or perhaps he had, who's to tell.
Beside him, Halt occupied another chair.
Older now. Considerably grayer, with wrinkles and a walking cane.
But no less irritating.
Neither man spoke for a long while.
The silence rested comfortably between them, the way it always had, filled only by the sounds of stone on steel.
Eventually, Halt glanced toward the dagger resting across Will's knees.
The same replacement dagger.
Older than some kingdoms.
Maintained so carefully that the steel still caught the light.
"Heavy now, isn't it?"
Will looked down at the dagger.
At the countless memories hidden within scratches nobody else would ever notice. The people it had saved, the people it had failed to save. The lives it had taken, the years it represented.
The boy who had once believed its weight could be measured in ounces.
He smiled.
"Yeah."
Neither elaborated.
They didn't need to.
The dagger felt heavier now than it ever had when he was fifteen.
Crowley's office was never something anyone would label as tidy—no one truly expected it to be after all—but there was usually a kind of order to the disorder. Stacks arranged by urgency, reports grouped by region, sealed documents set aside for later review with the King. It was controlled chaos, usually.
This was entirely something else.
Parchment spilled across the desk in what can only be described as mayhem.
Some half-curled at the edges, some weighed down by paperweights or stained by old coffee spills, others resting by ink bottles long since run dry after being left open for long periods of time. A few had slipped entirely, sliding to the floor in defeated heaps. There were at least three different reports layered over each other, none of them finished.
And in the middle of it all sat the Commandant.
Hunched over in a way that had to make his back ache, his one hand buried in his greasy red hair while a pen was in the other. Yet his hand was as completely still as the rest of him.
Staring at absolutely nothing.
Halt leaned against the doorframe, arms folded, watching him for a long moment.
“…You’ve been staring at that page for five minutes,” he said finally.
Crowley didn’t react.
Halt sighed, pushed himself off the frame, and stepped inside, the door creaking faintly behind him.
“Crowley.”
Nothing.
Halt leaned over him, waved a hand in front of his face, and nearly at the same time, reached out and plucked the pen from his hand.
That got a reaction.
Crowley blinked, as if waking from somewhere far away, his eyes refocusing slowly.
“…Give that back.”
“No.”
“I’m working.”
“You’re staring at paper.”
Crowley rubbed a hand over his face, irritation flickering faintly. “Which is a necessary precursor to writing on it, Halt.”
“Not for that long. You looked like you were trying to spontaneously combust them with your pupils.”
Crowley reached for the pen. Halt moved it just out of reach.
“I have reports to finish,” Crowley said, sharper now.
“And yet,” Halt replied calmly, waving a hand at the mess, “none appear to be getting finished.”
Crowley exhaled through his nose, leaning back in his chair.
“I don’t have time for this, Halt.”
“Clearly,” Halt said, gesturing vaguely to the room, “you do. You’ve done very little else.”
Crowley shot him a look. “Why are you being so insufferable?”
“I'm making an effort.”
There was a beat of silence.
Crowley looked away first, eyes dropping back to the cluttered desk.
“I’ll get through it,” he muttered.
Halt didn’t respond immediately.
Instead, he stepped closer, picking up one of the scattered parchments. His eyes skimmed the contents—half a report, abandoned mid-sentence.
“You’ve written the same opening line three times on this one,” Halt said.
Crowley’s jaw tightened.
Halt set the parchment down.
“And this,” he continued, picking up another sheet, “is from two weeks ago. Still unfinished.”
“It’s a draft.”
“It’s now a problem.”
Crowley stood abruptly, the chair scraping against the stone floor.
“I don’t need you hovering over my shoulder, Halt.”
“I’m not hovering,” Halt said mildly. “I’m observing.”
“You’re interfering.”
“If I were interfering,” Halt replied, “I’d have burned half of these by now.”
Crowley let out a short, humorless laugh.
“I'm tempted to allow you to do that.”
Halt studied him.
Really studied him.
There were shadows under Crowley’s eyes that hadn’t been there a the last time Halt came to visit a few months ago. His posture was off, tight in a way that had nothing to do with the work itself. His movements were just a fraction slower than usual.
“Have you slept?” Halt asked.
Crowley didn’t answer.
“Crowley.”
“I’m fine.”
“That wasn’t the question.”
Crowley turned away, running a hand through his hair.
“I don’t have the luxury of falling behind,” he said, voice lower now. “There’s too much to do.”
Halt’s expression didn’t change.
“There is always too much to do.”
“And yet,” Crowley snapped, turning back, “someone has to do it.”
“Yes,” Halt agreed. “And that someone will be considerably less effective if he collapses from exhaustion.”
“I’m not going to collapse.”
“You’re halfway there.”
Crowley’s mouth tightened.
For a moment, it looked like he might argue.
Then--
“…It’s just paperwork,” he said, quieter now. “It shouldn’t be this difficult.”
Halt’s gaze flicked to the desk again. To the scattered parchment. The half-finished sentences.
“It isn’t,” he said.
Crowley frowned slightly.
Halt met his eyes.
“And that's precisely why it is.”
Understanding flickered.
Slowly.
Reluctantly.
Crowley exhaled, some of the tension leaving his shoulders.
“…I can’t seem to finish anything,” he admitted. “I start, and then--” He gestured vaguely. “It all feels… wrong. Incomplete.”
“So you start again.”
“Yes.”
“And again.”
Crowley huffed a quiet breath. “Yes.”
Halt nodded once.
“Then stop starting.”
Crowley stared at him.
“…That’s your solution?”
“It’s a good one.”
“It’s a terrible one.”
Halt shrugged.
Crowley dragged a hand down his face. “Halt—”
“Pick one,” Halt interrupted, tapping a random parchment on the desk. “That one.”
Crowley glanced at it.
“That’s not even the most urgent—”
“Pick one,” Halt repeated.
Crowley hesitated.
Then, reluctantly, he reached for it.
Halt immediately took a step back, arms folding again.
“Well?” he prompted.
Crowley glared at him.
“…You’re going to stand there, aren’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Until I--”
“Yes.”
Crowley closed his eyes briefly, as if reconsidering every life choice that had led him to this moment.
“…You are the most irritating man I know.”
“I’ve been told.”
Crowley looked down at the parchment.
The words were already there--half-formed, abandoned.
He exhaled slowly.
Then, finally--
He wrote.
It wasn’t perfect or polished, but it was finished.
Crowley set the pen down, staring at the completed report like it might vanish if he looked away.
“…That was terrible,” he muttered.
“And now it's out of sight, out of mind," Halt said as he snatched it out of his hands and put it in a folder.
Crowley glanced up at Halt.
“…You’re not gonna let me redo that? It's barely legible.”
“Eh, who cares? No one reads this rubbish anyway.”
Crowley considered arguing.
Instead, he reached for another parchment.
Halt raised an eyebrow.
Crowley paused.
“…One more,” he said defensively.
Halt didn’t move, just stared at him in that annoying way that meant he would actually drag him out of this office by his toes if he placed that paper in front of him.
Crowley sighed.
“…Fine,” he muttered, pushing the second parchment aside.
He leaned back in his chair instead, shoulders loosening for the first time since Halt had arrived.
Silence settled between them.
After a moment, Crowley glanced at him.
“…You’re still here.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Halt shrugged slightly.
“In case you attempt to start a fourth opening line.”
Crowley snorted despite himself.
“…Stay, then,” he said, quieter now. “If you’re going to be unbearable, you might as well be useful.”
Halt inclined his head.
“High praise.”
Crowley huffed a faint laugh, reaching for the finished report again, as if reassuring himself it was real.
“…You’re a menace.”
“Yes.”
Another moment of silence. Then, almost as an afterthought--
“…Thank you.”
Halt didn’t answer, he just twitched the side of his mouth slightly and nodded his head, the equivilent to a beaming smile and a bear hug for him. He didn't even say anything.
The trouble with packing, Will reflected, was that it always seemed a great deal simpler before one actually began doing it.
He had his satchel open on the bed, although “open” was perhaps too generous a description. It had been open half an hour ago. Now it bulged at the sides, the seams threatened to burst, and looked as though it might give up entirely if he tried to force one more shirt into it. Will, however, was not a man to be intimidated by a piece of leather, and he was currently attempting to wedge a spare cloak into a corner where, to any reasonable observer, there was no room for a spare cloak.
Maddie stood in the doorway and watched him for some time.
“You know,” she said at last, “there are people who pack as though they intend to find things again later.”
Will glanced over his shoulder. “And there are people who stand in doorways making unhelpful comments.”
“I’m being very helpful. I’m warning you that your bag is about to explode.”
“It’s not about to explode,” Will said, pushing down on the cloak with one hand while reaching for a pair of socks with the other. “It’s simply full.”
“It was full ten minutes ago.”
Will gave the satchel a final shove, then sat back and regarded his work with mild satisfaction. “There. Perfect.”
Maddie crossed the room, took one look inside, and made a small sound of disgust. Before Will could object, she began removing items and laying them in neat piles on the bed.
“What are you doing?” he demanded.
“Saving you from yourself.”
“I don’t need saving from myself. I’ve packed for missions longer than you’ve been alive.”
“Yes,” Maddie said, folding one of his shirts, “and apparently nobody ever had the courage to tell you that you’re terrible at it.”
Will opened his mouth, then closed it again, because the shirt she had folded took up half the space it had before. She folded another, then another, fitting each piece of clothing neatly into the satchel until the bag, traitorously, began to look almost spacious.
Will watched in silence for a few moments.
Maddie didn’t look up. “You’re welcome.”
“I didn’t thank you.”
“You were about to.”
“I was not.”
“You were thinking it.”
Will considered denying this, but since he had in fact been thinking something uncomfortably close to gratitude, he decided to change the subject.
“Are you packed?”
Maddie gave him a look. “I’ve been packed since breakfast.”
“Overconfident,” Will said. “That’s dangerous.”
“Disorganized,” Maddie replied, pressing his spare socks into the side of the bag. “That’s embarrassing.”
Will took it from her, tested its weight, and found—annoyingly—that it sat more comfortably on his shoulder than it had before.
He nodded once. “Adequate.”
Maddie smiled. “That’s Ranger for thank you, isn’t it?”
“It’s Ranger for don’t push your luck.”
They left shortly after dawn.
The message from Gilan had arrived two days earlier, carried by a courier who had looked very relieved to be rid of it. That, Will had thought, was never a good sign. Gilan’s messages tended to be brief under ordinary circumstances, but this one had been especially irritating.
Strange lights reported at old border fortress. Locals refusing to approach after sunset. They suspect ghosts. Possible criminal activity. Investigate.
That was all.
There was no map beyond a rough marking of the fortress’s location, no description of the lights, no names of witnesses, and no indication of what “possible criminal activity” might mean. It was exactly the sort of message Gilan enjoyed sending: vague enough to be unhelpful, official enough to be unavoidable, and just interesting enough that Will couldn’t ignore it.
Maddie, naturally, had questions.
She began asking them before they had even cleared the trees surrounding the cabin.
“What kind of lights?”
“I don’t know.”
“How many locals saw them?”
“I don’t know.”
“How old is the fortress?”
“I don’t know.”
“Why was it abandoned?”
“Maddie.”
“What?”
Will turned in the saddle and looked at her. “I don’t know.”
She guided Bumper around a rut in the road, frowning. “You don’t have to say it like that.”
“You’ve asked me seven questions in five minutes, and the answer to all of them is the same. I thought I’d save us both some time.”
“Well, Gilan’s letter was useless.”
“Gilan’s letters often are.”
“Do you think he does that on purpose?”
“Almost certainly.”
Maddie considered this with the serious expression of someone adding another grievance to a growing list. “That seems irresponsible.”
“It’s educational.”
“That’s what people say when they’re being irresponsible.”
Will smiled faintly and let Tug choose his way along the forest path. The morning was cool and damp, with mist clinging to the lower ground and beads of moisture illuminating the grass. The road north wound through open woodland at first, then gradually narrowed as they approached the border country, where farms became fewer, and trees grew thicker.
By midday, Maddie had returned to the subject.
“So what do you think it is?”
“What do I think what is?”
“The lights.”
Will shifted in the saddle and shrugged. “Could be smugglers.”
“Could be bandits?”
“Possibly.”
“Could be soldiers from across the border?”
“Unlikely, but not impossible.”
“Could be ghosts?”
Will didn’t answer immediately, which was a mistake, because Maddie noticed.
“You hesitated.”
“I was deciding whether that question deserved a serious answer.”
“That means you considered it.”
“It means I considered ignoring it.”
“But you didn’t.”
“Maddie.”
She leaned slightly forward in her saddle, eyes bright with the sort of curiosity that was admirable in an apprentice and exhausting in a traveling companion. “The villagers think it’s ghosts, don’t they?”
“Villagers often think things are ghosts when they don’t want to walk somewhere after dark. And ghosts are almost easier to understand than criminals.”
“That isn’t the same as saying you don’t believe in them.”
Will glanced at her then, and something in her tone told him she wasn’t merely teasing anymore.
“Do you believe in ghosts, Will?”
The question settled between them more heavily than he expected.
For a while, the only sound was the steady rhythm of the horses’ hooves. Tug lowered his head as they passed under a canopy of oak, and patches of pale sunlight slid over Will’s cloak, then vanished as the branches moved in the breeze.
Before Alyss died, he would have laughed at it and answered without hesitation. No, of course not. Ghosts belonged to frightened children, lonely shepherds, and travelers who had spent too many nights sleeping badly in unfamiliar places. Rangers dealt in tracks, signs, patterns, evidence. A light in a ruined tower was a lantern. A whisper in the dark was wind through stone. A shadow at the edge of sight was only a shadow.
Afterward, things had become less simple.
He had never truly believed he saw her. He knew that. He was not a fool, and grief had not robbed him of sense, no matter how close it had come.
The blonde woman turning a corner in a crowded marketplace was never Alyss. The pale figure at the edge of the trees near the cabin vanished because it had never been there at all. The voice he thought he heard sometimes, soft and amused and heartbreakingly familiar, was only memory moving through silence.
He knew all of that.
But knowing a thing and feeling it were not always the same.
There had been mornings when he woke from dreams so vivid that for several seconds he expected to find her by the fire. There had been evenings when the cabin seemed to hold the shape of her absence so clearly that he almost turned to speak to her. And there had been one night, not long after her death, when he had stood outside beneath the stars because he could have sworn--could have sworn--he heard her laugh from the trees.
He had dismissed it afterward, of course.
He had dismissed all of it.
The trouble was that dismissal did not make memory any less powerful.
At length, he said, “I think if ghosts exist, they probably have better things to do than rattle around old fortresses frightening farmers.”
Maddie stared at him. “That is the most annoying answer you could possibly have given.”
Will shrugged and kept his eyes on the path ahead.
They reached the village late in the afternoon, and it took less than an hour to discover that the locals were perfectly willing to talk about the fortress, provided they were safely inside a warm room with the doors locked. The innkeeper described blue-white lights moving along the ruined walls. A farmer claimed to have seen a figure standing in the broken tower with no lantern in hand, glowing faintly against the night sky.
An elderly woman told them that the fortress had been cursed since the old border wars, which she described in great detail until Will gently pointed out that those wars had ended nearly two hundred years ago.
“Curses can be patient,” she informed him.
Will didn't know how to answer that.
By sunset they were approaching the ruins.
The fortress stood on a low ridge overlooking a narrow valley that once must have been an important crossing point. Time had not been kind to it. One wall had collapsed almost entirely, spilling stones down the slope like the bones of some long-dead animal. Ivy climbed the remaining tower, and young trees had rooted themselves in cracks along the battlements. The gatehouse had lost its doors, and the empty archway gaped black in the fading light.
It was an excellent place for ghosts, Will had to admit.
It was also an excellent place for smugglers.
They made camp well away from the ridge, hidden among pines with a clear view of the fortress. Will allowed no fire, which Maddie accepted with only mild grumbling, and they ate cold bread, cheese, and dried meat while the last light drained from the sky.
For the first few hours, nothing happened.
The ruins stood silent beneath the stars. An owl called from somewhere behind them, and once a fox barked sharply in the valley, making Maddie turn her head with sudden interest. Otherwise, the night was pretty calm.
Then, shortly after midnight, a light appeared in the broken tower.
It was small at first, no brighter than a candle cupped in someone’s hand. Then it moved sideways, vanished, and reappeared lower down near the collapsed wall.
Maddie’s hand went to her bow. “You saw that.”
“I did.”
“It’s moving.”
“Yes.”
“That’s unsettling.”
“Only if you were hoping for ghosts.”
She glanced at him. “You’re sure it isn’t?”
Will continued watching the light as it bobbed briefly, disappeared behind a broken stretch of stone, then emerged again near the base of the tower.
“Ghosts,” he said, “rarely carry lanterns.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I’m willing to make an educated guess.”
They waited another half hour, long enough to see two more lights appear and vanish within the ruins. Then Will rose, settling his cloak around him.
“Stay close. Step where I step. And if I signal you to stop, stop.”
Maddie gave him a look that said she had heard this particular instruction before, possibly several hundred times.
“I know.”
They moved toward the fortress through the long grass. The wind shifted along the ridge, carrying with it the smell of damp stone, wet leaves, and something else beneath it: smoke, very faint, and something that smelled of animal sweat.
Will paused, crouching beside a fallen section of wall. Maddie dropped beside him.
“Not ghosts?” she whispered.
“Not unless they’ve started keeping pack animals.”
Finding the entrance took longer. Whoever was using the fortress knew enough to avoid the obvious archways and broken gates. Will circled the outer wall twice before he found the scrape marks near a bramble-choked section of collapsed stone. The marks were faint, but fresh: boots, more than one pair, and the drag of something heavy.
He parted the brambles carefully.
Behind them, half-hidden under fallen masonry, was a narrow opening leading down into darkness.
Maddie leaned closer, her voice barely audible, and very visibly excited. “Secret tunnel.”
“Old drainage passage, probably.”
“That’s less fun.”
“Most true things are.”
They slipped inside.
The passage sloped downward beneath the fortress, and the air changed immediately. Aboveground, the night had been cool and clean. Here it was stale, damp, and carrying the mineral smell of old stone and earth. Will led the way with one hand brushing the wall, moving slowly enough that loose gravel would not betray them. Behind him, Maddie was silent, and despite himself, he felt a small flicker of pride. There had been a time when she would have bumped into something within the first dozen steps and then looked offended that the darkness had dared to exist to inconvenience her.
Voices reached them after several minutes.
Men’s voices.
Maddie leaned close to his shoulder. “Definitely ghosts.”
Will’s mouth twitched. “Very talkative ones.”
The tunnel widened ahead into a storage chamber beneath the fortress. Three men were there, seated around a small hooded lantern, with crates stacked behind them against the wall. One was sharpening a knife with theatrical concentration. Another was counting coins. The third had his boots off and appeared to be asleep.
Smugglers, then.
Will signaled Maddie left, then pointed to himself and the man with the knife. She nodded once.
It should have been simple.
And for the first ten seconds, it was.
Will moved first, striking the knife from the man’s hand and bringing his saxe knife hilt down hard against the side of his head. Maddie crossed the chamber in the same instant, catching the coin-counter off guard as she slammed a knee to his gut, then a punch under his chin as he folded forward with a startled grunt. The sleeping man woke just in time to see Will standing over him with an arrow nocked and pointed very steadily at his chest.
“Don’t,” Will advised.
The man didn’t.
Unfortunately, someone in the next chamber did.
A shout rang out, followed by the scrape of boots and the unmistakable sound of steel being drawn.
Will sighed. “I dislike it when people shout.”
The next few minutes were confused, loud, and deeply inconvenient.
More smugglers than Will had expected poured from the adjoining tunnel. Six at least, perhaps seven, armed with short swords, clubs, and the frantic confidence of men who had been surprised and were trying to turn fear into aggression.
The chamber was too narrow for proper archery, so Will fired once, dropped one man with a shaft through the shoulder, then slung his bow and drew his saxe knife and throwing knife in one smooth motion.
Maddie fought at his left; she had improved more than she realized in recent months. There was less wasted movement now, fewer dramatic flourishes, more practicality in her stance.
Will had time to think that Halt would have approved.
Then a smuggler came at him from the right, and approval became less important than not being stabbed.
He ducked under the first slash, caught the man’s wrist, and drove his knee upward. The smuggler doubled over with a strangled sound. Will shoved him backward into another attacker, but the movement took him half a step too far to the side.
His boot found nothing beneath it.
For one brief, deeply unpleasant moment, Will had just enough time to realize that the floor beneath the old fortress was not nearly as dependable as he had assumed. Then the darkness below him opened like a mouth, and he dropped.
He hit the side of the shaft first, shoulder glancing off rough stone with a burst of pain that stole the breath from his lungs. A heartbeat later he struck the bottom hard enough to make the world flash white behind his eyes.
For several seconds, he lay still, stunned by the abrupt silence after the chaos above. Somewhere overhead, men were shouting. He heard Maddie’s strikers crack against something with a sound that was almost musical, followed by a cry of pain that was not hers.
That, Will decided dimly, was encouraging.
He tried to draw breath and discovered that his ribs objected strongly to the idea. His shoulder objected as well, and his hip had apparently decided to join the discussion. He lay on his back and stared up at the square of dim light overhead, forcing himself to breathe.
In.
Out.
And again.
His vision steadied by degrees just as a head appeared over the edge of the opening.
“Maddie?” he called, though his voice came out weaker than he liked.
“No,” she said, breathless. “A ghost.”
Despite everything, he smiled. “That’s unfortunate. I was hoping for someone useful.”
“You fell into a hole,” she said.
“I noticed.”
“That was pretty dumb.”
“I thought it might be useful to inspect it.”
Maddie disappeared for a moment, and after a bit of shuffling, a rope dropped down beside him a moment later. Will took hold of it with his good hand, then paused as pain ran through his shoulder like fire.
Above him, Maddie’s voice softened. “Can you climb?”
He could hear what she was trying not to say. Can you climb, or do I need to come down and get you?
Pride suggested he should say yes immediately, sense and comfort suggested otherwise.
Unfortunately, sense had been speaking in Halt’s voice more often lately, which made it especially irritating.
“Not quickly,” Will said.
“Then don’t,” Maddie replied. “Tie it around yourself.”
It took longer than he liked, but eventually the rope was secure beneath his arms. Maddie braced herself above, and with a combination of her pulling, his pushing, and a considerable amount of muttered commentary from both of them, Will emerged from the shaft and rolled onto solid stone.
For a moment he lay there, breathing hard.
Maddie crouched beside him. “You look terrible.”
“Thank you.”
She looked him over quickly, hands efficient as she checked for bleeding, broken bones, and other consequences of falling through neglected architecture. Will allowed it because he didn't have the energy to protest.
The remaining smugglers had fled deeper into the tunnels.
Maddie helped Will to his feet, though he insisted on calling it “steadying” rather than helping. Together they moved after the smugglers, slower now but still silent enough to surprise two of them as they tried to force open a concealed exit beyond the storage chamber.
Maddie took the first down with an arrow to the man's calf. Will, whose body was aching in a way that promised a miserable morning and a probable infirmary visit, contented himself with placing the point of his saxe knife against the second man’s throat.
“I’m having a difficult night,” he said pleasantly. “Please don’t improve it by making me chase you.”
The man surrendered pretty quickly after that.
By dawn, the fortress no longer seemed haunted, merely damp, broken, and chock-full of illegal goods. The lights, as they suspected, had come from hooded lanterns carried through the old passageways. The strange wails that had frightened the villagers were nothing more supernatural than wind passing through cracks in the stone, helped along, Will suspected, by men who knew that frightened locals were less likely to investigate.
The smugglers were bound together in the lower chamber, their goods identified and counted as best as Will could manage with one arm working poorly.
There were bolts of stolen expensive cloth, casks of untaxed brandy, and several crates of expensive metal. The tunnels connected the ruined fortress to a concealed exit in a ravine beyond the ridge, allowing the men to move goods unseen while the villagers avoided the place out of fear of supernatural curses.
Will had to admit it was a very clever arrangement.
He would have admired it more if his shoulder and ribs had hurt less.
“Ghosts are better funded than I expected,” Maddie said, her eyebrows raised.
Will, sitting on a fallen block of stone while one of the captured smugglers glared at him, adjusted the sling Maddie had made for his arm.
“Smuggling is a lucrative afterlife, apparently.”
She smiled despite herself, then looked toward the shaft again, the humor faded as her smile dropped.
“You really could have died, ya know...”
Will followed her gaze. In daylight, the hole looked even more unpleasant than it had in the lantern glow the previous night. Deep enough to kill a man if he landed badly. Deep enough to make Maddie’s fear pretty damn rational.
He glanced at her and saw that she was waiting for him to make light of it.
So he did.
“I suppose I came rather close to becoming one of your ghosts.”
Maddie rolled her eyes, but some of the tension left her shoulders. “You would make an awful ghost.”
“I disagree. I think I’d be excellent at it.”
“You’d be unbearable.”
“Exactly. I’d haunt you specifically.”
“Why me?”
“Because it'd be fun.”
He continued, "You'd be doing the mission reports because I'd be too dead to do them myself, and I'd appear over your shoulder and point out spelling mistakes."
“You already do that alive.”
“Yes, but as a ghost I could do it at all hours.”
For a second, Maddie tried very hard not to laugh. Will could see the effort in her face, which made it worse. Then she gave in, and he found himself laughing too, though it hurt his ribs and he had to stop almost immediately.
It was a strange habit Rangers had, laughing after literal near-death experiences. Will had noticed it years ago in Halt and had thought, at the time, that it was merely one more sign of his mentor’s deeply questionable character.
Now he understood it better. There were only so many ways to tell the body that danger had passed. Sometimes laughter did the work better than words.
The village constable arrived shortly after sunrise with six men and a cart. The smugglers were handed over. The goods were counted. The tunnel entrances were marked for sealing.
The villagers, who only hours earlier had been speaking of curses and spirits, now spoke very confidently about how they had suspected smugglers all along.
Maddie listened to this with a raised eyebrow.
They remained long enough to make sure the prisoners were secure, then began the ride home late that morning. Will’s shoulder had stiffened by then, and every jolt of Tug’s gait sent a fresh ache through his ribs. Maddie watched him from the corner of her eye for the first hour.
Eventually, he said, “If you keep looking at me like that, I’ll assume you’re concerned.”
“I’m making sure you don’t fall off your horse.”
“That sounds like concern.”
“I'm looking out for myself, I don't want to find a new mentor if you fall off and crack your head open.”
“I see.”
“You’re welcome.”
Will looked ahead, smiling faintly. “Adequate.”
Maddie groaned. “That is not going to become a thing.”
“I think it already has.”
They reached Castle Araluen two days later; it was closer to where they were than Redmont was after all. Will figured he'd save them both the time of writing and sending off a report and just do it in person. Plus, it had been a long while since he had seen his old friends at Araluen, and he figured Maddie could use a day or so with her parents after that surprisingly difficult mission.
Will allowed them exactly one evening of rest before they reported to the Commandant.
Gilan received them in his office with the expression of a man who had expected trouble and was pleased to find that it had at least been interesting. He listened as Will gave the verbal account, interrupting occasionally with questions and once with a poorly concealed smile when Maddie described the shaft beneath the tunnel.
“You fell into it?” Gilan asked, his voice quivering slightly as he tried to suppress the laughter building in his chest.
Will regarded him coolly. “Temporarily.”
Gilan’s smile widened. “That’s a new term for falling.”
Maddie looked between them, clearly enjoying herself far more than was respectful.
When the account was finished, Gilan leaned back in his chair and nodded. “Good work. I’ll send word to the border fief. The baron there will want to inspect the goods himself.”
Maddie shifted slightly, clearly hoping that meant they were dismissed.
Gilan smiled.
It was not a reassuring smile.
“And I’ll need the written report, of course, by tomorrow before you head home.”
Maddie nodded, knowing his assignment didn't include her. She was switching her weight from one foot to the other, anxious for a hot meal and a good night's sleep.
And Will felt a warm and entirely unreasonable glow of satisfaction before he spoke his next words.
“Maddie will write it,” he said.
She turned to him. “What?”
“Excellent,” Gilan said, far too quickly. “Good practice.”
“What?!” Maddie repeated, this time including both of them in her disbelief.
Will adjusted his cloak around his injured shoulder with an exaggerated flinch. “I would do it myself, naturally, but my arm is wounded.”
“You injured your left shoulder, not your right hand.”
“The pain travels.”
“It does not.”
“It might.”
Gilan’s eyes gleamed. “Best not to risk it.”
Maddie stared at them both as the horrible truth dawned on her. “You planned this.”
“I fell into a hole,” Will said. “Show some respect.”
It was, he had to admit, deeply satisfying. Halt had made him write reports after missions, usually when Will was tired, hungry, injured, or some combination of the three. At the time, Will had considered it unnecessary cruelty disguised as discipline.
But later on, in their quarters at Araluen, watching Maddie scratch out half a line and mutter something uncomplimentary about old tunnels, Will now began to see the wisdom in his old mentor's unorthodox teaching methods.
Maddie looked up suddenly. “You’re enjoying this.”
“A little.”
“A lot.”
Will took a sip of coffee. “Possibly.”
She narrowed her eyes. “You’re making me write this because Halt used to make you write reports, didn't he?”
“Now that would just be petty.”
“It is petty.”
“It is educational.”
Maddie stared at him after hearing that world one too many times in the last two days.
Educational.
Will lowered his mug slowly.
He had heard that tone before. Worse, he had used that expression before: the calm, mildly infuriating certainty of a mentor who had already decided that mild discomfort was good for an apprentice. He thought of Halt sitting by a fire, offering dry comments while Will struggled through some unpleasant but supposedly character-building task. He thought of the raised eyebrow, the folded arms, the maddening ability to make silence feel like criticism.
Then he thought of himself, sitting by the fire, drinking coffee, making Maddie write the report.
The realization was sudden and deeply unsettling.
Maddie saw it happen. Her expression shifted from annoyance to triumph.
“Oh,” she said.
Will said nothing.
“Oh, that’s bad.”
“What is?”
“You’re turning into Halt.”
Will opened his mouth at once, because the accusation was outrageous and clearly required a firm denial.
Unfortunately, no denial came.
He sat there with his mouth slightly open, one hand around his coffee cup, and realized that he could not think of a single convincing argument against her.
Maddie leaned back in her chair, smiling now. “You even did the eyebrow thing.”
“I did not.”
“You absolutely did.”
“I have my own eyebrow thing.”
“That’s exactly what Halt would say.”
Will looked into the fire, where the flames shifted and cracked softly over the logs. For a moment, he imagined Halt’s voice, dry and amused, telling him that there were worse fates than becoming like one’s mentor. Will suspected that it was true.
He also knew he would never admit it aloud.
Across the table, Maddie dipped her pen again and returned to the report, though she was still smiling.
Will settled back in his chair.
“Make sure you include the part where I heroically survived falling into a pit,” he said.
Maddie did not look up. “I’m writing that you fell through rotten wood.”
“Same thing.”
“It is not.”
“History is only written by the victors.” He quoted.
“And victors so often lie.”
Will smiled into his coffee.
Outside, the trees whispered softly, and if there were ghosts in the world, they kept their distance that night.
alright i haven’t pre-written anything for this gathering so we’re rawdogging it, hope u enjoy! happy gathering!!!
—
The camp had finally gone quiet sometime after midnight.
Not fully silent -- desert camps never were. Somewhere beyond the ring of dying fires, Selethen’s guards traded shifts, horses stamped occasionally in the sand, and the canvas tents rustled softly in the warm night wind.
But the chaos had ended.
They were alive.
That alone still felt faintly improbable to the group.
Gilan sat near the edge of the firelight with a waterskin dangling loosely from one hand, watching the embers collapse inward on themselves. Across from him, Halt leaned back against a saddle, cloak pooled around his shoulders; his eyes were closed as though he were asleep, and he appeared outwardly relaxed in the way only Rangers ever managed after having been almost publicly beheaded.
Horace and Evanlyn had long since gone to sleep, and Selethen quickly followed suit, yawning as he headed to the larger tent set up for him near the edge of the camp.
And Will--
Will had vanished nearly an hour ago after ensuring every last detail of the camp had been settled.
Of course, he had.
Gilan shook his head faintly into his drink as he thought of the young boy.
“Your apprentice,” he muttered, knowing his former mentor wasn't actually sleeping.
Halt’s mouth twitched almost imperceptibly.
“My apprentice,” he agreed, his eyes still closed.
For a while, they simply sat there in companionable quiet.
Then Gilan finally asked the question that had been bothering him since the moment the cavalry had appeared over the dunes.
“What if he hadn’t made it?”
Halt opened his eyes now, looking up at him, appearing mildly puzzled at the inquiry. As if the question itself didn’t entirely make sense.
Gilan huffed a quiet laugh. “That’s exactly the look I expected.”
“Well, you do make a habit of asking odd questions,” Halt replied.
“We were prisoners in the middle of the desert,” Gilan said. “Outnumbered. Disarmed. You were quite literally at death's door,” He paused. “And you never panicked. Not once.”
Halt shrugged one shoulder.
“There wasn’t much point to that.”
“That isn’t an answer.”
Halt's lips pursed at that.
The fire cracked softly between them.
Gilan studied him for a moment before saying quietly, “You knew he’d come.”
This time, Halt did not answer immediately.
His gaze drifted toward the dark edge of camp, toward the endless desert beyond it.
“I knew,” he said at last, “that if Will was alive and free, he would come for us.”
The certainty in his voice settled heavily into the silence.
Gilan felt something strange twist in his chest at the detection of it.
Because Halt did not speak that way lightly. About anything. About any one, for that matter.
“You trusted him with all our lives,” Gilan said quietly.
Halt’s expression remained calm.
“Yes.”
Gilan let out a slow breath through his nose.
“That’s… a great deal of trust. Especially coming from you, and especially considering you were ready to knock me unconscious the other week for suggesting you trust him with his own life.”
Halt’s eyes flicked toward him again, faint amusement buried somewhere beneath the exhaustion.
“You think I don’t know that?”
“No, I think you know exactly what it means.”
That earned him a small nod.
For a moment neither spoke.
Then Halt said, quieter this time, “ I trusted him long before this.”
The firelight shifted across the hard lines of his face.
“But this was the first time I quite literally handed him my life.”
Something about hearing the words aloud struck Gilan harder than he expected. Because Rangers trusted carefully. Completely, once earned --but carefully.
And Halt trusted almost no one completely, not fate, kings, plans.
There are a few exceptions, of course; Crowley, Arald, and himself, perhaps.
Yet the ranger had sat in chains in the desert and remained calm because somewhere out there, he knew his 20-year-old apprentice was coming to rescue them.
Gilan suddenly understood something that had been slowly forming for years without him ever quite naming it.
This had stopped being a simple apprentice and master relationship long ago.
Somewhere between Redmont and Skandia and all the years since, something else had grown in its place. Family, perhaps. Not by blood, but something deeper for the lack of it.
And strangely, the realization brought no jealousy at all.
It could have, once. Years ago, perhaps, when he was younger and more uncertain and still craved Halt’s approval like a plant craves sunlight.
But sitting here now, watching the exhausted certainty in Halt’s face, Gilan found himself feeling only an immense, quiet gratitude.
For Will.
And for Halt.
For the fact that somehow the universe had seen fit to throw a malcontented orphan boy into an irritable ranger's path all those years ago. And in those years, something grew between them that perhaps the universe had planned for all along.
Halt broke the silence first.
“There’s a sense of destiny about that boy,” he said quietly.
Gilan smiled faintly.
“You really believe that.”
Halt’s gaze lingered on the fire.
“Well, I don’t believe in destiny, I never have,” he said.
Then, he swallowed, and after a pause:
“But I do believe in Will.”
The words settled deep. And suddenly Gilan understood why Will would follow Halt anywhere on earth.
Why a half-starved castle orphan had looked at this grim, impossible Ranger and decided, with all the terrifying certainty only children possessed, there. That's who will care for me.
The sound of shifting sand interrupted the silence.
Both Rangers looked up automatically.
Will stood several yards away at the edge of the firelight, very still.
Ah.
He’d heard.
Judging by the faint look of horror on his face, perhaps more than initially anticipated.
For one terrible moment, Will looked absurdly young again.
Not the confident young man who had manipulated desert tribes into an army and stormed across the dunes to rescue them.
Not the boy who had faced Temujai cavalry and Skandian warriors and Kalkara.
Just a startled child who had accidentally overheard something far too large for him to hold properly.
Gilan watched the realization hit him in real time.
Halt trusted him.
Not merely as a student or subordinate.
But no, he trusted him completely.
The expression on Will’s face turned dangerously bright around the eyes.
Well.
That simply would not do.
Before Gilan could say anything, Will cleared his throat abruptly and looked vaguely like a man preparing to flee the continent.
“I was--” he started, then stopped. “Selethen wanted--”
“No he didn’t,” Halt said calmly.
Will blinked.
“…No,” he admitted weakly.
Silence.
Gilan very carefully looked away before the poor idiot died of embarrassment.
Will shifted awkwardly in the sand.
“You really just said that?”
Halt raised an eyebrow.
“Which part?”
“That you--” Will visibly struggled through the sentence. “That you trusted me with your life.”
“You’re offended?”
“No!” Will said immediately, sounding appalled. “No, I just--”
He stopped again, words failing him entirely.
Gilan hid a smile behind his waterskin.
Because there it was again — that strange contradiction that was uniquely Will.
The boy could talk leaders into alliances and command armies without blinking.
But one sincere expression of affection and he unraveled instantly.
Halt, meanwhile, regarded him with the same steady look he had worn since Will was fifteen years old and covered in mud outside his cabin.
“You came back for us,” Halt said simply.
As though that explained everything.
To Halt, perhaps it did.
Will swallowed hard enough that Gilan noticed it even in the dim firelight.
Something raw flickered briefly across his face -- so quick most people would have missed it.
But Rangers noticed things.
And Gilan suddenly realized, with startling clarity, the ghost of the child Will had once been. Small, alone, unwanted for so long that love itself seemed to catch him off guard. Perhaps because he never learned what it felt like until now.
Halt saw it too.
His voice softened almost imperceptibly.
“I knew you would.”
That did it.
Will looked down immediately, scrubbing a hand across his face in the world’s least subtle attempt to recover himself.
“Right,” he muttered hoarsely. “Well. Good.”
Then, because he was Will:
“The army helped.”
Gilan barked out a laugh.
Halt’s mouth twitched.
“A small army,” Will added defensively.
“You assembled cavalry in a foreign desert nation in under three days,” Gilan informed him. “That stops qualifying as small.”
Will pointed vaguely at him. “See, that’s exactly the sort of unrealistic expectation that becomes a problem later.”
And there he was again. The tension broke like a snapped bowstring.
Gilan laughed harder, and even Halt finally let out the quiet huff of amusement he usually tried to disguise.
Will looked between them, still embarrassed, still suspiciously bright-eyed, but smiling now despite himself.
And Gilan thought, not for the first time, that meeting Will had truly changed all of their lives forever.
This is from Horace's perspective. I'm so sorry in advance.
---
Horace knew.
He knew even though no one had said anything. That was the strange thing.
No healer had leaned over his bed with solemn eyes, no trembling hand had settled on his shoulder, no one whispered some careful, practiced phrase about preparing himself. No one had to.
Because he knew even if no one else did.
He had known since the forest.
Not at first, perhaps. At first, there had only been pain, and cold, and the raw, desperate need to keep breathhing because Will kept ordering him to. That was one of the purest memories from the woods. Will's voice. His voice had cut through everything--the fever, the darkness, the distant snarls beyond the trees.
“Stay with me, brother.”
And Horace obeyed.
Not because he was brave or strong, but because, as a child, he liked to read fairytales. Fairytales of knights sacrificing everything for the greater good, heroes who endured impossible things with noble countenances, who fought to the death in the name of honor. He was very young when he decided he would be a hero.
And heroes would stay if their best friend sounded as terrified as Will had. Even half dead, Horace had not been able to bear that.
For six days, he drifted in and out of the conscious world. Sometimes he woke to rain on his face, sometimes to Will’s hands pressing hard against a wound he couldn't even feel anymore. Sometimes, he woke to the awful sound of his friend whispering to himself, counting breaths, heartbeats, anything that proved Horace was still there.
Once, he remembered opening his eyes and seeing Will staring into the trees, eyes shifting, with his knife raised, shaking so badly the blade trembled beneath his grip.
“Will,” he had tried to say.
But nothing seemed to leave his throat. He lacks the strength to speak, or perhaps even his ears lack the strength to pick up the sound of his own voice.
Will had looked down and smiled at him, obviously having heard him.
'So it was the latter,' Horace thought, a feeling of despair might have settled in his chest in that moment had he not felt so tired.
“There you are,” Will had whispered.
Horace had wanted to answer him.
I’m here.
I’m sorry.
Please sleep. Please.
But his body had betrayed him once more. His mouth would not move, his lungs would not fill properly. He only remembered Will pressing their foreheads together for one brief second before pulling away again, as if tenderness were a luxury they could not afford.
After that, time seemed to lose shape.
Next thing he knew, the canopy of trees that filled his vision day after day was replaced with white ceilings, lamplight, and bitter medicines being shoved down his throat.
A warm, trembling hand in his own. His fiancée's voice. Healers murmuring beside him when they thought he slept.
Infection.
Fever.
Complications.
"No, not yet."
Watch him through the night.
"He is young."
"He may recover."
May. Horace had always hated that word.
It sounded merciful until one truly analyzied it's proper meaning. May recover. May walk. May wake. May live.
It was a word healers used when they did not want to say there was no chance.
He learned quickly when to keep his eyes shut.
People felt safe to speak freely around the unconscious.
Cassandra said his name like a prayer. Alyss came in sometimes and sat beside him when Cassandra finally slept, her face pale and hollow from watching Will unravel across the corridor. Halt came once, silent and grim, and stood at the foot of his bed for a very, very long time.
Horace pretended to sleep through all of it.
He was too tired to comfort them and too ashamed to be comforted.
Too afraid that if he opened his eyes, someone would see the truth in them.
Because the truth was as clear as day in Horace's mind:
He was dying.
Not quickly or dramatically. There would be no battlefield like he'd always envisioned when he pictured his own demise, no sword in hand, no final desperate battle cry. There was only this bed, and blankets, and broth gone cold on the table. There would be healers whispering outside the door and Cassandra trying not to cry where he could see her.
It seemed unfair, somehow.
Horace had never expected to die beautifully. But he had hoped, in some foolish corner of his mind, that he might at least die usefully.
Then he thought of Will.
He had heard Cassandra and Alyss talking of his current state. He heard the mumbles of healers discussing in the hallway that they were running out of treatment plans for the ranger. He knew what had become of him. Horace knew.
Oh Will.
Will, who had dragged him through six days of hell by sheer force of will, as if death itself was another opponent he could outsmart.
Will, who believed saving Horace was the only thing keeping the very world from imploding.
Horace stared at the ceiling until it blurred.
No.
No, that would simply not do.
If he was going to die, then he would have to do it carefully.
For Will’s sake. For Cassandra’s. For all of them.
The decision, once made, settled over him with surprising calm.
From then on, he became very good at deception. He sat up, pretended to have an appetite he did not possess, drank the water offered to him, even went to see Will at some point.
When Cassandra asked if the pain was worse, he smiled and told her no.
When the healers asked if he felt dizzy, he said only a little.
When Alyss came in with red-rimmed eyes and asked if he needed anything, he asked whether she had managed to get Will to drink water, and she smiled at him once before she cried.
When Halt visited again, Horace forced himself to open his eyes.
The Ranger looked awful.
That was Horace’s first honest thought. His beard was tangled and long, his eyes had deep-set shadows beneath them, and his mouth was set in that grim line that meant either someone was about to die, or someone was about to regret ever being born.
Possibly both at once.
Horace managed a faint smile. “You look terrible.”
Halt’s eyebrow rose. “You look worse.”
“Good,” Horace murmueed, his head sinking deeper into his pillow as he fought the ache at his temples. “I’d hate to lose.”
For a moment, something softened in Halt’s face. “How are you?”
Horace knew a battlefield assessment when he heard one.
So that well-practiced lie slipped past his tongue once more.
“Better.”
Halt studied him for a long time, his eyes moving up and down the warrior's form, and Horace had to fight to keep his breathing even.
At last, Halt gave one short nod. “Good, you had us all worried for a bit.”
But he did not look convinced.
Of course, he didn’t. Halt was rarely fooled by anyone. But Horace thought perhaps he allowed himself to be fooled this time because he needed to be. Perhaps Halt simply did not have the emotional space to handle another member of his family slip through his fingers, perhaps he ignored Horace's lie because he simply didn't have the capacity to fight it.
That thought hurt the worst of all.
After Halt left, Horace lay awake for a long time.
Then he croaked out a call to a nearby nurse, asking only for a slip of parchment and a pen.
The nurse looked surprised. “You should rest, Sir Horace.”
“I know,” he said, pleasantly.
“You’re very weak.”
“I know," Horace repeated, still with a pleasant smile on his face.
She hesitated.
Horace smiled bigger at her. It cost him more than it should have.
“I only want to write a note.”
The nurse brought him parchment, ink, and a quill.
His hand shook when he took it.
That annoyed him. A knight’s hand should not shake. His own never did; a fact he was proud of. His nerves did not settle easily in his extremities, not when holding a sword, a pen, and certainly not when writing the words that might be the last thing anyone ever had of him.
He waited until the young nurse left before beginning.
Cassandra, Halt, Alyss, Will -- He began.
No.
His throat tightened.
He stared at the names until they swam in his vision.
He should have more time than this. More dinners, more arguments, more early morning training yards, and stupid jokes, and Will pretending not to be smug after winning at chess. More of Cassandra looking at him as if he were something finer than he was, more of Halt insulting him with the grave tone of a priest delivering a homily.
More.
He wanted more.
The unfairness of it rose in him suddenly, hot, angry, and childish.
I don't deserve to die yet. I don't want to die yet.
The thought came so sharply that he felt it might break him in two. He set the quill down and pressed the heel of his hand against his eyes.
He was not ready.
He was twenty-something years old, newly engaged, and still occasionally forgot which fork to use at formal dinners. He had not yet married the love of his life, he had not yet danced with her at their wedding, he had not yet held their children, he had not yet grown old enough for Will to mock him for going grey.
He was not ready.
But across the corridor, Will was trapped in a forest that no longer existed.
And Horace loved him too much to leave him alone with that blame.
So he picked up the quill again, and this time, he wrote.
Not much. He didn't have the strength to write the eloquent sonnets about how much his friends truly meant to him, how they were the family he never had; he couldn't write individual letters to each of them recounting his favorite memories with them. His thoughts drifted to Jenny, George, Arald, Rodney, Gilan. All the people who had made such a drastic impact on his life, who would never know of that impact. Simply because he didn't have the strength to relay it. Simply because he had run out of time.
He only had the strength and the time for the truth, or as much of it that mattered.
Don’t wake Will.
Don’t tell him until he’s ready.
Please don’t let him blame himself.
Tell him I’m proud of him.
Tell him he’s always been my brother.
By the end, his vision had gone strange around the edges.
I love you, Cass. Ugh, no, he didn't just love her; she was his air, his whole being, his whole life. Since he was 16, he couldn't envision any other woman he would spend his life with aside from her. It had always been her. Why was his body betraying him now, when this mattered most?
He let out a shaky breath, signing the note with an H because spelling out his own name altogether suddenly felt like too much.
Then he folded the parchment carefully. The effort left him breathless.
Later, Cassandra came in.
Horace tucked the note beneath his blanket before she could see it.
She looked stunning, exhausted, and furious at the world all at once. Horace thought she had never looked more beautiful. Her hair was loosely braided over one shoulder, and her eyes were swollen from crying, but she knelt beside him with a smile, clearly trying to disguise it. Then as she noticed his breathless state, her eyebrows furrowed.
“What's going on?” she asked suspiciously.
Horace blinked.
“What? Nothing.”
“You’re a terrible liar.”
“That is deeply unfair. I have lied very well several times.”
“Name one.”
“When Will tried to grow that beard, he asked me how he looked, and I panicked and told him it looked distinguished.”
Despite herself, Cassandra laughed.
The sound nearly brought tears to his eyes. He wanted to make her laugh like that forever, to hear it every day, he wanted to be old and ridiculous with her, he wanted to see her crowned Queen one day and stand beside her looking mildly uncomfortable in formal clothes while Will made faces at him from the crowd. He wanted to tell her everything that was going on. So much. She deserves to know, she does.
Instead, he reached for her hand, and she took it immediately, the smile frozen on her face.
“Cass,” he said softly.
Her smile faded. “No,” she said.
He hadn’t even said anything yet, but she knew him too well.
“No,” she repeated, sharper now. “Don’t speak like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like you’re leaving.”
Horace swallowed.
The room went very quiet.
“I’m trying not to,” he said.
That was the most honest thing he'd said all week, and he hated himself for it when he saw her face crumble.
“Hey,” he whispered, though he barely had the breath. “Come here.”
She leaned over him, and he lifted one clumsy hand to her cheek. His fingers trembled against her skin.
“I love you,” he whispered.
A tear slipped down her face.
“I know.”
He smiled faintly. “You’re supposed to say it back.”
“I love you,” she whispered fiercely. “I love you, and you are not allowed to die.”
He opened his eyes again and looked at her properly. He wanted to remember her like this. Not grieving. Not broken. But bright, and furious in a way that was distinctly her. His Cassandra.
“I will,” he promised.
It was not the truth.
And they both knew it.
But she bent and kissed his forehead as if it were.
Sometime after dawn the next morning, the pain changed.
It had been a constant thing before, deep and gnawing, but now it sharpened. Became something colder and more final. Horace woke gasping, one hand gripping the sheet, the other pressed weakly to his side.
A healer came. Then another followed and quickly left, coming back with the senior healer, whose mouth was pressed thin. They gave him something bitter.
Too much of it, perhaps.
Horace knew that almost at once.
The room tilted, the ceiling seemed to warp into geometric shapes and colors.
His breathing slowed in a way that frightened him, and he tried to say so, but the words dissolved somewhere between his chest and his mouth.
The healer frowned down at him.
“Rest,” she said. “You need sleep.”
No, Horace thought.
No, that isn’t right. Where's Cass? Where is everyone? Why did they leave him alone with these people? They don't know him...
But his body was heavy now, far too heavy, his tongue felt thick, his thoughts felt like they were gliding through mud.
He heard one of them whisper something about the dosage.
Another answered too sharply, silencing him.
Then quiet.
That was when Horace understood with a cruel clarity.
This was it.
It wasn't the forest, or his wounds, or anything Will did wrong out there with desperation and prayers as medication.
Something had gone wrong here, in this clean little room with white sheets, polished instruments, and people who were meant to save him.
The realization should have made him angry, he supposed.
Perhaps it would have, if he’d had more strength. Instead, he thought of Will.
Will would notice. Will would bring him justice.
That thought came suddenly, absurdly.
Will would notice because Will noticed everything. The angle of a footprint, the tremble in a voice, the difference between sleep and unconsciousness, the faint scent of the wrong herb in a cup.
Will would know.
And Horace, with what little remained of himself, was terrified of that.
Because if Will knew, then Will would blame himself for not stopping it.
Even from across the corridor. Even half-mad. Even mentally broken.
Will would find a way to make it his fault.
Horace tried to move, a new desperation fueling him.
Only to find the only movement he could make was a twitch of his fingers against the blanket.
The note.
Someone had to find the note.
His hand slid, with impossible strength, beneath the edge of the blanket, clumsy and numb, until it touched parchment. He dragged it out inch by inch and let it fall near the bedside table.
Good.
Good enough.
The room darkened at the edges, he could barely make out the shape of Cassandra rushing to his side, could barely feel her cool touch on his heated face, could barely hear her screaming for help. He might have made out her shape racing out of the room, but just then the scene in front of him shifted, and for a moment he was in the forest again.
The stars were overhead, the ground was cold, and somewhere nearby, Will was whispering numbers again under his breath.
Horace wanted to tell him to stop counting. He wanted to tell him he had done enough. He wanted to tell him that being brothers did not mean debts had to be repaid.
Then his vision shifted again.
Not the forest this time, or the infirmary. But a training yard at Redmont.
Will was younger, all elbows and sass, grinning after knocking Horace flat with some infuriating Ranger trick. Halt stood nearby pretending not to be pleased. Alyss was laughing from the fence. Gilan was saying something unhelpful. Cassandra, somehow, was there too, though she had not been there then.
Dreams were generous that way. Letting you include those you wanted most in these memories.
Horace breathed in. It hurt less now.
That frightened him.
He was in the infirmary again. The lights were too bright, it was as if the sun was on maximum power. He tried to turn his head toward the voices he heard, the healers in the corner whispering to someone. Halt? Was Halt talking to them?
Alyss was here, Pauline he thinks, but where...?
Ah, there she is.
Peace settled in his heart for a brief moment.
Too brief. Will. Horace wanted to turn his head toward the door, the corridor leading to Will's room. He wanted to scream at him to wake up. He even tried to whisper it, but nothing came out, no one heard.
His eyes burned.
No, not yet. Not now. Please.
Let him live.
Then Horace let himself imagine it.
Will waking. Will grieving, yes, because there was no saving him from that. But living, standing, laughing again someday, even if the laugh came changed, wearing that stupid cloak that he claimed didn't come in tall sizes.
Riding Tug through the trees. Climbing trees. Marrying Alyss. Growing older. Letting himself be loved.
He let himself imagine the future, unknowingly a future without him.
Cassandra ruling the kingdom with fire in her eyes.
Halt pretending he was not a sap by every soft thing he felt.
Alyss as head of the diplomatic corps as he always imagined she one day would be.
A world continuing, cruel and beautiful and completely out of reach for him now.
Horace was sorry to leave it.
But if he had to, then let him leave like this:
Not in the forest, or afraid, or alone. Surrounded by people he loved. People who loved him. People who shaped everything he had become as a man.
His last clear thought was of Will.
Not as he looked now, or when he'd been to see him some days prior, hollow-eyed and lost in the depths of his own mind.
But as he had been in the woods, bloodied and shaking and refusing to surrender him to death.
"There you are," Will had whispered.
Horace felt he wanted to smile.
"There you are," he thought back.
Then the pain was gone.
The room fell quiet.
And Sir Horace Altman, the Oakleaf knight, beloved of a princess, brother of a Ranger, and friend to all who had ever been lucky enough to know him, slipped away before the clock struck noon.
Not because Will had failed to save him. But because, in the end, Horace had chosen the only thing he still could.
A very silly--borderline crack-- oneshot, please enjoy the result of my procrastinating finals.
---
Halt had had a difficult morning, to say the least.
He had slept poorly the night before-- not, he maintained stubbornly, because of his age. The ache in his back had everything to do with damp weather and absolutely nothing to do with the number of years he had spent on this Earth.
Unfortunately, his body seemed unconvinced.
By the time dawn crawled over the trees outside the cabin, Halt already felt irritable enough to declare war on sunlight itself. His eyes burned. His shoulders ached. His knee had made a noise upon standing that sounded disturbingly like dry branches snapping underfoot.
He limped toward the hearth with the grim outlook of a condemned man.
Coffee first. Civilization after.
The kettle hissed softly as he rested one hand on the table and stared into nothingness with all the enthusiasm of a man contemplating his own funeral. He drank the first cup too quickly, burnt his tongue, scowled at the mug as though it personally tried to kill him, then poured another cup.
That was when he remembered something unfortunate.
He had an apprentice.
Halt closed his eyes briefly.
“God help me,” he muttered.
The cabin itself was quiet, which should have warned him immediately. Will was never quiet unless he was either unconscious or hiding from responsibility.
Suspicious already, Halt began surveying the living room that Will was supposed to tidy the night before.
A boot lay beneath the table. Another sat confusingly on the windowsill.
And there was a knife embedded in a beam overhead.
Halt stared at it for several long seconds.
“…Wha--Why?”
And then he looked in the corner of the room.
The curtain to Will's room was violently shoved open, jolting the unsuspecting teenager awake.
Halt was holding one of Will’s shirts between two fingers like evidence in a murder inquiry.
“What is this?”
Will, sprawled half-awake in his blankets, blinked at him. His hair stood up in every direction imaginable.
“A shirt.”
“It was a shirt.”
Will squinted. “Looks fine,” he mumbled as he scrubbed a hand down his face, fighting a yawn.
“It can stand in the corner by itself.”
“It’s drying.”
“It’s rotting.”
Will rubbed sleep from his eyes. “Well, good morning to you, too. You’re in a bad mood.”
“I am in a bad mood because your laundry has become a sentient being.”
That earned the faintest grin.
Halt hated it when the boy did that--smiling just enough to make irritation difficult.
Will reached for it.
Halt lifted it out of range. “You are washing your clothes today.”
“I washed them last week.”
Halt stared at him.
Will hesitated
“I washed them...recently.”
“You’re impossible.”
“You trained me.”
“A fact I regret often.”
Will yawned as he swung his legs over the edge of the bed. “Pretty sure Rangers are supposed to smell bad.”
“No. Horses smell bad. Rangers are supposed to be unnoticed, and if you get shot because someone could smell you from a mile away, I'm sure they only got you confused with a horse.”
“Well, nobody notices the smell after a while.”
“That is because they die.”
Will snorted loudly.
Halt pointed toward the door. “Outside. Now.”
“You’re serious?”
His mentor crossed his arms, “I am considering burning the shirt.”
“That’s wasteful.”
“That thing would probably survive the fire anyway.”
Will dragged himself out of his bed, stretching with the theatrics of a dying man. “This feels like an attack.”
“It became an attack when I found another sock in the cooking pot.”
Will froze, his arms extended over his head, mid-stretch.
“…You weren’t supposed to find that.”
Halt shut his eyes.
There was a long, painful silence.
Then, very quietly:
“Why was there a sock in the pot?”
“I lost it.”
“That does not answer the question.”
“I found it again?”
In this moment, Halt genuinely considered walking into the woods and allowing nature to reclaim him.
Instead, he shoved a bar of soap into Will’s chest and marched him outside toward the wash basin behind the cabin.
The morning air was cold enough to make Will recoil the minute the door was opened.
“Oh, absolutely not.”
“You survived a winter in Skandia, but cold water defeats you?”
“Yes.”
“Pathetic.”
“You’re evil.”
“I’ve been called worse.”
Will crouched beside the basin miserably while Halt stood over him like an executioner. After several moments of dramatic sighing, Will finally dunked the shirt into the water.
The water immediately turned a concerning shade of brown.
Both of them stared at it.
“…Huh,” Will said.
“Hm.”
“I didn’t realize it was that bad.”
“Maybe I should contact a healer."
...
"...Or a priest."
Will laughed despite himself, shoulders shaking with sleepy amusement as he scrubbed at the fabric.
Halt watched him for a moment in silence.
The boy was still half-asleep, muttering complaints under his breath while soap slid up his arms. He looked younger like this sometimes-- less like the 18-year-old that he was, and more like the scrappy orphan Halt had taken in years ago.
And suddenly, without warning, something strange settled in Halt’s chest.
Because Will was scared, bracing, or apologizing for taking up space. Not acting grateful for scraps of attention like he once had.
Just… complaining. Like a normal kid being forced to wash clothes by an irritated parent.
Halt looked away before the thought could linger too long.
A few minutes later, Will muttered quietly, almost absentmindedly, “No one ever cared about this stuff before.”
Halt glanced back.
Will was still scrubbing at the shirt, eyes fixed on the water.
“No one cared if my clothes were clean, or... or whatever,” he mumbled with an awkward shrug.
The words were casual.
But Halt knew enough by now to recognize the things Will pretended not to mean.
Something uncomfortable twisted behind his ribs.
“Well,” he said gruffly, “someone clearly should have.”
Will looked up at him then, surprised by the firmness in his voice.
For a second, neither of them spoke.
Then Halt ruined the moment immediately by pointing at the basin.
“That shirt is beyond saving, by the way, we're tossing it.”
Will looked offended again. "Wha-- you just made me clean it, it is not beyond saving!”
“It may need to be buried.”
“You’re ridiculous.”
“And you smell terrible.”
Will splashed the filthy water directly at his face.
Halt stepped back instantly. “You little barbarian--”
Will was already laughing now, loud and helpless, nearly dropping the shirt back into the basin as Halt threatened him with the soap.
And somewhere beneath the irritation, the exhaustion, and the horror of discovering socks in cookware--
This is a sequel to Landmarks. I suggest you read that first! :)
TW: Discussions of past SA of a minor, don't read if this triggers you, stay safe, please ❤️
---
The next morning dawned gray, humid, and cool over the Gathering grounds.
A damp mist clung low over the field, blurring the rows of tents and the distant tree line. Rangers moved quietly through camp, speaking in lowered voices, though no one said openly what had happened the day before.
No one needed to.
Even among men trained to notice everything and comment on nothing, wordless understanding had spread fast.
Will had barely slept.
He knew because Halt had been awake every time he surfaced, the shadow of him seated by the fire outside his tent was visible every time he opened his eyes.
By morning, Halt had bullied him into eating half a loaf of bread and a bowl of porridge, then informed him--without asking for permission--that Gilan wanted to speak with him.
Will had nearly refused.
Then he remembered Gilan’s face from yesterday.
The guilt.
The horror.
And he knew he owed him more than ignoring it and keeping silent.
He found Gilan near the practice ring, restringing his saxe knife belt for the third time. The taller Ranger looked up immediately when Will approached, and for once, looked like he had nothing ready to say.
Will stopped a few paces away, hands shoved into his pockets, so he wouldn't fidget or show the nervousness he felt throughout his body at that moment.
“You’re going to wear the leather through if you keep doing that.”
Gilan glanced down at the belt in his hands and let out a short breath that might have been a laugh.
“Occupational hazard, I guess.”
Silence stretched for a moment, then Gilan stood, his arms out in an apologetic gesture.
“Will--”
“You didn’t do anything wrong, Gil.” Will was quick to stop his apology
Gilan’s jaw tightened as he pursed his lips. “That’s generous of you, bud. But I'm not sure it’s true.”
“It is.”
“I pinned you to the ground in front of half the Corps.”
“We were sparring,” Will said with a laugh.
“I should have noticed.”
Will looked away, shaking his head, then he turned back to his friend with a weary look in his eyes, "You couldn't have. I... never gave you any reason to..."
Gilan’s expression shifted, softer now.
“Will.”
He said the name again carefully, the way Halt did when trying not to startle a horse.
“You don’t have to protect me from this, you know.”
Will let out that breathless laugh again, humorless.
“Funny. Halt said nearly the same thing.”
“Wise man.”
“Insufferable man.”
“Also true.”
That drew the smallest real smile from Will, and something eased in Gilan’s shoulders from the sight of it.
Will looked back at him, then his face set as he made a decision, and he gestured for him to sit.
They moved to the edge of the empty ring. And for a while, they watched the camp wake around them.
Then Will spoke. He told him about Skandia in pieces first, little bits he didn't think Gilan knew yet--chains, hunger, the warmweed haze, the slave hut, the way days blurred together.
Gilan continued staring at the dirt, eyebrows furrowed.
Then he paused for a long while, long enough that Gilan did look up at the young man. Will's mouth was moving in words that weren't being spoken, as though he were phrasing and rephrasing what was on his mind.
Then he said quietly, “In the yard... There was a hierarchical system among the slaves.”
Gilan didn't move. Didn't speak.
Will stared ahead as he continued, "The highest ranking of them was called the Committee; they were in charge of assignments, punishments... and everything in between."
"One of them, um..." Will cleared his throat now, then plunged forward before he knew he'd lose the courage to speak. "One of them singled me out. I was smaller, younger, newer to the yard, I didn't have any connections yet, so no one would care what happened to me."
He continued in a monotoned and disconnected voice, as he always had to whenever he recalled this story.
He told him of the man who had taken advantage of a young boy, too weak and eventually too drugged to stop him.
The threats. The violence. The shame afterward.
The certainty that no one could ever know. The promise he made to himself that he would never let anyone know. He had felt ruined. Broken. Violated.
Gilan’s hands curled slowly into fists on his knees.
Will noticed and nearly stopped.
But Gilan only said, very quietly, “Keep going. If you want to.”
So he did.
He told him about it after they were rescued. Will thought it was over, but it seemed to follow him home all the way from Hollasholm. Panic attacks, he hadn’t understood. About why being restrained or held down in any way sent him spiraling. About the nights after returning, when he scrubbed his skin raw until it bled because he could still feel hands on him.
And finally, he seemed to be at the end. Then, in a voice so thin it barely carried, “I thought if Halt knew, he’d look at me differently.”
Gilan turned to him sharply.
“Will.”
There was real anger in his voice now--but not at him.
“If Halt looked at you differently, I’d personally throw him in the lake.”
Will snorted despite himself.
“And if I look at you differently,” Gilan continued, “it’s only because I know now how much you survived without saying a word.”
Will swallowed hard.
“I’m not strong, Gilan, don't even go there.”
“Yes,” Gilan said immediately. “You are.”
“No, I--”
“You commanded an army in defense of a country that you owed nothing to, for God's sake. You came home, and you got up every morning. You trained. You laughed when you could. You kept going.”
He shook his head. “That’s strength, whether you like the cliche word or not.”
Will’s eyes stung.
“I hate that you know.”
“I hate that it happened.”
Gilan hesitated, then held out an arm sideways along the bench between them--not touching, only offering.
Will looked at it for a second.
Then leaned sideways until their shoulders met.
Gilan said nothing, his arm went around the other man's shoulders, and he threaded his fingers through his hair, burying his tears in it.
After a moment, Will muttered, “You tell anyone, and I’ll poison your coffee.”
“Bold of you to assume I don’t already drink poison for immunity purposes.”
That earned him a watery laugh.
And for one of the first times since Skandia, Will felt something unfamiliar. Not quite safety, not yet, but the possibility of it felt within reach, and that was close enough.
---
Across camp, Halt found Crowley exactly where he expected him to be.
Ordering people around while pretending not to enjoy himself.
The Ranger Commandant stood near the supply wagons, arms folded, directing tents to be packed in a more efficient order while several senior Rangers ignored him on principle.
“Halt,” Crowley said without turning. “Come to apologize for your apprentice kicking one of my senior rangers' ass yesterday?
“No.”
“Pity. I’d have enjoyed refusing it.”
Halt stopped beside him.
Crowley glanced sideways.
Then straightened.
“You look murderous.”
“I am.”
Crowley’s expression sharpened. “About Will.”
“Yes.”
Crowley pursed his lips, stopping what he was doing, then gestured to the Command tent a few meters away.
They walked toward it and went in without another word.
Then Crowley said quietly, “How bad?”
Halt’s jaw flexed as he sat in one of the canvas chairs.
“Worse than I had initially thought.”
Crowley went very still. “He told you?”
“A while ago.”
The older man’s gaze hardened toward the woods, toward nothing visible.
“Why didn't you tell me? We could've helped him. Ugh, I should've noticed to begin with, damnit.”
“We both should have.”
Crowley exhaled through his nose.
“I knew he was changed after Skandia. Anyone with eyes could see it. But I thought... the addiction and slavery were explanation enough for the behavioral changes.”
“They were explanation enough,” Halt said grimly. “Just not the whole of it, unfortunately.”
Crowley was silent for a long moment.
“If I knew who did it, I’d dig him up just to kill him again.”
Halt almost smiled.
“Get in line.”
Crowley looked at him then, and the old humor was gone entirely.
“What does the boy need?”
“Time.”
“Besides that.”
“Normalcy. Patience. People who don’t smother him but don’t pretend nothing happened.”
Crowley nodded once.
“And from the Corps?”
“Nothing,” Halt said sharply. “Until Will asks for something himself.”
Crowley accepted that immediately.
“No gossip,” he said. “No pity. No whispers.”
“I’ll break noses.”
“That'll help matters, I'm sure.” That, finally, brought the ghost of a smile to Halt’s face.
Crowley’s voice softened. “You’ve done well by him.”
“I nearly didn’t.”
“But you did, Halt. He seems okay now. For what he's been through, that's a big win.”
Halt looked through the flap in the tent where Will and Gilan were walking toward the mess hall tent in the distance.
The two boys were talking quietly, laughing, Gilan's arm hung lose over the apprentice's shoulders.
Crowley nodded again, a determined light in his eyes.
“Yes, he does. And that's good too."
Later that evening, when camp life had nearly returned to normal and the sun was just starting to dip below the horizon, Will found Halt waiting outside his tent.
“Well?” Halt asked.
“Well, what?”
“Did Gilan cry?” Halt asked, almost too enthusiastically.
“No,” Will said with a furrow of his brows, as he sat beside his mentor on the log.
“Pity.”
“He threatened to drown you if you looked at me differently.”
Halt sniffed.
“Reasonable stance.”
Will hesitated, then asked quietly, “Crowley knows now?”
Halt nodded in confirmation.
“What did he say?”
“That if he knew who was responsible, he’d dig him up and kill him again.”
Will stared. Then, despite everything, he laughed.
Halt glanced at him sidelong.
“There you are.”
Will’s smile faded softer this time.
He shrugged. And Halt ruffled his hair a bit, "C'mon, let's go get some dinner."
TW: A bit of self-harm, passive suicidal inclinations, depression
---
Will doesn't consider himself suicidal. As a matter of fact, he's never really been able to fully comprehend the idea of suicide. Such cases were common enough in a Ranger's line of work, and Will had always felt a deep sympathy for them, but it was never quite an empathetic understanding. How can one possibly abandon family and friends simply because they're too tired of living?
He didn't understand it, not consciously anyway. Not for a long while.
Will Treaty isn't suicidal, but he is reckless with his life. He rushes headlong into danger when every other sane person turns and runs in the opposite direction.
He's never truly called on this until a mission went horribly wrong.
Rogue Temujai.
That's what Halt had said they were.
"Of course, all Temujai are rogue in my book," he had said snarkily at the time.
But these were rogue as in they abandoned their group, left the army, and now work as deadly mercenaries for whoever has the money to spend on their own personal axes that need grinding.
That was where it all started.
Will and Halt were tracking them through a damp and dark everglade rainforest in the humid southern fief of Greenfield.
Will would've taken this assignment with his apprentice, Maddie, but she was on her yearly holiday with her parents in Araluen. He fought Halt on coming with him, but the older Ranger was insistent.
"It'll be like old times," he said, "You almost getting yourself killed in stupid ways and me saving your ass. Tell me you don't miss that?"
Will had laughed at that at the time.
Now they were trudging through a mucky swamp. This was something Will hadn't experienced before; even after being a ranger for over 20 years, he had never had to try to remain silent and unseen in a sticky environment such as an Everglade.
"Awfully difficult to stick to your training when your footsteps sound like that, huh?" Halt whispered jokingly, trying to make a little light of a dark and quite admittingly an annoying situation.
Will only snorted in amusement, fighting back a wince as the mud beneath his feet made a loud
"glop, pop" sound.
Eventually, they found real tracks to follow, but they led to the river, where the tracks then stopped.
"Must've gotten in a canoe and crossed the river," Will guessed, mostly to himself.
Halt gave him a look that gave Will flashbacks to his apprentice days, where Halt would give him the same look, meaning "ya think?"
Rangers didn't exactly have standard-issued canoes, so Will and Halt camped for the night as Halt stated in his famous gruff manner, "sit tight and assess then."
Will had heard that one before. Halt was known for using it when he really didn't know the logical move to make, but wanted to pretend he did.
The night passed in a thick, oppressive silence. The only sounds were the occasional chirps of unseen frogs and the steady trickle of water in the distance. Will sat cross-legged near his bedroll, sharpening one of his knives with methodical strokes. Halt had deemed it too risky to have a fire for cooking, so their dinner consisted of hard, dried bread and meat. Now Halt sat dozing, and Will lay awake, taking first watch.
His eyes weren’t really on the blade, though--his mind kept wandering.
It wasn’t fear keeping him awake. It hadn’t been fear in years. It was that quiet hum in his head that never seemed to go away anymore, that strange absence where his survival instinct should be.
The Temujai had a reputation for brutality. That should have made him cautious. Instead, he found himself wondering--idly, detached--as he gazed at the knife in his hands, what it would feel like to be on the receiving end of it.
Not wanting it. Not chasing it. Just… not minding for a moment. He didn't find that thought to be too harmful.
Will’s fingers faltered for a moment, the knife’s edge biting slightly into his palm. He blinked hard, forcing his mind back to the present, grounding himself in the pain of the knife on his palm, to the damp earth beneath him, and the soft, steady breathing of Halt beside him.
The pain on his palm.
Not minding.
The thought lodged itself there like a splinter beneath his skin.
Maybe it was a little harmful.
Morning brought no relief. The oppressive humidity clung to their clothes and skin like a second layer, and the air was thick with the scent of decaying leaves and mud. Halt rose silently, checked their gear, and motioned for Will to follow.
They resumed tracking the Temujai along the other side of the riverbank, where waterlogged footprints revealed their direction. Will felt a vague sense of detachment, as if watching a shadow move through the forest rather than himself.
Hours passed.
At a bend in the river, Halt motioned to stop. The footprints ended abruptly at a small dock where a rickety canoe bobbed lazily against the water’s edge. Across the river, a faint movement caught Will’s eye.
“There,” Halt whispered, "Get down."
A group of Temujai mercenaries, unmistakable even from a distance--scarred faces, harsh eyes, armed to the teeth, mostly with bows. But Will noticed they had unusual weapons compared to the usual Temujai. Spears, swords, battle axes.
The last one was strange, Will recalled axes had gone out of use years ago.
Will’s heart should have hammered with adrenaline, his senses sharp and alive, like they had always been in the past.
“We’ll wait for the others,” Halt said, voice low and careful.
Will didn’t answer.
Halt glanced sideways at him, catching the strange stillness in his posture. Usually, waiting chafed at Will. Usually, there was a restless energy in him before a fight, a little fidgeting, an impatience held in check by discipline. Now there was nothing.
“Will?”
Across the river, one of the Temujai turned his head, scanning the tree line. Another laughed at something, the sound carrying thinly over the water.
Will stared at them.
“We can probably take down four before they even know where the arrows came from,” he said quietly.
“We don’t know how many more there are.”
“We know enough.”
Halt’s tone sharpened as he looked at him again, something commanding in his eyes. “We wait, Will.”
Will moved before the last word had fully left his mouth.
He stepped from cover, boots splashing into the shallows as he lunged for the canoe rope. The sudden movement sent birds shrieking from the trees. Across the river, the Temujai shouted and reached for weapons.
“Will!” Halt hissed, already unstrapping his bow.
Will shoved the canoe into the water and leapt after it, half swimming, half dragging himself in. An arrow struck the water inches from his shoulder.
He laughed as it barely missed him.
Halt’s first arrow dropped a Temujai on the far bank. His second buried itself in another man’s throat. But more figures emerged from the trees.
Will rammed the canoe onto the opposite shore and charged before it fully grounded.
He fought like a storm and a man with no instinct for self-preservation is a terrifying thing to witness. He took cuts he should have avoided. Ignored blows that should have staggered him. Pressed closer whenever an enemy tried to gain distance.
Halt reached the bank moments later, cursing in three languages as he fired and moved, fired and moved, trying to keep his apprentice--his friend--in sight.
Then he saw the Temujai with the spear right behind Will, and he yelled with every bit of air in his lungs.
“DOWN, WILL!”
Will heard him. Halt knew he heard him.
But he didn't move.
The spear drove clean through Will’s side.
And everything stopped.
Will looked down almost curiously at the shaft protruding from his body, then sagged to one knee. Halt’s next arrow took the spearman through the eye. After that there was only violence--quick, efficient, merciless violence. When it ended, the swamp fell silent except for Halt’s ragged breathing.
He was on Will in seconds.
“Stay awake, son.”
Will blinked at him, pale already. “Bit dramatic.”
“You’re bleeding to death.”
“Then be quicker with the bandages.”
Halt’s hands shook as he snapped the shaft and packed the wound. He hated that Will noticed.
“You’re shaking,” Will murmured.
“I’m restraining myself from strangling you.”
That earned the ghost of a smile.
It took hours to get him back across the river. Longer still to reach shelter. By the time they did, Will was feverish and barely conscious.
He lived.
Halt was almost angry about it, at first--not that Will lived, but that he had come so close to dying through sheer carelessness and still greeted recovery with that same maddening calm.
The healer in Greenfield ordered bed rest.
Will obeyed with the obedience of a man who was simply too exhausted to argue.
Three days passed before Halt finally closed the door to their borrowed room, set a mug of tea on the table, and said, very evenly:
“You heard me warn you.”
Will kept looking out the window.
“Yes.”
“You knew the spear was there.”
A pause, Will looked at him, something in his eyes weighing heavily on his face.
“Yes.”
Halt waited for denial, excuse, temper. Anything.
Instead Will said, “I was tired.”
The words were so softly whispered that Halt nearly missed them.
“Tired,” Halt repeated.
“Yeah.”
Will’s hands were folded over the blanket. They were scarred, and Will looked at them now, knowing the origin of each one.
“I know how it sounds,” he said. “I know I should say, and I would usually say, I misjudged it, or I didn’t hear you, or I thought I could turn in time. But I heard you.”
Halt said nothing.
“I just…” Will swallowed. “I didn’t care...Halt.”
The room seemed to contract around them.
Halt had faced armies with less dread than he felt then.
He shifted his stance, his face going through a multitude of emotions as he tried to process his former apprentice's words. Then it hardened, and he crossed his arms.
“Since when?”
Will laughed once, bitterly. “Do you want the honest answer or the answer that hurts less?”
“The truth.”
“Since Alyss died.”
That name, barely spoken nowadays, hit Halt like a freshly sharpened blade.
Will’s face remained turned toward the window.
“I kept functioning. Everyone praised that. Look at Will--so resilient, so disciplined, so dependable.” He drew a shaky breath. “And I was. I did the work. I smiled when needed. I ate when told. I slept eventually.”
His voice frayed.
“But some part of me never came back, I don't think. A part of me that... that wishes I went with her.”
Halt crossed the room slowly and sat opposite him.
“Why didn't you say anything?”
“What was there to say?” Will snapped suddenly, years of restraint cracking open.
“That I wasn’t trying to die, I just wouldn’t have minded if I did? That every mission felt easier than sitting still with myself? That sometimes, when a blade came at me, the only thought I had was 'finally?'”
His breathing hitched.
“I’m a Ranger, Halt. We run toward danger. That's our literal job description. I had excuses for all of it. Why would I have mentioned anything when no one would've even thought to question it?!”
His shoulders began to shake.
“I didn’t even know what to call it.”
Halt had seen Will injured, poisoned, tortured, grieving, furious.
But he had never seen him quite this broken.
And the tears that sprang to his eyes now weren't resisted this time.
Will pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes like he could force himself back together.
“I don’t want to die, I swear,” he said, voice strangled. “I don’t think I do anyway. But I don’t know how to keep wanting to live like this.”
Then the sob tore out of him.
Raw, as though it came straight from his gut and not his throat. Will would've been humiliated in any other circumstance, but he couldn't find the wearisome energy to care.
He bent forward, trying to contain it, and Halt was there instantly--one arm around his shoulders, the other bracing the back of his head like he had when Will was a fevered apprentice half his size.
Will clutched at him with desperate strength.
“I’m sorry,” he choked out.
“No.”
“I’m sorry!”
“No.” Halt’s own voice broke on the word; he released Will's head, moving it so he could meet his eyes.
He looked at the boy he had raised, the man he had trusted beside him, and felt tears burn hot and useless down his face.
“I should have seen it,” Halt whispered.
Will shook his head against his shoulder.
“I should have known,” Halt said, harsher now, as if accusation could undo years. “I taught you to hide too well. I praised you for enduring too much. I watched you bleed and I called it strength, Will. It's not your fault for absorbing that into how you lived your life, how you.. you fought your battles.”
Will only cried harder.
Halt did too, silently at first, then not silently at all.
There was no wisdom to offer. No ranger proverb sharp enough to cut through this. No neat path through grief once it had rooted this deep into one's soul.
So they stayed there on the narrow bed in the dim room while the afternoon light faded from the window.
The long dining hall had been quickly and subtly rearranged for privacy. A single, polished dining table ran the length of the chamber, the seats filled only by those who had been permitted in the throne room earlier. The candles were lit low and warm, casting gold across the polished silverware and reflecting gently in the glass goblets.
Duncan stood at the head of the table, a goblet of wine in his hand. He raised it slightly.
“Before we begin, let me be absolutely clear,” he said. “No business. No time travel theories. No debriefing, interrogation, or discussion of anything remotely resembling a paradox. And you two, and you two,” gesturing to Will and Will and Horace and Horace, "Do not touch each other, don't even go near each other, not until we know how all this works."
Duncan had briefly spoken with the head scholar in the castle, explaining a hypothetical situation where he would need information such as that, and carefully leaving out any details. The man had simply stared at him in shock after being summoned for such a peculiar request, then smothered a laugh at the idea, and loyally relayed his own thoughts on such things that the King didn't quite understand. Quantum theory, paradoxes... it was all tomfoolery terms to him and far above his academic understanding.
But still, he had hypothetical instructions for a hypothetical scenario that was all too real, and wanted to guarantee that nothing too chaotic or dangerous happened in his own Castle. Much less his private dining space.
He leveled the table with a glance.
“This is a meal. Nothing else.”
A round of half-nods and mumbled agreements followed. Young Horace looked like he wanted to protest--he had so many questions he wanted to ask his older self--but a single sharp look from Gilan shut him down.
Will--the older one--sat quietly near the end of the table, flanked by Gilan and Crowley on either side. His fork spun idly between his fingers as he eyed the room, his expression unreadable but distinctly observant.
Across from him, young Will kept sneaking glances up at him. He hadn't said a word since the time travelers had shown up, a fact which Halt thought to be highly usual, and slightly alarming. He'd have thought that the boy would be simply bursting with questions for the older version of himself.
But, Halt thought to himself, the boy hadn't exactly been himself lately, anyway.
Not since Skandia. Even with himself, Gilan and Crowley's attempts to bring him out of his hollow shell. The boy was quiet, withdrawn, and the questions that he did ask always appeared to be forced. As though he, too, was attempting to revive his own nature.
But looking at him now, seated beside him, Halt could see that the boy was clearly unnerved by the presence of his older self. A feeling Halt felt he shared with him, as he swiveled his gaze to his older apprentice, or 'older former apprentice,' he thought with a start.
Will had graduated and grown into a successful and fully-fledged ranger, just as Halt always knew he would. He held a confidence in his posture, and, from Horace's accounts earlier, had led an army into a hopeless losing battle that simply had to be fought, fighting right alongside them in the process. Any coward of a commander would've fled the moment the fighting started, but Will hadn't.
But, Halt supposed, pride filling his heart as he regarded them both, he didn't the first time he led an army either. He had trained, and commanded, and fought right alongside his brothers in arms, right up until his own mortal injury took him down.
Halt fought a shudder at the thought of his apprentice, former or current, fighting to the death and bleeding out alone. And he once again looked up at older Will, meeting his eyes as he did so. And once again, there was that unwavering eye contact, that unwavering confidence and experience in those brown eyes that Halt had come to only associate with his apprentice. They looked nothing alike and exactly the same, all at once. It was truly an unnerving thing.
The meal began. Plates were served. Spoons clinked. The food was good--a light soup to start, then a warm roast chicken, fresh bread, roasted vegetables, and boiled potatoes--but no one really ate like they meant it. The conversation stalled before it even began.
It was Horace--the older one, naturally--who finally broke the silence.
“Well…” he said loudly, forking a roasted carrot into his mouth. “You know, this is a great opportunity. You always hear people say, ‘If I could go back and give my younger self advice, I’d say this or that…’”
He looked between the two Wills. “This is basically that, isn’t it? Isn’t that neat?”
There was a bit of an awkward pause. Then a couple of quiet chuckles. Gilan raised a brow, amused. Crowley actually smiled, mostly at how in character it was for Horace of all people to try to break the thick ice that everyone felt frozen in.
Older Will, still spinning his fork lazily, made a show of pretending to think about it. “Mm,” he said. “Truly.”
Horace grinned and clung to those vague words as an invitation to continue. “Exactly.” Then he turned to his younger self and said, pointing his fork at him, “Don’t spend too much time around Rangers. You pick up their mannerisms.”
“Not enough of them, evidently,” Older Will muttered into his goblet.
A ripple of laughter passed down the table. Even the younger Horace let out a chuckle, his eyes wide in a childlike admiration that was too apparent for him to even try to mask.
Horace nudged Will with his elbow. “Come on then. What would you say to him?”
Will turned his eyes to his younger self. For a second, there was something unreadable in his gaze--an intensity, quiet but sharp. It wasn’t judgment or mockery. It was recognition. Sympathy. The flicker of a wound not quite healed.
He took a slow bite of a roasted veggie. Chewed. Swallowed.
“Get a good lawyer,” he said, deadpan.
Gilan choked on his drink. Crowley barked out a surprised laugh. Even Duncan looked caught off guard.
Young Will, blinking, gave the barest, puzzled smile.
“What?” he asked.
Older Will nodded at him. “Trust me.”
“That… sounds ominous,” young Will said.
“I meant it to.”
"Good thing, you've both got George."
The laughter faded into a more comfortable silence this time. The mood had lightened just enough.
“You’re very different, ya know that?” Gilan said innocently, studying Will.
Will raised an eyebrow but didn’t deny it. "Yeah, well, ten years will do that to you."
Another long pause.
“Is it… different?” Duncan asked cautiously. "The world you come from?"
Will didn’t answer immediately. His eyes flicked around the table. Halt. Crowley. Gilan. Duncan. Arald. Cassandra—young, happy. Horace. His younger self. All previous "no-business-allowed" talk momentarily forgotten.
His gaze settled somewhere distant before he answered, voice low.
“Depends on the day.”
No one responded to that. The quiet returned quickly, deeper this time, more thoughtful. The meal continued as though it hadn't been stalled. Conversation shifted into a bit safer territory--training tales, castle gossip, a short but spirited debate between Crowley and Duncan about the state of castle plumbing.
Still, Older Will mostly listened. He offered the occasional dry quip or quiet observation, but his mind was elsewhere.
While his doppleganger had, by no one's notice, stopped eating entirely. His stomach was in knots as he watched the older man.
It wasn’t until the final course--an apple tart, soft and warm--that Horace leaned back in his chair, patting his stomach dramatically.
“Well,” he said, “we might be stranded in the past with no idea how to return to our own timeline, but I’ve had worse dinners.”
“You nearly died after your last dinner,” Will said without looking up.
“Exactly.”
Duncan exhaled, wearied and amused. “This is going to be a very long week.”
In which Crowley retires a little earlier than in canon, and he doesn't die because I said so. He names three candidates for the job, and Will is forced to confront the horrifying reality that he is one of them.
---
The cabin was quiet in the way it always was at this hour—the sun had begun to dip below the tree tops, casting a golden light across the floorboards.
A single unlit lantern sat on the table between them.
Papers were spread everywhere. Most of them were correspondence from fiefs that required attention but not necessarily urgency. The kind of work that never really ended.
Will and Halt were quite used to this routine.
They would do their own patrols and routing throughout the day, and around sunset, meet at Will and Alyss' cabin to go over reports and discuss their findings that day, however small or trivial they may seem.
Then once a week or so, they would head back to Halt and Pauline's apartment at the castle, where Alyss would usually be, and they would have a "no-business-discussion-allowed-dinner."
Halt sat back slightly in his chair, one boot propped up on the table in a way that would most definitely warrant a scolding from his wife. And Will's wife, now that he thinks about it.
Possibly both at once.
At that thought, he slowly removed his leg from the table, hoping Will wouldn't comment.
But Will was caught up completely in whatever report had caught his attention; the official paper sat in front of him, while he sat hunched forward, elbow braced on the table, scratching messy notes quickly over a sheet of parchment as he summarized a patrol incident.
For a while, there was nothing but the scratch of ink and the occasional shift of parchment.
Then, without looking up, Halt said, “Oh, Crowley’s retiring.”
Will didn’t seem to register what he said; he didn't even pause. “Mm.”
A beat.
The pen slowed.
Then completely stopped. Will suddenly seemed to understand what his mentor had just said, and his head jerked up, his mouth opened in shock.
“…What?”
Halt turned a page. “End of the year. He’s been considering it for some time.”
Will blinked at him, setting the pen down. “Since when?”
“Since he realized he’s getting old.”
Will snorted. “He’s been old since I met him.”
“That was his point as well.”
Will leaned back slightly, processing. It fit, in a way. Crowley had been Commandant for a long time. Long enough that it was almost difficult to imagine the Corps without him.
“…Huh,” Will said finally. “Well. That’s… big.”
“It is.”
Silence stretched again for a moment.
Will picked his pen back up, though his attention had clearly drifted.
“Any idea who—”
“You’re one of the candidates, actually,” Halt said casually, licking his thumb to turn the page of the report he still seemed invested in, whilst dropping the news of a lifetime to his shellshocked former apprentice.
The pen slipped clean out of Will's fingers and hit the table with a sharp clack.
Will stared at Halt, that open-mouthed, shocked look back on his face.
Halt still did not look up.
“…I’m sorry,” Will said slowly, “I must have misheard you.”
Halt did look up this time, and continued playing his little game as he shook his head with a slight smile on his lips.
“You didn’t.”
Then his attention returned to his report.
Will reached for his mug, clearly intending to take a sip. He had to focus on stilling his hands from the slight tremor they now had as he raised the coffee to his mouth. He missed slightly, corrected, and then promptly choked on the coffee anyway.
He coughed—hard—turning away, one hand braced on the table.
Halt looked up now, setting the report down, then, when Will could breathe again, he burst out laughing.
Prompting a death-glare from the younger ranger, which had zero effect. But Halt couldn't help it; the look on the younger ranger's face was too good.
Finally, Will managed to find his words again, and he sputtered out, “…I—” He gestured vaguely. “I’m— what?”
“You're one of three,” Halt said, returning to a stoic look. “You, Gilan, and Ben.”
Will just stared at him.
Then he laughed too.
A short, incredulous sound that hushed as soon as it started.
“That’s not funny," He deadpanned.
“It wasn’t meant to be.”
“No, I mean—” Will sat forward, both hands on the table now, as if grounding himself. “Halt, I would be a terrible Commandant.”
Halt looked up again, readying himself to defend Will from Will.
But the man had already set off.
“I mean, honestly—have they met me? Crowley spends half his time telling me I’m not by the book enough, and now suddenly I’m supposed to be the book?” He ran a hand through his hair, agitated. “I don’t even like rules.”
“You follow them when necessary.”
“I bend them when necessary,” Will corrected immediately. “Those are not the same thing.”
Halt said nothing.
Will pointed at him. “And don’t you say anything, you’re the worst influence I’ve ever known.”
“That’s demonstrably untrue,” Halt said calmly. “You were quite capable of poor decisions before you met me.”
Will ignored that entirely; his mind was still spinning in disbelief.
“I mean—Commandant? Really?” He let out another disbelieving laugh. “I can barely keep my own fief from descending into chaos some weeks. You want me running the entire Corps?”
“You wouldn’t be alone.”
“That’s not very comforting.”
Halt’s mouth twitched again, just slightly.
Will groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “No. Absolutely not. There’s no universe where this is a good idea.”
“Crowley seems to think otherwise.”
“Crowley,” Will said flatly, “has clearly lost his mind in his ever-increasing old age.”
Halt returned his attention to the report.
“That has been suspected.”
The conversation mostly ended there.
As did the productivity, apparently.
Will picked his pen back up, then set it down again almost immediately, his focus clearly gone. Halt didn’t comment. He had expected as much—that was precisely why he’d waited until the important work was finished before mentioning it.
Now, at least, there was no reason to stay. Which was entirely Halt's intention.
He rose, already reaching for his cloak.
“Come on,” he said. “Let's go have dinner.”
--
Pauline’s and Halt's apartment was always warm.
Will liked that. It offered a homey feeling to it, with little touches here and there that Halt had inputted over the years since their marriage to remind himself of the cabin.
Tonight, it seemed especially warm. With lamplight and the smell of something slow-cooked and delicious.
It was a familiar space. Comfortable.
Alyss was already there when Will and Halt arrived, seated at the table with Pauline, deep in conversation. She glanced up as the door opened—and her face lit up in a smile in that easy way that still, after eleven years of marriage, made something in Will settle.
“Finally,” she said, as she stood up to give her husband a kiss on the cheek. “I was beginning to think Halt had chained you to a desk again.”
“He tried,” Will said, shrugging off his cloak. “I escaped.”
Halt snorted softly behind him.
Dinner was peaceful, as it always was. Conversation flowed with no effort—bits of politics, minor gossip from the castle, Pauline’s latest frustrations with correspondence that had arrived poorly phrased.
Will relaxed into it.
It wasn’t until they were halfway through the meal that Alyss tilted her head slightly, studying him.
“You’re quieter than usual,” she said.
Will paused mid-bite.
Halt didn’t look up.
“…Crowley’s retiring,” Will said bluntly.
Pauline blinked, feigning surprise as if she hadn't known about this for a week. “Is he?”
“Apparently.”
“Well,” she said thoughtfully, “it’s about time. He's earned a little relaxation, I'd say.”
No one disagreed with that.
“And the replacement?” Alyss asked, already knowing that Will would confirm her suspicions.
Will exhaled slowly, setting his fork down, as he gave her a look.
“Oh, you’ll like this.”
Halt took an unassuming sip of his coffee.
“I’m apparently under consideration.”
Pauline’s brows lifted, once again struggling a bit to feign surprise.
Alyss froze for half a second, processing the confirmation—then her lips curved.
“Commandant Will Treaty,” she said lightly.
Will huffed a laugh, shaking his head, “Only sounds good coming out of you.”
Alyss’s smile widened, entirely unbothered.
“Well,” she said smoothly, “I’ll make sure to say it often, then.”
They all collectively ignored Halt choking on his coffee at that comment, though Will didn't miss the satisfying irony.
“Please don’t,” he muttered, rubbing both his hands down his face.
“I don’t know,” Pauline said, still amused. “It has a certain ring to it.”
“It absolutely does not,” Will said firmly.
“Who are the other considerations?” Alyss asked.
“Gilan,” Will said immediately. “And Ben. Honestly, preferably Gilan.”
Halt raised an eyebrow.
Will shrugged at him. “He’s the obvious choice. He’s organized, he’s respected, a damn good ranger, and he actually likes structure—”
“You don’t?”
“I tolerate it,” Will corrected. “That’s different.”
Alyss studied him for a moment.
“And if you’re chosen?”
Will didn’t hesitate.
“I'm passing it to Gilan.”
Halt’s gaze sharpened slightly as both his eyebrows rose.
“You can’t just—”
“I can try,” Will said. “And I will. Plus if I'm appointed commandant, I can simply say I'm retiring back to active duty and passing the baton again."
"You can't just be commandant for 6 hours and then decide you're handing it off to someone else, that's now how it works."
"Well, if I'm appointed, things wouldn't be going by the rules anyway. I’m not uprooting everything for a job I don’t want.”
Alyss tilted her head. “Everything?”
He met her eyes, softer now.
“Well, you can’t exactly pack up and move to Araluen with me,” he said. “Your work’s here, honey. Our lives are here.” A small shrug. “I’m not going anywhere.”
Something in her expression warmed a bit—subtle, but unmistakable.
“That’s very mature of you,” she said.
“Well, don't sound so surprised.”
“I’m not,” she said, smiling. “Just impressed.”
“Don’t be. It’s mostly self-preservation.”
Pauline laughed again.
Halt said nothing—but there was something quietly approving in the set of his shoulders.
--
A week later, the cabin door slammed open without warning.
Will didn’t look up.
“Unless you’ve brought something useful--”
“Will.”
Will froze mid sentence.
That was Gilan.
Will looked up.
Gilan stood in the doorway.
And something was… off.
His expression was blank in a way that didn’t suit him. Not calm or controlled like usual.
Just… utterly stunned.
Halt had already straightened slightly in his chair.
“What is it?” he asked.
Gilan stepped inside slowly, shut the door behind him, and looked at both of them.
“I’m the new Commandant.”
Silence.
“WHAT?”
Will was on his feet so fast his chair scraped loudly across the floor.
“You’re serious?!” he demanded, enveloping his older brother in a bear hug.
Gilan gave a short, almost disbelieving laugh into Will's shoulder. “Apparently.”
Halt stood as well, a rare and proud smile showing across his face as he crossed the room in two strides to place a firm hand on Gilan's shoulder.
“Congratulations,” he said.
Will was still bubbling over with excitement for his friend.
“That’s— of course you are,” he said, grinning now, holding Gilan by the shoulders. “That’s perfect. That’s exactly how it should be.”
Gilan blinked at him, a concerned look crossing his face. “You’re… not disappointed? Or bitter toward me?”
“Are you kidding, Gil? I couldn't be happier!” Will said, pulling him into a hug again. “I was planning on giving it to you anyway.”
“You can’t just—”
“I know,” Will said with a laugh. “But that wasn’t going to stop me from trying.”
Gilan huffed a laugh, shaking his head, as he stepped back from the hug, running his hand through his hair in pure shock.
Halt watched them both for a moment, a familiar pride settling into his chest once again. It was quite an honor having a former apprentice become commandant, but to have them both be considered for the prestigious role made Halt's heart almost swell.
He earned it, he thought. They both would've earned it.
But he couldn't ruin his reputation by getting sappy right now, so he broke the silence, dryly—
“Try not to ruin the Corps.”
Gilan glanced at him, as though he saw right through Halt's defenses. “High expectations.”
“I find they encourage improvement.”
Will clapped Gilan on the back. “You’ll be brilliant.”
Gilan exhaled slowly, some of the shock finally easing.
“…I hope so.”
“You will,” Will said simply.
Halt nodded once.
Gilan leaned back against the table, looking between them.
“…Crowley’s going to be unbearable about this, isn’t he?”
Will grinned.
“Oh, absolutely.”
Halt reached for his papers again.
“Get used to it, Commandant.”
Gilan groaned.
Will laughed.
And the cabin, once again, settled into something easy.
The fire has burned down to only embers by the time Halt notices the drawn-out silence.
It isn’t very sudden. Will had simply been growing quieter for hours, his comments stopping or becoming more clipped, his notes shorter and more careful, like a man rationing energy he doesn’t quite have. Halt assumes it's exhaustion. He always does. Will has earned that assumption a hundred times over and then some. He had this irritating tendency to work himself until he dropped, something which Halt hadn't quite figured out how to get him to stop doing.
The cabin is warm and dim, lit only by the low glow of the fireplace and the lantern on the table between them. Papers are spread messily across the rough wood--names, routes, half-finished theories, scribbled and hasty notes that didn't make any sense except to the two rangers who understood their cryptic meanings.
The case is ugly to say the very least.
The kind that neither of them wants to be working on for longer than necessary.
But unfortunately, the kind that requires a lot of time. The last two weeks had been a series of late nights and early mornings for them.
Halt has been circling the same piece of evidence for the better part of an hour when he looks up to mention something and finds Will unmoving.
Asleep.
Slumped slightly in his chair, head tipped forward, one hand fisted on his cheek while the other was still curled around his pencil as if he’d simply stopped. Taken a pause.
Halt’s first instinct is frustration. They agreed to push through the night no matter what. This was a time-sensitive case, and people were counting on them. People are always counting on them.
He opens his mouth to wake him--
And stops short.
People are always counting on them.
Will’s breathing is shallow but steady. His shoulders are drawn tight even in sleep, as though rest is something his body no longer trusts. The firelight flickers, shifting shadows across his frame, the frame that appeared thinner than usual, likely attributed to the same stress that put him to sleep in the middle of research.
Halt lets out a deep sigh as he analyzes his exhausted old apprentice. Then his gaze catches on something that can only be described as simply wrong.
Will’s shirt had ridden up.
Not much. But enough to catch a glimpse of the bare skin of his hip beneath it.
And...
Oh God.
Halt doesn't react to what he sees at first; he doesn't move closer or squint his eyes. He tells himself it is none of his business. That he has no right to look. If he does, he will see something he cannot unsee.
Then the embers of the fire pop softly, and the light shifts again.
And Halt sees clearly what his peripheral had suspected.
The scars.
They are pale against the skin on Will’s hip, some faint, some redder and obviously newer, sitting in patterns that have nothing to do with battle or training or any honest wound Halt has ever taught him how to medicate. They are not the clean lines of an accident, nor the jagged chaos of violence inflicted by another.
These are deliberate, horizontal lines.
They are Personal.
Deeply personal.
For a long moment, Halt feels he doesn't breathe.
His mind rejects the sight outright, scrambling for explanations it knows are lies. A trap, maybe, or an interrogation, even a healer’s mistake. Anything but what it actually must be. Anything but the quiet reality settling in his chest, heavy and cold and dark.
No, he thinks, fiercely. Not him.
He has seen Will bleed before. Has stitched him, and cleaned him up with his own hands, watched him endure pain with a clenched jaw and dry humor, watched him survive things that would have broken men twice his size. Halt has always known Will carries more than he shows — but this?
This is something else entirely.
This is suffering with no audience. Suffering under the weight of your own mind, and not anyone else's actions.
And Halt feels it then, sharp and sudden: guilt.
Not the abstract kind. The specific, choking kind that comes with regretful memories.
How many times had he praised Will for his composure? For his ability to endure? How often had he demanded restraint, silence, control--taught him, explicitly and implicitly, that pain was something to be mastered alone?
How many times had he thought Will had learned that lesson a little too well?
And how many times had Halt praised him for that quick learning...
Still, Halt remains where he is, hands braced on the table. Will shifts slightly in his sleep, brow furrowing, and Halt’s heart lurches painfully.
What have you been carrying, he thinks. And how long?
He notices, distantly, that Will looks younger asleep. Less guarded. The lines of exhaustion soften, leaving behind the boy Halt once left on the doorstep of a ward. The boy he chose. The boy he raised. Raised inadvertently into a weapon because the world demanded it.
And the man before him bears the cost of that choice literally etched into his very skin. By his own hands.
Halt does turn away now. His eyes shut tight.
He doesn't wake Will. He doesn't pull the shirt down, though the urge is strong. He does not cover him with a blanket or make some excuse to end the night early and leave.
Because if he does any of those things, he will have to speak.
And if he speaks, he will have to ask questions he may not survive the answers to.
Instead, Halt stands watch. The time-sensitive case was momentarily forgotten.
He sits back in his chair and stares into the embers of the dying fire, jaw locked, chest aching with a grief he does not yet have words for. He listens to Will’s breathing, counts each rise and fall like a vigil, as though his keen attention alone might be enough to undo what has already been done.
Outside, the night presses close, indifferent to what had happened within it.
When light from the dawn finally begins to stretch across the cabin floors, Will stirs, blinking awake with a soft curse, clearly embarrassed, and already reaching for an apology like armor.
“Sorry,” he murmurs. “Didn’t mean to uhh--”
“It’s fine,” Halt says, too quickly.
Will straightens, tugging his shirt back into place, and hiking his pants up a little from when they were riding down from his posture. Unknowingly sealing the evidence away again. He doesn't notice Halt’s clenched fists, doesn't see the way his former mentor cannot quite meet his eyes.
They return to the case.
They speak of routes and motives and what must be done next.
And the silence between them grows heavier than anything either of them says.
The doors shut behind the last advisor with a heavy thud, and the massive throne room grew still. The echo of the polished leather boots and the rustle of fine, silky cloaks faded into silence, leaving only the core group: Rangers, knights, the Baron, the Princess, and a very baffled king.
Duncan sat forward in his throne, elbows on his knees. “All right,” he said, his voice low now. “Let’s start from the beginning.”
Older Will and Horace exchanged a glance.
“There's been a war,” Horace said bluntly. “A rebel faction--ex-Morgarath loyalists--stirring up unrest, and far outgrowing anything we could've anticipated it coming. Will and I were sent to intercept them at Fissure Pass, but it was....” he paused, drawing a breath as he remembered the good men that were lost, "It was too late... we never saw it coming."
“We got outnumbered pretty fast,” Will continued, as he saw his friend couldn't continue anymore. He stepped forward, pulled his cowl up, and with an almost subconscious flick of his cloak, he spoke.
“We were surrounded. Got as many as we could, but our numbers were drastically depleted, we lost too many men to put up a fair fight. Horace was hit, I was hit--” He gestured to his side absently. “It punctured something, I'm not sure what, but I felt it, and I definitely should have been dead. In fact, I'm pretty sure I was."
“We both would've been. And then,” Horace said, pulling himself together, “we woke up. In a field. A few kilometers outside the gates, as I said.”
There was a beat of silence.
“That’s it?” Gilan asked, an unusual pitch in his tone. “No… strange light, no mystical spells, no relic?”
Will looked at him flatly and shook his head, a faint look of amusement on his face. “Sorry to disappoint.”
Crowley scratched the back of his head. “So it just… happened.”
“Not a single mystical spell as far as I can recall,” Will replied.
"And you rangers are a spell-casting lot," Horace muttered as a smile played at the corner of his mouth. Will simply elbowed him.
Duncan looked between them all. “But how do we know you are who you say you are?”
"Silver oakleaf not enough for you?" Will said. Then, as the King continued to stare him down, he paused.
He didn’t answer immediately. He thought for a minute, pursing his lips, then seemed to have an idea. He just raised his hand and tugged the sleeve down. And held up his right wrist.
His fingers curled slightly, but there, plain as daylight, was the scar — a jagged line down the length of his thumb, an old burn, from a certain burning arrow incident. Arald saw it and inhaled sharply. But Halt saw it first.
Then, assuming that wasn't enough. He pulled his collar back, revealing another thin scar under his collarbone.
The one from Skandia. The one no one else would know about yet. He looked to his younger self for an obvious act of confirmation.
And Will stood from the bench, moving forward slightly, but not enough to be in any near proximity. His hand pulled back his own collar to show an angry red scar, not yet fully healed, identical to the one that was.
Halt made a sound that could’ve been either confirmation or discomfort. “That’s him,” he said quietly.
Crowley let out a low whistle as the other members of the meeting shook their heads in plain shock.
Duncan nodded once, then looked to Horace now, who offered less dramatic evidence -- he fumbled in his jacket pockets and pulled out a ring engraved with an oakleaf insignia. The ring Cassandra had given him after his knighting a decade ago, the ring that younger Horace had received less than a day ago, which he now produced and placed on the table in front of the King, who compared the two carefully.
Horace, worrying that that wasn't sufficient evidence, also gestured to the insignia etched into the steel of his sword. Unique to the Oakleaf Knight. Duncan recognized it instantly.
Still, he looked overwhelmed and dazed. “It doesn’t make sense,” he murmured. “But you’re… older. Different. You even move differently.”
“You try hiking around the Fissure Mountains for two weeks and see if you don’t develop a limp,” Will said dryly.
Gilan snorted despite himself. Horace gave Will a sidelong look, pretending to be annoyed, but was altogether grateful for the first show of humor from his friend in hours.
No, weeks, Horace thought.
Crowley sat on the arm of a chair, arms crossed. “So what now? What do we do with you?”
Will exhaled through his nose and shrugged. He glanced sidelong at Horace, who was biting his lip in thought, then ran a hand through his hair and scratched at his scalp as if trying to rattle loose an answer.
“I don’t know,” the ranger finally admitted with a sigh. Then he paused, lifted his brows slightly, crossed his arms, and said, in a perfect deadpan impression of a certain grizzled Ranger:
“...Sit tight and assess?”
There was a beat of silence.
Then Gilan let out a full laugh, quick and bright. Crowley, who had heard those words far too many times from his old friend, snorted. Halt rolled his eyes, but the corner of his mouth twitched.
“God help us,” Crowley muttered. “You really are Halt's apprentice, aren't you? It's like there are two of them.”
Will smirked faintly in satisfaction that his joke landed well, but sobered a moment later.
“In all seriousness… I think we need a scholar. A scientist. Someone who deals with theories--quantum, temporal, magical, I don’t care what field they’re in. Just someone who might be able to tell us how we got here. And how to get home.
"Or if we’re… stuck,” Horace added, a scared edge in his tone.
"Thank you for that enlightening scenario, Horace," Will mumbled dryly.
Duncan nodded slowly, thoughtful. “I don’t know any names off the top of my head, but I’ll put someone on it. Quietly. Arald?”
"I'm on it, your Majesty."
The King nodded, and looked around the room. “In the meantime… yes. We’ll sit tight and assess,” he said with a smirk as he looked at Older a Will, who smirked right back, seemingly unaffected by the authority of the King in front of him.
Afterall, he's not my king.
There were a few weary nods as a temporary conclusion was drawn.
Crowley stood and stretched. “We’ll need to keep this quiet, away from the public. God knows the stir it'll cause if this gets out."
Duncan nodded in agreement. "Yes, we should house them in the East Wing,” he said. “Nobody goes in or out except approved guards. If anyone asks, they’re foreign dignitaries under my protection.”
“Cloaks off in public,” Halt added, glancing at Will. “You’re too recognizable.”
Will started a little at the demand from his mentor, who wasn't his mentor, but he nodded once in confirmation. “Understood.”
“We’ll make sure the castle staff and those damned advisors from earlier don't start asking questions,” Duncan said. “And no one outside this room hears about this. Not until we know more.”
“Agreed,” Crowley and Halt said at the same time.
Duncan let out a long breath and leaned back in the throne, scrubbing a hand over his face. “Lord help us. Time travel.”
The deep sighs, followed by a heavy silence, spoke volumes to everyone's shared exasperation over the very idea. Overwhelmed, yes--but shared.
Then, finally, older Horace clapped his hands once, loudly enough to break the tension. “Right. What if we talk more about this over dinner?”
He looked between the group and added with a dramatic groan, “Because last time I ate was… oh, about ten years from now.”
Will didn't quite laugh, but the flicker of a grin tugged at the edge of his mouth as he snorted. "Sounds about right," He said.
“Dinner,” Duncan muttered, eyes closed. “Yes. For the love of God, someone bring me wine.”
