mip

crawling out of the dirt to throw this out here! y'alls textposts have been hitting hard and tears have been shed.

if you're into timelines/my numerous aus this falls along the lines of "take rest and take hope" where Crowley DOES agree to let Halt go in search of Will. this is part one of at least two but perhaps a couple linked pieces. i wouldn't write this and then NOT give you a Halt and Will snippet, too. but I'm terribly out of practice.

retreating back into my dirt now, will see u soon.

featuring (of COURSE this is a mipmaps story) Uncle Crowley, Crowley and Halt bestfriendism, and Will, being himself <3

--

hello everybody, today I gave a horse a backstory.

--

Abelard was beginning to think he’d never get a Ranger, and then he got Halt.

Cropper thought he was a strange kind of man. Abelard loved him immediately.

He liked Crowley, he liked all the Rangers who would pat his neck and feed him the cores of their apples. But Crowley was overenthusiastic for his liking (perfect for Cropper, who was swifter than most Ranger horses and always willing to chase after the flash of red hair disappearing into the woods), and really: Abelard preferred a gentle hand over his muzzle and the sweetness of oats.

Halt knew this right away. The first time they met, Halt stroked over his eyes and frowned and scrubbed dirt out of his mane. Patted his neck, then brushed his knuckles over Abelard’s nose. “Good boy,” he said to Abelard, checking his back for soreness and lifting each foot, prying a rock out of his back left. “There you go.”

He rubbed a hand over Abelard’s star when he came back around, frowning again. (Abelard knew from the start that this would be his Ranger’s default expression. He didn’t mind.) He looked faintly embarrassed to be talking to his horse.

It’s okay, Abelard told him, blinking slowly. Everyone does it. Halt smiled a little half-smile, private and kind. For many years, Abelard would be one of the only living creatures to see that smile.

Then, one day, Halt comes back to Abelard’s saddle with a baby.

His Ranger is worn and tired, but still spares a moment to pet Abelard’s nose, lifting his hand from where it rests on the baby’s front. “There’s a good boy. Abelard, this is… Will.”

A lovely name, Abelard says, breathing a gentle puff of air into the baby’s face. Will wriggles, but doesn’t cry, and Abelard likes him immediately, too. But Will is too little to sit on a saddle.

“I know,” Halt responds quietly. “But he’s coming with us.”

(Abelard did not need to be informed of this fact. It was very obvious. But Halt is in distress, so Abelard kindly doesn’t say anything).

The cloak will tie, Abelard gently reminds his Ranger. Make him a sling. I’ll go slowly and watch my footing very carefully.

Halt sighs, resting his forehead against Abelard’s star. “Don’t you always?” Abelard leans into the press. Will, from his spot still cradled in Halt’s arm, sticks his tiny hand into Abelard’s lip. Abelard does not bite him. Doesn’t even take a little nibble, which he thinks is very noble.

I will worry more about him than I would you, Abelard tells Halt. If you fall off, that’s your own problem.

Abelard can’t go very fast while Halt is holding the baby. But the baby is a precious, unusual sort of cargo for a Ranger horse, and Abelard travels gently, even though the journey takes three times as long at this pace. When they get back to familiar dirt roads and eventually, cobbled streets, Abelard stops.

“Abelard?” Halt asks, leaning down his neck in concern. He’s a man of few words, his Halt. It’s why they communicate so well. And as Abelard stares at the city gates ahead of them, he knows the Ranger knows what he’s thinking.

“We don’t lead a life fit for a baby,” Halt says firmly. “He’s far better off with Arald, and other kids his age to grow and play with.”

You didn’t grow up with many kids your age, and you’re perfectly… well. Halt has terrible nightmares, ones that make him reach for Abelard’s mane and hold tightly, ones that makes Abelard nudge his bow into his hand to remind him that he’s a Ranger, now, and the past is the past. Perhaps you have a point.

Halt huffs out a self-deprecating laugh, patting Abelard’s shoulder. “He’ll be safe and cared for and able to play in the grass and eat his fill. That’s what matters.”

He dismounts, and brings Will back to Abelard’s face so Abelard can press his nose to Will’s stomach, snorting. Will giggles in delight. “Say goodbye to Abelard, Will.”

“Buh,” Will says, and places a gentle hand on Abelard’s muzzle.

Will would give him a handful of oats, if he could. Abelard knows this, as sure as he knows Halt cleans his tack every night and somehow always wakes up just before the sun rises. Will’s eyes are soft and understanding. Halt’s eyes are resigned and sad.

Goodbye for now, Will, Abelard tells him.

Halt gives him a strange look over his shoulder as he walks away. But there are some things that horses just know – Will is his boy, and he’ll be back. Abelard is sure of it.

He’s entirely right, of course. Halt visits him in his pen, the night Will comes to stay, for GOOD, and brings him an apple core.

Excuse me? Abelard says, even as he eats the core, sending a chunk of apple spraying onto Halt’s shirt. Where the fuck are my oats?

“You,” Halt says. “Are very arrogant. Do you know that?”

‘Sore loser’ is a bad look on you.

“There was no competition,” Halt protests.

You’re just upset that I knew something before you did, Abelard tells him. It’s okay, just admit it to yourself.

Halt smiles that little half-smile. Private and kind. “I don’t think he knows how to ride very well,” he warns. “But he won’t start with that, anyways. He’ll groom and clean tack, first.”

Good. He can get the mud off my hocks that you missed.

“I did not,” Halt refutes immediately, but he bends his head around to make sure, in the low lamplight from the cabin. “Liar.”

Abelard blows a huff of air into his Ranger’s face.

Will brings light everywhere he goes. He’s kind and he’s smart and he’s earnest. Halt sets him to work grooming Abelard the next day, and Will goes at the task with all the dedication Abelard could ever want. (He takes a little run through the woods beforehand – he understands the point Halt is trying to teach, the responsibility and attention to detail he’s trying to instill. It’s Abelard’s job to help his Ranger where he can). Will spends the better part of an hour picking every burr out of Abelard’s tail.

Will doesn’t see it yet, but Halt smiles at him, too. And Abelard gets twice as many oats, and he gets Tug.

(Tug is a little whirlwind. Abelard loves him, too.)

But his boy can be stressful, too. All that light that Will brings – it’s twice as noticeable when it’s dimmed. Halt gets into trouble often – Abelard is no stranger to blood dripping down the stirrup leathers, managing his steps in the dark to keep an unconscious rider on his back. He’s not afraid of danger or injury or – so he thought – anything at all, as long as Halt was with him. But Will becomes Halt’s apprentice, and this means that sometimes, HALT is afraid.

And it is a very different thing, to carry an injured Will and a worried Halt. It’s very different because Halt never feels this kind of worry for himself – never keeps a constant murmur of reassurance, never lets his hands tremble on the reins.

Abelard gets an awful scrape on his belly from charging through the underbrush, carrying them to safety, guiding Tug away from the scuffle behind them. Will’s blood mixes with his on his dark coat. And this is a new thing, about having an apprentice – Halt makes sure that Will is sleeping, his brow not creased in pain, his wounds bandaged, and THEN comes to Abelard. He checks his feet. Takes off the tack. Finds the cut, the blood long-clotted.

“Abelard,” he says, voice heavy with regret. He kneels, feeling along the scrape, and Abelard knows he’ll find that it’s shallow – quite harmless, easily healed. Only annoying. “I should have checked you sooner. I’m sorry.”

Sit down before you fall down, Abelard tells him. Halt laughs mirthlessly and lets himself drop heavily to the ground. If I was hurting, I wouldn’t shut up about it. You know this. You weren’t skirting your duties, only doing them in the right order. Will’s your apprentice. And he’s only a boy.

Halt glances over at where Will’s curled into Tug’s side, sleeping peacefully. He unscrews the bottle of salve to put on Abelard’s belly.

You should get some rest, Abelard says, when the self-recriminating silence goes on too long. You look after him well. Yes, I think he has enough salve on. No, I don’t think he’ll get a crick in his neck from sleeping like that, and if he does, he’ll figure out to not sleep that way again.

“I should keep watch,” Halt murmurs.

I will keep watch. There’s not many hours until sunrise and not many miles until home.

“Tug will carry Will tomorrow,” Halt says, but lays down on his bedroll. “And I’ll carry your saddle.”

That’s not necessary. But you can do whatever pleases you.

“Yes, I can,” Halt says. “Wake me if there’s trouble.”

Well, I’m not going to fend off a band of thieves by myself, am I? I’m not the one who pissed them off.

But Halt is already asleep and misses Abelard’s barb. (Which is a shame. It was very pointed, and maybe Halt would have learned something.) So Abelard stands, and watches Tug’s ears twitch as he drifts in and out of his rest, occasionally nuzzling Will’s hair.

“Hm?” Halt asks. He’s been writing reports for the better part of two hours, and the unrelated question is rolling around in his brain but not quite connecting. He’s usually more alert, but he knew Will was just outside, and would shout if there was anything wrong.

--

“Halt,” Will calls, smacking his boots lightly against the doorframe to knock the last clods of mud off. “Where did you find the snowdrops?”

“The snowdrops,” Will says again, pointing to the jar of wildflowers on the far windowsill. Specifically, to the little white, bell-shaped flowers around the rim. “I didn’t find any close to the edge of the garden.”

“No, they’re farther out, by the lake,” Halt agrees, turning back to his apprentice. “Why do you ask?”

Will holds up the little bundle of flowers in his hand. They’re neatly picked, a pleasant assortment. “George is coming to visit, remember? So, I’m getting flowers. I know he’s only going to have a cot in my room, but still.”

“Have you finished your chores?” Halt asks, raising an eyebrow. “You know, it’s not a requirement that guests have flowers.”

“Yes, I finished my chores,” Will says, a hint of teenage exasperation in his voice, before he frowns a little hesitantly and looks at his feet. “And I know not everyone else does it, but we do. Have flowers, I mean. In this cabin, in…”

In this family.